“They left you and Will behind?”
I slowly nodded and wished I had an onion. I batted my eyelashes as if I was holding back a current of tears. Funny, but this was different from the way I’d felt giving this news to Father Freeman.
The Sheriff still looked at me as he took out a cigarette (this being the smoking booth), lit it, and clicked his lighter closed. He inhaled, then exhaled, as if he weren’t at all pressed for time. “I can understand why you’d stay behind.”
That sounded odd. I frowned. “Why?”
“You’re too busy to go to Florida.”
I sat back, thump, as my mouth fell open. This was my involuntary dumb look. I thanked my lucky stars that Maud came back. She sat beside me and his blue gaze shifted to her.
“I’ve just been out to the Silver Pear.”
“Oh? Having lunch on your expense account?” Maud said.
“No. Showing the owners some pictures.” He took three snapshots from his shirt pocket, buttoned the pocket again, and set them down on the table, side by side.
Maud squinted. “How sweet. You were showing pictures of me around.”
His finger tapped the second one.
Maud smiled. “Look there, that’s all three of us. Did they recognize you from the picture?”
“Very funny.” He turned it so I could see it. I squinted, suggesting the snapshot was so bad the people in it were scarcely recognizable.
The Sheriff said, “That’s the three of us one day checking the meters.”
“Interesting,” said Maud, “how other people get their pictures taken at weddings, or strolling in Rome, or even just having drinks by the pool. But us? We get ours snapped by a parking meter.”
I’m glad she kept talking, even though he didn’t much care to hear her, for it gave me time to frown in a huge bout of failing to understand this picture. I frowned not only as if I failed to understand this snapshot, but as if I would never understand any snapshot ever again.
He said, “Both Gaby and Ron agreed this little girl was the one they saw the night we got called out by Asa Butternut.” Pause. “How about that?” He looked at me as if he were some sculptor chipping away. His eyes chiseled my forehead into a frown. So, I guess he knew what was behind it, in there behind my forehead. But I was not going to give in just because some dumb, blurry snapshot supposedly proved things.
I said, after a lot of careful thought, “Wait a minute!” I snapped my fingers. “That was the day Mrs. Davidow and I went to the Silver Pear for lunch!”
The Sheriff leaned halfway across the table and said, “Emma, knowing your relationship with Lola, I doubt she’d be taking you to the Silver Pear.”
I’d started shaking my head and kept on shaking it through this little speech. “I just happened to be with her. She had to go out to see a person who lives on the lake. Then she decided she’d give herself a treat—and me, as I happened to be with her—at the Silver Pear. That’s why they saw me.” I smiled, but not too widely.
“According to them, this girl was alone.”
Now I sighed heavily, as if explaining something to a mongoose. “Well, they just didn’t see Mrs. Davidow. We sat out on the porch, around the corner. They saw me because I went in to use the ladies room.”
His eyes burrowed into mine. “The girl asked them for the use of the telephone.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t use the phone. Mrs. Davidow wanted me to call my mother to tell her she’d be back a little late. By then she’d already drunk three martinis and was telling me what a pain Ree-Jane is. I could have told her that without drinking even one.”
My hands were clasped on the table and the Sheriff leaned over and put his own hand around them, as if he were cuffing me. His hand was nice and warm. “Now, you listen to me, Emma Graham. You are not, I repeat not, to mount your own investigation here. You are not to go around to these places, especially the White’s Bridge Road area, asking questions. This is a murder investigation and there’s a killer still out there and I don’t want to find you lying in a damned pool of blood—”
“Sam!” Maud exclaimed. “You don’t have to scare her to death!”
He sat back. “Scare her? You’re kidding.”
Maybe he was being sarcastic, but it helped answer the courage question I was always putting to myself.
I had taken all of the Sheriff’s remarks in, of course, and it made me feel good that he was worried about me. But it just wasn’t getting me any further along and I didn’t have time to waste. And now, with him being suspicious, the method I was going to use to find out about Dwayne would never work. And that left Donny. I asked the Sheriff if he was going back to the courthouse when he left here.
