"Been too many secrets shared tonight. By the way, if you ever repeat what I’ve told you, I’ll strangle you with your own hair." She headed for the entry hall.
"Wait. I’ve got to tell you something."
She waved goodbye, turned the doorknob, and opened the front door.
"I did it. I killed Donald." The words rushed out of me.
Momma stopped, but didn’t turn around. The grandfather clock in the hallway counted the silence between us—twenty seconds, forty seconds, a full minute.
"We need milk. I’ll get some while I’m out." She swung the door open wide, pushed back the screen, took one step onto the porch.
"Did you hear me?" I shouted. "I killed Donald."
She flew back into the house, slamming the front door so hard the glass rattled. "Shut up before the neighbors hear you."
"I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident."
She arched her left eyebrow and folded her arms. "How do you accidentally kill a bastard like Donald?"
"He saw me walking home from the library and forced me to go to Starview Mountain with him." I told Momma about Donald’s problems with the truck, about his anger at Charlotte, and of his plans to build a resort. I explained how my stepbrother and Gordon Zagat fought, and how I’d failed to catch a ride home with Mr. Zagat.
"Donald must have been mad after Gordon left," she said.
I nodded.
"Did the bastard hit you, Becky? Did he rape you again?"
I didn’t answer.
"Did you kill him before he hurt you or afterwards?"
"It was an accident."
"An accident, huh?" Momma dropped her purse and keys on the coffee table and sat. "Okay, I’m listening. How did you accidentally kill Donald?"
"I asked him to take me home, but he wanted to study the blueprints for the resort some more. He suggested I get a blanket out of the truck, spread it under a tree, and read my gardening book until he finished."
Momma snickered. "Donald never suggested anything in his life. Demanded, but never just suggested." She retrieved her last cigarette, lit it, and crumpled up the empty package. "Come on, Becky. Tell me the rest of this fairy tale."
"Like I explained, Donald had left the Ranchero running because he’d had problems getting it to start. I opened the truck door and reached in for my book. It was very heavy. When I picked it up off the dash, my injured wrist buckled, and the book fell. It hit the gearshift, knocked the truck out of park and into reverse, and landed on the accelerator."
Momma rolled her eyes and waved the smoke out of her face. "Then what?"
"The pickup jerked backwards. The driver’s door hit me, spun me to the ground, and the truck rolled slowly down the hill in the direction of the cliff. I yelled at Donald to get out of its way, but instead he ran toward the truck. He grabbed the door and managed to swing up into the cab. I guess he thought he could save the pickup."
"Apparently, he couldn’t," she said.
"No, ma’am. When the truck finally stopped, it came to rest halfway over the ledge. It teetered there like a seesaw and then slipped over the cliff. I ran to the edge of the overhang. When the truck hit the canyon floor, it exploded and burned. I knew Donald had to be dead."
"What did you do then?"
"I ran. Past the Lambert’s horse pasture, through the thicket, across Lost Mule Bog—"
"Lost Mule Bog? Were you trying to get yourself snake bit, girl?"
"I wasn’t thinking straight."
"I wondered why you were as white as sugar when you got home. You went straight to bed. Didn’t even fix my supper." Momma snuffed out her cigarette. "When Donald came up missing, I figured you had something to do with it."
"Why didn’t you say something to me?"
"I didn’t want to risk getting that Cooper conscience of yours stirred up. Didn’t want you to do something stupid like turning yourself in."
"That’s what I’m going to do, Momma. First thing Monday morning."
"You’re not going to do anything, Becky Leigh, except keep your mouth shut."
"I can’t let Mr. Zagat go to prison for something I did."
"He hasn’t even been arrested yet. If he goes to trial, he’ll get off. I guarantee it."
"You can’t guarantee that."
She stood. "They need twelve people for a jury. I’m bound to have something on a couple of them. Something that’ll convince them to see things our way."
"Are you crazy, Momma? You can’t blackmail a juror."
"I said convince. There’s a difference."
"I don’t think a judge would see it that way."
"You have no imagination, Becky. You never did."
