Goldenrod

by Ann McMan

  At this rate, people in town will be lining up to take shots at Watson.

  Curtis Freemantle approached the scene. He was wielding a big block of something that looked like . . . olive loaf.

  “Lissen, fellers,” he said. “This ain’t good for business—or the merchandise.” He gestured toward the litter of Oreos that were strewn across the floor. “Me and Edna would appreciate it if you all would take this thing outside.”

  Watson looked at Curtis like he was something the cat dragged in.

  “Oh, I’m bad for business?” he sneered. “That’s rich coming from the father of a pervert. But I suppose having a lesbian for a daughter quit hurting your bottom line once she stopped handling the food.”

  Curtis turned white, but he stood his ground.

  “Our daughter is a good girl,” he said in a quiet voice. He looked at Charlie, then back at Watson. “She hadn’t done nothin’ to be ashamed of, and we’re proud of her. Now you need to leave this store. Right now.”

  Watson’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t say anything else. He squared his shoulders and straightened his striped tie.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this,” he said to Byron. “I intend to file a complaint with the state.”

  He glared at Syd before turning on his heel to head back toward the exit. He’d only taken two or three steps when he tripped over something and went sprawling, face-first, into another tower of boxes—the Cheetos this time.

  Syd heard someone chuckling.

  “Have a nice trip, asshole.”

  It was Rita Chriscoe.

  Watson quickly got back on his feet.

  “Who fucking tripped me?” he sputtered.

  Rita raised her hand and fluttered her fingers at him.

  “You . . .”

  If they all thought he was mad before, there was no known technology sufficient to measure the mayor’s rage now. He flung a bag of the cheesy snacks at Rita. She caught it with one hand and calmly got to her feet. She walked over to stand just inches away from him.

  “Go ahead,” she cooed. “Let’s do this. Right here.” She waved a hand. “Now. In front of all these wonderful witnesses.”

  Syd could see Watson taking rapid breaths. But, amazingly, he held his tongue.

  “Whatsa matter, Gerry?” Rita leaned even closer to him, so their faces were just centimeters apart. “Ain’t you got somethin’ to say to me?” She waited a few seconds before shaking her head. “No? Well if that ain’t a damn shame after all these years. I’d dearly love to have a public conversation with you about . . . things.”

  Watson stood clenching and unclenching his fists—but he never spoke. Their standoff continued until Rita gave a bitter laugh and reclaimed her seat. She casually tore open the bag of Cheetos he’d thrown at her and ate one. The crunch reverberated through the market like a gunshot.

  “Hey, Curtis?” Rita called out to Roma Jean’s father. “Add this here bag of snacks to the mayor’s tab. He’s in a generous mood today.”

  She crunched and cackled as Watson made a beeline for the door.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Maddie was waiting in the driveway when Gramma C. and Henry drove up. Pete was there, too. His ears were perked up and his tail was swinging around in big loopy circles.

  Henry was pretty sure Pete knew when it was taco night. That was because Pete liked tacos almost as much as he did. Syd even pretended not to notice when he’d accidentally drop bits of shells for Pete, who always stood guard beneath Henry’s chair.

  He wasn’t allowed to give him any more beans, though.

  They had to have one of Maddie’s “conversations” about that after one night when Pete had really messy poopies and Maddie had to wash the fur on his hind end three times. She wasn’t very happy about that—and Pete looked really embarrassed, too. He pretty much sat around the rest of that night with his wet end backed into a corner.

  Henry unhooked his seatbelt and opened the car door. He rushed over to Maddie and gave her a big hug. She lifted him off the ground and swung him around.

  “Hi ya, Sport,” she said.

  “Hi, Maddie. Gramma C. isn’t staying for tacos. She’s eating supper with the Sheriff.”

  “Oh, really?” Maddie set him down and kissed the top of his head. He proceeded to tackle Pete and give him belly rubs and back scratches. Maddie looked at Gramma C. “Do tell?”

  “Thank you, Henry.” Gramma C. was out of the car, too. She handed Maddie Henry’s Batman backpack. He was staying over since James had an overnight run to Paducah. “I appreciate the help.”

