I startled awake, straightened up, and watched Hank, Donnie Ray, and Wayne all come plowing through my door, carrying the bulletin board from my office, the bulletin board with all of the pushpins that signified where each and every one of Jimmy Joe’s relatives lived.
Hank grinned at me. “We decided to bring the battle planning to you.”
“Operation Recover Bobby Lee,” signed Wayne.
“You can count on us,” said Donnie Ray.
And I knew I could.
27
“Operation Recover Bobby Lee: Rough Beginnings”
September 6, Friday, 1:00 P.M.
Less than forty-eight hours after I returned home from the hospital, I—with the help of Hank—had exhausted every possibility of getting a lead on Jimmy Joe’s whereabouts and, therefore, on Bobby Lee.
Mona Estelle Lane, Jimmy Joe’s cousin and Quik-Mart employee, was only too proud to admit to poisoning my drink on Jimmy Joe’s suggestion. She proudly admitted, also, to calling him each time I’d been in the Quik-Mart. But even threats of prosecuting her to the full extent of the law for attempted murder wouldn’t get her to tell Hank one more thing, even when her state-appointed attorney urged her to do so. Hints that the prosecution might be willing to accept a lesser plea if she’d cooperate in helping us find Jimmy Joe did no good.
Her exact words were, Hank told me, proclaimed with a self-satisfied grin: “Jo Beth Sidden can go to hell before I’d help her out. No one calls Jimmy Joe Lane a liar and gets away with it. He told me she’d been writing him all this time with promises of love, and I believe him. She’s not good enough for him. Besides, escaping from prison is a Lane trait that doesn’t necessarily run in just the menfolk. I’d like a song written about me too.”
Not much of a career track at the Quik-Mart for Mona, apparently, and she had never married or had children. From her point of view, she wouldn’t lose all that much by going to prison on Jimmy Joe’s behalf, and if it made her a secondary Lane legend, so much the better.
Warden Sikes, from Monroe Prison, where Jimmy Joe had been incarcerated, wasn’t much help either. The few personal items that Jimmy Joe had left behind had been washed, disinfected, and stored away pending his return. There was no way one of my bloodhounds could pick up a scent from any of those items in order to track Jimmy Joe.
“You didn’t want to track him before, Ms. Sidden,” Sikes said. “Too bad that now that you have a personal reason for wanting to do so, it looks nearly impossible that you’ll be able to.”
I hung up on him for that comment.
Next, Hank and I paid a visit to Jimmy Joe’s parents. Netty started howling obscenities at me as soon as she saw me. When Obediah finally got her calmed down, he looked at Hank—refusing to look at me—and said, “Why would we help this woman? She’s broken our boy’s heart. Now, seeing as how you don’t have no paperwork making it official to be here, I suggest you get off my property, Sheriff.”
As we left, I stared back at the Lane property. There was something about it that struck me as just… off. And there was something in my heart, which raced at the thought that Bobby Lee and Jimmy Joe were nearby, even if there was no evidence of either of them in the tiny house or on the property immediately surrounding it. Once I did get an article of Jimmy Joe’s to use to start my search, I’d start near this property, that much I knew.
But finding someone to help me wasn’t going to be easy. In two days, I called or visited or both called and visited every single Lane resident on the list Little Bemis had provided for me. And every single one told me, in some form or another, to go to hell.
Jimmy Joe had a whole extended network of family that was proud of him for catapulting into local fame as a man on the run from the law. Somehow, even among the religious zealots of the group (and I ran into a few who told me that uppity women like me would burn in hell), his lawlessness and ability to thwart imprisonment conferred on all of them a sense of status and accomplishment. In a nutshell, thanks to Jimmy Joe, Lanes everywhere could say, “Ha!” and thumb their noses at those in town who had long seen them as backwoods swamp rats who couldn’t do much more than breed.
I understood their feelings.
But I needed to get Bobby Lee back.
