by Nancy Martin
“She trusted a lot of folks.”
“Yes, she did. But one of them must have slipped some medicine or poison to her without her knowledge.”
“Who?”
But I had no time to say more. At that moment, Mr. Carver tapped on the back door and stepped inside.
“Sunny!” He gaped at me from the doorway. “What happened?”
I must have looked awful, because Mr. Carver’s expression was horrified.
Before I could manufacture a plausible lie, Mae Mae said, “She fell. She was walking that dog, and she fell. That dog was always tripping up Miss Honeybelle, too, and now this. I was just going to help her get cleaned up.”
Mr. Carver closed the door. “Dear girl, you need a doctor! You should go to the hospital!”
“I’m okay.” Although I felt woozy all over again. “Just banged up and dirty.”
Mae Mae got up from the table, her bulk shielding me from Mr. Carver’s view. She sent me a look that ordered me to be careful. “I’ll get a basin and some towels. Get her something to drink.”
She bustled up the stairs as fast as she could and disappeared.
Mr. Carver came to the table. He had his car keys in one hand and wore his going-out clothes—loose trousers and an old shirt rolled at the sleeves. He said, “I saw the kitchen light and wondered if something was wrong. What can I get you to drink?”
“Anything.” My strength was starting to drain away again. I closed my eyes and put my head down on the table.
Mae Mae came back down from her apartment and snapped, “What did you do to her?”
I sat up, and Mr. Carver stuttered, “I-I didn’t do anything. I’m getting her a drink.”
They bustled around, and in a moment Mr. Carver set a juice glass of something amber in front of me. It took a big effort for me to pick up the glass and sip from it. Honeybelle’s Dubonnet. It burned in my throat, but felt warm going down. Only after I swallowed did I realize I shouldn’t have done it. Mr. Carver could have tainted my drink.
But that was ridiculous.
With her basin, Mae Mae knocked over the glass, and its contents immediately spilled across the table. “So sorry,” she said, without meaning it.
Her basin was filled with hastily gathered items. She handed me a kitchen towel to sop up the spill.
“My daddy was a Louisiana traiteur,” she said as she worked at sponging my scraped knees with a clean, wet washcloth. “A kind of faith healer, you’d call him. Here, hold this leaf. Stay still, child. I’m gonna cut a snip of your hair.”
“What—?” I finished wiping up the spill and obediently grabbed the small leaf between my fingers. It was dry and delicate.
She tossed the bloody washcloth aside. With a rough hand, she squared my shoulders. “Sit up straight and stay still, I’m telling you. Now put the leaf in the basin and hold out your hands.” She trimmed a tiny lock of my hair with her scissors and dropped it into my cupped hands. “Drop that in the basin now, too.”
Mr. Carver said, “Mae Mae, you’re going to scare this young lady with your black magic country ways. Let me drive her to a proper doctor.”
“You hush with your insults,” she snapped. “Ain’t nothing magic about it.” From her deep pocket she withdrew a small cloth bag. She untied the strings and upended it, spilling a cascade of small items onto the table—an acorn, some bits of plant, a figurine, an animal tooth, and more. “It’s all natural, from God’s earth. Don’t touch that,” she said to me, pointing at the tooth. “It’s for my rheumatism. It bites the pain. Don’t pick up your hair neither.” She hustled to a drawer and came back with kitchen matches.
“You say a prayer now,” she said to me. “Don’t matter what kind. Now I lay me down to sleep will do just fine. Just so you’re talking to God.”
I obeyed and started reciting the bedtime prayer in a shaky whisper. She struck a match. In the basin, she set the snippet of my hair on fire—a sharp smell, a puff of smoke. The leaf caught fire, too, and a bright flame flared up. The edges of the leaf burned fast, curling, then turning black.
The flame went out at the moment I finished the prayer. Mae Mae gathered up the burned black bits and stuffed them into the small bag. She clasped the bag between her hands and bowed her head. “Stay still now, and let me pray.”
“What nonsense,” Mr. Carver said. “In Memphis, you’d be arrested for fraud.”