  Maddie laughed at her. “Does this breaking news alert imply that this is a public outing . . . no pun intended?”

  “No. It only implies dinner. At Byron’s house.”

  “Well, that’s a change that is not without significance.”

  Gramma C. nodded. “I suppose so. I thought I’d take a bit of your advice.”

  “It’s about damn time.” Before Gramma C. could correct her for swearing, Maddie added, “What goes around, comes around.”

  Gramma C. just shook her head.

  “I have something else for you,” she said.

  “Oh.” Maddie sounded happy. She looked over at the house before walking around to Gramma C.’s side of the car. “You found it?”

  “Of course I did. It was exactly where I thought it would be—in the very last of the forty-two boxes I checked.”

  Gramma C. handed Maddie a tiny package. She stuck it into the front pocket of her pants.

  “Thanks, Mom. This means the world to me.”

  “It does to me, too.” Gramma C. smiled at her. “Now. Where is Syd? I want to say hello to her before I scoot to meet Byron.”

  “She’s in the kitchen—lining up implements of torture.”

  “Oh? Are you grating the cheese again?”

  “Not until I retrieve my brass knuckles.”

  “Your what?” Gramma C. asked.

  Maddie nodded. “I ordered a set at Amazon Prime. Did you know they’re listed under kitchen implements—right along with garlic rollers and herb snips? I figured they must be part of the Tony Soprano collection.”

  Gramma C. shook her head. “I worry about you sometimes.”

  “Well, don’t.” Maddie winked at her. “I’m about to do the smartest thing in recorded history. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get an honorary Mensa membership out of it.”

  Gramma C. patted her on the cheek. “Hold fast to your dreams, dear.”

  Maddie hugged Gramma C. “You have fun tonight.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said.

  “C’mon, Sport,” Maddie said. “Let’s go see what treasures Rosebud has left behind in the barn.”

  “Okay, Maddie.” Henry scrambled to his feet. “Bye, Gramma C.,” he called out. “See you for lessons tomorrow.”

  “Bye, sweet boy. I’ll come get you and Dorothy in time for lunch.”

  “Can we have some more of that yellow soup?” He looked up at Maddie. “Gramma C. makes yellow soup out of squash. It’s really good.”

  Maddie looked horrified. “What have you done to this child?” She put an arm around Henry’s shoulders. “Come with me. I have Cheetos in the barn.”

  Henry could hear Gramma C. laughing as he went with Maddie.

  Sure enough, Rosebud was asleep on top of Maddie’s workbench.

  “Shoo!” Maddie waved an arm at the cat. Rosebud just yawned and stretched out even more. Her fluffy black and white head was resting on a pair of work gloves. Maddie sighed. “This tuxedo cat is a pain in my . . . tuchus.”

  Henry rushed over to pet Rosebud, who began purring at decibels rivaling a coffee grinder.

  “What’s a tuchus, Maddie?”

  Maddie slapped her own butt. “It’s this part, right here.”

  “That’s a funny word.”

  “I know it is.” She joined Henry and the cat. “My Oma used to say it.”

  “What’s an Oma?”

  “It’s another
word for Gramma.”

  “Why are there so many different words for the same things?” he asked. Rosebud was on her feet now, rubbing her head against Henry’s hand. “It makes learning stuff harder.”

  “You can look at it that way. Or you can see that learning about how different people use language is exciting—and teaches you things about their lives and their family histories.” Maddie set Henry’s backpack down on a stool. “For example—we call you by many names. Sport. Short Stack. Short Stop. Sweet Boy. And Buddy calls you Bluebird.”

  “Those are nicknames.”

  “Right. Just like Oma or Gramma are nicknames for Grandmother.”

  “And Asshole is a nickname for Rosebud?”

  Maddie’s mouth fell open. “Um. Well . . .”

  “You call her that a lot. What does that teach me about our family?”

  “Okay. Uh . . .” It took Maddie a while to answer. “So, Sport? It’s time for you to learn about another interesting language concept. It’s called, entre nous.”

