First he made sure Thurman Pruitt's truck was parked in the alley behind the repair shop. He spotted his kid through the window, which meant he was spending the day at work with Daddy. Good. Murline would be home alone, unless she had found something to do to ease the disappointment of playing second fiddle to Dennis's mother, which she evidently hadn't since her car was there.
She met him at the door with that wonder-what-I've-done look on her face that people instinctively get when they see the law coming. She was dressed to go out, probably for shopping: skirt, blouse, jacket, high heels, gloves, and hat. No makeup except for lipstick. Hair swept back in a French twist. So prim and proper. He had to swallow a laugh to remember her foot hanging out Dennis Blum's car window.
"Why, what on earth brings you here, Luke? I hope nothing's wrong."
"Everything's fine, Murline. I just need to talk to you a minute. Can I step inside?"
"Of course. Come on in." She stepped back for him to enter. "Would you like coffee? There's some left over from breakfast, but I can make a fresh pot if you like."
"No, thanks." He glanced around the small living room, crowded with furniture, and spotted the sofa Thurman had been snoozing on while his wife humped another man in his driveway. "Let's sit down."
"Well, sure..." Her eyes searched his face for some hint of his purpose. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"
"I just need your help, Murline. That's all."
She relaxed a little. "Well, if I can, of course."
"I'll get right to the point." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared her straight in the eyes. "You're Buddy Hampton's private secretary, right?"
A shiver of apprehension made her sit up straight. "Yes, I am."
"And you probably know everything about his business."
"I suppose."
"Both business and personal. You have access to all his files, and you know his comings and goings."
Her eyes narrowed. "What's this all about?"
"Cubby Riddle's car was seen a few weeks ago at a Klan rally over in Coosa County."
Trained to be observant, he saw how her face paled ever so slightly.
"So what does that have to do with me?"
"I think Buddy sent him there, and I think you know why."
"But I don't."
Luke saw her squeeze her hands together in her lap and how her lips began to twitch. "Cubby is supervisor over the whole mill. Everybody knows he's Buddy's number one man. Now tell me why Buddy sent him to the rally."
She dropped her gaze to her hands. "I told you I don't know. Mr. Hampton doesn't tell me all his business, and..."
"Cut the bullshit, Murline."
Her eyes snapped to his once more, and this time there was no hint of mere pale. She had gone chalk-white.
"You know exactly what's going on. Is it the union wanting to come in again? It's about time for them to be trying."
"Luke, I can't..."
"You can... and you will. Now talk to me, Murline. It's a known fact Hampton Mills has fought for years to keep the union out. Next year it's going to be time for another vote, and I think Buddy sent Cubby to the rally to ask for the Klan's help. He wants to scare the pants off anybody in favor, and he figures the Klan can do it."
She picked at a thread on the hem of her skirt. "I wouldn't know anything about it."
"All right. Then maybe you know something about this."
He reached inside his jacket and took out her shoe.
"Oh, God." She swayed, eyes going wide.
"I believe this is yours," he said quietly. "It fell off your foot, which was dangling out the window of Dennis Blum's car the other night."
For a few seconds, her lips worked silently, and then she managed to croak a denial and an indignant little squirm. "No. No, that's not so. I don't know where you got it, but..."
"Like I said, Murline. Cut the bullshit. I was there. I saw. I heard. Now either you cooperate with me, or the whole town finds out about your affair with Dennis, including Thurman. I wouldn't want to do it, and believe me, I don't like putting you on the spot, but for reasons I can't go into, it's very important."
She looked like she was going to be sick. "You... you wouldn't."
He persisted. "You're the only one who can help me. Cooperate, and you get your shoe back, and I don't say a word to anybody. Otherwise..." He shrugged.
She bolted from the chair and ran from the room.
He heard her throwing up, the toilet flushing, and a few moments later she returned, a wet washcloth pressed against her brow. She sat down, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. "All right," she whispered feebly, faintly. "I'll do whatever you want."
Chapter 18
Burch Cleghorn, with his flabby jowls and thick neck, had always reminded Sara of a bulldog, which, she felt, was grossly insulting to bulldogs. He had broad shoulders, a big belly, and beefy arms. He wore tortoise shell horn-rimmed glasses, which did not do enough to hide his beady little snake eyes. His bushy brows reminded her of caterpillars. He gave her the creeps.
On Sundays, when it was his turn as one of the deacons to stand next to Reverend Whitsett to say good-byes at the end of service, she dreaded having to shake hands with him because he squeezed hard and tried to hold on longer than usual. She could not stand him.
And now he was sitting in her living room. If only she had thought to peek and see who it was when the doorbell rang, she could have pretended she wasn't home. She had thought it was Sudie from next door, who sometimes came to visit when Tim was working the three to eleven shift. It was only when she opened the door and saw Burch standing there grinning like a loonie that she remembered Sudie had told her she was going to sit with her sick mother for the night.
Burch immediately grabbed her hand, all the while pushing his way in as he said, "It's church visitation night, Sara, and I got to thinking how it's been a while since I called on you and Tim."
