My own question was: How could anybody have drawn that caricature without getting caught? It must have taken time, and we had police cars patrolling the town all night.
I turned Bethany away. “I hadn’t imagined it was this bad, or I wouldn’t have brought you.”
Far back in the crowd somebody muttered, “No smoke without fire.”
Her head shot up, lashes damp and spiky. “That’s a lie. Anybody knows it who knows Coach Evans at all.”
To forestall a shouting match, I asked loudly, “How will they ever get the paint off?”
Other voices joined the chorus. “Have to paint the whole danged building.”
“That’ll cost a pretty penny.”
“And once you paint brick, you have to keep painting it.”
An approaching siren wailed a coda to our tune.
I hadn’t noticed Brandi’s mother until she spoke. “They could paint the front. In Chicago, a lot of houses have fancy bricks on the front and ordinary ones on the sides and back.” Everybody in the crowd turned to glare. Apparently Shana hadn’t learned that the fastest way to unite a southern crowd is to tell us a better way things are done up North.
Miffed at our lack of enthusiasm, she climbed into a red Volkswagen parked at the curb. As she drove away, the siren deafened us and a shiny new cruiser slid into her space.
Two weeks ago the Statesman had carried a feature about Police Chief Charlie Muggins’s new car. I doubted he’d get much call for most of the equipment he’d ordered, and as far as I knew, this was the first time he’d been able to use that fancy siren. He climbed out and swaggered my way. “Well, Judge,” he said with that leer that passes for a smile, “what have you been up to now?”
Charlie Muggins is one of my least favorite people, and the feeling is mutual. Thumbs in his belt, he looked me over like he suspected I was concealing spray paint in my pocketbook.
“This is dreadful,” I told him. “Do you have any idea who did it?”
He took off his cap and smoothed back his yellow hair for any camera that might be pointed his way. “Give me a minute. I just got here.” He sashayed off.
Bethany and I stayed a few minutes longer to watch officers look for clues, but nobody seemed to be finding any. “We need to get back, honey,” I finally told her.
“Could we go by Hollis’s on the way? She’s not here.”
Hollis’s house was not on our way. Our store is on West Oglethorpe, a block from the courthouse square.The Tanner Harem, as it is still called, is on East Oglethorpe, in the last of a string of lovely Victorian homes plus three antebellums General Sherman missed in his torchlight procession through town. Furthermore, it takes a while to drive those blocks in nice weather, because Oglethorpe is part of a federal highway and gawking tourists drive slow to admire those houses. Joe Riddley says we could speed up traffic through town by creating an alternative historical route with markers at a number of sites: General Sherman Burned Here.
Still, I turned my car, as Bethany and I had both known I would.
Few families these days are rich enough to afford the paint, lumber, and roofing shingles those big houses soak up, so most are law offices, antique stores, or realty companies. A few are subdivided into apartments. As I pulled into Sara Meg’s gravel drive and parked under one of the big oaks in her front yard, I saw that her house needed painting again. “You go in. I’ll wait in the car,” I told Bethany. While waiting, I sighed over former perennial beds, now a mass of weeds, and over scraggy camellias and azaleas near the porch. Overgrown ivy snaked up the hydrangeas near the steps and was working its way up one column. Even if Sara Meg didn’t have time to work in her yard, she could fill the concrete urns flanking her front steps with mounds of colorful impatiens. It might lift her spirits. But with the supestore coming, how long could she even afford to keep the house?
Hollis came to the door in shorts, holding car keys. Bethany poured out the story and Hollis sagged against the doorjamb, her head shaking from side to side in disbelief. Bethany threw me an anxious look. I let down my window. “Why don’t you take today off and go to the pool with Hollis?” I called.
I didn’t feel much like working, either. To make myself feel worse, I drove by the lot outside the city limits where bulldozers were leveling an enormous field. The new superstore would sit all by itself, surrounded by cotton and corn, but I knew that cotton and corn would soon be replaced by pizza parlors and video stores. I suspected Smitty and his boys had painted the school. Who else in town was mean, or arrogant enough to think they’d never get caught? But it occurred to me that Smitty and his band of young thugs were junior versions of the educated older thugs who are taking over the world field by field. Was it Teddy Roosevelt who said if you take a boy who steals rides on boxcars and give him an education, he’ll steal railroad companies?
