“Or she was very smart,” Mom said. “I’ll tell you her story, but I’m going to do to you what my mother did to me. You have to promise that you won’t tell another soul outside this family. It’s okay for us to talk about it, but we would betray an old vow if we share this with anyone else. And breaking vows isn’t good for Karma.”
“Pinkie swear.” I held up my pinkie.
Dad laughed. “I don’t suppose we need to make her offer a blood oath like your mother did.”
“Really?” I said.
“No, your father’s teasing you. Jason,” Mom said sternly.
“I’ll be good,” Dad said.
“Sadly, your grandmother didn’t know Jena more than as a high school acquaintance, and this isn’t so much firsthand as it is passed around and passed down. Gramma told me about Jena when your father and I were first dating. Mom knew we were interested in . . . so many things. She was a great mother and never pooh-poohed anything, but she wanted to make sure that in our explorations we didn’t tangle with the legend of Jena Bellings.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Sort of serious, mostly silly, I suppose, but Gramma didn’t want to take any chances. Anyway, Jena grew up in Monson, like I said. Back in the day—this was a long time ago, remember—abused girls couldn’t get the help they needed like they can nowadays. Even cruel parents were left alone to parent the ways they thought appropriate. Discipline was looked at differently, but I won’t go into detail. Well, Jena’s father was a plain old mean drunk. He beat up Jena’s mother and Jena, and did worse, we’re sure, though it wasn’t spoken about in those days.” Mom paused and sipped her coffee before she continued. “Jena was withdrawn in high school. Gramma said that she was a true beauty but had no interest in having friends. She rarely had clean clothes and could have used a bath and shampoo more than she got them, but people around here were sympathetic. Except for a few. There are always the bullies, of course. Whether it’s fair or valid, back then gypsies weren’t thought of as reputable. One day someone—Gramma said she never knew who specifically—derogatorily called Jena ‘Gypsy’ and the name stuck.
“But then something happened. It was as if labeling her with the moniker gave her a chance to have a whole new identity. She transformed. She cleaned up—rumor had it that someone offered her use of their bath—and she wore cleaner clothes. And then people started seeing her in new clothes. Everyone thought she must have been stealing them, but no one reported any thefts, and at the time there was only the general store in town, and no one dared steal fabric from there. More rumor had it that someone started sewing dresses and leaving them for her.” Mom paused again, picked up her coffee, and took another sip. She looked at me over the rim. It took a second, but I got what I thought she was trying to communicate.
“Gramma! Gramma made the clothes?”
Mom shrugged. “She was an amazing seamstress.”
“Gramma was tied to Jena Bellings?”
“Like I said, they didn’t really know each other, but Gramma felt sorry for her, so she did what she could to help, secretly. Even Jena didn’t know. Gramma made very bohemian, very gypsylike dresses for her, which, of course, wasn’t the style, but Jena wore them well. And, frankly, Gramma was pleased that she could help with the transformation.”
“That’s pretty terrific,” I said.
“Yeah, well, maybe not,” Mom continued.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“Shortly after this ‘transformation’ and the baths and the clothes, Jena’s father was found dead, stabbed with a knife down by the creek that runs a ways behind where Bailey’s is now.”
“Jena killed him?”
“Don’t know. His killer was never found. But Jena always claimed to be the killer.” Mom sat forward and leaned her elbows on the table. “She said that she never even had to touch the knife, that she used gypsy magic to thrust it into his chest.”
“Right.”
“It was his murder, though, and her insistence that she did it that earned her her legendary status and forced everyone else to keep her secret.”
“Secret?”
“I’m getting there. The authorities refused to arrest her simply because there was no evidence that she was the killer and the postmaster claimed to have seen her sitting on a bench almost the entire day that the murder was committed. Eventually, everyone began to think that Jena’s mother killed him and Jena was just trying to keep her mother from going to jail. But, honestly, according to Gramma, no one cared much who killed him, they were just glad he was gone. It was the way things were back then. Not all crimes were prosecuted, but some innocent people were punished, too. It wasn’t as lawless as the stories of the Old West, but things just weren’t as clear-cut as we’d like to think they are now.”
“How did Jena get to Orderville?”
“She just went. Well, not quite. She spread the word around Monson that she was leaving. She wasn’t going far, but she made it clear that Monson citizens were never to claim her, never act like they knew her if they saw her or someone asked about her. She said she would use gypsy magic to curse anyone who gave her up and they would meet the same fate as her father. Of course, her threats were met with doubt and probably pity, but then she did something to prove she wasn’t messing around. She called the town to a meeting in the downtown square, the one that’s still there. She was manic, apparently, calling forth forces of nature and such. It was windy and rainy, but when she commanded lightning to ‘fall from the sky and burn the boulder,’ that’s exactly what happened. A bolt of lightning came from the sky and burned a black mark into the big boulder on the edge of the square park.”
“Nuh-uh,” I said.
“Gramma said it happened, and it worked, too. No one gave up Jena’s identity after she left for Orderville, found a husband, and, by all accounts, had a great life.”
“Then what?”
“That’s where my story ends. But it’s said that she brought prosperity to the town of Orderville.”
