The Madhatter's Guide To Chocolate

by Rhett DeVane

  Evelyn stomped to the kitchen. “I don’t believe you, Mama! A complete stranger comes up to our house, and you just roll out the red carpet!”

  “Actually, I invited him in.” Piddie turned to go back to the kitchen. “Go get dressed, Evelyn. I’ll not abide you if I don’t get to see my new nail color!”

  In the years I had lived in Florida, I came to understand that disaster and times of trouble brought out all types of people. Residents of the hurricane-ravaged coastline were familiar with the fact. In contrast to the tireless relief workers, countless weasels loaded up the backs of rental trucks with electric generators and bottled water and hotfooted it to the areas hardest hit to peddle their wares at triple the original purchase price.

  As soon as the words gay-bashing and hate crime appeared in print, Chattahoochee and the surrounding areas experienced an influx of media: legitimate newspaper and magazine writers, freelance authors, major TV news affiliate teams, and bottom-feeder trash rag magazine scribes. In addition, Chattahoochee floated in a quagmire of hate group representatives, rubbernecking onlookers, and a small pod of white supremacy thugs with nothing better to do.

  One swing through town told the story. Both small hotels were simultaneously booked to capacity for the first time in the town’s history. Vans and RVs filled the sites at the East Bank campground on Lake Seminole across the Georgia border. The local IGA food store strained to keep the shelves stocked, and the restaurants hired extra help to cook and serve the heavy load of customers.

  Even though the individual members of the visiting crowd were disparate, the group seemed to move as one giant amoebae-like being. We watched as it oozed between the heavily guarded crime scenes at Turkey Point and the Dragonfly Florist/Madhatter’s Sweet Shop and Massage Parlor. An ever-changing crowd hovered at the Chattahoochee Police headquarters on Jefferson Street, hungrily lunging at each law enforcement official who passed in range. Stephanie from the Homeplace was mobbed with questions when she delivered a bulging sack of sandwiches and a tower of soft drinks to the team of investigators inside the conference room.

  Inside the safe womb of the Cut ’n’ Curl, news was updated hourly with the arrival of appointed patrons.

  Mandy sectioned off a wet strand of my hair and snipped. “You know what Margie from out on the Hill told me?”

  Piddie and Melody, the nail specialist, stopped their conversation and looked toward the hair care side of the shop. Mrs. Tamara Johnson and Evelyn leaned completely forward to free their ears from the whistle of the hair dryer.

  Mandy paused to relish the attention of her audience. “A couple of reporters came barreling up the lane out at your farmhouse, got out, and started toward the door. Margie watched them walk around the yard for a few minutes before she decided to come up the hill. She told them the owner of this house is not home, and I’d advise you to get off her property before I phone the law!”

  “We’ve had some of them hanging around our house, too,” Evelyn said. “Mama even invited one in!”

  The women shifted attention to Piddie. She held up a half-manicured hand. “He was a nice gentleman from New York City, now. He ran some roughnecks off the front lawn. Besides…” She winked at me. “He’s handsome and I didn’t notice a wedding band.”

  Mandy giggled. “You match-makin’ again, Miz Piddie?”

  Piddie raised an eyebrow. “Cupid needs a little shot in the butt every now and again.”

  Melody spoke up. “All I know is that this town’s gone crazy. It took me almost five minutes to get down to the bank yesterday!”

  Mandy ran her fingers upward through my hair to dislodge the loose trimmings. “Chattahoochee looks like Tallahassee before Florida State plays the University of Florida in football! It’s been good for business, though. Julie from the Homeplace came in for a touch-up on her roots, and she’s just dead on her feet, but rollin’ in tips!”

  She rolled a hank of damp hair onto a round brush and set the hand-held dyer on the lowest setting. “You know what else? I had one of those trash magazine folks in here this morning tryin’ to dig up some dirt on Jake and Hattie. I sent her packin’, let me tell you!”

  Melody glanced up from Piddie’s extended hand. “When you reckon they’ll let Jake come home, Hattie?”

  “Maybe a few more days. He’s beginning to eat more solid food now. He may have to have more surgery on his leg later on, though. The Thurgood boy really smacked the bone in Jake’s thigh. He’ll have to have therapy to walk again.”