“No. I’m going out to the lake.”
In La Porte, that meant Lake Noir, not Spirit Lake, where nobody goes except me. I felt suddenly very sad. “I’m sorry, but I have to leave.”
“Just remember what I said, now.”
“Sure.” I thanked Maud and stopped on the way out for doughnuts.
“Interview a what?” said Donny. He looked like a squirrel when he squinted.
“A poacher.”
Donny threw his arms wide as if to present this unbelievable request to everyone in the room. It wasn’t very effective, as there was only Maureen Kneff, the typist, and she was cracking gum, resting her chin on her overlapped arms, which were positioned on her typewriter. Maureen’s eyes were washed-out blue, the only eyes I’d seen to compete with ReeJane’s for pure absence of thought.
I really can’t stand Donny Mooma. He likes to make people think he’s dangerous when all he does is hide behind the Sheriff if they run into trouble out on a call. I made sure he would not be going back to the courthouse right away, then bought three vanilla-iced doughnuts (my favorite, not Donny’s), and crossed the street.
Donny was sitting with his feet up on the Sheriff’s desk, looking belligerent. He thawed out a little when I handed over the doughnuts, taking one for myself first. I told him I had this school project: “I’m writing this paper on poaching. There’s a lot of it going on around here, especially over around the lake. Bunny Caruso told me.”
“Bunny Caruso? Your mom know you’re talking to Bunny Caruso?”
I realized too late Bunny wasn’t the best source to bring up. I sighed. “I’m not really talking to her. I mean we’re not sitting around jawing at each other over a couple of beers.”
Donny’s look was clouded. “Yeah, well, you best be careful.”
“Anyway, why shouldn’t I talk to Bunny? She’s nice.”
Donny would be too embarrassed to tell me what was wrong with being around Bunny and we could go back to poaching.
“You know, places like White’s Bridge, around there. There’s a lot of rabbit hunting going on.”
“Poaching ain’t exactly what me and Sam would call a major event. It ain’t what this office would have at the top of its list. Top pri-or-i-ty, if you want to know.” He’d polished off one doughnut and reached into the bag for the other. “Hey, Maureen! How’s about some coffee? You ain’t too busy?”
Like a sleepwalker, Maureen rose from her typist’s chair and swayed out of the room to wherever the coffee machine was.
Donny brushed a bit of icing from his shirt, sat back with his free hand behind his head, and started on the doughnut. He had no intention of offering them around. After munching half of it down, he said, “And what poacher would do an interview, God’s sakes? It’s against the law, little lady—”
(I gritted my teeth. I hated being called that.)
“—so who’d ever admit to it?”
“Well, of course, I wouldn’t name the poacher. I have to respect my sources.”
“Sources? Who d’you think you are, Suzie Whitelaw?” I got treated to that wheezy laugh of his, which if anybody else did it you’d think they were strangling to death.
“It’s not my fault, is it? I’m not the ... social science teacher.” I wasn’t at all sure what subject p
oaching would come under.
“Go to the library and bone up.”
“I have. That’s not going to help with poaching around here.” I considered for a moment. “I need a human interest part. See, the best report is to be printed in the paper. I don’t mean the school paper, I mean the real one—the Conservative. So I need one poacher interview and one police interview.” That should get him going.
“Oh?” The way he wrinkled up his nose pulled on his upper lip so he looked like a pig. “That right?”
I nodded. “The Sheriff says you’re really good at nabbing poachers.”
Donny looked astonished. “No kidding. Well.”
“The Sheriff says ‘If Donny can’t nab ’em, they can’t be nabbed.’ ” I pretended to be reading this out of my notebook. “I’d like to use that quote, if you don’t mind.”
“Nan—that’s okay. But put in my last name.” He shook his finger up and down toward my notebook. “And make sure it’s spelt right.” His doughnut now forgotten, he leaned back again with his fingers laced behind his head. He pursed his lips and blew out air. “Well, I guess it don’t matter if I give you a name or two. It ain’t no secret, as these’ve been reported anyway in the paper. One’s named Billy Kneff.” Here he looked over his shoulder to see if Maureen was still absent. He whispered. “Maureen’s cousin, but he don’t mean no harm, I guess. Let’s see ...”
