The Old Buzzard Had It Coming

by Donis Casey

  Leonard smiled unpleasantly. “Reckon I’ll just have to do that, now.”

  Alafair brushed past him before he could consider some alternative action. “Good. I’m off then,” she said.

  Leonard stooped to set the stone jugs down, stood up, and grabbed Alafair by the arm as she passed. She turned toward him, really alarmed now, and tried to tug away. “Mr. Leonard,” she exclaimed, “what are you doing?”

  “I want to know what you’re really doing out here in the woods, now,” he growled. “Was you looking for the still? Was you looking to steal from me, Miz Tucker?”

  “No, certainly not,” she assured him, aghast at the suggestion.

  “Then what?” he insisted.

  She blinked. “I don’t know, I don’t know, really. You know Harley Day’s wife got arrested for his murder. I just don’t think she done it. I came down here by the creek because she said she threw the gun away down here, and I was thinking maybe I’d find it.” She was talking fast, only half aware of what she was saying, concerned only with persuading Jim Leonard to let go of her arm.

  Leonard’s eyebrows disappeared under the dirty blond mess of hair on his forehead. “Is that so?” he wondered, sounding amused. “Day’s wife, you say. Well, well, she had cause, I’m thinking. But it’s a fool’s errand you’re on, Miz Tucker. A pack of bloodhounds couldn’t find no little pop gun in this tangle of woods. So if I was you, I’d get gone from here and not come back no more.” With that, he let go of Alafair’s arm. She had been straining against him so hard that she nearly fell over, but she recovered and took off down the path at a run. She could hear Leonard laughing at her almost all the way to her own property.

  ***

  Her hands were still shaking when she was standing in her own kitchen, unwinding the scarf from around her head, muttering epithets at herself for being so foolish. She was halfway across the kitchen floor when it struck her, and she stopped dead in her tracks.

  “…no little pop gun…” he had said.

  She turned around and retrieved her coat and scarf on the fly as she headed back out the door.

  ***

  I should get Shaw, Alafair kept telling herself, as she headed back toward the still. She knew she should wait a few hours to make sure that Leonard was long gone before she did this, but she didn’t have a few hours, and she was practically quaking with excitement over the possibilities that this new information raised. I shouldn’t be wishing that Jim Leonard is a murderer, she admonished herself. But truth be told, if she had to choose between Phoebe, John Lee, Mrs. Day, the Langs, junior and senior, or Jim Leonard as Harley’s killer, well, she guessed she’d choose Jim Leonard.

  As she neared the clearing, she slowed down to a tip-toeing walk, listening intently. She was sweating with anxiety, in spite of the bitter cold. She crouched down low and peered through the brush for several minutes before she crawled into the open place where the little distillery was set up. There was no sign of Jim Leonard, but she expected that he would be back as soon as he had deposited the jugs he had been carrying at his own place. He was afoot when she saw him, and unless he had left a mount up by the road, it would take him close to an hour to walk home, drop his goods, and get back here.

  Still, no point in dallying.

  Why she thought the pistol might be hidden here, she couldn’t say. Mrs. Day had said she had thrown it into the creek, and throwing it into the creek would be the smart thing to do. However, Alafair’s derringer was a fine little gun, worth a lot of money, and it seemed to her that a person like Jim Leonard would be loathe to throw it away. And if he had shot Harley with it, Leonard would be disinclined to hide the gun on his own property when he had a perfectly good hiding place right here. And so, following her intuition with her customary faith, she launched into a search.

  Alafair peered into the big tin tub, hoping she wasn’t going to have to sift through gallons of fermenting mash, but it was empty, and she sighed a sigh of relief. She squatted down and removed one mitten, then reached under the pot into the fire hole and pulled out a handful of ash, crumbling it between her fingers. She studied the pile of charcoal and ash that had been raked out of the fire pit, then stuck her hand down through the top of it, carefully brushing and crumbling. When she had sifted down to the bare earth and come up empty-handed, she sat back on her heels and puffed a foggy breath, thinking. Her gaze swept the clearing, searching for anything of significance. She paused to eye a long branch, which was leaning at an unnatural angle against the trunk of an oak. Then she saw a similar branch, and another, covered over with twigs and dead leaves—a small lean-to at the perimeter of the clearing, so cunningly constructed that had she not been squatting just where she was, she’d have never seen it.

