We drove for a while in silence before Dally nearly busted. “What the hell did we leave then for? Things were just heating up. That guy’s nuts.”
Mustard chimed in. “I was kind of wonderin’ about that myself.”
I was staring at the little strikes of snow. You could only see them in the headlights. I tried for the disingenuous. “You think he’s got something to do with Ginny McDonner’s disappearance?”
Dally shifted uncomfortably in between Mustard and me in the big old front seat of his truck. “Well, you’ve got to admit …” But upon reflection, she did not, as it turned out, know exactly what you had to admit.
I nodded. “He’s a lonely old guy.”
Mustard agreed. “He don’ mean nothin’ by all that … talkin’ to his dead wife an’ all.” He turned on his windshield wipers. “He’s all right.”
Dally didn’t want to let it go. “The guy practically tells us he’s the last one to see the kid, and he dotes on her in something of an unhealthy fashion …”
I nodded. “… the psychology of which is entirely understandable, what with his wife and baby dead and gone.”
She folded her arms. “Uh-huh. Plus, a guy sees a little kid playin’ in the middle of the road at midnight and he just sits there on his porch?”
Mustard spoke low. “We all try to mind our own business around here.”
I tapped Dally on the forearm. “Actually, I’m with you on the last point. The guy dotes on her in the aforementioned psychological fashion, how come he doesn’t say ‘Get out of the road’ or some such?” I looked back out at the snow. “Not to mention how come she was out there in the first place?”
Mustard caught on right away. “So I guess we ought to go talk to the actual parents of the child. They next down the road.”
Dally was nodding her head, thinking. “What was she doing out there that late?”
Mustard turned into a dirt drive not far down from Wicher’s and on the other side of the main road. There was only one light on at the McDonner place, upstairs. It was a farmhouse like a lot of others around, two stories, big wraparound porch with a swing — far as I could tell it was painted white.
Mustard pulled up nearly to the porch, turned off the engine, left the lights on, and just sat there.
Dally looked at him. “Well?”
He just stared at the upstairs window, where, I assumed, the McDonners were. Sure enough, after a moment or two the window opened and some old guy shoved his head out.
“Who’s that in the yard?”
Mustard rolled down his window. “It’s Mustard Abernathy, Mr. McDonner. Sorry to bother — I know ever’body been up all night an’ day, but some of them boys told us you’uns came on home to change clothes and get some coffee before you went back out — and this is kindly important.”
Mr. McDonner craned his neck. “Who’s with you?”
“It’s Sissy’s cousin Dally from Atlanta, an’ her friend Flap Tucker. He’s the man that’s goin’ to find Ginny.”
Silence. Then a voice in the room with him. Didn’t hear what she said.
He waved. “Be down directly.” He didn’t sound happy.
The window slammed shut. When the lights came on on the porch, Mustard turned off his headlights and we all piled out of the truck. The McDonners were there at the door to greet us.
She was shy and quiet. He was at least fifteen years her senior. Not exactly what you’d ever mistake for exuberant, but a little friendlier than Wicher.
He shook every hand, but his greeting was only slightly less hostile than Wicher’s. “Come on in the house. This here’s the wife, Maggie.”
She nodded and looked down.
We all went right into the kitchen, something of a breech of country protocol, I gathered.
The mister looked at my shoes. “So you’re goin’ to find my little girl, are you?”
I knew what he wanted to hear. “Yes I am.” Simple as that.
Dally made assurances. “He doesn’t often say that.”
McDonner sat at the kitchen table. “When does he say that?” Dripping doubt.
Dally smiled back sweetly. “When he means it. It’s a promise.”
Mrs. McDonner, right away accepting all my locational prowess, went straight to the heart of the matter. “Will she still be alive?”
I took my seat at the table across from Mr. McDonner; remained mute.
Mustard saved the day. “We just got to ask you both a few little questions, then we be on our way.”
Mrs. McDonner was already fixing coffee. She looked in the icebox. “You’uns want some pie?”
