by Tim Garvin
“You are entering a sensitive area.”
“Really?”
“Some think I should have undergone a longer stretch in patrol. My old commander hired me. Sheriff Rhodes.”
“But you passed the test.”
“A rigorous test which only the few may pass.” This landed flat. Jokes about ego were still ego. He said, “Forget I said that.”
“I’m sure it’s true. Are you going to catch my burglar?”
“I have my eye on a nest of criminals. They have to make a mistake.”
“Really? We have a nest of criminals in Swann County?”
“More than one. They work odd jobs, then do crime when they get lazy. Or too strung out.”
“Meth?”
“And heroin. And pills.”
“The opioid epidemic.”
“Yes.”
“So what mistake will they make?”
“They will pawn your pots or your scale.”
“I bet they can use the scale.”
“They probably already have one, which is why they took yours, because they recognized it.”
“So wait.”
“The alternative is to handcuff somebody to a tree for three days. They’ll pawn something eventually. They’ll say, damn, where’d all these pretty pots come from? I bet we could pawn them. Then I will arrest them, put them in the system, and effect reform.”
She made a smile and head cock. “Are you a cynic?”
“I am in my head. But not in my heart.”
“An optimistic cynic?”
“That’s right. You know something?”
“What?”
He had been relishing the quiet steadiness of her mind and wide green eyes. He urged to tell her and also not to. But he had started. He said, “You are good company.”
“Really?”
“So far.”
“Oh, no. Now I have to live up to myself.”
If they were a month into their friendship, he would have leaned to kiss her. She might evaporate though. Nothing true was rushed. He said, “So how did you become a potter?”
Also because of a stray college course, she said. She had been an English major for the love of books, but fear of the cold world after graduation built, and she loved pottery next and sensed money, so it became her minor, then her life.
He said, “I love your pots. First time I saw them was in Greenville at a craft fair. Then when Charlene took your class, I met you again. I looked you up on the web and saw all your awards.”
“Oh, yes. I must list them for all to see. Did you see me at the craft fair?”
“I bought four mugs from you. And when your burglary came in, I asked for the case. Had to bump another detective.”
“You rascal. But if you really cared, you’d tie someone to a tree.”
“If it’ll move things along, I will.”
They smiled, settling into it.
He said, “I like your pots. Lots of grace, mostly white, little marks of color to set off the space.”
She raised her eyebrows in appreciation. “Well, thanks.”
There was a pause, while both waited for a topic. She said, “The radio said there was a suspicious death last night,” then made a chuckley I’m-so-trite grimace, which, since that was her news, told him, first, that she didn’t disdain cops and, second, that she hadn’t heard about the helicopter crash. He had been uncomfortably aware that they were courting in the wake of a tragedy. That she did not know about it was an easement. That he had not mentioned it was an omission.
He said, “There was. Leo Sackler. The one who inherited the Ford place.”
“Oh, my God. I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Was he murdered?”
“I don’t know yet. Probably.”
“Is his daughter Virginia?”
“She is.”
“I know her. She took a class with me.”
“When was this?”
“Two years ago about. Are you the detective on the case?”
“Yes. I spent all night on the scene.”
“Then you had to come and meet me. You should have just called.”
“I slept a little in my car.”
“They said he was found hanging in a well.”
“He was, yes.”
“So that’s what you do.”
“I’m afraid it is.” He could tell the sandman riff now. But she was thinking about dead bodies, and horror. He said, “That part’s over, the death scene. It is awful. We don’t crack jokes. Much. Every time I see a dead body, I think, well, they didn’t expect that. Then there’s some guilt. I get to keep living.” He could tell her that he had died, that you don’t die, that nobody dies. She would be a perfect person to tell.
“That’s so true.”
“It can quiet you down. And I do let it.”
They exchanged smiles. The war could come back up, but neither invited it.
She said, “I bet it makes you want to sing ‘Danny Boy’ sometimes.”
He would think back on that comment, on her quiet empathy for this stranger, and know that was when need started toward love. He smiled. He said, “I sang ‘The Parting Glass’ this morning. Do you know it?”
“No. I’m sure it’s lovely.” She frowned an unspoken question.
“They had taken the body away. I was alone in the house.”
The waitress filled their coffees again, the third time.
Mia said, “We’ll have to stop talking and pee eventually.”
It was going well. That was in the air. They could be a couple.
She said, “Why the name Pass the Salt, by the way?”
“Well, we needed a name, and everybody was coming up with stuff. We got it down to Pass the Soul, Dude. Then Ahmad, who is our hip-hop enthusiast, said, no, man, Pass the Salt, Dawg. And we all said, damn, that’s it. Except we shortened it.”
“From hip-hop to ‘Danny Boy’ is quite a journey.”
“It is for Ahmad. He’s always bugging me to develop some rap stuff. He got shot in the throat. He can hum in tune, but his voice is fairly raspy. But we like good hummers. We take everybody.”
The mention of injury paused the conversation. In a moment, she said, “Your group was very enjoyable.”