That’s why, on a Friday afternoon, I was in my office, contemplating a detailed map of the area surrounding Netty and Obediah Lane’s property. Normally about this time I’d start looking forward to our traditional girls’ night, but on this Friday that wasn’t even an option. Susan, who had been by or called many times in the past forty-eight hours, was out with Lee, and I was glad for her. Jasmine, whom I’d checked in with several times via Donnie Ray and Wayne, was still on her mama vigil.
And I had a search to plan. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have the item I needed from Jimmy Joe—yet.
Somehow, I’d get it, even if I had to break into the Lanes’s house. All those newspaper clippings hanging on the wall told me that his parents had probably created a mini shrine to Jimmy Joe in the second bedroom. And I was pretty certain that Jimmy Joe wouldn’t have neglected to visit his mama and daddy. I was giving the universe twenty-four more hours to deliver what I needed, and then I was going to become Jo Beth Sidden, burglar. I wasn’t motivated as much by desperation as by cold, calculating necessity.
I had turned myself into a completely focused machine, with one goal, and one goal only: Find Bobby Lee. Wisely, no one had commented about my crisp attitude and commanding tone. The inner drill sergeant had become an exterior drill sergeant. Everyone understood that that was the only way I could keep myself together.
My office door swung open and Hank came in. I didn’t look up as he sat down across from me. I kept staring at the map.
“I think you’ve got that map gridded to perfection by now,” he said softly.
“Just about.”
“Jo Beth, we have to talk.”
I kept looking at the map.
“We have to talk about what we’re going to do about Bobby Lee now that it’s clear we’re not going to get a personal item of Jimmy Joe’s for our search.”
I had my back-up plan, of course. But I wasn’t about to tell Hank, although I was curious to know his.
I smiled at Hank.
“Somehow, I didn’t think my statement would amuse you.”
“I’m smiling at the fact that you were referring to ‘our’ search for Bobby Lee.”
“We’re in this together,” Hank said.
I nodded. “I know. And I’m grateful. What do you suggest we do?”
He sighed. “I know you’re not going to like this.” He shook his head. “I don’t much like it either. But, Jo Beth, I think we’re just going to have to wait Jimmy Joe out. Sooner or later, he’s going to get tired of waiting for you, and he’ll either set Bobby Lee free or return him to you in the middle of the night.”
“You mean—just do nothing.”
“What option do we have?”
Suddenly, I was angry. “If you’re going to say ‘we’ in reference to finding Bobby Lee, then you’d better get rid of such an apathetic attitude. I don’t wait for what I want. I never have. And I want Bobby Lee back—now. Sooner than now. How do I know Jimmy Joe won’t hurt him, or hasn’t already hurt him? What if you’re right and he does set Bobby Lee free—what if a gator gets to him before he can find his way home?”
Hank stood up, slammed his hands against my desk. “God, Jo Beth, you make it sound as though I don’t care about Bobby Lee when you know damned well I do. Just what are we supposed to do now, though?”
“How about question everybody again. Force them to help us. Look under every rock and twig if we have to—”
Hank stood up, then stalked to my office door. “I need a break,” he snapped. He meant, I knew, from me—not from the work.
I slumped back in my chair, closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. And that, I thought, was how it would be if we got married. We’d work as a team, sure,
but fighting whenever our strong wills clashed. Which would be often.
I opened my eyes and went back to staring at the map of the Lane property, contemplating how to best break in to their house in the next twenty-four hours.
The telephone rang. I grabbed it.
And there was that soft, insidious voice again.
But after a few seconds, it registered that it wasn’t Jimmy Joe. This was a female. And in my shock at thinking it was Jimmy Joe, I’d missed what she was saying.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Could you repeat that please?”
A long silence, then an even longer sigh. “Pay attention this time. My name is Mary Sloan. I’m Mona Estelle Lane’s sister. And I think I have something you want. But you have to come by yourself to get it.”
28
“Operation Recover Bobby Lee: The Setup”
September 6, Friday, 2:00 P.M.
Mary Sloan was Mona Estelle Lane’s sister, a thirty-something, twice-divorced woman who, unlike all the other Lane relatives Little Bemis had tracked down for me, did not live out in the countryside near the Okefenokee. She lived in one of the tiny apartments in a small brick twelve-unit building on the edge of Balsa City.
