by Lisa Smartt
“Aunt Charlotte, are you in a hurry to get back home?”
“No. Bart was goin’ with Brother Dan today to clean out fence rows for old Mr. Simpson. He won’t be home till supper.”
“I say we make a quick trip to Bradford. You game?”
She smiled and did a big thumbs up. “Now, that’s a fine idea, Baby. A fine idea.”
We were happy to see that business seemed to be booming at Dusty’s shop. The big garage door was up and he was fixing a tire for a 20-something gal who was wearing pink cowboy boots. Her jeans were so tight that a lot of extra was spilling over her rhinestone belt buckle. Her bleach blonde hair was teased in the front and she was talking a mile a minute between puffs of a cigarette. He looked up from the tire project and smiled. “What’s got you ladies out and about today?” We assured him we were in no hurry and would just wait inside. As we approached the front door, I heard the young woman say, “Dusty, you should go with me to this new cowboy bar outside Humboldt. You’d love the music.” He never looked up and said pleasantly, “I don’t really go out anymore. But thanks anyway.”
A gray-haired man was sitting on the ugly green couch waiting for Dusty to finish the tire project. A walker was positioned nearby complete with the little tennis balls at the bottom. He was reading a “Sports Afield” that was several years old. But I guess shooting stuff or fishing doesn’t change that much from year to year. If you love to read about a guy from New Jersey who went to Texas and shot a 400-pound boar hog, well, I don’t guess it matters if it was this year or five years ago.
A detective never knows what important information she might get from members of the general public so I decided to be friendly and engaging.
I waved pleasantly and said, “That Dusty McConnell sure is a good mechanic, isn’t he?”
The old man put down the magazine and said enthusiastically, “He is. I wouldn’t trust nobody else with ol’ Beulah.”
I love it when old people name their cars. I’d always wanted to name my cars. But they were never interesting enough to name. I had a black Crown Vic when I first went to college. I guess I could have called it Vic, but I didn’t. It looked like a funeral director’s car and that thwarted the joy of the nick naming process.
“Yeah, Dusty seems to be a good guy. My husband trusts him. I know that.”
“And who’s your husband, Missy?”
“Doug Jameson. We’re from Sharon.”
“Yeah, I know Doug’s people. Knew his daddy real well. Fine folks. Sad that both of ‘em’s passed. And Doug works at the bank in Sharon, don’t he?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Carlie and this is Doug’s Aunt Charlotte.”
He perked up and said with a smile, “Charlotte Nelson? Good gosh, I didn’t even recognize ya, Charlotte. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Probably didn’t recognize me either. Bob Woosley. Bart and me was big buddies back in the day.”
“Bob Woosley, great to see ya! How in the world are ya?”
“I figure I’ll be okay if I can get this hip healed up and my car fixed too. I felt sorry when I heard the news about Dusty though. I don’t think that boy’s done drugs. Not at all. He’s a responsible fella. Somethin’ ain’t right about that whole story.”
I jumped at the chance to glean information. “We don’t think he did it either, Mr. Woosley. We think he’s been set up. But by who? That’s what we’re tryin’ to find out. Do you ever see any shady characters ‘round here? Anybody that can’t be trusted?”
“Naw. Not really. I think the fellas that work here are on the up-and-up.”
“Well, something’s not right. We know that.”
About that time Dusty walked in, wiping his hands on an old grease rag. “Mr. Woosley, why don’t you just leave Beulah here and James can drive you home? I’ll call tomorrow afternoon. Oughta know somethin’ by then.”
“Thank ya, Dusty. She’s makin’ an awful rattle. Rattles at stop signs and stop lights. Rattles somethin’ awful in the mornings. Just know that I ain’t ready to shoot her yet. Not yet.”
Dusty patted the old man on the back and said with a smile, “No sir, Mr. Woosley. A good car is like a good woman. Always best to keep the one ya got and not be thinkin’ ‘bout a trade in.”
Mr. Woosley laughed and said, “True wisdom!” Dusty carefully helped him rise from the old couch and take hold of the walker. The old man smiled and patted Aunt Charlotte on the arm as he scooted by. “Try to keep that rascally husband of yours out of trouble, Charlotte.”
