Swamp Cabbage (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles Book 6)

by Paisley Ray

“Feet pue tan!” she spat. “That boy’s elevator don’t go to the top.”

  Her Cajun insults somehow translated, and I understood. “I closed my eyes, prayed, and heard the shot. When I opened them, I watched him drop to his knees. Blood spilling from his chest.”

  Francine made wide eyes and her open mouth contorted in a gape. There was a beat of silence between us as we both processed what I’d said.

  “I don’t blame you for shooting that fool. Son of Lucifer deserved to die. But how can you be sure he didn’t find his way out and get help? He may be back for revenge.”

  “I wasn’t the one who shot him. I didn’t have a weapon. As he went down on his hands and knees, the still water erupted, and a massive gator took him.”

  Contorting her mouth, she processed my confession. “Who shot him?”

  A light shone in our faces. “Ladies,” Officer Wilkes said, startling us both.

  “Who did it?” she whispered.

  I hopped off the swing and felt it clunk into the back of my legs. From the side of my mouth, I said, “Two people can keep a secret, but only if one is dead.”

  Trudging up the few stairs, the deputy rested an elbow against his thigh. “Shed’s empty. Did you make up this story?”

  “No!”

  Francine sputtered, “Sir.”

  “Ain’t nothing in there that ain’t supposed to be. Don’t lie to me.”

  Was he blind?“Behind the paint shelves. Above the tarp. Head in a big orange bucket.”

  Francine stood, and her arms went all animated. “Strung to the ceiling by his ankles.”

  I could hear a two-way radio on someone’s belt garble something about a car crash near Whitehall Point. “Locked back up,” one of the firemen said as he and the whole crew hustled back into the truck.

  “You ladies be sure and call if you have any more trouble,” Forrest said with a smile and a wave.

  “Be there shortly,” Officer Wilkes said.

  “What about the dead body?” I asked.

  “I think you know damn well that there’s no body.” Standing straight, he began to turn, then paused. “I don’t like strangers in my town. Now you listen good. You only get one pass, and this is it for you two. Next time you have fun wasting our time, mark my words you’re going to get to spend lots of time in my jail. Courthouse tends to be backlogged, and we’d just have to hope that none of that darn paperwork goes missin’.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Something stinks. I know what I saw, and I have a witness.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dontcha Know

  For two weeks, rain had danced on and off in the late afternoon. Today was different. The sunshine broke early, brightening the rooms on the west side of the house. With a cloudless sky, the temperatures steadily rose, forcing the day to slow down. The gallery closed at noon on Saturdays, and I looked forward to a carefree afternoon that involved cooling off in the water.

  I’d been up for ages, but Francine kept night owl hours at the law firm. As I dug in a paper shopping bag, she sipped black coffee, and I noticed that it took effort on her part, to lift her chin up from her folded arms. “What you gone and bought now?”

  Despite her eyelids being lowered to half-mast, her mouth was awake.

  Before unveiling the painting I had purchased, I said, “Close your eyes.”

  “This isn’t Christmas or my birthday. I ain’t got all day to see what junk you got suckered into buying this time.”

  “Jeez, someone didn’t get enough beauty rest.”

  “Last night, I had the big eye.”

  “It’s nearly one. The day is half over.”

  Ignoring her half-eaten slice of jam-and-butter-coated toast, she stood and tightened the belt on her fluffy lavender robe. “I best be getting ready. Prepping for an audit in the office, and I’m helping cross-reference the receipts.”

  “You’re kidding me? You’re going in? On Saturday?”

  “I’m gaining valuable experience. It’ll look good on my resume.”

  “What intern works on a Saturday? I thought we could go to the beach. I’ll pack the cooler.”

  There was a clunk under the kitchen sink before a gush of water showered Hodge.

  Turning around, Francine squatted. “You know what you’re doing down there?”

  “Connector’s gone and corroded. Simple repair. I’ll have the pipe draining before supper.”

