The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  Elmore cleared his throat. “Bo, what it is—”

  Bo ignored him. “Let’s see what you got.”

  Moving heavily, Elmore shifted two large sacks of chicken feed away from the wall, revealing a low door flush with the dirt floor and about a yard square. He unhooked the leather-thong latch and swung the door open. Taking the lantern from its hook, he bent to the dark cubbyhole. The lantern beam flickered off glass.

  Bo took the lantern. “Bring out a sample.”

  Elmore crawled inside and emerged with a five-gallon glass jug filled with clear liquid. He set it on the ground near Bo’s feet.

  Bo squatted down, putting the lantern on the ground next to the jug. The men crouched with the jug between them, Bo rubbing his jaw and looking at the jug, Elmore looking at Bo.

  The wavering light accentuated the deep hollows under Bo’s eyes. The skin of his face was stretched and taut. He bent his middle finger with his thumb, released it, and gave the jug a solid thump.

  The men watched bubbles rise through the liquid to rest on its top. “Nice bead,” said Bo meditatively, and then, to Elmore, “Get me a jar lid.”

  When Elmore gave him the top of a fruit jar, Bo unscrewed the demijohn and poured some of the liquid into it. Eyes closed, he sniffed at it and sipped enough to moisten the end of his tongue. Then he set the lid on the ground and held a hand toward Elmore. Elmore dug into his pocket and gave Bo a book of matches. Bo lit one and held it to the liquid in the lid, which immediately and briefly flared into a bright flame. When it died down, Bo regarded Elmore levelly. “Over a hundred proof,” he said.

  Bo began to whistle between his teeth, softly and tunelessly. Elmore said, “He come by here, Bo. You’d said you’d be out of business for a while because your still blew up.”

  “Whoa,” said Bo. “Back up. Who came by?”

  “Big old fellow. Not from here. He never said his name.”

  “And you didn’t ask, either.” Bo’s voice was without inflection. “You didn’t mind dealing with a stranger who blew up the Calhouns’ still.”

  “He never said he blew up—”

  “No, hell, he never said anything. Why should he? You were just as happy to deal with him no matter what he did.”

  “It was just that I had people to supply. Like Hosey. He was mighty put out, Bo, when I told him.”

  “Oh, well now,” said Bo. “I’m real sorry to hear Hosey was put out. That makes the whole thing more understandable, knowing that Hosey was put out.”

  Bo stood up, and Elmore scrambled to his feet beside him. Bo looked at Elmore for several seconds before he spoke. “When does this big old fellow make his deliveries to you?”

  “Sometimes one day, sometimes another. I can’t never tell when he’s—”

  Bo took Elmore by the upper arms and slammed him against the wall. Elmore’s head snapped back and hit with a solid thud, and he staggered to his knees. Chickens squawked, and one thrashed through the air, hit the wall, and fell motionless to the floor.

  “You must want to get hurt,” said Bo. “You know better than to give me that kind of trash.”

  “It’s true,” wheezed Elmore. “He don’t never let me know but a day ahead.”

  “All right.” Bo knelt beside Elmore and grasped his collar. “Next time you get the word he’s coming, you let me know. If I don’t hear from you, you’ll hear from the Calhouns.” He shook Elmore’s collar gently, and Elmore’s head swayed. “You hear?”

  “Yes.”

  Bo stood and slipped out the chicken house door. Elmore didn’t look up to watch him go.

  20

  Poems

  Careless was the love I bore,

  Careless all I’d done before.

  Careless was my only song,

  Careless for those I’d done wrong.

  Careless until I met one

  Who showed me careless days were done.

  And now, it’s true, I must confess,

  That no more do I feel careless.

  Lily put the composition book on the kitchen table and rubbed her eyes. The handwriting was starting to blur. Blurring, too, were the poems themselves. Diana had restricted herself to the theme of love and, however compelling it may have been for her, Lily was getting tired of it.