“Ain’t much use tryin’ to tame ‘em, Bob. I gave up on that years ago.” They both laughed. Dusty walked with Mr. Woosley to an old gray truck parked around back where a young man was waiting to drive him home.
Dusty was still smiling when he walked back into the office. “What brings you ladies in today?”
“Uh, I need an oil change, Dusty.”
“We can get you fixed up. Let me ask Al to get you started and then I’ll be back in.”
I handed him my keys and prayed that Al would keep his mouth shut about the beautiful amber oil still fresh from last week’s oil change in Martin.
When Dusty walked outside, Aunt Charlotte grabbed my arm and nervously asked, “What are we gonna say, Child?”
“I’ll think of somethin’. When he gets back, just let me take the lead.”
Dusty walked in the door and removed his ball cap. He quickly ran his fingers through his hair, and sat down on the couch facing us. I saw what Clara saw. Humility. Kindness. Comfort. He straightened the magazines and held up a picture of an elk. “I’m guessin’ a man could eat on that for a good long while. Don’t you figure? Can I get you ladies a Coke or somethin’? We’ve got some cold ones in the back. It’s on me.”
“No, we’re good, Dusty. We’re good. How’s business? Looks like you’ve got plenty goin’ on.”
“Yeah. It’s decent. I mean, we’re keepin’ things movin’. It could be better but it could be worse too.”
We talked for several minutes about the weather and the convenience store on Hwy. 22 that caught on fire. Finally, he looked down at the floor and rubbed his hands together. His face turned slightly red. I could tell he was embarrassed to ask the next question. But he must have wanted the information more than he wanted to save his dignity. “How’s Clara, Carlie? Guess she’s still seein’ that fella from Obion County, huh?”
“She is. He went down there last weekend. So I guess they’re kind of a thing now. I’m sorry. Just bad timing, huh?”
“I guess. Even if I get my trouble straightened out, it’s probably too late now. Probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.”
“I don’t know. It might have. Clara really took a shine to you, Dusty.”
Leave it to me to open my big mouth and get his hopes up. Why can’t I have a thought that doesn’t come flying out my mouth?
He looked up and his smile overtook the room. “What do you mean? Did she say somethin’ about me?”
“Well, yeah, she said she enjoyed talking to you on the phone. She was excited that you were coming to visit. That’s all I meant.”
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair again. “But she was more excited about this other guy…evidently.”
Now I was in a quandary that even the most experienced rural detective would have a hard time negotiating. How much info should I divulge? Clara wasn’t more excited about Jake and I knew it. At least not at the beginning. She liked Dusty more. But now? Well, Jake had finally come out of hibernation and was pursuing her like a man. She seemed happy. And Dusty seemed miserable and in trouble with the law too. Just about the time he thought he found someone worth pursuing, cocaine was found in his glove box. An unfortunate set of circumstances to be sure.
“Well, I don’t really know, Dusty. She likes both of you. But if I were you, I wouldn’t worry about Clara right now. I’d get your legal trouble straightened out and proceed from there.”
His face dimmed with the harsh reality that a court date was coming. “You
’re right. But how does a felon explain that the drugs in his own truck weren’t his? Not very believable, right?”
“I don’t know. It might be easier than you think.” I decided to be straightforward and unafraid. “Dusty, is there something you’re not saying? Do you know who could have put those drugs there? You can tell us. You can. We know your father has been in town. Chester said he was seen out near Highway 54 a few weeks ago. Did he come to see you?”
He put on his cap and rose from the couch. “You’ll have to excuse me, Ladies. I better get out there and check on Mr. Woosley’s car. I appreciate you coming by though. Really. And tell Doug and Mr. Bart I said ‘Hello.’”
Despite my earlier admonition, Aunt Charlotte walked right in front of Dusty and touched him gently on the arm. “Look, Dusty. Ain’t no shame in havin’ troubled family members. No shame at all. Your daddy is your daddy but he ain’t a reflection of you as a man. Don’t carry his shame as your own. I promise you’ll regret it.”