  “What about the toilet in the hallway? Water’s leaking around the base and discoloring the floorboards,” I said.

  “That’s next,” he said from under the sink.

  Francine shuffled past me.

  Peeling paper off a frame, I asked, “Aren’t you even going to look at what I bought?”

  “You been Dumpster diving?”

  “No, I bought it at a yard sale.”

  Her eyes went buggy. “That’s kiddie art in a ninety-nine-cent frame.”

  “Can you believe my luck? Twenty bucks.”

  “You swapped Ulysses for that?”

  I traipsed behind her slippered feet. “I’ve seen this artist before.”

  “It ain’t possible for you to know all the artists you say you do.”

  “Not in person, in a catalogue. I’m sure of it.”

  Climbing the stairs, Francine tripped over a garbage bag, and its contents of my scavenging spilled. “There’s no room left to swing a cat. You need to control yourself. Stop visiting so many junk sales and secondhand shops.”

  “Why?”

  She reached the top step. “You got yourself an addiction. Most women have it for shoes, purses, and men, but you’ve become a rubbish addict.”

  “Have not.”

  “What are ya doin’ with all this clutter?” she asked as she flailed her arms near the open door of the guest room.

  I hadn’t mentioned the money I owed my dad’s girlfriend. Since my vehicle had blown up at the Gas N’Biscuit last year, I was without wheels. And being in Beaufort, I needed transportation. Trudy had her eyes set on a Jeep Wrangler, and she had leapt at my IOU offer for her sweet yellow cabriolet. Only problem was that now I owed her a monthly check. I didn’t like being indebted to Dad’s arm candy, and the sooner I secured the title, the better. “This is a roomy house. Four bedrooms. I’m storing a few purchases until I fix them up and sell them.”

  She lifted a marled-green bronze urn out of a cardboard box, opened its lid, and sniffed. “Who buys burial urns?”

  “That’s not what it is. It’s Turkish.” In all honestly I wasn’t sure. Pointing to the base, I said, “Has a unique scrollwork-etched design. Some elbow grease and it will look great holding a bouquet of fresh flowers or a dried arrangement. Someone will pay good money for it.”

  She moved into the bathroom. “Fresh flowers. You didn’t even want to cut down swamp cabbage.”

  “Hacking down a tree is dangerous.”

  “Living with you is hazardous.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you stir up things.”

  “Nothing’s happened since…”

  She tilted her chin down and rolled her eyes up.

  “Is that why you’re working weekends? To avoid me?”

  “That’s not it. You know I got responsibilities at the firm.”

  I slunk away. “You’re an intern, not a partner.”

  She poked her head around the doorframe. “Ah, Rachael, don’t be all mopey,” her voice trailed. “Tell you what. Some of my coworkers are getting together for happy hour. Meet up with us at Nippy’s?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No one ever visits that gallery you sit in. You spend too much time sniffing paint and turpentine. Getting out with some adult company will do you good.”

  “But—”

  “As long as you dress your face and wear something other than denim and a t-shirt, you’ll pass for twenty-one.”

  Going out, meeting guys, was that cheating on Stone?The inner me sassed, Aren’t you confident. Wh
en is the last time you met a guy?My psyche was right. Stone had left me for his summer adventure. I had endured a long dry spell when it came to men; maybe it was time to throw my hat back in the ring.

  CONVERSATIONS WITH MY FATHER had a way of confusing me, and this one was no different. After we determined everything was fine, his health, my being settled in, and running the day to day at the art gallery, I’d mentioned the yard sale find I thought was an Edward Hicks.

  There was a pause. “Hicks’s work is in major museums up and down the coast. It’s highly unlikely that you found an original.”

  “It’s a scene of farm animals with lions.”

  “Calmness and peace was what he chose to personify. But the chances.”

  “Hicks was known for making variations of paintings, using the same elements and symbols in a slightly different setting. So there’s a possibility.”

  “Take a Polaroid of the front and back and mail them to me.”

  He didn’t seem overly enthusiastic.