Little Bemis had, of course, identified her and how she fit into the Lane family. Even knowing she was Mona’s sister, I’d called her some time in the past twenty-four hours, hoping that she might at least want to convince her sister to be cooperative so that Mona could plead to a lesser charge.
When I’d suggested that idea to Mary, she’d had just two words for me: “Screw you.” Then she’d hung up on me. At least her dismissal of my plea and me had been succinct. Most of Jimmy Joe’s other relatives had opted for much lengthier descriptions of why I was unworthy of their aid.
But now I found myself standing outside Mary’s apartment building, staring at the depressing little structure, wondering what I’d possibly let myself in for. On the off chance that she really did have a scent item for me, I had the necessary oversize sealable plastic baggie to collect the item and protect it.
On the more likely chance that this was just a setup of some kind, Jimmy Joe and a posse of Lanes ready, willing, and able to beat the crap out of me, I just had my wits. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going—I’d just gotten in my truck and driven away from my compound as soon as I’d gotten off the telephone with Mary.
Yes, I knew this was risky—even stupid.
But Mary had made it clear that she wanted to see me alone. And I was willing to take the risks—any risks—required to find Bobby Lee.
I stepped into the building. The heavy door slammed shut behind me. Despite the fact that it was early afternoon, the entryway was dim. It had a faintly musty odor but was swept clean. There were three rows of metal mailboxes, four per row. Mary had told me that her apartment was number 9, on the third floor. I looked at mailbox 9. Unlike the others, it wasn’t labeled with the owner’s name. Perhaps the mailman had memorized the fact that all of Mary Sloan’s mail went into box 9. Or perhaps Mary had sent me on a wild-goose chase.
I climbed one flight of stairs, to the second level, and had to stop and rest for a moment. Normally, climbing stairs wouldn’t have tired me, but I was still weak from the poisoning.
I climbed the next flight, went to the door labeled with a single “9,” and knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again.
I heard movement inside and waited, deciding to count to fifty before knocking again. I had gotten to thirty-seven when the door swung open.
My heart lurched. Facing me with an amused grin on her face was a clone of Mona. There were a few fine-tuned differences, but that just made the nearly perfect resemblance eerier. Mary’s features, though, were accentuated with subtly applied makeup. Same upswept grayish-brown hair, but captured in a smooth French twist instead of an untidy bun. Also wearing a dress, but Mary’s was a flawlessly tailored black knit, accessorized with a single strand of pearls.
The woman grinned at my stunned expression. “I guess your research didn’t turn up the fact that Mona and I are twins. Identical twins.” She stepped back, pulling the door more widely open, giving me plenty of room to enter her apartment. “Come on in.”
I went in, and engaged her in the usual Southern hospitality conversation. Why, yes, I’ll have a seat. The offer of sweet tea is so kind of you, but I’m afraid I must pass. The traditional Southern response would be a delighted Why, thank you, I’d love a glass of sweet tea, exclaimed as if such an offer was so rare as to be a surprise. In this case, I was taking a decidedly non-Southern route by declining the offer. Given that her twin sister had poisoned me two days before, precaution trumped tradition.
When we were both settled—Mary on a couch, myself on a chair that was catty-corner to her—I took the chance to glance quickly around. The furniture was elegant, a beautiful mahogany that was upholstered in rose-patterned chintz. The walls were lined with bookshelves that were filled with books. On a coffee table of carved mahogany was a crystal vase filled with three long-stemmed pink roses—real ones. And to the right of the vase lay the latest issue of Martha Stewart Living. The magazine was open to an article on collecting pepper mills; several lines of the article had been highlighted by a yellow marker that lay in the center of the magazine.
Mary caught me looking around the room. “Not the taste or decor you’d expect from a Lane descendant?”
I looked at her. “To tell you the truth, no. But then, I didn’t expect that any Lane would help me out. In fact, the last time we talked, you had only two words for me: ‘Screw you.’ So I’d like to get to the point. Why did you invite me here?”
Mary laughed. “I like a woman who gets to the point.”
