There is, of course, no copy machine in the morgue—Hark wasn’t able to haul it up the circular stairs, and I wasn’t about to take the newspaper downstairs, copy it, and bring it back up again. So I made notes of the dates and the military information, then replaced the portfolio—in the right place this time, where it could be found again without difficulty—and headed back to the spiral stairs, treading carefully on the planks.
At her desk, Ethel glanced up at the ceiling, as if to confirm that I had not in fact fallen through. “Find whatcher lookin’ for?” she inquired. There were now three pencils stuck in her hair.
“Actually, I did,” I said, pausing beside her desk. Ethel has worked for the newspaper ever since she got out of high school, and she knows the people in Pecan Springs the way she knows her own family. A lot of them probably are family, come to that. There are a couple of dozen Fritzes in the phone book, and that’s only her father’s kin. Her mother was a Jones, and the Lord only knows how many of them live in town.
“What do you remember about Andrew Obermann?” I asked.
“Andrew Obermann,” Ethel muttered, frowning. She picked a pencil off her desk and began turning it in her fingers. “Andrew Obermann. Lessee, now. He was old Merrill G.’s one and only grandkid, wasn’t he? Harley’s son?” She gave me a triumphant look. “That’s the one. Andrew Obermann. Lived in Houston, spent summers here when he was a kid.”
“I believe that’s right,” I said. “He joined the Marines and went to Vietnam, and—”
“And came back all shot up,” Ethel said. She poked the pencil into her gilt pagoda, which was now studded with pencils. “Florence Obermann, she was a close friend of my sister-in-law’s cousin Charley. She told Charley how bad the boy was hurt—injuries to his stomach and intestines, legs all cut up with shrapnel—and how they thought maybe he might not live, which was a real pity, ’cause his dad had died just the year before, and Andy was the last male Obermann. And him with all that money, too. I heard he went through it pretty fast after he got out of the Marines, though.”
“Did you see him after the war?”
She thought about that. “Maybe a time or two. He wasn’t around long, though. Went off to California, was what I heard.”
“He was here in 1976,” I offered. “There was a piece in the newspaper. He got his picture taken with Senator Tracy.”
“Tracy.” Ethel made a scornful noise in her throat, and the pencils in her towering hair quivered with disgust. “That crook. He went straight from the statehouse to prison, you know. He was taking bribes. We got way too many like that in this state, especially now that—”
“Does your sister-in-law’s cousin know anything about Andrew Obermann, do you think?”
“Charley?” Ethel replied mournfully. “Charley got kilt in a tornado up in Oklahoma a couple of years ago, her and her two kids and their dog. I wouldn’t live in Oklahoma, if somebody gave me a house and a hundred acres of land. Tornadoes rippin’ through all the time, right, left, and center. Hardly a month goes by, they don’t have a tornado up there.”
“Well, since Charley’s not available, maybe you can suggest somebody else who might know.”
“If you’re interested in Andy Obermann, you oughtta talk to his aunts.” Ethel raised her eyebrows inquisitively. “This don’t have anything to do with what happened at their house Friday night, does it? Hank gettin’ shot, I mean.”
“No, nothing to do with that. It’s something else altogether.” I couldn’t tell her about the caveman—if I did, it would be all over town by the time Ethel finished her second helping of meatloaf at the Diner, where Lila (the owner) is the Chief Operator of the Pecan Springs gossip switchboard and Director of Rumor Proliferation.
Ethel made a face. “I can’t figure out what Hank thought he was doin’, breakin’ in like that. With a knife, too. I figure maybe he was drunk, but even so, I don’t blame old Miss Obermann for shootin’ him. Somebody comes into my livin’ room like that, I’ll blow his head off.”
Judge, jury, and executioner. But I didn’t say that. I said, “I don’t want to bother Jane and Florence with questions about their nephew until I’ve done a little more research.”
Ethel sighed heavily. “I heard this morning that Florence isn’t any too good. Broke her hip, I heard. That’s not good, y’know. That’s ostopersus, that’s what it is. Yer bones go bad, you’re done for. Spend the rest of yer life in a nursing home.” She paused. “If it’s research you’re after, you oughtta go over to Bean’s and talk to Bob.”
