Champagne for Buzzards

by Phyllis Smallman

  “Well, I’m more of a beach person, I guess. Not real interested in country things.”

  He beamed at me as if I’d just complimented his favorite child. “This isn’t the place for you; you have to be born here to take to it. If you can talk Clay into selling his farm, I’d be very pleased and pay him top dollar. He’ll make money on the deal.”

  “Have you asked Clay if he wants to sell?” He frowned and said, “We got off on the wrong foot.”

  “You’ll have to take your offer up with Clay.”

  “I have. He’s being stubborn. He’s just playing over there, raising a few horses. I need his water, can’t run my outfit without it.”

  “Maybe Clay has plans for Riverwood,” Marley put in.

  “What plans?”

  Marley shrugged. “I don’t know but I’m sure there are lots of things he might do with it. What about making it an orange grove?”

  He snorted. “You don’t know anything about growing citrus, do you? First of all, he doesn’t have enough land. Back in the forties a man could make a pretty good living off as little as forty acres of trees. Not now. Growing citrus isn’t a hobby like them horses he has. Over the years I’ve lost thousands of trees to canker disease, hurricanes, pests and freezing. It took years to build up my spread and even with all I’ve survived it may be the cheap juice coming in from Brazil that kills me. They have lots of land and cheap labor down there.” He raised a forefinger. “That’s what makes them the number one producer of orange juice in the world and what makes Florida second. No one here wants to work in an orange grove. They all want to work indoors at something like stocking shelves.”

  Marley wasn’t giving up. “There must be other things Clay can do with the land.”

  “Like harvesting the turtles?” He laughed. “Adams already tried to stop Lucan from doing that.” He leaned forward on the table, counting his arguments off on the fingers of his left hand. “A turtle brings a dollar to a dollar and a half a pound sold into the Asian market. On good days you could take fifteen to twenty turtles, nearly three hundred pounds’ worth. Fresh water turtles have been a source of food for locals forever in Florida, and hunting for soft-shell turtles has always been a source of income for many people around Independence. It’s called ‘cooter’ on local menus. You see that listed, you know you’re getting fresh turtle.”

  “But turtles aren’t just being hunted for the local area, now,” I put in. “They’re being hunted to extinction to sell into the Asian market. At the rate Percell was mining this turtle resource it would soon be wiped out — one man’s greed overcoming nature and common sense.”

  “You sound like one of those artists,” Richard Arby said. There was no mistaking his disgust.

  The artists, glass blowers, painters and potters that had moved to Independence for cheap housing, were very big on the environment, and had supported Clay in his efforts to stop the massive killing of turtles in Jobean Lake and the creeks emptying into it. The argument over turtles had divided the town, with the artists and newcomers on one side and the ranchers and longterm residents on the other. The separation had always been there, but now it was out in the open and bitter.

  “Thanks to Clay Adams, you’re screwed round here if you was planning to make money off turtle hunting.” He stretched back in his chair. “The only thing valuable about Adams’ property is the water and that’s only valuable to the Breslaus and me.” He smiled. Clay’s unfortunate position was the first happy thought he’d had since I met him.

  I had enough of the joys of farming. “Howie Sweet didn’t show up this morning. Have you seen him?”

  “Nope, but then Howie and I aren’t on the best of terms. He’d hardly stop by.”

  “His disappearance is a little worrying, given what happened to Lucan.”

  “Lucan was already halfway drunk when he came into the Gator Hole Thursday night; didn’t take much more to have him staggering. His killer should have let him drive home, probably would have climbed a tree with that old truck of his and saved all the bother.”

  Marley said, “You don’t seem too upset at his death.”

  He shrugged. “So who is?”

  “April Donaldson,” I answered.

  “Well, she’ll get over it. It ain’t like he’s a big loss.” He read our faces, scratched his nose and said, “Excuse me, shouldn’t make light of it, a man is dead.” His apology faded when he added, “But not much of a man.”

