Hog Wild

by Cathy Pickens

  “That where you been?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m not in too much of a hurry, if it’s what I think it is.”

  “Trust me, it’s exactly what you think it is.” We both were quiet a moment, each with sobering images in mind.

  “Any idea what killed that lady you found yesterday?” I asked, still hoping for some explanation that wouldn’t make it so scary.

  He shook his head. “Autopsy’s not finished yet, far as I know. Took her to Newberry for that one.”

  He sat with one leg out the door, his body half-turned in the seat. I propped my fanny against the rear door of his car, and we studied the trees and the red mud road bank opposite us in a companionable silence for a moment.

  “Did you all track down the saucy lead on that dynamite you were chasing?”

  “Jeez. You wouldn’t b’lieve that one. ‘Bout the time I think I’ve seen it all.”

  “They the ones that blew up Shoal’s office?”

  “Naw. Dynamite was used, but no connection with these two. Hard to b’lieve how much dynamite is wandering around loose. Strictly bush league, this bunch. Her boyfriend wanted a stick or two to go fishing. Nowhere near enough to blow up those two houses.”

  “You’re not joking.”

  “Wish I was. Wanted to take it up to the lake, get a whole bunch’a fish at once.”

  “This was worth selling her virtue?”

  “Virtue?” He snorted. “She had method to her madness. Seems her boyfriend spends all his time fishing. She figured if he’d get the fishing done faster, he’d have more time to spend with her. Don’t you hate it when they start figuring.”

  “Romantic fish dinners at the lake? Movies from the video store? Wow.”

  Rudy gave another sharp snort. “Naw. She wanted sex. Seems he was always too busy fishin’ or too tired from fishin’ and not interested enough in foolin’ around.”

  “She traded sex for dynamite . . . so she could have sex.” And these people can vote and have children.

  He shook his head. “Good thing for him she didn’t get her hands on a couple of sticks. Sooner or later, he’d’ve ended up with it lit under his house trailer, whatcha bet?”

  I could only shake my head. “So what else you been doing?” He knew I meant, Howy’d you missed being first on the scene at the Shoal house of horrors?

  “Chasin’ that gahdam pig.”

  “Catch him?”

  He shook his head. “This is what my life’s come to.”

  “Comedy. Drama. That pretty much sums up life. Sounds like you’ve got it all.” I smiled down at him. He wasn’t smiling back. “What’s with the pig?”

  He sighed. “Some lady spotted it, over behind the elementary school. So I went to check it out. Damn thing weighs prob’ly two hunnert pounds and moves like—I don’t know what.”

  “A greased pig?”

  Again with the look.

  “So what’s this pig doing that you all got to chase it down?”

  “From the size of it, what it’s doing is eating.”

  “Big, huh.”

  “Big as any hog you’ve ever seen.”

  “So why’s it important to catch it?”

  “Danged if I know. He ate greens outta one lady’s winter garden. Mostly, though, he stays to hisself. Folks seem worried it’ll freeze to death. He looks pretty well insulated to me.”

  “That’d be sad, though, if he froze to death.”

  “Not near as sad as grown men tearing through the bushes after a two-hunnert-pound pig that could set a land speed record at a greyhound track. That’s what’s sad.”

  Rudy and most of the other deputies weren’t built for speed, but I refrained from comment on that.

  “They waiting on you at the Shoal house?” Nice as it was to stand on the roadside shooting the breeze, one or both of us needed to get to work.

  He sighed. “Not really. Everybody else already rushed up there.”

  “Including L.J.”

  “Best way to wreck a crime scene is to have one that needs studying.”

  “The rookie was trying.”

  “They always do.” He swung his left leg into the patrol car and reached to pull the door shut. “Slow it down, okay? We don’t need any more headline-making death scenes.”

  I saluted, but I didn’t promise anything.

  15

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Igot back to the office intending to unpack more boxes, but the ringing phone gave me a reprieve from setting to work.

