Saving CeeCee Honeycutt

by Beth Hoffman

  “What are they?” I asked.

  She held the jar to the moonlight. “Slugs. They’re such bad, bad boys—the silent destroyers of my garden. Though I must admit they’re rather pretty in a slimy, prehistoric way. After I water my gardens they come out in droves, but I’ve outsmarted them,” she said with a throaty laugh. “I come out here and scoop them up; then they go for a nice little trip.”

  I’d seen a slug or two in Mrs. Odell’s tomato patch, but never had I seen anything as big as the ones Miz Goodpepper had collected. “What do you do with them?”

  “Follow me,” she commanded, plunging into the shadows.

  We walked to the edge of the property, to the exact place where the murdered magnolia tree had once stood. Miz Goodpepper gathered the length of her caftan and stepped on the stump. Her lips formed a devilish smile when she shook one of the slugs onto the end of the pancake flipper. She held out the jar and said, “Will you hold this for a minute?”

  I wrinkled my nose but did as she asked.

  With her right hand she held the handle and with her left she pulled back the top like a slingshot and said, “Enjoy the ride.” She let go and the slug catapulted through the air and disappeared into the darkness of Miz Hobbs’s backyard.

  Though I didn’t much care for the creatures, I thought it was cruel to hurl them through the air like that. Plus, it was the exact opposite of all the things Miz Goodpepper had told me when we first met, and I couldn’t stop myself from saying so. “Miz Goodpepper, you said killing anything was wrong. You said it would bring lots of bad karma. So why are you killing the slugs?”

  She let out a low, haunting laugh. “Oh, I’m not killing them. I’m just sending them on a little ride. Slugs like to fly. They look forward to this—it’s their only sport.”

  Their only sport?

  I stood, stupefied, and watched her catapult the slugs, one by one, over the hedge. When the jar was empty she stepped down from the stump with a satisfied smile. “Well, with any luck those slugs will eat half of that evil witch’s garden before morning.”

  A squeak sounded and I turned to see Miz Hobbs push open her screen door and step out onto the back porch. She struck a match and lit a row of candles that were lined up on the railing. Miz Goodpepper motioned for me to duck, and we crouched down low and peered through an opening in the hedge. She poked my ribs with her elbow and whispered, “Look at that outfit.”

  Miz Hobbs was wearing a yellow see-through robe with its hem and sleeves trimmed in white feathers. Backlit by the glow of the candles, I could see she was naked underneath, and I mean totally naked.

  Miz Goodpepper whispered, “Isn’t she ridiculous? She looks like the centerfold in a poultry catalog.”

  Just then a man’s voice boomed through the air, “You’re a wild one, Violene.”

  Miz Hobbs turned around and giggled as a short, pudgy man stepped onto the porch. It wasn’t the baggy white underpants that left me wide-eyed. It was the black, Zorro-like mask. Dangling from his fingers was a brassiere. I could hardly believe my eyes when he began twirling it over his head like a lasso.

  “C’mon, Violene, shake it for Big Daddy,” he whooped, spinning the bra faster and faster. “Do that little striptease again.”

  “Stop that, Earl.” She giggled, reaching for the spinning brassiere, but he snatched it from her fingers and sent it hurling it into the shrubs. Miz Hobbs let out a scream. “Now, you go get that.”

  “I’m gonna get this instead,” he said, grabbing her butt.

  She slapped his hand and stepped away. That’s when I noticed her feet. They were crammed into high-heeled shoes that had feathery pom-poms on the toes.

  “C’mon, honey, do that striptease again.” Earl begged, reaching out and grabbing her breasts. Miz Hobbs squealed and her high-heeled shoes clacked across the wooden floorboards as she ran to the other side of the porch.

  “You’re a naughty boy, Earl,” she called from behind the porch swing. “If you don’t behave I might have to spank you.”

  “Ohhhhhh, baby, you sure are frisky tonight.”

  I thought Miz Goodpepper might choke when she elbowed my side and whispered, “That masked man is Earl Jenkins. He’s a policeman and he’s married. Just look at him. I’ve always said he was only one step above a bait-shop dealer.”

  I didn’t know what that meant, but Miz Goodpepper thought it was so funny, she buried her face in her hands.

