While Daddy and Mr. Whelan did business, Sally Whelan and I would sit in rockers out under a maple tree and Mary, her maid, would bring me a glass of buttermilk and cold corn bread to dunk in it. Mary had Pete when I was four, and I loved to play with him in his basket. I shocked Mama one day by declaring, “When I grow up, I’m gonna have chocolate babies. They’re prettier than vanilla ones.”
Had that baby really lived sixty years before he died? Days drip like raindrops. Years gush past like flash floods.
I slowed on the drive, wondering who would live at Whelans’ next. It’s tradition around here among some landed families for the older generation to pass the homeplace on to the eldest child. That previous August, Joe Riddley and I had moved out of the house his great-granddaddy built and deeded it to our older son, Ridd. But Edward Whelan, who was always a bit wild, drove too fast around a country curve one winter afternoon and died a bachelor. Josiah had only Edie. After she was gone, would Genna and Adney give up their pretentious new McMansion to move into this old place and grow pecans? If Genna was nervous in a house in town, she’d never last a night alone in the grove.
I was halfway around the circle before I saw a blue Honda parked under the carport Josiah had added behind his back porch. A broad black bottom was draped over one fender, its owner peering under the hood. I recognized Alex by the elegance of the black pants, the gold spike heels, and a jacket that looked like it had been lifted from a passing leopard. I rolled down my window. “Got a problem?”
Alex stood erect, brushing her hands to get rid of grease and dirt, and glowered at her engine. “You know anything about cars?” she called.
“Not enough to fix one. What’s the matter?”
“It won’t start. Goes ‘click,’ then nothing happens.”
“Could be your battery. I think mine did something like that once.”
She blew out frustration between her lips. “Wouldn’t you know?” She twisted and peered down at her jacket. “And I’ve probably gotten grease on me, too. This thing is washable, but I’d like to look presentable. Natasha and I are on our way to visit Isaac’s parents. I’d be halfway there by now, except I told Edie I’d drop off some files so she could work on that grant proposal tomorrow. She offered”—she reminded me, as if I’d said something—“and she’s better at this than I am. I’d have given it all to her before she left to see her daddy, but I was still printing out the proposed budget. When we got here, I just turned the engine off long enough to get the stuff out of the trunk and run it up to that chair on the back porch.” She jerked her head along a covered walkway between the carport and the back steps, and I saw the folders on the screened porch.
She peered around in dismay. “And now, while I’ve been fiddling with it, Natasha and Poe Boy have run off somewhere. That kid and her dog both need a place to run, but not right this minute. Tasha? Tasha! Where are you? Poe Boy? Come!”
All we heard was the gurgle of rain in the downspout. I shivered as rain blew into my open window, and I pushed the button to raise it most of the way. Alex slammed down her hood. “The two of them are probably halfway across the grove by now. They’ll both be muddy, she’ll have caught a cold—”
Because of something Isaac had let slip once, I knew that while Alex was in the army, in addition to getting her education, she had gotten pregnant and been abandoned by the baby’s father. Isaac had said ruefully more than once, “Alex is smart, but she skipped class the day they passed out good sense. Look at how she worries about Natasha all the time. That woman needs to get herself a life.” That didn’t mean he wasn’t crazy about his cousins. It was at his suggestion that Alex had applied for the library directorship three years before. But I saw what he meant about Natasha when Alex hurried haphazardly around the corner of the house. Spike heels aren’t the best shoes in which to explore a spongy yard. “Natasha Penelope James! Where are you? You come back here right this minute!” She had a worried edge to her voice I couldn’t ignore. Joe Riddley or no Joe Riddley, I couldn’t drive away with a four-year-old missing.
Josiah had an equipment barn, a mechanical repair shop, and a big cleaning shed where a child could hide. Some of them held equipment that could hurt her. I parked and climbed out into the drizzle, holding my pocketbook over my head and glad tomorrow was my day for the beauty parlor. Avoiding the worst of the potholes—fast becoming mud-holes—I headed toward the shop, where I saw a light through a half-open door. Men were probably working on equipment to wait out the rain. Whelan pets used to take refuge there when I was a child. “Natasha? Poe Boy?”
