by Jeremy Tyler
“I suppose they don’t have peacocks in New York?”
John turned with a start. He hadn’t heard anyone coming up, and felt more than a little embarrassed. Normally he might have tried to mask it, but the bird had already unnerved him, and he was unable to do anything but point and look stupid. Fortunately, the woman that had found him didn’t seem to notice.
“There’s a…” Still flustered, John couldn’t finish his own sentence.
“A peacock on the hood of your car. Yeah. I don’t know why, but they seem to like car hoods in the mornin’.”
“I didn’t know that peacocks were wild in Georgia.”
“Oh, only in Coweta County,” the woman said matter-of-factly.
John’s blank stare was apparently enough to tell her that more explanation was necessary.
“There was this traveling circus that came through town about twenty-five years ago,” she continued. “Actually, ‘circus’ is kind of a generous word…there were a couple of clowns, some horses, a monkey, and peacocks. Lots of peacocks, in fact. That is, until George Rivers thought it would be funny to see them let loose all over town. His mama nearly blew her own house down yellin’ at him. Well, you know how your aunt Wilhelmina can get. He was just 10 years old back then, but I’ll bet if you ask him, he’ll still remember that whoopin’!”
There were a lot of reasons why John just stood there dumbfounded throughout the whole story. But probably the most relevant one was the simple truth that he still had no idea who this woman was that had appeared at this, his most embarrassing hour.
“So, anyway, that’s how come we got wild peacocks all over the place now. Twenty-five years of open space and plenty of breedin’ room have done pretty well for them birds.”
John was still staring. She was a rather attractive woman in her mid-forties, with a broad smile and eyes that seemed to challenge you not to like her. John instinctively felt like he ought to know who she was, but couldn’t put his finger on it. Apparently, his discomfort was showing.
“Oh my gosh, would you take a look at me! Yammerin’ away like we’re old friends and I haven’t so much as introduced myself.” She stuck out her hand in an oddly formal way, as if mocking the entire notion of introductions. “Annie Ruth Stovall. I was real close with your mother, once.”
Realization, relief, and a strange blend of conflicting emotions ran through John’s mind as he took the offered hand, but he managed to recover quickly.
“It’s good to finally meet you. I’ve had the opportunity to read through several of your letters. Mom was quite fond of you,” John finally answered. Uncharacteristically, Annie Ruth blushed at the kind words.
“I was real fond of her, too… I’m sorry to just jump on into your mornin’ like this.”
“It’s okay. I was just walking across the street to stretch my legs, when…” John nodded over to the peacock, still contentedly sitting on his hood.
“Yeah, we’ve had them around for so long, I guess I never realized how strange somethin’ like that would be if you weren’t expectin’ it,” she said with a slight laugh. Then she paused for a moment, getting a little more serious.
“But if you don’t mind, Detective Webb, there was a reason I stopped by.”
Fifteen minutes later, John was in his car, now peacock-free, with Annie Ruth in the passenger seat. They were headed toward Mulfry, Georgia, where Annie Ruth would introduce John to one Doctor Posey, who supposedly had information about the case. Annie Ruth wouldn’t say any more, only that he was a distant cousin that she had known since she was just a little girl, and that he was trusted by every man, woman, and child in three counties
When he asked her what sort of information he might have, Annie Ruth just smiled with a sense of old country wisdom.
“Doc Posey knows everything.”
John only had about another hour before his aunt would be sending the car for him, but Annie Ruth assured him that this would just take a few moments. And sure enough, before John could even register that they had left Sales City, they were driving down Main Street Mulfry. Annie Ruth pointed down one narrow dirt road that led to a modest little brick home just a hundred feet from the railroad tracks.
“Is the man deaf?” John asked, only half-joking. Annie Ruth looked at him as if she didn’t understand, so John expounded.
“This close to the tracks, your Doctor Posey must either be deaf, or have the loudest radio in town.”
