The Long Paw of the Law

by Diane Kelly

  There was a mere hint of fall in the air this morning as Frankie and I passed bin after bin of sweet potatoes, okra, onions, peppers, and zucchini. I stopped at a booth and selected four large sweet potatoes to purchase. They’d make a good side dish. Frankie, in turn, bought a loaf of fresh banana bread. I also stopped at a booth selling homemade dog biscuits and bought three of the largest size for Brigit.

  “There they are,” I whispered to Frankie as I spotted the man from the truck. He stood under a portable vinyl canopy, speaking with an older couple who were examining one of the wooden rockers. As the men spoke, the woman plunked her sizable butt down in the chair and tested the thing out, going so far as to swing her legs upward to see just how far the thing would go. I half expected her to cry “Wheee!” Though he was turned sideways and I could only see his profile, it was clear the man selling the furniture was the same man in the police sketch, the same one from the fire station video.

  As we approached the booth, I noticed a thirtyish woman in what appeared to be a handmade dress sitting at a table on the other side of the furniture display. A knit shawl was draped about her shoulders. Though a ribbon tied at the back of her neck attempted to tame her coarse hair, it bushed out around her makeup-free face. She must have been the second person in the truck. On the tabletop in front of her were mason jars filled with jams, jellies, and fruit preserves in shades ranging from orange to red to blue. The hand-dipped candles and candleholders were displayed, as well, along with silverware and napkin holders similar to the ones I’d seen in the bait shop. Folded quilts hung on two wooden racks behind her.

  Could she be the baby’s mother? Hard to say with her belly hidden behind the table.

  Frankie and I ventured up to her display in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner. Difficult to feel inconspicuous when your heart is beating a thousand times a minutes and your body temperature is up ten degrees.

  I eyed the labels on the jellies. After speaking with the woman at the country store, I’d researched the Texas Cottage Food law and learned that the products required a label including the common name of the product, the name and address of the food operation, a statement that the kitchen was not inspected by government health inspectors, and a statement disclosing whether the product contained any common allergens such as nuts, milk, or eggs. Interestingly, while the labels on these blueberry, raspberry, and peach products reflected the address of the church compound, they did not identify the People of Peace as the name of the food operation. Rather, the label identified the producer as Mary Seeger. It seemed that the People of Peace were trying to remain under the radar, to draw as little attention to themselves as possible.

  I gave the woman a smile. “Are you Mary?”

  She smiled back and nodded.

  “I’m having a hard time deciding,” I told her. “They all look good.”

  She stood from the folding chair she’d been sitting on and I surreptitiously glanced at her abdomen. Though the dress she wore wasn’t tight, it was fitted enough for me to see she had no telltale baby bump. Having four younger siblings, I remembered it took two to three months for my mother’s belly to return to normal after she had each of them. This woman hadn’t given birth recently. She wasn’t the baby’s mother.

  Then who is? And is she all right?

  “The raspberry jelly is my favorite,” Mary suggested. “Would you like to try them?”

  “Heck, yeah!”

  “Me, too,” Frankie added.

  She shook several crackers from a box onto a napkin and spooned a small dollop of the various jellies onto each of them. Frankie and I tried each of the samples. They tasted fruity and fresh.

  “They’re all so good.” I shrugged. “I still can’t make up my mind.”

  “You could get a jar of each,” Mary suggested. “Then you wouldn’t have to decide. They’re normally six dollars apiece, but I’ll give you all three for fifteen dollars if you’d like.”

  I laughed. “You’re a good salesperson, Mary. I’ll do it.”

  While she placed the jars of jelly in a small paper sack, I gestured to the quilts. “Those blankets are beautiful. Did you make them all yourself?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not that handy with a needle and thread. I stick to canning.”

  I stepped over to take a closer look. “Who made them, then?”

  “My sisters,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure if she meant actual blood-relative siblings, or if she’d used the term “sister” to refer to her fellow female members of the church. To get clarification, I said, “That’s a lot of quilts. How many sisters do you have?”

  She offered another smile. “I’m blessed with many.”

  So much for clarification, huh?

  I lifted each of the quilts on the racks to take a look at those underneath. Just like the quilts at the Benbrook Burgers, Beer, and Bait shop, these quilts included a range of designs, many of which were the same as the ones for sale at the store. It made sense that the quilters would duplicate their designs. By repeating the same patterns, they could complete the quilts faster and thus earn the church more money. There was the same red, white, and blue blanket covered in Texas flags. The dark blue blanket with stars and moons. The pastel patchwork. Another featured the flowering magnolia tree I’d seen on a quilt at the store, while another included the prickly-pear cactus design. But none featured the bluebonnets I’d seen on the baby’s blanket or on the quilt at the shop.

  I looked back at the woman, hoping my questions would seem merely curious rather than an attempt at interrogation. “Do your sisters work together on these blankets? Or do they work on them separately?”

  “We have a sewing circle,” she said, “but each of the sisters works on her own unique design.”

  Her words told me two things. The fact that she’d said “the” sisters instead of “my” sisters meant the women she referred to were not biological relatives. The fact that the quilts were not a group effort and that each woman had her own special design told me the bluebonnet blanket could indeed be a clue as to the identity of the baby’s mother, just as I’d suspected.

