I tugged him up off the curb and headed for my car, only to face the panel truck blocking me in.
"Give me your keys," I demanded. When he didn't move, I stuck my hand in his pants pocket and pulled them out. Vernell giggled. "Shut up and get in that truck! I'm driving, so don't even think about getting behind that wheel. You're knee-walking, dog drunk!" Vernell giggled again.
"I always did love it when you were mad," he said, wrapping a big arm around my shoulder and resting his drunken head on top of mine.
I stood there for a moment, trapped by the weight of him and trying to urge him forward. From a distance, we must've looked like a happy couple. At least that's what I figured Marshall Weathers was thinking as he watched from his vantage point across the parking lot.
Chapter Thirteen
I slammed Vernell's truck into reverse, stripping half the gears and propelling Vernell across the slippery bench seat.
"Get off me!" I cried, pushing at him with my right hand and trying to keep a grip on the steering wheel with my left. Vernell giggled and rested his chin on my shoulder. I could feel his eyes boring into the side of my face and I almost gagged on his breath. Marshall Weathers was still watching. He was wearing shiny, aviator-style, dark glasses. Even from a distance, I could tell he was laughing.
"The hell with him," I muttered, "and get the hell off my shoulder!" I cried, this time pinching Vernell in the fleshy area tinder his chin.
"Ouch! Dog, you are feisty when your dander's up!"
I pulled out into traffic, easily done since most of the cars on Battleground stopped when they saw me coming. Vernell reached out and switched on what I took to be the radio, but suddenly the air was filled with the sounds of a choir singing the "Hallelujah Chorus" from the Messiah.
I was trying to concentrate on the rush-hour traffic, while trying to figure out the truck's shifting pattern. It was all I could do to make wild swipes at the dashboard.
"Vernell, turn that off!" The other cars were pulling off the road, as if responding to an ambulance. Vernell picked that moment to fall asleep.
"Vernell! Vernell, listen to me! Don't you dare fall asleep!" No response. Instead the sounds of the choir grew steadily louder, and there was a grinding noise from the roof of the truck. It was then that I remembered that Vernell had the dish wired to rotate clockwise whenever the truck was moving.
I looked in my rearview mirror. One lone car followed, a brown Taurus sedan.
"Aw, man! What did I ever do to you?" I yelled. What was God doing, appearing to my ex-husband? Where was divine intervention when I needed it? Pink robes!
I made a sweeping right-hand turn onto Independence Avenue, and began the final descent toward Vernell's brick mansion. How was I going to explain myself to Jolene, the Dish Girl? Maybe she wouldn't be home. Maybe she was out shopping and I would be able to leave Vernell and his truck parked in the driveway. But I knew, even as I thought it, that fate was against me. Jolene would be home. It was just that sort of day.
The brown Taurus rolled to a stop underneath the tree where I sat at night to watch for Sheila. I pulled up into Vernell's driveway with only one casualty: the handcrafted, Victorian mailbox. I flattened it like a pancake, an action which brought young Jolene dashing to the door.
She was dressed all in white, from the headband pushing back her bleached-blonde hair to the tips of her little white tennis shoes. She stood in the doorway, her eyes slowly registering our arrival.
"Got a delivery for you, Jolene," I yelled, trying to make myself heard above the music that hadn't stopped when I'd turned off the engine.
Jolene's beady little eyes narrowed, and she puffed out her chest, as if thinking maybe her breasts would do the talking.
"I don't think they're gonna help you with this," I said, walking up the cobblestone path to the front door.
"What have you done to him?" she shrieked. "Is he dead?" Her little white tennis skirt fluttered against her perfectly tanned thighs.
"In a manner of speaking," I said. "He's dead drunk. He's dead to the world. But no, I guess that's not exactly what you were asking, is it?"
Around the cul-de-sac, the neighbors had begun to emerge, casting angry and curious glances in our direction.
"Turn off the music," she demanded, stomping her little white-shoed foot on the ground.
"Well, honey, what's his is yours. You turn it off."
