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

by Paisley Ray

  The officer in front of us didn’t seem bothered by the scene outside.

  “You found Buell hanging in your shed, we found Buell in the Bull River. To get to where we found him, the body had to be dumped a ways upstream from there. If you girls didn’t do it, then Hodge did.”

  “What are you talking about?” Trudy asked.

  “You had the deputy and the fire station come to the shed for a dead body. That rules you and your black friend out, unless you two are criminal masterminds, and Wilkes says you’re not.”

  Trudy’s gob gaped wide.

  “Everyone tried to convince Francine and me that we were seeing things.”

  In a clearing to the side of the roundabout driveway, two of the officers held boots on Hodge’s back while another answered a radio call.

  I’d met deranged types and hadn’t categorized Hodge under that umbrella. He seemed easygoing, eager, but not such a brilliant handyman. I’d missed the signals there. “How’d you link the crime to Hodge?”

  The officer rocked on his heels. “Officer Wilkes figures you disturbed Hodge in the act. Playing it cool, he came to you in the house after giving you a flat tire. When he went for his car, he must’ve sneaked back to the shed and packed Buell in the trunk of his Cavalier. Body must’ve been there when you showed up at the fire station. Seeing as you and your friend rode back to the house with the boys, we’re guessing Hodge took the opportunity to dump the corpse in the Coosaw River. The rising tides with the full moon probably washed it from its original position into the Bull River bank. Some fisherman called in the grisly sightin’ tangled in the reeds.”

  I remembered how Hodge’s car had bumped and clunked down the road in the rain. “We hitched a ride with a killer, with the kill in the trunk?”

  “Oh Rachael,” Trudy squeaked. “You’re lucky he didn’t bump off you and Francine before tossing you two somewhere remote.”

  I watched a swift kick connect with Hodge’s side. Last I saw of him was when he was shoved into the backseat of the blue-and-white patrol car.

  “Why’d he do it?” I asked.

  “Who cares why? But don’t you worry, we’ll get it outta him, miss. We always do.”

  THE FRONT DOOR OF the Larkin Gallery swung open. Removing her black plastic sunglasses with oversized lenses and gold-studded design that tucked behind her ears, Francine said, “O’Brien, what’s so important that I had to rush on over here?”

  “The police were at the house with an arrest warrant.”

  She slid her glasses on top of her head. “Who’d they arrest?”

  “Guess.”

  “Well, I can eliminate you, I suppose.”

  “Francine!”

  “Your mother, for stealing my sausage.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No. The arrest was for murder. That body they found was ID’d.”

  “Was it now?”

  She acted so coy.

  The chime on the door rang. “Fran, I got your message and hurried on over. Rachael, what’s going on?”

  “Campbell. I see you were able to slip out of the office. Copy machine broken?” I asked.

  “Just git the lips flapping and tell us your scoop,” he said.

  I considered Francine’s coworker a third wheel and was tempted to keep my mouth shut until she and I were alone, but Trudy had left for Ohio, and since the police had booked Hodge, I wanted my roommate to move back in. Eyeing Campbell, I realized I’d underestimated him. The way he dressed so clean-shaven and put together, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve guessed he was gay. I’d never seen an ounce of perspiration on the man, and he always smelled like sweet cake icing. Anyone that finicky about personal hygiene had to be hiding something. “The man killed was Buell Blake. Hodge was arrested for the murder.”

  The two shared a knowing look.

  “Buell was the fellow hanging in the shed,” Francine said.

  “I’m guessing so.”

  “Blake,” Campbell said with a head nod.

  “Yeah, Buell Blake. That’s what one of the policemen said.”

  “That name ring a bell, Fran?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Would you two stop talking in code? If you’re gonna say something, say it.”

  “Remember that lawsuit case that Campbell and I may have glanced at?”

  “No. I mean you two glance at lots of cases, right?”

  “The one our firm was considering that revolved around ‘heirs’ property’ that went up for sheriff’s sale on Lady’s Island land?”

  “What does this have to do with them?”