“Wow.”
“Quite the story, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “They don’t like to utter her name. If I understand it correctly, they don’t want to change whatever good fortune she brings to the town—it’s like saying her name will jinx something. They’re a superstitious group.”
“And now there’s been a murder,” Dad said.
Mom looked at me. “Becca, we don’t subscribe to all that nonsense, you know that don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“However, if there’s any way for you to get out of the rest of your commitment to the fair . . . it might not be a bad idea,” Mom said.
“Really?”
Dad laughed nervously. “Maybe. You know, just to be safe.”
“I’m pretty committed at this point.”
Mom thought second, but then her face relaxed. “We’re being even sillier than we thought our own parents were, Jason. Becca will be fine.”
Dad nodded. “Of course. We shouldn’t become old fogies in our young age.” Then he looked at me. “Be careful, though, you know, just be careful.”
“Always,” I said. And I grabbed one more piece of bread.
Eight
“Aw, go ahead and give me four,” Jerry said to Scott, the dealer. The poker game was being held at a picnic table in a lit pavilion. The grounds were just as spooky now as they were when I pulled into the mostly dark parking lot, but Scott had met me at the entrance and I planned on asking him to walk me to my truck when the game was over.
“Four? You’re not having the best night, are you, buddy?” Scott said.
“No, not my best,” Jerry replied, not good at a poker face.
But none of us were. It was the most unusual poker game I’d ever played. Six players had joined the game. Along with me, Scott, and Jerry the corn-dog ve
ndor, the woman who’d been handling the horse earlier, Dianna Kivitt, was playing. Her demeanor vacillated between friendly and extremely unfriendly, and it seemed her back-and-forth mood was deliberate. At first I took it personally, but then I noticed it was just her way with everyone.
I hadn’t met the other two participants before. Ward Hicken was a local alfalfa farmer who also owned and operated the goldfish game at the fair. I hadn’t known that he didn’t use live goldfish but he proudly told me that he used plastic ones, instead, color coded to match other prizes, from candy all the way up to stuffed animals. He was a big, strappin’ man, his shoulders still thick from farm work, but slumped a little from age. He reminded me of Barry the corn guy from Bailey’s except that Ward walked with less effort than it took Barry, was a little quicker with a smile, and had a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. He claimed to have two big, strappin’ sons, twenty-something versions of himself who worked with him at his farm, so he had plenty of time to do other things, like run the goldfish game at the fair.
Randy Knapp was a cute skinny guy with a baby face that made him look seventeen, though he said he was close to forty. He was in charge of all cotton-candy production—in the world, to hear him tell it. I thought I understood cotton candy’s lofty status among fair concessions, but evidently I didn’t. Randy behaved as though he were the self-appointed South Carolina State Commissioner of Cotton Candy. He claimed that at a glance he could assess whether the proper sugar and the right spinning method were being used. I hoped my wide-eyed looks of dismay when he went on and on about the sweet treat weren’t rude. I tried to control them, but it wasn’t easy. How could anyone have so much to say about cotton candy?
And even when he was sitting, he seemed to be in constant motion; he tapped his fingers, he swung his legs, he snapped his neck, et cetera. I wondered if he was able to be still when he was asleep. He made me jittery and had already accidentally kicked my ankle three times. He’d apologized and I’d said it was no big deal, but I’d swung my legs over in the other direction and now they kept running into Scott’s. I think he’d figured out the problem, though, and didn’t seem to mind my effort to avoid being bruised.
I was again pleasantly surprised at how Scott and I could actually communicate and be in each other’s company without a hint of animosity or attraction. It was as if we’d forgotten all the stuff that had brought us together and all the stuff that had torn us apart, and we could function as two people who were comfortable with one another.
I supposed that if we’d had kids it would be a different story, but the years since our marriage ended had matured and mellowed us both, and we were able to find a familiar civility.
“Dianna, any cards?” Scott asked.
Dianna bit at her lip as she looked over her cards. I’d already figured out that she did this when she had a good hand. She was either going to stay put or ask for one card, I was sure.
“Nah, I’m good,” she said.
I smiled to myself, but I also knew I was no different than the others around the table. I couldn’t maintain a poker face either; I sat up straighter and breathed out of my nose when I had a good hand and slouched and breathed out of my mouth when I had a bad one. Scott had informed me of this years ago, when we used to play five-card draw fairly regularly. I’d caught myself falling into the same habits this evening. I’d also caught him looking at me with a familiar grimace. I ignored it because, despite the complete and total lack of poker-playing ability we all seemed to have, I was having fun.
It had been a long time since I’d done something unpredictable, like play poker on a Saturday night. I didn’t have a big need to shake up my routine, but tonight was enjoyably different, and it would satisfy any wild urges I might have for quite a while. I did note to myself that my definition of “wild urges” had changed over the years. This was a mellow group, and I was grateful for that. Rowdy didn’t work anymore, not that it ever had, but I used to have a little more patience for rowdy.
“Randy, cards?” Scott said.
“Oh, man, I’m just not sure,” he said as he tapped at his high cheekbone with his finger. “Shoot, well, give me three.”
