When Will the Dead Lady Sing?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  I was ready to skip lunch and start driving around the county again, but Joe Riddley refused. “I’m starving, woman, and we both know that kid’s inherited the Crane temper from your family, just like his daddy did. But Tad’s also got common sense. He’s either hiding with a friend whom he’s sworn to secrecy, or he’s loitering on Ridd’s property somewhere waiting to build up his courage to come back home.” He pulled me close to him. “And I promise you, Little Bit, if he’s not back by nightfall, Buster will start combing this county inch by inch, and Ridd and I will be right beside him.”

  Satisfied with that, I hurried down the hall to switch my shoes.

  I heard Joe Riddley opening the newspaper in the living room. Next thing I knew he was slamming it down on our bed. “And I thought he was different. Those politicians will say anything to get elected. Look at that.”

  I stared down into the faces of Lance Bullock, Burlin Bullock, and MacLaren Yarbrough, close together in a huddle. Burlin had his arms draped around both our shoulders, and we were obviously having a great time. Numb, I assessed the damage.

  Front page, center of the page, picture four inches square. The headline read “Unexpected Ally” and the caption said Burlin and Lance Bullock share a private moment with Burlin’s college sweetheart, Judge MacLaren Yarbrough.

  I couldn’t read the rest right then. My eyes were too blurry with tears. How could Burlin do that to me? Now I’d have to tell Joe Riddley.

  I was trying to get my voice to work when he growled in disgust, “Dangnabit, I thought I’d finally met an honest politician, but if Bullock would make up a story like that just because we were all on the campus at the same time—” He shook his head and stomped back down the hall.

  I couldn’t face anybody after that, so I pulled out the week’s leftovers and set a microwave buffet out on the counter. We each filled a plate and heated it up, but I wasn’t really hungry and Joe Riddley isn’t fond of leftovers. He looked at his plate, bowed his head, and said, “Lord, you’ve already been thanked for all of this once, so I just thank you that we had enough before to serve it twice. Amen.”

  While we were eating we got three calls from excited friends wanting to say they’d seen my picture in the Atlanta paper, the Macon paper, and the Savannah paper. Joe Riddley put the dishes in the dishwasher while I took the third call. I hung up and told him, “This is the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to me since I tripped at Gusta’s wedding because she ordered my dress too long.” My voice wobbled and angry tears streamed down my cheeks. “And you know what? This is Gusta’s fault, too. If she hadn’t thrown that dumb party—”

  He pulled me to him. “It’s gonna be all right, honey. The Bullocks will leave in a day or two, and you know how quickly folks forget. Just watch your step while they’re in town. I know I keep telling you to keep up with politics, but that doesn’t mean you need to jump in whole hog.” He gave me a little squeeze. “And don’t be too hard on Gusta. She’s probably hopping mad that you got your picture in the paper with the Bullocks and she didn’t.”

  He reached for his cap. “I’m going down to Ridd’s to see if we can think of someplace we haven’t looked for the boy. Why don’t you take a nap? Ignore the phone.” He knew as well as I did that I couldn’t ignore the phone. Tad might call, or a deputy needing me down at the jail.

  National news must have been slow that day, and Burlin was news anytime. During the afternoon, I talked to people from all over the country who called to say my face was on their front page. My brother in Montgomery suggested I sue somebody for libel. A woman I’d met at our church’s general assembly called all the way from Albuquerque to gush, “I hadn’t realized you were Burlin Bullock’s wife. It’s an excellent likeness of you, and your husband is a real handsome man. Is Lance your older or younger son?” I told her what I’d told everybody—that it was a big mistake—but she asked, “Would your family like to have this clipping? I don’t have your address.”

  I hung up and went outside to spray my roses. Killing Japanese beetles and black spot fit my mood. Wouldn’t you know I’d step in a lump of buffalo doo? A fitting comment on the day.

  About five that afternoon, Martha and Cricket showed up. “You ready to walk?” she asked. “Ridd and Pop are putting up a new shed for the lawn mowers, but I can’t stand the smell of smoke for one more instant.” We both knew she also couldn’t stand waiting at home for Tad.