  Campbell leaned on the counter that held the cash register. “The papers were signed around the time Buell escaped from prison, and now there’s a big hoo-ha on whether the transaction was legit.”

  “Did Hickley, Smith and Brisby take the case?” I asked.

  Francine shook her head, and Campbell said, “Last we heard. No.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “My guess, the plaintiff has a weak argument or they don’t have the funds to pay the fees,” Francine said.

  “I’m guessing Hodge had a bone to pick with Buell for losing the land,” Campbell said.

  Not a brilliant handyman, but he didn’t seem the cold-blooded killer type.

  NOTE TO SELF

  Francine and Campbell still seem to be a thing. Wondering if she told him about her steady boyfriend from campus?

  Land and lynchings—the history lesson was lost on someone.

  CHAPTER 14

  A Faint Heart Never Stole a Watermelon

  One of the local basket weavers, Ellsberry Simmons, whom I bought sweetgrass baskets from, told me about a new chapel. “The House of Refuge. Choir’s gonna be somethin’. Until the pastor builds a church, they using a big tent. Services are to be held on the highway that runs through the outskirts of Beaufort. You should stop on by.”

  “The only one that’s heard me sing is my car dashboard and the showerhead.”

  Her hand shooed imaginary flies. “Every voice is a gift from God. We’d love to have ya.”

  I wasn’t a singer, and I wasn’t interested in joining the congregation. Between the gallery and living with Francine, I had my hands full. It’s not that I wasn’t a believer. Many times I’d called for divine intervention, and more than once a stroke of luck had rescued me out of seemingly fatal predicaments. Scrunching my nose, I told Ellsberry, “I’m Catholic,” which usually sent most Bible-thumpers scurrying away.

  “That won’t bother the good Lord.”

  Ellsberry had business sense and salesman persistence, driving a hard bargain on her baskets. She used the most intricate designs, mixing dark and light fibers, with attention paid to the details. Since I’d been running the gallery, I sold her designs for a premium, and now she was my exclusive supplier. I handed her four hundred dollars for the latest inventory she’d dropped off. As she counted the twenties, she said, “Grand opening of a flea market this Saturday off Laurel Bay Road. Starts sunup.”

  Probably old household items, clothing, and the odd dodgy crockpot.

  She tucked the wad of bills into her bra. I didn’t think much of her invite and watched as she pushed her way out the door. Turning to me, she said, “Proceeds will fund the construction of the worship house. There’ll be food. Okra stew and the best gumbo in these parts.”

  “Gumbo? I thought that was a Louisiana creole thing. Isn’t it Lowcountry boil around here?”

  She shook her head. “Gumbo is West African. Been making it around these parts for a long time. You can buy ready-made stew and red rice. Or if you want to make your own, there’ll be a produce area selling spices, plums, peaches, watermelons, corn, tomatoes, the local catch, and boudin sausage.”

  “Maybe I’ll stop by.”

  Ellsberry winked and opened her umbrella she used for shade. “Sure enough.”

  THE DAY HAD BEEN a scorcher, and wrinkled tourists ducked in the air-conditioned gallery to escape the penetrating heat. After lunc
h, I sold the Turkish brass vase I’d cleaned up, and a few hours later a decorator bought the bench I’d sanded and stained for her client’s beach house. To reward myself, I closed up shop a little early and headed home with the top down. Driving across the swing bridge that crossed the Beaufort River, giddiness bubbled inside of me. Ignoring my turn onto Lady’s Island, I followed Frogmore Road. There were a couple of secondhand shops I hadn’t visited in a while, and I decided to stop by and browse before they closed.

  With some money toward my pay-Trudy-for-the-convertible-early fund weighing heavy in my pocket, I daydreamed of cutting the financial cord between us. But being Trudy-free wasn’t in the cards. I hadn’t heard the big baby news from Dad yet, but figured that by now she’d mustered the courage to drop the bundle-of-joy bomb. With her being pregs, there was no denying that she’d be a permanent fixture in Dad’s and my life.

