“You producers are all alike,” I said. “Temperamental, egotists, rude. Really fucking rude.”
I turned away and marched off, the tart taste of the word on my tongue.
Maud said, putting down my Coke and her cigarettes, “You look as if you’re holding up pretty well.”
“Outside I ran into Ree-Jane.”
“Everyone calls her that, now.” Maud lit up a cigarette. “It’s hysterical.”
“That’s what she was. Hysterical, I mean. She was laughing at me, pointing and laughing. It’s like she knew something. And she was coming out of the courthouse.”
“But she does that—I mean, you’ve said she laughs at you just to make you think the way you’re thinking now: that she knows something, when she doesn’t at all.”
“Still, I’d like to see the Sheriff.”
“Well, honey, your prayers are answered, for here he comes now.” She looked toward the counter, where the Sheriff was stopping to talk to the Mayor.
The Sheriff broke out a smile so beaming it was like my Florida vacation all over again, but I was too suspicious of what Ree-Jane had been doing in the courthouse to appreciate it.
“Why was Ree-Jane in the courthouse? Were you talking to her?”
He frowned. “Nope. All I did was pass her outside, just a minute ago. I’d say she was talking to herself. Laughing to herself. Does she act like that often?”
I could have gone on at length about her actions, but I was focused on the most recent. “Well, if she wasn’t talking to you, was she to Donny?”
“Donny knows better than to discuss police business.” The Sheriff looked a little concerned, now.
Why would he think about “police business” in relation to Ree-Jane’s weird behavior? I didn’t like the sound of this.
Neither, apparently, did Maud. “And just what ‘police business’ does Donny know not to discuss, which he would discuss anyway, if it made him look at all good to discuss it?”
I leaned up against the edge of the table hard enough it dented my chest, waiting to hear him answer.
“Nothing. There’s no new evidence. Nothing.”
“Evidence? Evidence of what?” I demanded. “You know everything, more or less, and I can repeat every single word to you of what Isabel said. She admitted she shot Fern Queen. She admitted they murdered Mary-Evelyn. You said her prints are all over that gun.”
It was rare for the Sheriff to look uncomfortable, but he did now. “That’s right. Of course, so are Ben Queen’s prints. We still haven’t found him, even though—”
Wide-eyed, I literally fell back in the booth with a thud. “Ben Queen’s prints? Why are you concerned about Ben Queen’s prints?”
The Sheriff looked down, frowning, as if he’d expected to see a cup of coffee there.
Maud said, “Sam?”
She knew. So did I. “But it’s over. It’s solved! I told you—” Then it hit me square in the face and I stood up in the booth, jammed between table and seat. “You don’t believe me. I told you everything. You don’t believe me!”
“Listen, Emma—” the Sheriff began.
I said to Maud, “Let me out, please.”
Immediately, she rose and I all but threw myself out of the booth.
The Sheriff looked really unhappy. “Emma. It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that in police work there’s something called hearsay—”
Maud shook and shook her head. “Oh, for God’s sake, Sam.”
I glared at him. “You’re telling me about police work?” I turned and walked off.
But I heard Maud say to the Sheriff something I couldn’t imagine her ever saying to him. She said it calmly, without accent, the way Will had said “fuck.”
“Asshole.”
I had a coin out and as I passed the jukebox, now silent, I plugged it in and stabbed a button for Patsy Cline.
Let him fall to pieces for a change.
63
Ree-Jane rousted
I told Delbert to drop me off not at the hotel but at Slaw’s Garage. Of course he wanted to know “what-all” kind of business I had at a garage, but I ignored the question. I didn’t tip him either because he’d asked it. I was not in a good mood as I walked into the garage, where Dwayne was working by himself on the engine of some big old car. The hood was up and he was leaning over the engine. He didn’t see me come in and I said hello.
“Well, Lord, look who’s here,” said Dwayne, standing up and wiping his hands on an oily rag. “That’s some story, girl. I read all about it in the paper.”
I hoisted myself up on a pile of new tires, as there were no chairs. I said, in an offhand manner, “Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Okay,” he said, shoving the rag back in his pocket.
I sighed. It was just like him to say that; he irritated me to death sometimes. “I didn’t mean that nothing was true in that newspaper story. A lot was. Maybe most was. Just, you know how reporters exaggerate. I mean, I wouldn’t call myself ‘courageous’ or even ‘spunky.’ ” Of course, I would.
“Okay, neither will I.” He was leaning over the engine. He adjusted his caged lightbulb to see into its depths.
“The way it happened was right. I mean, with Isabel Devereau’s turning a gun on me and forcing me to walk through that dark, cold wood. It was like a death march.”
“Wasn’t that bad, was it?” He studied a spark plug.
