A Little Sin

by Sionnach Wintergreen

  Avery scratched his short beard. “I don’t know….”

  “He’s just starting to go into full rigor,” said Garland. He wiped his hands off on the tarp, then washed them with some acrid-smelling antiseptic from a nearby bench. The odor made Avery’s nose twitch. Garland pulled a cigarette case from the bib of his overalls and frowned at the naked man on the table. “That means he must have died four to six hours ago.” He struck a match and lit his cigarette.

  Avery consulted his pocket watch. “It’s half-past eight now.”

  “So he met his fate sometime in the wee hours of the morning.”

  Avery lit a cigarette of his own. “That’s when the Klan likes to lynch people—under cover of darkness. Yellow-bellied bastards.”

  Garland’s eyes widened. “You think this was the Klan?”

  Avery shrugged. “I don’t know what this is right now. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Whatever it is, he didn’t do this to himself.”

  Chapter Two

  Garland watched the attractive, dark-haired man with mixed feelings. They were bonded by death and blood—just like he and the men who became his brothers in the Great War. Death had a way of pulling you into its embrace and making you family. He also felt connected to Sheriff Avery O’Rourke because they both wore masks. They were members of a velvet gang who lived on the fringes of a ruthless, heterosexual tyranny. They were shadow men.

  And yet he couldn’t shake a feeling—some instinct—that Avery belonged, at least in some small degree, to many of the things he loathed. Garland had not come ‘home’ to Timberland with joy in his heart. He had fallen back to it like Icarus, his wings in tatters, his heart broken. He had returned to the red dirt and haunted forests to bury his sorrow. In front of others, he tried to keep his smile in place, but he fell apart when alone. Five years had passed since the war, and over six months had passed since he had discovered Philippe dead. He hadn’t fully recovered from either trauma; he wasn’t sure he ever would.

  Ruggedly handsome Avery, with his smoky blue eyes the color of aged denim and that trim beard shading his firm jaw, could be an interesting diversion…or he could be something else entirely. For now, Garland tamped his desire down and focused on the dead man on the table. He huffed smoke. “I’ll do a thorough examination and take notes. I’ve never performed a dissection—er—autopsy—on a man before, but men are animals.”

  At that, Avery bristled. “Men are God’s children. We aren’t beasts.”

  Katydid hopped up on the table and sniffed the doctor’s groin. Garland stuck his cigarette in his mouth and gathered the errant calico in his arms. “Off,” he murmured through his cigarette and released her a foot off the ground. She poured out of his hands and weaved around his legs. “Men are either miracles or they’re monsters,” he told Avery. “Either way, their bodies aren’t that much different from a hog’s. Which is good for you, because I can help you with this murder case.”

  Avery took a long drag and sighed smoke. “I need to go inform the doc’s wife.”

  “I would appreciate it if you would go up to the house and let Lucinda know what I’m doing. I don’t want her to walk in on this. I’ll need to keep the barn doors open for light, but if she needs me, she can ring the dinner bell on the porch.”

  “I’ll tell her.” He clapped Garland on the shoulder. “She sets you in some high esteem from what I can tell. Might be bad to see you up to your arms in a dead body like Dr. Frankenstein. “

  Garland couldn’t let that pass. “She likes that I treat her like an equal. I lived in France after the war. Black people aren’t second class citizens there.”

  “Just be careful. This ain’t France.”

  Garland snorted. He threw down his cigarette butt and ground it underfoot. “No. It’s definitely not.”

  ***

  Home of Dr. Watkins

  Avery stood outside the door of the Watkins house and waited. Like Garland’s farmhouse, it was unmistakably Victorian. But it was far grander. Avery was sure one of the timber barons had lured Dr. Watkins to the rural community and built him and his wife this beautiful house on a hill. In the late 1800’s, the timber barons had swarmed Wakeforest County and put the tiny town of Timberland on the map, building it up with mills and some roads and trams. Their dollars had even funded the dazzling courthouse—a jewel in the Piney Woods— and the new county jail.

