Too Easy (A Flap Tucker Mystery Book 2)

by Phillip DePoy

  She pointed. “There’s the Tuckers. They’ll be so glad to see you.”

  “They won’t know me. I’m distant.”

  We’d moved to Atlanta when I was eight. Dally’s dad and mine were both looking for better work in the city. I’m not sure they found it. My memories of growing up in this part of Georgia were very slack. I remembered having cousins — one in particular that I played with even before I knew Dally. But she’d gone away. I had no idea where she’d be these days. I didn’t even think I’d recognize any of them, or that they’d recognize me. I couldn’t really say whether it affected me one way or the other. I really try not to be that big on the family unit, really. Given my family, I thought anyone could follow my reasoning.

  I looked at Alma and told her again. “I’m a distant type of a relative.”

  She slapped my arm again. “It’s family.” She squeezed my hand. “They don’t treat you right, you come on over to our table.”

  I looked over the crowd. “Which one’s Sally?”

  “Gates or Arnold?”

  “The one works at the college in Tifton.”

  “Arnold.” She cast an eye about, then pointed. Sally was a fine plump woman sitting beside some of the tastiest-looking fried chicken I’d ever seen.

  I angled in that direction. “Look at the sun on that chicken.”

  She agreed. “Just like a basket of gold.”

  Sally saw me coming. “You must be Flap.”

  “I must be.”

  “Sally.”

  “Hey.”

  She stood up. “We’ve got a lots of Tuckers here today. Reckon any of ’em’s kin?”

  “Don’t think so, but I wouldn’t know it if they were. I’m not much on the family thing.”

  “Oh, it’s real big here.”

  I looked around at the crowd. “I can see that.”

  “Doesn’t mean much to you?”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off that fried chicken. “You’re going to be whoever it is you’re going to be no matter who your parents were.”

  She smiled. It was winning. “Que sera, sera.”

  “In the words of that great American philosopher, Doris Day.”

  She was very serious. “Oh, Doris Day’s great.”

  “May we sit?”

  “If you think you could eat a bite or two of that chicken you’re starin’ at, we could sit right here and have us some dinner.”

  “If it tastes half as good as it looks, I may move down here for good.”

  She liked that. We sat down and she loaded up a paper plate. Fried chicken, cutoff corn, black-eyed peas, green beans, fried okra, and boiled squash. I reached for the corn bread myself.

  “By the way, Sally, you don’t have a boy name of Pevus, do you?”

  She clucked. “That boy needs to find his path. He’s my nephew on my husband’s side. You didn’t meet him on the road?”

  “Well ...”

  She reached over for her purse. “Lord. How much did he get?”

  I took a bite of chicken. “I just gave him some advice is all.”

  “You didn’t give ’im money?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate for you to start off this business thinking bad things about us. Mr. Turner really needs some help.”

  “It’s okay, Sally. So, where is Mr. Turner?”

  “Oh, he left after service. He’s not much of a socialist since his wife died. He’ll be to home, I expect.”

  “Socialist?” I had to ask.

  “He don’t socialize at these dinners like he used to. Just comes to church meetin’ and then goes on home.”

  I smiled. “Not much of a socialist.”

  “Uh-huh, and he’s so nice when you get to know him. It’s a shame about all this with the boys and all.”

  “He’ll be home all afternoon?”

  She nodded. “Their place is close to here.”

  “Can you point me in the right direction?”

  “Eat first, meet a couple Tuckers.” She shrugged. “Might be kin.”

  I nodded. I’m told Rusty’s the one to see for barbecue.”

  She lowered her voice. “And liquor.”

  “This is a dry county.”

  “Oh, yes.” She sounded relieved.

  “So which one is he?”

  She searched her eyes through the gathering, and fixed on one spot, then raised her eyebrows. It’s not polite to point.

  I saw a happy fat guy talking loud to his cohorts. If we hadn’t been at a church gathering in a dry county, I’d have said he was already in his cups.

  I took a bite of the chicken leg. “Where’s he get his drink?”

  She looked down. “Buys some wholesale, makes his own wine — they say it’s real good.”

