by Nene Adams
“Fine. But there’s no need to speak to me that way.”
Mackenzie bit her tongue and tried her best to seem repentant.
At last, Sarah Grace nodded. “Don’t do it again.”
“Yes Mama.”
Sarah Grace let her stew for five long minutes. Mackenzie drank half her iced tea and thought about crunching an ice cube between her teeth, but that would be too cruel.
“Needless to say,” Sarah Grace said when she deemed Mackenzie had learned her lesson, “the whole thing with Ann ended in tears. Ann’s parents forbade her to see the boy. They got the sheriff, who at the time was Mrs. Coffin’s brother-in-law, to run him out of town. I heard a couple of deputies beat him up pretty bad and drove him over the county line. It wasn’t right, but that’s how things were done back then. To my knowledge, nobody from Antioch ever laid eyes on Ann’s young man again.”
“How’d Annabel take it?”
“About how you’d expect. She swore she’d run away and find him, but nobody believed her. Young girls make big talk sometimes. Doesn’t mean anything. After he was tossed out of town, everybody figured she’d get over him and take up with Frankie Follett again, but instead, she disappeared one night.”
Mackenzie’s interest was piqued. “Did she run away? When did it happen?”
“Oh, a few weeks after graduation. She ran away, all right. Everybody assumed Ann had gone after her no good boyfriend.” Sarah Grace’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “She’d been pining, poor girl. The night she ran away, she looked pale as death and sick as a dog. I know because I overheard Mrs. Coffin talking to my mother in church. My mama would have smacked me senseless for eavesdropping if she’d known.”
Sarah Grace fell silent, her gaze far away. Mackenzie joined her mother in reflecting on Grandma Maynard—a dainty,soft-spoken, iron-willed, terribly frightening woman who’d ruled like a despot over her brothers, her husband and her children.
Sarah Grace roused herself. “Mrs. Coffin said that Ann packed a suitcase and must’ve climbed out her bedroom window in the middle of the night. Nobody saw her leave town and nobody ever saw her after that either. She might as well have dropped off the face of the earth. And then, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Coffin died in a terrible car accident later in the year. Drunk driving, so they said, him being a little too fond of the bottle. In all the fuss with the double funeral and such, I suppose Ann and that boyfriend of hers were forgotten.”
“Did the Coffins have other children?”
“No, Ann was an only child. Maybe that’s why she was so willful. Spoiled, I should say. Her father’s princess, her mother’s despair.”
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to let Cousin Jimmy know everything you told me, Mama. If you remember anything else—”
“When you get to be my age, the past comes to mind more easily than the present,” Sarah Grace said, pushing back her chair and standing. “I’ll think on it some more. Are you done with your tea?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but took both glasses to the sink. “By the by,” she remarked over her shoulder, “your aunt Ida Love is having hip replacement surgery on Saturday at the hospital in Trinity. I want to visit her and I want you to go with me some time.” The statement came out in the familiar steely voice that brooked no arguments.
“Yes Mama.”
“Ida Love used to babysit for us when you were a little girl and your daddy and I went out for an evening at the drive-in. She took you to the county fair, too, and on that trip to Memphis that one time, so I expect you to be good to her, is that clear?”
Mackenzie recalled Aunt Ida Love’s fresh peach cake with fondness, as well as her generosity in buying fair treats like corn dogs, unlimited rides passes and extra tickets for the midway games. She agreed to drop by on Monday to pick up her mother for the trip to Trinity, gave her another kiss, and left the house.
In the car on the way back to town, she turned on the radio. The latest pop hit blared from the speakers. Grimacing, she turned down the volume.
A tunnel loomed ahead, a dark hole faced with faded brick, cutting over fifteen hundred feet through the squat bulk of Old Briar Hill. She flipped on the car’s headlights just before driving into the semidarkness, lit only by the openings at the entrance and exit.
Suddenly, a darker shadow flitted in front of the car. She gasped, her heart in her throat, automatically stomping on the brakes and jerking the wheel to one side. The bumper scraped along the tunnel wall, making a terrifying screeching noise before she managed to bring the car to a shuddering halt.