  Alafair fell forward onto her hands and knees and crawled around the side of the lean-to, where she found a neat opening. She peering cautiously into the dim interior, checking for hidden dangers, before poking her head in. The little shelter was larger than it appeared from the outside. A makeshift bed of blankets stretched down the side, under the leaning roof of branches. The blankets were cold, but relatively clear of detritus. Someone had been sleeping rough.

  Alafair felt around and under the blankets and came up with nothing. She felt more hopeful about a makeshift shelf of old brick and a few rocks, which had been constructed at the foot of the pallet, but was disappointed to find only a tightly sealed jar of jerky, a tin cup and a small lantern. A little cloth-wrapped bundle which held two pieces of quartz and a turkey feather piqued her interest, and she wondered in passing whether it had been Harley or Jim who possessed the sensibility to appreciate such pretty things.

  She put the bundle aside and turned her attention to the neat pyramid of empty stone pint jars laying on their sides next to the trees, under a loose pile of leaf litter. One by one she lifted the jars, turning each one over and shaking it out, then running her fingers inside just for good measure. As soon as she lifted the fifth jar, she could tell by the weight that there was something in it, and her heart leaped. She backed out of the lean-to with the jar in her hand, into the better light of the clearing. She turned the jar over, and an object fell out into her hand. It looked at first like a large lump of charcoal, but when she shook the ash off of it, Alafair could see that it was a small packet wrapped in an old flour sack. She unwrapped the dirty cloth, and there it lay in her hand—a silver-plated derringer with an ebony handle.

  She actually gasped. “I declare,” she exclaimed. “I declare!”

  Alafair rewrapped the gun with shaking fingers and redeposited it in the jar, then carefully replaced the jars where she found them, all the while praying her thanks for the inspiration. She was smoothing the disturbed leaves at the entrance to the lean-to, when she heard the tiniest rustle of branches behind her. She leaped to her feet and turned to face Jim Leonard, now infinitely more inebriated than when he had accosted her an hour before. They gazed at one another in silence for an instant, both equally taken aback.

  “I knew you was coming to steal from me,” Leonard suddenly roared.

  “Now, Jim…” Alafair began, but before she could finish the sentence, Jim Leonard drew back his fist and punched her right in the jaw.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alafair came up slowly to a feathery touch on her cheek. She raised her hand and brushed it away. Her head ached like sin, and her jaw hurt. Her hand traveled up to the top of her head, and she could feel something wet on her scarf. She half-opened her eyes, but all she could see were the dead leaves and branches her head was cradled on.

  Something touched her cheek again, and she opened her eyes all the way. It was hard to focus, but she could see what she thought was a small shoe close to her face. With a groan, she rolled over onto her back and found herself looking into a child’s face.

  Well, maybe. She blinked. His curly black-haired head was silhouetted against the dim light through the trees. His little hand patted her face solicitously. Alafair’s first thought was to
wonder what a little boy was doing out here in the cold all by himself.

  “Hello, young’un,” she managed hoarsely. “ I don’t know you. Where’s your mama?”

  He didn’t answer, but grinned at her with two brand-new front teeth and a hole where a canine tooth should be. She took his hand and let him help her sit up. She moaned and touched the back of her head again, and came away with a bit of bright blood on her fingers. She could see the rock that she had struck her head on, lying on the ground close to where she had fallen, a cylindrical hunk as big as her fist. If she hadn’t had the long wool scarf wrapped around her head a few times, the rock probably would have killed her.

