Popcorn Thief

by Cutter, Leah

  Darryl nodded.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Franklin said. “Maybe Gloria’s trying to get Karl arrested. I’m wondering now—is that thing going after him next?”

  “Shit, I don’t know,” Darryl said. “You want to go to his farm?”

  Franklin hesitated. It was late, now. He and Karl had never been friends, just competitors. “I’ll stop by there tomorrow,” Franklin said slowly. He’d learned in high school to leave Karl alone—he was a skinny white boy, but fast with his fists, and faster to take insult.

  There wasn’t a chance in hell that Karl would believe Franklin that there might be some crazed spirit coming after him, or that he had a ghostly protector. But somehow, Franklin was going to have to convince him otherwise.

  Chapter Six

  FRANKLIN STARED AT THE SHERIFF. “Are you sure, sir?” He shifted on the hard green-vinyl chair in front of the sheriff’s desk. All the long slatted blinds were pulled, hiding the clear day outside. Nothing was out of place: Every paper was filed, all the pens were neatly lined up in the cup on the sheriff’s desk, and even the file folders were color coded.

  “That’s what the coroner told me. Lexine was killed by someone. The scratches and gouges and like that—most of those were post-mortem.” Sheriff Thompson paused. “We’d like a set of your fingerprints. We already have Darryl’s.”

  It didn’t surprise Franklin that Darryl was in the system.

  “Why?” Franklin asked, uncertain. He hadn’t killed Lexine. And while his prints were certain to be in the cabin—he’d visited there more than once—so were most of the family’s.

  “The killer left behind his handprint around Lexine’s neck,” the sheriff said. “It would just be to rule you out as a suspect.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Franklin said. “And why don’t you compare the handprint to that businessman? Earl Jackson? Didn’t he do it?”

  “We’re still investigating,” the sheriff said. He glared at Franklin. “I’d think you’d want to be cleared.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Franklin repeated. “And I don’t want my prints in the system.”

  Shit. He shouldn’t have said that.

  “Why not?” Sheriff Thompson asked. “What are you trying to hide?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Franklin said. Fresh sweat broke out all across his shoulders. “I’ve always tried to steer clear of the law. You don’t really need my prints. You just want ’em.”

  The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what your cousin’s been telling you, and I don’t care what you’ve seen on TV. I’m not out to get you, or to make up something against you.”

  “Then why do you need my prints? Really?” Franklin insisted. “Because if she was killed by something human, it had to be Jackson.”

  “There’s all that corn,” the sheriff pointed out.

  “So take a cob from my field and compare it,” Franklin said.

  “Karl Metzger accuses you of stealing his crop. He thinks your fingerprints will be all over those cobs,” Sheriff Thompson said, staring right at Franklin.

  “I didn’t steal those cobs,” Franklin said adamantly. At least he knew he was telling the truth about that.

  “Then who did?”

  Franklin wasn’t gonna tell the sheriff about Gloria. “Don’t know,” he lied. “But it wasn’t me. And you got no cause asking for my prints. Not unless Karl files a complaint. And he has no proof, ’cause I didn’t do it.”

  “I’m going to find something, you know,” the sheriff said. “Just be warned. And when I do, I’ll get a court order, and I’ll haul your ass out of that grocery store in front of everyone to get your prints.”

  “Then that’s just what you’ll have to do,” Franklin said, stubbornly. “Because I didn’t do it, I wasn’t there, and I don’t want you to have my prints just to satisfy your suspicion. Sir.”

  “I’d have thought you’d be the smart one in your family,” the sheriff said as he leaned forward. He folded his hands and stared at Franklin from across the desk. “I think you’re hiding something. I don’t know what. I don’t buy the gossip about ghosts or your family’s history. I think you’re touched, and not in a good way. And I keep wondering when you’ll snap and kill someone.”

  “I didn’t kill Lexine,” Franklin repeated.

  “So you keep saying,” Sheriff Thompson said. “But we’re still investigating.”

  “What about Billy?” Franklin asked. They didn’t want his prints for something to do with him, did they?

  “Who?”