  “On-tray-new?” Henry asked. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s French. And it means ‘between us.’ Like a secret. Just between you and me.”

  “On-tray-new.” Henry repeated the words. “Do we have a secret?”

  Maddie nodded. “We do now.”

  “Can we tell Syd about it?”

  “Nope. Nope.” Maddie shook her head. “That’s why it’s entre nous. Just between you and me.”

  “Okay, Maddie.” Henry stroked the cat. “Your special nickname is on-tray-new, Rosebud,” he told her.

  “Good job, Sport.” Maddie patted Henry on the back. “I knew you’d get it.”

  Maddie stashed the tiny box from Gramma C. behind some old vacuum cleaner parts. Then she clapped her hands together.

  “Whattaya say we go eat some tacos?”

  “Yay!” Henry cheered. “Can Ass . . . Rosebud . . . come, too?”

  Henry thought Maddie was going to say no, but she didn’t.

  “Why not?” she said. “She’ll just follow us, anyway.”

  Henry picked up the chubby cat and raced off toward the house, where Syd was making their dinner.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Henry was racing along the fence line, pulling up handfuls of wild onion and garlic and stuffing them into a battered tin bucket—treats for his beloved heifer, Before.

  Maddie and Syd were following along at a more sedate pace. It was just after the solstice—the longest day of the year. It was impossible to believe that now the hours of daylight would begin their slow decline.

  “Why does Henry keep saying everything is ‘entre nous”?” Syd asked.

  Maddie feigned ignorance. “I have no idea. Probably something he picked up at Mom’s.”

  “That seems odd.”

  “Not really.” Maddie shrugged. “Maybe it’s some piano term.”

  “Piano term? I don’t think so.”

  Maddie decided to change the subject. “Are you ever going to tell me about the drama today at Freemantle’s? Peggy said it was a near-riot, and they had to call the sheriff’s department to break it up.”

  “What?” Syd looked up at Maddie. “How did Peggy hear about it?”

  “You’re kidding, right? That woman has better sources than BuzzFeed. She practically gave me a transcript.”

  “Well, trust me,” Syd clarified. “Her sources are a bit off on one point of fact. It was all pretty damn dramatic, but nobody called the sheriff. He was already there—at the center of the action.”

  “Really? What caused it all?”

  Syd shook her head. “Watson came storming in there, looking for Byron. He was loaded for bear, too. Ranting about a raid up at Whitetop. I gather he was trying to round up ‘illegal’ workers at the Christmas tree farm—but nobody showed up for work. He blamed Byron—then Charlie and Roma Jean—for tipping them off.” Syd squeezed Maddie’s arm. “It was horrible, Maddie. The terrible things he said . . . the accusations he made about Roma Jean and Charlie . . . all in front of her parents—not to mention everyone else in the place.”

  “What on earth did he say?”

  “Can’t you guess? And he left little to the imagination. He even suggested that Roma Jean’s ‘perversion’ was because of her association with me.”

  Maddie stiffened and stopped walking. She turned to face Syd.

  “He said what?”

  “Calm down, honey.” Syd tugged at her arm. “That wasn’t the worst of it. Not by a long shot.”

  “It got worse than that?”

  Syd nodded.

  “Do I want to know how?”

  “Probably not. Suffice it to say he made some rather colorful allegations about Byron—and your mother.”

  “That rat bastard. I’m gonna kill him . . .”

  “Yeah? Well you might have to get in line. I thought Byron was going to take his head off. Charlie had to step between them. And you’d be proud of Curtis—he stood up and defended his daughter’s honor. It was a pretty remarkable moment.” Syd pulled Maddie’s arm closer to her side and resumed walking. “There was one rather intriguing exchange between Watson and Rita Chriscoe.”

  “Rita? She was there?”

  Syd nodded. “She and Natalie were having lunch. When Watson started to leave, Rita stuck her leg out and tripped him. Watson went sprawling. We all expected him to get completely unhinged. But when he saw it was Rita, he just clammed up and stood there in front of her—not saying anything—while she taunted him and dared him to take her on. I’m telling you, Maddie—she’s got something on him. He’s terrified of her. It was obvious.”