“Three it is.” Scott dealt the cards. “Becca?”
“I’m good,” I said as I sat up straight and breathed deeply out of my nose.
Scott shook his head slightly. “Alrighty then, dealer takes one.”
We all shifted somewhat as we looked at our cards. I had a full house with three kings and two aces. How could anyone possibly beat that?
“I’ll raise by five licorice pieces,” Ward said. Randy whistled an impressed tone.
We all “saw” his bet but didn’t raise him. Yeah, I was not good at poker and didn’t like to “raise” because I thought that gave me away more than my straight posture and nose breathing. I know, I know.
But, to be honest, I wasn’t necessarily there for the cards anyway. As fun as it was to do something spontaneous, I’d kept my commitment to play the game to try to find out more about Virgil Morrison, Orderville, South Carolina, Jena Bellings, and gypsy magic. I decided it wouldn’t hurt if I could figure out what Scott was up to, too, but so far the only new information I’d gleaned was that he seemed to be more friendly with this group of strangers than I would expect for someone who’d only recently met them.
However, that might not mean much of anything. Scott had excellent “bonding” skills and could seem like your best friend only a few minutes after you met him. He was no longer shaken up about finding Virgil’s body, but that might not mean anything either. “Resilient” was an understatement when describing Scott, though I used to think he was more about denial than resiliency.
And that experience of finding Virgil’s body could be the reason he had bonded so quickly with these people. Perhaps he’d sought out shoulders to cry on, and perhaps this was a willing group of shoulders.
Virgil’s death, his murder, was, by itself, a horrible occurrence, but I felt more than just a general sadness. I felt robbed of a potential friendship. I never expected Virgil and I would become the best of buddies, but I was sure, for some reason that I’d never understand or now get to explore, we’d made a connection. He might never have moved beyond gruff, and I might never have found the courage to trust the Ferris wheel he manned, but that connection had been there, that click that you just sometimes feel but can’t explain. I wanted to know more about him.
“Full house, aces high,” I said as I put down my cards.
My gleeful tone was met with good-natured grumbles and Scott saying, “You didn’t raise on that hand? You haven’t changed a bit, Becs.”
“Changed a bit? You two know each other?” Dianna asked, her voice friendly. For the moment.
“Yeah, we were married. I was her second marriage. We got along for a while, but it wasn’t destined to last. I was immature and Becca was more of a grown-up.”
I looked at Scott, and so did everyone else. He’d summed up our time together so succinctly, I wasn’t sure if I was offended or proud. He looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and laughed.
“Sorry, if that sounded . . . well, like it was no big deal,” Scott said. “It was a long time ago. Becca’s moved on and I’m remarried with a stepson.”
“You’ve been divorced twice?” Dianna said. Her tone had swung to critical.
“Yes,” I said. There’d been a time when I would have attempted to explain that I’d been young and had made poor choices, but I didn’t do that any longer. What did it matter? Besides, if I’d said as much tonight, I’d offend both my exes, the second one in person. It just wasn’t necessary.
“Kids?” Dianna asked.
“Nope.”
I smiled at her. She smiled back, tentatively.
“Can I ask everyone a question?” I said.
No one said no, so I continued. “Did anyone know Virgil well?�
�
It was a good thing my eyes were on my companions and not on the hand of cards Scott had just dealt. Before anyone spoke, the group exchanged looks, looks I thought might be important to notice and remember.
Ward peered across the table at Randy, who was scratching at his elbow. At first, he didn’t notice Ward’s glance, but when he did he stopped scratching and froze for an instant, his eyebrows high in question. He pulled his eyes away from Ward’s a short second later and went back to scratching his elbow. I thought Ward rolled his own eyes, but I couldn’t be sure.
Dianna, much less concerned about being obvious, rammed her elbow into Randy’s side. He said, “Ow! What’s that about?” Dianna shook her head as if to tell him to keep quiet.
“What’s up, Randy?” Scott asked.
“Aw, hell, Dianna, I didn’t kill him, you didn’t kill him, what was that about?” Randy said.
“You just need to keep your mouth shut,” she said.
“About what?” I said. “Something about Virgil?”
Scott reached under the table. It would probably have been weird for him to put his hand on my leg to keep me from pressing them for more information like Ian had done once or twice, but he did lightly tap my knee as if to relay the same sort of message.
It didn’t work. “What’s up?” I pressed forward.
“Dianna dated Virgil,” Ward said. “She broke up with him two weeks ago. For some reason she thinks everyone will think that she’s somehow connected to his murder because she broke his heart, which is not entirely true. As you can see, none of us are teenagers; they were friends who went out to dinner, but it never turned serious. She hasn’t told the police yet, so she doesn’t want anyone to know.”
I suddenly felt sorry for Dianna. She wasn’t young, that was true, but what did that matter? And maybe her moods were unpredictable, but one of her supposed “friends” just threw her under the bus. I’d liked Ward up until that moment.
“Breakups aren’t easy,” I said as I smiled at Dianna, who grimaced at me. “I’m sorry if it was painful.”
A Killer Maize Page 9