  Piddie shook her head. “I shore hope they find Marshall soon. I ’spect everyone’ll rest easier when they do. You know they’ve kept a police officer right at Jake’s door the whole time?”

  Melody gasped. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, you have to check in before you get to visit. Course, most of ’em recognize all of us now, we’ve been over there so much.” Piddie admired her wet nails. “Melody, this is surely a purty shade, even if Evelyn insists that red makes me look like a two-bit tramp.”

  Mandy threw her head back and let out a deep-throated laugh. “Lordy! You two!”

  Evelyn ducked her head from beneath the dryer and shot Piddie eye-daggers across the shop.

  Melt-In-Your-Mouth Dark Chocolate Brownies

  Ingredients: ¾ cup unsalted butter, 2 oz unsweetened chocolate, 2 oz semi-sweet chocolate, 1 cup white sugar, ¾ cup light brown sugar, 3 eggs, 1 ½ cups bleached flour, ½ tsp salt, 2 tsp vanilla, 1 ½ cups coarsely chopped walnuts or pecans.

  Preheat oven to 375º. Melt the butter and chocolate over low heat, stirring often. Remove the pan from heat and mix in the white and brown sugar, eggs, flour, salt, vanilla, and nuts. Spread the batter into a well-buttered 9 x 9 x 2 pan. Bake uncovered for 35 to 40 minutes, or until the brownies start to pull away from the sides of the pan.

  Serve with plenty of milk and napkins.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE MANHUNT

  Following Matthew Thurgood’s confession and the confirmation of Jake’s statement, the manhunt for Marshall Thurgood swung into a well-organized fever pitch. Clusters of law enforcement personnel from Decatur, Georgia, Gadsden, Jackson, and Leon counties, FDLE, GBI, and the FBI converged on Chattahoochee police headquarters. After Matt Thurgood was grilled for his take on possible locations where his cousin might hide out, the team put all available personnel into action. A bulletin was released with Marshall’s physical description and the make, model, and year of his truck.

  Marshall’s ’77 faded green Dodge 4 x 4 pickup resembled a number of hunting trucks roaming the backcountry roads. Once the word spread through the surrounding counties, Chattahoochee PD was bombarded with calls from all across the tri-state area. Vehicles similar to Marshall’s had been seen simultaneously at a fish camp on Lake Talquin near Quincy, Florida, parked beside the road two miles north of Pelham, Georgia, and outside a roughneck bar near Youngstown, Florida, halfway to Panama City Beach. Denise Whiddon’s cousin, Jennifer, was enlisted to help her field the calls. After a couple of intense hours, she and Denise resorted to drinking the spoon-dissolving coffee to stay alert.

  Inside the conference room, the officers shuffled, waiting anxiously for assignments.

  “You know this area probably better than most of us, Bobby. What about any old abandoned houses or hunting camps?” Rich Burns asked. The room full of officers listened intently.

  “Well, as I see it, Marshall was drunk and half-crazed by the time he left Turkey Point. His mama said there was no way he could’ve had a lot of cash on him, and all of her credit cards are accounted for. So…I reckon he’s still around here close-by, probably waiting to slip back into town for money and food. There’re a slew of old hunting and fishing camps up in the edge of Georgia. I’d bet he didn’t come back down toward town, but ducked up there to lie low.”

  “Still, I think we ought to make a list of the hunting areas in Gadsden and Jackson counties and not rule them out,” Chattahoochee Police Chief, David Turnbill said. “I know a lot of them,
but Bobby, you can help the officers with any they might not be aware of.”

  Denise appeared with the updated list of truck sightings. Within a few minutes, cruisers pulled away from CPD heading in all directions, leaving a trail of puzzled, frustrated media in their wake. Chief Turnbill came out long enough to make an official statement, then returned to the command post.

  Bobby drove his blue Ford pick-up over the Florida/Georgia border into Chattahoochee City limits. It had been a frustrating day of dead ends. He had remained in cell phone contact with Officer Rich Burns, giving him new sites that came to mind as he rode the heavily wooded backroads.