  “The tramp out in the woods.”

  “William Blake was his full name. Seemed his parents had a sense of foresight,” the sheriff said.

  “Huh?” Franklin asked, confused.

  “Named him after a crazy poet. Seems like they were prophetic, as he ended up just as crazy, always hearing voices.”

  “So he was special,” Franklin said. Like me. Like Lexine. Like Adrianna.

  “No, just crazy.” Sheriff Thompson stroked his mustache, thinking. “I can’t compel you for your prints. But I think it’d be smart to volunteer them.”

  Franklin shook his head. “No sir, I don’t think it’d be smart at all.”

  The silence stretched on between them, anticipation growing in Franklin, like waiting for that first kernel of corn to pop after heating up the lard.

  “Can I go?” Franklin finally asked when it seemed the sheriff wasn’t going to say anything, ever.

  “Yeah, you can. But I’ve got my eye on you,” the sheriff warned. “Any funny stuff going on, and I’ll know about it.”

  “I can believe it, sir,” Franklin said as he stood and started walking toward the door.

  “Want to tell me why Darryl had rock salt in his rounds?” Sheriff Thompson asked when Franklin reached the door.

  “You won’t believe me,” Franklin said.

  “Try me.”

  “We was hunting the thing that made the scratches. The gouges in Lexine’s body. That we’d thought killed Lexine.”

  “You’re right, I don’t believe you,” the sheriff said.

  Franklin paused for another moment, but nothing more was coming from the sheriff. He let himself out, but didn’t breathe easily again until he’d left the building, and was walking his bike down Main Street, to the Kroger.

  Should he have told the sheriff he’d been at the cabin that day? It felt like it was too late now for him to say anything.

  It didn’t matter. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

  All he had to do was convince the sheriff of that.

  * * *

  Franklin rode wearily from the Kroger, across town, to Karl Metzger’s house. Traffic was surprisingly heavy for a Tuesday afternoon. He didn’t want to talk with Karl, but he had no choice. The afternoon’s heat pressed against Franklin, making his uniform scratch across his back. Four semis passed Franklin on the highway, almost blowing him off the road, making his arms shake and his heart fall down into his belly with fear.

  As Franklin expected, Gloria stood waiting for him at the bottom of the driveway up to Karl’s house. She glared at him, her arms crossed tightly across her ample bosom, her blond curls shiny in the late afternoon sunshine.

  Karl’s crops were growing well. The corn was tasseled and gleaming. Franklin suspected that Karl’s crop would give him a run for the money yet again this year. But Franklin’s crop was coming in earlier that year than Karl’s, so he’d have more time to experiment with drying the cobs in the oven, getting each kernel to the perfect consistency.

  The big old black Chevy still sat in the driveway near the house, only this time with the hood raised. Karl was nearly bent in two, reaching for something inside.

  Franklin got off his bike and walked over to the side of the car. And waited. Karl didn’t pause what he was doing or look up. Maybe Karl didn’t know Franklin was there? Franklin cleared his throat.

  “I seen you already, coming up the drive,” Karl commented, still only showing Fra
nklin his backside. “Just a sec.”

  Franklin waited, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. He didn’t see Gloria, though she’d walked with him up to the car. Karl’s vegetables were doing better than Lexine’s. What was his secret?

  “Knew you’d be coming up here sooner or later,” Karl said as he finally finished with his adjustments. He picked up a greasy rag sitting on the edge of the hood to wipe his hands.

  Karl was still as skinny as he’d been in high school, but Franklin could also see the muscles along his arms, under his black T-shirt. His blue eyes blazed underneath his brown bushy eyebrows. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, something new since high school, and his long brown hair tied back. Though Darryl was a hick, Karl was the perfect image of a good ol’ boy.

  “Look, I’m sorry about the cops,” Franklin said. “I didn’t mean for them to come bothering you.”

  “They wasn’t a bother. I was able to show ’em what you—or someone you’ve hired—has been doing to my crop.”

  “What do you mean?” Franklin asked. “What has someone been doing?” Was Gloria doing more than just stealing Karl’s corn? Was this spirit also doing something?

