“My client denies sending that message. When she arrived at the murder scene, she was attacked from behind. I want photographs taken of the marks on her neck.”
The Charleston detective left the room. Noonan leaned closer. “Did you have an altercation with Natalie Lockhart at the Spencer-Jackson House on Rainbow Row?”
I nodded. “She put a ‘For Sale’ sign in front of the house. It wasn’t that big of a fuss.”
“Is it true your fiancé gave you twenty-four hours to vacate the Spencer-Jackson House?”
“My client has no comment,” Coop said.
“Were you in a relationship with the late Aaron Fisher?” Noonan asked.
Coop looked at me and gave a short nod.
I looked at Noonan. “Yes,” I said. “A decade ago.”
“Mr. Fisher was a student at Clemson?” Noonan asked.
I nodded.
“He died there?” Noonan asked.
“Yes.”
“Were you with him when he died?”
“No.”
“Where were you?” Noonan blinked.
“At home with my aunt. In Bonaventure, Georgia. But—”
“What’s your aunt’s name and phone number.”
“Bluette Templeton,” I said. “She passed away.”
“Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts when Mr. Fisher died?”
“No—”
Coop cut me off with a terse “My client has no further comment.”
The Charleston detective returned with a camera and took pictures of my neck. When he finished, Noonan said, “I guess we’re done. Bail hearing is at 11:00 a.m. tomorrow.”
“Coop, would you call Miss Dora?” I asked.
“I will,” he said.
I wrote down her number and he tucked it into his folder. The Charleston detective opened the door, and a policewoman stepped into the room. “Lydia, show the arrestee to her new home.”
sixteen
My jail cell was the size of a walk-in pantry. The other inmates watched as the door slammed behind me. The air reeked of pine disinfectant. The inmate in the next cell sat on her cot and scratched her head.
“Hey, Barbie doll,” she said. “What you in here for?”
I ignored her and put the sheet on my bed. I lay down, trying to calm myself with recipes, but the thought of food made me nauseated. I barely made it to the toilet. The stench of disinfectant made me sicker.
“You ain’t got nothing catching, do you?” the inmate asked.
I ignored her and shuffled to my cot. I drew my knees to my chest and listened to the inmates’ chatter. I’d just have to get used to it, because if the judge denied bail, I’d be stuck here awhile. A tear slid down the side of my face and hit my knee. All my life, I’d followed the law. I’d always stopped at yellow traffic lights; even if a U-turn was legal, I wouldn’t do it.
My moral compass had formed when I was eight years old, the night Mama beat the crap out of Donnie and stole his station wagon. While we drove to the Georgia coast, Mama sang Elvis songs. She was bruised up, but she didn’t complain.
We stopped at Cracker Barrel and she put a little pancake makeup on her face to hide the bruises. We took a seat next to the window and ordered catfish platters. She tipped the waitress extra and bought me a sack of hard candy, counting bills from Donnie’s billfold.
When we got near Savannah, she started talking and couldn’t stop. “I’m ready for a true blue romance,” she said. “A man with a college degree and a sweet temper. He’s out there, Teeny. I’m getting close to finding him, I just know it.”
She sighed. Her breath smelled like peppermint. She always kept a Life Saver in her mouth because you never knew when you’d meet the love of your life, and you sure didn’t want to have sour breath.
We drove to Tybee Island and Mama found a boarding house. She wouldn’t tell me how much it cost a day. “Stop worrying about money,” she said. “Look, our room faces the marsh. Isn’t it pretty?”
“No,” I said and burst into tears. All I’d known was the farm. I missed the sound of peaches tumbling on the conveyer belt, the smell of browned piecrust wafting from the kitchen, the mournful sound of whip-poor-wills calling out in the woods.
“Can’t we just call Aunt Bluette and tell her we’re okay?” I begged.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” she said, twisting her fingers together. “Promise.”
Mama spread the Savannah Morning News on the floor and read our horoscopes. I sat next to the window, fretting over the stolen car and Aunt Bluette. I’d told so many lies since Mama had gotten married, I couldn’t stand myself. Late at night, I dug out my falsehoods like they were fish bones, each one transparent and sharp. There were so many of them, I knew I’d never get to heaven.