  I checked my watch. Two hours until Joe Riddley and Buster would start looking for the boy. “I’d rather go to Myrtle’s,” I said. Martha and I are old pie buddies, and if there was anything guaranteed to make time pass and me feel better, it was chocolate pie with three-inch meringue at Myrtle’s Restaurant.

  “Myrtle’s, Myrtle’s.” Cricket seconded my motion by jumping up and down.

  “You know that’s why we’re in the shape we’re in,” Martha reminded me.

  “Yeah, but today, honey, I need all the support I can get.”

  “Me, too,” she agreed. “And we can at least walk over there.”

  “Did you see today’s paper?” I asked as we headed that way, trying to sound casual.

  “Haven’t had time,” she replied.

  “We had a big fire down at our place,” Cricket informed me. “We nearly all got burnt up.”

  “I was there,” I reminded him. “I asked about the paper,” I continued to Martha in a low voice, “only because there was a stupid picture of me in it taken at Gusta’s party, so folks may look at me funny.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “With you and you-know-who?” When I nodded, she grinned. “I’ll have to go home and look. My mother-in-law the celebrity.”

  “Your mother-in-law the fool.”

  We ambled along listening to Cricket chatter and talking of this and that. When we were almost at Myrtle’s, Cricket suddenly pointed. “Look! There’s Mr. Spence with a woman!”

  Hubert came down the sidewalk looking real natty in tan linen slacks and a short-sleeved blue shirt. Holding his arm, Abigail was plain but neat in khaki pants, a white knit top, and a navy cotton sweater tied around her shoulders by its sleeves. Hubert held the door like she was royalty.

  “Gusta and Pooh must be conducting good manners and hygiene classes,” I murmured to Martha. “Shall I send Joe Riddley down for a few sessions?” She gave a gurgling laugh, then broke off to exclaim, “Half the town must be here today. I hope we get a table.” Hubert and Abigail were still waiting near the front.

  As we got inside, Cricket beamed up at me. “You’re famous, Me-mama. Everybody stopped talking when they saw you come in.”

  Georgia Bullock sat at a corner table with her husband, looking like a Southwestern belle in tan jeans, a turquoise-and-tan shirt, and several pieces of silver-and-turquoise jewelry. She stood as soon as she saw me and came toward us with both hands outstretched. “Oh, Mackie.” Her voice carried all over the room. “I was just sick about that awful picture in today’s paper.”

  Anybody who hadn’t already seen it was sure to scurry off and find one. Down in front of me, Little Big Ears was staring up and demanding in a voice that carried at least as well as Georgia’s, “Why does that lady call you ‘Mackie,’ Me-mama?” He informed Georgia, “Her name is Little Bit.” Georgia laughed, then turned to speak to Abigail.

  Hubert came to give me a friendly pat. “Been running around on the old boy, have you? Just what I’d expect to happen up in Athens. At Tech, now—”

  “At Tech in your day, there was nobody to run around with,” I snapped. “But speaking of running around—” I nodded toward Abigail’s back.

  “I’ve been showing Miss Abigail some of the sights,” he admitted. “Even ran by the house to see if that bum was still there, but I didn’t see any sign of him.”

  “You aren’t to hurt him,” I reminded him. “Call Buster if you see him.”

  Hubert’s face grew pink. “I’ll shoot him dead if I catch him in that barn.”

  Abigail turned and stared at him in surpr
ise. Hubert gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry to be breathing fire, Miss Abigail, but MacLaren here was asking about that homeless man who’s set up camp down at my place. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Abigail never worries,” Georgia assured him. “But I’d better. Edward’s about to eat my pie.” She gave us a brilliant smile and headed back to her table.

  How did she manage to look so gorgeous at her age? Did anybody have any idea she was almost as old as me? I thought about mentioning that in a carrying voice, but Myrtle hurried up just then. “I’ve got two tables. Mac and Martha, you all take the one in the corner. Hubert, you all follow me.” She led Hubert and Abigail to a center table like that was standard procedure.