  “Well. You did say she had an affair with his wife. Maybe his ego can’t take the reminder?”

  “Maybe,” Syd agreed. “Or maybe it’s something more than that. When I got back to the library, I did a bit of research on Eva Watson. Do you know anything about the circumstances of her death?”

  Maddie shook her head. “It happened before I came back here to practice. But I understood it was a suicide.”

  “Correct.” Syd nodded. “A drug overdose. Sleeping pills. It was ruled intentional, but many people who knew her well questioned that finding—including Rita. Apparently, Eva had a deep-seated mistrust of any kind of medicine. She wouldn’t even take aspirin for a headache. And her body was discovered in a motel room in Galax—along with several suitcases containing most of her belongings. Not very typical behavior for someone intending to take their own life.”

  “No. But maybe she didn’t want to be at home to leave a legacy like that for her family?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think so.”

  “What do you think happened, then?”

  Syd shook her head. “I honestly have no idea. But I feel sure that Rita does—and I think that’s why Watson is afraid of her.”

  “He’s a dangerous man, Syd. We all need to stay away from him. And we need to find a way to keep Roma Jean out of his crosshairs.”

  “I know. I’ve already talked with her about that.”

  “Good.”

  Henry had finished filling his bucket and was heading back toward them at an uneven lope.

  “Take it easy, Sport,” Maddie called out to him. “Before isn’t going anyplace.”

  It was true. The big heifer was ambling along the fence beside them, munching at stray clumps of grass. She wasn’t in any kind of a hurry. And she seemed to have an uncanny sense that Henry was headed her way with a super-sized serving of redolent comestibles.

  “Her diet is out of control,” Syd murmured.

  Maddie laughed at her.

  “What?” Syd nudged her with an elbow. “Look at her. I swear she’s gained a hundred pounds this month.”

  “Honey. She’s a cow. This is what they do—graze and gain weight.” She smiled. “Nice work if you can get it.”

  “Oh, don’t even go there. I found your stash of Cheetos in the barn.”

  “You did? And, by the way, they aren’t ‘stashed.’ I just haven�
��t brought them into the house yet.”

  “Right.”

  “They were on sale,” Maddie explained.

  “Of course they were.”

  “It was a great deal.”

  “I’m certain it was.”

  “You like them, too.”

  “I don’t deny that.”

  Maddie sulked. Then she got an idea.

  She gave Syd a playful nudge.

  “We could maybe share a bag later, after Henry goes to bed?”

  Syd considered her suggestion. “I’m listening.”

  Maddie lowered her voice. “I’d lick the orange dust off your fingers.”

  Syd looked her up and down. “Please continue.”

  Maddie bent closer and whispered something in her ear. By the time she finished, Syd’s eyes were glazed over.

  “Really?” she asked, in a small voice.

  Maddie nodded enthusiastically.

  Syd cleared her throat and cast about for Henry, who was busy shoving garlic bulbs through the fence.

  “Shake a leg, Sport,” she commanded. “It’s getting late.”

  Henry looked up at the sky. “It’s not even dark yet,” he complained.

  “It will be by the time you have your bath and story.” Syd clapped her hands together. “Come on. Come on. Time is money.”

  Henry gave Before his final few handfuls of greens, then wandered over to join them.

  “I’ll go on ahead and get your bath started, Henry.” Syd took off for the house. She wasn’t exactly running, but it was clear she was in a hurry.

  Maddie and Henry watched her go.

  “Why’s she going so fast, Maddie?”

  Maddie put her hand on Henry’s shoulder. “It’s . . . well.” She chose her words carefully. “I can’t really tell you,” she said.

  Henry looked confused. “Why not?”

  “Because,” Maddie bent down to whisper. “It’s entre nous.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  When Byron announced that he was cooking dinner for them, Celine just assumed it meant he would grill something—probably from an animal he’d shot and killed himself.

  She prided herself in believing there was no judgment in this assumption. After all, hunting was something the men in this county just did—like watching NASCAR on Sunday afternoons and voting Republican.