  “Avery? Valerie Shoal.” The voice on the other end was barely more than a whisper. “I’ve been lying here thinking. What happens if somebody dies without a will?”

  Uh-oh. My brain crowded with responses, most of them uncharitable thoughts about a fresh widow whispering into the phone about her dead husband’s will while the crime scene guys took photos downstairs.

  “The state has rules that provide for distributing assets between spouse and children,” I said.

  “Like the wife?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And any children he has?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, like, if he’s not divorced. . .”

  “The wife and children split the assets, with the wife getting half.” Even sedated, Valerie was all too aware of what was going on around her.

  “Shit,” she said, slow and slurred. The phone clicked off.

  A real lawyer would calculate how many minutes that phone call had lasted, to tack them onto the bill. I still had trouble thinking in terms of operating in a businesslike manner. I also had sense enough to figure any bill sent to the Shoal residence now might be hard to collect on.

  As I hung up the phone, I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine and punched the button.

  “This message is for Avery Andrews. This is Tim McDonald. My organization has recently relocated to Camden County, and we’re interested in obtaining legal counsel. We wanted to set up a meeting here at our headquarters at your earliest convenience. Please call.”

  I scribbled the number on the notepad beside the phone, thus far the only island of organization in my sea of uncertain transition.

  Nice. A paying client. Someone with a headquarters instead of someone headquartered on a bar stool at Tap’s Pool Room, from whence had come the few court-appointed, small-time criminal defense cases I’d handled since coming home.

  I wasted no time dialing Tim McDonald’s number. I waited through ten rings and was about to hang up when a husky, impatient voice answered.

  “Hello.” No receptionist’s cheery greeting.

  “Tim McDonald?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is Avery Andrews. You called my office?” Strange way to run a company headquarters.

  “Yeah. Can you come here to meet with us? We may need a lawyer, to handle some things for us. We’d like to interview you.”

  Unconventional. Maybe a sensible way to make a decision about an important relationship, but also odd.

  “Certainly, Mr. McDonald. When would be convenient—”

  “Right now.”

  Past unconventional and odd to downright rude.

  “No. That’s not possible. I—”

  “This afternoon?”

  Was his rudeness born of urgency? Ignorance? Or was it just his style. “I could fit you in tomorrow afternoon. Where is your office located?”

  “Office. That’s a good one,” he said. “Nothing so fancy. We’re set up at the old Yellow Fork Camp. You know where that is?”

  “Up on the mountain?” Somebody had to be playing a joke, but I didn’t recognize the voice. “Mr. McDonald, you understand I charge by the hour for my time, including travel.”

  “See you when you get here.”

  My mouth was open, but I had no chance to pin the time down more precisely. He hung up.

  What kind of business was he setting up at an abandoned summer camp? He didn’t sound like the camp counselor type, but what mad
e sense on that site except another summer camp? Gone were my visions of playing corporate counsel to a high-tech start-up or similar rising star. Instead I had an abrupt, barely communicative guy with a hick drawl and few social skills. Probably didn’t have enough business savvy to know he should come in to a lawyer’s office. Lucky for him, I didn’t have enough to do to turn down a paying client—and I planned to go up the mountain to my cabin tomorrow anyway.

  I couldn’t get that dim, dark-blue room out of my mind. That face, Shoal’s body rigid in an electrocuted pose, like a tortured wax museum creature. Things like that just don’t happen in a small town. That refrain kept echoing, things like that don’t happen. Except in books.

  I wandered through my two office rooms, trying to focus. Mindless physical labor would help. The leather and the weight of each volume I found unexpectedly reassuring, carrying with it predictability and precedent.

  Before I could cut into another taped box, the phone rang again. I almost didn’t answer, fearing it might be another call from a slightly sedated Valerie Shoal.

