Sweet and Deadly aka Dead Dog

by Charlaine Harris

  She sat down in the caved-in chair and leaned forward to see what magazines Tom bought. A photography glossy, Playboy, Time. The phone placed so neatly by the stack was a princess type. On the smooth back of the receiver Tom had pasted a list of phone numbers. It was not an extensive list. Tom was not integrated into the town’s life yet, since he had been gone on weekends for the past months. Catherine noted that her own number topped the list. He really doesn’t know any girls, she thought wryly.

  But Tom was attractive in a long dark way, and Leila, the Gazette secretary-receptionist, had been giving him the eye ever since he started work. With the fiancée out of the picture, maybe Tom would wake up to Leila’s adoring brown eyes.

  “How did your dad stand having his office and house so close?” he asked as he handed Catherine her can of beer.

  “The house I live in now was my grandparents’,” she explained. “When my dad finished medical school and moved back in with them, they were already getting old. They had him late, and he was an only child. So he wanted to be close to them in case of an emergency, and my mother didn’t mind living with them. This house was up for sale. So it was convenient to him.” She sighed. “Things were different then. People would come at night-” and Catherine stopped dead.

  She rose abruptly and walked straight to the door leading to the hall. She examined the door frame.

  “Termites?” Tom asked silkily.

  “Smartass,” Catherine said with irritation. “No, look at this.”

  He joined her.

  “It’s a buzzer, like a doorbell, and it rings in the master bedroom in my house. Dad had it put in so that if emergencies came at night, people could come into this waiting room and buzz him. I told you things were different then. He left the front door unlocked, only locked this door opening into the hall. I had completely forgotten about it.”

  “My God, you mean I could ring for you?” Tom leered theatrically.

  “Yes, but you’d better not!”

  “It still works?”

  “I guess so,” said Catherine, dismayed. “Now don’t go playing jokes on me, you hear?”

  For a moment Tom looked as mischievous as an eight-year-old with a frog in his pocket. Then his thin lips settled into an unusual line of sobriety.

  “No, I promise, Catherine,” he said. “You’ve had enough shocks.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said with feeling. She sat back down.

  Tom lit a joint. “Sure you don’t want some? Make you feel better,” he advised her.

  She shook her head. “Did you buy that here?” she asked curiously.

  “Yes,” he answered, after he expelled the smoke he had been holding deep in his lungs. “The other night. My first Lowfield dope run.”

  “Not from Leona, surely?” Catherine asked impulsively.

  “Christ, no!” Tom stared at her. “What the hell made you think that?”

  But Catherine didn’t want to tell him that the sheriff had hinted that Leona had had something from her father’s office-presumably medical equipment. She felt foolish for even thinking of Leona as a marijuana processor. Did you need medical things to prepare it to smoke? She could see Tom worrying over her rash question like a dog with an especially meaty bone.

  “Come on, honey, you know something,” Tom coaxed.

  He’s sure not short on charm when he wants something, Catherine told herself. Tom had a convincing way of fixing his heavily lashed brown eyes on a potential source of information with melting effect; but Catherine had seen the trick too many times to be swayed.

  “Save that for Leila,” she said callously.

  “Leila?” Tom asked. “What is this about Leila?”

  His vanity, so badly bruised by his fiancée, was fully aroused. Catherine could tell she wasn’t going to get out of answering his question.

  “Oh, she likes you,” she said reluctantly, regretting she had introduced the subject. “I can’t believe you haven’t noticed it.” But he hadn’t, that was plain. He stroked his villainous mustache in a pleased way.

  “She’s a pretty girl,” he said thoughtfully.

  “And just out of high school, and never been out of Lowfield,” Catherine said warningly. Now shut up, she told herself. You’ve already made one mistake.

  She didn’t want to compound it by being fosterer and confidant to a relationship she thought would surely end in trouble. Tom was vain and immature; and Leila was too far gone on him before any relationship had even begun, and so very young.