Dusty patted her on the shoulder and proceeded toward the door. “Thanks, Mrs. Charlotte. I’ll remember that. I thank you both for comin’ in. Al will be in here in a minute and get you checked out, Carlie. I need to get back to work. Come back anytime.”
Dusty’s unwillingness to communicate was a setback, but we weren’t giving up.
Al came through the back room and smiled as he politely said, “That’ll be $34.99.” I knew what he was thinking. He thought I had a crush on Dusty McConnell. Why else would I come in for an oil change when clearly my oil was much more beautiful than it should have been? Well, I guess motor oil is never really beautiful but still. He and I both knew I didn’t need an oil change. I didn’t bother telling Al that I thought Dusty’s daddy had planted drugs in his truck. I didn’t tell Al that a kindergarten teacher in Georgia thought his boss was incredibly handsome even though he had an eye patch and a scar on his chin. I might lack discretion sometimes, but I was blessed with unusual silence as I pulled out my wallet. Oh, and me have a crush on Dusty McConnell? Puh-lease. I’m an inch taller than him and outweigh him by 50 pounds.
“Here’s $40. Keep the change for your trouble. Thank you, Al.”
When Aunt Charlotte and I got in the car, I said, “Well, it is what it is. We did what we could.”
“Oh, we ain’t finished yet, Baby Girl. We ain’t near finished.”
I respected Aunt Charlotte’s heartfelt tenacity. More than she would ever know.
Chapter 31 CLARA LOUISE: Pushing Forward or Pulling Back
Driving home from school, I thought back on the events of the weekend. I remembered the odd sense of relief I felt when I was waving good-bye to Jake from Mama and Daddy’s driveway. He was a good man. But I couldn’t bring myself to jump in, even feet first. I was still testing the water with my big toe. He deserved my unbridled enthusiasm and I understood that. He tried to kiss me outside the gift shop at Stone Mountain but I pulled away. He apologized profusely. I gave him the whole, “It’s not you. It’s me.” routine. He bought it too. But still, I could tell he felt rejected.
How could I explain to someone like Jake that I hadn’t kissed a man since I was seventeen years old? How would he ever understand about Jason and the years of abuse I endured? Or worse, how could he believe I actually relished the abuse because I naively regarded it as love? And how would he feel about the other men? Some of them old enough to be my father. The men who crawled through the window late at night, the men who came knocking when Mom and Dad were gone. The men I repeatedly said yes to all those years ago. No. Jake would never understand. And neither would I. It was the worst kind of memory. Even though years had passed, it was like a weight hanging around my neck.
Jake’s family tragedy was a happily-married sister who hadn’t graduated from college. That was their primary grief and embarrassment. They would never wrap their minds around real tragedy. Abuse. Childbirth. Sadness. Loss. They would never accept their perfect little Jake marrying into such a family. And who could blame them?
As I pulled into the apartment complex, a wave of depression swept over me. Loneliness. Shame. Guilt. Meeting Jake had brought up all the things I feared most. All my childhood insecurities had re-surfaced. Now I knew why I stayed away from men. I was broken and being around men was like shining a bright light on all the unsealed cracks.
The phone rang and I knew it was him. He said he would call after school and he’s faithful to his word.
“Hello.”
“Hey! Clara, I miss you. How was school today?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“No. I’m just in a mood. Feeling a little sad, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“About my life. My family. Bad decisions. But don’t worry about it. I’m fine. Really. How was your day, Jake? Did you sell a ton of insurance?”
“It was great. Sales are actually up right now and the boss says we’re all in for a big bonus this year.”
“Congratulations, Jake.”
“Any plans to come to Tennessee again? I’m fine with driving to Georgia, but if you’re coming to see Carlie, I’d like to know so we can make plans.”
“Yeah. This weekend is the beginning of my spring break. Are you free Saturday?”
“I’ll make sure I’m free. Let’s go to Jackson. An afternoon movie and a nice dinner sound good? If you’re stayin’ a while, we can make other plans later.”
“Sure. I’ll make sure Doug and Carlie are gonna be home. I’ll let you know. Jake, I have to go now. I have lesson plans and a bunch of stuff I need to do. I’ll talk to you soon though. I will.”