She muttered her prayer and finished with a hasty “Amen. Now take this bag and put it next to your heart. Yes, right there in your bra.”
She held wide the neck of my shirt so I could obey her command. Mr. Carver turned away, making an exasperated noise in his throat. Then Mae Mae passed her hands up and down on either side of my body, not quite touching me. Presumably not speaking to God, she said, “And you can hush your mouth about fraud, mister.”
Mr. Carver shook his head.
“There,” she said to me when she had finished moving her hands around me. “Tonight I will make you a tea to add to your bathwater. It will be healing and restful. Meantime, put this Band-Aid on your knee.”
“Thank you, Mae Mae.” I wasn’t sure I felt any better, but I sat in wonder as she gathered up her little charms and stowed them in her pocket. The little bag was warm against my skin. I opened the Band-Aid and applied it to the worst cut on my knee.
“I hope you feel better,” Mr. Carver said, edging for the door.
“Are you on your way out?” I asked.
“Me? No, of course not.” But he slid a set of car keys into his pocket.
Mae Mae rolled her eyes at me, then began to rinse the basin at the sink. “We’re just fine. You run along now, Mr. Carver. I’ll take care of things here.”
He hesitated, looking at me uncertainly. “If you say so.”
“I just need a good night’s rest,” I said.
“Well, then. Good night.”
Unwillingly, he went out the door, and we heard him go down the porch steps. Mae Mae and I exchanged a glance. Then we hurried to the back door to watch out the window.
“Turn off the light,” I whispered to her.
She flipped the switch, and we were in darkness. Together, we peered outside.
Mae Mae kept her voice low. “What’s he doing?”
“Going into the garage. He’s going out, isn’t he?”
“He’s been acting suspicious for a long time.”
“You don’t think he’d hurt Honeybelle, do you?”
“They had a big fight the morning she died. I heard ’em.”
I had, too. And Mr. Carver had access to his own heart medication. It would have been an easy task to slip a few of his own pills into her morning coffee.
I asked, “Where does he go at this time of night? Out to get ice cream or something?”
“He won’t tell. He goes on Mondays and Saturdays, and sometimes on Thursdays. He goes late—not always this late, but after dark.”
I glanced over at the clock on the stove. A little after ten. “Does he have a girlfriend?”
“At his age? A man that old couldn’t handle a woman with a pair of barbecue tongs.”
“Then where does he go? Did he ever tell Honeybelle?”
Mae Mae said, “Maybe so.”
We saw the light go on in the garage, indicating the garage door was opening. I hurried to the sink. “I’m going to follow him. He’s probably taking the van. I’ll take Honeybelle’s car.”
“Tonight? Looking the way you do?”
“My mother took me on a couple of her expeditions. After a while, you can convince yourself that cleaning up with a couple of baby wipes is just as good as a hot shower. But here. Help me get the rest of this grit washed off.”
“You should stay here. Take a cool bath.” Mae Mae ran water into the sink and sponged at my arms with a dishcloth. “It wouldn’t take but ten minutes for me to make you up a tea.”
“I feel much better already. Really, whatever you did, it helped.”
“Of course it helped. B
ut it needs more time to work.” Maybe Mae Mae objected, but she handed me a kitchen towel to dry off my face, neck, and arms. “Hurry up. Wipe off your legs again, too. You don’t want to go bleeding on Honeybelle’s nice Lexus upholstery. I’d go with you, but all I’ve got on under this robe is my nightie.”
“I can go alone.” I had splashed water in all directions but managed to rinse most of the dust off my face and arms. My legs were another story. I needed more time to clean up properly—time I didn’t have. In another few seconds I was pulling on my shoes. “Is he taking the van?”
Mae Mae risked another peek out the kitchen door window. “I can’t tell yet, but—hang on, yes! I can see the lights. He’s pulling out now.”
“Where are the keys to Honeybelle’s car? Darn! I left them upstairs—”
“There’s another set here in the drawer.” She opened a drawer and rummaged.
I finished with the towel. “How do I look?”
