I was tempted to say something quick and reassuring and head back to work, but the slump of his shoulders made me perch on a very lumpy chair. “I can’t ask you if you painted the school, but I saw your notebook. Why’d you throw it away?”
His face flushed. “I didn’t! I haven’t seen it since I left it at Myrtle’s.”
“Nonsense. I saw you all come back for it. Smitty drew our attention while you and Willie picked up the notebook.”
He hung his head. “We didn’t get it. Somebody else already took it.”
“That won’t wash,” I told him flatly. “I was there.”
“You didn’t see me get that notebook,” he persisted stubbornly.
We weren’t getting anywhere, so I changed direction. “You’re a real good artist. Do you know that?” All I got was another shrug. “Ridd says your art teacher thinks you could become a professional if you want to.”
A glint of something like pride flickered in his eyes, but it quickly died. “I’d have to go to college. I ain’t got the grades or the money.”
“You’re not dumb,” I reminded him. “You used to make all A’s. You showed me your report cards, remember?” He used to come stumbling in, hardly able to get inside before waving them at Joe Riddley and me.
He flushed again, probably embarrassed I’d brought that up. Boys hate to be reminded of their childhoods. “High school’s real hard.”
“How about if I make you a deal?” He slewed his eyes my way, but he didn’t say a word. “Since it’s a first offense without weapons or danger to yourself or others, they’ll probably just make you work around the school a few hours. Someday soon, I want you to come to my office and we’ll talk to Joe Riddley. Maybe we can give you a job after school this next year and help you bring up your grades—even help you figure out a way to go to art school. If that’s what you want,” I added hastily. I wouldn’t worry right then how we’d hire somebody else if the superstore took a chunk of our business.
“That’d be all right.” Knowing teenage boys, I translated that into ecstatic acceptance.
“The only stipulation will be that you stop hanging around Smitty. He’s poison and we both know it. If he was part of that mess over at the school, you tell the judge. You hear me?”
Tyrone pulled away as if I’d prodded him with an electric rod. “Smitty’s okay.” He didn’t look at me when he said it, though.
“He’s not okay, and it’s not okay for you guys to keep protecting him. He’s using you. Can’t you see that?”
He looked over his shoulder at the kids playing cards. “Smitty’s okay. He wasn’t there.” He spoke louder than he had before. I saw one of the cardsharps look our way, a boy with a hard face and smoldering eyes. His gaze flicked Tyrone like a whip, then returned to his cards.
I leaned closer. “One of his friends? You still need to talk, Tyrone. Somebody’s got to. If they don’t, this will go on for years and years. Believe me, I know. It takes courage, but—”
“You don’t know jack.” He gave the card table another quick, nervous look. One foot drummed the floor. I could tell he was wishing I’d pack up and leave.
I stood. “I know more than you think. Do you need anything?” He shook his head. “Maybe another notebook and a pen?” His nod was almost imperceptible, but I patted his shoulder. “You got it. I’ll bring them by on my way home tonight. Hang in there.”
I was halfway across the room before I heard one hoarse word behind me. “Thanks.”
That June was cooler than usual, so the gnats weren’t too bad. Hopemore lies south of the Georgia gnat line, so we spend a lot of summer evenings fanning away those vicious little no-see-ums. As Joe Riddley and I climbed into bed that night, the sweetness of new crops and fresh-mown grass floated in our open windows and our sheets smelled like sunshine and fresh air.
“Tell me something from a man’s point of view,” I asked before Joe Riddley could fall asleep. “What would make a big, strong boy like Tyrone scared of a weasel like Smitty?”
“Smitty either has something on him—something Tyrone is scared people will find out—or he’s threatened somebody Tyrone cares about. His mother, maybe. You think Tyrone’s scared?”
“I don’t know. But I do know Tyrone is sitting in juvey right now lying for Smitty. We’ve got to do something before Smitty takes over this town. If he’s this bad at seventeen, what will he be like at thirty?”