  We were back at Riverwood by nine o’clock and we all straggled off to our beds shortly after.

  City habits die hard. Even though there were no other houses around, no other people, I went to pull the drapes across the window. I hate the bare empty eye of a dark window. I always feel something is out there watching. This time I was right.

  I jumped away from the window. There was something out there. Then I saw it again. Now I leaned on the sill to see what had caught my eye.

  In the woods lights danced. Not small lights, mind you, but more like search lights, the kind that hunters mounted on their vehicles to hunt down prey in the dark.

  I started to call Tully but what could he do? I sure didn’t want him going out there to check out the lights. Whatever was happening out there, well, I didn’t want to know.

  It was going to be a long night. In a house that wouldn’t lock, out in the middle of nowhere, and the only people to hear me scream were two guys in their sixties who could sleep over the sound of each other’s snoring. How important was this party? Maybe I should just go back to Jac.

  The dead haunt my dreams. Unwelcome and uninvited, they accuse and threaten. That night I dreamt of Jimmy. Suddenly awake and in a sweat, the damp sheet tangled around me, I searched for what had jolted me from my dreams. I kicked off the binding shroud and listened to the dark.

  Every sense was alive. Blood pumped madly through my veins. Against the screen a dying insect rattled his death throes. Was it that? Was that why I had awakened? Or was it just the old nightmare of a purple beach cottage, of being chased through a hurricane, trying to find a safe place to hide. In my nightmares I’m always trying to hide. My body was rigid with listening. Feeling hunted — like someone’s quarry — was an old, terrifying nightmare, drenching me like my sweat. I’d gone months without nightmares but now they were back.

  Somewhere outside in the dark a small animal screamed and went silent.

  I strained to hear the sounds of someone coming for me. The same terrifying thought, the cruel possibility night always brought, “Is this the night Lester returns for me?” The monster from my past, my dark obsession, seemed real and true. Certainly the panic and fear were real.

  Tonight there was an added dread. Lester wasn’t the only one who might come after me. There was a face in the woods. Or it could be Boomer Breslau, loud and sure of himself, breaking down doors to get at me. Tonight there were too many reasons for panic to talk myself out of it. I laid back down, waiting…too afraid to get out of bed, too afraid to turn on the light, too afraid to act.

  The old wood on the stairs creaked and then went silent.

  CHAPTER 27

  I told myself it was just my imagination but that didn’t stop the fear.

  “I hate this,” I whispered to the night. “I won’t have this.” Anger washed over me, a brief reprieve from fear. “Not again.” Self-doubt kicked in. Had I really heard something? Easy to say but I didn’t reach out and turn on the light to banish the threatening shadows. There was no safety in the light but there was no security in the dark. The sweat drying along my body brought chills.

  There it was again. Now I knew what it was, the sound of a footfall on bare wood. It wasn’t my imagination. Someone was out there in the hall.

  Shivering in icy panic I slid to the edge of the bed and watched the doorknob turn.

  “Dad?” My quivering voice begged to be reassured. In the open door I coul
d only make out a man’s shadow, backlit by a light from the hall.

  “Yeah,” Tully acknowledged. “Just checking, go to sleep, sweet pea,” the old familiar endearment. “Goodnight.”

  “You too, Dad,” I forced myself to say. “Sleep well.” A soft laugh, “Old men don’t sleep. We only nap.” The door closed and I heard him move on.

  Hungry for the security I can never find, vulnerable and shaking with fear, I drew the damp sheet around me and huddled down. There was no refuge in the dark, even with my father standing watch. There would be no more sleep for me, no way to turn off the adrenaline and turn on happy thoughts, just as there is no way to ever make myself feel truly safe again.

  In the morning I was tired and cranky from too little sleep and angry at the whole world because my nightmares had returned. I was in the barn with Marley, leading the horses out to the paddock, when Sheriff Hozen arrived.

  “Is this the horse that bites?” he asked, staying well away from Joey.