Her husband tried to smile. “Chocolate. Ginny’s favorite.”
Mrs. McDonner started to cry, but she turned away.
Mustard took his seat. “I could eat me a piece.”
Mr. McDonner looked at me. “The wife made it herself — it ain’t no store pie.”
“Then I’d better have some.” I smiled back at him, tried to ignore the gloom.
Dally was caught. She knew she was supposed to refuse pie and help serve, she was brought up in the rural South long enough to know what the rules were. But it just wasn’t remotely her world. She didn’t want to offend, but she didn’t want to play the game.
I looked at her. “Would you mind sharing my piece? I’m kind of full from Miss Nina’s.”
McDonner went right on, obviously trying for some sort of bizarre mountain take on the bon vivant. “Hear that’s some good eatin’ over there.” Then he looked at his wife, who was still sniffling, and his face clouded over again. “We never been.”
Dally slipped into a seat beside me. “I think I can help you out, big boy.” Nice smile. “Thanks.”
Mustard patted at me, working to lighten the Gothic atmosphere in the room. “He is going to be a big boy he keeps eatin’ like he done today.”
I gave him the eye. “Look who’s talking.”
Mr. McDonner knew we were avoiding the issue. He was tired and worried and I could see he was the kind of a guy that would never show me what he was thinking or feeling. He was a true-blue mountain-ite, or whatever you’d call it. That face would be a mask until the day he died. There in the kitchen, he just wanted to get on with it. “What you need to ask me?”
Dally popped the first question. “What was Ginny doing up so late the other night? Wicher next door saw her — and Mustard saw her a little after midnight — out on the main road.”
He looked over at his wife. She stopped what she was doing, still looking away from us to hide her tears.
Mustard urged them on. “I did see her.”
Mrs. McDonner answered, barely above a whisper. “She sleepwalks.”
Her husband nodded and made as to explain. “Walks in her sleep.”
She went on. “I usually wake up when I hear her get out of the bed, but that night I reckon I was just wore out. Didn’t hear nothin’ …”
He helped her out. “Ginny’s so quiet when she gets up.”
She went back to work fixing the coffee. “We didn’t even know she was gone till we woke up on account of hearin’ Abernathy’s truck in our yard.”
I nodded. “What time you all usually get up?”
He leaned forward, not looking at anything, very weary. “I usually try to be up by five this time of year.”
She wasn’t looking our way. “There’s so much to do.”
Mustard looked over to us. “Gettin’ the ground ready to plant, an’ all.”
McDonner nodded slowly. “It’s a lot to do.”
I looked at the tabletop. Nice old-timey Formica pattern. Reminded me of my great-grandmother’s farm. “So when Mustard called you all this morning …”
He understood. “… We’d already been up for a couple hours. Seen what happened to the corn patch. We thought it might had somethin’ to do with Ginny’s … bein’ gone.”
I shook my head. “How do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Sudden noise, got into ’er. Got her scare
d. I don’ know …”
She still didn’t look our way. “It really scared us.”
Mustard looked down. “Sorry.”
Mrs. McDonner smiled at him, wiped her face a little. “She walks in her sleep no matter what. You didn’t do nothin’.” Very kindly.
Dally piped up. “Now … if you’re just now getting ready to plant, how did Mustard ruin your corn patch?”
They all looked at her.
Mustard answered. “I didn’t explain that very good. It’s where they always do corn. It’s got the stalks and all stacked up in it — to plow under. He had it all set to do, an’ I messed it up. Tore up the dirt good, too, I reckon.”
Mr. McDonner shrugged. “It ain’t so bad.”
Dally looked at him. “But there’s no actual corn there now.”
McDonner shook his head. “Naw. You see outside right this minute why we don’ plant nothin’ this early. March. It’s liable to come up a snow or a ice storm.”
Dally, mostly to prove she really did understand this stuff, asserted her own agricultural prowess. “So you don’t plant until after Easter.”
Nods all around.