A bark answered my call, and a beagle trotted out, uttering yips of welcome. When I was thoroughly greeted, I gave him a push. “Find Tasha.”
He headed not back to the shop but toward a small brick building I had forgotten was there. Little more than a large room with a chimney, tucked between the shop and the cleaning shed, it had been off-limits and locked when I was small. Today, smoke rose from its chimney and floated away to merge with the mist.
Poe Boy bayed as he bounded over thick, wet tufts of grass between the tractor ruts. He had inherited his mother’s voice, and nobody can sound as insistent as a beagle. If Natasha was close by, she’d know he was looking for her. He stopped at the door and barked a command.
Henry Joyner stepped out, rolling down the sleeves of a bright orange coverall. He turned and said over one shoulder, “Somebody’s looking for you.” Poe Boy slithered between his legs and dashed, still barking, through the door.
“She’s in here,” Henry called to me. He used to be the bass soloist in the high school chorus, and still had one of the deepest voices I’d ever heard—something like a bullfrog crossed with a foghorn. It carried well across the space between us.
He held the door open, and a tiny girl in a pink sweat suit and a purple jacket darted out, oblivious of the drizzle. Poe Boy followed with a grin that said, “See? I found her.”
Natasha was shrieking. As she got closer, I heard, “Here’s Henry! Here’s Henry!”—as if he were the one we had been looking for. “And look, Miss Me-Mama, I got a teera!” In one hand she waved a circle of metal. As she ran, pink barrettes on six braids bobbed like little butterflies circling her head.
A damp leopard in spike heels streaked around the back corner of the house, closing in on her prey. “What were you doing with that child in there? Tasha, did this man hurt you? What were you doing in there with him?”
I had never seen a large woman move so fast. She grabbed up the startled child and held her so tight I feared Natasha would be brain-damaged from lack of oxygen. All the time, Alex screamed at Henry—not in the cultured vocabulary she’d acquired at library school but in graphic language bred in Chicago’s public housing and honed in the U.S. Army. It was odd to hear such language from one who looked like a model with raindrop diamonds on her shining curls.
Poe Boy enthusiastically added his dollar’s worth. The misty grove echoed with bedlam.
Henry came closer. I read his name embroidered in white above his breast pocket and saw drops of water shining on his hair. He waited until Alex turned from him to the child in her arms, holding one arm up to shelter her from the rain. “I’ve told you and told you not to go anywhere with a stranger. How could you go running off—”
Then Henry held up one hand and stepped toward her. “She’s all right. I didn’t hurt her.”
“How do I know that? How do I know—”
“Henry’s my friend.” Natasha reached out and patted Alex’s cheek. She must be accustomed to her mother’s temper, because it didn’t seem to faze her. “Look, Mama, he gibbed me a teera.” She held out a circle of metal.
“He’s got no business giving you anything.” Alex glowered at him.
I was getting soaked. Maybe it was time for me to intervene. “Don’t antagonize him,” I told her. “The man is a wizard at fixing things. Henry? Alex’s car won’t start. Would you take a look at it?”
He gave a disgusted snort, but strolled
through the wet grass toward the Honda. He filled his orange coveralls nicely and walked with the easy stride of a man who knew it. The pretty little boy had grown into a handsome man, except for the sullen expression around his mouth. “What’s the matter?” he muttered as he passed me.
“Sounds like the battery,” I said, like I knew all about cars. I trotted along behind him, taking four steps to his every three. My poor shoes would never be the same. Poe Boy trotted at my heels—as much use at fixing cars as I am.
Henry went to the front of the Honda while Alex set Natasha on the backseat. He fiddled with something with his left hand and gestured with his right hand. “Try it now.”