  The fact is, Myrtle is apt to skip the niceties. She embarrasses members of the Chamber of Commerce to death by calling to tourists as they hesitate near her door, “If you can see well enough to drive yourself here, you can see well enough to find yourself a table. Come on in.” It tickled me to watch her hovering over Hubert’s table, saying things like, “You all take your time. The pies are just out of the oven. I’ll bring you some water while you make up your minds. You want something else to drink with the water?” When they ordered sweet tea, she hurried to the kitchen like they were her only customers.

  They were certainly the only customers she was paying attention to. My coffee cup was still empty. I regarded the bottom and consoled myself that it wasn’t Abigail or even Georgia who was causing all that stir. Any woman with Hubert would do. Myrtle is a romantic at heart.

  I owed her a favor for interrupting us when she did, too. It had eventually dawned on me that if I had announced that Georgia and I were close in age, folks wouldn’t wonder why she looked so good, they’d wonder why I didn’t. Besides, I couldn’t let on I knew how old Georgia was without confirming everybody’s suspicions that I’d known her—and her brother—before.

  Cricket climbed into his chair with a worried frown. “Mama, Mr. Spence wouldn’t really kill anybody, would he?”

  That was the question we would all be asking in a couple of days.

  8

  I considered taking Monday off. For one thing, although the sheriff had actually started a search for Tad the afternoon before, the child had not been found. Joe Riddley and Ridd joined the search when Joe Riddley called at sundown and found Buster already had his deputies on the job. They looked until midnight and came home tight-lipped and anxious. Even though Buster agreed Tad was most likely in no danger, but simply hiding out and enjoying a few days of unusual freedom, neither Joe Riddley nor I got a wink of sleep. We just lay in bed trying to think where that child could be.

  For another thing, after yesterday’s paper, I preferred to avoid people. I was planning to make a list of places to search for Tad until Clarinda put one fist on her ample hips and commanded, “You leave the searching to the sheriff. But you and me can unpack all those boxes in the guest room.” That got me moving.

  It was because I was trying to remember what was in those boxes as I pulled into the parking lot that I didn’t notice Burlin lounging against one of our trucks until I got out of my car. He looked as good in that pale blue shirt as he had in the yellow one Friday and the gray suit he’d worn to Gusta’s party. He and Georgia had both aged well.

  A Spence’s Appliances bag dangled from his arm—and if you wonder which appliance would fit into a plastic bag, you’ve never lived in a small town. Hubert sold radios, CD players, radio-controlled toys, watches, cameras, toasters, and those gizmos you put under your cup to keep your coffee warm. Anything electric or electronic. His was the only place in town to get that stuff, although that side of his business would suffer when the new superstore opened in December.

  I slammed my car door and informed Burlin, “We aren’t hiring right now. That superstore that’s getting built outside of town is putting a damper on the local economy. If you political types want to do something to help us out, do something to boost our economies and tax national corporations out the kazoo. However, I’m not speaking to you after yesterday’s paper.”

  He pushed away from the truck and brushed off his backside. “I was afraid you weren’t. You hadn’t seen it before church, had you? I could tell, because you didn’t look daggers at me, like you are now. But believe me, I didn’t talk to any reporters about you. I suspect Edward—he’s a wizard at knowing what will get somebody’s name in the papers to help get them elected.”

  “It was my name,” I reminded him, “and I’m not running for anything. And how could Edward have told them anything unless you told him first?”

  “I didn’t. I swear it.” He held up both hands in protest.

  “You didn’t help things by showing up at church.”

  “I didn’t know it was your church. And when your husband invited me to join you, I didn’t know what else to do except sit down, shut up, and pretend we were all friends. I hope we are, actually. We may need your help with yesterday’s buffalo incident.”

  “I don’t do buffalo,” I informed him. “And you aren’t asking me to fix a trial, are you?”

  “Of course not. But if you could keep it from coming to trial—”

  “I can’t, and you ought to know that.” I turned to leave.

  “Wait.” He grabbed my arm. I pulled away as if he’d given me an electric shock. “Sorry. But listen, I heard about your grandson, and I’m sorry. I brought you something.” He held out the bag. “It might cheer you up.”

