Hog Wild

by Cathy Pickens

  He joined me on the porch but didn’t accept my offer of a seat on the swing, which I appreciated. That would’ve felt awkwardly cozy.

  He stood, looking down at me. “She’s asked that you be allowed to take your pick of her books and other items of personalty before the estate auction is held. I suppose she told you?”

  I nodded, staring for some reason at the creases in his jeans. I doubted I’d come back here for anything.

  “Whenever the police finish snapping pictures or whatever they’re doing, just let me know when you’d like to enter the premises. She said the books had no special collectors’ value, as far as she knew, but the firm who’ll handle the estate auction will have to value anything you remove, for estate purposes.”

  I nodded, just barely acknowledging his words. I knew I must appear rude, but I couldn’t seem to rouse even rudimentary social graces.

  Carlton had enough social grace for the both of us, but he was having trouble getting around to the topic of Maggy’s bequest to me. At first, I didn’t think he knew about it. Then he mentioned she’d sent him a note about a gift for me.

  “We can talk about—everything else later, Avery,” he said. “It’s all been such a shock.”

  I almost giggled at the thought: There was a thousand-pound stone elephant on the porch between us.

  He left, and I stayed, slumped in the swing. Shock. He was right about that.

  This was what happened when you died without children or family. Strangers came in and put yard-sale stickers on the things that made up your life, and other strangers picked over the bits and carried some off to absorb into their own lives. If you hadn’t shared those memories before you left—where you were when you bought it, how you’d enjoyed using it—then all that was lost.

  Maggy Avinger probably didn’t care that the memories in this house would dissipate. She was probably glad. She’d chosen another legacy, to heal this one.

  Part of me wanted to save something of hers, to save what I’d seen and liked in her. Another part of me wanted to walk away without looking back.

  I sat a while longer, watching official people come and go. Occasionally a cop entering the house glanced my way. My thoughts jumped and skittered, but I was aware only of a numbness.

  Finally, without asking permission, I left. If L.J. or anybody needed me, they could track me down.

  Tomorrow was church. I’d spend the night with my family. I wanted to be alone, but not as alone as the cabin. I walked back to my office.

  Slicing open the packing tape on a box, I began putting books on a shelf without even looking at the titles. I broke the empty box down flat and carried it to the mud room inside the back door. The darkened oak floors creaked under every step. I found myself staring down at the thick baseboards in the back hallway, then at the heavy crown molding that decorated even the back rooms in this house. The sand-cast doorknob, the heavy-hinged door, the sweeping staircase to the second floor.

  This house was so much like my grandfather’s. I couldn’t build a new house. The only “new” places I’d lived were boxy condos or apartments. I didn’t want to be relegated to one of those, not when I grew old, and not now. Why cut up good earth and plough down trees when there were already enough places to live?

  I strode back to my office and dialed the phone. Aunt Hattie answered.

  “I’ve been reading over the papers you left—”

  “Avery, I meant to call and got busy. Figured I’d see you at Sunday dinner tomorrow. Vinnia and I have changed our minds. We went to visit Ava, and we were both so depressed on the drive home. When we could finally bring ourselves to talk to each other, what a relief to find we both felt the same way. So thank you, honey, for looking over those papers. Just let us know what we owe you.”

  The breath I’d been holding rushed out. “You don’t owe me a thing, Aunt Hattie.” I’d never been so relieved to be dismissed by a client. “Would you like me to explain your ownership rights, just in—”

  “No, honey. No need to waste breath on that. I reckon we’ll live here as we have, and you all can worry about it when we’re gone.”

  “Aunt Hattie, you know you don’t. . . have any worries about who’ll take care—”

  “We know that.” She cut me off, not wanting or needing to hear more.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” I said, and we hung up.

  I felt buoyant, I was so relieved. My great-aunts’ decision to stay meant I wouldn’t have to offer to buy their interest or deal with the family upheaval. They wouldn’t be here forever, but I could keep that part of my life as I’d always known it for a while longer.

