Southern Fried

by Cathy Pickens

  I continued. “I happened to stop by on some other business and Mr. Gamet told me you fellows were here executing a search warrant.” Maybe it would help if Harrison Gamet and I both sounded like innocents with nothing to hide.

  Agent Burke studied me in that way cops have, memorizing distinguishing features so he could spot me in a lineup, a mug book, or on a darkened street comer in a questionable part of town. But he didn’t speak.

  Dawson Smith took a step closer to me, breaking the imaginary circle that bound him to Burke and Jason Smith.

  “We’ve received a complaint and are, of course, obligated to investigate.” He smiled and ducked his head almost apologetically. “You understand, we can’t tell the hollow complaints from the real scare stories unless we come look.”

  I nodded. Dawson Smith looked like he’d be at horne on Luna Lake with a fishing line dropped off the end of the dock and a couple of beers in a cooler. His short gray buzz cut spiked a bit and his barrel chest strained the buttons on his light denim shirt He was shorter than Agent Burke’s six-two, and kindlier and more befuddled-looking than young Jason. At the same time he conveyed an air that said he was in charge.

  “If we can answer any questions for you, Miz—Andrews, is it? Please let us know. Otherwise, we’ll just go about our business here.” He smiled and dismissed me with a turn.

  “Mr. Smith, first, I’d like to see a copy of that warrant.” I tried to keep my tone polite but insistent.

  “Um, sure,” he said absentmindedly. “It’s in my case. Just a sec. Jason, take that still camera and grab some shots of that.”

  Dawson pointed at a spot on the ground, then scribbled something on his clipboard. Out of the comer of his eye, he watched Jason fumble around setting up the shot while he shambled toward a nylon satchel propped against the base of a pine tree. I watched him as he watched Jason. I couldn’t see anything worth photographing. Jason had shed his suit coat, but in his taupe trousers and designer tie, he was overdressed for the day’s activities.

  “Did I remember to give you back that ruler for size markings?” Dawson said, his tone helpful as he stooped over his satchel.

  Jason started, looked around, then fumbled in his hip pocket, from which a banana-yellow ruler stuck conspicuously—in plain sight of Dawson Smith.

  I looked at Dawson Smith with more respect. He made sure the job was done right, without unduly embarrassing Junior.

  As Dawson rifled through the papers in his satchel, I ambled over beside him. The stand of trees started where the ragged edge of the asphalt lot ended, and sloped easily toward a slow creek with flat banks. The creek, broader than many around here, lay about five feet wide, slow and shallow. Mountain and foothills creeks tend to cut deeply, so that flat banks were an oddity.

  Something whacked me on the shin. For a brief moment, I thought I’d caught my leg in a hunting trap. “Aoww!” I whistled breath out my nose to keep from cussing.

  “Be careful there!” Dawson Smith was beside me in a bound, trying to disentangle my foot from a metal hoop I’d upended from the dirt.

  “Jason, come get a shot of this. Do you mind, Miz Andrews?” He held me by the arm so I could step back from the half-buried hoop. “Would you just stand there so your legs can give the photograph some perspective?”

  Jason hunched down, fiddling with the camera’s focus until I wanted to jerk it out of his hands and take the pictures of my own feet.

  “What’s your interest in a rusty metal ring?” I asked, stepping clear of it after Jason clicked a few shots and Dawson let go of my arm.

  Agent Burke, who had wandered farther into the trees, rejoined us. He stared soberly at the spot where Jason focused his camera. But he still didn’t speak.

  “That rusty metal ring,” Dawson said, watching Jason closely, “is what’s left of a buried barrel.” He looked up at me. ’The administrative warrant spells it out, if you’d like to see it.” I took the papers he offered me. “The complainant alleged that the parking lot and this area served as a waste disposal site for a number of years. What we’re seeing here indicates that there’s—”

  He stopped talking, his attention drawn by Burke’s movement. Burke had turned toward a man in denim overalls who was crossing the creek. He’d appeared out of nowhere and seemed to walk on top of the water. With a loose-legged gait, he strode the few yards to where we stood. His boots had not a spot of water on them.