The next morning, Mama went job hunting. She didn’t want to squander Donnie’s money on gas, so she walked to town. I spent the day luring ants with crushed vanilla wafers. I had farms on the brain, and I was trying to build one with ants.
Mama came home with blisters on her heels. She stood in the yard, running the water hose over her feet. A woman in a purple tent dress walked by with her Chihuahua. She gave Mama a side-eye look. “Y’all in some kind of trouble?”
“Heavens no.” Mama laughed. “We like to keep to ourselves. And we really don’t like dogs, so just keep moving.”
“Why don’t you apply for food stamps? There’s a whole slew of government handouts you can get.”
Mama ignored her and said, “Get in the house, Teeny.”
“Your little girl is cute. You really shouldn’t leave her alone all day. Don’t worry, I won’t report you. But somebody will.”
After she left, Mama stared down at her feet. They’d sunk into the ground, water lapping around her ankles. We waited till dark, then we packed the car and drove up to Myrtle Beach, using a big chunk of Donnie’s money. We passed the seedy part of the strip and turned into the Wayfarer Motel. It looked deserted. We didn’t have money for a room, but it was 102 degrees, and we couldn’t stay in the car. We walked on the beach until it got dark. I found loose change on the sidewalk, and Mama bought us two candy bars.
“Eat up. It’s good for you,” she said. “There’s a ton of protein in nuts.”
We headed back to the station wagon. “I’ll take the front seat,” she said. “You get the back.”
“We’re not sleeping in the car?” I cried.
“You got a better idea?” Her face scrunched up like she was trying not to cry. “Look, it’ll be fine. You stay in your half of the car; I’ll stay in mine.”
That night, the motel came to life. Skinny women in short skirts came out of their rooms and leaned over the rail, flicking cigarette ashes into the oleanders and watching the cars cruise down Ocean Boulevard.
We lived in the station wagon for the next week, washing ourselves in the Burger King restroom. Mama made friends with a busboy from a steak house, and he brought us bags filled with food that people had sent back to the kitchen. He even brought leftover wine. Mama drank while I stuffed myself on onion rings and T-bones that were too rare or too done. The wine made her cheerful and she started singing “Milkcow Blues Boogie.” Then she quoted Proverbs 30:30 and gave me a recipe for a strawberry-peach shake.
Her motormouthing hurt my ears, so I held out an onion ring. “Here, I saved you one,” I said.
“Eat it yourself, Possum Head. God, it stinks in here.” Mama cracked the window to let the smell of food blow out.
“Mama? Are we going to live in this car forever?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“It’s just hard to see in the dark.”
“I’ll buy you a damn flashlight, okay?”
“Don’t say that, Mama.”
“What are you, a little preacher?” she cried. “Lay off me. I’m doing the best I can.”
The skinny women knocked on our windshield. They found Mama a job and moved us out of the car, into a room on the second floor. Mama put clean clothes
and my inhaler into a bag and steered me to a room on the bottom floor, where an old woman with frizzled white hair sat in a metal chair.
“Teeny, this is Mrs. Phelps. She’s babysitting you tonight.” Mama thrust the bag into the woman’s hands. “If my baby gets winded, she’s got medicine. I’ll pick her up in the morning.”
Night after night, Mama teased her hair and brushed on three coats of mascara. If Mrs. Phelps couldn’t keep me, Mama would go to the motel next door and barge up to families. “Can you keep my little girl?” she’d say.
One morning when she picked me up, the station wagon was packed with our things. I didn’t ask questions. I was glad we were leaving the Wayfarer. She drove down Highway 17 until it split.
We stayed in Charleston for a day and moved down to Beaufort, parking at Memorial Hospital. We’d go into the hospital cafeteria and fill Styrofoam cups with hot water, then we’d make soup by adding catsup.
On the way back to the station wagon, she pushed hair out of her eyes. “You’re a good girl, Teeny. But you shouldn’t be around me. Something bad’s gonna happen. I just know it.”