  That left me with my housing dilemma unresolved. I could keep looking. Maybe I could move in here, as a temporary place, a rental. Walking downstairs to the office would certainly cut commute time, but that proximity to work could also be a bane. I would still have the cabin, though, for a respite. Why did I feel such need for a nest? Maybe if I got this office organized.

  I looked down at my desk. No sooner had I straightened it than I made another mess. On top of my latest mess lay the list I’d been working on that morning.

  I picked it up. No further need to see Maggy Avinger or my great-aunts. I would need to have a long talk with Sheriff L.J. Peters after she got through playing detective at Maggy’s house. First, though, I needed to think through how to tell L.J. what I knew about the murders.

  After reading the anonymous notes with the distinctive handwriting, she could begin putting the pieces together without my help, but I doubted she had enough to fill in all the blanks. Not that “why” was technically part of a police report, but this case was too complicated unless you understood the why.

  The remaining item on my list was setting aside Dot Downing’s land transfer. How best to tackle that? Maybe a petition in equity directly to the judge? Would other investors come out of the woodwork? Had the subcontractors been paid? Was anything Alex Shoal had left protected? What a mess. I jotted down some calls I could make, but not until next week.

  I craved mindless activity. And order. Right now, I needed to practice—what did that ancient monk Brother Lawrence call it? Something about experiencing the holy in mundane chores. He peeled potatoes in the monastery scullery. My piles of potatoes were all exceedingly angular: boxes and books.

  27

  The Weekend

  Ididn’t have to go looking for Noah Lakefield. He found me. Saturday evening, I was curled up in the leather armchair in my office, thumbing through an 1895 volume of South Carolina case law. Old cases have a beautiful language—and an intimacy of wrong-doing. I absentmindedly stroked the creamy, smooth calfskin cover and flipped the pages, ignoring the gathering gloom.

  Insistent knocking rattled the front door, jolting me in my chair. “Avery? Avery, are you in there? It’s Noah.”

  I rested the book on the corner of my desk, marched into the entry hall, and swung open the door. I was pleased when Noah froze midstep, his mouth open in an almost-word. I was glaring like a fury and glad it had an effect.

  “You ever hear of knocking politely? No need to shatter the stained glass. Maybe you could call ahead?”

  “O-kay? May I come in?”

  I stood aside, then followed him through the French doors, switching on the shadow-filled glare of the overhead light.

  “You okay?” he asked. Uncharacteristic solicitous ness, coming from him.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I heard about Miz Avinger. I knew you were friends—”

  “So you wanted to get the scoop.”

  He blinked. “No, well, in part. I just thought—I knew you’d be upset. I saw your light. Thought you might like somebody to talk to.”

  He seemed sincere, but then again, he was a reporter. Like lawyers, they’re sometimes paid to seem sincere.

  “I do want to talk,” I said. “Have a seat.” From my tone of voice, he knew it wasn’t an invitation to tea, and certainly not the conversation he’d come to have. />
  “How about you explain you and Lionel Shoal getting to Dacus at the same time.”

  He didn’t answer. He just sat slumped in his chair, his manner relaxed.

  “You came here from Phoenix, same as Shoal.”

  “I never said I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t volunteer it, either. You followed Shoal here.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Never acknowledge an admission when you are pushing toward the hard questions, even if it surprises you. “You blew up Shoal’s model home.”

  “No, I did not.” He seemed almost amused by my questions.

  “You think you’re a helluva poker player, don’t you? Okay, you know who blew it up.”

  “No.” He stretched his legs, the shaggy cuffs of his jeans puddling on top of his sneakers. “I have my suspicions, but I don’t know for sure.”

  I tried not to let my face telegraph my surprise.

  “Have you talked to L.J.?” I asked. “Told her about your suspicions?”

  “Of course not. Number one, your crack law enforcement officer doesn’t inspire trust. Second, I have suspicions, no proof.”

  “So who’d’you think did it?”