Back at my desk, when I found myself writing the same check a second time, I reached for the phone. “Hey, Martha. Did you hear about that awful thing over at the high school?”
“Ridd called. It makes you sick, doesn’t it?”
“Makes me want to go eat chocolate pie. I heard that chocolate releases chemicals in our brain that cheer us up. You and Cricket got time to meet me at Myrtle’s?”
Martha’s chuckle warmed me all over. “Sure. Another study has shown that in times of stress, women should spend time with other women and children. That releases some chemicals, too. And if you walk over, the exercise will reduce you.”
I reached for my pocketbook. “Hooray for science, if all it takes to make me feel better today is a pretty walk, good company, and chocolate pie.”
9
Myrtle’s had a thriving breakfast crowd of widowers and men whose breakfast clause in their marriage contract expired when they retired. By the time I arrived, however, only two booths were occupied. The customer at a back booth was hidden by a newspaper. Smitty’s gang filled the corner booth, their heads in a huddle, squirming and sniggering like boys half their age.
Myrtle was sitting at a corner table having herself a cup of coffee, a half-full pot beside her.
“Get ready for a rush,” I warned her. “Did you hear what happened over at the school?” Whenever trouble strikes Hopemore, folks naturally gravitate to Myrtle’s.
She hadn’t heard, so I sat down across from her and filled her in. “Somebody painted up the school real bad last night. Nasty things I won’t repeat—”
A shout of laughter made us both turn toward the corner booth. “Ignore them,” Myrtle begged in a low voice. “If that Smitty gets riled, he can be mean as a copperhead.”
“So can I,” I assured her, “but I won’t today. I’m going to take the next booth, though, to see if I can hear what they’re talking about. I wouldn’t be surprised if they painted the school.”
“You want your usual?”
“Not yet. Martha and Cricket are joining me in a few minutes.”
She nodded. “Two chocolate pies and a chocolate ice cream with a place mat and crayons. I’ll bring it when they get here.” Myrtle knows her regulars.
When Smitty saw me moseying their way, he made a chopping signal. His friends lounged back like young collegiates enjoying summer vacation. I’d have ignored them, but a spiral of smoke rose from the back of their circle, so I detoured in their direction. “No smoking in here.”
Smitty’s chin might sprout only a few yellow hairs, but his eyes were insolent and older than mine. “We ain’t smoking.”
“We may not be, but one of you certainly is.” My eyes roved around the table and stopped at Willie Keller, known as Wet Willie because his eyes were always red and watery. Willie had the biggest ears I’d ever seen on a child, but he seldom heard a thing unless you said it twice. “Willie? Willie! Put out that cigarette. Do you hear me? I said, put out that cigarette.”
“I ain’t got—” He got that far before he glanced up and met my eye.
I saw his right shoulder tense. “Don’t you drop it on the floor. Put it out in
your glass. Now! In the glass!” I didn’t raise two sons for nothing. Reluctantly his grubby hand crept from beneath the table. A lit cigarette sizzled as it hit the ice, then sputtered out.
Smitty slid out of the booth and jerked his head. “We got places to go and people to annoy. Let’s head out.” The others scrambled to follow, displaying the combined intelligence and manners of cows spying an open gate.
Only Tyrone muttered, as he passed, “Hey, Judge.” He turned slightly away, but I’d seen what he was trying to hide: a smear of blue paint on his jacket. He saw that I’d seen it and gave me an anxious look over one shoulder as he followed Smitty as fast as a big kid can scurry.
Halfway to the door, Smitty turned. “What’s that you were saying, Judge? Somebody painted the school? Imagine that. Must be real purty.” He drawled the word like a television cowboy. “Come on, fellas. We oughtta take a stroll and have a look.” He sauntered past the cash register and out the door like his daddy owned the place. Nobody paid. Myrtle didn’t mention it.