  Earl began chasing Miz Hobbs around the porch. “Now, you leave me alone,” she shrieked, running down the porch steps. But her feet flew straight out in front of her, and in a flash of feathers she was airborne. She landed at the bottom of the steps with a sickening thump.

  The man’s laughter died in the night air, and his belly jiggled like a bowl of Jell-O when he ran down the steps. “Violene? Are you all right? Awwww, shit,” he said, pulling the mask from his face and kneeling by her side. “C’mon, Violene, stop kidding around.”

  Earl patted Miz Hobbs’s cheeks and called her name, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t wake her. He sputtered a few words I couldn’t quite hear, then he ran up the steps and into the house, returning a few minutes later dressed in his police uniform.

  Miz Goodpepper pushed aside a branch of the hedge so she could see more clearly. “Earl’s such an ignorant whore-hound,” she murmured. “I wonder how he’s going to get himself out of this.”

  “Violene?” he said, leaning down beside her lifeless body, “Aww, man, you’re bleeding—you’ve gone and busted your head open. I called an ambulance, but dammit, don’t you tell anybody we were together tonight. I’m gonna say I found you like this. Okay? Violene—can you hear me?”

  A siren screamed in the distance. It grew louder and louder, and a minute later two policemen rushed into Miz Hobbs’s backyard. “What happened?” one of them asked.

  Earl gave an innocent shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t have any idea. I was just doing my nightly rounds as usual, checking on the neighborhood. I was heading back to my car when I glanced over the hedge and saw her lying here. Looks like she might have tripped and taken a bad fall down those steps. I tried to wake her up, but she’s out cold.”

  Miz Goodpepper pulled a rosebud from the bush, held it to her nose, and smiled like Mona Lisa.

  One of the policemen turned on his flashlight, bent down, and took a closer look at Miz Hobbs. “Yeah, her head’s cracked open, she’s bleeding pretty good. But what the hell was going on here? She’s almost naked. What was she doing out here wearing that getup? Will you look at all those feathers. She looks like a half-plucked chicken.” He moved the beam down to her feet and stopped. “Well, Jesus jumpin’ Christ. Look right there—there’s your perpetrator. That’s a smashed slug on the bottom of her shoe.”

  Miz Goodpepper and I exchanged a wide-eyed sideways glance.

  “A slug?” the other officer said. “Are you sure?”

  “Hell, yeah, I’m sure. Look for yourself.”

  Earl piped in, “Will ya look at the size of that thing. Slugs are slippery little shits. She must have stepped on it and had her feet go clean out from under her.”

  All the policemen knelt to have a closer look at the squashed slug. “Eww, that was a juicy one,” one of them said.

  Earl wiped his hand across his face. “Yeah, yeah, I bet that’s exactly what happened.”

  Miz Goodpepper’s eyes gleamed triumphantly. Unable to contain her laughter, she let out a snort. Quickly she slapped her hand over her mouth.

  One of the policemen stood up. “Did you hear that?”

  “What? I didn’t hear anything,” Earl said.

  The policeman began to scan the backyard with the beam of his flashlight. He moved slowly across the patio and around the swimming pool. Miz Goodpepper leaned back and held her breath. I did too. I was terrified when he moved closer and stopped. The beam from his flashlight skipped across the top of the hedge, stopping directly over my head.

  “Good God,” the other policeman call
ed out. “There’s a whole mess of slugs over here on the patio. Look at ’em all. There’s no crime here—just a bunch of garden slugs.”

  The flashlight’s beam nearly blinded me when the policeman turned and headed back toward the house. Miz Goodpepper leaned forward and watched him move away, the whole time plucking petals from the rose in her hand and dropping them onto the ground. When the policeman reached the porch, I covered my face with my hands and breathed a sigh of relief into my sweaty palms.

  A siren sounded, and a moment later whirling red lights ignited the leaves on the trees with an eerie, shimmering fire. Two men carrying a stretcher came around the side of the house. Within minutes Miz Hobbs had been lifted onto the stretcher, covered with a sheet, and loaded into the back of an ambulance. Miz Goodpepper and I didn’t utter a word until all the policemen left and the night fell quiet.

  I retrieved the pancake flipper from the grass, stood, and handed it to Miz Goodpepper. “Is she dead?” I whispered.