  Lily hadn’t read much poetry, but she’d read enough to know it wasn’t always about love. Her own favorite poem was about a seashell. At the thought of it, she got up and went into the stuffy, little-used living room where One Hundred and One Favorite Poems stood on the shelf next to the Bible. Back at the table, she found the place easily. “The Chambered Nautilus,” by Oliver Wendell Holmes. The words slid through her head, soothing and familiar. The sea animal working its shell, its “ship of pearl,” year by year in an ever-larger spiral. And at the end, the satisfying moral: “Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul.” She read that part aloud, but not loudly enough to wake Aubrey.

  Leaving Oliver Wendell Holmes, she turned back to Diana Landis. Who could the man have been? What would Woody make of it all, Woody who had probably never even read “The Song of Hiawatha,” much less “The Chambered Nautilus”? She turned the page.

  Honor thy father and mother,

  The Bible tells us to.

  My mother is gone, my father’s like stone,

  And I’d rather honor you.

  I didn’t know it would mean choosing,

  And choosing is hard, it’s true.

  But when it came to a decision

  I knew I would have to choose you.

  I’d like to have honored my father

  If it hadn’t been so hard to do.

  So I won’t even try, just let it go by,

  And instead I’ll honor you.

  Sacrilege, thought Lily. It isn’t funny, playing around with the Commandments. Besides, what’s all this about her father, choosing between Snapper and this other man? What a ridiculous whoop-te-do. Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul.

  But Diana, she reminded herself, had been young. And Lily, she reminded herself, was not. Diana’s love agonies did bring back memories. Especially of a young man in a straw boater who’d had amber eyes. So long ago, it was as small and static in her mind as a panel in a love comic book. A hint of sun behind him lit his hair when he took off his hat—to greet her? To say good-bye? And that’s all she could remember. That and his name, which was David.

  She closed Diana’s book. She had read enough both to satisfy herself and to be fair to Pearl. Tomorrow, she would keep her promise and turn it over to Woody.

  The sound of the sea was a constant faint plashing in this calm weather. She stepped onto the screened porch. The air was stirring slightly. She should be sure to listen to the weather report tomorrow. Or maybe it was her imagination.

  On his cot on the porch, Aubrey stirred. The kitchen light shone dimly on his tufts of white hair, his ruddy face. He had slept out here all summer, saying that inside he couldn’t get his breath and was afraid he would choke. Lily hadn’t argued, hadn’t known what to say. He had set up the cot, and she had put on the sheets and a light blanket, and given him his pillow from their bed. He now pulled that pillow around his ears and turned on his side. She went back inside, where the air remained hot and unmoving, and prepared for bed. She lay a long time, watching the clouds move slowly across the moon, before she was able to sleep.

  21

  A Talk with Woody

  Sara Eubanks was able to look after the store again, and Lily got an early start the next morning. In her visit with Woody, she planned as she drove toward St. Elmo, she would discuss two points: the mysterious young man who made the phone call, and Diana’s poems.

  As she approached the courthouse, she noticed that the street was choked with cars. She didn’t remember ever having difficulty finding a parking place in St. Elmo before, but today she had to park down a side street two blocks away. Knots of people were standing on the courthouse lawn.

  Lily, intent on her errand, wondered if there
was an election rally she hadn’t heard about. She soon realized, though, that her own destination was the focal point of all the attention.

  The sheriff’s department was jammed with people, many of them hovering around Loyce, whose jaws were grinding faster than ever. Among them Lily saw Dr. Andrews from the clinic and Brother Chillingworth. The man with the goiter who’d rushed out with Woody and Cecil yesterday was sitting on the bench eating boiled peanuts out of a damp paper bag and talking to Otis Tyree, editor of the St. Elmo Bay Observer. In a corner stood Mrs. Chillingworth, the minister’s wife, holding a large cake with coconut frosting on a cut-glass cake stand.

  Lily had never cared for Mrs. Chillingworth, who in her opinion suffered from the excessive piety that was an occupational hazard of ministers’ wives. On the other hand, Mrs. Chillingworth was the only person who looked available for conversation in this unexpected crush. Lily worked her way over to where the small, rabbity-looking woman stood, and said, “What on earth is happening?”