“Actually, I just know when the train’s coming, so I know when to make my trips into town,” came a booming voice from the front door. John turned to see a man that, despite the countless wrinkles and bleach-white hair, seemed to transcend age. There was a strange timeless quality to him that made John uneasy and wary.
“Annie Ruth, it’s so nice to see you. And this must be John…” Doc Posey stepped toward them robustly, despite the obvious limp that belabored his movements.
“Sam Posey. Good to meet you.” He grabbed John’s hand in a firm, strong handshake, then paused for the briefest of seconds. The moment was barely noticeable, but John saw something reflected in the man’s dark grey eyes that unsettled him. Without fully understanding why, John suddenly had the feeling that he had been judged—critically—and been found to be in need of something.
Sam Posey led them into his home, and led them to sit at his kitchen table. John didn’t want to be rude, but he was in a bit of a hurry, and he hoped that the man would be forthcoming soon about why he had been dragged out here.
“Doctor Posey…”
“Sam. Please. It’s one thing when the folk around here want to hang some kind’a title on me, but I’ll only give my arrogant pride so much room with strangers.”
“So, you aren’t a doctor?” John asked, beginning to wonder what kind of expert help this man might have to offer.
“Certainly not! I barely made it through grade school, let alone college and medical school. No, ‘Doc’ is purely honorific. It’s just somethin’ they pinned on me years ago.”
“Still, I’m sure your wife is very proud,” John said, noting the many pictures on the mantle of a fair-haired, beautiful woman. At this, Sam went a little stiff.
“No, I’m afraid I never got married. Came close once. That’s Eleanor in the pictures. I was all set to propose thirty-seven years ago. Had the ring and everything—but I just couldn’t go through with it.”
“Thirty-seven years, and you still have her picture up? Seems like maybe those fires are still burning, if you don’t mind me saying. You ever hear from her?”
Sam got up to pour himself another cup of coffee. John’s trained eye couldn’t help but make note of the way his hand shook as he did.
“No,” he said flatly. “No, she died six months later. Her heart gave out on her.” Sam seemed to lose himself for the briefest of moments, as his glance fell on to one of the many pictures of Eleanor. It should have been an awkward, uncomfortable moment, but something in the wistful longing in the old man’s eyes placed that odd drama in a light that was above such childish emotional displays. It was almost a disappointment when he broke off and returned his gaze to John.
“Well, I know you got the funeral, and you probably are wondering what kind of thing Annie Ruth would have dragged you out here for…so let’s get down to the point, huh?”
John could tell that the man desperately wanted to change the subject, and since it got him what he wanted, he was happy to oblige.
“Yes, sir. Anything that you know could be very helpful.” John had his little notepad out, and was already writing down the man’s name, the date, and the time.
“Well, first off, you’re gonna have to work out your feelings about Roy. Nothing’s gonna happen if you aren’t able to put some o’ them demons to rest.”
“I’m sorry…” John held up his hand and put his pencil down.
“Don’t think of it as me gettin’ into your business, it’s just that we’re dealin’ with a lot o’ them mixed up feelin’s—that’s just go
nna get in the way.”
Sam’s gaze was level and unrelenting, as if he had just issued a statement of inescapable fact. Sighing heavily, John closed his notebook and returned the man’s look without even a hint of blinking.
“Mr. Posey, I don’t mean to be rude, so if it comes out that way I apologize, but I thought I came down here for information, not a counseling session about my father.”
There was a moment of very palpable silence as both men looked confused, and Annie Ruth looked guilty.
“Annie Ruth?” Sam asked sternly, “What, exactly, did you tell Mr. Webb you were bringing him here for?”
“I didn’t have a choice, Doc. I knew if he met you and heard what you had to say…”
“What is going on here?” John demanded.
“Mr. Webb…John, I think you’ve been brought here under false pretenses, and I am sorry.” Sam set his coffee down on the table, as if signaling that this meeting was, indeed, concluded.
“Wait just a damn minute, here. You’re telling me you have no information about Carl Rivers’ death, whatsoever?”