Mackenzie remained rooted to the spot, breathing hard, her hands fixed to the wheel in a white-knuckled grip.
After a while, the ticking of the cooling engine cut through her thundering heartbeat. She debated whether to get out of the car and survey the damage—and risk being hit by another car from behind—or drive out of the tunnel and off the road before stopping.
She opted to check now despite the danger. Something had jumped in front of her car. She hadn’t felt an impact, but that might have been masked when she scraped the bumper on the wall. If she had hit an animal, it could be lying in the road or under the car, injured or dying. The shadow had been too small for a deer. A rabbit maybe? Or a fox.
Weak in the knees, Mackenzie almost fell over getting out of the car. She quickly regained her balance and went to the front of the car. The bumper was scuffed, but that appeared to be the only damage. Thank God she drove her late father’s classic ’seventy-two Datsun 510. The vehicle might be a poor man’s BMW, but it was solid.
Both headlights still worked, illuminating an empty stretch of road. She glanced in every direction. No animal present, unless she’d grazed it. No, she decided a moment later, no blood on the asphalt either. But she could have sworn she’d seen…
An icy prickling swept from the nape of her neck to her breasts.
Mackenzie turned around to find a pair of cold black eyes staring at her.
Chapter Six
“Damn it!” Mackenzie exclaimed, sagging back against the car’s hood. All these frights were giving her a hell of a cardiac workout “You nearly got me killed, Annabel.”
I remember, Annabel whispered.
“You remember what?”
Him in the woodshed.
“Who? Your boyfriend? The one who looked like Marlon Brando?” Spotting a truck approaching from a distance, Mackenzie straightened. “Can you ride with me? Because I’m not about to be flattened and become a ghost myself.” She got into the car and carefully pulled out of the tunnel. After driving down the road about five minutes, she asked self-consciously, “Hey, are you there, Annabel?”
No answer.
Trying a second and third time yielded the same result—nothing. It occurred to her that just an hour or so ago she’d fled her apartment in a sweating terror because of Annabel, and now she was annoyed and worried that the ghost wasn’t responding to her calls.
On the way to her apartment, she passed Stubbs Park, an irregular and lush green triangle set across the street from the courthouse. The grass and trees looked cool and inviting. Acting on impulse, she made a U-turn, parked, dug in her pocket for change for the meter and walked into the park.
The clock on the cupola of the courthouse struck five. A few minutes later, a steady stream of office workers exited the buildings, most headed toward the parking garage two blocks away. No one entered the park and no one appeared to take any notice of her.
Mackenzie took a seat on the fountain’s cement rim and stayed a while, enjoying the chill, wet spray that sprinkled her skin every time the wind blew her way, bringing with it the smell of wisteria from vines trained across a trellis surrounding a nearby bandstand.
From her position, she had a good view of the police station if she turned her head. The place seemed quiet until the front door opened and a white-haired old man stumbled outside and down the steps, followed by a uniformed deputy.
She recognized Veronica Birdwell and sat up straighter. If it h
ad been anyone else, she’d have assumed the deputy shoved the man, but she knew Veronica would sooner strip off in public and dance the hoochie-coochie than harm a senior citizen.
Mackenzie left the fountain and walked over to the police station, arriving in time to hear Veronica speaking to the old man.
“Rev. Wyland, please go home,” Veronica pleaded. “If you need a ride, I’ll be happy to take you in the patrol car, but you can’t proselytize in the park, sir.”
Wyland gazed at her solemnly, his dignity intact. “My dear sister in the Lord,” he said in a rich, unctuous, cultivated baritone more suited to a politician than a preacher. “There are lost souls right now crying out to be saved. How can you expect me to pay no heed to the spiritual needs of my brothers and sisters? How can I deny them the good Word of God?”
“Reverend, I appreciate that you have a right to freedom of speech.” Veronica took a handkerchief out of a pouch on her duty belt and used it to wipe her sweaty face. She had clearly been debating with Wyland a while. “However, Sheriff Newberry wishes to remind you that by city statute, you may only practice your right of free speech in—”
“I know my rights, sister,” Wyland interrupted with a slight smile. “I know the laws as well. Thank you for the reminder.”