  Though he’d never given much thought to his stand on homosexuality, the senseless brutality of Jake’s assault had made Bobby white-hot mad. Jake wasn’t a bad fellow. From all accounts, he was a decent, stand-up guy. Hattie certainly held him in high regard. That had to account for something.

  Bobby’s growing affection for Leigh Andrews nudged the deep-seated knot of anger in the center of his gut. She was all about family, loved every Sunday dinner, birthday and anniversary. She kept up with special dates, favorite songs, and cherished memories. Leigh couldn’t fathom his lack of regard for his sister and the remaining few members of his extended family, and took every opportunity to nudge him in their direction.

  He’d been giving it some serious consideration. How many times had Hattie reached out to him, only to be swiftly cut to the quick? Bobby shook his head. It was a small wonder his sister would still give him the time of day.

  The need for reconciliation had driven him for the past long hours; up and down every pig trail hunting camp road, past deserted fishing shanties, and over back dirt country lanes so rutted and overgrown, the tree branches carved deep gouges into the shanks of his pick-up.

  Bobby talked aloud to himself. “Maybe I oughta rethink this thing. Marshall could’ve come back toward town and turned west toward Sneads. But…who in his right mind would head across that narrow Victory Bridge…drunk…at night…but, then, we aren’t dealing with a boy in his right mind.”

  He turned west and headed for Jackson County. As he drove, he allowed his mind to wander, mulling over any place he knew where a kid might run. Rich Burns’ words floated briefly through his mind: “Don’t be a hero, Bobby. You have any leads, you call me and I’ll get someone on it right away! That boy’s scared, half-crazy, and possibly armed with at least a deer gun.”

  Following a gut hunch, Bobby turned south on Florida Power Road, closely paralleling the winding route of the Apalachicola River. As he approached the site of the Florida Power Plant on the banks of the river, he slowed. During the winter months, the abandoned factory buildings were a hangout for local teens looking for a place to smoke pot and drink.

  Hidden from the main road, he spotted Marshall’s 4 x 4 in a thatch of oak and pine saplings. He pulled his truck nearby and cut the engine. For a moment, Bobby toyed with the notion of contacting Rich. Slowly, he left the truck and approached the 4 x 4, listening for any unusual noises.

  Marshall’s truck had rolled half-throttle into the patch of woods. Deep gashes ran the length of the sideboards and the front hood was crimped in three places where small trees had stopped his forward momentum. Spider web-like veins spooled outward from a crack on the driver’s side windshield. Bobby peered though the open window. The lingering sour smell of spilled whiskey permeated the cab, and he noted dried blood and a few strands of dark hair hanging from the center of the fracture in the windshield. A long piece of rounded cypress wood lay on the seat, one end dark with what he supposed was Jake’s blood.

  Bobby followed a set of uneven shoeprints toward a listing tin outbuilding with broken windows and a ruined roof. The musky smell of dead fresh water mussels, floating opened like popcorn in the hot river water, hit his nostrils. As he cautiously moved closer to the shack, another odor accosted his nose. He knew this scent from discovering the aftermath of illegally poached animals in the woods he patrolled. It was the smell of death.

  When he opened the rickety shed door, the rancid odor hit him full in the face. He grabbed a bandana from his back pocket and cupped it over his mouth and nose. The scene before him burned permanently into his mind’s eye.

  The remains of Marshall Thurgood lay splayed on the concrete floor beside an old wooden chair. An empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey sat on one side, and Marshall’s 30 caliber Marlin lever action deer gun lay on the other, his right index finger still caught in the trigger. A blood encrusted hunting knife was close to the body. Pieces of Marshall’s 17-year-old face, and the majority of the gray matter that had been his brain were sprayed in a fan-shaped arc across the walls and floor. A mass of flies, nature’s vultures first on death’s scene, maintained a constant stream through the broken windows.

  Bobby staggered outside into the fresher air and vomited violently.

  Bobby stared blankly into the deep thicket of trees on the periphery of the power plant parking lot. There were times when he thanked God for his eyesight. When he looked out over the salt marshes at St. Marks Wildlife Preserve on the Gulf coast—the rippling marsh grasses dotted with islands of palm and palmetto bushes, and fingers of brackish water teaming with bird life and alligators….or, when he studied the dips and valleys of the Appalachian Mountains, bluegreen and cloud-dappled for miles in the distance. His mind would take a snapshot and store it for the future…to recall and enjoy again.

