Bone to Be Wild

by Carolyn Haines

  * * *

  The Zinnia Dispatch was one of the last locally owned newspapers in the nation, and as such, it relied on real reporters committed to the community to dig up and report on the news that mattered to Sunflower Countians.

  I loved the smell of paper and ink, and the sense of stepping back in time that came with a visit. When my father worked at the courthouse, I’d often accompanied him to the newspaper for a quick interview or to give the editor his legal advice on whether a story was libelous or not.

  Back then, the newspaper had been printed on-site with hot type. I’d wander around the back shop where lead was melted, and then set into letters, words, and sentences, then locked into a page that was placed on the printing press. The rush of the press, forward and back as the pages were printed, four at a time, both terrified and excited me.

  Now it had all changed to offset. There were no typewriters, only computers. No Linotypes or roaring presses. The process of printing a paper was so much faster and less labor-intensive. Still, I had great memories.

  Cece’s cubbyhole was in the very back of the front office, past the desks and cubicles of the other reporters and photographers. Most nodded a greeting or called out a hello as I passed by on the way to her inner sanctum. The reporting staff adored Cece, but they also loathed her a tad. She was the society editor, but more often than not, she broke the big stories because she was dead set in the middle of them—helping me and Tinkie.

  I opened the door to her office and stepped inside. Clutter reigned, and while I couldn’t see her behind the stacks of newspapers and magazines, I heard her clacking away at her keyboard. “Cece?”

  “What?”

  “Do you have the photos from last night?”

  “Sure. Let me pull them up on the screen for you. How’s Mike?”

  “No word, yet.”

  My organized and industrious friend had uploaded all of the images from the club opening onto her computer. Before I could concentrate on identifying faces, I had a question. “Where’s Jaytee?” I had to be sure he was tucked safely away and not roaming around the town, an easy target.

  “He’s still in bed. He’s a musician, Sarah Booth. He doesn’t get up until noon. I told him if he left my house I’d get a chain and dog collar and fix him right up.” She grinned. “He thought it sounded like fun.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, stop it.” I made the sign of the cross with my fingers. “I don’t want to hear about your sex life until I have details to spill, too.”

  “You could have your pick of men and you know it. You just aren’t finished grieving.”

  I couldn’t argue. “Did you find anything odd in the photos?”

  “I’ve been over them three times. I didn’t recognize anyone who might be capable of such an awful deed. I know most of the people.”

  Cece, because of her work at the paper, had a far better breadth of knowledge of local residents than I did. “Can you show me the people you didn’t recognize?”

  “Already created a file and sent it to Coleman, but let’s take a look.”

  It was worth a shot. A lot of the folks at the club opening were good friends or friends of good friends, but there had been plenty of strangers. Somewhere in that mix was the person I sought.

  While I went through the photos, Cece called Tinkie to join us. Ten minutes later, my partner breezed into the newspaper office glowing as if she’d been on a two-week vacation at a spa. No matter how tired, Tinkie came off looking like a million bucks.

  Against all the newspaper rules prohibiting dogs, she brought Chablis with her, tucked under her arm. The little Yorkie with the sun-glitzed hair and ferocious underbite leaped four feet from Tinkie’s arms into mine, kissing my face as if I were her long lost relative.

  “Good, you hold her,” Tinkie said, dropping into the chair in front of the computer screen. “Let’s me scroll through these.”

  For the next hour, we examined a thousand photos. Chablis tired of my lap and sniffed around the floor for morsels of interesting lunches past. Cece was well known for her ability to suck down sugary carbs and never gain an ounce of weight.

  “That’s a lot of pictures,” Tinkie said. “My eyes are glazing over.”

  Cece had covered the event from top to bottom, including photos of those tailgating in the parking lot. While we perused the pix, Cece wrote her story for the next edition.

  “Who is this?” Tinkie asked, pointing to a man in the far corner of one picture. Strangely enough, he wore sunglasses indoors at night. And they weren’t Blues Brothers–style sunglasses. These were big aviator glasses, circa 1970. His straight dark hair hung around his face and he sported a thick, bushy beard that obscured his features. A tuque was pulled low on his forehead. He seemed to deliberately recede into the darkest corner of the club.