“If you continue breaking the law, I’ll have to arrest you on a public nuisance charge.”
“Then I will be a martyr for Jesus,” he replied without turning a hair.
“You will be booked, sir, and sit in the holding cell over the weekend, and on Monday, be brought before Judge Prescott for arraignment,” Veronica said, her tone dry. “Judge Prescott has to attend a microbrew tasting party hosted by her husband’s boss on Sunday. Her gout’s been acting up. She hates beer, but she’ll have to play nice. The judge won’t be in a pleasant mood come Monday morning. She might deny bail or set it at a million dollars. Who knows? However, Reverend, if you want to take a chance…” Her voice trailed off.
Wyland’s white eyebrows lowered. He appeared to ponder what Veronica had said, but Mackenzie read capitulation in the downward slant of his narrow shoulders. “Very well, sister. I understand you’re bound to render your duty unto Caesar—”
“I believe you mean Sheriff Newberry, sir,” Veronica interrupted with such an air of innocence, Wyland blinked.
“Be that as it may,” he continued after a moment, a touch of asperity entering his voice, “it is clear to me that neither you nor the sheriff have been born—”
“Beg pardon, sir, but that would be news to my mother.”
“Born again, Deputy. Baptized—”
“I was baptized, sir, some years ago in the Methodist faith.”
Wyland went on doggedly, “Baptized with the Holy Spirit. But I see that it is past time I return to tend my small flock. I will pray for you and the sheriff. Don’t forget, sister, it is written that the wicked will be held with the cords of his sin.”
“Thank you. Have a good day, Reverend,” Veronica replied politely.
Confronted by Veronica’s mask of bland sincerity, Wyland couldn’t take offense. He had no choice except to abandon the effort to intimidate her and make a stately retreat.
Veronica watched him go. She said to Mackenzie, “Rev. Wyland is very devout. A good man, I’m sure.”
“You just wish he’d go and be a good man somewhere else,” Mackenzie replied.
“Amen.” Veronica sighed, and finally turned to look at her. “Hey, Mac, did you need something? Detective Maynard’s out of the office but I can call him if its urgent.”
“No, that’s okay, Ronnie. He asked me to talk to my mama about the victim, which I did, but she didn’t tell me anything that can’t wait until tomorrow.” Mackenzie paused. Should she tell Veronica about the ghost of Annabel Coffin showing up? Better keep it to herself. No need to cast doubt on her sanity. Veronica was her friend, but the tale sounded far too fantastic to be believed.
“Well, I’d better get back to work.” Veronica hesitated. “Mac, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” she finally blurted.
For a split second, Mackenzie’s heart leaped with astonishment and joy. A moment later, reality struck like a punch to the gut. Veronica wasn’t asking her on a date.
She stood on the sidewalk, baking in the heat and coming to the bitter realization that Veronica had just wanted to ask her very best friend to their very first girls’ night out at a sit-down restaurant, goddamn it. She felt sick, but hid her disappointment. “Sure, Ronnie,” she replied with all the fake perkiness she could muster, manufacturing a smile until her jaw ached. “Where’d you like to go?”
Veronica flushed pinker to the tips of her ears. “Um…I thought…well, how about Swine Dining? That new place over by the railroad. You like barbeque, right? The Antioch Bee’s restaurant critic gave it a four-towelette review.”
“Sounds good to me,” Mackenzie replied, puzzled by Veronica’s anxious glances. What was going on? Was something wrong?
“They have fried pickles. You told me you liked fried pickles. Oh! And I called over there today to ask about the black bean cake on the menu, because I thought that sounded kind of odd, but it turns out the cake isn’t dessert. It’s like a vegetarian burger thing.”
“Are you okay?” Mackenzie ventured. “How’s everything?”
“Peachy,” Veronica said overly brightly. “I’ll pick you up in an hour. Is that all right?”
The bottom of Mackenzie’s stomach dropped out when Veronica touched her arm and then snatched her hand away and practically ran inside the station. The warm touch had felt good on her skin, like sunshine after a storm. Closing her eyes, she imagined how wonderful it would feel if Veronica offered her more than just a fleeting gesture. If Veronica hugged her, for example. Or kissed her, those soft pink lips parting under her mouth…
She crushed the fantasy before it could go any further.
