Cold Flat Junction

by Martha Grimes

  As he opened the front door, he said, “Stay here.”

  Sure. With only Maud’s penlight between us? It was dark out. We waited until he was out the door and had rounded the side of the house before we followed him.

  His arm was crooked, gun pointing at the sky. In the other hand he held the flashlight, fanning out light over the shrubbery, which was dark and dense. The rhododendron and mountain laurel were big enough to conceal a person; the dew-wet grass was tall enough in spots to wet my shins.

  Behind him, Maud whispered, “It’s probably just raccoons.”

  Or rabbits, I didn’t add.

  “Making that much noise? I don’t think so.... Here comes—”

  The dark shape coming through the weeds and bushes lightened steadily in the path of the Sheriff’s flashlight and showed up as Dwayne. It didn’t surprise me, of course, and I hadn’t been scared, really. And Dwayne didn’t seem in the least bit abashed at being caught red-handed. Well, he hadn’t been caught, exactly, as there were no rabbits in evidence. Still, there was his rifle, which didn’t look especially innocent.

  “Sheriff,” Dwayne said and nodded.

  “Dwayne Hayden? What’re you doing out here, Dwayne?” The Sheriff reholstered his gun and, strangely, I felt a rush of sadness. I was beginning to think that nothing in the world could make a person feel safer—not a parent’s arms, not a million dollars, not a lifetime supply of ham pinwheels—than a man with a gun, cocked, ready to fire. Maybe I was entering my violent years.

  “Nothin’, really. Just walkin’,” said Dwayne.

  “You usually take that Winchester on your walks?”

  “This?” As if he’d forgotten he had it. “Yeah, matter of fact, I do. Never can tell who you might meet up with.”

  “What was all that noise we heard? Maud here—”

  “Maud.” Dwayne dipped his head slightly in a greeting.

  “Dwayne.” She smiled. Dwayne had a way of making you smile even when he wasn’t.

  “—saw a face at the window,” the Sheriff ended.

  “ ’Twasn’t me. Someone’s around though, I know that. That’s what the noise was, to answer your question.” He turned and looked back through the undergrowth. “I was coming along from just through there—there’s a sort of path through the brush that goes along more or less parallel to the road—and someone slipped past me. I don’t mean on the same path; I was a little deeper in.”

  The Sheriff said, “Come on.” They went back the way Dwayne had come, disappearing into the trees and thicket. I didn’t like it, the way the woods could just swallow you up, the way the woods around Spirit Lake had swallowed up Ben Queen that night. It was black and thick with undergrowth. I heard them talking and wondered what they had found, but not enough to go into those bushes. Maud was holding my hand and I could tell she was not budging either. Their voices got farther away. Then there was silence. I looked at Maud, alarmed. She was straining to hear, too. Why was I so afraid now, when I hadn’t been as much as ten minutes ago?

  They came back. The Sheriff was asking Dwayne, “Did you get any sort of look at him?”

  “Not really. And I wouldn’t say it was a ‘him,’ neither. I think it was a woman. Woman or girl.”

  The Girl. I hope not. I hope she left this place. But she didn’t strike me as a person who thought much about her own safety. Or anyone’s safety, for that matter. There are some people who have a purpose, one purpose and only one, and disregard anything that’s outside of that purpose. I think hers was getting rid of Fern Queen.

  There was a silence as Dwayne lit a cigarette, then, remembering his manners, I guess, offered them around, including to me. At times, I thought everything was pretty much of a joke to Dwayne, probably including being arrested for poaching.

  The Sheriff asked Maud, “Could it have been female, that face you saw?”

  Maud seemed to be trying to bring the sight back to mind. “I don’t think so, I don’t ... This face was so heavy, so ... Russian.”

  Well, we all frowned at that. The Sheriff opened his mouth, then closed it, shaking his head. “ ‘Russian.’ So you’re saying it was a man?”

  After more frowning, she said, “Look, I wouldn’t want to die in a ditch on it, but, yes, I think it was a man’s face.”

  He flicked his flashlight on and off, on and off, then said, as he started walking, “I want to have a look at that window. It was this one, right?” He pointed toward the side of the house around the corner.

