Anna reached back to her odious interlude with the man.
There'd been little or no evidence that he grieved for Danielle. And he'd said something. Anna closed her eyes the better to reenter the past. Maybe Danni had it coming. Her brother had said that of her brutal murder. If he was so cold as to think a sixteen-year-old girl deserved to have the life stomped out of her, he might be cold enough to deliver the blow. Especially with the added incentive of forty thousand dollars in insurance money if he ruined her face.
Then there was Cindy Posey, a card-carrying lunatic who had "set free" her black babies to live with the other animals of the forest. Even if the black babies were delusions, it spoke worlds about her attitude.
What if she found her girl, her beautiful Danielle, the super model and great white-trash hope, had been betraying the family in such a way?
Anna put the picture together in her mind. Mrs. Posey suspects Danni of seeing a black boy. She follows them on prom night. Danni leaves Brandon Deforest as he said she did. She meets up with her illicit lover. They come to Rocky. Have sex. Mrs. Posey whacks her daughter with an edged instrument. Panicked, the boyfriend flees. The sheet, the rope, moving the body: efforts of a crazy woman to point the finger elsewhere.
Fine and dandy, except Anna doubted Cindy Posey could have carried Danni as far as the body was carried. And why would she have blunt instrument, rope and sheet with her deep in the woods? Where was she taking the body? If Cindy Posey was guilty of the murder of her daughter, she had to have had help. Back to Mike Posey. They could have done it together.
Mother and son were racists. Mother was mentally ill and son was very possibly following in her erratic footsteps. Mike's talk of getting the "nigger" who killed his sister could be a smoke screen to cover their tracks and cast the blame on a group of humans he'd chosen to hate.
That still didn't explain the time, the place and the bizarre accoutrements of the death. Nor did it explain the chase. By the condition of Danni's shoes and hose and the superficial scratches on her arms and face, it was clear she had been pursued for quite some distance.
Would she have run from her own mother and brother? From what Anna'd been able to glean, Danni was the apple of her mother's eye. There had been trust and love of a sort between them.
If Danni did have a black boyfriend, why might he kill her? Lovers' quarrel? That seemed a little extreme, but it happened. Maybe he caught her back in the arms of Brandon Deforest and in a rage struck her down.
If Danni had threatened to go public, perhaps his family would have been angered. Though the autopsy proved she was not, she could have told him she was pregnant and the boy was not ready to make a commitment that would be a hard one to keep in America's racial climate.
Boy. Anna thought about that for a moment. There was nothing to indicate that, if Danni had an African-American lover, he had to be a boy.
Perhaps she'd gotten involved with a married man, a man with a wife, a family, stature in the community, a life he valued greatly and that would be blasted all to hell if a little white girl, of statutory-rape age, started telling people of their liaison.
Danni makes threats. He follows her on prom night. Gets her alone.
She runs. He catches and kills her, then dresses the body in a pseudo KKK costume to throw the blame back on the white population.
Chases her deep into the woods. Strikes her down. Leaves the body, hikes back to his car, gets sheet and rope, hikes back through the dark, drapes and nooses the corpse, carries it a hundred and fifty yards and abandons it.
Nothing hung together. "I need to have another chat with Heather," Anna said. "Want to come along?" Barth drove through the gates to the ranger station and parked next to Randy Thigpen's patrol car. For half a minute, he let the engine idle. Anna guessed he was making hard choices.
After the disciplinary actions, battle lines were drawn. Thigpen remained unrepentant.
Either he would be kept in line by Anna's threat or he wouldn't.
Either way she expected she'd have to weather the backbiting and gossip and undermining that was the bane of the park service, a plague she felt had only grown worse as salaries and living conditions had improved. The spirit of the NPS, created by the natural and cultural treasures and the love of them by those dedicated to protect them, had sickened somewhere along the line.
Not died, just sickened, and morale suffered. To Anna's way of thinking, Thigpen was one of those not only ailing but spreading the disease.