“Good. Good. We work at it. It’s important to us.”
She reached across to touch his hand, as he had touched hers, with one finger. She said, “I won’t ask you about the war. And how you healed. Or thank you for your service or something, which I think must sound awful on some level. Kind of a box people tick off when they meet a soldier. We should have yurts and sponges.”
A joy laugh erupted from his chest. He laced the fingers of her hand, the one that had touched him, through his and held it between them, eye level, palm to palm. Then he laid the hand on the table, patted it to rest with two hands, and sat more erect. He was chagrined but careless. He wanted to lean forward, toward love, but refrained. He smiled. He said, “Do you sing, by the way?”
“Yes, I do. I can even harmonize.”
He almost said, I see you can, but then was glad he didn’t. Nothing true was rushed.
A Leaf as Big
as the Moon
He told his sister he had turned the leaf, so at breakfast she was revved. She threw in a smirk now and then to prove she wasn’t a pushover, but Cody could see that was just her tapping the brake on hope. It touched him and also wore him out.
First she went on about yoga. There was a yoga class starting up in a week at the Y. It was the stretching style of yoga, not the contortion style, and there was some kind of special breathing to it. One of her PTSD books had a chapter on yoga. Many had benefited from its ancient benefits.
Then she mentioned the Pass the Salt singers. So what if Seb Creek sent him to prison and brok
e her heart. He was a good guy, and the singers were always recruiting, and they were doing great important work, everybody said so. She hadn’t heard Cody sing for years and remembered him singing with their mom when he was little. They sang “Down in the Valley” and “Silent Night” so sweetly, did he recall that? A lot of the guys in Pass the Salt had been druggies or drunks, according to Seb, who always asked about Cody. And yes, Dad has joined the group, and here was her insight into that—you don’t have to forgive him or anything, but just to stand up in a group and be indifferent to him would be therapy. Think about that. Standing there and singing, giving yourself to singing, which is giving yourself back to life right there in the midst of the oppressive force of Dad, who by the way, told me not a week ago he is willing to forgive and forget. Doesn’t that sound like him, him thinking he’s got to forgive? He said he knows you hate him and doesn’t blame you, so that’s something. But, Cody, if you just hold those beatings in with hateful resentment and on top of that have PTSD and drug addiction, we know where that leads.
She made another smirk, a loving one. “I do not know if you have turned the leaf, sweetie. I wish I could get inside your heart and turn that leaf for you. I would heave that sucker right over, if it was big as the moon.”
He cut himself another nugget of scrambled eggs and scraped it onto his plate. Her energetic supplication had ended by forming a kind of invisible lap in the room, a love-lap which yearned and expected. He felt it as a burden. He must say something undisappointing. He said, “Well. I hear you. I hear that.” He forked eggs into his mouth. He nodded his head.
She said, “Boy, I have fixed you up, haven’t I? You have to admit, your big sister has just fixed your life.”
This was gay irony meant to let him off the hook. It went straight to his heart. A sob exploded, then a covering laugh. He sat bewildered.
She took her plate to the sink and stood for a moment watching the water erode the syrup into the drain. She said to the cupboards, to the world, “We will get this fixed, Cody. There is no doubt of that.”
Cody nodded. She had always been his ally. After their mother’s death when he was eight and she was twelve, she had comforted him. When the beatings began, she had comforted him. She meant him well. Her plans were good.
Except that he had stolen three Stinger missiles. Except that the hounds of justice would soon be snarling at the door.
Shining Man
On the way to Amboise, Seb spoke to Lieutenant Fernando on the phone. Virginia Rubins, née Sackler, had not wept during the death notification, Fernando said, and that morning had gone to work as usual at the Amboise town hall. It was Sunday, but the entire staff had reported to help with scanning the backlog of old files into the town’s new database.
Now, as Seb sat across from her over the gray government table in the documents room, he noted the skin beneath her eyes was smooth with cosmetics, either her custom or something to hide rings of sleeplessness. All through Seb’s report of her father’s end, she maintained a police-in-my-face stiffness. Her attitude might come from, one, I did it, and I best be careful, or two, they think I did it, and I best be careful. Either way, police, we keeping formal. Fernando, since there were only two chairs, stood behind him in a military at-ease posture, which didn’t help the mood.
Now Seb swiveled in his chair to halfway face Fernando, gave him a doubtful glance. He looked at Virginia and said, “This guy looks like he’s about to arrest us.”
That keyed the smirk from Virginia he wanted. He said to Fernando, “I got this, Jose. Give us an hour, say.” Then to Virginia, “Jose will give you a ride to make the identification, Ms. Rubins.”
Fernando touched his cap and said, “Again, Ms. Rubins, very sorry for your loss.” He gave Seb a light shoulder punch and said, “See you tonight, dawg.” He strode smoothly to the door, opened it, and closed it silently behind him.