  “Glad to see you fellas here, finely.” He spoke carefully around a chaw of tobacco.

  Two long-eared bluetick hounds took that opportunity to splash across the creek along roughly the same track the newcomer had taken. They joined us with their noses to the ground, jowls hanging and eyes full of sad. Water glistened on their spotted coats.

  “I’m Born Wooten. Eubom Wooten to the IRS and the social security. Just born to ever’body else.”

  Putting an age on him was impossible. His much-washed overalls puddled onto the top of mudred work boots. With his eyes sunk deep into weathered wrinkles, he peered at us over his beak like an eagle.

  “I take it yore the environmental guys. I called and called and like to give up on you ever comin’.”

  Dawson Smith made the introductions all around, including me. At the mention that I was a lawyer and working for Harrison Gamet, Born Wooten spent a bit more time studying me.

  “I myself worked here at the plant, nigh on forty-five years. Retired a couple of years ago.” He nodded back across the creek. “But still live right there.” What he actually said sounded like rat tar, but only Jason Smith, junior G-man, looked like he didn’t understand the old man.

  “See ya found one’a them barrel tops. Can’t tell you how many hundreds a’them things we’re standin’ on top of. I been livin’ across the crick there long as they been plantin’ ’em here. Longer’n it took those slash pines to grow. You reckon them things had some kinda piezin in ’em?”

  Dawson Smith responded by joining Born Wooten in studying the ground at his feet rather than eyeing him directly. In so doing, he communicated volumes to Born Wooten. Mountain folks usually avoid eye contact, except as a challenge.

  “We can’t rightly say just now, Mr. Wooten. We’ll be taking some samples of the soil around in here. Maybe you can show us some places we should be certain to check.”

  “Shore can.” Born Wooten nodded and carefully aimed a stream of tobacco juice away from the group.

  “You worked at the plant. Any idea what might have been buried in those barrels?”

  Born Wooten shrugged his shoulders, the puddled overalls on his bootsrising, then falling. “Stuff from the plant. Makin’ furniture, you know the kinds of stuff you have. Varnishes, stains, glues. Rags soaked in that kind of stuff, we threw in barrels, capped, and hauled out.”

  “For how long?”

  “Law, years. Long as I worked there. Some years back, they got a lot more careful about how they got rid of stuff—you know, govmint regulations and all. But we still kept gluerag barrels. Right up to a few years ago.”

  “How many years?”

  “Can’t rightly say. You know how years”—he pronounced it ya-airs—“all run together, without you have some sort of markin’ event. Somebody birthin’ or dyin’ or somethin’.”

  “Any idea how far they go through here? Or how many deep they’re buried? Or anything else that might help us?”

  Born Wooten, with his signature slouch and his hound dogs stretched at his feet, surveyed the wooded patch toward the creek, then looked back across the crumbly asphalt parking lot.

  “Not too deep, best I remember. ’Course, didn’t have to dig too deep, with this much space.” He swung his arm to encompass what we could see. “Startin’ in the ’fifties, they ’uz putting barrels in ’bout where that line of pines stands.” He nodded across the creek. “Then they worked their way back. Sometime in the sixties or so, they paved over part of the dump. Needed more parking places as folks got more cars, I reckon. I know folks, all of a family, that
work here and ever’ one of ’em drives their own car to work.” He shook his head.

  “So the barrels in this part”—Dawson Smith indicated the wooded area where we stood—“they’ve been buried long enough for these trees to grow?”

  Born Wooten nodded. “Yep. Right here in the center, they weren’t no trees ’cause they used equipment in here to bury trash. ’Course, back then, no big trucks’d come to haul stuff off. Had to take care of it on your own. Why, I got me a trash heap back’a my place older’n that. Got ever’ can’a beans and beer I ever ate or drank buried in my backyard. Well, least until they opened the recycling centers ’round the county. That’s a more”—he paused—“responsible thing to do, don’t you think?”

  Dawson Smith nodded.

  “I’ll tell you who might know and that’s ol Nebo Earling. Mr. Gamet hired him to do some work on the parking lot and I know for a fact he buried some’a the glue-rag barrels ’long in here. ’Fore he upended that backhoe in the crick. Down there where the bank’s steeper.” He pointed a few dozen yards downstream from the crossing to his house. “Nebo’d know.”