“Dead. That sort don’t live to see their grandchildren. But let’s think about it tomorrow.” He turned over and faked a snore. Poor thing, he didn’t have the energy or the stamina he’d had before he got shot.
I wasn’t the least bit sleepy, though. “I sure am sorry for folks who never open their windows or hang out their clothes.” If I could get him to talk a little, maybe I’d get sleepy, too. “They sure miss a lot of good smells.”
He turned back over. “You want good? I’ll show you good.” He held out one arm and I rolled happily toward him. Forget what I said about his stamina.
12
Saturday morning, Joe Riddley got up before seven, banging around getting ready for our church’s monthly men’s prayer breakfast. He hates to get up any day, and when he has to be somewhere early on a Saturday, he wants the world to give him credit. I was wide-awake by the time he left, so I figured I might as well go down and eat.
I was enjoying my second cup of coffee, feeding scraps of toast to Lulu while Bo ate on his own place mat, when I heard a car turn in. In a minute, Ronnie carried in an overflowing laundry basket. Clarinda puffed in behind him with another.
“More laundry with this boy at home,” she complained. “I’d have done it yesterday, like usual, but I went from here to a Sisterhood meeting and didn’t want my underwear on display if somebody went in my trunk.” She’s real sensitive about anybody seeing her underwear. If my bras were that size, I’d wave them from the housetop.
While she put a load in the washer, I fetched Ronnie some coffee. “Did you and Yasheika get everything sorted out? I heard she was upset with you on Wednesday.”
He stirred sugar in his coffee with a wry grin.“So what’s new? That woman was born under an upsetting star. She came down here yelling that I couldn’t work for a white man who put her daddy in jail. I didn’t know her daddy. If he’s anything like her, maybe he deserved to go—whoever sent him.” He stopped and peered into his coffee like he’d lost something precious at the bottom. I knew we were both thinking of his own daddy right then. “But she drove off in a manner guaranteed to get her arrested, killed, or both, and I knew that either would upset DeWayne, so I went after her and at least got her calmed down enough to admit it’s none of her business who I work for. Did you know her daddy?”
I was surprised at that sudden twist in the conversation.. “Yeah. He was convicted of killing a little girl, Buddy’s best friend.” I was filling him in on the story when Clarinda came back.
“You talking about Gerrick Lawton? What’s got you on to him all of a sudden?”
“DeWayne and Yasheika are his children.”
“Lordy!” She breathed out the word like her lungs were collapsing, and her legs must have collapsed at the same time, because she dropped heavily into a chair. As I told Ronnie the story, she kept up a constant stream of “Lordy, lordy, lordy”—the Clarinda Standard Version of what the Bible calls “prayers too deep for words.” When I finished, she pooched out her lips like she does when she’s thinking hard. “That girl was the little one with all those braids Janey used to keep?”
I nodded.
“Lordy!” She added to Ronnie, in a normal voice, “you ’n’ her used to play real good.”
“I got smart since then.” He stood. “I’ve also got things to do. When do you want me to come back for you?” Before she could answer, his cell phone rang. “Hey!” he said as soon as he heard a voice. Then he gave a sharp cry of disbelief. “Did you call the police? Okay, you call them and I’ll get over there.” Wherever he was going, he didn’t sound
real thrilled.
He hung up and headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, “Got to go. I’ll call you in a little while.”
Clarinda and I collided, trying to follow him out the back door at the same time. “What’s the matter?” we called in unison. We truly have been together too long.
He was already getting in his car. “That was DeWayne on his cell phone. Somebody’s painted up his house. He saw it as he was leaving for school. He has a meeting and has to get ready for Monday, so he can’t stay, but he’s calling the police and he wants me to go stay with Yasheika until the police get there.” He backed down the driveway and spurted gravel as he roared toward the highway.
Clarinda hurried inside, grabbed my pocketbook and thrust it at me. “Go after him. He don’t know the first thing about dealing with somethin’ like that. And you know how they fight. That girl could kill him before he tells her why he’s there.”
I am so used to following her orders, I was at the highway before I remembered I don’t know the first thing about dealing with “something like that,” either.