  The tip of Mrs. Chillingworth’s nose reddened, and she began to cry.

  “Mercy.” Lily said, taking the cake stand before Mrs. Chillingworth tipped it too far and the cake slid off. “Come with me,” she said, and led the weeping minister’s wife out the door and down the hall to the ladies’ room, where Mrs. Chillingworth sniffled and dabbed at her eyes.

  Eventually, Mrs. Chillingworth got herself under control. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Trulock,” she gasped. “It’s just that the seminary gave that young man such a high recommendation. Even so, I know everyone will consider this a reflection on Buster.”

  It had never occurred to Lily to wonder if the Reverend Luke John Chillingworth had a nickname. Unable to take in “Buster,” she rested the cake on the edge of the rust-stained sink.

  “The bishop is sure to hear about it,” said Mrs. Chillingworth. “Not that he shouldn’t. Buster has nothing to condemn himself for. It’s the seminary that should be worried.”

  “The seminary?”

  “If they send murderers out as youth workers, the whole Alabama-West Florida Conference will have to change plans next summer.”

  The cake was listing. Lily caught it and said, “Are you talking about Wesley Stafford?”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Chillingworth. She looked at the cake. “Do you think he likes coconut? I could’ve made chocolate. But if Wesley doesn’t want it, the sheriff might enjoy it. Don’t you think?”

  Mrs. Chillingworth peered into the mirror and patted at her hair. Lily cleared her throat. “Are you saying that Wesley Stafford is supposed to have killed Diana?”

  Mrs. Chillingworth glanced at Lily in surprise. “They arrested him last night. Someone saw him running away from the dock where they found her body. And I do believe I heard Buster say he’d confessed.”

  Numbly, Lily handed the cake back to Mrs. Chillingworth. “Confessed?”

  “So Buster said.” Mrs. Chillingworth smiled a wavering smile. “I’d better get back. Buster will be wondering where I am.” She left, the door hissing closed behind her.

  Lily remained behind, trying to take in the news. What about the dark-haired young man who hadn’t had a nickel? What about Diana’s poems? If Wesley had confessed, they would be meaningless. She gazed at the composition book projecting from the side pocket of her purse. She had, after all, promised Pearl.

  When Lily returned, the scene in the sheriff’s department was a little calmer. The Chillingworths were nowhere in sight, but the coconut cake sat on Loyce’s desk. Lily had no intention of going by the rules this time. She threaded her way through the crowd and walked straight into Woody’s office.

  He was on the telephone, saying, “Naw, he come along just fine. Blubbered a little.” Cecil was leaning against the wall, his chair balanced on its back legs. Woody looked at her, blinked, and said into the phone, “I got to go.” He hung up and turned to her. “Mother Trulock.”

  “Woody.”

  “Was there something I could quick do for you?”

  Woody’s face had the same look of pious inattention Lily had often seen on it in church. “There are a couple of things about the murder,” she said.

  Woody’s eyes rolled upward slightly. “What was that?”

  “Well,”—Lily pulled up a chair and sat down—“that same day, a young man came to my place all agitated. He didn’t have a nickel for the phone, and—”

  “You say this has something to do with the murder?”

  Lily flushed. “Yes, I think so. You see, this young man—a dark-haired young man—didn’t have a nickel for the phone, and he asked me for change, and then he went and made a call and ran off. And that was about the time you got the call about the murder.”

  When Woody responded, his tone was exaggeratedly polite. “Mother Trulock, if you see that young man again, you tell him I want to talk to him right away, you hear?” He glanced at Cecil with the suggestion of a smile, then back at her. “Now, you said there was another thing?”

  “Pearl Washington, Snapper’s maid, gave me some poems Diana wrote. They show that Diana was carrying on with somebody. A married man.”

  The smile became deeper. “Do tell.”

  “I know she saw a lot of married men,” continued Lily, her face getting hotter. “But according to the poems, this was a different type of thing.”

  Woody inclined his head. “I appreciate you bringing all this to my attention. Of course, now that we got Wesley Stafford apprehended, we’re going to be spending most of our time looking at the evidence against him. But if we get a chance—you paying attention, Cecil?—we’ll be looking into all this you’ve mentioned.”