I cleared my throat. “Well … glad we got that straight, but what about Ginny?”
Mrs. McDonner looked at me, setting down a cup of coffee in front of Dally. “What about her?”
“Has she ever run off like this before — for instance?”
Both parents looked down. It was like a synchronized swimming event. Dally flashed me a gander. Once again I understood the mountain way: They’d never tell us everything. And they were proud of their ability to keep grief to a minimum.
I didn’t wait for verbal confirmation of my suspicions. Just went right on with the questions. “When was the last time?”
Ginny’s mother sighed in what I felt to be a significantly hefty manner, but made no other answer.
Mr. McDonner was left to explain in a very quiet voice. “Happens all the time, really. We just usually hear it, is all. Catch ’er before she’s out the house.”
Mustard was genuinely curious. “Whatchu reckon causes a little girl to walk in her sleep?”
Mrs. McDonner spoke like it was being ripped out of her. “Doctor says it’ll pass.” She looked at me. “She’s a real … active li’l thing.”
Himself nodded. “Don’t never want to sit still in the church.”
Mustard nodded sagely. “Wiggle-itis.”
So dumb it handed us all a laugh — which was the big boy’s intention. It was a good thing. Mrs. McDonner finished her coffee and pie service, patted Mustard on the shoulder. “You’re a mess.”
He went on. “Ain’t nothin’ to bein’ a doctor. All is you got to do is add a ‘itis’ to near ’bout anything. That’s what they call a diagnosis.”
Appreciative of the levity as I was, I pressed on. “So what happens? She usually wake up back in bed, or you have to wake her up, or what?”
Dally leaned in. “Always heard you weren’t supposed to wake up a sleepwalker.”
Mother shrugged. “Don’t seem to matter. Sometimes we call out her name and she just snaps right out of it. Sometimes it’s like she’s in a dreamland.”
I kept at it. “Take any medication?”
“Ginny? Naw.”
I caught it. “Do you?”
She nodded. “Can’t sleep sometimes. Doctor says it’s worry.”
But I could see her husband give her a look, and I could tell she was suddenly sorry she’d told me.
I looked back at the tabletop. “Take any last night?”
Her voice was far away. “Oh. I …”
Mr. McDonner was starting to get a little miffed with me, or what have you. “She needs her rest.”
I nodded heartily. “Right.”
He charged right ahead. “I didn’t hear Ginny get up neither, an’ I didn’t take no medicine.”
Mustard stepped in. “He don’t mean nothin’ by it, Mr. McDonner. He just needs to know ever’thing. Tha’s how he works.”
Mr. McDonner was a little agitated by now. “Well, I don’t b’lieve I much care for how he works.”
See, that’s your human psychology for you: If you feel guilty about something — or terrible about something — all it takes is for somebody to mention it, and you end up feeling accused. I like to think I’m a kind of a student of that sort of thing. When people snarl at you, it’s usually because they’ve got something of their own stuck in some craw or another. At least that’s how I think Freud used to explain it.
I spoke very softly. “All I want to do is find Ginny as soon as possible. That’s all that’s on my mind.” I slipped him a shot of sincerity. “No kidding.”
He reassessed. He breathed out. “Right. Sorry. I know that. I’m just … all …”
I shook my head. “Me too.”
Dally filled in. “We’re all worried.”
And I thought the missus might take up crying again at that. “You don’t know what a comfort it is to have you say that.”
Clearly these were people who were not in the custom of asking for help, certainly not in the habit of expecting it. And they certainly didn’t seem like people that had ever had to count on the county police before. We were apparently something of a surprise.
I couldn’t stop now, though. “We talked to Wicher. He saw her.”
They both tried not to look at anything. It was kind of amazing, the way they were just staring into space. Finally the mister took a whack at answering me. “We done told her not to go over there again.”
His wife, still in shallow voice: “That Mr. Wicher is an odd’n.”
Mr. McDonner nodded. “He makes her these little toys an’ such …”
Dally stuck out her lip. “We saw ’em.”