“Bob Godwin?” I asked, surprised, and then I wasn’t. He was a Vietnam vet. The other night, when Alana and I had eaten at Bean’s, Bob had been wearing a black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on it. And over the skull were the words “Recon Marines.” I looked down at my notes.
Andrew Obermann had been a member of the First Recon Battalion of the U.S. Marines.
Chapter Fifteen
MARIA ZAPATA’S JALAPEÑO-APRICOT JELLY
3⁄4 cup red jalapeño chiles, seeded, stemmed
1 red bell pepper, seeded, stemmed
2 cups cider vinegar
11⁄4 cups dried apricots, slivered
6 cups sugar
3 oz. liquid pectin
3-4 drops red food color, if you like it red
few drops Tabasco sauce, or as much as you
think you can get away with
Coarsely grind the chiles, bell pepper, and vinegar in a blender, until you have small chunks. Combine apricots, sugar, and pureed mixture in a large saucepan. Bring to a rolling boil and boil for five minutes. Remove from heat and skim off foam. Cool for two minutes, then stir in pectin and food coloring. Taste for heat, then add hot pepper sauce. Pour into six sterilized half-pint jars, seal with sterile lids, and cool.
Bob was out back by the railroad tracks, stoking the mesquite fire in his propane-tank barbecue pit, his face as red as the glowing coals under the meat. He stepped back from the fire, pulling off his red bandana headband and using it to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. He hadn’t shaved yet, and his cheeks were covered with a reddish stubble.
“Andy Obermann? Yeah, sure, I knew Andy.” Bob wadded up his headband, picked up a fork, and began turning slabs of brisket. “Who wants to know?”
“I do,” I said. “He was declared dead . . . when?” I knew, but I wondered if Bob did.
“Long time ago,” Bob said. “Middle eighties, mebbe. Around the time I got my trailer.” Bob lives a couple of miles out of town with Budweiser and a bunch of goats, a renewable resource.
“He’d been missing for seven years, I suppose.” That’s the common-law standard for presumption of death.
“Thereabouts, I reckon. The ol’ ladies said he went to California. Leastwise, that’s where he last wrote from.” Bob dropped the cover on his barbecue with a loud clang. “Hot as hell out here. Let’s cool off. Anyway, I got something I want your opinion on.” He headed for the back door of Bean’s, and I followed.
Inside, the place was dark and cool. Somebody was rustling around in the kitchen, and I smelled the rich, spicy odor of simmering beans, layered over the stale smells of booze, tobacco smoke, and yesterday’s barbecue. Bob disappeared into the kitchen and came out with several slices of meat on a plate.
“Wanna get you to try this,” he said. “Tell me what you think.”
He pulled a beer from the tap and offered it to me. Lunchtime was still an hour away, so I opted for iced tea. Bob took the beer, and we sat down at a table. I cut off a bite of meat—it was fork-tender—and chewed. It was sweet and spicy-hot at the same time, unusually tasty.
“Hey,” I said, “this is good stuff. What is it?”
“It’s a leg offa Rosabelle’s kid,” he said. “I roasted him up with some rosemary, a couple of bay leaves, garlic, and mustard.” He gave me a snaggletoothed grin. “And a secret ingredient.”
“A secret ingredient, huh?” I sniffed at the goat meat, which I usually don’t care for. “Jalep
eño?”
He made a face. “Mighta known you’d spot it.” He leaned forward and whispered loudly. “Jalapeño-apricot jelly. Sweet and plenty hot. Maria made it. She put extra hot sauce in it, too.”
“No foolin’,” I said, opening my mouth and fanning with my hand. “You’ve got my vote, for whatever it’s worth.”
“Muchas gracias,” he said with satisfaction. “Then maybe you’ll put a piece about it in the paper, on your cookin’ page. Only you can’t have the recipe. I want folks to come here to eat it, not go cookin’ it up at home.” He thought about that for a second. “Guess they won’t, though. They ain’t got any of Maria’s jelly, and good baby goat is hard to come by.”
“We’ll just keep it a secret,” I said. “And I won’t mention that I was eating Rosabelle’s kid. That might be too up close and personal for some tastes. What are you calling it?”
“Bob’s Best Grilled Goat.” He beetled his red brows. “Now, what was it you wanted to know about Andy Obermann?”