Seb faced Virginia. He said, “If there was an all-round walking contest, that guy would win hands down. His father was a bullfighter, so I bet he got that walk from him.” This was not true, at least as far as Seb knew. The true thing was: establish rapport, get information, investigate the murder. Or whatever it was.
Virginia gave him a half smile, which said, charm away but don’t expect applause. She was in her midforties with a chunk of straight black hair side-swept and sprayed in place. She wore a blue dress and light-yellow sweater against the building’s air-conditioning. She was thin. She kept her hands laced and folded on the table, like a needful dam, either to hold the world out or her feelings in, which could burst through any time, right in front of this white man and embarrass her. Seb and Fernando had escorted her from the front receptionist’s desk to the document room, seated her, and Seb had softly repeated the sad, ambiguous tale of her father’s death, watching for signs. The only sign was: her mouth opened and her face set. Seb had checked records and made calls on the way to the interview and knew she had worked for the city of Amboise for sixteen years, had three children—two in grade school and one a high school freshman—had been separated from her husband for nine years, and had a younger brother in prison. He also knew she was only two years old when her dad went inside. So maybe she had finished her grieving. Or maybe it was ordinary black-citizen wariness. Or maybe she was a murderer. Except she couldn’t have hung him by herself.
“Ms. Rubins, you okay to talk? I’m trying to get a handle on this thing.”
“I’m okay. You can call me Virginia.”
“Okay. I’m Seb. The truth is I cannot tell if your father was killed in an accident, or if he was murdered, because of the way he was found. We’re pretty sure it’s not suicide anyway.”
Virginia nodded, waited.
“And frankly, there are indications at the scene which push me to think of murder. So if it was murder …”
“I expect you thinking who gets the money?”
“That’s a consideration.”
“I do, I expect. And my brother.”
“Have you seen your father’s will?”
“No. I doubt he had one. Mr. Person would know. My father had very little experience of life as you and I lead it.” Her head shook as if overtaken with a spasm. Her face worked. She said, “Don’t worry. I will do my crying in my own home.”
Seb let a moment pass. He said, “Had you been in contact with him since his release?”
“I picked him up at the prison. He stayed with me a few nights, and I took him shopping. Took him to his lawyer, Mr. Person. And the bank. Then I took him out to the lodge.”
“Is that Alex Person, the lawyer?”
“It is. He does work for Miss Jean here in Amboise. I gave my father his name. If you want to talk to him, he’s in his office over in Spartanville. He and my boss Miss Jean talking back and forth on these records.” She hesitated, then continued guardedly. “I have not spoken to him.”
“What did your father do at the bank?”
“No idea. He told me to come get him in an hour.”
“What happened at the lawyer’s?”
“I guess they discussed things. He came out with a folder of papers. And the keys to the lodge.”
“What papers?”
“He didn’t say. And gave off the idea that was his business. You got to consider my father lived in prison and was about a stranger to me. And I know he felt that too. We didn’t want to, but we had that to get over.”
“Do you know how much money is involved here?”
“Not exactly. Near five million though. I picked that much up. More with the stocks and that.”
“Why was he digging out the well?”
“He didn’t tell me. I didn’t know about that until yesterday morning.”
“He had it dug down fifteen feet. Had you been out to the lodge?”
“Last week Friday, but I didn’t see any well.”
“It was around t
he side.”
She paused, thought, decided something.
“Okay now, I’m going to tell you something. He said there was a man out to see him yesterday morning. He couldn’t see him for the sun because he was down in that well. I was fixing to tell you except you’d think I was making it up, since you’re suspecting me.”
Seb gave her a truth look. “I’m pretty much not suspecting you. Tell me about the man.”
“A man come to see him wanted a thousand dollars a month for security.”
“Extortion?”
“Most definite. I don’t know what he looked like and neither did my father because the man was in the sun.”
“You weren’t going to tell me about this?”
“I was looking for a spot.”
“This is the spot.”
“And I just did. He was a white man, up in the sun.”
“How tall? Or if he had a hat? Or an accent?”
“No idea.”
“What was your father going to do?”
“He was thinking about paying the man. It was twelve thousand a year, and he could live with that, if it bought security. He didn’t know that neighborhood anymore.” She paused, pouted her lips. “I was going to tell the lieutenant last night, but I was scared to.”
“That we would think you were deflecting?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t think that. It’s a good lead.”
“You know who it was?”
“I might. Now then, can you talk to me about the past? About why he went to jail?”
“You just a blank on the history?”
“I skimmed a few articles in the newspaper, but pretty much.”
She said, “I wish I still smoked cigarettes. Either a shot of whiskey right about now.”
“You want to go get one?”
“No. Miss Jean would think you were arresting me.” She took a long breath. “My daddy was the son of Granger and Semolina Sackler, both dead now and with the Lord, most definite.” Her face worked. She waited, then went on. “Now, Granger was an oysterman, and he took Semolina off her daddy’s tobacco farm. One of my intentions is to have my DNA tested and see about our family. I do so want to know. And I will one day, no doubt.” Her mood had softened with memory. Seb nodded and waited. The information door was opening.