“Let’s just go home,” I said. “Aunt Bluette can hide us on the farm.”
After a security guard chased us out of the lot, Mama stopped at Wal-Mart and went inside. She came back with someone’s pocketbook. We used the money to buy gas and french fries, and we headed to Georgia.
I perked up when signs for Bonaventure flashed by. “Are we going to see Aunt Bluette?” I asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said and pulled into the Dairy Queen.
“What if Donnie spots your car?”
“He won’t.” She handed me five dollars. “Run on in and get us two cones.”
I cracked open the door, and she grabbed my arm. Mascara ran down her cheeks.
“Mama, you’re crying,” I said.
“No, I’m not.” She wiped her face and smiled. “It’s just that I love you so much.”
I went inside and ordered the cones. I tried to keep an eye on her, but the windows were pasted up with giant posters of banana splits and Blizzards. The lady handed me the cones, and I told her to keep the change. I ran out. Mama’s car was gone. I walked around the building, holding the cones straight out so they wouldn’t drip on me. But I didn’t see her car anywhere.
I squatted beside the front door and watched customers go in and out. By the time I finished my cone, she still hadn’t come back. Her ice cream lost its shape and ran down my arm, spattering against the pavement. The manager came out and squatted beside me.
“Honey, is somebody picking you up?”
I nodded and looked away, struggling not to cry. Mama’s cone felt soft and spongy. Flies gathered around the puddles, twitching their legs.
“You from around here?” he asked.
“Used to be.”
“You got people here?”
“My aunt.” I wiped my eyes.
“What’s her name?”
“Bluette Templeton.”
“She own that peach farm?”
I nodded.
“I should’ve known,” he said. “You look like a Templeton. Give me the cone, honey, and we’ll go inside and call her.”
“I can’t. It’s for Mama,” I said. She was coming back. She wouldn’t drop me off without my medicine. The manager went back inside. A while later, a policeman showed up and drove me to Aunt Bluette’s. She stepped onto the porch, and I dove at her soft legs. Her hand slid down the back of my head.
“Where’s Ruby?” She squinted at the driveway.
“Gone.”
“You got a suitcase?” Two lines cut across her forehead. “Your medicines?”
I shook my head.
“She’ll come back,” Aunt Bluette said. “Just as soon as she thinks this through, she’ll be back.”
“No, she won’t.” It was the end of August, and she’d dumped me off just in time for school.
“Let’s call Dr. O’Malley and get your prescriptions,” Aunt Bluette said. “Then you and me’ll get her room ready. Run and find the feather duster. It’s in the pantry, same as always. I’ll be right behind you with the vacuum. Ruby’ll be delighted, won’t she?”
I rested on the curve of her voice. I’d forgotten how she broke that word into three parts, de-LIGHT-ed, with her voice screaking up in the middle. Mama had run off more times than I cared to remember. She’d always come back, but this time felt different.
While me and Aunt Bluette scrubbed baseboards and changed the sheets, we hummed “Bye Bye Blackbird.” Just like in the song, we packed up our woes. We made Mama’s bed and lit the porch light, but she didn’t show up. We never saw her again. She was gone for good.
seventeen
I awoke on the jail cot and listened to a metal cart squeak down the corridor. Breakfast was being served. I was starving, yet queasy. In a few hours, I would go before the judge. Coop had said this was a bail hearing. If the judge set it too high, or denied it, I’d come right back to this cell.
My eyes teared up a little and I wiped them on the sheet. Now wasn’t the time for a boo-hoo party. I sat up and pushed my hair out of my face. I didn’t have a comb but I didn’t want to go to court looking like a hedgehog.
I raked my fingers through the tangles and thought about Bing. I was guilty of mean thoughts, but I wasn’t capable of murder. I’d been set up. He hadn’t sent me a text message; the murderer had done it. Considering what had transpired between me and Bing, not to mention the restraining order, I could have easily ignored that message and found a cheap boarding house. Or I could’ve gone straight to Bonaventure. If I’d broken probation, at least I would’ve had an alibi—gas receipts stamped with the date and time. Eyewitnesses could have placed me in Georgia. And the real murderer couldn’t have gotten hold of my phone and sent a phony message to Natalie. Nobody would think I’d murdered Bing if I’d been miles and miles away, right? Instead, I’d turned up at a murder scene.