  “Just wine?”

  She thought I was telling a good joke. “You’re thinkin’ of the mountains, hon. We don’t have stills in this part of the country. Everything’s so darn flat, we’ve got no place to hide one.”

  Arm slapping must be a big thing in a dry county. She whopped my shoulder good.

  I was making heavy progress on the meal, but I kept my place in the conversation just the same. “So, Sally — what is it you teach at the college?”

  “Poultry science mostly.”

  “Chickens.”

  “Well, you’ve got to factor in your emu and your ostrich nowadays.”

  “Your what?”

  “Ostrich.” She nodded with confidence. “It’s the red meat of the future.”

  “Really?”

  She was vigorous. “Just like a beefsteak with none of the bad fat; some places it sells for twenty dollars an ounce. And you can get a whole lot of meat off one big ostrich.”

  I tried not to get a mental image. “How’d you and Dally meet?”

  She got dreamy. “Dally and Sally — we were interested in the same boy first year of college — when you were off in the service.”

  “You aren’t the one that married that Charlie guy? Was he Charlie Arnold?” Dally’d gone to Wesleyan for a while, and got stuck on a Charlie.

  Sally couldn’t hide her pride. “You bet.”

  “So you beat Dally out of the boyfriend.”

  She settled into her chair, smiling. “Maybe.”

  “Well, you did or you didn’t.”

  Her voice was softer again, and she wouldn’t look at me. “I always got the impression Dally was waitin’ for you and gave up on Charlie. She didn’t hardly talk about anybody else.”

  “I’m the best friend Dally’s got — which’ll give you a little idea the kind of trouble her life might be in — but that’s it between us. And I think you won Charlie with this food.”

  Again with the arm slap. “Stop.”

  “You got Charlie fair and square.” I wiped my mouth with the paper napkin. “I’m telling you, it probably had something to do with this chicken, or the cutoff corn.”

  “I’m proud of that corn. You get a big old boiler; take it out in the garden, like on a long extension cord? That corn won’t leave the stalk till it’s in the salty water.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s very fresh. You bend the stalk into the boiling water before you even snap off the ear.”

  I shoved the plate away from me. “Well, it’s worth the trouble. I’d marry you for that corn — if you’d have me.”

  She didn’t look at me. She was already thinking about our business. “Okay. Thanks for comin’ down to help Mr. Turner. He’s a real good man, and he was always nice to us kids growin’ up. Once you find the twins, I think you’ll see why everybody loves ’em.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I surveyed my empty plate. “I think I’m going to talk to Rusty for a bit, then I’m going over to the Turner place. Which way?”

  She still didn’t point. Manners count at church. “You go left out the drive, ride five, six miles out, and catch another left, it’s the first big blacktop intersection. Go on down another three miles or so,
and their place ought to be on the right. If it’s not, you’re lost.”

  “What do I do then?”

  “Wave at somebody and ask ’em.”

  “Wave.”

  She was serious again. “Oh, you got to wave at folks around here.”

  “How come?”

  “This is a friendly community, Mr. Tucker. If you don’t wave, somebody might get the idea you’re not as friendly as you need to be, and they take a gun and shoot you.”

  I stood. “Well, I don’t want that.”

  “No, sir.” She stood with me; shook my hand. “Thanks one more time for helpin’. You let me know what’s goin’ on, now.”

  “I’ll call Dally; she’ll call you.”

  She patted my back. No slapping now. “Good enough. You take care, hon.”

  I took a last look at that fried chicken. The basket was nearly empty, but all around it there was still a golden light. Maybe the gold wasn’t in the food. Maybe it was in Sally Arnold after all.

  7 - Barbecue

  I launched myself off to the loud group of men that had gathered around Rusty Tucker. Then I waved.

  They all waved back, some of them even smiled. I fixed a very friendly gaze on Mr. Tucker, the Barbecue King.

  “Hey. Name’s Flap Tucker.”

  He was delighted. “Hey, bud — sit on down. We ain’t met?”

  “No, sir. I live up in Atlanta — have for a good while; not that much in touch with the Tuckers hereabouts.”