I called Ridd on the way, to get directions. Naturally, he wanted to know why I needed them and was as appalled as the rest of us, by the news. “I’ll come as soon as I can,” he promised.
DeWayne was renting a pretty yellow house with two tall poplars, lots of azaleas, and mounds of red, coral, pink, and white impatiens along the walk. The house wasn’t pretty right then, though. Nasty red and blue words were sprayed all over the front, interspersed with swastikas. Yasheika and Ronnie stood on the narrow concrete porch, arguing. The way they both waved their arms, it looked any minute now one of them would take off and fly. I sure wished they got along better. It would make DeWayne’s life a lot simpler, for one thing. However, I wasn’t there to make peace, I was there to—what? I had no idea what Clarinda thought I could do, but I’d better climb out of the car and start doing it.
Chief Charlie Muggins’s supercruiser wailed in behind me as I opened my door. I saw curtains twitch up and down the street, but nobody came out. I figured the neighbors didn’t want any more contact with the police than necessary. Given some of Charlie’s biases, they were wise.
“Mornin’, Judge.” Chief Muggins tipped his hat just enough for me to see the gleam of his yellow hair, then swaggered ahead of me up the walk. “You folks got some trouble?”
Yasheika was mad enough to cry. “I’ve got some trouble.” She glared at Ronnie to make sure he didn’t claim a share. “Look at this mess.” She stepped aside and I saw the worst of all: four bloodred words sprawled on the door’s white face: Leave town or die!
I felt just sick. Hopemore needed DeWayne and Yasheika a lot more than we needed whoever had made that mess.
“It had to have happened after one.” Her eyes flickered with a fear I could identify with. I’d have been terrified to know I’d been sleeping inside while somebody sprayed that much hate all around me. “DeWayne and I went to Augusta after ball practice. It was one when we got back, and the house was all right then.”
Chief Muggins glanced at the door and scanned the rest of the house, looking about as concerned as if he’d been called out to inspect the gutters. “You didn’t hear anything?”
“No, sir. We went straight to bed. Our bedrooms are at the back and we have window air conditioners that make a lot of noise. I’ve told DeWayne a dozen times to get a dog, but he says they’re too much trouble.”
Chief Muggins hitched up his pants and looked around. “Where is he?” He’d always rather deal with a man than a woman.
The way her lip curled, Yasheika knew that already. “He left before I got up. Summer school starts Monday, and with all the ball practices, he’s late getting ready. He didn’t wake me, but he didn’t need to go calling Ronnie, either.”
“He was worried about you.” Ronnie turned away, but I saw how scared his eyes were, too. He’d grown up in Hopemore and had never seen anything like this. What was this epidemic in our little town? And what must it be like for Yasheika and Ronnie, knowing somebody out there hated them so much for nothing but the color of their skin? I literally could not imagine. But I sure could worry. It might be Clarinda’s house next, or Isaac’s. I took a few deep breaths to calm my stomach.
Chief Muggins touched the door gingerly, but the paint was dry. “Tyrone Noland got out of YDC yesterday. We’ll talk to him. You keep watch tonight to see if they come back.” He turned on his heel and nearly knocked me down in his hurry to get back to his car.
“That’s all?” Yasheika yelled in disbelief. “You aren’t going to check for fingerprints or look for footprints or anything?” He climbed in and drove away like her voice was a puff of wind.
“Welcome to Georgia.” Ronnie took Yasheika’s elbow. “You can’t stay here. Grandmama is down at Miss Mac’s. I’ll take you there, then come back and start painting.”
She jerked away from his grasp. “I can paint as well as you, if that’s what’s called for, but I think the landlord ought to be notified first.”
I ignored their squabbles and reached for my cell phone. “Chief Muggins doesn’t represent all of Georgia, and you both know it,” I said angrily. In a minute I had Isaac on the line.
“I can’t go over the chief’s head,” he protested when I explained.
“Tell him you heard the newspaper is coming over. You just did, because I’m about to call them. A couple of deputies investigating would make a better picture for next week’s paper than an angry young woman complaining that the police didn’t do a thing.”