  “Are you sure everything’s all right? GG and Edmond, they’re okay?”

  “Yes, they’re good. Edmond swears this summer’s beefsteak tomatoes are going to be blue ribbon winners at the Canton Summer Fair, and your grandmother is on a trip to New York, visiting some friends and attending auctions.”

  “And Aunt Gert.”

  “I was over there the other day. She had a leaky pipe under her sink that I replaced. Good as new.”

  “Same here. Hodge is still working on ours.”

  “Hodge?”

  “I thought I mentioned him. He’s the grounds keeper, fix-it guy. Lives in a cottage on the far end of the property.”

  “I’m glad there’s someone around to look after you and Francine. I didn’t like the idea of you two being alone in a strange town.”

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere. It’s quiet.” At least it had been since the garden shed body thing. Since the police hadn’t found anything, and there hadn’t been any unusual occurrences, I didn’t worry Dad with the story. Besides, Francine had dropped it. Said if we kept talking about it, it would encourage bad energy. Wanting her to stay put for the summer, I avoided dredging the topic up.

  There was a gap in the conversation, and out of obligation, I asked about Dad’s aerobic-instructor girlfriend whose body and brain had the elasticity of chewing gum. “How’s Trudy?”

  “Everything was fine until a few days ago. She began acting…different.”

  Why did I ask?“Maybe she strained a glute or broke a thigh band. One of those snaps midcrunch and you can do yourself a mischief.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I think there’s something she’s not telling me.”

  “She’s not one to hold back information.” Her head was like a colander and thoughts just seeped out. “Maybe she’s under the weather.”

  “I wondered if it was womanly.”

  “Oh gee, look at the time. I’m meeting Francine in town for a get-together.”

  After abrupt good-byes and hanging up the phone, I sat at the rustic cypress wood kitchen island and massaged Crest toothpaste on the urn while I willed some sort of breeze to blow in off the water. Kept company by a cicada hum, I wondered if I was destined to be one of those eccentric types who spent their days fixing up trinkets from strangers’ lives, substituting the journey inanimate objects had taken for their own. Surely the urn had more interesting summers than the one I was living. I’d rather have been at the beach, frolicking in the waves, but I’d spent the afternoon sorting through my finds while Hodge tinkered on the repairs around the house.

  The doorbell’s springs, button, and decorative plate lay on a piece of newspaper in the entryway. He came into the kitchen to rinse off a greasy metal part. “You like making old stuff look new?”

  The animal oil painting I’d rescued rested against a sugar canister on a sorry-looking bench. “How’d you guess?”

  “I seen the way you look at the art in the house. Your head gets lost.”

  “It’s a curse. The brush strokes, the layers, and the colors of paint lure my eyeballs.”

  “Mr. Larkin sure has a lot of fancy pictures.”

  “Must go along with the territory of being an art gallery owner. I guess he can’t resist keeping his favorites in his home.”

  “I’d say so, miss.”

  “Hodge, you can call me Rachael.”

  “Yes, Miss Rachael.”

  I scowled until I noticed the corners of his mouth curl in a smile and the sparkle in his eye.

  “It’s Saturday. Why are you working?”

  “Been meaning to get this bell chiming. It won’t take no time at all. Then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Big plans?”

  “Me and da fellas fish nearly every Saturday afternoon.”

  “Fishing? Out back?”

  Hodge stared at me a beat, making me think I had food in my teeth or mascara raccoon eyes. “Naw, we got us some secret spots.”

  “Where?”

  “Now, if I told ya, they wouldn’t be secret. Best not tell anybody or word’ll git round.”

  As I concentrated on polishing, Hodge reassembled the doorbell, and when he pressed the button, it kind of hummed, like a bug being zapped in one of those electric insect killers. “Reckon I need a new unit,” he said and slipped out the front door.