Patiently, I waited to be done with Billy Kneff.
“Billy lives out your way, across the tracks. We had him in three times for out-of-season deer hunting. Then there’s a fella named Dwayne Hayden—”
Without moving a muscle, I came immediately to full life. “—lives in the White’s Bridge area. We—I—nabbed him, like Sam says, twice.”
My pencil was poised. “Where does he live?”
Donny just flapped his arm around. “I never seen his house, but it’s in that area. Not far from that fancy restaurant.”
“The Silver Pear?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Dwayne works over at Abel Slaw’s garage. He’s what you call a master mechanic. You don’t really think these guys is gonna talk to you? Hell, girl, they’d tell Suzie Whitelaw to get lost, and she’s a real reporter.” He leaned forward suddenly. “And for God’s sakes, don’t go tellin’ ’em where you got their names.”
“I promise. Thanks.”
As I turned to go, Donny was sniffing the air, like a dog sensing danger.
25
Master mechanic
I wondered how much more a “master” knew than a regular mechanic. Pondering this alternated in my mind with the Florida trip. Walter and I had calculated they’d be driving the Tamiami Trail by now. So naturally I wanted to keep my eye on the clock.
I was sitting on the bench outside Britten’s store. It was the one I always sat on when conferring with the Wood boys and Mr. Root, and right now I was waiting for them to come along, for they always did about this time, after the Woods got back from La Porte and their hot roast beef and mashed potatoes lunch at the Rainbow.
Lunch in the dining room had been fairly quiet. Only once did Miss Bertha raise a rumpus and that was because I’d put a tomato slice in her grilled cheese sandwich. I told her I was just trying to make it more interesting (which I wasn’t; I just wanted to see how she’d react), and she said grilled cheese wasn’t supposed to be interesting.
I heard something like a shout behind me and turned. Ulub and Ubub were coming along the path that ran by Britten’s. They waved and so did I. Mr. Root was limping across the highway and I could see he was hurrying, seeing me and them, and probably was afraid he’d miss something important. He waved too with his free hand. The other was carrying a brown bag which looked like one of Greg’s hamburger bags.
Ubub and Mr. Root got to the bench about the same time, Ulub having gone into Britten’s for soft drinks. We sat down as if we met here every day and were pretty much used to one another’s complaints and comments. Mr. Root went on about the rheumatism in his knees and Ubub and I made noises of sympathy.
Ulub came across the sandy gravel with Cokes for them and a Nehi grape for me. I told him thanks and I’d pay him back. He just waved that away as he did Mr. Root’s outstretched hand holding money for the soda. The Woods are really generous. They always shared, even if it was just one Hershey bar among us.
We were quiet awhile, sipping our sodas. Mr. Root examined the pickle on his hamburger and asked if anyone wanted it. No one did. Then I told them, in detail, the story of my night on White’s Bridge Road, and Mr. Butternut, and Broke-down House. I must say I had them more enthralled than Will’s and Mill’s audiences ever were. Mr. Root even forgot to eat all of his hamburger, saying “I’ll be,” and “B’jeezus” every once in a while. Ulub or Ubub would echo it. They were really awed when I told them about the Sheriff coming, together with the state troopers.
Round-eyed, Ulub said, “Nay er nookin er ou?”
I was getting more used to Wood-speech, and figured Ulub had said, “They were lookin’ for you?” I answered, “Yes. They were looking for me. Only they didn’t know it. Then the Sheriff for some reason got suspicious”—I stopped short of that “stubborn as a mule” bit—“and he went back to the Silver Pear with a picture of him and me and Maud and, of course, the Silver Pear owner, Gaby, recognized me. I had to make up a story about being there with Lola Davidow.”
Mr. Root had his railroad cap raised and was scratching his head and shaking it, sorely astonished.
“And he told me I was not to investigate on my own.”