“Okay. Talk to ya soon. Bye.”
I didn’t have to go. I didn’t have to do lesson plans at 4:15 in the afternoon. No one does. I just wanted to escape. And that just made me more depressed. Who would want to escape from a man like Jake Smith? Only someone who knows she’s not good enough for him. Someone like me.
Chapter 32 CARLIE: Burnt Tuna and Bad Drugs
Aunt Charlotte and I parted ways mid-afternoon. When I dropped her off, she assured me that we would get to the bottom of the Dusty McConnell criminal case, no matter what it took. I knew she’d be in that broken dusty rose recliner talking on the yellow corded phone within five minutes of me dropping her off. She’d be soaking every member of our fine community for valuable information concerning Dusty McConnell and the great cocaine mystery. If anybody could get to the bottom of Dusty’s legal trouble, it was Private Eye Charlotte Nelson. He might as well just fire his lawyer right now.
Evidently there wasn’t enough moisture in the crock pot recipe because the canned tuna hardened like mortar all around the bottom. The house smelled like a Little Friskies factory burning to the ground. I scraped what I could into the trash and then sat the crock pot in the sink to soak. I opened all the windows and pondered supper plans. I decided to play it safe. There are a few things I know how to make with utmost precision. Chicken spaghetti is one of those things. And the way I see it, a woman whose matchmaking and detective skills are still considered questionable, well, she needs to have at least one success a day. Enter chicken spaghetti.
I heard the kitchen door open at 5:20. And in walked the most handsome man carrying a bouquet of flowers he picked in the field across from the house.
“Aww, thanks, Doug. They’re beautiful.”
“You’re welcome. Do I smell chicken spaghetti?”
“You do.”
“Fantastic.” He wrinkled his nose a bit. “And what’s that other smell? Like a cat or a dead mouse or somethin’?”
“Uh, yeah, something died, Honey. It was a tuna crock pot meal. I pronounced it dead at 3:05 but the carcass is still, well, kind of lingering in the trash. So you might want to carry it to the outside can for the final burial.”
He laughed and proceeded outside with the trash bag. He slipped his shoes off as he walked back inside. “Tell me we don’t have plans tonight, Carlie. Tell me that n
obody is coming over and we’re not going anywhere and there are no conference calls or counseling sessions or pickle-making projects. Tell me it’s just you and me tonight. For the whole night.”
“Oh shoot, Honey. I do kind of have plans for tonight. Big plans.”
He sat on the bar stool with a grave look of disappointment. “Lay it on me.”
I walked up behind him, put my arms around his shoulders, and whispered into his ear. A big smile came across his tired face and he managed a few words with great enthusiasm, “I’m a blessed man. A blessed man indeed.” Chicken spaghetti was not the only success for this misguided rural detective. Married women or soon-to-be married women, take note.
When Doug left for work the next morning, I immediately picked up the phone. “Good morning, Aunt Charlotte. Any news?”
“Well, several people did see Dusty’s daddy. He had a few drinks at Blondie’s several nights in a row. Nobody knows why he was back in town and nobody in Sharon trusts him. But even if he did put that cocaine in Dusty’s truck, I can’t figure out why. What would he gain from settin’ him up like that?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t make sense. At all. I mean, those drugs were worth money. A lot of money. No one would have wanted to take a loss like that.”
“Well, I’m tempted to just put it out on Swap Shop, Carlie. Just ask if anybody has any leads.”
I laughed nervously, “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I’m not kidding. Local people listen to that radio show, Carlie. They might know somethin’.”
If you’ve never lived in a small southern town, there’s something you may not know. Most small southern towns have radio shows called Swap Shop or Bargain Hunters or Swap and Trade. Local folks call in trying to sell a 20-year-old refrigerator or a size 12 prom dress or their Rhode Island Red rooster. On any given day, you could pick up a bargain on a billy goat, an old lawn tractor, a 12-gauge shotgun, or a stand-alone deep freeze. But I knew the host would get mad at Aunt Charlotte for calling in requesting information about Dusty McConnell’s legal trouble. She’d have to give away a rusty wheelbarrow or an old metal bed frame to even get on the air.