  “He whacked me a good one,” she observed to the boy. She could see him more clearly now. He was about eight years old, she figured, big green eyes and a freckled nose, dressed only in knickers with one strap hanging off his shoulder, and a white linen shirt. His once-white stockings were falling down, one of them actually balled up over his scuffed high-top shoes. A wool cap over his untrimmed curls seemed to be his only sartorial concession to the cold. He looked like any young fellow after a day of serious play. She was sure she didn’t know him, but he was incredibly familiar. “Where did you come from, child?” she asked again, concerned.

  The boy still had nothing to say, but took her arm and helped her to her feet. She steadied herself against his slight frame and tried to orient herself. She had to ponder for a moment before she could remember what had happened to her.

  “Jim Leonard,” she said to the boy. “We’d better get on out of here before he takes a notion to come back and clobber the both of us.”

  She tried to take a step and reeled a bit, and the boy leaned into her side. She looked down at him. “I’m a mite unsteady,” she acknowledged. “I sure am lucky you came along, or I don’t know what would have happened to me.”

  He grinned up at her. He was a sturdy youngster, but a little small for his age.

  Alafair’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m Miz Tucker,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  He kept smiling at her, but didn’t answer. He took a step toward the path, urging her to move.

  She obediently let him lead her through the brush. “You’re a quiet one,” she observed. “Can’t you talk?”

  They emerged onto the path. The boy let go of her and stood holding her hand until she felt more steady. Alafair looked anxiously up and down, but there was no sign of anyone else. “I guess he knocked me stupid,” she told the boy. “I can’t rightly tell which way to go.”

  The boy patted her hand a couple of times, then pointed to the west.

  She nodded. “I expect you’d better come on back home with me until we can figure out where you belong,” she said to him.

  The boy smiled again, then gestured for her to bend down, as though he wanted to whisper to her. Still too unsteady to bend, she crouched at the knees until she and the child were face-to-face. She could smell peppermint candy on his breath. She turned her ear toward him, and he leaned in, but instead of whispering, he brushed a kiss against her cheek, giggled a silvery giggle, and disappeared into the brush.

  Alafair straightened so quickly that she almost fell. “Boy!” she called. She heard his running footfalls in the woods for just a few seconds, then nothing but wintery silence. She seriously considered following him, but realized that she was in no condition, and turned for home.

  ***

  It was a long, cold walk. What would normally have taken twenty minutes took Alafair the better part of an hour, since she kept having to stop and rest. The bleeding from her head wound had stopped, and had dried on her scarf, making it stiff and scratchy. She didn’t think she was really seriously hurt, but she had a terrible headache that periodically made her nauseated with the pain. Then she would have to find some likely stump or rock or hillock and sit down with her head in her hand until her stomach settled. She was nearly frozen through. She had lost one of her mittens, and her bare hand was getting numb in spite of her efforts to keep it in her pocket or under her armpit as she walked. She had stopped feeling her toes long ago. The sky was lowering and gray. She had no idea how long she had been gone from the house. Had she been unconscious for hours, or only a few minutes? It was still daylight, but since she couldn’t see the sun, it could have been two o’clock or six, as far as she was concerned. Her stiff fingers could feel a lump rising on her head.

  She was back on her own property now, trudging grimly on, still not in sight of the house. Another wave of nausea hit her, and she sank to her knees, sure she was going to be sick right then and there. Her gorge rose, and she gagged, but it subsided, and she sighed and sat back on her heels, crossing her arms over her chest and chaffing her hands under her armpits. She was feeling sleepy. Her thinking was slow and confused, but she was sufficiently aware to realize that her problem was swiftly becoming less the bump on her head and more the frigid weather.

  “Got to move,” she told herself. But she didn’t move. She just sat there, chaffing her hands, thinking, “got to move.” It dawned on her that she was looking at a horseman coming over the hill. As he neared, Alafair’s bleary eyes made out a black horse with a white blaze on its face, followed by two black and tan hounds. It was Shaw. He had seen her. His heels dug into the horse’s side and he was riding toward her at a canter.

  Oh, good, she thought, I can go to sleep now. She closed her eyes and slipped into unconsciousness, dropping with slow grace onto the bare ground.