I dropped down onto the ottoman. "I can imagine us in adjoining cells. Me for killing Donald and you for jury tampering."
Helen snickered. "That wouldn’t be very pleasant, would it?"
"It’d be hell, Momma."
She pulled off her pearl clip earrings, laid them on the credenza. "How did Donald really die?"
"I told you."
"I didn’t believe that story for a minute. I think Donald either raped you or threatened to rape you and somehow you managed to knock him out."
"How would I’ve done that?"
"With a rock. Once Donald was unconscious, you could’ve stuffed him into the pickup and sent it sailing over the cliff." Momma massaged her earlobes. "That’s what I would’ve done and you’re more like me, Becky, than you think."
"Donald weighed 200 pounds. How could I’ve lifted him into the truck by myself?"
She parked herself on the coffee table. "Did someone help you kill him? Johnny, perhaps?"
"Maybe Donald told me to get that blanket out of the truck because he was going to rape me again. Perhaps, I pretended I couldn’t find it so he’d have to come hunt it himself. When he leaned in to get it, I could’ve knocked him out with the tire iron and then pulled him into the cab. He’d left the Ranchero running. It would’ve been easy enough to put the truck in reverse and drop the book on the accelerator right before I jumped out."
Momma stared at me stone-faced.
"What about it? Would that have worked?"
She grinned. "That would have done the trick."
I went to the front window and pulled back the curtain. The pinkish glow of a dying sun tinted the sky behind Mrs. Treadwell’s red brick colonial. Next to the front steps, a four-foot plywood Frankenstein stood ready to test the courage of the anticipated trick-or-treaters. Ghosts cut from sheets and tethered by thin, silver wires fluttered beneath the porch ceiling.
I released the curtain, rubbed the back of my neck, then turned to face Momma. "Donald’s death was an accident. But you can believe whatever you want."
She shrugged. "People believe what they want or need to believe. The truth seldom matters."
"Grandpa Eli once told me something like that."
"Eli Cooper was a smart man." Momma stood, stretched, and then walked over to stand in front of the mirror above the credenza. "Some folks might claim I’m Myrtle the Turtle, but she died the moment I stepped on that bus to Atlanta. I’m Helen Elizabeth. Named for a woman whose beauty was so great, it started a war, and for a young princess who became the Queen of England. I am Helen Elizabeth, and that’s the gospel truth."
"And you’re the one who said I should show more backbone."
"I didn’t mean you should stand up and tell the world you killed a man." Momma pushed her bangs up off her forehead. "How about starting with something simple like declaring you’ll do the laundry only twice a week, or vowing not to fix supper on Sunday nights?"
"I can’t let Gordon and his family suffer the embarrassment and expense of a trial. I’ve got to tell the truth."
"You need to take care of yourself first. If you can do that and still help others, then that’s fine. The biggest truth in life, Becky, is you must put yourself first because others will degrade, disappoint, or destroy you if given half a chance."
"That’s
your truth, Momma. Not mine."
"Oh? And just what is your truth?"
"I don’t know yet, but it’s definitely not letting someone suffer because of what I’ve done. Can’t you understand that?"
Momma walked over and raised her hand. I thought she was going to slap me. Instead, she pushed my hair behind my ears. "You have such pretty cheekbones. You should wear your hair back to show them off." She sighed. "You are your daddy’s daughter. Just as I am, in my own way, my father’s child." She patted my cheek, walked over to the phone table, and pulled out the directory. "If you insist on turning yourself in, you’ll need a good attorney."
"I can’t afford one."
"I’d be surprised if Judge Langford charged you anything."
Judge Harland Langford had been Grandpa Eli’s best friend. He’d begun his law practice the same year my grandfather started Cooper’s Hardware and Garden. They often joked about passing the same five-dollar bill back and forth between them. Grandpa would pay his friend five dollars for legal work. Then Harland’s wife, Ruth, would spend the money on garden supplies.
"But he’s retired," I said.