She marched over to the truck, pulled the key from the ignition, fiddled with the interior switches, and finally gave up. The music had now switched to "Rock of Ages."
"So I hear you think Vernell should sue me?" I said, stepping up behind her and scaring her so badly, she jumped.
"Yes, I do," she answered coldly. "You used his brother's affections to your own advantage."
"Now ain't that the pot calling the kettle black," I answered.
From inside the truck, Vernell moaned in his sleep.
"Get off my property!" she said.
"When I'm done," I said. "First, we got some unfinished business."
Jolene took a tiny step backward and began to hyperventilate.
"I don't have any business with you," she said. She tossed her blonde mane in an attempt to dismiss me, but I invaded her personal space again.
"You have been low-rating me in front of my daughter," I said. "I don't like that."
"I have said nothing but the truth," she answered.
"Truth is," I said, snatching her up by her little white tennis sweater, "I didn't kill Jimmy Spivey, and you have no right to say I did." Behind me, I heard a car door slam and the sounds of footsteps moving quickly across the street and toward the driveway. I knew who that was. Frankly, the thought of adding assault charges to murder didn't worry me. I was too excited at the prospect of blackening Jolene's eyes.
"If you so much as hint that I am anything but a sterling vision of motherhood, I will personally return to this house and kill you!"
"That's enough." Marshall Weathers's strong hands gripped my arms, forcing me to unhand the now sobbing Jolene.
"Arrest her, Officer!" Jolene screamed.
I was going to spend my evening in jail. I could smell it coming.
"Well," Weathers said slowly, his face an inscrutable mask behind his glasses, "I reckon I could do that." I could feel the silver cuffs snapping tightly around my wrists. It was going to be a reality. I could smell the jail-cell dinner. "But, if I did," he said, "it might be more of a problem for you."
"How's that?" Jolene said, sticking her chest under Weathers's nose, and smiling like an ingenue.
"Well, if I have to call a car to the scene, and take a report, then I'll end up having to cite you for public nuisance. You know, violation of the city noise ordinance. Parking violations. All sorts of things."
Jolene did a slow burn, "So that's the way it is, huh? You're on her side! My brother-in-law not even cold in the ground and she's the one who killed him. You'd think you people would be more concerned with justice."
Weathers didn't budge. "Oh, no, ma'am. I'm just stating a fact. Things would get official and I wouldn't be able to stop them. Better you should just let me escort your unwelcomed visitor off the property and let you attend to controlling the noise problem. Besides," he said, smiling softly at me, "I have a few questions I need to ask Miss Reid."
The truck was now blaring "Bringing in the Sheaves." Vernell had started snoring almost as loud as the music.
"All right then!" Jolene cried. "Take her away! And keep her away from us. The funeral's tomorrow. We don't want the likes of a natural-born killer showing up at a holy burial."
I started to answer her, but Weathers let his hands tighten oh my arms, steering me away from Jolene the Dish Girl and on down the cobblestoned drive.
"Don't say a word until I get you in the car and down the street," he said in a voice only I could hear. His mustache tickled my ear. "She could've had you locked up."
"What for?"
"Terroristic threats to start with. You've go
t a violent temper, Miss Reid."
We were almost to the car. "Don't even go there with me, Detective."
"Hey," he said, opening the passenger side door, "I'm not the one getting my tail in a sling."
I looked back at Vernell's castle, with his truck still blasting away and Jolene tugging at Vernell's deadweight, drunken body. I could have it a lot worse, I thought, I could be her. It was just like Mama always said: Don't go coveting your neighbor's husband, 'til you've walked a mile in his wife's shoes.
Detective Weathers pulled slowly away from the curb. He didn't say another word and I was not in the mood to insert my foot any farther into my mouth. It was occurring to me that my profile was a little too high when it came to the police. I'd have to find another way to elude Weathers while still getting the information I needed.
As if reading my mind, Weathers looked over at me. "So, who's little red wagon are you gonna go upsetting next?" he asked.