  She pushed herself up from the ground, dropped the pancake flipper inside the jar with a plunk, and looked into the sky. A strange blue tint of moonlight washed over her face, and she stood for a long moment, smiling at nothing. “No. It would take a lot more than a slug to kill that woman.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the scene of the crime. “When Miz Hobbs slipped on the slug and hit her head, was that kinda like the black boomerang of karma you talked about?”

  Miz Goodpepper clutched the empty jar to her chest and slowly turned toward me. “You are a very smart child.”

  Twelve

  It’s true what they say about people being drawn back to the scene of a crime. I woke early the next morning with thoughts of Miz Hobbs bumping around in my head. I pushed back the covers, threw on some clothes, and crept down the stairs.

  The house was sleeping and fi lled with the thin light of dawn. I moved past the living room and the fragrance from a vase of lilies hovered in the air. Quietly I padded down the hall and into the kitchen. Careful not to let the screen door slap closed behind me, I stepped onto the back porch and headed for the opening in the hedge. Across Miz Goodpepper’s yard I ran, kicking up a cool mist of dew that dampened my legs. When I reached the spot where we’d been the night before, I had to remind myself to breathe, and when I did, the scent of secrets and bruised rose petals fi lled my nostrils.

  I got down on my hands and knees and peeked through the hedge. On the fourth step of Miz Hobbs’s porch was a reddish-brown bloodstain the size of a serving platter. I sat back on my haunches and gasped. I figured that much blood surely meant that Miz Hobbs was dead.

  The sound of air brakes hissed through the morning air. I jumped to my feet and peered over the top of the hedge just in time to see Oletta step off the bus.

  Oh, no. What’s she doing here so early?

  Knowing I had to beat Oletta home, I ducked down low and hauled my butt across Miz Goodpepper’s yard as fast as my legs could go. I didn’t slow down until I reached my bedroom, feeling so hot and winded that my chest heaved.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to cool down, the whole time thinking about Miz Hobbs’s death and the part I had played in it. Never had I been more scared. My stomach was bound in knots when I took a shower, and I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking as I zipped up my shorts and tied the laces of my shoes. While making my way down the stairs, I heard the soft mutterings of Oletta and Aunt Tootie.

  As I entered the kitchen, the phone rang and Aunt Tootie picked it up. Oletta was busy stirring something in a bowl and didn’t notice when Aunt Tootie’s face drained of color. But when Aunt Tootie clutched the collar of her robe and let out a gasp, Oletta stopped what she was doing and listened.

  “Oh, no. This is just awful. When did this happen?” Aunt Tootie said, lowering herself into a chair. “Last night? But she lives alone, who found her?”

  This was it. I was in big trouble. Miz Hobbs was dead, and I was partly to blame. I imagined a swarm of police cars pulling up in front of the house. I’d be slapped in handcuffs and hauled away while Aunt Tootie and Oletta cried out their protests. After taking my photograph and fingerprints, the police would shove me into a dimly lit cell where Miz Goodpepper would already be waiting. I could picture her sitting on a narrow cot, her mysterious eyes void of all emotion.

  I wandered down the hall, unlocked the front door, and went outside. Feeling lower than low, I plunked down on the steps and hugged my knees.

  Will there be a trial? Will I be sentenced to spend years behind bars? Will Aunt Tootie and Oletta come visit me? Or will they be so ashamed I’ll never see or hear from them again? And what about Mrs. Odell? Will she stop writing to me?

  While envisioning the soon-to-be-revealed miseries of my ill-fated life, I heard the door open. Oletta’s shadow loomed over me. “What are you doin’ out here lookin’ all hangdog?”

  I glanced up at her. “Waiting.”

  She scowled. “Waitin’ for what?”

  “When Aunt Tootie gets off the phone I’ll tell you about it.”

  “Well, she’s off the phone now. So c’mon inside.”

  I followed Oletta into the house, wondering how I’d tell her and Aunt Tootie what had happened last night.

  Will they be mad at me even though I wasn’t the one who had catapulted the slugs through the air? Do they know about the black boomerang of karma?

  Just when we entered the kitchen, the phone rang again and Aunt Tootie picked it up. “Hello. Oh, good morning, Thelma. Yes . . .”