  The owner of What’s Upstairs Thrift, Mabel Malory, was a boney southern blonde in her late sixties who had a penchant for a golden tan and bubble gum pink lipstick. Fast moving and fast talking, she held a second job as a cattle auctioneer on the first Saturday of each month. We’d exchanged pleasantries a few times, and I’d purchased the bench I’d resold from her.

  Without any particular items in mind, I wandered up and down the narrow aisles of metal shelves, glancing at a mishmash of costume jewelry, plastic Snoopy knickknacks, and stained doilies. Items weren’t arranged by material, use, or, as far as I could tell, in any kind of orderly system, and I doubted that she kept track on a piece of paper of what passed through the doors. Some people were like that. Being surrounded by material items made them safe, somehow comfortable, and they were in no hurry to declutter their lives. I figured she was the taxman’s nightmare.

  I scoured through picture frames and read the back of a Joan Collins paperback when a cut glass bud vase and a piece of clean-lined silverware caught my eye. I’d discovered some swamp lilies and thought the vase would complement them. Picking up the knife, I rolled it over in my hand. It felt heavy, solid; the clean, engraved lines were sleek. My thumb rubbed the intricate scale cap above a soft nut. It was an acorn, the same design Mr. Larkin had in his dining room drawer. This would complete the setting for twelve.

  “Near closing time,” Mabel said behind my back.

  I handed her the vase. The price tag said thirty dollars. “Will you take twenty?”

  “It’s good quality. No chips. I can do twenty-five.”

  I kept looking for more silverware and moved down the aisle. Holding the knife up, I asked, “What about this? It’s not priced.”

  “That’s the real deal. Unusual pattern. How many you got?”

  “Only a dinner knife. Are there more?”

  “Customers always moving things around.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “For you, fifty.”

  “For one?” I choked.

  “Darling, that there is real silver. See right here on the back, it’s stamped, ‘Sterling Denmark, Georg Jensen & Wendel A/S.’”

  “But it’s not a set.”

  She moved to a far corner of the shop where there was some secondhand furniture, a metal gas station sign, and a yellow painted bookshelf that was filled with more store bargains. Beneath a painting, she removed a serving spoon. “Here we are. Make a nice collection when you’re married someday.”

  “That’s not the same pattern. I’m looking for silver with the imbedded acorn.”

  Watching Mabel put the spoon on a shelf, an adrenaline rush that had ignited inside my chest shot into my brain. “That painting. How long have you had it?”

  “Few weeks, maybe a month.”

  Admiring the silver knife and vase I held, I steadied my voice. “It’s very southern.”

  “Civil War slave piece. Most like to forget. Takes a unique buyer to want that staring back from their living room wall.”

  “Kind of a guy thing. My dad still has his toy soldiers.”

  “You think he’d like this?”

  I shrugged. “His birthday is next month. How much?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “For everything?”

  “Now sugar, I gotta pay my bills.”

  I dug my hand into my pant pockets and thumbed the bills I’d made from selling the bench. “I can give you two-fifty for all of it.”

  She cracked her chewing gum in a series of rapid-fire pops then nodded.

  “Cash,” I said and counted out the tens before she raised the price.

  “Suppose you need a bag for all this?”

  “Naw, I’m headed home,” I said as I followed her to the door.

  “Thanks now.”

  Smiling, I asked, “Is this acorn-pattern piece from someone local?”

  “Why you want to know?”

  “When I save up, maybe I could buy more if they come up for sale.”

  She worked on snapping all the elasticity out of her gum, and I offered some help to jog her memory. “Was it a middle-age gypsy-looking woman with gray spiky hair?”

  Her voice softened. “It was a local. There’s no profit in questions. I don’t ask where they got it, just buy it. Finders keepers, you know.”

  Hodge?“A man?” I asked.

  “You sure are curious.”

  “It’s a quirk of mine. When I buy something old, I like to know about its provenance.”

  Mabel pulled down a shade on the inside of the glass door. “Between you and me, you might want to sprinkle some holy water on your purchases.”

  “Why?”