  Who am I, God? Catherine asked herself harshly. Quit predicting. You’re not exactly the world’s authority on men and women. How many dates have you had lately?

  “Didn’t you go out on Friday?” she asked Tom, changing the subject so she could stop feeling guilty. “Have a date?”

  “No,” he said sharply.

  “I wasn’t spying,” she said indignantly. “I heard your car, and you know how hard it is to mistake any other car for yours.” (A defensive jab; Tom’s Volkswagen was notably noisy.) “I noticed it because I was trying to go to sleep.”

  Tom relaxed in a cloud of pungent smoke. “Sure you won’t have some of this?”

  “No,” she said impatiently.

  “It’s pretty good stuff for homegrown,” he said. “No, I didn’t have a date. I went out to buy this. It’s not easy to set up when you don’t know anybody. Took me forever.”

  “Did you see-anything?” Leona had been killed Friday night, the doctors said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, Tom. Anything?”

  “You know what Lowfield is like on Friday night. I saw the high school kids riding around and around over the same streets. I saw the blacks who live out in the country coming into town to drink. I barely saw Cracker Thompson” (who was something in the position of the village idiot) “riding around on his bicycle without any reflectors, wearing dark clothes. If that’s what you mean by ‘anything.’ I presume,” said Tom, drawing out the words lovingly, “you mean, did I see Leona Gaites dragged out of her house screaming, by a huge man with a two-by-four.”

  Catherine shuddered. Though Sheriff Galton had told her that Leona was beaten to death, the reminder conjured up the same horrible pictures: Leona’s outstretched hand; the flies.

  Tom observed her shudder with bright eyes. “Jerry told me that something heavy and wooden was probably the weapon, a baseball bat or something like that-the traditional blunt instrument. Anyway”-and Tom hunted around for his point-“no, I didn’t see ‘anything.’”

  Foolish, Catherine said to herself. I was foolish to ask. That must be good dope. Maybe I should have taken it. I could have had hours of entertainment just sitting and laughing to myself.

  “But I might have,” Tom said suddenly. “Maybe I can use that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  But Tom waved a hand extravagantly and laughed. Catherine eyed him as he slid lower in his seat. His spider legs were sprawled out in front of him. If he relaxes any more he’ll pour off that couch, she thought.

  “Tom,” she said uneasily.

  “My lady speaks?”

  “Don’t…” she hesitated. She was not exactly sure of how to put it. “Don’t let anyone think you know more than you do.”

  “Little Catherine!” He grinned at her impishly.

  “I’m not kidding, Tom. Look at what happened to my parents. Look what happened to Leona…though the sheriff doesn’t seem to think it’s related.” She frowned, still not satisfied that the sheriff was right; though from his mysterious hints she knew there was something about Leona’s activities that Galton felt had led directly to her death.

  “I know more than James Galton, that’s for sure,” Tom said, with a whisker-licking effect. “Guess who’s selling dope in Lowfield?”

  Catherine raised her eyebrows interrogatively.

  “Jimmy Galton, Junior!” Tom laughed.

  “Oh no,” Catherine murmured in real distress. If Tom knew that, who els
e did? All the kids in Lowfield, of course. Poor Sheriff Galton. Did he know? In his job, how could he avoid knowing? She wondered if Leona had known James Junior’s occupation, too. And whether the wads of cash found in Leona’s house were hush money paid by one of the Galtons to ensure she kept quiet. Money that was now coming to her, Catherine remembered, sickened.

  “I wish you hadn’t told me that, Tom,” she said bitterly.

  “I’ll comfort you, little Catherine.”

  “The hell you will. I’m going home.”

  “Oh, stay and have another beer.” And he gave her his charming grin. “We can pool our resources.” His eyebrows waggled suggestively.

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “Right now I don’t feel like I have any resources to pool. Thanks for the beer.”

  Tom made a gentlemanly attempt to rise.