  I couldn’t bear to see the look of shock that would soon overshadow my aunt’s face, so I turned and walked into the breakfast room. How long I stared out the window, I don’t know, but I was startled when Aunt Tootie spoke from the doorway.

  “Cecelia Rose, something awful has happened.” She looked frail and tired as she moved across the room and eased herself down at the table. “I’m so upset,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

  I pulled out the chair across from her and slowly sat down, waiting to hear the words that would forever ruin my life. I was so nervous I couldn’t stop my right foot from tapping against the rung of the chair.

  “I just hate leaving you, but I have to go away in a few days. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect I’ll be gone for the better part of a week. When you were outside, I asked Oletta if she’d stay here at the house with you, and bless her heart, she said she would.”

  The door swung open, and Oletta walked in carrying a tray. She served us waffles and juice, and while she was pouring coffee into my aunt’s cup, Aunt Tootie reached out and touched her arm. “Oletta, this is a sad, sad day.”

  Oletta nodded and patted my aunt’s hand.

  “Frankie Mae was the first friend I had in college. She was such a sweet-tempered girl, and oh, was she smart. I remember the time when we . . .”

  Frankie Mae? Who is she talking about?

  When Aunt Tootie finished telling her story, Oletta took the tray and left the room. I watched Aunt Tootie shake out her napkin, drape it across her lap, and pour syrup on her waffles.

  “Aunt Tootie, I’m confused. Who called this morning?”

  “The first call was from my friend Estelle Trent. She was letting me know that poor Frankie Mae suffered a stroke last evening. She’s in the hospital up in Raleigh. Estelle and I are driving there to see her.”

  “But … but then Miz Goodpepper called.”

  “Oh, yes. Thelma called to ask where I’d bought the silver polish I’d been raving about.”

  Deciding it was best to not to say another word, I began eating my waffles.

  Oletta walked in with the morning newspaper and placed it on the table. As she turned to leave, Aunt Tootie opened the paper and gasped. “Good heavens. Oletta, did you see the front page?”

  “No, I didn’t. What’s it say?”

  “Well, wait till you hear this.” Aunt Tootie angled the paper into the morning light and read, “‘Local widow suffers severe head injury cau
sed by garden slug . . .’”

  I nearly choked on my waffle.

  Aunt Tootie read the article aloud. Miz Hobbs was in the hospital with a concussion, and it sounded like she’d needed a ton of stitches in her head. She was reported to be in serious but stable condition.

  “Isn’t that the strangest thing?” Aunt Tootie looked at Oletta over the top of her glasses and shook her head. “In all my days I’ve never heard of anyone slipping on a slug. I wonder if they had to shave off Violene’s hair to stitch up her head,” she said with a tiny smirk. “She’d just hate that.”

  Oletta showed no emotion except for the way the skin around her eyes crinkled into little pleats. I knew she was trying not to laugh.

  Aunt Tootie put down the paper and took a sip of coffee. “Well, Violene surely isn’t one of my favorite people in this town, and Lord knows I don’t have one thing pink to say about her. But, no matter what, she is a neighbor. I suppose I’d better call the florist and have some flowers sent over to the hospital. Sounds like she’ll be there for a while.”

  Oletta rolled her eyes. “That’d be a waste of money if you ask me. But if you feel you’ve got to send her something—then send her a nice big bouquet of belladonna and sign my name to the card.”

  Aunt Tootie chuckled and shooed Oletta away with a wave of her napkin. I heard Oletta laugh as the door swung closed behind her.

  “What’s belladonna?” I asked.

  My aunt’s lips edged toward a smile when she said, “Poison.”

  That afternoon Aunt Tootie, Oletta, and I climbed into the car and drove through the shady streets of Savannah. We wound our way along narrow streets lined with itty-bitty houses, and then Aunt Tootie pulled to a stop in front of a yellow house trimmed in violet. Clay pots fi lled with flowers lined the edge of the front steps, and on the porch sat a wooden rocking chair.

  “Oletta, you go on in and take your time packing. I’m heading over to Mr. Hammond’s vegetable stand to see what he has. I’ll be back to get you in about a half hour or so.”

  “Can I go with you, Oletta?” I asked.