“Thanks, Judge, for clearing out the vermin,” Buddy Tanner said, lowering the Wall Street Journal.
“Glad to do it. Wish we could make it permanent. Did Ronnie start work today?”
“He sure did. I vacated the premises to let him learn the ropes from the guy he’s replacing.” Buddy gave me a genial nod and returned to his paper. I would have asked him to join Martha and me, but he didn’t look like he wanted company.
Smitty or one of his friends had left a green spiral notebook on the seat of the booth. I leaned over and used a paper napkin to flip the pages. It contained a number of caricatures of teachers at school, all done in purple ink. I recognized Ridd, his bald head elongated and his hair in tufts like a mad scientist’s, writing elaborate formulas all over a blackboard. Another showed Hollis sliding into second base, hair streaming behind her. With only a few lines, the artist had caught every expression of her body.
Then I froze. After Hollis, the next two pages were covered with pictures of DeWayne: a king with a crown, a chemist blown up by his own explosion, a lecher leering at a white girl. The rest of the notebook—five sheets—was empty.
I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the number for Assistant Police Chief Isaac James. Isaac would have been police chief of Hopemore if life were fair and our enlightened city fathers had been willing several years before to promote a competent local black man instead of importing an incompetent white one. Joe Riddley and I like and respect Ike, and the feeling seems to be mutual. When I explained what I’d found and where, he was instantly alert. “Leave it in place, and don’t let Myrtle sit anybody else in that booth. I’m on my way.”
“I’ll be in the next booth,” I promised. “Oh, and Ike—Tyrone Noland’s jacket has blue paint on it. You might try to find him before he gets rid of it. He left Myrtle’s a minute ago.”
“Thanks, Judge. We’ll pick him up.”
I slid into the next booth along the side wall. I couldn’t see the notebook—it was on the part of the bench with its back to me—but I could keep an eye on the booth and the front door.
A few more people straggled in. When Myrtle got in speaking distance, I motioned her over and said, “Don’t sit anybody in that corner booth. Isaac James is coming to get the green notebook that’s there, and he’ll want you to tell him who was sitting there when it was left.”
She scowled. “I don’t want trouble with those boys. They’ll slash my tires, break my windows—who knows what else?”
“You mustn’t let them terrorize you,” I reproached her.
She hefted her coffeepot. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Judge, they already have.”
Cricket spoke from under her elbow. “What’s terrorize?”
“Scare you,” I explained briefly as she moved away. “You want the outside or the inside?”
“Outside.” He climbed up beside me and heaved an enormous sigh as he settled himself on the bench. “It’s sure hot out there. Can I go swim in your pool?”
I took my cue from Martha, who was shaking her head. “Not today, honey. Oh, look, there’s Garnet.” Cricket brightened.
Art Franklin was ushering her in, his eyes almost as bright as Cricket’s. Garnet’s looked anxious. Furtive, even. She wore a drab brown skirt with a long-sleeved cream top and had a book bag slung over one shoulder, so I figured she was going to or coming from class.
“Have a seat anywhere. I’ll bring you a Coke,” we heard Art say, “but I have to clock in and put on my apron.” He hurried toward the kitchen door.
“Garnet, come sit with us,” Cricket called.
She turned in our direction, but I heard the rustle of Buddy’s paper behind me. “Garnet?”
She froze as solid as Myrtle’s fresh fish.
“Come here.” His voice was stern. Garnet headed his way with dragging feet. I heard him say in a low voice, “Hollis said she was driving you to class and picking you up.”
I could hear only snatches without looking over my shoulder. “ . . . first week . . . out early . . . drove me back.” Finally, clearly, “I was going to call Hollis, to tell her not to come.”
“Sit down.” He laid down his paper. “I’ll wait for you to drink your Coke, then take you home.” I heard her slide into the booth.
Cricket had knelt on our bench to watch all that. Now he turned around and plopped down, lower lip a shelf of disappointment. “I wanted her to sit with me.”
“She’s busy right now,” I consoled him.
Art bustled out the kitchen door, carrying our order plus a large Coke on a tray. When he saw where Garnet was sitting, he snatched up a coffeepot and headed for their table. My back was to them, of course, but Martha filled me in. “He’s filling Buddy’s cup like he’s offering a libation to the gods,” she said softly.