  A pretty, petite black woman in her twenties, dressed in a maid’s frock, answered the door. Avery explained that he needed to talk to Mrs. Watkins. The maid let him inside. As Avery followed the maid to the parlor, he marveled at the dancing bronze statues and elegant furniture. He was pretty sure one of the persian rugs alone was worth more than his entire house. Jealousy? Had that been the motive for killing Doc Watkins?

  He didn’t sit. He stood, holding his hat, waiting for Mrs. Gertrude Watkins to enter. Doughy and middle aged, dressed in black as if in mourning already, she balked when she saw him. Did she know something? Or was it merely a wife’s intuition?

  “What’s happened to my Hiram?”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Watkins, but your husband was found dead this morning.”

  Gertrude burst into tears. Avery didn’t like crying women. They made him feel guilty. He put his arms around Gertrude and pulled her close, holding his hat against her shoulder. Gertrude sobbed. “It was that car, wasn’t it? I knew that contraption would be the death of him. He always drove it too fast.”

  Avery tensed. He hadn’t seen a car. And he dreaded telling Mrs. Watkins of her husband’s fate. He patted her back awkwardly. “To be honest, we don’t know exactly how he died. A passerby found him hanging from a tree.”

  She squealed. The maid walked in with a tray for tea. She set the tray down and scurried away. Gertrude pushed herself free of Avery and fell back upon the divan. “Wretched!” she cried. “Horrible wretched people!”

  “What people?”

  “Those nig—negroes!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Watkins. Do you mean to tell me you think coloreds hanged your husband?”

  Gertrude sniffled and wiped her face with her fingers. “Isn’t that what you think?”

  “No.” Avery scratched his head. “To be quite honest, I don’t know exactly what to think. I’m investigating this case as a murder.”

  Gertrude lifted her chin and sniffed. “Then you’ll hang whoever did this?”

  Avery shrugged. “We’ve got a gallows in the new jail. It’s not there for decoration.”

  “Good.”

  “Can you tell me where your husband was last night?”

  “He knocked on my bedroom door late last night and told me he was going out on a call.”

  “Did you happen to look at a clock? Do you know what time that was?”

  She looked at him like he was a dolt. “It was dark. It was late. I don’t know what time it was.”

  “Did he often tell you when he was going out on a call?”

  “Always.” She smiled through her tears. “He knew I worried about him.”

  “Did he say anything about where he was going, who he was seeing, anything about what the call was?”

  Gertrude stared over his shoulder for a moment. “No. He just said he was going out on a call.” She dipped her head meekly. “I barely even woke up. I’m not even sure I told him I loved him.” She held a hand to her mouth and broke down crying.

  Avery wanted to ask her if she had seen anything suspicious lately, but she seemed hysterical, so he bid her adieu. The maid let him out, and he swung up onto Bluebird’s back with a feeling of relief. He decided to go back to the crime scene and look for Doc Watkin’s car.

  ***

  Sands’ Farm

  Garland performed a thorough examination of Doc Watkins, but didn’t find much more. In the end, he felt bad for opening him up. It hadn’t been necessary. He could see what had killed him. And the other violence was just as obvious. He muttered an apology to the older man. With great ca
re, he washed the body with antiseptic, wrapped it in a bed sheet, and covered it in a clean tarp.

  He scrubbed his hands clean, but felt less than human. He slunk inside, intending to wash up on the back porch. He found a smile for Lucinda, who sat at the kitchen table, near the phone, waiting for callers. She was reading his copy of Garrett and Rothchild’s Diseases of Farm Poultry. Chagrinned, he pointed to the living room. “I have real books, too.”

  “I found some, but they were in French.”

  “My mother was French. She taught me. It came in handy when I lived there. I have books in English. And magazines…. Do you like poetry?”

  “Actually, this is fascinating. I never realized so many things could go wrong with a chicken.”

  He grabbed a book from the bookshelf by the phone and thumbed through it. He showed her one of the drawings. “This is what I did with the calf this morning.”

  She smiled up at him with a hint of mischief. “You’re like a cow midwife.”