  “That’s right,” said Maud. We all followed him.

  The Sheriff handed Dwyane his flashlight and knelt down, looking at the ground beneath the window. He told Dwayne to shine the light on the ground as he held his hand above the faint impression of a footprint. He rose. “I’ll have Donny come tomorrow morning and go over this ground.”

  Oh, hell! I thought. Donny. If there’s anyone I didn’t want messing around in my mystery, it was Donny Mooma.

  “You should’ve brought your murder bag,” said Maud. She asked Dwayne for a cigarette.

  The Sheriff stared at her. So did we. “My what?”

  “Your murder bag. They all use them at Scotland Yard.” She thanked Dwayne for the light and blew out a stream of smoke.

  The Sheriff reclaimed his flashlight. “Now, just how do you know that?”

  “Books, of course. Many books.”

  We had started walking now toward the car, Dwayne too. It was wonderful the way he just sort of fell in with whatever the crowd was doing.

  “You like William Faulkner?” asked Dwayne, who was playing his own flashlight across the ground.

  “Faulkner?” Maud seemed surprised. “Well, I tried reading him, but he’s awful hard.”

  I walked with them, not wanting to be left out of the literary discussion.

  “Some are,” Dwayne said. “I agree. Sound and the Fury, that’s hell on wheels, ain’t it? But Light in August, that’s not too tough. You should try that next time.”

  As if Maud were always picking up and tossing away one Billy Faulkner after another.

  The Sheriff offered to give Dwayne a lift home, since he was dropping Maud off.

  That meant I’d have him all to myself on the trip back to town. For that I’d read The Sound and the Fury, Light in August, and anything else Billy Faulkner ever wrote, hell on wheels or not.

  33

  End of the pier

  Maud’s house was really nice; it looked just like where Maud would live. It was a cottage, small and unfussy, and it backed onto Lake Noir, which was huge, black, and gleaming with the moon’s reflection. Some time ago I’d heard this name was not the lake’s real name, that some show-offy summer people had renamed it “Noir,” and that hardly anyone could pronounce it right (“hardly anyone” being the uneducated people who lived here full time). Most people called it “Nor.” Ree-Jane, naturally, went to great pains to give the word its French pronunciation. Mrs. Davidow tried to and sometimes did and sometimes didn’t. My mother pronounced it correctly, as she felt it was a mark of “good breeding” to do so. I called it “Black Lake” because this really irritated Ree-Jane.

  In the car, Dwayne had said that he’d get out at Maud’s and walk from there, that the walk wasn’t very far. Probably, he didn’t want the Sheriff to see all the dead rabbits. But when we got to Maud’s place, we all got out: that is, the Sheriff got out when the other two did, and when I saw that, of course I got out too. This surprised me, as we were to go back to La Porte after dropping them off.

  Maud started down the sloping lawn and called back that we should all go down to the pier and that she’d bring us out something to drink. Apparently, we were really going to make a night of it. Being included in this made me feel very adult.

  The Sheriff was the only one of us who had actually been out on the pier, though I remembered seeing it from a distance when driving to the lake with Mrs. Davidow. From what Dwayne said about the pier and the view, I could tell he’d never been here before. Maud went i
nside and we followed the Sheriff. I heard him mumble something about the “damned pier.” He seemed not to be in a very good mood.

  I thought the pier was wonderful. It was a little rickety, smelled of damp cedar or pine (I do not really know my woods), and stretched out into the lake. Most docks are kind of stubby, but this one sort of meandered out for forty or fifty feet. At the end of it, there was the rocking chair, table, and floor lamp.

  “It’s like an outdoor living room,” I said.

  “One of these days that damned lamp’s going right over,” said the Sheriff.

  “Great for reading,” said Dwayne, looking seriously as if he wished he’d brought Billy Faulkner along.

  Maud came out with a tray rattling with beer bottles and glasses. For me I knew there’d be a Coke, which there was. Maud set the tray on the little table and handed the beer around.