"Ruth told me Harland was going stir crazy from not having enough to do. You’ll be doing him a favor." Momma flipped through the phone book. "He’s been a defense attorney, county prosecutor, and Georgia Supreme Court Judge." She picked up the receiver and started dialing. "Besides, the judge always did like you. He taught you how to play checkers. If he can do that, he can get you out of a murder charge."
The logic of my mother’s last statement might have eluded someone else. But I understood. I’d been allowed a glimpse at Myrtle the Turtle, a vulnerable young girl, a girl like me in so many ways. Momma’s unflattering critique on my ability to learn a simple board game was her way of warning me that Helen Elizabeth was back to stay.
CHAPTER 34
The Cascade County courthouse stood in the center of town. Like many small towns in the South, Sugardale had grown outward from the courthouse square. By the time Judge Langford and I arrived most of the parking spots around the square were taken. We parked across the street in front of Ferrell’s drugstore.
"The first Monday of the month is always a busy time at the courthouse," he said.
I nodded and unbuttoned my sweater. "Is it me, or is it unusually warm for November?"
"Relax, Becky. Everything will be fine."
"I’m so nervous, I threw up this morning. I keep thinking someone’s calling my name."
"Someone is. Looks like Helen to me."
"Wait up, Becky Leigh." Momma headed straight toward us, waving a red scarf like a crazy woman.
"What are you doing here?" I asked as she approached. "Your note said you were going to the beauty parlor."
"I changed my mind. Hold this."
She handed me her purse, slipped off her ruby pumps, and picked grass blades off her heels. "I hate walking across wet grass." She pushed her feet into her shoes, retrieved her purse, and tied her scarf over her hair. "How are you, Judge Langford?"
"I’m fine, Helen."
"What are you doing here, Momma? The judge and I have business to take care of. We don’t have time to visit."
"I’m not here to get my shoes dirty." Momma pushed the strap of her purse onto her shoulder. "I stopped by to have a word with the county attorney, Cordell Varner. It’s a good thing I did. That rascal has gone fishing and left his new assistant, Gerald Wilkes, in charge. Do you know him, Harland?"
"We’ve met a couple of times. Seems like a bright fellow. A little eager."
"A little eager? I’ve spent the last half-hour watching him trying to get poor old Mr. Boyle locked away. Everyone in town knows that when Mr. Boyle gets his retirement check each month, he gets drunk at Mike’s Tavern and wails over his late wife until Mike calls the sheriff. Roy Tate always let the old fellow sleep it off in a cell and then took him home." She shoved a stray curl under her scarf. "Wilkes is a barracuda. He’ll see Becky’s case as a way of making a name for himself."
"You let me worry about Wilkes. Becky’s my client. I’ll take good care of her."
"She may be your client, but she’s my daughter. I know what she’s capable of handling. Wilkes will gobble her up." Momma turned to me. "If you insist on carrying out this foolishness, you should wait until county attorney Varner is here. Cordell and your daddy grew up together. He’s known you all your life. I can reason with Cordell."
That’s all I needed, Momma reasoning with the county attorney. In her dictionary, the term to reason with was synonymous with the term to blackmail. No telling what information she had on him. "I’m not going home, Momma. But you are."
"Can’t you talk some sense into her, Harland?"
"Becky, would you rather come back when Cordell is here?"
"I’d like to settle the matter today."
The judge patted my back. "That’s fine. Helen, go home. I’ll call you when we’re finished."
She rubbed her forehead. "I might as well go. Becky’s not going to listen to me."
Judge Langford and I watched Momma get into her van and leave.
"Are you ready, Becky?" he asked.
"Reckon so. I wonder where Momma is going now."
"Helen said she was going home."
"Yes, sir. But home’s the other direction."
*****
For once in my life, I wished I’d listened to Momma. Gerald Wilkes looked amiable enough. A short, slim fellow in his late twenties with light brown hair and gray eyes, he had a quick smile. Too quick. The kind of smile someone gives you when he doesn’t believe a word you’re saying. And it was clear from his questions that he didn’t believe me when I said Donald’s death was an accident.