"I went to see my daughter," I said calmly. "When her father showed up, obviously inebriated, I drove him home. I did it as much for Sheila as for him. When Vernell gets off the wagon like this, it's an embarrassment to the entire family, especially a vulnerable teenaged girl."
We were pulling into the strip shopping center, heading for the parking space next to my Beetle.
"That's what you want me to believe," he said.
"Actually, I don't give a dead rat's ass what you believe," I answered. "I know the truth,"
Weathers turned to look at me, his arm stretched along the back of my seat, almost touching my shoulder. The Taurus now rested in its slot beside my little car. "Exactly," he said. "You know the truth. That's all I want from you, Maggie, the truth." He let his fingers slip down until they rested lightly on my shoulder. I froze as he gently caressed the side of my neck.
"I haven't lied to you yet," I lied, but my heart wasn't in it. What was he doing to me? I turned and reached for the door handle. If I stayed any longer, I'd be trapped telling one lie after another, or worse, falling under the spell he seemed to weave with no effort at all.
"Before you go," he said softly, the dangerous tone back in his voice, "I have a couple of things for you to think about." He pulled his hand back, straightening up ever so slightly.
"And what would that be?" My heart was pounding again. I could feel him watching me, smell his cologne, hear the soft squeak of his leather jacket as he moved ever so slightly toward me. Touch me again. Just one more little touch…
"Sheila didn't go to work Wednesday night for one," he said.
"Well, big deal. Everybody gets a night off now and then," I answered, suddenly feeling my heart leap to my throat. No, no, no.
"She told her stepmother she had to work, but she called her boss and said she was sick."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't.
"She told me she went shopping," he said slowly, "but I don't believe her. Would you know anything about that?"
"When were you persecuting my daughter? Why wasn't I there?" My voice jumped. I sounded guilty. I just knew I did.
"I talked to Sheila yesterday, in my office, with her father and stepmother present. I was interviewing her just like I did you. She is not a suspect."
I wanted to reach across the seat and tear into him. I wanted to beat him. All thought of romance had vanished. I wanted to hurt him for ever coming near my little girl. Instead I forced myself to stay still. I couldn't put Sheila in jeopardy by showing my fear.
"I'm late for work again," I said, my voice controlled. I reached for the door handle, then decided I had enough reserve to play his game. "There was something else you wanted me to think about?" I hoped I sounded cool, as if Sheila's whereabouts at the time of the murder were inconsequential.
"Oh, yeah, I almost forgot." He leaned over toward me. "I thought we might talk about the night before Jimmy's wedding. I just thought you might like a chance to tell me your side of the story."
I jumped out of the car and slammed the door. Who'd talked this time? Who in their right mind would've told him about that little episode? The answer came as quickly as the question. Roxanne.
Chapter Fourteen
That night, the Golden Stallion was hopping. The all-male dance revue, the Young Bucks, were in town and strutting their stuff on the dance floor. It was a sight to behold. A tribe of young farm boys, their muscles pumped, their hair perfectly slicked back against work-tanned skin, wearing their jeans tight enough to cause concern about future progeny. It was all happening right in front of me, and I had all I could do to keep my mind focused on the job at hand.
Weathers knew much more about me than I knew about him. The Digger story was one thing. I figured Weathers brought that up just to show off how much he was capable of finding out. That story wasn't going to hurt me, not like the story of Jimmy's wedding rehearsal dinner. Now that could hurt me.
Jack sidled up while I sang "My Heart's on Fire, but Your Hands Are Still Cold." It was a rowdy little tune about a drunken cowboy who loses his love to another. I had the Young Bucks restless and the cowgirls breathless, just urging them on. If anyone in the place went home lonely tonight, they'd have only themselves to blame.
"Evelyn needed my car tonight," Jack said, between verses. "Can you give me a ride again?"
I looked over at him and nodded. Who in the world was this Evelyn, and why wasn't she coming to pick him up? She'd lose him to someone if she kept up this kind of behavior. Of course, if she was anything like Jack, they probably had some open type of arrangement. Hell, she probably lived with two or three guys in a commune somewhere.
I could never stand for that, I thought. I'm a one-man woman.