  The Sheriff said, “You got a half dozen extension cords running up to that house and some day you’re going to set the place on fire if you don’t electrocute yourself first.”

  By the way he shook his head and the look on Maud’s face, I knew they must have had this argument more than once. Out on the lake, a speedboat carved the water and the moon’s reflection folded and stretched and folded again.

  Dwayne was sitting on the end of the pier with his legs dangling. I sat down beside him, and we both gulped from our bottles at the same time. Maud sat in her chair and switched on the lamp, most likely to annoy the Sheriff, more than from a need for light, as the moon was casting plenty of that, its surface so hard and white-bright it looked like a stage moon. The Sheriff stood behind Maud’s chair, still looking in a bad mood, especially when Dwayne spoke to her.

  “I wouldn’t mind coming out here to sit and read.” He twisted around to see her. “What kind of stuff do you read, Maud?”

  She sounded pleased as punch to talk about her chair and lamp and reading with someone who approved and with the Sheriff listening. “I like poetry.”

  “You’re ahead of me there,” said Dwayne.

  It occurred to me that Dwayne’s manner of speaking—I mean his words and phrases—was sometimes as good as my own. I mean, Dwayne sounded like a hayseed a lot of the time, such as in Abel Slaw’s garage, with his “don‘ts” and “ain’ts,” but around Maud he sounded well educated. I wondered if he was. William Faulkner sounded like the sort of writer that most people around here wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Maud thought it was hard reading, and she was certainly intelligent.

  “Well, I guess I better be getting back,” said the Sheriff, drinking off the last of his bottled beer. “Emma?”

  I didn’t want to leave yet, for I was enjoying sitting here on the end of the pier, swinging my legs over the edge and with that marble platter of a moon shining down. But I got up, sighing, and we said our goodnights. The Sheriff offered again to drive Dwayne to his place and again Dwayne declined.

  The Sheriff was quiet driving, and I had an idea he was wondering about Dwayne Hayden and Maud. I looked over at him while I pretended to be really fascinated by the police radio, putting my ear close to it, which allowed me to look at his face. I thought I saw something I hadn’t seen before in it, but wasn’t sure what it was. It looked like sorrow.

  I sat back, trying to think of some way to bring up Maud without it seeming I was bringing up Maud. I asked, “When’s Maud’s son coming home from school?” Maud had a son who was four years older than me, but who I didn’t see much because he was away at school. He always seems to be away, which is too bad because he’s really good-looking. I recalled the times I’d seen him in the Rainbow. His name is Chad. He looks just like Maud, except, I don’t know—“brighter” maybe. As if he were carrying a high-wattage light around inside him. At the same time, he isn’t one of those people in constant high spirits who are always smiling and backslapping, like Dodge Haines, whom I can’t stand.

  “He lives part-time with his dad. It’s his dad that pays for the fancy school. Then he and his wife take Chad on fancy vacations, too. I think right now he’s in the Seychelles. Some exclusive trip.”

  It was exclusive all right. I’d never even heard of it. “What’s the Seychelles?”

  “Islands off—Madagascar? I think that’s what she said.”

  “That’s nearly all the way on the other side of the globe! It sounds like his dad just wants to keep him as far away as he can. That’s really mean.” As if to ward off such meanness, I turned to the window and crossed my arms across my chest. It really did make me mad.

  The Sheriff was quiet. But I could sense he thought it was mean, too.

  “And all Maud’s got is her job at the Rainbow.” I considered this unfair distribution of wealth. It was a little like me and Vera and the tips from guests. Vera saw she got most of it. “She can’t afford exclusive vacations.”

  “Well, she lives on the lake. He can always swim and go boating and so forth. I mean, he could refuse.”

  I couldn’t believe the Sheriff said that; he was usually so smart about people. “Refuse? Refuse to go to the Seychelles? Refuse an exclusive trip? They wouldn’t even take me along to Florida. Do you think I’d refuse a trip to the Seychelles?”

  The Sheriff coughed and cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t know, Emma. You never even heard about them till a minute ago.”