  “No, don’t get up, you look like you’ll fall down if you do. I know where the door is. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Tom said cheerfully. “I’ve got to write Leona’s obit.”

  On that happy note, Catherine shut the screen door behind her.

  She had to lengthen her stride to hit the stepping-stones that linked their back doors. The hedges between the houses joined the hedges running down the sides of the yard, making an H of greenery. Her parents had planted it for privacy from the street on one side and from neighbors on the other; and to separate the office and home backyards. It had gotten out of hand, and Catherine reminded herself, as she went through the gap planned for her father’s passage, that she needed to take care of it.

  I ought to do it myself, she thought. Then she looked down at her arms, too pink and tender from exposure to the sun the day before, and decided to hire someone.

  What are these bushes, anyway? she wondered. She rubbed some leaves between her fingers, which of course told her nothing. She was trying to avoid thinking about the Galtons, Senior and Junior. Catherine stared at the growth blankly. I hate this damn hedge, she thought. I’ll cut the whole thing down. Both yards are open anyway, and what do I do in the backyard that anyone shouldn’t see?

  The hedge was added to her mental list of things to change, which already numbered curtains, bedspread, clothes, and shoes.

  It made her feel a little better, planning for the future.

  When all this is over, she thought vaguely.

  As she entered her back door, she heard the front doorbell ringing. No rest for the wicked, she told herself grumpily. What’ll I get this time? An interrogation? A chicken casserole?

  In this disagreeable frame of mind, she swung open the front door. Finally, her caller was Randall.

  7

  “ WANT TO GO out to the levee with me?”

  “Okay,” Catherine said smoothly, dancing a little jig inside. “Come in while I straighten myself up.”

  She had only seen him in the conservative suits he wore at the Gazette. He was wearing khakis and a T-shirt. He looked incredibly muscular for a newspaper editor. He looked wonderful.

  I am smitten, Catherine said silently as she gave her hair a hasty brushing in the bedroom. How long has it been since I was smitten?

  She remembered as she touched up her makeup.

  She had overheard the young man through her dorm window. He had been talking to a fraternity brother after he had deposited Catherine at the door.

  “How was your date with Sphinx?” the fraternity brother had asked idly.

  “Like dating Snow White. You never know if she’s going to say anything, or if she does, what it’s going to be; and you feel like she might have the Seven Dwarves in her pocket.”

  He had never asked her out again; and Catherine had been too unnerved and hurt to accept a date for a long time after that.

  But I’m not scared now, she realized as she dashed into the bathroom (wouldn’t do to have to go at the levee).

  She wondered, as she flushed the toilet, if Randall was so tempting because she had been so lonely for so long; because Leona’s solitary life and death had forced her to wonder if she would be alone forever.

  “I don’t care,” she said out loud, zipping up her blue jeans.

  She decided, peering in the mirror again, that she looked positively animated. The sun yesterday had taken care of her need for color. “Though I wish,” she muttered, “it had skipped my nose in the process.”

  What the hell, she thought, stuffing her keys in one pocket and her cigarette case in the other. What the hell.

  She had not been prepared to be so relaxed with him. She had heard talk of Randall all her life: her mother had been fond of his mother, though Angel Gerrard was considerably older. The two women, sitting companionably in the kitchen over coffee, had discussed their children; and Catherine, in and out, had heard (without caring a great deal, since he was so much older) of Randall’s progress through college, graduate school, and employment with a congressman who was a Gerrard family friend.

  Since Catherine had gotten a job at the Gazette, Randall had scarcely become more real. His presence had seemed so familiar, in a shadowy way, that she had never looked squarely at him. And during her first weeks of work, Catherine had been functioning automatically, in a state of shock. When her feeling had slowly returned, tingling as if her whole body had been asleep, she had come to know her coworkers bit by bit, but Randall had remained on the outer fringes. He was in and out of the office, selling advertising space, hiring delivery men, supervising the unloading of the enormous rolls of paper for the press: always busy. He was alert to the contents of his paper, writing stories himself when Tom and Catherine had too much on their hands. And always passing through.