“He was in the Marines, I understand. First Recon Battalion. Is that where you knew him?”
“Nah.” Bob glugged another swallow of beer. “We was both in Recon and both at Chu Lai, but I got there after he’d already got shot up and was back in the States. I ran into him later, here in town. But you know how guys are when they been through the same war. He was a Marine, I was a Marine, we was buddies.”
“When was it you ran into him?”
He cocked his head one way, then the other. “Well, lessee. Would’ve been, oh, maybe ’76, ’77, somewhere in there. He was hangin’ round town here, tryin’ to get some bread outta his aunts.”
I was surprised. “I thought he inherited the Obermann family fortune. From his father. Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, well, he did, sorta. But he’d already spent all the loose change. The rest was tied up some way or another and the lawyers wouldn’t let him at it for another three, four years. He figgered on gettin’ his aunts to give him enough to keep him goin’ for a while.” He paused, regarding me. “Guy had a big-ticket habit.”
I guess I wasn’t surprised. It happened to a lot of soldiers who came home from the war and spent time in the hospitals. So Andrew Obermann, looking for money, had come to Pecan Springs, bringing his expensive drug addiction with him. What had happened after that?
“Did he have any friends here? Other than his aunts, I mean.”
Bob barked a short laugh. “What makes you think his aunts was his friends? Oh, Florence, maybe. She allus made over him, like he was special, but she didn’t count. That other one, Jane, she was always on his case about something or other. Booze, dope, women.”
“Women?” I asked. “Anybody in particular?”
He squinted at me. “Hell’s bells, China. That was twenty years ago. More ’n that. And I only knew him to drink with.”
With a meaningful look, I tapped the fork on the empty plate. Tit for tat.
Bob got the message. “Well, there was Lila,” he said after a minute. “We all used to hang out at the old Rodeo Roadhouse, out west of town. Place was torn down long ’fore you got here.” He shook his head reminiscently. “Man, oh man, it was some joint. Lotta good times, lotta good dope. And more shootin’s and stabbin’s in that parkin’ lot than anywhere else in Adams County.”
“Lila Jennings, over at the Diner?” My voice showed my surprise.
“Wudn’t Jennings back then. King, her name was.” His eyes glinted. “Damn sight younger and prettier than she is now, and a helluva lot more fun.” His grin became sly and his eyebrows were suggestive. “Kinda . . . well, easy, I guess is the way you’d say it, though she ain’t gonna own up to it now she’s been born again. Yeah. Nice ’n’ easy.”
Meaning that Lila had slept around. Meaning that she and Bob had probably slept together, and that maybe she’d slept with Andrew.
Ooh-la-la, Lila, the secrets you have kept!
I glanced at my watch as I got in the car. I still had better than a half hour before I was due at Ruby’s. Plenty of time to stop at the Nueces Street Diner for a cup of coffee.
Some years back, Lila and her husband Ralph (now deceased, a victim of his long-standing two-pack-a-day habit) salvaged an old Missouri and Pacific dining car and had it installed on the square, catty-corner from the bank. They cleaned it up, prettied it up, and furnished it with vintage items from the 1940s and ’50s that they picked up at going-out-of-business sales around Texas: red formica-topped tables, chrome chairs with red plastic seats, old soda pop signs, and a Wurlitzer jukebox loaded with scratchy 45s, songs like “Bye Bye Love,” “The Purple People Eater,” and “The Battle of New Orleans.” Lila herself favors ’50s’ fashions, with a green puckered-nylon uniform, a ruffled white apron, a flirty white cap perched on her pageboy do, and cherry-red lips and nails.
It was just after eleven, so the breakfast crowd had left and the lunch crowd hadn’t come in yet. Lila was behind the counter filling plastic catsup and mustard bottles. Her daughter Docia was in the kitchen, banging pans. Lila and Docia are almost always at war. Today, the dispute seemed to be over something Docia had been supposed to do and didn’t.
“—Told you three damn times to order thirty pounds of hamburger last week,” Lila was saying as I came in.
From the kitchen, I heard Docia roar, “Did not!”
“Did!” Lila yelled. She looked up, saw me, and modulated her voice. “Hello, China.”