  “You know what I mean. You’d have to be nuts to think somebody our age”—I was glad to link myself with Maud’s son that way—“would turn down some fancy trip because we thought our mother wanted us to stay home with her. How nice do you think we are?” I don’t think I put that right.

  “Not very, I guess.”

  I punched his arm, lightly. “Anyway, it’s different if you live in a vacation spot; you can’t hardly think of it as a real vacation. Look at the Hotel Paradise. Do you imagine Aurora Paradise stands out on that stupid balcony on the fourth floor thinking what a wonderful vacation she’s having in this great summer resort?”

  “Aurora better not stand out on that balcony period unless she wants the fire marshal shutting down the hotel.”

  Really irritated with him, I slid down in the seat and shut my eyes. “That’s so ridiculous. That’s such an exaggeration.” I was amazed to see out the side window the Dreamland Motel and sat up. “We’re in La Porte.”

  “Yep. I missed the Seychelles turnoff again.”

  Again I punched him and he laughed, really laughed, as if he’d forgotten all about Maud.

  Good.

  The Sheriff dropped me off, pulling right up under the porte cochere, saying goodnight and he’d see me tomorrow. He waited until I was inside the screen door and had turned and waved.

  Waiting like that was the polite thing to do, I had learned from a series of lectures delivered by Ree-Jane on boys’ manners: “Anyone boorish enough not to make sure you’re inside the house should not be gone out with again,” she’d said.

  “You must know a lot of boorish, then.”

  “You mean boors,for God’s sakes!”

  “You’re the one goes out with them, not me.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Just you haven’t gone out with them again. I’ve never seen them around.”

  “You’re so stupid.”

  I smiled. I always like it when she can’t come up with anything better than You’re so stupid.

  As the Sheriff circled in front of the entrance, he tapped the horn, saying good-bye, and I watched the car down the long driveway to the highway. And then it hit me, as if the taps were on my heart: I’d wasted it. I’d wasted the time we’d been in the car together. There I had been, alone with the Sheriff, and could have talked about anything on earth that I wanted to and got his opinions and his advice. I could have talked about how awful waiting on tables was, and how I felt like the runt of the litter around Mrs. Davidow; I could have gone on about the stars, or love, or the Tamiami Trail. I could have told him about being left all alone, and not been invited to go to Florida—

 
The dance! I’d gone and forgotten it again! Mad as burnt cinders, I stomped up the stairs, making as much noise as I could, hoping to wake up Miss Bertha and Aurora. That was really dumb, as Miss Bertha was deaf as a doorpost and Aurora was probably drunk, and I’d just manage to bother nice old Mrs. Fulbright. (Nothing would bother Will and Mill except the Big Garage in flames.)

  But all was quiet as I took off my jeans and shrugged into my nightshirt. Then I plopped down on the bed, pushing aside the teddy hear that sat against the cushions. I thought some more, and was annoyed some more, about having wasted all that time in the car arguing with the Sheriff, and play-punching him, after all the incredible things that had happened at Broke-down House. I had just frittered the time away, when I could have discussed anything.

  Yet, I also realized you can never talk to anyone about anything you want to. You can only talk more to certain people (like the Sheriff, or Maud, or Father Freeman) than you can to others (like you-know-who). No, talks-about-anything are the talks you carry on with yourself; that’s the only person you feel absolutely free to say whatever you want to.

  I lay with my hands beneath my head and thought about the Rony Plaza. I found out the dance had been postponed: it was to he tomorrow night. I found another envelope emblazoned with the hotel crest, leaning against the mirror. The manager (who’d written it in a flowing script) apologized for this postponement, and assured me that one of the “hotel personnel” would make certain I got to my room safely afterward. The Rony Plaza is well-known for its exquisite manners.

  I’m sure it is, I said to the bear, who I had picked up to see about its stuffing. He was a really old bear. He seemed not to have lost any more stuffing, so I held him against my chest and thought about the events of the night. I wondered if Dwayne was telling the truth about somebody running by him. There was absolutely no reason he wouldn’t have; why wouldn’t he be truthful? It was just that I knew the truth was hard to come by (especially if you were face-to-face with the Sheriff), but I decided, no, of course it was the truth.