Well, at this, Mr. Root just looked away and made a blubbery sound with his lips, waving the Sheriff away, as if to say,
“Damn fool.” Ulub and Ubub watched him and they did the same thing, their blubbery lip sounds saying the same thing and somehow I was pleased that they thought I wasn’t going to pay any attention to the Sheriff’s order, and he could like it or lump it. I was not quite that sure of myself, and, not that the Sheriff wasn’t worth paying attention to, but I was glad they thought I was doing a good job.
Finally, I got to my point. “This Dwayne Hayden works over at Slaw’s Garage.”
Ulub and Ubub started talking a mile a minute to each other and to us. “E fenz eye ruck!” said Ulub.
Ubub nodded quickly and said, “Eye’n oo. On ut eye’nm ill air.”
Mr. Root worked this out fast, snapping his fingers. “This Dwayne’s fixing their trucks—right, fellows?”
They both nodded.
“Well,” I said, sliding off the bench, “I think we should go see how they’re doing.”
Abel Slaw was a wiry little man who’d had this garage since time began. Lola Davidow brought her station wagon in here and had nothing to say against Abel Slaw. This alone was a huge recommendation. Ree-Jane took her convertible in even if there was nothing wrong with it, and now I knew why.
Whether the master mechanic worked on their cars, I don’t know. There were two other ordinary mechanics walking around with tools in their hands and grease and oil-spattered coveralls. One of them I think was named Rod and I never did know the other one’s name, for all they called him was You-boy, as that’s what his mother had called him all his life (“You-boy, come on away from that!”). They both stopped when they saw us and pulled grimy rags from their back pockets and wiped their hands. Abel Slaw came over to us, also wiping his hands on a rag, though I didn’t see he was working on any cars. Maybe there’s something special about wiping your hands on a rag pulled from your back pocket that sets you apart as a mechanic.
“Evenin’, Ulub, Elijah. You too, young lady.”
I managed a smile.
“S‘pect you’re here about your ve-hic-le.” He turned to look at the truck. Dwayne Hayden must have been the pair of legs under Ulub’s truck; the license plate read ULB, so it was definitely Ulub’s. “Hey, Dwayne,” Abel called as if they were on two sides of a huge canyon. “That truck ’bout done?”
Whatever Dwayne answered was lost on the far si
de of the canyon. It was being underneath a truck that garbled the sound of his reply. But Abel Slaw understood it, maybe in the same way Mr. Root understood Ulub and Ubub. Master mechanics didn’t have to make smart conversation. Abel said, “Not quite, but he will be mebbe in a hour? Or thereabouts.”
It sounded like a question, which only made the amount of time even more vague. “Sure, we can wait, can’t we?”
Abel kind of raised his eyebrows at this coming from me, but he just shrugged and said, “You want to set down, you k’n go into the office.”
Mr. Root said, “Thank you kindly, but we’ll just hang around.”
“Folks ain’t supposed t’be out here, what with all the equipment and stuff lyin’ around. But suit yourself.” He retreated as if at the end of a long argument.
I hadn’t worked out exactly what I was going to say to Dwayne; all I knew was, I needed someone there when I went back to Brokedown House. I mean, someone with a gun.
For a while I chewed the inside of my mouth, then I walked over to the side of the car, closer to where Dwayne’s head should be. I was wearing a skirt today and made sure to knife it down between my legs when I squatted, in case he looked up it.
“Hey, Dwayne,” I said. “I just want to talk to you for a minute.”
“Who’re you?” There was more clanging underneath.
“Emma Graham.”
“Don’t know anyone of that particular name.”
“Yes, you do. We never got properly introduced.” I whispered. “I wanted to talk to you about where we were—you know—a few nights ago, and the rabbits?”
The pallet he was lying on rolled out from under the truck pretty fast. For a minute he looked at me and frowned, and then, apparently deciding there was no thrill in it, he eased himself back under the truck. Maybe he still didn’t recognize me. (According to Ree-Jane, mine was the most forgettable face in the universe.)
Cold Flat Junction Page 17