Barth was having to decide whether to risk climbing out of the barrel with a white Yankee girl or let the other crab pull him back into the safe and familiar morass of discontent and self-pity.
"I've got a lot of paperwork to catch up on," Barth said uncertainly, and Anna felt a pang of disappointment that startled her in its intensity. A few seconds ticked by. She reached for the door handle, sorry that she had to go it alone. "It'll keep," Dinkin said with a sigh. "Sure. When?" Anna was thrilled out of proportion for this tiny victory. She looked at her watch. If they left soon, they'd get to Clinton between school and supper. "Now's good." The Barneses lived in a well-kept home in a cul-de-sac between Highway 80 and 1-20 in south Clinton. The development had been built in the sixties, but the homes were in good condition, with the exception of the occasional roofline or porch eave that looked to have been bent. "Do they have earthquakes here?" Anna asked as Barth turned onto Smoke Hill Drive. She was remembering homes in Santa Ana, California, having slightly surreal architecture from one too many shifts of the foundation. "Yazoo clay," Barth said. "It's under a lot of the county. It kind of buckles and moves I guess. One-sixty-one?" Anna checked the address she'd written down the morning Heather nursed a hangover at Rocky Springs.
"One-sixty-one," she confirmed.
Mrs. Barnes recognized Anna, which made things go more smoothly. After she'd been reassured several times that Heather wasn't in any kind of trouble and she had informed Anna that the errant girl was being kept on a very short leash, Mrs. Barnes told her Heather was at the home of her best friend, Shandra Lea. "New best friend?" Anna asked, thinking of Danni, slated to be buried the following day. "Old best friend. Heather and Danielle Posey hadn't been friends all that long." Anna noted the use of Danni's first and last name, the distancing of oneself from the violently dead. Few were comfortable with the memory of the murdered.
Some, to make themselves important, claimed to be closer to the deceased than they were. Others, those with something to lose, severed ties.
"Heather and Shandra Lea made the finals for the Mississippi Jumor Miss. Pageant," Mrs. Barnes said with obvious pride. "They're trying on makeup."
"Danni was in the finals," Anna said, remembering Cindy Posey's remarks.
"Working on the pageant's where she and Heather started being friendly," Mrs. Barnes conceded.
A case from the not too distant past fluttered through Anna's mind.
It had been a news bonanza for a couple days. A woman had murdered a teenage girl because she was in competition with her daughter for a coveted cheerleading spot.
Anna shook off the thought. Already the case had her knee-deep in crazy people; she didn't need one more. Anna didn't include Cindy Posey in that list-Mrs. Posey was genuinely mentally ill. She was thinking garden-variety crazy: rangers whose wives left them, dark-browed preachers, psalm-singing sheriffs, grown men playing soldier and dogcating alligators.
Shandra Lea lived less than half a mile away. Mrs. Barnes gave them directions and went inside, probably to call ahead and warn Shandra Lea's mother and the girls. Anna didn't care. There was no element of surprise here, just a few questions.
T he days were getting longer but the late April sun, though full with he heat of the mountain midsummer, retained the thin yellows of winter, backlighting the fresh leaves of two weeping willows until they glowed fierce green and cast long shadows on the lawn.
A cracked and buckled sidewalk cut neatly between the trees, leading a straight and narrow path to Shandra
Lea's front door.
Low-roofed, rectangular, snuggled down in a riot of azaleas grown as high as the eaves and iridescent in crimson blooms, the house had a fairy-tale aspect that pleased Anna.
Heather and a girl, who Anna surmised was the old/new best friend, sat shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip on the front steps waiting for them.
The girls wore brightly colored clogs and shorts that were hidden beneath voluminous T-shirts.
The two of them were disconcertingly schizophrenic, their faces old with the sophisticated makeup they'd applied in anticipation of a Junior Miss. sash, their bodies childlike under the cotton tees.