He glanced around the living room expectantly, then asked, feigning disappointment, "Where's Tim? Oh, goodness, I hope I didn't miss him."
"He's at work." She bit her tongue. She should have said he'd gone to the store for cigarettes and would be back any minute, but she hadn't thought quick enough.
Burch sat down on the sofa, stretched an arm across the back and flashed a smile to show off his expensive tooth caps. "Well, you and I will just have a nice little visit then. So how have you been?"
"Fine. Just fine." She was trapped and could only hope he wouldn't stay long. She took the chair across from him and saw the caterpillars wiggle as he frowned. No doubt he'd hoped she would sit next to him on the sofa, but no way, buster.
He led the conversation, first blathering about the weather, then said he was glad March was just around the corner and how everyone was looking forward to the church's homecoming picnic in April. He said he hoped she would think about teaching a Sunday school class next year. She said she didn't think she'd have time. Timmy would be in first grade, and she had promised to be a room mother.
He touched on the church budget and commended her and Tim for how they were honoring their tithes. Then he spoke of the missionary fund in the Philippines. "It's a lovely place. I was stationed there for a short time after the war, and I'll always be grateful I had the chance to get to know the people and their culture."
She politely agreed that it must have been a nice experience, all the while thinking of so many things she could be doing instead of listening to him prattle on. She only hoped Dewey didn't call. Sometimes when Tim was working late shift, he would drive to the store near his farm and use the pay phone to call her.
Her mind continued to drift. She needed to pick out the pattern and material for Bonnie's Easter dress, wanting to get started on it soon to have time for all the intricate handiwork. And she had promised Nell Porter she'd make two cakes and some cookies to sell at the Library Guild's bake sale next Saturday. There were still plenty of pecans out in the storage room. She'd need to crack and pick at least
two cups if she wanted to make her special cookies that always sold well. She could start tomorrow after fixing Tim's lunch, and...
She snapped to the present, eyes blinking furiously, throat suddenly tight, as her mind argued that no, she could not have heard him right. She absolutely, positively, could not have heard Burch Cleghorn, lawyer and church deacon, talking about the size of his penis.
But she had.
"The women marveled at the width of it, too," he was saying proudly, beady eyes sparkling. "They said they'd never seen one so big. I've heard their men have small ones, but don't take my word for it, I certainly didn't witness anyone's erections other than my own, to be sure. But I can tell you, the women had a fit over it. Now remember...
He leaned forward, face slightly flushed by his own heat, "I wasn't married then. I was just a young man sowing my wild oats, as the Good Book says. So for me, it was not a sin to go to bed with a woman. But can you imagine how I felt when they treated me like some kind of god? I swear, Sara, they made an icon out of my penis."
"I think I hear the children." She bolted from the chair and ran from the room.
In the kitchen, she leaned against the wall as she commanded her heart to slow down. Had the man lost his mind? How dare he talk to her that way? But maybe she was overreacting. After all, she'd never been any farther from home than Birmingham, and Burch Cleghorn had probably been all over the world. Maybe it wasn't unusual to talk about such things in a foreign country, and he, forgetting her naiveté, did not realize how uncomfortable it made her feel. But she should tell him, so he could apologize, and she would say there was no harm done and how it was nice he had stopped by but she really had to say good-night because she had some chores to do. He would leave, and that would be the end of it.
She sucked in a deep breath, walked back into the living room... and nearly fainted.
He was naked from the waist down, having taken off his trousers and underwear, which were neatly folded on the chair where she had been sitting. His right leg was pulled up to his chest, his foot propped on the cushion beneath him. He was gently stroking his very erect penis.
"Wh.. what are you doing?" she managed to croak.
He smiled, eyes shrewd and predatory. "I could tell you didn't believe me, so I wanted to prove it. Big, isn't it? Long and thick."
"P.. put it back. I mean..." Oh, why did she have to sound like a ninny? He was obviously crazy, and if she didn't do something, he might become violent and attack. She struggled above the bubbling hysteria to sound angry and forceful rather than scared and confused. "I mean that I want you to get your clothes on and get out of this house this instant. How dare you?"
He smirked and continued to rub himself. "How dare I? Is that what you said, my dear? How dare I? Well, I think I should ask you the same thing. How dare you pretend to be insulted when you're nothing but a hypocritical little tramp?"
She was astonished. "I... I can't believe any of this."
He sneered. "You always act so holier-than-thou. Faithful churchgoer. Loving wife. Doting mother. The picture of respectability. And it's all a lie. You put on such a front for the world, when actually you're no better than a prostitute, Sara, and you know it."
She rallied from shock to point at the door. "You get out of here right now, or I'm calling the sheriff."
"Why not call Dewey instead so we can have a threesome?"
Sara felt like she'd been kicked in her chest by a mule.
He smirked at her reaction. "Oh, yes, I know all about you and Dewey Culver. He pays you, doesn't he? Why else would you fool around with an old geezer like him? But don't worry. I'm willing to shell out, too. Even more than him, depending on how good you are, of course.
"As for the sheriff, he's a waste of time. He doesn't make a whole lot, so you don't want to waste any on him, do you?"