  He nodded. “Happens.”

  “But on the way down I met an in-law of yours. Ronnie Tibadeau.”

  He rolled his whole big head. “Oh, Lord. You musta had a flat comin’ down here, or some kinda breakdown.”

  I smiled. “What makes you say that?”

  “Onliest way a stranger knows Ronnie, or that Pevus Arnold, is they got ‘helped’ on the roadside. How much they get?” He stood, reaching for his wallet.

  I held up my hand. “No, sir, Mr. Tucker. Nothing like that. They just needed an obstetrician.”

  He had no idea what I was talking about. He blinked once and said, again, “How much?”

  “Ronnie just told me you were the man to see about some barbecue.”

  Everybody in the crowd was relieved. Mr. Tucker sat down. “Oh. Barbecue.”

  He was cautious. “Well, I surely can fix you up. I guess Ronnie wouldna told you ’bout the barbecue if he didn’t think you was okay. How much you need, brother? I got it by the gallon or by the fifth.”

  A fifth of barbecue didn’t seem like a colloquialism. It seemed like a code. But I’m pretty good at playing dumb — some would say it’s not a stretch.

  I looked confused. “I just thought a sandwich and maybe some Brunswick stew.”

  He leaned forward quick. “Oh. Right. Just a sammich.”

  The other men were extremely quiet. No eye contact. I decided to let them off the hook. I took a seat across from Rusty and looked at the ground.

  “Of course” — I kept my voice low and my eye on the dirt — “I would need something to wash it down with.”

  And the group erupted. Guys were patting my back and Rusty was shaking his head.

  He leaned way forward and slapped my knee. “Tha’s pretty good, bud. I can fix you up.” He looked me up and down. “I surely don’t recognize you as a Tucker.”

  I nodded. “I grew up in south Georgia, but we moved up to Atlanta when I was eight or so.” I looked around. “I’ve still got some cousins drifting around somewhere south of the gnat line. Don’t know if I’d remember them or not.”

  He sighed, nodding. Then, like a rifle shot, his eyes zipped right into mine. “Hey! You ain’t that boy had the crazy-ass grandma?”

  I had to laugh. “Yeah. That’s me. And for the record, the rest of her was pretty crazy too.”

  He smiled. “That was over ... where? Around Ideal?”

  I smiled back, tried not to lay on the irony too thick. “It was close to Ideal.”

  “Yeah, your grandma was the only reason the Piggly Wiggly ever even carried Bon Ami cleaner.”

  I nodded. “That was her brand, when the moon was right.”

  He leaned back, very happy. “That’s right. I heard you was doin’ okay up in Atlanta. Man, you come from the really crazy side of the family.”

  I smiled big. “And proud of it.”

  He looked off; shook his head in a very pleasant way. “Family.” Then back at me. “How is your grandma?”

  I shrugged. “Passed on.”

  He nodded. “Yeah.” More nodding. “So, how you come to know Ronnie? He married my little brother’s oldest, you know.”

  “Well, he did actually stop to ‘help’ me — him and Pevus. You had it right: I caught a flat. But in the end, they’re just good boys — they didn’t mean anything. Pevus is the only one that got hurt.”

  Rusty didn’t ask, he just nodded. “Pevus needs guidance.”

  I agreed. “Well, me too. Who doesn’t?”

  Rusty leaned way back. “So whatcha down this way for?”

  I indicated with my thumb. “Sally Arnold called a friend of mine in Atlanta. She wants me to help the Turner twins.”

  Somebody in the crowd offered a testimonial. “They good boys. They didn’t have nothin’ to do with Lowe.”

  Rusty was my interpreter. “Lowe Acree is the banker got murdered over here at Tifton. His wife killed him and everybody knows it, but Lowe’s got a cousin in the law enforcement who don’t like the Turners.”

  I looked up at Rusty. “How come?”

  “I don’t know, some kinda land deal.” He lowered his voice and looked around the group. “Plus, I always thought Tommy was a little sweet on Lowe’s wife hisself.”

  Here and there: an agreement.

  “Tommy?”