  For a mountain man, Born Wooten sure talked a streak. Nebo Earling’s name made no discernible impression on Dawson Smith. But he’d sure popped up in a lot of casual conversations lately.

  “Mr. Wooten, if you knew all these years that stuff’s been buried here, why’d you decide to call us now?” Dawson asked.

  Born Wooten shrugged, his overalls rising and falling again. “Mostly ’cause that stuff started ending up on my property,” he said. “And I been reading, over to the library. Articles about aquifer contamination.”

  That didn’t sound like a National Enquirer lead story. South Carolina Wildlife maybe. Or the Smithsonian.

  “On your property?” Dawson Smith perked up at that. “How, exactly?”

  Born Wooten spit discreetly to the side and said, “The creek moved.”

  Dawson Smith turned to face the creek. Through the trees and underbrush that grew thickly on the other side of the creek, I could make out the rough outline of a white clapboard house with a small front porch.

  When we looked puzzled, Born continued. “The creek moved,” he said simply. “Leaving me with some kind of slime and a buncha those rusty tops trashin’ my creek bank.” He pointed to the metal ring at my feet.

  Dawson Smith nodded. “How many have you found?”

  Born Wooten shook his head. “Don’t know for sure. But you’re welcome to come count ’em for yourself. Or what you kin see.”

  Dawson Smith nodded, but paused, as if deep in thought. “Glue, you say.” He said it as if to himself.

  “Yessir.”

  “What kind? Or kinds? Do you know?”

  “Nope. Sure don’t. Glue’s glue, when they tell you to stick two pieces’a wood together.”

  Dawson offered a fraction of a smile. “I reckon so. Do you mind if we come have a look at your creek bank? Maybe take some samples? A few pictures? That’ll help us get a better idea of the extent and nature of the problem.”

  “Sure. Any time. That’s what I called you fellas for. Never did think you ’uz comin’.”

  “We have to take things in order,” Dawson said. “But now you have our attention and we’re anxious to get to work.”

  Born Wooten nodded and jammed his hands deeper into the cavernous pockets of his overalls.

  “The sooner, the better.” Born glanced at his pocket watch. “Gotta go.”

  With that, he crossed the creek, again looking for all the world as though he walked effortkessly on water. He climbed the bank toward his wood frame house without breaking stride, his hounds trailing and scouting to either side.

  “Jason, make sure to note on the grid you’ve done the site of each photograph or soil sample. We’ll almost certainly find phthalates. And likely other contaminants as well—”

  “What?” I interrupted. That sounded like something an environmental offender’s lawyer ought to know about. Just in case she remained the lawyer for said offender.

  “Phthalate,” he repeated. He spelled it; I mentally marked that it began with ph and hoped I’d be able to find it in a reference book of some sort.

  “And that is?”

  “An EPA priority pollutant and a suspected carcinogen. Fortunately for your fella over there”—he nodded toward the plant—not an acute one. But certainly of concern for its long-term damage potential in groundwater. Jason, we’ll likely need to have some test wells dropped. That’s something Mr.—” he consulted his clipboard—“Garnet may have to pay for. Once we get those soil samples analyzed, we’ll follow up with him.” He made that last remark for my benefit.

  I nodded. “Please let us know,” I said politely, handing him back his standard, noncommittal administrative search warrant. Might as well keep everything businesslike. Thanks to Born Wooten, Dawson Smith wouldn’t have any trouble holding Gamet over one of his own barrels.

  “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll be in touch.” If he’d been wearing a hat, he’d likely have tipped the brim at me, to complement his John Wayne drawl.

  Agent Burke had wandered away from our merry gathering to study the ground along the creek’s edge. Jason, juggling clipboard, camera, markers, sample bottles, and other paraphernalia, was too busy for social proprieties. So I merely nodded to Dawson Smith and turned back toward the plant.

  As I headed toward my car, I didn’t see Harrison Garnet anywhere. I didn’t know what kind of car he drove, so I couldn’t tell if he’d left. Come to think of it, I didn’t know if he was able to drive. I guessed he could. He got around okay with crutches.