It was like she had swallowed an ice cube as a chill spread throughout her body, but somehow she managed to muster the strength to try and deny. "You don't know what you're talking about. You're sick... perverted..."
He winked. "Only in bed, my dear, and I know lots of ways to make you moan and groan."
She covered her ears with her hands. "Get out of here!"
"Oh, stop acting. Now how much do you want? Twenty bucks? No problem. And don't worry. I won't tell Dewey if you think he'd be jealous.
"You two are real clever, by the way," he continued. "I only found out by accident when I happened to be out that way one day and saw you and him in his truck turning off the road toward that old abandoned barn. I was curious, so I sneaked up on you and saw what you were doing. I tell you one thing, he didn't have anything like this." He wrapped his hand around his stiffness and shook it at her. "His looked like a little Vienna sausage."
She turned and ran down the hall and into the children's room, slammed the door and locked it, grateful they were both sound sleepers. She didn't want them scared... didn't want to have to try and explain what was going on.
She began dragging furniture in front of the door in case he tried to force the lock. Sooner or later he would have to give up, and then she would call Tim at work and tell him. He'd take care of the old lecher. He'd make him sorry he had ever unzipped his pants.
Her hands fell away from the dresser she was struggling to push towards the door as quietly as possible. Then it dawned on her that if she told Tim, he would immediately confront Burch, and Burch would say he would never have made a pass at her if not for having seen her with Dewey. Tim wouldn't believe him at first, but sooner or later, it might all come out.
Many, many lives would be destroyed. She would be shamed and disgraced forevermore. Her family would turn their backs on her. Tim would divorce her and take the children. And poor Dewey. It would ruin him, too.
"Sara?"
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she pressed her face against the door and whispered, "Please don't wake my children. Please go away and leave me alone."
"Sara, I have my clothes on now. I know I frightened you, but come out so we can talk about it. It's the smart thing for you to do, you know. You'll have extra money, and you'll enjoy it more with me than with that old fart."
She turned and slid down to the floor and whimpered, "No. I can't. I can't do what you want me to. I can't. I'm not like that. I'm not."
"You know I'm not lying about seeing you with Dewey Culver. And I've been watching you ever since. I see you go off to meet him."
"Please, leave me alone."
"No, I won't. I've always had an eye for you, always thought you were the sexiest little thing around. And I can be good to you. I can make you a lot happier than Dewey. Let me prove it to you."
"No, no, no..."
"Well, you'll change your mind. You're just upset. But don't worry. I won't say a word to anybody unless you make me. It'll be our secret. And once Dewey gets used to the idea, he'll understand. He has to accept that he's old, and you need a real man who can satisfy you. But if you want to keep seeing him, too, that's fine with me. I'm not the jealous type. Besides, I've got a feeling you're a real little fireball. You can take care of all three of us—me, Dewey, and Tim."
She could not speak. She was crying too hard.
"Ahh, you're really upset, aren't you? Well, I tell you what. I'll leave you now to think about it, but understand this, Sara, I intend to dip into that honey hole, too. Or I swear I will see it gets all over town about you and Dewey. And you can take that promise to the bank, girlie."
He kicked the door for emphasis.
* * *
"I think it's awful about Matt and that Veazey woman."
Luke had just speared a French fry, and it was almost to his mouth, but his hand froze. "What did you say?"
They were having supper—burgers and fries, and Alma was having a hard time getting catsup out of the bottle. She repeated herself, each word punctuated by a slap of her hand against the bottom of the bottle. "I said—I think it's awful about Matt and that Veazey woman."
When he could
only gape at her, too stunned to respond, she snapped, "Well, don't pretend you didn't know about it. He's your deputy, and you know everything that goes on down there.
"Anyway," she went on, "I know it's been a while, but I hadn't heard about it till Maude Dupree told it at my church circle last night. She said Emma Jean Veazey was brought to the emergency room drunk, with her wrists slashed, and it had to have been over Matt because he came running in to check on her. Probably he told her he wasn't going to leave his wife for her, the little tramp, and she wanted to do something to get him shook up and made like she tried to kill herself."
She glared at Luke. "Maude also said you were there later, so you had to know about it. I think you should fire him. He's got no business running around on his wife, and you, as sheriff, shouldn't tolerate it, because it makes the whole department look bad."
"Whoa!" Luke laid his fork down. "First of all, she didn't try to kill herself. She just had a little too much to drink and fell and cut herself. Second, there's nothing between her and Matt, and this is how stories get started. Busybodies like Maude jump to conclusions and run their mouths.
"And Matt went to the hospital," he added, "because he was dispatched there."
She sniffed. "A waste of taxpayer's money. Who cares what happens to white trash?"
"Who says she's white trash?"
"Well, decent women don't get drunk and fall down."
"It has nothing to do with decency, Alma. God, but you're self-righteous."
"Don't use the Lord's name like that. It's a sin."
"That's the pot calling the kettle black, or don't you feel it's wrong to spread gossip that can wreck marriages? And I think I'd better speak to Maude. She knows better than to tell what goes on in that emergency room."
"Don't you dare. She'll be mad at me."
"Well, I'm mad at her."
Final Justice Page 21