  “You haven’t even read the poems,” said Lily.

  “Naw ma’am, and you know what? Why don’t you hang on to them for right now. Keep them real handy, in case I need them. Will you do that for me?”

  Lily rose. “So nice of you to take the time.” She hoped her voice conveyed adequate sarcasm.

  “Glad to do it.” He got up from behind his desk and ushered her toward the door.

  “How are you so sure Wesley did it?” asked Lily.

  “Gus Avery keeps the bait shack down there. He saw Wesley running away from the dock. And besides that, Wesley confessed.” From the doorway Woody indicated the man with the goiter who, alone now, was still on the bench eating peanuts.

  “Did she drown?”

  “Naw. Best we can figure, he tied her up and whomped her with the end of that net that had the weights in it until she died. Then he wrapped her in the net and dumped her in the drink thinking she was going to sink to the bottom. Only he didn’t wait to make sure, and the net caught, and there she was.”

  Lily shuddered. Another thought occurred to her. She wasn’t sure how to phrase it delicately. “Was she—had she been—you know—raped or anything?”

  A flush touched the lobes of Woody’s ears. “No. Not anything.” He took her firmly by the elbow. “Thank you for coming by, Mother Trulock, and for all this good information.”

  Lily tried to match false heartiness with sarcasm. “And thank you, Woody, for your interest.” She turned and marched out of the office.

  Lily was on the courthouse lawn before she allowed her anger to surface totally. Woody thought he was so smart. She remembered how, when he was courting Wanda, he would sit outside in his car and honk the horn, summoning her to come out. Lily had begged Wanda not to marry him, but Wanda couldn’t see anything but to get married to the first man who came along. Wanda had probably told Woody all the bad things Lily had said about him, and he had been looking all these years for a chance to get her goat.

  She’d meant to go straight back to the store. Instead, she walked across the street to Maude’s Coffee Cup. She would have a glass of tea while she thought things over.

  22

  Josh in St. Elmo

  Josh didn’t have to manufacture an excuse to get back to the mainland. Early in the morning, Larry discovered weevils in a five-pound bag of grits. Then a possum
was found drowned in a barrel of mash. Josh watched Amos fish it out with a rake and fling the limp brown body into the bushes for Larry to bury since, according to him, possum was not fit to be cooked for white people. After a few minutes, Josh realized that Amos was making no move to pour out the mash.

  “You still going to use that?” he asked, indicating the barrel.

  “Why not?”

  “That possum—”

  “He didn’t touch hardly any of it. It’s all right.”

  Josh gulped a mouthful of coffee, burning his lips on the tin cup.

  Murphy, who had been watching, walked over to Josh. “We need some chicken wire for the top of those barrels.”

  “And some grits,” put in Larry.

  “Grits and all,” said Murphy. “Might as well get it all if you’re going to have to go.”

  Rummaging hurriedly through the supplies, Josh made a list. Murphy pulled ten dollars out of his pocket. “You can probably get it all at the store by the ferry landing, not have to go all the way into town.”

  Josh had no intention of going back to the store—Trulock’s Grocery, was it?—where he had made the phone call. “I don’t reckon they’ve got chicken wire, do you?”

  “Maybe not. Better go to town.” Murphy turned away. “Don’t waste any time. We got work to do here.” Josh ran for his boat.

  The St. Elmo municipal pier, at the edge of the city park, was a barnacle-encrusted structure that swayed over the bay on rickety pilings. In its shadow a more modern concrete dock jutted into the water, small boats moored along it at intervals. Josh tied up and started through the park toward downtown St. Elmo, passing the bandstand where the candidates had sat during the fish fry. Its crepe-paper streamers stirred in the slightly moving air.

  Downtown St. Elmo was awakening. Shades were rolled up in the dime store’s flyblown window, revealing a back-to-school display of pencils and curling notebook paper. In the drugstore, all the stools at the counter were occupied by men hunched over cups of coffee. Josh saw a sign saying Esther’s Market and went in to buy grits.