  “These are very pretty,” I said. “Do you have any others I could look at?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “That’s everything we made this week.”

  What did it say that there was no bluebonnet blanket here? Did it mean the baby’s mother hadn’t made a quilt this week? If so, why not? Was she recovering from the birth of her child? Could be. Then again, my mother was always back to near full speed after a few days of rest. Could the fact that there was no bluebonnet quilt here mean that the baby’s mother was hurt … or worse?

  Next to us, the couple decided on the rocker, and I heard the man who’d abandoned the baby offer to carry it to their car. He turned around and, for the first time, I got a good look at him head-on.

  Oh my God.

  Beginning above his brow and running down across his left eye and cheek were four distinct pink lines. Someone had clawed this man’s face, hard. But was it an offensive move or a defensive one? And who had done it? Could it have been the baby’s mother? Or maybe it had been Mary. Were Mary and this man husband and wife? Had she found out he’d fathered a child with another woman and attacked him in a resentful rage? This was the stuff of soap operas. Was it also the stuff of the People of Peace?

  My eyes moved to the man’s arms and hands. While wounds to the face tended to be offensive, meaning the person with the wounds was the victim, scratch marks on the arms and hands were defensive injuries, indicating the wounded person had been the primary aggressor and the victim had tried to fight them off. Unfortunately, the man wore not only long sleeves that completely covered his arms, but he wore work gloves as well. His arms and hands were completely hidden. If there were defensive wounds on his arms and hands, there was no way of knowing.

  I knew it might seem rude to ask about the scratch marks but I also knew the chances of me getting another opportunity to do so were slim to none.
I had to take a chance. Besides, when he’d glanced my way, there’d been no flicker of recognition or even suspicion. He had no idea I was the cop who’d come to the gates of the People of Peace, hoping to get inside.

  I gestured to his face. “Ouch. That had to hurt.”

  He glanced my way and hesitated just a brief second. “A little,” he mumbled as he turned his attention back to the chair and picked it up.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  He cut a sideways glance at me, and it wasn’t a happy one. “I tripped. Got scratched by a saw.”

  The man was likely lying. The scratches seemed too wide and long to have been made by a saw. Plus, there were four of them, equal to the number of fingers (not counting the thumb) on a human hand. What were the odds of that? My instincts told me they’d been made by a human. But who? The baby’s mother? Had he gotten into a fight with her?

  “I’m a nurse,” I told him. Hey, if he could lie, so could I. It was only fair. And purportedly being a nurse would explain my interest in his injury. “You should put some cream on that to prevent infection and scarring. You should get a tetanus shot, too, if you’re not current.”

  “Good advice. Thanks.” Turning his back to me, he addressed the couple. “Where to?”

  The woman motioned back toward the north parking lot. “We’re parked that-a-way.”

  With that, they headed off.

  I turned back to Mary. “The furniture is really well made. It must be nice to have a husband who’s so handy.”

  “Zeke?” She shook her head slightly. “He’s not my husband.”

  I made a mental note of the man’s name. Zeke. Possibly short for Ezekiel. “He’s not?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t elaborate and it seemed like it would be awkward and obvious I was fishing for information if I asked more questions. Instead, I handed her three fives and accepted my bag of jellies.

  I bade her good-bye as Frankie and I walked off.

  “We’ll be back here in two weeks if you want more!” she called after me.

  I mentally filed that information away. It might come in handy.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  CRUNCH TIME

  Brigit

  She heard Frankie’s Juke pull into the driveway and stood up on the couch where she’d been snoozing to look out the window and bark a greeting. Arf-arf! Zoe, Frankie’s cat, didn’t bother to get up to greet their roommates. Cats had really bad manners. They were useless, too. They didn’t perform watch duty, and they couldn’t defend their human if someone broke in. They couldn’t go for walks with their person, either. Why any human would want one of the beasts Brigit would never understand.

  Megan climbed out of the car with two bags in her hand. Brigit wondered what was in them. Bags could mean good things, like toys or treats. Then again, sometimes bags only contained boring stuff a dog would have no interest in, like shampoo and cleaning spray. Dare she hope there was something fun for her inside?

  A moment later, Megan and Frankie came in the door. Brigit met them there, her tail wagging in welcome.

  Megan looked down at Brigit, held up one of the bags, and shook it. “Got a surprise for you, girl!”

  A surprise? For me?

  Megan pulled a big dog biscuit out of the bag and held it out to her. Brigit gave it a quick sniff. This biscuit smells yummy! She took it in her teeth and trotted over to the rug, where she flopped down and attacked it. Crunch-crunch-crunch.

  Zoe hopped down from the couch and ventured over to sniff at the crumbs.

  Oh, no you don’t! Brigit warned her off with a growl. Grrrr. This biscuit is mine!

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  LOAVES AND FISHES

  The Father

  On Sunday evening, Father Emmanuel lay back on his bed and exhaled a long, relieved breath. The worship service had gone well this morning. They had a full load of furniture and quilts ready to ship to the store in the morning. None of the men in the watch towers had seen a police car all weekend. Things seemed to be settling down, getting back to normal.