"Hey, Heather," Anna said as she preceded Barth up the walk. "Your mom said we'd find you here." She was careful not to say any nauseatingly grown-up thing that referenced the girl's recent intoxication. Nobody likes to be reminded they, in Jackie Doolittle's poetic parlance, showed their butt." Anna introduced Barth, and Heather, mindful of her manners, introduced her girlfriend. Shandra Lea was pageant-pretty like Danni and Heather and nearly every other pubescent female Anna'd seen in MISSISSIPPI. Her dark skin was even-toned-due either to Max Factor or to nature-her eyes melting and close to black under winged brows. A wide nose and full lips lent her an inviting air that, had Anna been her mom, might have gotten her clapped in a nunnery till she was thirty. Shandra Lea had eschewed the slavish attempt to re-create Caucasian hairstyles on Negroid hair and wore hers in a sleek, glossed-down cap with sharp spit-curls at ears and temples.
Very French. Very twenties. Very charming.
It was obvious the girls had no intention of inviting them inside.
As there was no car in the carport, Anna made an educated guess that Shandra Lea's mother wasn't home and that Heather's mom was unaware the girls were unchaperoned. Content to let them keep that secret, Anna settled comfortably on the warm concrete walk. Barth remained standing.
Big men didn't take easily to sitting tailor fashion on the ground.
Anna decided to pretend rumor was fact and see what she could scare up.
"Danielle had a boyfriend of color," she said without preamble. "Who was he?" Sbandra Lea and Heather exchanged a mascara-laden glance. Alarm?
Conspiracy? Anna wasn't sure. What she was sure of, given the age of the interviewees, was that they had few secrets from each other.
Shandra Lea spoke first. "We don't know that she did," she said carefully. "But you guessed." Again the glance. Anna pegged it this time. They'd not foreseen this line of questioning and so hadn't discussed what to say and what to leave unsaid. Time to divide and conquer.
"Heather, why don't you give Ranger Dinkin your statement. I'll talk with Shandra Lea." Knowing the legal pitfalls of leaving a male officer alone with a young female subject, Anna suggested they adjourn only as far as the patrol car, in plain sight of Anna and Heather's girlfriend.
Left with Shandra Lea, Anna resumed: "You know how serious this is.
We're trying to find Danni's murderer."
"To pin it on a black boy, you mean , Shandra Lea said. At sixteen, she carried the well-justified fear of an entire people. Anna thought awhile before replying. This was new territory. She had to wait till the spurt of anger at having her motives impugned drained away. "That's not part of my plan," she said when a better answer refused to frame itself. "I don't have a plan, really. I'm just asking questions." She waited patiently while Shandra Lea decided whether or not she could be trusted.
Behind her she heard the mellow purr of Barth's voice. From the south came the rumble of trucks on 1-20.
Shandra Lea pressed her fingers to her temples. Her fingertips were sheathed in porcelain nails painted in a psychedelic swirl of colors. An expensive affectation for a girl her age. She must have saved for a while.
"That girl was trouble," Sbandra Lea said at length. "Not bad bad, like in evil. She just couldn't help stirring things up. Making people say,
"Hey, that's Danni Posey!" She never got it that they weren't always saying it because they were impressed." Given time and silence, she'd say more. Anna adjusted her face to an open look and watched the play of light and shadow on the painted concrete steps. "Me and Heather talked about it some," Shandra Lea admitted after a while. "My brother goes to Alcorn State. We went down there, me, Heather and Danni, to watch one of his games. There was a party after, and we went. We think maybe Danni met up with somebody there. She didn't ride home with us. We waited, but we couldn't find her, so finally we had to go. Next day she said she'd met up with a girlfriend she hadn't seen in a while. Give me a break! In this town you see everybody every day. There wasn't no girlfriend. Why would she lie if it wasn't a black boy?"
"Maybe because it was a college boy," Anna suggested. "I doubt her folks would want her dating a college boy. Could be white." Shandra Lea laughed. "You're not from around here, are you?