  “I bought them from a local witch doctor who speaks the native tongue.” As I processed what she said, she guided me out the door. “All them Gullah folk in the backwoods are a superstitious lot, and they go to her for spells and hexes. Silly fools. They think her magic can make someone fall in love, bring good luck, or ward off evil. Just the same, you can never be too careful, can you?”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Yikes, falsely accused Betts, again. I swore she was the common link. Even if I wanted to apologize, which I don’t, after the blowout I caused, I don’t know where to find Mom and her friend.

  Seems Rilda picked off some items from Mr. Larkin. Looks like I need to pay her a visit.

  CHAPTER 15

  Don’t What Me, I Ain’t a Light Bulb

  The Beaufort Library was a one-story brown-siding 1960s building on Craven Street. What it lacked in bookshelves, it made up for in cozy charm. Sitting across from Francine in the periodical section, I handed her a plastic bag. Inside was a cellophane package of Manda sausage. I swear a tear welled in the corner of her eye.

  “How’d you get this?” she whispered.

  “I cannot reveal my sources.”

  Turning her head sideways, she pulled her shoulders back, ready to interrogate, so I caved. “The House of Refuge flea market. A bunch of gumbo fanatic types were having a cook-off.”

  Setting the bag down on top of her purse, she said, “Tell me again why we’re meetin’ here.”

  The library volunteer from behind the circulation desk finished sorting books in a metal rolling cart. When she moved out of sight, I tiptoed over and reached behind the counter to unpin a calendar that was tucked underneath and adhered by a tack to a piece of corkboard. Sneaking back to where Francine was seated, I handed it to her.

  She inspected the cover. “Why you handing me a calendar?” She read the title. “1989 Beaufort Fire Fighters. Boots, hoses, and helmets.”

  “I checked out a book on the Vesey plot history and noticed this. You may recognize July.”

  As she rotated through the months, her eyes widened, and when she stopped flipping, she said, “That Forrest’s holdin’ more hose than’s decent!”

  Nearby, a gentleman wearing a twill driving cap peered over the New York Times newspaper he was reading. He tapped a finger on his hearing aid, grimaced at us, and then snapped the paper back in place.

  Francine squinted in his direction, and I worried that she was going to make a scene.

  �
�Look at that headline?”

  I twisted my head.

  She pointed. “Says there’s a ‘Bloody Coup in Paraguay.’ Ain’t that where Stone’s spending the summer?”

  My heart jumped. “Maybe. I don’t exactly know.”I got that postcard stamped Asunción.

  “How can you not know?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Lowering her eyes, she fanned through the months of the year a second time. “You done some good sleuthin’. About time you turned up somethin’ interesting. You talk to your daddy yet?”

  My lips tsked, “Yes.”

  “I ain’t got a month of Sundays. What he say?”

  “Said he had unexpected news and that Trudy was due.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I played along.”

  “Did ya now?”

  “Asked, due for what? An oil change?”

  Francine giggled. “Rachael O’Brien, you oughta be ashamed of yourself, toyin’ with your old man like that. That daddy of yours is no spring chicken. Putting a bun in the oven at his age. That’ll knock a few years off his ticker. I hope he consulted his doctor to see if his heart was healthy enough for sex.”

  “Francine!”

  “Oh well, too late now, you know what I’m sayin’.”

  “Unfortunately. I have other news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I verified the authenticity of Surrender, the painting.”

  “The one you been tearing up the house to find?”

  I nodded. “And the Edward Hicks animal scene.”

  “The kiddie print you picked up in that junk shop?” She closed the calendar and made a point of rolling her eyes. “It’s not right searching through front yard trash.”

  “They were selling and I was buying. It was a fair deal.”

  “How much they worth?”

  I had trouble holding in my glee. “Officer Wilkes tracked down Mr. Larkin in the Scottish Highlands to tell him everything that had happened. He called to check on me.”

  “About time. I wondered if there even was a real Mr. Larkin. I imagine he was none too pleased to find out that his caretaker was a murderer. Probably glad he was outta the country or he could’ve gotten a clobber on the back of the head and found himself strung up like a curing pig.”