  He laughed. “That’s astonishingly accurate. I should get that printed up on a sign and hang it out front.”

  Lucinda picked up the book she had been reading. “And chicken healer.”

  He fanned his hands in dramatic presentation. “Extraordinaire.”

  “You could triple your prices.”

  “I don’t need that many chickens.”

  She shrugged. “They could pay you in goats.”

  “You’re a cruel woman.” But his humor left him as he thought about the barn and what had brought him to the house. “Lucinda—”

  “Are you going to tell me about the barn now?”

  “That’s precisely what I was going to tell you. Doc Watkins has—died. His body is in the barn—Sheriff Avery wanted me to look at it. I’m so sorry to expose you to such ugliness—”

  Lucinda sat up a little straighter in her chair. Her lovely face remained composed. “Was he murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  She held the poultry book to her chest. “Poor man.” She glanced up and down at Garland. “Poor you.”

  “I’m fine,” Garland told her, but her concern touched him. She couldn’t know how the dead body had affected him—he had never told her about Philippe, but she had sensed something. “I just need to wash up.”

  “Get clean. I’ll make tea.”

  “You’re a saint, Lucinda. Mr. Gattis is a lucky man.”

  She smiled hugely. “He knows it.” She started to go to the kitchen, then hesitated. “Did you find anything helpful?”

  Her interest surprised Garland. “I’m not sure. I suppose knowing what time he died is helpful. I can guess at that.”

  She cocked her head. “How can you do that?”

  “The body goes through a process where it stiffens after death. It stiffens for a while, then relaxes—isn’t this too gruesome for you?”

  “Honestly, I think it’s fascinating.”

  Garland found himself liking Lucinda even more. “You’re a unique woman.”

  “I don’t think so.” She smiled politely. “Women aren’t given much of a chance to do interesting things, maybe. Maybe there are a lot of us who are interested in things we’re not supposed to be interested in.”

  “Oh. Maybe so.” He rubbed his hands together. “I need to get cleaned up, but we can discuss this some more if you want.”

  “Over tea.”

  “I suppose.” Garland tried not to look surprised. His secretary was interested in chicken diseases and rigor mortis. Did wonders never cease?

  The floorboards creaked as he traipsed through the old house. He sighed as he walked onto the back porch. In Toulouse, he’d had a flat with electricity and indoor plumbing. Coming home had plunged him into the Dark Ages. He didn’t bother lighting the small wood-burning stove. He pumped the water and poured it straight into the steel washtub. It was only midmorning, but the humid August heat was already upon the land like a feverish breath.

  He did shiver a bit as he washed himself, but he enjoyed being clean. Many people in these parts only bathed on Saturdays so that they would be freshly-scrubbed for church on Sunday. Garland spent too many nights with his arm up to his shoulder inside a cow’s vagina and his head pressed against her anus to take only one bath a week. He scrubbed his hands and nails after every procedure and washed his entire body as soon as he was able.

  After washing his hair, he sat in the tub, relaxing, despite having most of his body exposed. His thoughts drifted to poor Doc Watkins. Whoever would do such a vicious thing to a man? He hadn’t known the doctor well, but he had always struck him as a decent enough sort.

  Chickens scratched and pecked in the yard beyond the porch. Big rhode island reds and white-speckled black domineckers. Some had been his father’s. Some he had collected the past couple of months, since he took over his father’s practice, in lieu of payment for services. Most of the time, he was paid, but sometimes chickens and preserves had to be enough.

  His eyelids grew heavy. He had barely slept at all last night. He had been out with a colicky mule, then up with the dawn to birth a calf. Avery’s pouty lips swam through his sleepy thoughts. The only queer man he knew of for miles had to be a narrow-minded sheriff with delectable lips. He shook himself fully awake. That was enough of that!

  He dried himself with a worn towel and muttered self-recriminations. He dressed in a cotton work shirt and denim jeans and went inside to catch a nap on the couch before Avery showed up again. He wanted his wits about him the next time he saw the man.