  Unfortunately, normal around here sometimes meant dull. Billy Joel got it right when he said sinners had much more fun than saints. The occasional private “prayer session” with a female member aside, reigning over a kingdom on the north Texas prairie offered little excitement.

  He should plan an event, something to celebrate the official start of fall that was coming up. The men had been having a bit of luck on the lake recently. Why not a fish fry? The women could bake homemade bread to go with it. He’d call the event Loaves and Fishes. Of course Jesus probably hadn’t served those two fishes fried, but Jesus was from the Middle East, not the southern U.S.

  Father Emmanuel stretched his legs and congratulated himself on his cleverness.

  TWENTY-NINE

  SOMETHING FISHY GOING ON

  Megan

  I’d spent two full hours Saturday afternoon on the police databases and online, trying to find information on Mary Seeger. Her name was the first full name we had of anyone in the compound, and I hoped it could lead to more information.

  I’d found birth certificates for several Mary Seegers. I suspected she was the one who’d been born in Sherman, Texas, forty-three years ago. I also found a driver’s license that expired eight years ago. She was much younger in the photo, of course, but she’d also been wearing a full face of makeup and a bright red top that revealed just a smidgen of cleavage. What had happened to this woman that had made her join the People of Peace and give up her life on the outside, including her driving privileges? I found no marriage license, no divorce proceedings. Her Facebook page, which had been dormant for nine years, included a few photos of her with fellow members of a Baptist church in Dallas, where she evidently lived at the time. Her posts hinted at her dissatisfaction with her spiritual journey, at her disgust with the hypocrisy she’d encountered within her faith community, at her desire to reach a new level of enlightenment. Her final post bade her Facebook friends good-bye and said she was moving to a new place where she could better glorify God and live in accordance with his teachings and with others who shared her beliefs. Her cryptic message paraphrased Matthew 7:7. I asked and it was given to me, I sought and I found, I knocked and the door was opened to me.

  That door must have been the gates to the People of Peace.

  While her Facebook friends included another person with the last name Seeger who appeared to be a cousin, no other family members seemed to be among them. My search showed her mother had died relatively young, in her late fifties, of cancer. Her father was still alive and living in Sherman, ninety miles to the northeast, just shy of the Oklahoma border. I wondered if Mary was still in contact with him.

  Unfortunately, none of the information helped me figure out anything about the People of Peace. The members of the church certainly seemed intent on keeping their secrets.

  * * *

  Sunday brought some much-needed respite from work. Seth and I planned to go watch Frankie’s derby bout.

  A couple minutes before two o’clock, Brigit announced the arrival of Seth and Blast by standing on the front windowsill, looking outside, and barking her head off, her tail wagging so fast it was a furry blur. Woof! Woof-woof-woof!

  When I walked into the living room, she left the window and went with me to the door, she looked up at me and issued another woof, telling me to hurry up! I opened the door to find Seth and Blast on the porch. While Seth greeted me with a quick kiss, Blast trotted inside. After exchanging butt sniffs, Brigit and Blast began to wrangle in play on the rug.

  I grabbed my purse, stepped onto the porch, and locked the door. As I turned to follow Seth to the car, my mouth fell open and I stopped in my tracks. Ollie was sitting in the front seat of the car, his friends in the back. “You got your grandfather out of the house?”

  According to what Seth had told me before, Ollie hadn’t left the house in years, spending his days in his chair with his oxygen tank as his primary companion. His acti
vities consisted of watching television and griping about everything and everyone like an old grump.

  “I didn’t get him out,” Seth said. “Harry and Leonard did. They’ve forced him to get out of his chair and dragged him all over town to see the sights. He keeps protesting, but they won’t take no for an answer. When I told them you and I were going to watch roller derby, they said it sounded like fun, so I invited them to come with us.”

  Though I felt an urge to gloat, to remind Seth that inviting his grandfather’s old army buddies out for a visit had been my idea, I restrained myself and settled for giving myself an imaginary pat on the back. Way to go, Megan! During my relatively short time as a cop, I’d learned that anger was often a manifestation of hurt and pain. I’d suspected that Ollie’s crankiness was a result of both the PTSD and the heartbreak of living without his beloved wife, who’d died before her time. Looked like I’d been right.

  “Hi, guys,” I called, giving the men a wave as we approached the open door of the car. They returned the greeting in kind.

  Seth leaned the bench seat forward and I crammed into the back with Leonard and Harry, sitting between the two. Seth took his place in the driver’s seat and we headed out.

  As we drove to the skating rink, Ollie and his buddies sang along to a classic rock station playing songs from the late sixties and early seventies, the era in which they’d been young men serving in Vietnam.

  When the first few notes of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Down on the Corner” played, Ollie turned back to look at his friends, the clear tubes from his oxygen tank bisecting his wrinkled face. “I can’t hear this song without tasting bun bo nam bo.”

  “That sure was good stuff,” Leonard agreed. “I miss it.”

  “Me, too,” Harry agreed. “But that’s the only thing I miss about Vietnam.”