  He must be as used to hearing my name as I am to hearing his, Catherine thought, as they drove out of town in easy silence. This third-hand familiarity eliminated the need to exchange information immediately, as men and women usually did. Catherine became almost drowsy with comfort.

  They were coming to the levee. The graveled road, which had been aiming through the seemingly endless level terrain of the fields, mounted to the levee in a sharp swoop.

  She leaned forward a little, reliving the excitement she had felt at this abrupt climb when she was little and riding with her grandfather in his pickup. It had been as thrilling as a roller coaster.

  Randall looked over at her and smiled.

  A last lurch and they were on top of the levee. The graveled road on the top was barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. On the river side, the green grass slope was scattered with cattle. It ran down to the trees that marked the edge of the marshy land bordering the river, though in places the slope rose again to modest bluffs that overlooked the water.

  Some roads led down to fishing camps. Randall bypassed them, to Catherine’s relief. The fishing camps were tawdry and depressing, with their ramshackle weekend cabins and litter of beer bottles.

  “Where are we going, Randall?” she asked shyly.

  “To the party bluff.”

  She nodded. That was the right place to go today.

  “I haven’t been out there since I was in high school,” she said. “I hear they’ve put garbage cans out there, picnic tables. And some gravel to park on.”

  “Yes,” he said. “When I was in high school, someone got stuck out there every spring. We would all be drunk as lords, scrambling around in the mud, trying to find wood to put under the tires. Our parents’ cars, of course. Having to drive back into town in someone else’s car, trying to get Danny at the Shell station to take his tow truck out there without phoning our folks.”

  “Pooling your money to pay him,” Catherine murmured, nodding.

  “Right,” Randall laughed, his memories chiming with hers.

  They took the turnoff to the bluff. The road plunged down at what seemed an impossible angle. Catherine had a moment to think “roller coaster,” and they charged down.

  And down. The road, which disintegrated into a graveled track, began winding narrowly through choking undergrowth.
The track had been built up to avoid flooding, but after any considerable rain, parts of it were under water. Since the weather had been so dry for so long, they didn’t have to worry about that today. Catherine could see the roots of the trees sticking up like bare bones. Branches brushed the car. The road was roofed with interlocking greenery. Inside the car it was cool and dim.

  Randall drove very slowly. The gravel had petered out, leaving only dirt, heaved and holed by the rain and then baked hard. The car rocked and shimmied.

  After some twists, they began to climb again. The trees thinned, the driving was easier.

  Catherine saw the shimmer of the sun on the water.

  The bluff had been cleared of trees, leaving a large open area. There was a graveled turnaround, which Randall circled so that the car pointed back down the track. A couple of oil drums had been cleaned and placed in the clearing to hold garbage, and they showed evidence of heavy use.

  “Much better,” Catherine said approvingly.

  She and Randall didn’t speak again until they had settled on the edge of the bluff. Below them the bank fell away gently down to the lapping water. The bank was concrete, old and broken in places, allowing the relentless Mississippi weeds to push their heads through the cracks. There was river litter, not human litter, scattered on the concrete-bits of wood and weed.

  Catherine sighed. The bank of Arkansas was clear but tiny across the river.

  She was content.

  This was not like being with any other man. She couldn’t explain to herself how someone so distant and so taken for granted could have switched positions so easily and naturally. She didn’t want to explain, or worry, or wonder; or try to picture how he saw her. She was, for once, quite unselfconscious.

  The swift and treacherous current swept a large branch downriver toward New Orleans. They watched it pass. The river spawned big sweeping thoughts that were best shared silently.

  “Maybe a barge will go by,” Catherine said, after a time.

  When she had been in her teens, a group of them would stand on the bluff and shout to the bargemen, their voices carrying across the river. The bargemen would sometimes sound the deep barge horn in reply.