  Growing shadows from the moss-curtained oaks spilled into the kitchen, cooling the skin behind my knees and at the nape of my neck. This summer had started on a sour note with the “shed sighting,” and now, unless I was being overly sensitive, which I wasn’t, it seemed Francine was avoiding the house and me. There’d even been a few nights that I’d fallen asleep before she came home, and when I awoke in the morning, she was already gone.

  I tried not to take her absence personally, but it had become difficult. One thing was for sure: I was glad I hadn’t chosen to pursue a law degree. I admired that she was driven, but my roommate didn’t have a life outside the law firm. My plan for a summer-to-remember, palling around with her, exploring beaches and local festivals, and maybe browsing a few flea markets together was not happening. And to make matters worse, Stone, my on-again, off-again was on hiatus with the ICUN, the International Union for Conservation of Nature, saving something feathered in some South American country for most of the summer. He said he’d write, but so far the only correspondence I received was a tattered, nothing special sunset postcard marked Asunción with a water-stained message too faded to read. To get my time off from school back on track, I needed to have a heart-to-heart with Francine and schedule some summer fun or find some new friends.

  I checked my Swatch. It was nearly four. Did she really want me to join her at Nippy’s? Her invitation didn’t seem overly sincere. Then again, what else did I have going on? While pondering if I needed to change my clothes, a figure by the water caught my eye. A black woman in a henna design cotton dress that touched the knees of a pair of coordinating clam diggers bent down to pick up a rock or a shell that she placed in a basket. I watched as she moved along the reeds and marsh grass at the water’s edge and I wondered, did Hodge have a lady friend?

  Scurrying toward the dining room, I peered out a side window. His white Chevy was gone. The island was remote, not the kind of place where people strolled across your property. I moved to the screen porch where the late afternoon hung still. The woman continued along the berm between the cattails and water, and as she approached the worn pier, she bent down to inspect something. A salty, brine-infused breeze kissed my face as it swept off the tidal wetland. Pulling the unlatched screen door open, I listened to the rusted hinge groan discontent before it clanked shut. The stranger turned around and motioned a friendly flick of the wrist before disappearing into the thicket on the property’s far edge.

  NOTE TO SELF

  Hodge tinkers more than fixes. At least someone is around to keep me company.

  Not sure why Francine is all obsessed with her internship. I mean what could be so interesting
at the office?

  CHAPTER 4

  Can’t Rightly Say

  Inside Nippy’s I walked through a cloud of cigarette smoke so Francine wouldn’t notice the stench from the one I’d smoked in the car on the way over.

  “Rachael. Wasn’t sure you were coming.”

  “I had trouble finding a parking spot. Ended up a few blocks away.”

  Sitting on a bar stool at a corner table surrounded by casually attired business types, Francine gave me a once-over. Leaning into my ear, she asked, “Did you remember to shower today?”

  “Francine!”

  She raised my left hand near her face. “What’s the white goop under your nails?”

  “Crest.”

  “Lose your toothbrush?”

  “How many have you had?”

  A stick-thin guy, early twenties with alabaster skin and round-rimmed, John Lennon glasses tried to hide the head-to-toe once-over he gave me by pushing his specs up the bridge of his nose.

  Voices inside the corner bar that had been converted from a cottage home boomed with laughter. I had some catching up to do.

  Francine clanked her drink to the one held by the twig man who checked out my chest, waist, and hip dimensions.

  “We’re celebrating. All the audit prep work is finished.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Only just.”

  Francine’s friend from the office set down a bottle of Bud and introduced himself, stretching a hand out. “Campbell Blatt the Third. And you are?”

  Francine really had to stop bragging about me. “Francine’s roommate.”

  “Nice to meet you, Francine’s roommate.”

  “Tee-hee,” Francine snickered. “This is Rachael. She’s an art buff and has a boyfriend.”

  I didn’t know whether to be grateful or miffed at her comment. If I continued to hang around her, I would have no trouble keeping men away.

  “What brings an art buff to Beaufort?”

  “I’m managing the Larkin Gallery for the summer.”

  “And, I hear, staying at the Larkin place. It’s said to be haunted, you know.”