Alex glared in his direction, but slid behind the wheel and turned the key with her door open, obviously not expecting much. The car started like a new one.
“Nothing but a loose connection.” Wiping his palms on his orange seat, he sounded like he was talking about more than the car.
He turned to go, but I stopped him. “Have you met Alexandra James, our library director? And this is Natasha.”
“Natasha and I have met,” he said shortly.
Natasha waved the circle of metal at me and called, “Look, Miss Me-Mama—”
“I told you not to call her that,” Alex reminded her. “Her name is Miss MacLaren.”
Natasha pouted. “Cricket says her name is Me-mama.”
“Miss Me-mama is fine,” I told Alex. “I’ve been called worse.”
Natasha set the “tiara” on her head, but it slid down over one eye. She shoved it back. It slipped down again. Undismayed, she grabbed it in one hand and waved it about. “This one is too big, but Henry’s gonna make me a real one with a diamond on it and a magic wand with a star on it and I’ll be a fairy princess.” She managed to say all that without pausing for breath.
Alex frowned, but all she said was, “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing but a little respect.” He turned on his heel and strode back to the shed.
“He’s a real ray of sunshine.” She peered into the back to make sure Poe Boy was in the car and Natasha was fastened into her seat belt.
“He’s my friend,” Natasha said firmly. Poe Boy yipped his agreement.
“He’s a good mechanic,” I added, “and you did get a bit wild back there.”
Alex gave a rueful grunt. “I did, didn’t I?” She lowered her voice. “But you don’t think he messed with Tasha, do you?” I shook my head. “Isaac tells me I’m too protective, but she’s all I’ve got.” She twisted her lips into an embarrassed smile. “Thank the man for me next time you see him, will you?”
“I will.” I waved as they headed up the drive.
As long as I was there and already soaking wet, I figured I might as well go on and thank Henry now.
5
The door was shut.
I knocked, and when Henry didn’t answer, I pushed it open a crack.
The room was dim, lit only by a blazing fire in a hooded fireplace, but I could see that the walls were brick inside as well as out. Rain pattered on the tin roof. An anvil sat to one side, a blacker shadow among the gray.
Henry stood with his back to me, holding something in the blaze. With his light brown skin and orange coveralls he looked like a golden idol silhouetted against the flames.
I stepped inside to wait until he finished, and felt excitement rise within me. I hadn’t seen a blacksmith’s since childhood, when I used to creep into Granddaddy’s blacksmith shed to watch him repair tools with a similar fire and anvil. Being allowed to work the bellows to keep the fire hot was a coveted privilege for his grandchildren. As his only granddaughter, I outranked the boys.
I heard a hum and saw that grandchildren and bellows had been replaced by an electric blower. Henry was so engrossed, I didn’t want to interrupt, so I stood silent until he pulled something from the fire and turned to plunge a red-hot blade into a trough. White stinking smoke filled the shed. I doubled over coughing and turned toward the open door to catch my breath.
“Just a minute, Miss Mac,” he said in a disgusted tone. “I can’t stop right now.”
I fanned the air in front of my face and peered at him through a watery haze. His eyes never left the blade. Within seconds, he pulled it out, and something viscous and gleaming streamed from the tip. He pulled up plastic goggles and wiped sweat from his forehead with his forearm, then opened the oven of an electric stove that stood incongruously to one side.
“What are you doing now?” I asked, curious.
“Making a machete.” He stuck it into the oven and closed the door.
“I knew that. My granddaddy used to make and fix tools. But he never used a cookstove to temper his blades.”
“It keeps an even temperature. I’m done now, for an hour or so.” He pulled off a thick glove and wiped his forehead again. “What you want now?”
I gave him a long, level look. “Not the warmest welcome I ever got from somebody I gave lime suckers to most of his growing-up years.”
He shrugged. “I’m busy here.”
“We sell machetes pretty cheap these days.”
“I prefer to make my own.” He reached up to pull a cord that turned on a bulb above his head. It made a pool of light that didn’t reach the corners.