“You’re not going to win any pageants, but you look less like a dead cat.” Mae Mae clapped the keys into my hand and opened the back door for me. “Don’t lose him!”
I hobbled down the porch stairs and hurried across the dark lawn.
“Be careful, Sunny!”
The first time Mae Mae had ever said my name. It made me smile. I turned around and waved to her, then ran for the garage.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
No dancing on the tables with spurs.
—ROADHOUSE SIGN
By the time I reached the gate, Mr. Carver had pulled out onto the street and was heading for town. I waited until he was halfway down the block, then dashed into the garage. A few seconds later, I was behind the wheel of Honeybelle’s car. I backed out of the garage and followed the lights of the van, careful to hang back as far as I dared. The air-conditioning blew on my face, cooling but also calming me. My pulse steadied as I drove the dark streets of Mule Stop, keeping an eye on Carver’s taillights.
Sedately, he drove through town, past the university and the Tejas store. He took the road past the animal shelter, and I started to think he was heading to Posie’s house. There was nothing else out on this end of town.
But he went past the housing development and the water tower, heading out of Mule Stop on the long, flat road toward Lubbock. I glanced at my gas gauge. Less than a quarter of a tank—not enough to get me the hundred or so miles to Lubbock.
Behind me, another car’s headlights suddenly swung into my rearview mirror. I slowed down automatically, and within a minute that car passed me, going fast. I took a furtive look at the car as it went by and nearly choked.
Hut Junior, traveling far above the speed limit. The co-conspirators were up to something.
I stayed back, following the two of them by keeping their lights in view. Within five miles, though, both the van and Hut’s car pulled into a parking lot. I hadn’t realized there was anything out this far from town. I didn’t risk pulling in. Going by, I peered out my window and saw the building was some kind of roadside bar. Neon lights glowed over the doorway, and beer signs flickered in the windows. The parking lot was full of pickup trucks and SUVs. Both Mr. Carver and Hut parked in the lot.
I continued along the road for another half mile, trying to think what to do. With no cars coming from the opposite direction, I slowed and turned around. As I headed back toward the bar, I tried to come up with a plan.
Neither Hut nor Mr. Carver was in sight when I reached the parking lot. I found a spot on the opposite side of the building from where they had left their vehicles. I turned off the engine and checked the clock on the dash.
It was just a few minutes before eleven o’clock—hardly an hour when two men ought to be meeting for a drink without a nefarious reason.
Another truck pulled into the lot and parked a few slots down from me. I noticed the truck’s bumper sported a parking sticker from Hensley Oil and Gas. A pass to get into an employee parking lot. Several other vehicles around me had the same sticker. Two young couples jumped out of the truck and ran, laughing, for the door. The women wore short, fluffy skirts and cowboy boots. The men were in jeans, boots, and crisp shirts. They looked ready to party.
I could hear music from inside the bar, so loud the whole building seemed to vibrate. My mother used to say that a scientist had to go looking in order to find something. You couldn’t just wait for a discovery to fall into your lap. So I got out of the Lexus and headed for the door.
A neon sign mounted over the entrance said HARLEY’S ROADHOUSE. A paper notice fluttered on the door. It announced dancing on Monday nights, nine to midnight, no cover charge. Even out on the porch, the music was deafening.
More curious than ever, I let myself inside.
In my shorts and sneakers, I was dressed all wrong, but nobody noticed. Nor did anybody see my injuries, because the bodies were packed so tightly together. And I saw plenty of sunburned faces and Band-Aids in the crowd. A lot of people worked outdoors around Mule Stop, and nobody cared how you looked when you came out dancing.
The dance floor was crowded with couples doing the two-step to a rockabilly band that blasted from a makeshift stage. Through the crush of people, I could barely make out a bar on one end of the room. It was mobbed with men and women of all ages. Not just college students, but grown-ups out to have a good time. The two couples who arrived before me grabbed longneck beers and pushed through to find places to stand around the dance floor.
I saw a familiar face behind the bar and made my way through the jostling crowd.
It was Rico, Gracie’s would-be boyfriend. He looked up from his work to see me on the other side of the bar, and his eyes widened. “Sunny!”