  “I don’t know him.” I magnified the photo, but the image became a grainy blur. In the dim light of the club, a lot of detail was lost.

  “Who is this?” Tinkie signaled Cece over. “Do you know?”

  “I don’t remember him at all.” Cece clicked forward and back to see if he appeared in other photographs. There was no trace. “It’s almost like he’s a ghost.”

  I had a terrible thought. Jitty! Had my haint showed up at the club opening wearing a beard and disguised as a man? I enlarged the image. Of course Jitty could take on the persona of anyone she chose, but this wasn’t her. This was someone else who didn’t want to be documented. The photos were shot in sequence with only a few moments between. He was there, and then gone.

  “He must have realized I was photographing that part of the room and disappeared,” Cece said.

  “Or hid.”

  “What would be the benefit of spying?” Tinkie asked. “It’s all over town how wonderful the opening was.”

  “More likely a jealous lover checking up on a cheating spouse,” Cece said. “Trust me, those musicians have seen plenty. Jaytee has some fine stories. Those blues boys aren’t angels.”

  “He wouldn’t rat out his buddies,” Tinkie said.

  “Guys talk.” Cece shrugged. “They do. Pillow talk. They always want to accuse women of being gossips, but they are the worst. I’ve gotten a few of my best stories in the throes of amore.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” I asked.

  “Not if you do it right.” Cece laughed at my expression. “If you don’t lighten up and have fun sex, you’re going to be an old maid in britches.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake. I’m not the story here. The shootings are. Leave me and my dying eggs alone.”

  “You just need some old banty rooster to strut into your bedroom and give you a good pecking.” Cece stuck out her head and used her arms for wings, doing the chicken around the room.

  She was full of herself since she’d taken up with Jaytee. I couldn’t begrudge her feeling terrific. “Take your barnyard wisdom back to your computer and finish your story,” I said.

  “Amen,” Tinkie added. “We have a murder and a shooting to solve. Sex has to come in second place.”

  “Only for you,” Cece said.

  “Quit bickering and keep working,” Tinkie ordered.

  My cell phone rang—Doc Sawyer was calling. “Mike Hawkins is waking up, Sarah Booth. I’ve called Coleman to talk to him, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “How is he?”

  “The next few days will be tricky, but the fact he’s awake and able to understand what is said to him is a good sign.”

  “Thank you, Doc, be sure to let Scott know.” I didn’t have to share the good news with my two associates, Tinkie and Cece had jumped to the correct conclusion. They beamed and demanded details. “Mike is awake. Coleman is with him now.”

  “Let’s finish the photos. We may be needed,” Tinkie said.

  The strange man with sunglasses and thick beard didn’t reappear, an oddity in itself. Until the last few shots. Cece had caught him near the door of the kitchen.

  “Here he is again.” Cece enla
rged the picture.

  The pixilation was bad, but it looked to me as if the beard didn’t match his natural hair color. “I think his beard’s a fake.”

  “Me, too, but even if I try to ignore the beard, I can’t tell enough about him to determine if I know him. He’s right beside the kitchen. Maybe it’s one of Curtis Hebert’s helpers.”

  “We can find out!” Cece hit the print button on the photo. Her printer churned out a color image. “It’s not as good as a print, but it’ll do. Curtis lives about three blocks from my house. He and his wife, Patricia Ann, are good people.”

  “I hope Curtis can help us.” Tinkie lifted Chablis into her arms and we were on our way like three ducks in a row.

  * * *

  Curtis Herbert was a slender, wiry man with arm muscles like Popeye. His wife said we could find him at the Golden Age fund-raiser, a gathering of folks interested in 1950s cars, music, movies, and paraphernalia. Curtis was behind a small concession stand selling pulled pork, beef, and chicken sandwiches faster than he could cook the meat on his four big grills.

  “Ladies, what can I do for you?” he asked, mopping the meat with a barbecue sauce that held the tang of vinegar and the sweetness of brown sugar.