  I stepped back and held up both hands. “I can’t take anything from you. I’m a judge and you’re a politician. After what happened Saturday, I don’t even want to be seen with you. Who knows when the next photographer will show up?”

  He put the bag behind him and shook his head sheepishly. “When I saw this, I forgot you were a judge. I’ll take it back and get a refund, and I’ll try to make sure you don’t get in the papers again. I won’t hang around waiting for you to come home or come to work. I won’t stake out the local café waiting for you to show up for ice cream. I won’t serenade your window late at night. I won’t—” He was grinning again.

  “Stop it,” I said crossly. That was a list of things he used to do. I blushed just thinking about those songs outside my sorority house window. Burlin wasn’t an actor for nothing. He’d shown up in a sombrero with a guitar to sing Spanish love songs in a sultry accent and came in a cowboy hat with a ukelele and sang like Roy Rogers. My sorority sisters thought he was very romantic. I pretended to think him silly, but for a while I found him romantic, too. Right now, I wanted him to go sing his songs somewhere else.

  He ducked his head, but I knew he wasn’t the least bit repentant. “I’ll go, but I want you to know something, okay? You’ve aged well. Are you happy with this fellow you married? Because if you aren’t, by gum, I’ll stick around and give him a run for his money.”

  “He’d probably say, ‘Take her—you’re welcome to her,’ but I have every intention of sticking around to torment him for a number of years to come. Now go away and let me work. I’ve got quarterly taxes to do this week.”

  “Okay, if you say so.” He gave me a little salute and sauntered across the parking lot. I was idly wondering what he had in the bag when he started to whistle “I’ll be seeing you.”

  The rest of the morning, I felt like a corpse. People kept coming in to view my remains.

  Three deputies showed up, one by one, with warrants to sign. All our employees found reasons to come to my office for a minute. Every single person assured me Tad would be found, but they all also managed while leaving to mention my picture in the paper. Each of them, like the Cheshire cat, left a big grin behind.

  Buster had told Ridd to go on to school. However, he didn’t have a third-period class that semester, so he came over around ten. “I’m getting pretty frantic, Mama. We’ve called every friend Tad has, and I’ve been by their house again. He’s vanished. You don’t reckon somebody’s kidnapped him, do you?”

  I’d had one idea
in the night I hadn’t followed up on yet. “Have you called Cindy’s parents? Maybe he rode up there.”

  Ridd was dubious. “Thomson’s pretty far—fifty miles or more.”

  “Tad was pretty desperate.” I reached for the phone, then stopped. “What shall I say?”

  He shrugged. “Think of something.” He slapped his cap against his leg, just like his daddy did when he was worried.

  I thought as I dialed. When Cindy’s mother answered, I said, “Hi. We want to have a welcome-home supper for the kids next Saturday at our new house and wonder if you all would like to come.”

  “Why, that would be nice. Let me check my calendar.” She sounded astonished, and no wonder. I’d never invited her for a casual meal before. “We’d love to,” she came back to say.

  I gave Ridd a sour look as I hung up. “I achieved our object. If Tad had been there, she’d have said something. But now I’m stuck with throwing a party, and it has to be nice, since they’re coming down. Heaven only knows where I’ll put everybody in our little bitty house.” He gave me a sharp look, and I was sorry I’d said it that way. “We’ll manage,” I added quickly. I didn’t want him or Martha ever suspecting I wished we were back in the homeplace.

  He heaved a sigh as he stood to leave. “I just hope Tad’s back by then.”

  “I do too, hon. Buster thinks he’s fine, and I keep reminding myself that the kid knows how to camp and there’s all sorts of places he could be hiding out that we haven’t looked yet, but then I start imagining things.”

  That at least got a chuckle from him. “And when it comes to imagining awful things that can happen to people, you are the world’s most creative. But Walker’s almost as bad. Buster said to give them until tomorrow morning to turn up the kid, but if they haven’t found him by tomorrow, I’ve gotta call his daddy. Walker’s gonna be furious that we’ve waited this long, and Cindy will kill us all if anything has actually happened to him.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “Still, Walker was going to be furious anyway, and it was a joint decision not to call them right away. We’ll all stand behind you on that.”