Mustard shrugged. “I thought they were nice.”
Mr. McDonner shot him a look. “He needs to keep away from my little girl.”
Mustard smiled. “He don’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Ginny’s mother disagreed. “He keeps her there after we tell her to come on home” — drop in volume — “an’ he calls her by a different name.”
Dally got there first. “A different name?”
She was barely audible. “He don’t call her Ginny …” A whisper: “He calls her Christy.”
I thought I was being cagey. “That’s what he was going to name his own little girl.”
But Mustard shook his big old head. “Nope. Christy … that there is the name of the little lost girl.”
I sat back. “From the spook tale?” I squinted. “That’s right, I think Ms. Oglethorpe told me her name was Christy.”
He only lifted one shoulder this time. “Tha’s what her name was.”
“You’re right.” Dally looked at Mrs. McDonner. “That’s too creepy.”
She nodded back. “Uh-huh.”
“Uh, look —” I wanted to slide right over that little chunk of information, “Mustard said y’all have plenty of relatives hereabout. They’re all out looking for the little girl?”
Mr. McDonner tilted his head in his wife’s direction. “Friend of her brother’s a policeman. That’s who’s headed up the search.”
I looked at him. “The policeman?”
He nodded.
I smiled at his wife. “What’s his name?”
“Cedar.”
“Like the tree?”
She shook her head. “Short for Cedric.”
I was too tired to point out that both names had in fact the same number of syllables. “Last name?”
“Duffie.”
“Okay. What about other relatives, like people Ginny might try to get to if she’s out wandering?”
Mr. McDonner thought about it. “She likes our preacher. She goes over there a good bit.”
“His name?”
“David.”
“Last name.”
They looked at each other. She answered. “Don’t know. He’s just David.”
“He come over hereabou
t” — Mustard looked at the grieving parents — “what? Near twenty years ago?”
The mister nodded. “I reckon about that.”
Mustard continued. “Said he come down from North Ca’lina. Used to be a ol’ drunk. Now he’s a preacher. Good’n too.”
Mrs. McDonner had a touch of actual awe in her voice. “He’s the finest man I ever knew.”
Even Mr. McDonner, whom I assessed as something of a skeptic, nodded with a kind of abstract fervency.
I looked at them. “I’d like to meet him.”
“Can do.” Mustard nodded once, then finished his pie.
I likewise finished my coffee. Dally’d already taken care of the pie. “So, sorry to ask, Ms. McDonner, but when did you start taking the pills?”
“Good while back.” Then she shot a glance at the husband.
“What for,” I pressed, “do you mind my asking?”
He answered. “Nerves.”
I kept my eye on her. “What are you nervous about?”
He still answered. “Been that a’way all her life.”
“Really?” I wouldn’t let go.
She broke eye contact, examined the Formica herself. “Got the prescription a year after Ginny’s born.”
Mr. McDonner could barely contain himself. “That’s enough.” Louder. “I believe we can do without all this.” Still louder. “My wife needs her sleep.” He stood.
And that, I had to assume, would conclude our broadcast day. Dally stood too, quickly. She shot out her hand to Mr. McDonner. “You’re absolutely right. We’ve taken up enough of your time in the middle of the night. You’ve got other things to do. We’ll be going.”
Mustard heaved himself up from his chair. “We check back in the mornin’, okay?”
The man of the house nodded curtly.
I was the last to my feet. I locked eyes with the guy. “I’m going to find your daughter.” Even to me it sounded more like a threat than a promise, and I had no idea why it came out that way.
Dally noticed it right away; shot me a look that could scour a battleship.
But Mrs. McDonner, bless her, looked up at me, her eyes an unashamed variation of red. “Thank you, Mr. Tucker.” Softer. “Ginny’s the most precious thing there is in this life.”
The look on her face had me convinced — Ginny was exactly that important.
Easy as One Two Three (A Flap Tucker Mystery) Page 4