The song came to an end and Sparks gave the band the nod to go into their break tune.
"Folks, we'll be right back," he announced. "Gotta tend to a little business, if you know what I mean." He laughed, as did the crowd. All I had on my mind was some fresh air and a little solitude. Sometimes watching all those couples together out on the dance floor really got to me.
I pushed my way backstage, past the stagehands and groupies waiting to transact business with the boys in the band. I stepped out onto the fire escape and walked over to my car. No one ever looked for me there, especially if I didn't crank the engine, and slid down in the seat where I wouldn't be noticed. I needed time to think.
Jimmy got married in August five years ago. At the time, we all figured we knew why. Had to be that Roxanne was pregnant. Jimmy had practically made a career out of avoiding marriage. But with Roxanne, he was announcing his engagement a mere four weeks after he'd met her. And the engagement wasn't even announced in the traditional manner.
At the time, me, Vernell, and Sheila were living out in Oak Ridge on what Vernell referred to as a "gentleman's farm." What it really was, was a brick three-bedroom ranch that sat on four acres. Vernell figured that because it took a riding lawn mower to cut the grass and because there was a detached garage in the shape of a barn, he could call it a farm.
It was pretty, though. The house sat up on a little rise, set back from the road. A porch spanned the front of the house, and in the summer we'd sit out there and watch the cars passing by and the corn growing in the fields across the street where the real farmer lived. We were sitting out there the afternoon Jimmy came to announce that he was gonna marry Roxanne.
His little red pickup swung into our dusty dirt driveway, spinning out as it rounded the corner and slinging gravel everywhere.
"Wonder what the hell bee's got up his butt," Vernell muttered, watching Jimmy push his truck up the hill. "Probably got trouble out to the lot again. You know, I'm getting sick of his lazy ass. Don't take a rocket scientist to run a business. If the boy can't handle it, he ought to get somebody in there who can. Hell, he could put in a manager and go play golf all day and make more money than he is running it himself."
I didn't say a word. It was the same-old same-old as far as I was concerned. The Spivey brothers fought about everything, constantly. And they
were worse when one or both of them had been drinking.
"Hellfire," Vernell said, rising up out of his rocker. "And here it is about supper time. Darned if that boy don't smell you cookin' from across town. Jimmy!" he yelled out, stepping down off the porch. "You're tearing up my yard!"
His yard! Vernell figured his outdoor duties were discharged when he bought me a used John Deere riding mower.
Jimmy stepped down out of his truck, his Braves cap twisted around backward and a Bud Lite in his hand. We were headed for trouble, I thought. Maybe food would sober him up.
"Hey, Jimmy," I called. "Come on in. You're just in time for dinner."
"Cain't stay," he yelled, like maybe with me being ten feet away I couldn't hear him speak in a normal tone. "I just come to tell you something." He was looking straight at me, ignoring his brother completely.
"Now, Jimmy," I said, standing up and preparing not to take any of his nonsense, "I made your favorite, fried chicken."
He hesitated, then took a few steps toward the porch. "Greens or beans?" he asked.
"Beans with tatters. Cornbread with cheese. And for dessert, I made a banana cream pie. So come on." I wouldn't have let him leave anyhow. Any fool could see he was drunk.
Jimmy walked straight as an arrow to the porch steps and sank down on the top one. "Banana cream?" His eyes had unexpectedly filled with tears and the hand holding the beer began to shake. "Aw man, I sure am gonna miss your cooking."
I sank down beside him. Vernell was eyeing Jimmy as if he were a subspecies. In Vernell's world, even a drunk man ought not cry.
"Jimmy, now you know Vernell's just kidding when he gets on to you. He don't mean nothing by it when he teases you for coming to eat so often." Okay, so Jimmy ate with us more than he did his own mama. I didn't mind. "We like having you here, don't we, Vernell?" I gave Vernell a nasty look and he grunted in our direction, still eyeing Jimmy the way a hound eyes a skunk.
"Not no more," Jimmy cried balefully, "I'm getting married. Next Saturday."
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