“Maybe he is. You think it’ll work?”
“Apparently not. Buddy’s still frowning. He’s going to have to realize pretty soon that those girls are growing up.”
Art hurried from their table to ours. After I’d thanked him for our pie, I added, “I don’t know if Myrtle has told you yet, but don’t let anybody sit in that corner booth until a policeman comes to get the notebook that’s there.”
He stepped toward the booth and glanced down. “Okay.” He hurried away.
As if my thoughts had conjured them, Smitty, Tyrone, and Willie sauntered through the door. Smitty looked our way, then led the other two toward the entrance to the bathroom hall, using a route that didn’t come anywhere near us or the corner booth.
“Watch them,” I ordered Martha. “Tell me if they start this way.”
A few seconds later, she reported, “Smitty’s come back out and is lounging in the archway leading to the rest rooms. The other two haven’t made an appearance.”
Cricket bent over his place mat and began to adorn his dogs and cats with fierce horns, big black eyes, and long marks from their paws. When I asked what the marks were, he muttered, “Swords, o’ course. To kill the bad guys.” Martha gave me a wry smile. Grown-ups who think children don’t know at least the mood of what is going on are only fooling themselves.
Myrtle and Art moved back and forth, refilling cups and setting down plates. We didn’t discuss the school at our table, but everybody else did. At each table, Myrtle performed her usual service of keeping everybody up with what the rest were saying.
“They found the ladder under the bleachers.”
“Paint cans were in the Dumpster, but nobody has said if they have fingerprints on ’em.”
“There’s a company in Augusta that thinks the paint will come off if they steam clean it within twenty-four hours.”
Martha and I motioned her to silence whenever she came near our booth, pointing to Little Big Ears. While we ate our pie and talked about their family’s plans for a week at the beach in July, I kept wondering what was keeping Ike.
I hadn’t heard Buddy and Garnet exchange a single word since she sat down. “Are Buddy and Garnet talkin
g?” I asked Martha softly.
Before she could answer, Cricket climbed onto his knees to peer over the bench. He leaned close to my ear and murmured, “He’s reading his paper and she’s reading a book and drinking her Coke.” He returned to his station, practically hanging over the booth, while his ice cream melted. In a few more minutes he reported, “Now he’s getting up and going to the bathroom. Hey, Garnet!” He waved.
“Turn around, sit down, and eat,” Martha ordered.
I signaled Art to refill my cup and made a face when I sipped it. “Tepid,” I grumbled.
Martha wasn’t paying me any attention. A worry pucker had appeared between her eyes. “Forget your manners, Mac, and turn around. Cricket, sit down and finish your ice cream.”
When Martha used that voice, everybody obeys. I turned and saw Smitty standing beside Garnet, arms akimbo and pelvis tilted forward. “What you reading?” he crooned.
When Garnet didn’t look up, he bent closer and asked again. This time he sprinkled the question with profanity. Martha slid from her bench. “Let’s go to the bathroom, Cricket. You’ve got ice cream on your face.”
He obediently slid out and followed her. He said, “Hello, Garnet,” as they passed her. Garnet waved but didn’t speak. Her eyes were glued to her book.
Smitty slapped both palms on the end of Garnet’s table and bent right over her ear. “Cat took your tongue when he left you alone?” He reached out and jerked her hair lightly. She lifted one shoulder and moved slightly toward the wall. Smitty sat down on the end of her bench. She cringed and moved farther away.
When Smitty started to put one arm around her shoulders, Art dashed over, carrying his coffeepot. “Leave her alone!”
Smitty looked up and sneered. “Says who?”
“Says me.” Poor Art looked stringy and weak beside Smitty’s biceps.
“Says who?” asked Smitty again.
“Ignore him,” Garnet begged, without looking up. “He’ll go away.”
Smitty leaned over close. “I’m never going very far. I’ll be real close to you all the time.” He reached over and stroked her cheek with the back of one forefinger.
Who Let That Killer in the House? Page 8