  He shrugged. His elbows on the armrests kept him from sliding off the wooden chair. “Shoal’s one possibility. Your new buddy, Tim McDonald, is another, though I don’t think his guys had the means to carry out two operations so close together. And they wouldn’t want to endanger their nuclear plant protest for something with such limited news value. Can’t really get much publicity—or raise much money—protesting a local problem.”

  “Raise money?”

  “Sure.” He sat upright in the chair. “The funding that organizations like the Environmental Protest Alliance need to protect trees doesn’t grow on trees. They needed donations. They had to stage an event that would give them the most buck for the bang.”

  “Could someone from the group have taken on Shoal as a solo operation?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” He sounded skeptical.

  “Your money’s on Shoal?”

  He wagged his head from side to side, his thick curls waving slightly. “Maybe. Heck, could’ve been you, for all I know. Or somebody else around here unhappy with outsiders coming in.”

  “Could’ve been you, too.”

  His stare didn’t waver.

  “Why do you care if Shoal messes up Camden County, or Phoenix, for that matter? Why chase him cross-country?”

  We kept our gazes locked, stubborn.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. Realization dawned slowly. “You don’t care, do you? Not about Dacus or Phoenix. This is about Vail, isn’t it? Shoal helped mess up Vail, didn’t he?”

  He glanced down at the floor, then back at me. “My hometown, near Vail. He swindled my mother out of her land, plowed it up, left town ahead of the creditors. I hoped to call him to account, to make sure he didn’t ruin someplace else.” He paused, holding my gaze. “I didn’t kill him, though.”

  No need to protest to me that he was innocent of murder. I knew that news of Maggy’s death had spread. The rumor mill in Dacus was, as in most small towns, busy and remarkably accurate. Eventually, the story that she’d been ill and that she’d committed suicide would be widely known. In this case, though, the rumors would likely bear only bits and pieces of truth. How much would people know of the full story? I certainly wouldn’t be talking.

  I changed the subject. “So how do you know Tim McDonald?”

  “Tim’s one of EPA’s front men. He and a guy named Mitch Eggles usually work together. After the investigation of the Vail arson, I became interested in these fringe radical environmental demonstrators. I’ve followed them for years, since I was in college.”

  He offered a wry grin. “Incidentally, I never thanked you for the tip about Tim. If it hadn’t been for you, their protest might have carried that press conference onto every newscast worldwide.”

  “Well, you’re welcome. I didn’t realize I’d turned them in.”

  “You didn’t. But you mentioned Tim’s name. Knowing he was in the neighborhood helped me put together a few other pieces, so I tipped the cops. One of the benefits of cozy small-town life, I’m finding. People know what’s going on, who belongs and who doesn’t.”

  I hoped my expression wasn’t betraying my earlier thoughts about how much he didn’t belong.

  “Want to grab some dinner?” he asked.

  “No. Thanks, though. A raincheck?”

  “Sure.” He ran his hands through his unruly curls. Did he ever get his hair cut? “I better be going.”

  Who had set those explosions? Shoal? Tim McDonald and his crew? Would the cops be able to figure it out? Unlikely. I also doubted that Noah would be around long enough to follow through on that dinner invitation. Who would he chase, now that Shoal was gone?

  I locked the front door behind him, stared around my office for a few minutes, turned off the lamp, and let myself out the back door. Lydia, Frank, and Emma had invited me to join them for hot dogs and a video. That now sounded like a great idea.

  After church the next morning, I wished I’d skipped Sunday dinner at home and headed straight up the mountain. But I didn’t know, until the meal was almost on the table, what Mom had planned. At first, things were going so well.

  “Mr. Mack’s going to join us for dinner, too,” Mom said as she hefted the eye round roast out of the slow cooker onto the cutting board. Dad was warming up his electric knife. The big midday dinner meal was called lunch most places now—except on Sunday in the South.

  “Avery, could you get the milk out of the refrigerator for me?” Aunt Hattie had taken charge of the mashed potatoes, while Vinnia took pan drippings with which to work her gravy magic. Aletha slid a pan of biscuits in the oven. These women had after-church Sunday dinner down to an art form, an oft-rehearsed ballet. Dad and I were just minions, nothing more than ushers.