  He nodded. “Tommy Acree, Tifton Police. Lowe’s cousin.”

  “Sweet on Lowe’s wife?”

  He avoided my eyes. “Some say.”

  That was it. Silence. I could tell we were about to discuss the weather, and I already knew it was hot.

  I stood up. “Well, thank you, Mr. Tucker.”

  “It’s Rusty.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll be back over this way for a taste one time or another. But I gotta go talk to Mr. Turner now.”

  He waved. “J.D.’s a good man. Tell ’im I said ‘hey.’ And you be welcome to some barbecue any old time.”

  I nodded, and headed over to the car. Sally smiled at me from her table; she was busy setting everybody else up with fine fried cuisine.

  The woman who met me in the front yard came steaming up when I opened my door. “You can’t leave. You just got here.”

  “Well, I really came to see J. D. Turner; help him out. They tell me he’s at home.”

  She clouded up on me. “Oh.”

  “How long are you all usually here for one of these dinners? Maybe I’ll make it back.”

  She shrugged. I didn’t get the sudden attitude shift, but I shot out my hand just the same. “Thanks, anyway, Alma.”

  She didn’t shake. “It’s Alma Acree Lee.” And she was gone like smoke.

  Wherever you go, people take sides. Without even trying, I had.

  8 - Crow in the Corn

  In less than twenty minutes I was pulling into what I was hoping would be the Turner place. It looked like a lot of other farmhouses: plain white, aluminum siding, one story, kitchen in the center, small front porch. There was a woman in a chair on the porch with a colander in her lap and a paper sack at her feet. She was snapping pole beans.

  I got out of the car and she looked up. The thing that made me nervous about most farms like this was the devil dogs they have lying around. These mutts want to eat your liver, it’s their only joy. As luck would have it, the Turners kept no dogs.

  The woman stopped her work, but didn’t get up. I smiled, I waved, I took a step forward. “Hey. I’m Flap Tucker. Sally Arnold sent me over. Is this the Turner place?”

  The woman nodded
, stone-faced. From in the house I heard an old guy’s voice.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Flap Tucker out here. Is that Mr. Turner?”

  I could hear a rustle and some old-guy noises. Then he appeared in the doorway. I think he’d been catching a nap.

  “J. D. Turner. Come up on the porch.”

  “Thanks.” I did.

  There were four chairs. One was a rocker, the other three were ladder-backs. I figured the rocker was Mr. Turner’s. I flopped down in another, and leaned back on the hind legs until my shoulders were against the house. Mr. Turner rocked and didn’t look at me at all. The woman went back to snapping, but wouldn’t take her eyes off me.

  He gave a little cough. “I appreciate.”

  I smiled at the woman. Aunt Ida? “Sorry about your trouble.”

  Mr. Turner let out what, for a guy his size, seemed like a big breath. “Worse trouble ever. An’ I’s in the Depression.”

  “Uh-huh. I hope I can help. The boys headed toward the Savannah area, you think?”

  He nodded, still focused on something way out in the fields. “They with her.” He seemed very sad indeed.

  “Her? You mean Lowe’s wife?”

  He nodded again, like we were talking about the dead.

  “What was her name?”

  “Lydia. She was a Habersham.”

  “Everybody seems to think she’s the one that killed her husband.”

  He rocked. “Not everybody. Some that thinks my boys did it.”

  “Yeah. Lowe’s cousin Tommy.”

  Again with the nod. Ida pulled a pencil out from behind her ear and tapped a couple dozen times on the colander.

  Mr. Turner gave me a break. “She says Lowe’s cousin Tommy is a Habersham by his mother’s side, and it don’t pay him to think his own kin did a killin’.”

  “Does that mean Lowe and Lydia were related?”

  Ida tapped again.

  Mr. Turner: “Don’t know.”

  I leaned forward in the chair, all four legs on the floor. “What about some land deal Rusty told me about? Rusty says ‘hey,’ by the way.”

  “ ‘Hey’ to Rusty.” He coughed again. “Lowe wanted some land we got that’s a ways off. Some kind of chemical dump. Boys didn’t wanna sell — not for that.”