  ***

  Whitetail Trail

  Avery couldn’t find Doc Watkin’s car anywhere. There were several wheel tracks on the old dirt road of Whitetail Trail, where pine forest grew thick along one side of the road and the other had been somewhat cleared for a few homesteads. All of the tracks ran together.

  He decided to follow up with the person who had reported finding the body, Homer O’Dell. O’Dell lived about three miles from where the body had been found. Although it was just down the road from the doctor’s lavish house, O’Dell’s home was a small shack surrounded by barbed wire with a rickety-looking shed on one side. A few goats and chickens wandered around the cluttered yard. Two bony dogs, a blue tick hound and a brindle catahoula cur, were tied to trees in the yard. They barely twitched an ear as Avery passed them. An old cupboard lay on its side in the middle of the dirt pathway to the house. Avery paused to look at it. One of the doors was broken.

  He followed the path to the front door and knocked. “Hello. Mr. O’Dell?”

  Suddenly, both of the dogs started baying. The door cracked open and O’Dell peered out. “Sheriff?” He was a short man with rheumy blue eyes and a bulbous red, runny nose. O’Dell always looked like he was sick with something.

  “That’s right. I need to ask you a few questions.” He could barely hear himself over the rioting dogs. “Can you tell these dogs to be quiet?”

  O’Dell thrust his red-blotched face through the crack. “SHUT THE HELL UP, DOGS!”

  The dogs whined, sighed, and lay down. Avery cleared his throat. “Did you see a car anywhere around that magnolia tree where you found Doc Watkins?”

  O’Dell wiped his runny nose with his fist. “I didn’t see no car. Just saw the doc swinging in the breeze.”

  “What time was that again?”

  “This morning. Sun weren’t quite up. I rode straight to Aunt Hattie’s ‘cause she gots that tellyphone. Called up the sheriff’s office right there.”

  Avery knew O’Dell lived off his family and by collecting and selling junk. He seemed to be a man of few ambitions. “What were you doing over there at that time of the morning?”

  O’Dell stared at Avery for a moment. “One of my dogs got loose. I was chasing him.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “No, sir. His name’s Cooter. He’s a redbone coonhound. If you see him, will you nab him for me? He don’t bite.”

  Avery bet he didn’t hunt nor guard either. O’Dell and everything he owned see
med damned useless. “I will. I’ll bring him straight to you.”

  “Well, good.” O’Dell shut the door. Avery climbed back up on Bluebird and rode out of the junky yard.

  He rode down the road a ways to the next homestead. Like O’Dell’s place, it was fenced with barbed wire that was wound around the trees. Some of it was down on the side that adjoined O’Dell’s. More was down on O’Dell’s side. Avery shuddered at the thought of having O’Dell as a neighbor.

  He let himself in through the rickety gate and rode up to the house. Set back in the woods, it was a dark, squat affair, nicer than O’Dell’s, but not by much. It was little more than a wooden shack and probably had only two or three rooms in it. Clumps of dark green monkey grass framed the path to the house. He rode past a row of five dainty, well-tended little graves. Baby graves. This house had known much sorrow. The rest of the yard looked wild; the graves stood out almost like a garden.

  A bay mule, standing on one side of the house, raised its head and whickered as he and Bluebird neared. Avery dismounted and walked, through a flock of chickens, to the door. He knocked. A broad-shouldered, fair-haired man in his thirties answered. “How can I help you?”

  Avery tried to place the man. Unlike O’Dell, he must not have had much to do with the law. He looked like a farmer. Avery was sure that if he went around the back of the house, he would find rows of potatoes and okra. “Doc Watkins was killed last night. I’m trying to find out what happened.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Looks like.”

  “What’s the world coming to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can I help you, Sheriff?”

  “Did you hear anything or see anything unusual last night?”

  A baby cried somewhere in the house. The man looked over his shoulder and smiled. “My wife just had a baby. We haven’t heard much but crying.”

  Avery chuckled. “Y’all probably won’t be hearing much else for a while.” He sighed. “Have you seen a car anywhere abouts?”