  “I’ll show you. Come on.” Karl walked up to the house and Franklin followed.

  The front hallway had a thick bristle mat that Karl used to clean off the bottoms of his shoes. He pointed to it when he finished, expecting Franklin to do the same. Franklin scuffed his shoes against the rug, exasperated. What did Karl think Franklin had on the bottom of his shoes?

  Rich brown hardwood floors led from the entranceway. A steep staircase was on the left. Karl walked past it, down a closed-in hall, to the dining room.

  Franklin paused in the doorway. Blue ribbons from the Kentucky State Fair covered the wooden sideboard. Franklin felt sick. He’d been happy to win just a single prize. Karl had dozens and dozens. Rage boiled through Franklin, but he tamped down on it. Wouldn’t do no one no good for him to start yelling.

  An antique table made of light wood sat in the center of the room. Karl walked around the table and pointed to the corner. Franklin followed, keeping his distance.

  A stack of corn cobs lay there, maybe two dozen.

  “Every day or so, your thief adds another cob to the pile,” Karl said sourly.

  “Karl, I ain’t been doing this,” Franklin said angrily. He walked over to the stacked corn and picked up a cob, peeling back a bit of the husk. It wasn’t ripe, which was a shame. The kernels had grown so straight and firm. It would have been good popping corn, if it’d been allowed to mature.

  Franklin didn’t let himself smile at the thought that maybe Karl was losing the best of his crop. Franklin didn’t want to win because Karl wasn’t showing his best at the fair.

  Gloria appeared just behind Karl’s shoulder, looking longingly at him.

  “Did you ever know someone named Gloria?” Franklin asked.

  “Who?” Karl asked, confused.

  “Gloria,” Franklin repeated.

  Karl shook his head, his face blank.

  Oh hell. Did Gloria just love Karl from afar? Did they not even know each other? This was gonna get real ugly. How the hell was he supposed to resolve a love affair that hadn’t even been real?

  “Karl, think,” Franklin said, impatient. “Pretty black woman, dyed blond hair—curled—red nails and lips?” Franklin wasn’t about to mention how Gloria was dressed.

  Karl looked down at the ground. “She cut my hair,” he said quietly. “At your mama’s salon.”

  Franklin hadn’t ever met Gloria, which meant she’d started sometime after Mama had died and Franklin had stopped going to the salon. “Did you two go out?”

  Karl shook his head. “But I wanted to ask her out. I was planning on it. Had bought the tickets to the opera house and everything. Then she got herself killed in that bus crash on the Interstate. You know, last week? Week before?”

  “Is she mad at you, Karl?” Franklin asked.

  “She didn’t even know I existed,” Karl said with some heat. “So you can just forget about whatever you were about to say.”

  “She knew, Karl,” Franklin said. “She’s the one stealing your crop.”

  “Yeah, right, pull the other one.” When Franklin didn’t smile or laugh, but continued to look serious, Karl said, “All right. That’s it. Leave.”

  “She’s trying to help you,” Franklin said as he headed toward the door. “I don’t know why she’s stealing your crop. But she ain’t trying to get revenge.”

  “Bullshit,” Karl said. “That’s all women know.”

  Gloria transferred her glare to Karl.

  “Shouldn’t have said that, Karl,” Franklin said.

  “I don’t believe in your ghosts. I think it’s you, or some kid you’ve hired to steal my corn. And I’m gonna prove it, too. I’m gonna get my shotgun, fill it with rock salt, and stay up all night in the corn field.”

  Gloria tipped her head back, opened her mouth, and howled. Just the sight of her raised all the hair on the back of Franklin’s neck. He was damned glad he couldn’t actually hear any noise: It likely would have broken a window or two.

  As far as Gloria was concerned, if Karl spent the night in his field, he’d get himself killed. Franklin remembered that silent watcher the one time he’d been in Karl’s field, the way it had set his back up. Was there something waiting for Karl out in his fields?

  Something deadly?

  And there was nothing Franklin could do about it.