And I liked the fact that she’d called me on judging her—but I wasn’t here to exchange compliments. I wanted to know if she had any way to help me find Bobby Lee. If not, I wasn’t going to waste my time with her. I looked at her and mentally picked up my counting at thirty-eight, giving her to one hundred to start talking.
I’d barely broken forty when she sighed. “Go ahead and take a good look around,” Mary said. “I guess you could say I’m the real rebel of the Lane family, never mind that the ballad was written about Jimmy Joe.” She gave a low, bitter chuckle and looked into her glass of tea, swirling the drink around, staring in the glass as if it held answers to long-held questions. I realized that she wasn’t drinking just sweet tea and I wondered how often she stared into a glass of bourbon with those questions.
“I left home when I was twenty by getting married to my first husband, a man considerably older than me, and moving to Baton Rouge. He had a job there in sales—pretty impressive position, as far as my family was concerned, and I should have just been happy with being married to someone who was successful. But I wanted to try my own wings. I started taking college courses as I could afford them and eventually broke up with my husband—he thought I was trying to outgrow my place as his stay-at-home helpmate. And, of course, I was.”
I shifted restlessly. What did Mary’s personal history have to do with my getting Bobby Lee back? Possibly nothing. Possibly everything. I knew, though, that if I interrupted I’d never find out.
Mary went on. “We got divorced, I got a little money and a waitressing job and managed to get by while I worked on my college degree in English. After graduation, I started teaching at a high school. That’s where I met Matt Sloan. My second husband—and the real love of my life.” She smiled sadly. “I surely loved that man. He was a teacher too. Math.” She gave another chuckle. “People used to tease us that we were at opposite ends of the academic spectrum, so how could things work out between us? Matt had a joke, that opposite academic disciplines attract to make a whole new field of endeavor—chemistry.” She sighed. “We had some good years, Matt and I.”
She took a long drink, stared again into the glass. “Then things started falling apart. There were cutbacks at the school. First I lost my job. Then I got a call from Mon
a—our mama was sick and she needed me to come back and help take care of her. I said I would, but just for a few weeks. Those weeks turned into months. Still, Matt and I wrote love letters to each other and called when we could. We were still doing fine.
“Then Matt lost his job too. He came here to stay with Mona and me at our mama’s house. A job came up at the high school for a math teacher. He took it. I found a good job too, managing a day care center. We went to estate sales and bought lovely things that we both adored.” She made a wide, sweeping gesture that took in the whole apartment. “We even talked about buying a house in town. You see, we thought our luck was changing again. And it was—for the worse. Once we were settled in here, we started spending more time with my family. And some of the folks who thought I was too uppity to begin with started pulling Matt aside and telling him stories about how wild I was as a teenager. Sexually wild. Smoking dope. Things like that. The stories had some truth to them—I admitted that to Matt—but they were also greatly exaggerated. Matt said he didn’t care. We even laughed over people talking about ancient history as if I was the first teen to rebel.
“But the truth is, deep down it set Matt up to believe that I was capable of almost anything. I’ll never forget the day our relationship changed. It was at my mother’s funeral, of all places. And Netty Lane pulled him aside—I saw them talking at the wake afterward—and I’m sure it was she who told him the lie. I’ll never forget him staring at me, horrified, and her pointing at me. The next day he told me he was leaving me because he’d learned that I’d had an affair while I’d been here alone, away from him. I couldn’t get him to admit that Netty Lane was the one who’d told him—and of course she denied it too. But because of that, he left me.”
If Matt had truly loved and trusted Mary, he’d have believed her, I thought—and then it struck me that I loved Hank but was all too quick to assume the worst when a female had answered his phone. And then I realized that Mary’s situation was much like Sara Kirkland’s had been. Sara had suffered from people gossiping about her husband’s alleged affair; Mary had suffered from gossip about her behavior. I thought too of Netty’s screaming obscenities at me when she realized I wasn’t going to marry her son, calling me a whore and other similar names. Maybe that was how she saw any woman who refused to go along with what she and so many of her kinfolk saw as the only right and proper role for a woman.
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