The cart stopped in front of my cell door. A matronly woman slid a tray under the metal gap. Breakfast smells rose up and my stomach rumbled. I crept over to the tray. I was surprised that prison food was so good. A pat of butter skated over fluffy white grits. Sausage patties were arranged around a mound of scrambled eggs. I lifted the biscuit—it was the fluffiest, lightest biscuit I ever saw—and took a greedy bite. Then, I set it down and reached for the plastic spoon. I was so caught up in tasting the sweet yet savory flavor of grits that I barely noticed when a bony hand inched through the bar toward my biscuit.
“Hey!” I cried. My spoon clattered against the tray. The hand grabbed my biscuit. Before it slipped back through the bars, I seized the woman’s wrist.
“That’s my biscuit,” I said.
“Like you need it, you big-leg girl.”
“Drop it,” I said.
“Make me.” She tried to squirm away, but I sank my teeth into her hand. I wasn’t just biting her, I was biting for world hunger, fall guys, injustice. I was biting on behalf of every child whose mama had left them at a Dairy Queen.
The inmate screeched and the biscuit hit my tray. She stepped back, sucking her hand. I felt so ashamed. I’d been in jail overnight and had already had a food fight. No telling what I’d do if I got a prison sentence. I lifted the biscuit, pushed it through the bars, and dropped it onto her tray.
The woman snatched the biscuit, then she scooted her tray away from the bars.
I thought she’d report me for attacking her, but she didn’t say a word when a lady officer brought me an outfit: a brown, pilgrimish dress with a white collar.
“Your lawyer brung it,” she said.
After I got dressed, the officer handcuffed me with a plastic twist tie. I shuffled into the corridor, toward a side door where other prisoners were lined up waiting for a bus.
When we reached the courthouse, I sat on the bench next to a woman who told me she’d been wrongfully accused of killing a rooster. She’d cooked her boyfriend’s prizewinning Rhode Island Red c
ock and was being charged with animal cruelty.
She grinned, showing a dark front tooth. “You and me’s a pair, ain’t we?”
While I waited for my name to be called, I rehearsed my speech to the judge.
“Quit muttering!” said the rooster killer. “You ain’t having your say. Neither am I. Our shitty lawyers is cutting deals, just like they’d slice a pie.”
“She’s right,” said the woman sitting on my other side. She had a half-moon scar under her left eye. “It’s a done deal. All you need to know is, stand when the sorry-assed judge comes in and stand when he leaves. When he asks you a question, say, ‘Yes, Your Honor’ or ‘No, Your Honor.’ The Honor part is real important. Judges eat it up. If you don’t say it, you’ll get slapped with contempt. That’s more jail time.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Templeton!” called a man in a uniform.
The twist-tie handcuffs stayed put as he led me into the courtroom. The seats were full and people stood along the back wall like they’d come to a free magic show. In a way, it was. Guilty people walked in, and if the stars were aligned, they vanished from society. But the innocent could disappear, too. Now you see me, now you freaking don’t.
A new judge sat behind the high wooden desk. He had a crew cut, John Lennon glasses, and sunburned cheeks. Sunlight fell through the tall windows and hit the empty jury box.
The officer led me down the aisle. Miss Dora sat in the third row. When she saw me, her eyes teared up. She lifted her handbag and mouthed what looked like Bail.
I followed the officer into the squared-off area behind a rail. Coop sat at a counsel table, writing on a yellow pad. An accordion folder stood open and papers jutted out. He greeted me with a nod.
Before I could speak, the bailiff cried, “CR-05-409. The State of South Carolina versus Templeton.”
I frowned. That sounded awful harsh—the whole state was against me?
The judge glanced at a paper, and his glasses slid down his nose. “We’re addressing bail?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Coop said.
“Miss Templeton is being held in the detention center, correct?”
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