  * * *

  After leaving Karl’s place, Franklin rode back into town, straight to the Sorrels’ house. He knew he had to call on them before he could go home. There was still a bit of light in the sky, with the high clouds shining pink and purple.

  Kids played in the yards and didn’t pay Franklin any heed as he rode by. Neighbors talked to each other. It seemed like a perfectly normal summer evening.

  But Franklin felt far from normal. Lexine was dead. That damn spirit was going after people he cared about—even Darryl, who he’d figured would be destroyed by alcohol, not some spirit.

  How could Franklin protect them? He didn’t know if the shots filled with rock salt would work. Would they just anger the spirit? Maybe make it stronger?

  It was evil. Maybe he should talk with Preacher Sinclair about fighting evil, though he’d probably just tell Franklin to go read his bible.

  Franklin sighed. He missed Mama at times like this. She’d have known what to do.

  No new art hung out front on the Sorrel’s fence. Franklin wondered if they’d been outside the yard at all since the attack. He rang the doorbell on the fence. The chime had changed: instead of a regular ding-dong, now it rang like church bells.

  Ray opened the gate door after just a bit. “Franklin, good to see you,” he said, reaching out and shaking Franklin’s hand. “I’m sorry for your loss. Come on in.”

  Inside the fence, three more twisting white-rock roads had been added since Franklin’s last visit. They led from various parts of the yard to the tree men. “Adrianna’s insistent on giving them more power,” Ray said quietly.

  It looked like a spider’s web painted by a child.

  “Franklin!” Adrianna called from where she was seated. “Come and have some sweet tea.”

  It looked like she was having a late-night dinner, seated on a blanket under her tree men statues.

  Except that next to her was a camp stove that looked as though it had been set up for days, now. Three wooden shelves, supported by cinder blocks and covered with pots, pans, and dishes stretched on the other side. Even a suitcase filled with clothes lay open in the camp.

  “Hey Miss Adrianna,” Franklin said, coming over to sit beside her. “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s so lovely here! And Ray is doing everything he can to help. Aren’t you, dear?”

  Ray gave his indulgent smile, though even Franklin could see it was strained. “Yep. Anything for my girl.”

  “I’m
so sorry to hear about your cousin,” Adrianna said after she handed Franklin a tall cup filled with ice and sweet tea.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Franklin said. “It’s a great loss.” It still made his heart hurt to think about it.

  “Was it that creature that killed her?” Ray asked.

  “The police think she was killed by a man. Maybe the businessman she was found with. But the creature was there too. Scratched her and the businessman all up.” Franklin didn’t bother to mention his own troubles with the police.

  “I had lunch with Earl while he was here,” Ray admitted.

  “Do the cops know?” Franklin asked, concerned. What would Sheriff Thompson say if he came over here and saw Adrianna’s nest?

  “Yeah, they called, and I went in to give a statement.” Ray sighed. “I don’t think Earl killed Lexine, though. He was a business acquaintance of mine.”

  “What was he doing here?” Franklin asked.

  “Looking to set up a high-powered retreat. Not a resort, not like what tourists would use. But a place to escape from everything. Really high priced, too. It would have been a great success,” Ray said. “Earl came out here to see if the economy could support it, how much would have to be flown in, how much could a resort tend to itself.”

  “Ray—was Earl special? In any way?” Franklin asked. “Like Miss Adrianna?”

  “Not that I know of, no,” Ray said, shaking his head. “But he did have a nose for making money. That man lost and made more fortunes than most people can even dream about.”

  “There’s more to life than just money,” Adrianna said solemnly.

  “Unless you don’t have enough,” Ray pointed out gently. “Anyway. I figure he went out to Lexine’s to see about buying some of her land.”

  “Lexine would never have sold,” Franklin said.

  “Not even for a pot full of money? I mean, a seriously stupid amount?” Ray asked.

  “Miss Adrianna, would you move from here?” Franklin turned and asked. “Away from your power lines and this nest?”

  “Not for any amount of money. Not now that I’ve settled in and can see everything.” Adrianna sighed. “I hate to say it, but I think that creature’s awful attack was useful. I didn’t see as well before as I do now.”