“What I am telling you is that the information I have, you may not want.”
“And why is that?”
“Because what I know, I saw…in a dream”
John didn’t quite know how to respond to that.
“It was three nights ago, under a full moon. I was watching your uncle walk across the Parrot river bridge, and then it went dark like the blackest Georgia night you ever saw, but I could still hear things. I heard the gunshot, then suddenly I could see again, and I saw the reverend fall into the water.”
John got up.
“There’s more—you need to know it.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
“John, wait, please.” Annie Ruth was trying to get him to sit back down.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to listen to some two-bit hustler hand me a nice big piece of obvious-pie.” He was furious. Beyond furious.
“I’ve seen too many of your kind where I come from for you to expect me to swallow anything you have to say. You’ll pardon me, but I’ve got things to do.” John was halfway out the door when Sam called out after him.
“I’m sorry I appear to have wasted your time, Mr. Webb.”
“Oh, I doubt that. Rather, I think you’re more disappointed that I wasn’t blind and stupid enough to take your psychic ramblings to heart,” John retorted.
Sam Posey stood and extended his hand. “I am sorry you feel that way. I truly am. But if you’ll allow me to offer a bit of helpful advice, Mr. Webb, you’ll do well to consider the possibility that the answers you’re lookin’ for ain’t gonna be found the way you’re lookin’.”
“I doubt seriously I’m going to find Uncle Carl’s killer in a clump of tea leaves, or at the bottom of a deck of tarot cards, if that’s what you mean!”
“What I mean, Mr. Webb, is that the killer you’re looking for isn’t going to be found by herdin’ in half the county, or by runnin’ stiff interrogation—you’ll find your killer when you figure out who in this county knew the good reverend well enough to know what he had done that was bad enough to kill him for, and who in this county would have been so unwilling to forgive him that they couldn’t stand to have him around anymore.”
John turned and left the house, without accepting the proffered hand. He pretended not to have heard those last words, but they kept running through his head all the way back to Sales City.
Though it seemed much, much longer, the whole trip, interview included, took just over 45 minutes. John still had time for a few sips of coffee to settle his nerves before the Rivers’ limousine came by to gather him up. The ride to the graveside was stifling. Not the heat—it was actually a rather cool day. It was the company. Aunt Wilhelmina and his father were the only two faces he recognized, but he could take a stab at the rest. The prissy, timid woman in her early fifties would have to be the younger sister, Opal. Her dress was plain and modest, but carefully stitched. John was sure if he listened closely, he would hear her tell everyone who could stand to listen how she had had it shipped in from Paris, or Spain, or perhaps just a modest San Francisco boutique. She said nothing, now, as she clutched her small matching purse to her, as though she feared that he might mug her for it before they reached the cemetery.
There were two other men in the car. One, with the well-tended paunch and stiff posture of a man of “big business,” had to be Arnold Rivers, Roy’s youngest brother. Arnold, he knew, had dutifully taken over the Rivers’ many business interests since his father’s death. As the oldest son, it was actually Roy’s responsibility, but he had chosen to play policeman instead. Since Carl had found God, he was certainly in no shape to run a company, so it fell to Arnold. From what John had already learned, it seemed a good fit. Arnold had managed to move a great deal of the family wealth into national companies that had shown promise, and the return had been significant. There was also a good bit of evidence that he had discovered a few “less than upright” business avenues that John was certain Wilhelmina had no idea about.
The other man in the car looked to be about John’s age, and if it weren’t for the ridiculous grin that seemed plastered to his face, John would never have had a clue as to who he was. But something about the goofy look on his face brought to mind the bird on the hood of his car this morning, and then John knew that this just had to be Peacock boy himself, George Rivers.