  Boomer had told the sheriff about our meeting. What did that mean? My trouble antennae went up, seeking out bad news. “Joey only bites people who deserve it.”

  Sheriff Hozen laughed and reached out to rub Joey’s nose. Joey peeled back his lips and snapped. Sheriff Hozen jerked his hand away.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” Joey danced sideways in a semicircle and pulled away from me. I took hold of his halter.

  “Lovey called. Howie hasn’t showed up anywhere since he left to come here yesterday. We don’t usually get involved until an adult has been gone forty-eight hours. He hasn’t been out of touch that long. A man has a right to a little fun without the sheriff looking for him.”

  “The man’s been gone for twenty-four hours, which sounds pretty serious to me, and you’re laughing. I think his daughter has a right to be worried.”

  He kept on grinning, “A man wouldn’t necessarily tell his daughter all his little secrets.”

  “One man has already been murdered on your watch and now another man is missing. Maybe it’s time you did something besides make jokes. Goodbye, Sheriff.” I turned away from him before I did something crazy, like bite him myself.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” the sheriff shouted. “I need some information here.”

  When I stopped to reply, Joey danced around to face me, trying to toss his head. I held on tightly and talked to the sheriff over my shoulder. “I have no idea where Howard Sweet is, but I can only hope he is alive and well and not in the need of help because if he’s waiting on you…well, let’s just hope he’s all right.” My annoyance at the sheriff communicated itself to Joey and he settled down. It would only be temporary.

  Marley walked out of the barn leading a little mare who was about to drop her first foal in two weeks. The sheriff swung his arm wide and shouted, “Now you wait here…” His arm struck the little mare. She squealed and danced while Marley cursed at the sheriff. The Baptists hadn’t been as successful at reforming Marley as I’d thought.

  “Sheriff Hozen, if you have anything further to say to me, please go wait on the porch until we’re finished here.” If I’d been cranky before the sheriff arrived I was nearly homicidal now.

  “Knock it off,” I snarled at Joey, who’d decided to see if I was paying attention. Joey recognized a creature nastier than himself and walked along beside me like a show horse.

  The sheriff didn’t choose to wait. He tore out of the yard with tires churning out gravel.

  I was surprised by an idea. Howie had said that everyone was in the Gater Hole on Friday night. Did that include Sheriff Red Hozen? Maybe the reason Red Hozen didn’t seem to be hunting Lucan’s murderer was because he already knew who it was. Maybe he was the killer.

  And what about Howie’s disappearance? Did he know where Howie was? Did the man in charge of the investigation already know everything there was to know about Lucan’s death, either because he killed Lucan or he knew who did? Was that what was happening here?

  Something was going on. There was no sense of urgency. Red Hozen had a different agenda. In truth, it was some unknown man out in the brush who seemed to worry him. Why?

  Someone knew what had happened. But who? Perhaps the man in the woods knew the answer to all my questions.

  CHAPTER 28

  At breakfast I told Ziggy and Tully about the plans for the day. “Marley and I are going to measure up the living room, God knows why, but Martha Stewart here thinks it’s important.”

  “I’ll help you do that measuring if you want,” Uncle Ziggy told Marley. “Sherri,” he rocked uneasily in his chair, giving me an apologetic look before he stumbled on. “Well, I just think it would go better with you and me, Marley.”

  “That’s putting it nicely,” Marley added.

  “You afraid of the sight of blood, Uncle Ziggy?” I asked.

  He gave a huff of laughter. “Just no need to find out, is there?”

  I was so happy to be off the hook for that chore, I was already leaving the kitchen. Marley yelled after me. “What he’s saying in a nice way is you’re useless.”

  “I’m getting groceries,” I said and beat it out of the house before they could come up with another job.

  As I backed Marley’s blue Neon out of the drive shed Tully came around the side of the house and waved. “Marley needs more paint,” he explained as he opened the door.

  Tully edged by the rack of National Enquirers. “I’m going to the Good Spirits and get myself a little good spirit,” he told me.