Get over it, she told herself with a mental shake. Veronica wasn’t romantically interested in her, or any other woman for that matter. Ronnie is straight. Falling for a straight girl will only end in heartbreak. Besides, it’s just dinner, for cryin’ out loud. Don’t mean a thing except Ronnie’s hungry, craving smoked pig, and doesn’t want to eat alone.
Why did her perfectly good, perfectly logical reasoning seem like bullshit?
Chapter Seven
Following a lukewarm shower, Mackenzie tied back her flyaway hair with a red kerchief, put on a pair of khaki cargo pants and a sleeveless plaid shirt, added worn work boots and met Veronica outside her building when she drove up in a new Ford truck.
She opened the passenger side door and began climbing into the cab, only to stop and stare in bewilderment.
Veronica looked exceptionally smart in a navy blue, off the shoulder silk dress that seemed more suited to a cocktail party. A discreet string of pearls gleamed around her neck. She’d arranged her brunette hair in a smooth French twist and applied makeup with a subtle hand, just mascara, a smudge of eyeliner and a sheen of lip gloss. The style suited her.
Mackenzie glanced down at her own outfit, which at best might be described as hobo chic, and felt the lack of fashion keenly. “We’re still going to Swine Dining, right?”
“That’s right,” Veronica replied, giving her a smile. “Don’t forget to buckle up,” she added when Mackenzie sat down on the bench seat. “Safety first.”
“That’s a beautiful dress, Ronnie,” Mackenzie said when the truck pulled away from the curb. “The blue color suits you.”
“Thanks, Mac. I don’t get the chance to wear it often.”
Ah, that explains the fancy getup. Mackenzie relaxed slightly. Veronica was using their dinner as an opportunity to be a pretty woman for once instead of a sheriff’s deputy. Still, the contrast between her own careless, casual clothing and Veronica’s stunning dress and pearls made her feel as out of place as an atheist in church.
Swine Dining was housed in the former Antioch railway station, a modest, turn-of-the-century buil
ding that had remained unoccupied since the highway came to town in the fifties. To Mackenzie’s amusement, the owner had done some sympathetic restoration work on the exterior and then spoiled it by adding a huge neon sign in the shape of a bright red pig running away from a barbeque fork stuck in its rear end.
Mackenzie exited the truck and joined Veronica, who wobbled toward the restaurant. She soon discovered the reason for the unsteadiness: the parking lot was covered in a layer of gravel rather than asphalt and Veronica wore impractical high heeled shoes that made her legs seem longer and more luscious.
The dress hugged Veronica’s curves in flattering ways. Mackenzie’s mouth watered from more than the scents of burning pecan wood and barbequing pork and brisket wafting around the air on puffs of smoke. The low neckline exposed Veronica’s shoulders and chest down to the tops of her round breasts, as nice as Jo-Jo’s in quality, if not quantity.
Mackenzie took a moment for naked admiration before controlling herself. Letting Veronica see how much she’d love to throw her down on one of the parking lot picnic tables, rip off that navy blue dress, mess up that perfect hairdo and lick her all over would only make the evening awkward. She offered an arm to Veronica for support while they crossed the gravel expanse to the restaurant’s front door.
After being seated and placing an order for an appetizer platter and Snakehead Brown Ale, Veronica faltered. “It is nice, isn’t it?” she asked plaintively.
Mackenzie gazed around at the whitewashed walls hung with license plates, piggy collectibles, bizarre antique tools, vintage car parts and beer signs. “So far, so good,” she said, taking pity on Veronica, who appeared ill at ease.
The waitress returned soon, bearing bottles of ale and an oversized plate of fried pickles, burnt ends of brisket, hot wings drowning in sauce, chunks of house smoked sausage and fried green beans with blue cheese dip.
Thoughtfully trying a crunchy, tangy pickle, Mackenzie decided a restaurant like Swine Dining would be wasted on vegetarians and supermodels. The only salad she’d seen on the menu was composed of chopped iceberg lettuce with a fried green tomato on top.