Little was said on the way to the funeral. It was awkward. It didn’t seem right to give introductions, and nobody knew how to start a conversation without them. As the car pulled into the cemetery, John suddenly felt a rush of guilt. He had been reading everyone as if he were looking at suspects. But the reality of entering the graveyard snapped him into the overwhelming realization that these were not just empty faces. These were people who had known and loved Carl Rivers, just as much as he did, or perhaps even more. As Roy reached for the door, John put a hand out to stop him.
“Wait.” John fumbled for words. He knew he should say something, but he found it difficult to actually force the sentiment out.
“I just wanted to say thank you, before we go out there. I think that I have been a little selfish, just focusing on how much I missed Uncle Carl. This is the second family funeral for me in just three months, and I guess you could say I’ve got a lot on my mind. But at least for this one, I’m not standing by a graveside alone. And I really do appreciate that. Aunt Wilhelmina, Aunt Opal, Uncle Arnold, Cousin George…Dad.” That hurt. But at least it took the edge off of the moment. “I just wanted to let you all know how I felt.”
The smiles that directed themselves back to him were genuine and heartfelt. When they marched up to the grave, they did so as a family. No strangers were present.
Wilhelmina led the entourage, followed dutifully by Opal—it was clear that she had much practice over the years—Roy stepped in behind her, then Arnold, with John and George bringing up the rear.
George was idly playing with a pinkie ring as they walked. It was a rather bright bauble, designed to be noticed.
“New ring?” John asked innocently, awkwardly searching for conversation. George immediately stopped turning the thing and stopped in his tracks for just a second or two.
“No,” he stammered, “No, I’ve had it for years… Just a nervous habit.” Then George hurried to catch up. Something told John that he should press, but decided it would be better left to later. As if on cue, John got a whiff of that same strange fragrance he had noticed earlier. Once again, it held an odd sense of familiarity, but he just couldn’t place it. For a moment, he was tempted to ask someone about its source, but something kept him from forming the question, as if this seemingly innocuous query would break the tableau of a Georgia funeral. Besides, they were nearing the graveside, and it was clear that the minister was set to begin.
John was not surprised by much at this funeral. This does not mean to say that it was unmemorable, or that he was disappointed in how it wa
s undertaken, or that it was any less moving than it should have been. It was, simply, one of those rare occasions where the reality of an event was equal to the expectation.
Just as John had imagined, the entire town—and quite possibly a good portion of the county—was present and accounted for, in their best Sunday clothes, suitably teary-eyed, nodding along to the thoughtfully rendered words of the eulogy. The minister was a Methodist Bishop from Atlanta that Carl Rivers had often spoken with and exchanged letters. His brief sermonette had included a story that Carl had once told him, about a botched baptism involving a shaky teenager and a bobcat. And the laughter that followed was both respectful and heartfelt, with many a head nod and whispered, “That was Pastor Rivers, all right.”
In short, John’s ingrown pessimism had no place to go. On that beautiful Tuesday morning, with the sun shining down and long-lost family sitting beside him, John Webb had no natural defenses against his grief. He watched with tears as six Methodist deacons slowly marched, casket in hand, toward the final residence of his Uncle Carl. Images flashed through his mind without mercy: Uncle Carl teaching him to swim; Uncle Carl at his birthday; Uncle Carl leading a standing ovation when he had received his citation from the mayor.
Aunt Wilhelmina’s hand touched his briefly. As he looked over, she smiled and whispered, “I know it’s all so sad…I only wish you could have known him better.”
It was the slap in the face that he needed to bring out his cop’s cynicism again. He should probably have thanked her, but it would have spoiled the moment. Instead, he began to do what he came here to do in the first place. Turning back to the crowd of people, he started taking mental notes.
The Stovalls were there, sitting toward the back with the rest of the unimportant people. The two sheriff’s deputies had taken up position on the opposite side of the grave, but close enough to the front to let everyone know how far up they were in the social pecking order. And, although he had never met the man, John knew Earl Cameron the second he saw him, standing in the back, looking ashamed to be there. The pained look on his face was not completely from grief. John was certain that the evident hangover had a lot to do with it.