Eighteen
By sundown Rud had officially confessed to the murders of Harding Pinhurst and an unknown vagrant. Skidmore had taken us by the mortuary to pick up my truck, allowed us to be present at his office for the show.
Rudyard Pinhurst turned out to be the most exhausted human being I’d ever heard, sitting at the table with us, picking at his fingernails, telling us the details of the week we’d all endured.
He had been shadowing Truevine Deveroe since his wife left him and he’d been forced into the caretaker’s position by his uncle Jackson. With little to do but reflect, Rud had grown more bitter at his own bad choices. He knew about Truevine’s love for Able; there was nothing he could do. He was dead to Blue Mountain.
Thursday night he heard the argument, followed the lovers, murdered his cousin, realized his mistake—all before the moon was up. Loathe to handle his relative any further, he went back to the cemetery, told the scarecrow to take care of the body. Instead the scarecrow chose to strip the body down to underwear so Billy could have more clothing—nice clothing, burial attire—and take Harding’s wallet. He covered the body with dead leaves and left it. He’d been drinking.
Realizing Rud might eventually check the spot for the body or fearing it might otherwise be discovered, the scarecrow waited until late the next night. He went to the mortuary, where he knew from previous experience that three drunken boys would be waiting, ready for more work from Harding, digging, moving, covering dead bodies in the woods nearby. They were only moderately surprised to get instructions from a stranger. He told them where to find another body, that Harding himself would be there—he simply failed to mention these two entities would be one and the same. He shared a bounty of stolen alcohol with them until the night was almost gone.
They made such a commotion by the time they found Harding, were so amused by it all, that they woke me up. It turned out that they had been the ones to remove Harding’s underwear. They thought it was funny—a final indignity for my childhood tormentor. Andrews and I came out, saw the body naked, called Skidmore, insisted that the boys stay put. They didn’t care. They said they hadn’t done anything wrong. They were too drunk to fully understand what was going on anyway.
When Rud discovered what had happened, he assumed that someone would uncover his crime, find him—a product of his own self-confessed phobia. He invented the Adele community, knowing from abundant town gossip how my family’s ethos was often disturbing to me. The others in his little village went along out of fear or fun. Thank God May had played double agent, or at least dropped hints my way.
“You weren’t taken in at all by the lily?” Skid asked while Rud gulped his fifth glass of water.
“Too fantastic,” I told him. “Too far-fetched.” But I avoided Andrews’s expression. He’d been there when I’d seen the lily. He knew what seeing it had done to me.
Rud set down his water glass. “All right, there’s more.”
Skid sat back, glanced at the tape recorder to make sure it was still running.
“Uncle Jackson set me up in the cemetery,” Rud began serenely, “and Harding at the mortuary. You see the connection. No questions about bodies. Jackson didn’t want any more riffraff filling up our family graveyard because he didn’t want to expand its boundaries. Harding was too stupid to do anything with them anyway. And Jackson had been working on his landfill scheme for years, setting things in place. I assume you know about that. Imagine if the state’s garbage problem could be solved with one stroke. There it was: a single location between a mortuary and a cemetery where no business would locate or developer would ever build. Three hundred acres already owned by the state.” He trailed off, reaching for his glass again.
“But why didn’t Harding just dump the bodies into caskets, then?” Andrews asked, amazed at the story.
“Didn’t you notice there was no embalming room at the mortuary?” Rud asked, as if Andrews were an idiot. “Harding pushed cremation. Imaginary, as it turns out. He didn’t know a thing about that, just told everyone the crematorium was in the woods and no one was allowed, for health reasons, to visit. Inspectors and that sort of thing were all taken care of by Uncle Jackson. Anyone who wanted a casket and a funeral actually buried …”
“ … bags of red Georgia clay,” I interrupted.
“Mainly useful for hiding the bodies in the woods.” Rud saluted me with his glass, drank heartily. “But they were sometimes a substitute for the dearly departed, yes.”
“But why?” Andrews whispered. “Wouldn’t it have been just as easy—”
“Harding was a nimrod.” Rud’s turn to interrupt. He gulped water again. “That’s not obvious?”
“If those woods turned into a landfill,” Andrews said, slumping in his chair, “it would be even easier to dump the bodies there.”
“You’re beginning to see the beauty of the scheme,” Rud agreed.
“But Jackson is insane,” I insisted. “As much as Harding.”
“Oh, completely,” Rud said instantly. “In my opinion they’re a product of the worst part of our family heritage. Bodies normal, dwarfish minds.”
“And this Uncle Jackson is some sort of power broker or politician?” Andrews asked, confused.
“He’s our congressman,” Skid said, shaking his head.
“In the state house of representatives?” Andrews rubbed his forehead with both hands. “Of the state where I live?”
“Didn’t we tell you that?” I asked.
“No!” Andrews fumed. “You think your own common knowledge extends to the world.”
“It’s a small-town foible,” I agreed. “But Jackson Pinhurst is, indeed, our congressman. And the chief supporter of Skidmore’s rival in the upcoming election.”
“Cheer up.” Skid patted Andrews once on the shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I can do something about that when it all comes out in the papers. Don’t you think?”