The police arrived just ahead of the reporter, and I was glad to see they immediately strung yellow plastic tape and took the crime scene seriously.
Ridd pulled in behind them and surveyed the damage with disgust. “Is there anything I can do here?”
Yasheika looked at the deputies and at Ronnie, then shrugged. “Not that I can think of.”
“Is DeWayne still over at the school?” When she nodded, he climbed back in his car. “Then I’ll go see if he’s all right.”
“I’ll be right behind you.” I headed to my Nissan.
If you’re asking, as Chief Muggins eventually would, why I went with Ridd, I don’t know. But I couldn’t just go on to work as if nothing had happened.
Anybody who believes teachers work only during school hours doesn’t know a thing about teaching. In an hour or so, the high school would fill with teachers getting ready for summer school. That early, though, the faculty parking lot was empty except for DeWayne’s blue Honda and a white car belonging to school security. Only a few smears remained on the brick front to show where paint had been, but that caricature was permanently etched in my memory. It’s not easy to get rid of a picture of evil once you’ve seen it.
“We’ll have to go in the front door. That’s the only one they open on Saturdays,” Ridd said, and he headed off at a fast lope. My boys keep forgetting their legs outgrew mine.
I have never liked jogging, particularly after breakfast. As I thudded along after him, my whole body kept up a steady protest. I went in the door a minute after he did, panting so loud I was embarrassed to see Clint Hicks, the security guard, propped on the hind legs of a folding chair in the front hall. Ridd was already over at the faculty mailboxes, automatically pulling out a handful of fliers.
“Good morning, Clint,” I said, trying not to gasp.
Clint had graduated two years before with plans to join the Hopemore Police Department, in spite of a spectacularly unimpressive high-school career. I’d heard he had flunked his test and was currently working school security. The way he was propped in the chair cleaning his fingernails with a key, I could tell he didn’t consider it the career of his dreams. He grunted, but didn’t bother to look up. If we’d been burglars coming for the computers, I got the impression he’d have let us take them so long as we didn’t ask him to carry anything.
“You know where Mr. Evans is?” Ridd asked.
Clint’s fingernails required most of h
is attention, but he managed to jerk his head in the general direction of the math and science wing the school board had tacked on behind the gym a few years before. “Came in a little while ago and headed thataway.”
Ridd and I headed thataway, too.
That stale, empty school scent of chalk dust, sweaty children, musty books, and bathrooms was as thick as water as I ploughed through it. I could hear my breath coming short and fast. Up ahead, Ridd’s running shoes made a soft thud, thud, thud while my own square heels clattered and echoed on the hard tile floors. The effect was downright eerie, and the place seemed enormous without students. I wished Ridd would wait up for me. I got to the corner just in time to see him taking the shortcut through the gym. A broad band of sunlight lay across the hall where he’d at least left the door open for me.
He went around the edges of the floor like he was supposed to, but I was feeling obstreperous enough to walk straight across, defying the voices of long-dead gym teachers who shouted in my head, “Get off that floor in your street shoes!”
Maybe today’s gym teachers weren’t that strict. Somebody had left the end of a coil of yellow rope dangling across the floor.
I got to the back hall in time to see Ridd entering a room halfway down, calling, “DeWayne? DeWayne!” I could tell by the way his voice echoed that there wasn’t anybody there.
I followed him anyway, to a large classroom with wide black Formica lab tables and stools instead of student desks. I paused at the door, puzzled by the faint smell of smoke. Ridd, who is not always the most observant of people, was sniffing, too. “He must have been using the Bunsen burner. DeWayne? DeWayne!” He opened a connecting door to the next classroom and called again. “DeWayne?”
I followed my nose toward the front lab table, which ran crossways to the others. A pile of ashes still sent up faint spirals of smoke in the bottom of a metal wastebasket. On top was one small unburned piece of notebook paper with the letters ped still clear, in purple ink.
Who Let That Killer in the House? Page 10