I looked around and saw a couple of other handmade machetes hanging on the back wall.
“You prune with those?”
“Some, and the Mexican workers like them.”
“What’s that you used to harden the blade?” I went to peer into the trough. “My granddaddy used water.”
“I prefer oil. It does make a stink, though.” He propped his backside against a worktable, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for me to explain why I was there.
I cleared the rest of the smoke from my lungs. “Alex asked me to thank you for getting her car started. She’s not always—” I backed up and started over. “She tends to be very careful where Natasha is concerned.”
He gave a disbelieving snort. “So careful she lets the kid wander off, open shut doors, and go into buildings all on her own? Where was her mother when she was roaming around?” He was very large and very angry.
Bothering him in the shed now seemed like an idea I should have thought about twice, but I resisted an urge to step back. “Trying to start her car. She thought Natasha and Poe Boy were going to stay nearby, and she didn’t know anybody was around.”
“In harvest season? There’s folks all over this place—working on equipment, running the cleaning shed—” He stopped and exhaled a deep, disgusted breath. “Okay, you know all that, but maybe she didn’t. Still, she oughta take better care of that kid.”
“Well, she was sorry she jumped all over you, and she wanted me to tell you.” That wasn’t precisely what Alex said, but it was near enough.
He gave a sarcastic grunt. “I get to keep my library card?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s good. Never can tell when I might need it.”
He pulled on his glove again, pulled down his goggles, and picked up a thin rod of metal with a pair of tongs. He thrust it into the flames and, when it was red-hot, carried it to the anvil and began to hammer it. Clearly he thought the interview was over. I ought to have left, but instead I stood watching while he reheated and folded the rod until a star with blunt points began to take shape. When the star was done, he took a second rod, eyed it, and sawed off a piece about twelve inches long. Then he heated both pieces and reached for his hammer. I stepped out of the way of sparks while he attached the star to one end of the rod. Finally, with a hiss of steam, he plunged the finished work into the oil. Again we were separated by a stinking cloud.
All that time he’d kept his back to me. He must have presumed I’d left, for he flinched when I coughed again. He recovered quickly, though, and held up the finished product with one hand while he turned off the blower with the other. “That look like a wand to you?”
I tried to match his careless ton
e. “Close enough for government work.”
“Good. I didn’t get her head measurement, so I can’t do a tiara.”
“I’ll get it for you,” I offered. “That’s marvelous, Henry. And very kind.”
I was the one being kind. His face was stony, and he seemed to have left all his manners and most of his conversation in South Carolina.
A dim memory stirred somewhere in the back of my mind. “You have a little girl, too, don’t you?”
“I thought I did.” He flipped a switch, and a belt moved rapidly, filling the small space with a shrill, angry whine. Henry’s mouth looked like he’d been sucking on bitterness, and his gray eyes smoldered in the dimness like the dying coals behind him.
He strode toward me and raised one arm. I stepped back, breath caught in my throat.
He reached over my shoulder and seized one of the machetes from the wall.
Generations of fear rose inside me, branded into the fiber of my being by tales told woman to woman while snapping beans under the chinaberry trees of my childhood home. Would I follow my great-grandmother’s bloody example? She was hacked to death by a field hand for the locket she wore.
I could not have moved if my life depended on it. For a second, I thought it did. Then Henry turned, carried the machete back to the sharpener, and lowered the blade to the belt. The room filled with metallic screams and a shower of sparks.
Hot with shame and pretending—as much to myself as to him—that I hadn’t really been scared, I moved closer to watch, but out of range of the sparks. I didn’t want holes in my pantsuit.
When he lifted the blade to examine it, I asked in the momentary quiet, “What happened to your little girl?”
He gave me a long stare. “You really want to know?”
I nodded. He lowered the blade again, and his voice was brutal, striking me word by word as he punctuated the short sentences with the shrieks of metal against abrasive.
Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?: A Thoroughly Southern Mystery Page 4