“Georgia.” Andrews had given up.
Neither of us wanted to point out to Skid how the events would help his campaign.
“Why did my skit fail to work on you, Dr. Devilin?” Rud’s tone had grown mocking. “Too smart for the likes of me?”
“We first encountered the black dog,” I said steadily, “sitting on my great-grandfather’s grave. A nice coincidence. I later realized that the dog was sitting on freshly dug earth, not grass, not moss.” I knew there was no explaining to anyone in the room that my great-grandmother had told me a ghost story that included a dead horse, tongue hanging out, lying on a freshly dug grave, and I put two and two together. Or had it been my own subconscious delivering me a message? Either way, there was no making sense of it in a police station.
“I covered it up better than that,” Rud insisted, the arch edge gone from his voice.
“The dog, apparently, had other ideas,” I suggested. “Or needs.”
“Black dog piss on a fresh dug grave,” Andrews chanted. “There’s got to be some kind of folk crap about that.”
“Or at least a verse of Vachel Lindsay,” I suggested to Andrews.
“To conclude,” Rud went on, the sneer returning to his words, “the person you call Scarecrow was concerned about his involvement with Harding’s body, convinced you were visiting the crypt because of him. He wanted to return the wallet. Not the money, of course. He wanted to say he’d come across the body in his nightly scavenge, taken the clothes, knew nothing more. But I was certain he wouldn’t be capable of withstanding any sort of interrogation. We argued, understandably. Things got out of hand. He called that damned dog on me and it made me mad. I didn’t mean to hit the old man so hard. I did mean to kill the dog, though.” His voice deepened. “Choked it with my bare hands. It was exhausting.”
“You didn’t kill that dog,” Skid said, smiling. “Nothing can kill him, apparently. I called a vet to take care of him; he’s fine.”
Rud started to protest, but the light left his eyes; he let go a heavy sigh. “Is there anything else? I’d like to lie do
wn.”
That was that. Deputy Needle locked up Rudyard, let Able and Truevine go.
Papers were signed; small talk avoided larger issues. I was dying to ask Truevine a dozen questions, Skidmore only allowed me one while he finished up with Able.
“Why did you seal your house?” The glare of the fluorescent lights, bustle of office noise, made the question seem foolish even as it came out of my mouth.
“Sir?” She wrinkled her brow.
“You sealed your house recently,” I insisted, “the stones under your porch.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dr. Devilin,” she stammered, a quick eye to Able. “Able’s told me a dozen times that the dark shadow I seen following me these past weeks, it was just my imagination.”
“You sealed your house against Rud,” I whispered so no one else could hear.
“Didn’t know it was Rud,” she murmured, eyes down, “but I was scared.”
“How did you know about the geothermal pockets?”
“What?”
“Who taught you to do that, with the stones?”
“Momma,” she said, her face bright. “She done it several times to keep the boys in at night. Didn’t work none too good, I reckon. They just went out the window.”
Unfortunately, further investigation into Truevine Deveroe’s craft was cut short. I still wanted to ask her how she’d gotten out of the Carter crypt when Andrews and I had her cornered. All further questions would have to wait until my next visit to her home, tape recorder in hand.
Skid gathered us all together. An informal pact was made to keep mum about the homeless vagrants in our town cemetery. Skid promised to check in on May, but everyone was fairly certain she’d be gone. Only the dead would sleep up there that night.
When the deputy finally escorted Truevine to the door he spoke in no uncertain terms. “Ms. Deveroe, I want you to go round up your brothers. Tell them they didn’t kill Dr. Devilin. I’m not too mad at them, but they got to come in so I can talk to them. You make them do it, right?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered sweetly. “Thank you, Deputy. I didn’t tell you what they said last night.”
“About what?” Skid tensed.
“They’re thinking of taking up mortuary,” she said, amused herself. “Studying to be morticians, since the town needs one now.”
We didn’t laugh at her as much as with her, I’d like to believe. The thought of the Deveroe boys running our funeral parlor seemed the perfect, if hilarious, end to that particular saga.
Truevine offered us one final, enigmatic smile, slipped out the door, and was gone up the street, a warmer breeze in the cooling air.
“Now then, Able,” Skid said, blocking his brother-in-law’s egress, “you get home, wash up, come on over to dinner with your sister and me. Leave Truevine be for the evening.” He stepped aside. “It’s not a request.”
“See you at seven,” Able acquiesced.
“You’uns come too,” Skid said to Andrews and me.
“No.” Andrews had finally had enough. He scanned the western horizon. “I think I’ll head back to Atlanta.”
“What for?” Skid was genuinely surprised. “You ain’t had your vacation.”
“I think I’ve endured about as much vacation in this town,” he replied, heavy-lidded, “as I can handle. I have to go home to rest.”
“You don’t want to drive at night,” I argued as we stepped out the door. “Wait until morning.”
He pulled the coat around his neck, headed for my truck. “Isn’t Lucinda back by now?”
“She is,” I said slowly. “Probably.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have dinner with her tonight—alone?”
“Ah.”
“Exactly.”
“Sorry about the vacation thing,” I said, climbing in the cab.