  “Do you recognize this man?” I could hardly ask the question because my mouth watered profusely. The barbecue smelled delicious.

  Curtis examined the print. “I saw him at the club last night. He was hanging around the kitchen door. “You think he had something to do with the keyboard player getting shot?”

  “Maybe. I wish we could find out his identity. No one seems to know him.”

  “Ask Nandy, she’s my new … helper and a wonderful girl. She came by the club to deliver more cornmeal and I asked her to chase him away from the kitchen door. I shouldn’t have asked her to speak to him—she’s underage and shouldn’t be in the club. The dude standing right in the way was a liability, though. If someone flew through the swinging door and barreled into him, they might have been hurt. You know how sue happy the world has become.”

  “Indeed. Good thinking, Curtis. Do you think Nandy knew him?” Cece asked.

  “Could be. She’s a shy thing. Doesn’t say two words, but she’s a hard worker. She can lift, carry, and clean better than any man I’ve ever had helping me. She does a good job, too.” He walked around the grill area and surveyed the parking lot. “She’ll be back in a minute. She went to buy more brown sugar for the sauce.”

  “She’s here?” Tinkie asked. We hadn’t expected such a stroke of luck.

  “Actually, she went to the Pig. Like I said, I need more sugar. Who knew we’d sell four hundred sandwiches today.” He closed the lid on the grill and wiped the sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve. It was a chill November day, gray and damp, but working over the grills was hot even in the coldest weather. His red face concerned me.

  I went to the front of the stand and got a water for Curtis and took it to him while we waited for Nandy to return.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Don’t frighten the girl, okay?”

  “Of course not,” Tinkie said sweetly. “We wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “She’s been dealt a rough hand. She’s liable to bolt and run if you get too aggressive.”

  “How so?” Cece asked. She was always sniffing for a good story.

  “Her parents belong to some crazy religious cult. She didn’t attend high school. They homeschooled her.” He drew air quotes around the words. “She showed up at an event I was cooking for nearly starved to death and asking if she could work for a sandwich. I took her home to Patricia Ann, who discovered Nandy was illiterate for all practical purposes. In three weeks, she takes her GED, thanks to Ned Gaston. Such a shame about his house burning to the ground. I hope the sheriff finds the arsonist.”

  “Ned worked with her? I thought he focused on the migrant workers.” Cece had the scent of a great human-interest story.

  “Mostly, but Ned helps anyone who needs it. When I asked him, he didn’t bat an eye. That’s just the way he is.”

  I couldn’t recall Nandy from the bar, but she’d only stopped by the kitchen to deliver the cornmeal. “Is Nandy a relative?”

  “No, no, she’s not related, but she’s like our daughter. Patricia Ann took a real liking to her. She let her move in with us, and she’s been there ever since. About two years now. Like I said, she’ll get her GED and Patricia determined Nandy needs a degree. We’re looking at Delta State for her.”

  Whoever she was, Nandy had stumbled on the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow when she approached Curtis Hebert for work. The Heberts intended to help her through college. Folks could truly be amazing sometimes.

  “She never really wanted to talk about her life before us. She said her parents were brainwashed by a religious cult and she got away. No one ever came hunting her. No one asked. She moved in and it was like she’d always been a part of our family. Patricia couldn’t have children. Nandy was a gift from God.”

  I saw the young girl walking down the row toward the concession stand carrying two grocery bags equally weighted. She was pretty in a plain way, and she walked in a manner that shunned attention and screamed lack of self-confidence. “Was she with Reverend Jebediah Farley?” I asked Curtis.

  “Could be. She didn’t want to talk about it and I didn’t push it. She doesn’t have to help me cook. She likes it. She does little things for Patricia that are thoughtful and kind. This girl deserves an education and a chance at life, and we’re going to give it to her.”

  “Does she have a last name?” I asked.

  “She goes by Hebert now. When she gets ready for college we’ll have to get her legal birth certificate, but so far, there’s been no need to probe into her past. She’s skittish. We didn’t want to scare her and send her running.”