“Did not!” Docia thundered. “You said you was gonna order that meat yerself, and for me not to bother.”
Lila put her head through the kitchen pass-through and said, very sweetly, “We got us a customer out here, Docia, dear. Button your lip.”
Docia was not cowed. “So fire me, whydoncha?” she bellowed. There was a bellicose clanging, as if she had slung a saucepan into the metal sink, followed by the slam of the kitchen door. The soda-fountain glasses clinked on their glass shelves.
Lila picked up the coffeepot, rolling her eyes. “These modern girls. Don’t know what they’re comin’ to.” She poured coffee into a white ceramic mug and slid it across the counter to me. Lila’s coffee is legendary. It’s like drinking pure adrenaline. “My mother would never of taken that kinda lip from me. She’da backhanded me across the mouth. I swear, I spoil that girl.”
Docia is all of thirty-five and hardly qualifies as a girl, but I wasn’t going to argue. I sat down on a stool, wondering how to broach my somewhat delicate subject. I put sugar and cream into my coffee and stirred.
“Hey, Lila,” I said, “do you remember a guy named Andy Obermann? I happened to be talking to his Aunt Florence the other day, and she mentioned his name, and something about a tragedy. I thought I’d ask you, since you know more about the people around here than anybody else.” With Lila, a little flattery goes a long way. “If you don’t know about it, probably nobody will.”
Lila put a hand on her bosom and sighed dramatically. “Yeah, I knew Andy. Sweet guy, nothin’ but a big kid at heart. It was a for-real tragedy.”
“What was?”
“Him bein’ on drugs an’ all. Wasn’t his fault, neither. It was what they give him in the hospitals, while they was fixin’ him up. Some of them boys got hooked in the vet hospitals. Pain killers, y’know.” She paused. “Say, Docia was messin’ around in the kitchen yestiddy and she come up with a new pie. Wanna try a piece, tell me what you think?”
I thought of Bob’s Grilled Goat, the effects of which lingered in my digestive system a little longer than I might have liked. “Thanks, Lila, but I don’t—”
“Aw, come on,” Lila wheedled. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
I considered. Lila might be more likely to talk if I was eating. “Sure,” I said. Docia’s pies, like Lila’s coffee, are legendary. “What kind is this one?”
“Apple, with a little somethin’ special. You know how Docia is, always wantin’ to be different.” She took a one-crust pie out of the cabinet behind her and deftly sliced it into
eighths.
I sipped my coffee, feeling the rush almost before the hot liquid was down my throat. “I don’t suppose Jane was too happy about that situation with Andrew. His being on drugs, I mean.”
Lila slid one of the pieces onto a plate. “Boy, you just said a mouthful there. Jane, she was fit to be tied. Raised holy Ned with him, said she wasn’t gonna have no addict in the family.” She shook a can of whipped topping, squirted a three-inch mound on the pie, and added a maraschino cherry. With a flourish, she put the plate in front of me. “Florence was a real softie, o’ course. She knew Andy was hurtin’, and she’d slip him money on the sly. Until Jane caught on, that is. Then there was a such a hollerin’ fit, you could hear it clear to Dallas.”
I forked up a bite of pie. “You heard them arguing?”
“Well, sorta.” She gave a little shrug. “See, me and Andy was messin’ around in the stable, and when Jane come lookin’ for him, he told me to climb up to the loft.” She eyed me. “Whaddya think?”
I blinked. “Hey!”
“Ya like it?” She leaned forward.
“It sure is . . . different. It’s got jalapeños in it?”
“Guess I shoulda warned ya, huh? Docia got some jalapeño-apricot jelly from Maria Zapata. She couldn’t figure out what to do with it. Thought it might go good in a pie.”
Maria’s jelly again. What goes around, comes around. I took a gulp of coffee and sloshed it around in my mouth. “Maybe a little less of it next time,” I said.
“I’ll tell her,” Lila said. “Some folks do like it hot, though.”
I grinned. “Guess I’d better not ask what you and Andy were doing, messing around in the stable, huh?”
She batted her mascaraed eyelashes at me. “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” she said ambiguously.
I finished the pie and chased it with the rest of my coffee, shaking my head to Lila’s offer of a refill. “So Jane was mad at Florence for giving Andy money?”
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