  ***

  When she came around, she was lying on her own bed, still fully clothed except for her outerwear and shoes. She was wrapped in quilts like a mummy, with hot water bottles and towel-wrapped hot bricks nestling against every edge and extremity of her body.

  “Mmmm,” she said, savoring the warmth.

  Suddenly three faces appeared from nowhere to hover above her. Dr. Addison looked glad to see her. Scott looked relieved and concerned. Shaw looked like he couldn’t decide whether to cry, kiss her or explode into a million pieces. Alafair almost laughed.

  “Alafair, honey,” Shaw breathed. “Thank the Lord. What in the cat hair happened?”

  Doc Addison’s arm appeared and grabbed Shaw’s shoulder. “Time for questions later, Shaw,” he admonished. “How are you feeling, sugar?” he asked Alafair.

  Alafair didn’t answer immediately, before she took a quick inner inventory of all her parts. “Not too bad,” she admitted, in a hoarse whisper. “Headachy, is all.”

  The doctor nodded. “You got yourself a nasty little bump on the head and a pretty black and purple bruise on your jaw. I don’t think it’s too serious. A small cut that bled a little. You have a big goose egg, but that’ll go down soon enough. I’m going to give you a powder right now. That should help your headache.”

  When the doctor left to get some water for her powder, Scott, now sitting in a chair beside the bed, reached out and put his hand on her arm. “What happened, Alafair?” he wondered. “Did you take a spill?”

  She turned her head to look at Shaw, who was standing on the other side of her. “What were you doing out in the pasture?” he asked. “When I came back to the house and you were gone, I couldn’t figure out for the life of me where you were. I hunted for you for most of an hour. It’s a good thing I thought of that path going to the Day place, or I’d have never found you.”

  “Where’s the kids?” she responded. First things first.

  “Still in town,” Shaw told her. “I saw Martha for a minute at the bank when I rode for the doc. I told her to gather the kids at Jack and Josie’s and I’d pick them up there.”

  “Did you tell her I was hurt?” Alafair asked, alarmed.

  “No, I told her that I had some errands and would be late. Didn’t want to scare them if I didn’t have to.”

  “Y’all can play catch up later,” Scott interrupted. “Did you hit your head on something, Alafair?”

  Alafair looked over at Scott, but gathered her thoughts before she answered. The cat was pret
ty much going to be out of the bag after this. “Well, truth is, somebody hit it for me,” she admitted. At her side, she felt Shaw stiffen, but Scott didn’t bat an eye.

  “Any idea who?” he wondered mildly.

  “I’m afraid it was Jim Leonard.”

  “Jim Leonard!” Shaw exclaimed.

  Scott looked interested. He sat back in his chair. “Well,” he said.

  “Why on this green earth would Jim Leonard whack you on the head out in the middle of the pasture?” Shaw asked.

  Somebody had covered Alafair’s forehead with a damp cloth, and she reached up to adjust it, peering at her husband from under her hand. “It was on the Day property,” she confessed, “down by the creek. John Lee told me that his daddy and Jim Leonard had had a scrap about that still of Harley’s a few days before the killing. I asked John Lee to show me the still, and he did. We saw that somebody had been using the still recently, and I had just seen Jim Leonard on the path down there. I got to thinking that if by some chance it had been him killed Harley, that hidden place where the still is would be a good place to hide the derringer.”

  “So you went down there looking,” Scott finished for her.

  “I did.”

  “Why, that seems unlikely, Alafair,” Shaw protested. “Anybody thinking to get away with murder would be smarter to bury the gun, or throw it in the creek, like Miz Day said.”

  Alafair shrugged under her blankets. She didn’t want to say that she knew that the gun was an expensive one. They would find out soon enough. “I had a hunch,” she said.

  “And you think Leonard came upon you down there while you were looking for the pistol,” Scott interjected.

  “Well, I found the derringer, Scott. Then Jim busted in like a bull and boxed my jaw for me. I must have hit my head on a rock when I fell. Probably scared Jim silly and he ran off. He had been enjoying his own brew for a while, it seemed.”