"That would’ve had to been a heavy book to knock the truck out of gear as you claim," he said.
"I told you three times. It’s The Complete Encyclopedia of North American Plants."
Wilkes pulled his pocket watch from his vest and checked the time again.
"Are we keeping you from something?" Judge Langford asked.
Wilkes grinned, snapped the watch closed, poked it back into his pocket. "Not at all, Mr. Langford. It’s just I hate wasting time, and this story your client is telling me is nothing but a waste of my time and yours." The young lawyer sat on the edge of a large mahogany desk. "Frankly, Miss Cooper, my four-year-old can spin a better yarn than the one you’re telling me."
I didn’t know how to respond to Mr. Wilkes’ insinuation. All I could think of was how much pleasure Momma would get saying, "I told you so, Becky Leigh." I wondered if prisoners could refuse visits from relatives.
The office door swung open. A middle-aged man of average height and weight, dressed in khakis, a faded denim shirt, and an olive green vest tramped in. His rubber boots stopped at mid-calf and a dozen fishing lures decorated his Georgia Tech ball cap.
"Howdy, folks. What’s going on?" he asked.
Wilkes immediately slid to his feet. "What are you doing here?"
Ignoring his assistant, Cordell Varner walked over to where my attorney and I were sitting. "Judge Langford," he said, extending his right hand. "This is a real pleasure, sir. How are you today, Becky?"
"I’ve had better days, sir."
He smiled. "I bet you have."
"What are you doing here?" Wilkes asked again.
Varner turned to his assistant. "Someone told me you were sitting on my desk. No one sits on this desk. Not even me."
With the sleeve of his suit, Wilkes wiped off the spot where he’d been sitting. He mumbled an apology and stepped back.
Mr. Varner ran his hand across the dark wood. "I had this shipped up from Key West. An antiques dealer told me it once belonged to Ernest Hemmingway. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I like to think it is."
Everyone, except Gerald Wilkes, laughed.
"You’ll have to excuse my appearance, Judge Langford. When I left home this morning, I was on vacation." The county attorney slipped off his hat an
d vest and hung them on a coat rack. "I was down at Minnow Creek, about a mile above where it feeds into Hammond’s Dam, and you’ll never guess who I ran into, Becky."
"Who?"
"Your mother." Varner pulled off his boots and retrieved a pair of oxblood-colored loafers from the bottom drawer of a file cabinet. "I couldn’t believe it. Helen always hated the outdoors. But there she was, tromping through the woods in a pair of red high heels."
Judge Langford laughed.
Before Papa died, our family and the Varners would get together sometimes for picnics, barbeques, and rides in Mr. Varner’s boat. He tried to teach me and his twin girls how to ski. Jo Nell and Janet Fay were natural water babies, but I never could get the hang of it. The Varners and Papa talked about taking us camping in the Smoky Mountain National Park, but Momma didn’t like camping. Too much dirt, too many mosquitoes, and no decent place to get her hair fixed.
"I don’t know how she found me," Varner said as he stepped into the loafers. "But Helen always was a resourceful woman."
"I’m sorry she interrupted your fishing. We told her to go home."
"Don’t worry about it." The county attorney sat down at his desk. "What was it Paul used to say about giving Helen orders?"
"Papa said trying to tell Momma what to do was like trying to dictate to the sun when it should rise and set."
Varner chuckled. "Yeah, and Paul was right on the money."
Wilkes cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Cordell, but you won’t believe the stories Miss Cooper and Mr. Langford have been telling me."
"Mr. Langford? Gerald, do you know who this man is?"
"Sure. He’s Harland Langford."
"No, he’s Judge Harland Langford." Mr. Varner pointed at my attorney. "He’s been a judge for thirty years. Half of them years spent on the Georgia Supreme Court. I’d appreciate it if my staff showed him the proper respect."
"I apologize, Judge Langford," Wilkes said. "I didn’t mean any disrespect."
The judge gave Wilkes a curt nod.
"I’ll take over from here," Mr. Varner said.
"But I’ve already got her statement. I’ve made notes about—"
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