  “Avery? Maggy Avinger. I’ve been going through some things here at the house. Last thing you need, settling into a new place, is more junk, but I found a few things you might enjoy. Some books, a couple of snapshots of your grandfather, and a table for your new prayer plant.”

  “How sweet.” Here I was knee-deep in book boxes, but who says no to books or family photographs? “Thanks. When would you like me to pick them up?”

  “Could you come now? I confess I have an ulterior motive. I could use some help moving a few things.”

  “Sure.”

  The address she gave me was only a few blocks from my office. I was surprised to find Maggy Avinger’s house full of packing boxes.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m downsizing. Moving to a smaller place. Amazing how much stuff one collects in a lifetime.”

  I could only nod in agreement.

  “So much stuff,” she said. “And how little of it one really needs—or even enjoys.”

  She led me into her dining room and indicated an elegant little wrought-iron table and a small carton. “A plant stand. And some books—local interest, mostly. Thought you might enjoy them. Or feel free to pass them on. And here”—she offered me a manila envelope—”are some pictures I came across, most from church functions over the years. That’s a wonderful photo of your grandfather, presiding over some event,” she said as I slid the photos out of the envelope.

  I recognized the look on his face all too well—his get-me-out-of-here expression, though most who saw him probably took it to be nothing more than his austere reserve.

  “Thanks. And thanks for the table. That will be the perfect height.”

  “Just make sure there’s a plastic liner in the basket to protect the tabletop. Look through these other books and help yourself. They’re all headed to the library book sale.” She waved at the built-in bookcases as she led me through a sitting room and into the kitchen.

  “I hope you don’t mind my ulterior motive. I just need help loading these boxes into my car. They’re not terribly heavy, but I just can’t manage them and the door and the steps all at the same time. Mrs. Fry said she’d have the museum open tomorrow and could accept them. I didn’t want to miss her.”

  Three open cartons of glass jars, some dulled with dust and some shining in blue, green, and amber, covered her kitchen table.

  “What interesting bottles.”

  “Indeed.” She lifted a rich blue bottle for me to admire. “My dad was quite a collector, much to Mother’s dismay. All manner of stuff has been stored out in the back shed for years. I started wiping them off, but decided the museum folk could handle the dust better than I. They may just pitch everything in the trash, for all I know, though Mrs. Fry sounded genuinely interested in having them.”

  With both hands, she lifted a large alabaster mortar and pestle from the table. “Father got this from the old Schmidt Pharmacy, when it closed.”

  “How beautiful!” Years of use had both scratched and polished it.

  “What did your dad do?”

  “Farmed, mostly. Later on, he was part owner in the Feed & Seed. Putting to use his chemistry degree, I guess. If you could just put these boxes in the backseat of my car, I’d appreciate it. Then I can catch Mrs. Fry first thing tomorrow.” She stood on the back stoop to hold the wooden screen door for me as I made three trips to her car.

  “Is there anything else I can move for you?” I asked.

  “No, that’s quite enough.” She led me into the sitting room. “Do look through the books. They’ve all got to go.”

  Against my better judgment, I couldn’t resist. Running my finger along the spines of her neatly shelved old bestsellers and a section of cookbooks, I found a lovely set of children’s classics in small leather bindings: Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Peter Pan, Sherlock Holmes, the Alice books.

  She noticed when my finger stopped there. “I’d be delighted if you’d take those.” She sounded thrilled. “Those were my childhood favorites.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “I’m tickled to know you’ll have them, Avery. It’s so hard to ask for help, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Please take these as my thank-you. Knowing you’ll enjoy these means so much, more than you know.”

  “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

  I added them to the box she’d already packed for me. “Where are you moving to? And when?” I had to ask, since she hadn’t volunteered.

  “I’m not quite sure yet. Just trying to get things sorted through. You know that always takes longer than you expect.”

  I certainly did. I gathered my box of gifts, something to add to my office full of boxes.

  “Oh!” She set down the wrought-iron table when we stepped into the front hall. “Do wait. Before you go.”