“I ought to have learned by now,” he said, slamming his door, “that a visit to your town is a trip to Salvador Dalí’s amusement park: the rides are treacherous and make very little sense.”
“Still.” I cranked the engine. “You did use the word amusement.”
There was no talking Andrews out of his departure. He’d be back in Atlanta for a late dinner. As we stood by his car in the failing light I considered telling him about the dream, or visit, from my great-grandmother, how she’d been the one to tell me, twice, that Rud was the murderer. Once she had mentioned la belle dame sans merci for Rud’s motive, and several times her story told me that the blacksmith saved the girl from her ghostly suitor. It had taken me a while, but the message became clear.
“You seem healthier than the last time I visited,” he said sincerely, hand on my upper arm. “I think being back in the mountains and having a steady girlfriend might be doing your mental state some good. Not that there’s any hope for you, of course.”
“Thanks.” There was my decision. Best keep the dream to myself, and a nagging complicity with Truevine’s ways.
“Call Lucinda right now,” he said, climbing in behind the wheel of his Honda. “Let her know you’re glad she’s back.”
I waved until his car disappeared around the bend. Night noise stirred, filling the stage. The sky turned more Parrish than robin’s egg. A star blinked; its darker cousin starling drew across the sky; then a flock of them headed south. Tree frogs, still singing despite approaching winter, started up. The temperature dropped like a curtain.
I suddenly took the steps two at a time, bounded into the warm house, turned on every light downstairs, and grabbed the kitchen phone, jacket still on.
It rang three times, then: her voice.
“Hello?”
“Lucinda!”
“Fever!” She was happy to hear me on the other end.
“You’re back.”
“Just.”
“You are not going to believe,” I began, “what-all happened while you were gone.”
“And you won’t believe,” she countered lightly, “what I learned about cholesterol at this conference. You need to think about a vegetarian diet. You know they call it Mediterranean; we need to discuss it. I’m not having you get a heart attack.”
“Lucy,” I tried again.
“And you can’t imagine how Birmingham’s grown. I took pictures.”
Before I could interrupt her a third time with my news, I saw something moving out in the darkness barely beyond the porch light.
“Hold on, would you?” I said suddenly.
I turned off the kitchen lamps and stood to the side of the window, peering out, holding the phone to my chest. Someone was out there, walking slowly past my house. I thought at first to call out, but after a moment it was clear the figure was only passing by, a stranger on a stroll, and would be gone down the road in the direction of the ravine in short order. I let out a breath.
“Fever?” Lucinda asked, her voice tinny in the receiver.
I lifted it to my ear once more. “Sorry. Nothing.”
“You said something happened while I was gone. Is everything all right?”
“I’d really like to have dinner with you,” I said quickly. “Could we do that?”
“All right,” she said, a little taken aback. “When?”
“Right now. I’ll come over; we’ll drive around to the Dillard House.”
“You surely are,” she said, more surprised, “what’s the term? A live wire tonight.”
“That I am,” I assured her happily. “I’ll be right over?”
“Well, good,” she said haltingly.
“Really glad you’re back. I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” She started to say something else, took in a breath, changed her mind, it seemed. “See you in a minute.”
We hung up. I should have showered, changed, maybe shaved again, but I didn’t want to take any more time than was essential in getting to her door. I was slowly realizing just how much I’d missed her, and it seemed I might pop a blood vessel if I didn’t tell her soon.
I left the light
s on, zipped my jacket tight, locked the door behind me, walked quickly to the truck.
The woods all around me, dark now, were full. High wind, black birds, clacking branches, musical frogs, bats, weeds whispering low—here and there, a possible footfall. The night was alive, a different world from the day. Creatures of all sorts were abroad.
Some life walks in the sun, certain of a path made clear by light. Other things thrive in darkness, afraid of scrutiny or too shy for noon.
Occasionally a door is opened between these two worlds: dark beings roam the morning; bright souls are plunged into night. But the door doesn’t stay open long, at peril of those few who discover, too late, that they are trapped on the wrong side. Some who were meant to live in the sun turn stunted and pale by moonlight; nocturnal spirits likewise burn in the sun’s harsh eye.
I hesitated, climbing into my truck, peering down the road where the stranger had walked, imagining it might be May headed south for warmer nights. I found myself hoping we would see her again when the year opened its door to the promise of spring, rebirth of growing things, new mornings. I would discover the next day that my grandfather’s lily was gone from the group crypt and invent a scenario where May took it, pinned it to clasp the rag of June’s old wedding dress, another talisman for her, proof that somewhere in the world people actually had loved each other.
The truck started up, headlights a silver dagger against the night. I turned the wheel south, toward Lucinda.
Names are important, I thought as I eased the truck onto the road. Hers means “clear light.”
The moon had risen past the treetops by the time I pulled up to her door. It seemed to hover directly over her roof, plaiting silver everywhere—covering her house in white lilies.
BY PHILLIP DEPOY
THE FEVER DEVILIN SERIES
The Devil’s Hearth
The Witch’s Grave
THE FLAP TUCKER SERIES
Easy
The Witch's Grave Page 27