  Curtis hadn’t exactly broken the law, but he’d skirted it. He’d failed to involve the authorities, and obviously Nandy’s parents hadn’t bothered to file a missing person report on her. While the law might not agree, I could say things had worked out perfectly.

  She came up to us and handed Curtis the sugar. “Nandy, these are friends of mine. They’re trying to help the band from the blues club. They want to ask you some questions.”

  She looked like a wild animal caught in a trap. “I don’t know anything. I wasn’t there but a minute. I went home before anything happened.”

  “That’s true,” Curtis said. “We were both home and tucked in bed before Mike was shot.”

  “We understand,” Tinkie said soothingly. “But we need your help.” She was the same height as Nandy, who might be close to eighteen but could be mistaken for a child. “We have a photograph of a man. If you can tell us who he is—”

  “I don’t know anything,” she said, fear in her voice. She sidled closer to Curtis as if he would physically protect her.

  “We won’t hurt you,” I said.

  “Girl, they’re trying to find out who killed that bartender, Koby. You met him one day in the grocery store and liked him. You want to help find the people who shot him. And they shot Mike Hawkins, too. Just take a look at the photo. If you can help, do it.”

  Tinkie offered her the picture. She took a quick look and twisted around as if she expected someone to jump out and grab her. “I can’t say. They’ll hurt Curtis or Patricia.”

  “Who will hurt them?” Tinkie asked in a gentle voice.

  Nandy shook her head. “I won’t say. I can’t. You can’t make me.”

  Curtis pulled her against his side. “I know you’re scared, Nandy, but Patricia and I can take care of ourselves. I promise you. And we’ll take care of you. Why are you so afraid?”

  “They hurt people. They do it all the time and no one ever stops them.”

  “Who is they?” I asked.

  “The church. Not the church people, but the big shots. The men who run it.”

  Heat jumped into Tinkie’s cheeks. “Reverend Farley?” she asked Nandy.

  The girl nodded,
so miserable she couldn’t even face us. “Him and those bigwigs. They got private planes and they come in big black cars and off they go to do business. They hate that kind of music, and they hate places where black and white people mix. They hate women. They hate everything.” She started crying. “They burned Mr. Ned’s house because he helps the migrant children. But mostly they burned it because he helped me study to go to college.” She grabbed Curtis’s arm. “They’ll hurt you and Patricia, too. They don’t believe girls should have an education. Reverend Farley says an education is a ticket for the weaker sex to go straight to hell.”

  “Farley is a total asswipe.” I couldn’t stop myself. “He’s wrong, Nandy. He’s wrong about everything he says. You can’t let crazy talk influence you.”

  “He hurts everyone except for his chosen. That’s who was at the club last night. That’s the man in the picture. Fred Doleman. He was there snooping for Reverend Farley. Fred can do things none of the others can because Reverend Farley says he’s impervious to temptation. He said he’s been tested and passed. He was at the club spying. That’s why I couldn’t chase him away from the door. I didn’t want him to know I was there.”

  Beneath her fear, anger bubbled. If she was ever going to break free of the training she’d been subjected to, she’d have to hold on to her anger and wield it like a sword. “What they taught you and did to you is a crime.”

  Cece knelt down, able to remain graceful in her miniskirt and high heels. “Honey, each one of us has a right to be who we are. No matter what they told you, the man upstairs loves each of us just the way we are. All he asks is that we’re kind to one another.”

  Nandy’s tears fell silently. “Fred says the people in the club will pay for their sins. Reverend Farley and his friends have so much money. Before I left the church, I overheard the reverend talking with one of the rich people who fly in to see him. He was talking about millions of dollars and shipments and such. How can he have so much money when the people who follow him don’t have enough to eat sometimes?”

  “Did he say what was being shipped in?”

  Nandy shook her head. “It’s all a big secret, but it was hinted that this was food to be sent to different groups surviving in the wild. A network of folks living off the grid and ready to take back America from the socialists. Sometimes the women and teenagers help unload trucks late at night. Mostly into old sheds hidden around local farms. We were never told what we were doing, just that it was God’s work.”