  Unlike the pleasant visual memories he’d stored over his lifetime, Bobby knew that the freeze frame of Marshall’s final suicide drama would be permanently burned into his mind’s eye. Even if he tried to push it out, it would never leave him. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Within minutes of his call into headquarters, the abandoned power plant grounds swarmed with law enforcement officers.

  “Damn it, Bobby! I can’t believe you went in there alone!” Rich Burns swore as he paced beside his squad car. “That was really stupid! If he’d been alive, that could’ve been your brains on the floor!”

  Bobby wiped the beads of cold sweat from his face. “I know…I know…I don’t know why I did it. I’m sorry I did it!” He rubbed his eyes as if trying to cancel the image in his head. “I’ll never get that picture out of my head.” He held his pounding temples.

  They watched as the swarm of investigators and Jackson County law enforcement ebbed and flowed around the shed.

  I watched the local news as I packed a small duffle with fresh underwear and clothes. The hunt for Marshall Thurgood was the lead story. On the video footage, the police headquarters in Chattahoochee teemed with law enforcement and mobs of reporters. Chief Turnbill looked as if he hadn’t slept since the abduction.

  The doorbell sounded and I bounded down the townhouse stairs. My brother stepped in. “I’ve been looking all over for you! I thought you’d be up at the hospital.” His eyes were red-rimmed.

  “I needed some fresh clothes.”

  He pushed by and loped into the living room.

  “Bobby, I really don’t have time for a confrontation. I need to hurry on back to the hospital so I’ll be there when Jake’s doctor makes rounds.”

  He spun around. His thinning hair stuck out at odd angles, and his shirt looked as if he had worn it for several days. “I just need to talk to you, Hattie. Please.” His voice sounded ragged.

  “So, talk.”

  He paced the living room before he began. “You heard the news?”

  “I just turned it on. We haven’t been watching it at the hospital. I don’t want to upset Jake any more than necessary. Not right now.”

  “I found Matthew Thurgood.”

  I watched as my brother, a thorn in my side for over a decade, fell apart in front of my eyes. He sat on the couch and hung his head in his shaking hands, a sigh passing out of his body in a great shudder.

  “I can’t get that got-damned smell out of my nose. It’s like it’s burned in there forever. Damn, I could use a drink.”

  A cold shiver brushed
the fine hairs at the base of my neck.

  He buried his face in his hands. “The flies! The got-damned flies covered everything!” Beads of acrid sweat clung to his skin. “I puked my guts out. I couldn’t stop.”

  Racking sobs shook his body. I sat next to him and held him, rocking back and forth.

  When Bobby finally quieted, he said softly, “I did it for you, Hattie. I know I ain’t been much of a brother to you.”

  I wiped the tears from my eyes, and for the next couple of hours, we had the first real conversation with one another since childhood.

  Excerpt from Max the Madhatter’s notebook, January 6, 1956

  Sometimes, I have to do things I don’t like. Like eat liver. Nurse Marion says that’s what dessert is for – to take the taste of something bad from my mouth. I think friends are what takes the bad taste away, too, when the bad comes from somewhere besides the cafeteria.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE WAKE

  On the elevator, I flipped to the obituary section of the Tallahassee Demorcrat and read:

  Marshall James Thurgood of Chattahoochee, Florida, 17, died on July 4th.

  Graveside services are planned for Wednesday at 2 PM at Mt. Pleasant cemetery on Highway 90. Family will receive friends from 1 to 4 PM Tuesday at the residence of Thomas and Lottie Thurgood.

  A native of Chattahoochee, he was a junior at Chattahoochee High School.

  He is survived by his mother, Louise Thurgood of Chattahoochee and his father, Timothy Thurgood of California, his uncle and aunt, Thomas and Lottie Thurgood, and cousin, Matthew Thurgood.

  (Memorial Memories Funeral Home)

  As I started to enter Jake’s hospital room, a young man in a finely tailored charcoal-gray suit stepped out and held the door open for me to pass.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Pull in your hormones, Josephine, he sings in my choir, not yours.”