“Hi,” I shouted over the noise around us, then couldn’t come up with something to say. I had run out of the house without a nickel in my pocket, so I couldn’t even buy a drink.
“What happened to you?” he asked, matching my volume. “Were you in an accident?”
“Nothing major,” I yelled, wishing I could have taken time to clean up better, but if I had paused to put on makeup, I might have missed Mr. Carver’s destination. I hoped Mae Mae’s Cajun cure had done its best. “I thought you worked at the saloon in town.”
Rico grinned. “I do. But I pick up a few hours here. On Monday nights, this is the place to be. Did you find Miss Ruffles?”
I put one finger to my lips to keep the secret.
Just then, the band finished their song, and the young, tattooed singer bellowed “Good night” into the microphone. The dancers shouted and applauded. Whistles pierced the air. Onstage, an older man in a cowboy hat brushed past the members of the band as they unplugged their instruments, and he announced the next act—the Rootin’ Tooters. Around me, the crowd roared with approval.
There was a rush to the bar for more beer, and I got swept away from Rico before I could ask him any more questions.
But I didn’t need to ask. The next band was already climbing onto the stage and setting up to play. Four men and a beautiful young female singer in a red dress. I didn’t recognize her, but I spotted Mr. Carver right away. He settled himself at the electric piano. One of the other men had a guitar in hand. Another man turned out to be not a man at all, but Crazy Mary in jeans, tuning a fiddle as she took her place.
Bringing up the rear came Hut Junior. Even with his oversized Stetson pulled low over his face, I recognized him. He held two instruments—a small mandolin in one hand and a bass by its neck. He handed the mandolin to someone else, and I wondered if it might have been in the package I’d seen him receive from Mr. Carver. Then he planted the big bass at his feet before thumping the strings a few times with his right hand. The wooden face of the instrument was worn as if by years of hard play. Hut’s thick fingers were agile on the strings. I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d shown up with a trained pony and a couple of poodles wearing party hats. This was a side of Hut Junior I’d never imagined. Then I remembered the photo of the little boy with the guitar on Honeybelle’s desk
, and a lot of things began to make sense.
A minute later, the Rootin’ Tooters burst into song. Everybody in the building applauded the opening notes of their honky-tonk tune. The singer had a throbbing voice that rose to the rafters, with a Mexican lilt to her accent. She sang her heart out and snapped her fingers to the beat of Hut Junior’s bass. The enthusiastic mob of dancers swung into motion.
Rico appeared at my side. He was smiling. “How about it?”
I heard him over the music, but wasn’t quite sure what he meant “How about what?”
“I get a break while the band plays. Let’s dance!”
Before I could say no, he drew me into the sea of dancers and pulled me close. My legs still felt quivery, but I hung on to my partner, and he didn’t seem to mind. I was terrified that Mr. Carver might see me. Or Mary or Hut Junior. But they were focused on their music, and it was pretty darn good. I couldn’t have escaped Rico’s embrace anyway. Expertly, he whirled me into the crowd that was all traveling the same direction with a polka-like step that was easy to follow. I tried to forget about my injuries and keep up.
Rico was just an inch or two taller than me, so we were evenly matched. He was a good dancer. Holding my hand, he gave me a flourishing spin, then pulled me back into his chest without missing a beat. I settled my hand on his strong shoulder and found myself laughing. Six months ago, I’d never have guessed I’d be in Mule Stop, Texas, dancing to music played by a couple of possible murderers in cowboy hats. Except they didn’t look like the murdering types just then. They were rocking through a fast-paced country song that was irresistible. The band could really swing.
Rico’s arm was tight on my waist, and he guided me smoothly around the dance floor.
“How do you like it?” he yelled in my ear.
“This is great! You’re a terrific dancer.”
“Thanks. I’m from Miami. Everybody dances in Miami. Did you find Miss Ruffles?”
I pretended I couldn’t hear him. The music really was too energetic for more talk, but when the song ended and the musicians immediately began to play something slower, Rico pulled me snug against his chest and spoke into my ear. “It’s nice to see you here.”