Alcorn's a black college. Maybe there's a white boy there somewhere, but I never seen him."
"How long ago was this party?"
"Maybe three months-February sometime." Plenty of time for a high school romance to blossom. "Danni's longtime boyfriend, Brandon Deforest, did he know about this?" Shandra Lea looked to where Heather stood talking with Barth. There was a secret close to the surface-Anna could see it in the liquid ink of the girl's eyes. "He did, didn't he?" Anna pressed. "Heather heard him talk about it." The liquid went dull, shutters drawn on the windows of the soul. "I don't know what Heather hears." It was Heather's secret, not Shandra Lea's.
"Is Brandon Deforest a friend of yours?" Anna asked. "Brandon's a jerk," Shandra Lea said disdainfully. "Then you're protecting a jerk; you're not protecting Heather," Anna s id. "Y're protecting Brandon Deforest.
Why would you want to do a ou I that? Because he's a big man on campus?
Homecoming king? You want to get in good with the white crowd?" Anna dragged up everything she could think of to piss Shandra Lea off. With the last, she hit pay dirt. "I don't give a shit about that," Shandra Lea shot back.
"Brandon could ruin Heather's chances. And he'd do it." Foul language.
Anna was winning. She smiled but only on the inside. Teenagers have a nose for mockery comparable only to that of a cat for tuna. "Chances for what?" Anna asked mildly.
Shandra Lea knew she'd been had, and she wasn't relishing the feeling.
"I'm not talking to you any more, 'less you come back with a warrant." She stood up and went inside, slamming the door behind her.
Shandra Lea might not have much knowledge of the law, but she knew you didn't rat on a friend.
At sixteen the emotion was pure, unsullied by the decision of whether ratting on a friend wasn't sometimes in that friend's best interest and having to find the courage to do it anyway, knowing you'd be forever called Judas.
Anna got to her feet. She could still do it in one fluid motion with out using her hands, but where it had once been thoughtless it was now showing off. The effect was somewhat marred by the cracking of knee and ankle joints.
Hands in her pockets, she ambled to the car. Spring in Mississippi was too hot for winter uniforms, and Anna felt hers sticking to her back.
Heather and Barth had run out of things to say and looked relieved at her arrival. "So," Anna said to Heather. "Brandon Deforest says if you don't keep quiet, he'll ruin your chances.
What a jerk." Anna's little bomb was rewarded by an explosion of red suffusing Heather's cheeks. Shame first, then anger. "Did Shandra Lea tell you that?" she demanded. "YUP."
"She had no right." Heather started to cry, loud and ugly and leading to hiccups, like the crying of a little kid.
Barth drifted soundlessly away. The man had excellent instincts, but Anna rather wished he'd stayed. Barth, at least, had children.
Presumably he'd learned to deal with them on an interpersonal level.
Anna'd grown up on John Wayne movies. When women cried she wanted to spank them, yell at them or shoot the guy that hurt them.
Frieda, Christine, Lynette-the women in Anna's li
fe had taught her the rudiments. At their uncorporal urgings, it crossed her mind to summon up her courage, take the wet wailing girl into her arms and mutter, "There, there." The prospect was too alarming so she stood, leaning against the Crown Vic, arms crossed, watching the celebration of light on the azaleas till Heather subsided to the gasping, snorting stage. "You about done?" Anna asked kindly. "Yes, ma'am. Do you have a hankie?"
"I don't carry one. Hang on." Anna got a brand-new red oil rag from the trunk of the car. "It's clean," she promised.
Heather fixed that. Anna was amazed one small girl could have so much liquid in her. Nose blown, Heather looked up with watery red eyes. "She had no right," she said, starting over.
"She had no choice. It's the law," Anna lied. "What did she tell you?" Recovered somewhat, Heather was getting cagey.
Anna decided to go on the offensive before Heather called her bluff.
Nevada Barr - Anna Pigeon 08 - Deep South Page 22