  “You don’t want to help pay for these groceries first, seeing how you’re going to be eating most of them?”

  “Nope. It’s just great to have a daughter who’s as successful as you, bringing in the big money in her fancy restaurant.” He pulled a couple of candy bars from the display and threw them in the cart. “Does my heart proud.”

  “Not to mention your wallet.” Tully was walking. “Freeloader,” I called after him. Didn’t even slow him down.

  I was pushing the cart out the door of the grocery store when a black pickup, raised high on oversized tires, pulled into the parking lot. It was coming fast with no concern for pedestrians. I held back, waiting for it to flash by but instead it stopped in front of me. The whole truck throbbed with rap music. The dark tinted window slid down and there was Boomer Breslau. He started to say something but I spun the cart to the right, in the direction he came from, and where he couldn’t follow. Whatever trash he was disgorging was lost in the noise of the music. He roared off behind me. I didn’t look around.

  Leaning over to put a twelve pack into the Neon’s trunk, I felt a hand clamp onto my ass. I straightened fast and shot away from the hand, swinging around to face Boomer Breslau. He laughed and reached inside the trunk of the Neon, pulled a can of beer out of its plastic circle and popped the ring. Leaning on the trunk opening with his right hand, he tipped up the can, drinking deeply. Then he wiped the back of his mouth with the hand holding the beer can and said, “Here we are again.” He was smiling like he’d just won double jeopardy, maybe thinking I should be real glad to see him.

  “You sure are pretty and feisty. I like feisty women. Makes it all the sweeter when they give it up.” Another swig of beer. “And you will give it up. I can do some mighty interesting things.” He wagged his tongue at me.

  The problem with men like Boomer is they suffer from selective deafness. You have to get their attention if you want to talk to them.

  I slammed the trunk lid shut on his hand, leaning hard on the lid. His eyes widened in shock and pain and he bellowed like a bull. I had his attention now.

  I leaned a little harder. “Listen up, little boy. I don’t care if you can stick your head up your ass and whistle Dixie — you touch me again and I’ll show you a few things that will teach you to keep your hands and the rest of your anatomy to yourself…those pieces you have left.”

  He was melti
ng to his knees in pain, his eyes tearing up, so he wasn’t really up to adding anything to the conversation.

  “Now, why don’t you run along home before you really start to piss me off?” I stepped back, putting the car between us to be out of range of a flying fist, while he scrambled to lift the trunk and pull out his hand.

  There was blood, lots of it. He held his right hand with his left, staring at it as if he wasn’t sure all the fingers were still there. His disbelief turned to rage and it was touch and go if he was going to come after me or give into the pain and run for help. “You stupid bitch,” he howled.

  I wasn’t too worried about him beating the crap out of me. Over his shoulder I saw Tully pulling the neck of a whiskey bottle out of a plastic bag. If Boomer moved towards me he was going to have a real bad headache to go with his very sore hand.

  “You no good bitch.”

  Tully waited. I waited. It was up to Boomer how it ended. Boomer snarled “bitch” once more and sloped off at a jog with his hand clasped tenderly to his chest.

  While we watched him go Tully asked, “He goin’ be a problem?”

  “Him? Naw.”

  I went back to loading the groceries into the Neon. My hands were shaking and my insides were crumbling. It wasn’t fear of Boomer that was giving me the shakes as much as the shock of my own violence, the hate and anger and rage roiling up inside of me.

  Tending bar, there’s lots of flirting, innuendo and give and take…only natural, and I always enjoy the banter, but these days I turn real ugly at the least sign of a man stepping over the line. In my head that line is pretty clear, but I was becoming more and more quick off the mark to point it out to anyone who wasn’t as aware of it as I was.

  I’d been sexually assaulted as a young girl, and survived being stalked and kidnapped by a psychopath as an adult, so now sexually aggressive men surely brought out the worst in me. I was turning into a raving maniac, responding with more violence than the original transgression.