  “I was afraid he’d insist on inviting Estelle Garrett.” Estelle, the apple-cinnamon-bread lady who was so obviously interested in Mr. Mack.

  “We could’ve made room,” I said, setting the milk jug next to the stove and scuttling out of the way.

  “No business making room for that Estelle Garrett,” Letha pronounced. “I swear, Mack Brown has floated through life without a clue what the women around him were up to. Had business to learn, though, after he ended up married to Lucy.”

  “You would think he’d have learned his lesson there,” Hattie said. I was surprised. They usually try to cork off Aunt Letha’s sharper observations, rather than join in.

  “One shrew ought to be enough for anybody,” said Letha. “Lucy was a doozy. God rest her.”

  “Such a shame about Maggy Avinger passing,” Vinnia said. “Mack and she would’ve made such a lovely couple. Lord knows they both deserved some happiness.” Vinnia, the only one of my great-aunts to have ever married, maintains a soft, romantic view of the world, thirty years after her husband died.

  “Estelle Garrett was doing her dead level best to keep Mack away from Maggy—or anyone else,” Letha said. “You know she sent Mack an anonymous letter warning him to stay away from Maggy, that Maggy had done Harden in?”

  I almost dropped the gravy boat I’d gotten from the cabinet for Hattie. I caught Mom’s eye. She just shrugged. She wouldn’t have told them about Mack’s letter, but she’s not the only one in the family who mines rich veins of information.

  “Well,” Vinnia added, “Harden Avinger helped out there. He fed Estelle that nonsense about Maggy poisoning him. He was bound and determined to keep Maggy and Mack apart, even after he was gone. Such a pity. And so mean.”

  Letha made a rude sound as she lifted the plates down from the cabinet. “Harden Avinger was shriveled and consumed by hate. What misguided notion about ‘til death do us part kept Maggy living with him, I’ll never know.”

  “Scared of making it on her own, I think,” said Vinnia.

  Letha snorted in disgust. “The world couldn’t have offe
red her up anything scarier than Harden Avinger.”

  “Pity Estelle and Harden didn’t get together,” Hattie said, stirring the gravy. Her grin was sly.

  Letha took the bait. “Not a chance there. Those two looked for victims. They didn’t look to be victims.”

  “Aunt Letha, we’ll need an extra plate. Oh, here’s Lydia. And our other guest. Avery, can you get another chair?”

  Emma came in and held open the back door for her dad, who carried a baking dish full of what smelled like peach cobbler from last summer’s canning. Plenty of ice cream in the freezer, I hoped.

  I went into the living room to get an extra chair for the dining table. My mom is always picking up strays, so a stranger at Sunday dinner was no surprise. Lydia had met him in the driveway and was introducing him around when I came back in the kitchen.

  “—and this is my older sister, Avery.” Lydia likes to point out our age difference. “Avery, this is Byron Caudle. He’s just moved to town to work for the sheriff’s department.”

  Deputy Caudle and I both froze. Even out of context, we recognized each other. Officer Uptight. The one who’d stopped me for speeding. Why, oh, why had Aunt Letha left Bud at home? I could’ve invited Kid Deputy to play a friendly game of catch in the backyard.

  He stood at attention. “We’ve met.”

  Mom looked back and forth between us, the tension not missing her notice. “Wonderful. You’ve met. Oh, here’s Mr. Mack. What say you all grab a plate and we’ll serve off the counter here. We don’t stand on formality, Byron.”

  Deputy Caudle sat at the end of the table farthest from me, talking to Dad and Aunt Hattie. Emma, Mr. Mack, and I sat at the other end, where Mom could keep an eye on us, ensuring a peaceful meal.

  I had talked to Melvin, to get his okay on the new sign outside my office. After all, it was his house, had been his family’s home place. I didn’t want to do any-thing disrespectful.