  She bustled back toward the kitchen, leaving me in her entry hall with the box balanced on one hip. In a wave of relief, I realized she hadn’t mentioned her husband’s eight-foot angel. For the first time since she’d come to my office wanting the angel gone but refusing to deal with the epitaph’s threat, I was happy with her reluctance to talk about it. It gave me time to talk to Carlton Barner about whether my bright idea would work before I mentioned it to Maggy.

  Looking around her front rooms, I was amazed how she maintained order in the midst of her move. I could see subtle signs of change only if I looked closely. The dark square on the flowered wallpaper where a picture once hung. The scant decorations on the sideboard in the parlor. Coming from the chaos of my office, I stood in awe. How did she manage it?

  A mahogany secretary stood in the entry hall on delicate turned legs. That’s what I needed to manage my incoming mail, a station like that, with baskets to sort items. In the stack of mail, my idly wandering gaze caught sight of cobalt writing. I froze.

  Peeking from beneath a grocery store circular. A sheet of creamy paper, the corner of a clipped and pasted news article, and the familiar poisonous blue ink.

  I heard Maggy’s footsteps approaching. Should I say something to her, let her know she wasn’t alone? What could the letter writer possibly see in Maggy Avinger that needed nettlesome correction? This wasn’t the same writing on the banana pudding recipe Mack had gotten. Had somebody else already found out about the angel?

  “I’m coming. Just one minute.” She called from the parlor.

  I should keep my nosy self out of her business and my mouth shut. I certainly hadn’t told anyone about my note. Why would she want to talk about hers?

  ‘Took me forever to find the right box. I wanted you to have this.”

  She held a foot-square box stuffed with packing paper. “I’d best carry it to the car for you. You have all that other stuff.”

  “Thanks—” My tone carried a question.

  “It’s the mortar and pestle Father bought,” she said. “The Schmidt Pharmacy was down the street from your office. I want you to have
it.”

  “Maggy. I can’t—”

  “No argument.” She crossed the few steps and opened the front door. “You are the one to keep it. I saw it in your face. I insist. It’ll make a nice addition to your new office, from an old professional to a new one.”

  Flabbergasted that she would entrust me with such an heirloom, I offered no argument. She ushered me and my gifts to the car, then waved good-bye from her front porch.

  I understood Maggy’s need to part with her possessions. At some point in any move, you realize you have too much stuff. You give up finding it a good home and just want it to find its way down the doorstep. I had too much stuff, yet here I was hauling more orphans home. Beautiful orphans, though.

  As I unloaded the boxes and table from my car, I couldn’t get my mind off the letter on Maggy’s hall stand. My letter and Cissie Prentice’s had intended to correct what might be seen as not-so-youthful indiscretions, a nudge toward a more circumspect lifestyle. Whatever could someone have found wanting in Maggy Avinger’s life?

  If Harden Avinger’s poisonous joke had leaked to our poison-pen writer, I’d—do what? I sputtered indignantly in my head, aware of my impotence. Of course it had leaked. Harden Avinger had wanted it to.

  I kept coming back to how creepy that spidery blue ink was, as if the blot spread across the page and then across my mind. Who knew Cissie and me and, at the same time, would be too timid to confront us directly? And who knew us and Maggy? I hadn’t asked Maggy about the letter. She was a forthright person. If she wanted to talk to me about it, she would. Maybe I should tell her about mine.

  I figured the letter writer was older, her moral benchmarks a bit Victorian. Her language was old-fashioned, and her cobalt fountain pen ink on vellum painted a different picture than if she’d used a roller ball and lined notepaper.

  Someone I knew but couldn’t see was watching me from the shadows. I wanted a chance to explain myself. Why, I couldn’t say. It was just creepy.

  Did it unsettle me because I’d wrestled with my own qualms about this move, about this office, about Dacus? She—whoever she was—didn’t know how much I hate being told I couldn’t do something. I set to work moving into my office.