  After watching Dawson Smith and his faithful flunky Jason and the brooding cop, I better understood Sylvie Garnet’s ire. Those bulldogs would keep coming until they found what—and whorn—they were looking for. I had an icy suspicion that Harrison Gamet had no idea his glue-rag barrels constituted an environmental hazard; as Born Wooten said, glue’s glue. When those inspectors finished with Gamet, losing a chunk of his business to fire and finding a body inside would be the least of his worries.

  While I was tempted to go set Sylvie Gamet straight about her husband’s business practices, she really wasn’t interested in reality. She had decided to blame his troubles on me. True, the inspectors had returned with a vengeance, but even Jason would’ve stumbled over those barrel hoops eventually. The fire had just brought Dawson Smith sooner. And the dead body and sabotaged records would keep him longer. I still didn’t know if Harrison Garnet was a good actor, a good liar, or sadly naive.

  So much for breaking into the low-risk world of in-house corporate counsel. Maybe Jake Baker was right. Joe Six-Pack wouldn’t be quite so judgmental when it came to my past.

  As I unlocked my car door, I chided myself for being petty. Some poor fellow died in a fire and you’re feeling sorry for yourself, Avery Andrews. Very mature. And compassionate. Now why don’t you drive by the nursing horne so you can tell them what poor health you’re in.

  I did a double-take at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Black soot streaked my cheek. I looked like a harlequin—or an urchin. And Dawson Smith had made businesslike conversation with that face and hadn’t mentioned it.

  Back at my parents’ house, I had the place to myself. I found a dry pair of shoes, washed my face, then checked the answering machine, thinking Mom or Dad might have left a message.

  “Please tell Avery that Melvin Bertram called,” the voice on the machine said. “I’d like to see her this afternoon. Or evening. If she has a chance. Thank you. She has my number in town.”

  Nine

  When I called, Melvin’s brother suggested I could find Melvin at Runion’s, a barbecue joint outside town. Melvin already had a half-empty beer bottle in front of him when I got there. From his slurpy hello, I judged that wasn’t the first he’d drained.

  “A’vry, glad you got the message. Glad my brother told you where I’d be. Glad I knew where I’d be. What’d you like to drink?”

&nbs
p; “Some ice tea would be great. Thanks.”

  He leaned over the table and pushed the ladder-back chair across to me.

  This Melvin, I hadn’t seen before. I studied him as he flagged down the waitress. What seemed so different about him? A sprig of sandy hair stuck out over his ear, as if he’d slept crooked. He slumped, both elbows propped on the table, studying the salt shaker he held in both hands. Red barbecue sauce streaked the white plastic shaker.

  “We’d better get something to eat,” he said. “’Least, I’ d better. Haven’t eaten much today.”

  When the waitress returned, we ordered barbecue plates with slaw and onion rings. Melvin asked for a glass of water and another beer.

  “Thanks again, Avery.”

  “For what?”

  He shrugged. “For coming. I don’t have any claim on your time. But heck, I’d be glad to pay you.”

  “For having dinner with you? Naw, that might put me into a whole’ nother profession. I’ll stick with the one I’ve got now.”

  He ignored my attempt at humor.

  “Will you be able to come to the memorial service tomorrow? Body or no, I decided to get it over with.”

  “Sunday? Sure.”

  “At Baldwin and Bates’s new emporium. Have you seen that thing? The pseudo-Georgian brick monstrosity with acres of free parking and those outsize lights perched along the sidewalk? You can’t miss it. Must be a lot of money in buryin’ dead people.”

  “I hear there is. What time?”

  “One o’clock. Gives folks time to get out of church. Probably didn’t leave enough time for’em to make it to the cafeteria, but…” He shrugged.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Melvin. I know this can’t be easy.”

  I never know what to say in the face of grief. If that was, in fact, what sat across from me.

  He blinked rapidly several times, but when he spoke, his voice had the same wry bite to it. “You’re certainly not the one with anything to be sorry about.” He rolled the stained salt shaker between his palms. “Did you know her?”

  I shook my head. “Only by name.”