“Yes. Yes. It was worse, if you must know. And there was nobody to help me.”
He held the spark plug up toward the light and seemed to be regarding it as if it were a jewel. “I guessed I’d of helped, if I’d known.” Then he hummed something. “You want to go rabbit hunting tonight?”
This took me completely by surprise. “With you?”
His head was lowered, half in shadow. “No, I figured maybe you could hook up with a couple foxes and the three of you go.”
“Ha ha ha ha.” I hated when I couldn’t think of a clever response and had to resort to childish ha ha ha’s. I shrugged to suggest I could take it or leave it, then quickly de-shrugged, thinking of his retort a moment ago. “Yes, I would.” Besides, I wanted to talk to him about what the Sheriff had said. Even thinking about that now made me want to hit something.
“What’s wrong?” He was looking at me through the triangle of light made by the raised hood of the car.
“Nothing. What time are we going?”
“I’m through here in a couple hours. I need to finish this. I can come pick you up at the hotel. In that.” He nodded toward a fancy little car.
“This? Are you saying this’s yours?”
“No. I’m saying Abel’s loaning it to me because my truck’s outta commission. It’s Abel’s.”
“This? But it’s ... foreign, isn’t it?”
“Lotus Elan. Really nice to drive.”
How I pictured the reaction when he spun to a stop in this car under the porte cochere. I mean, of course, how Ree-Jane would react, since she’s been flirting with Dwayne—or trying to—and he pays her no attention. Dwayne is handsome enough he doesn’t have to be an earl to get Ree-Jane’s interest.
“Okay, I’ ll be ready.” I had been released from waiting tables that night, again, because I was famous.
As I walked lazily up the dirt path on the hotel grounds, I entertained myself with thoughts of Ree-Jane’s reaction to the sight of me getting into that foreign car and purring off into the evening. This pleased me so much, I forgot for a moment the Sheriff’s giving me that hearsay insult. How did I know but what he’d have me up on a murder charge? As if I’d shoved Isabel Devereau into the lake on general principle? Oh, it was all too infuriating.
When I left the leafy walk for our circular drive, I saw a smart little car that looked mildly familiar parked beneath the porte cochere, and when I neared the porch, I saw someone sitting, talking to Lola Davidow, who was rocking, drinking, and laughing—three of her favorite pastimes, at least the drinking and rocking p
art. The other person I was astonished to see was Louise Landis!
I stopped dead. The orphans! The orphans’ lunch! For what day had I arranged it? Well, but I hadn’t arranged it except between the two of us. I hadn’t said a thing to my mother or Mrs. Davidow and here Louise Landis would be assuming they knew all about it. Thank heavens it was the cocktail hour and Lola had a pitcher of martinis close by.
Now, I figured that what Lola would think was that my mother had made the arrangements and forgotten to mention it. And if she was on her fourth martini (and by the look of the pitcher’s contents she was), she wouldn’t even care.
I bounded up the steps and said a bright hello to Miss Landis, who looked as happy as a lark to see me. Indeed, she did something seldom done: she hugged me. It wasn’t that no one ever hugged me (Maud did a while back), but I was certainly not the most hugged person around.
“Emma!” She said, giving my shoulder an extra squeeze, “you are absolutely wonderful. You know you saved Ben Queen’s reputation, to say nothing of probably saving his life!”
Now, it was just too bad that Ree-Jane chose that moment to sashay out and drop her little bomb. “Are you talking about that Queen person the police are looking for?” She arranged her pale blue dressed-up self in a green wicker chair. “But they’re still looking for him.” She gave one of her mirthless laughs.
Louise Landis asked her what she meant. It was such an innocent question, I felt like socking Ree-Jane in the teeth before she said what I knew she would.
“The police need more to go on than just the story of a twelve-year-old child.” Ree-Jane glanced my way, laughing as if the mere idea of my story being useful was the funniest thing. “She might just have been imagining the whole thing. And as far as the law is concerned, what she says the Devereau woman said to her is only hearsay.”
The “h” word. I clenched my teeth to keep from yelling at her, but my hands made fists of themselves without any help from my brain.
Remarkably, Miss Landis’s expression didn’t alter one whit. She stayed slightly smiling. She was one cool customer, I was delighted to see. She said, “How do you know that?”
“You mean about the police?” Ree-Jane looked surprised, unused to having her words questioned. “Why, the deputy sheriff told me. Donny Mooma.”
Louise Landis’s smile deepened. “But that,” she said, “is only hearsay, too. So I’ll just go on believing Emma’s the heroine of the story.”
My mouth dropped open. To be hugged and made a heroine all in ten minutes’ time was almost more than I could bear. To have someone stand up for me was a novel experience, too.
At that moment two things happened: my mother walked out on the porch and the foreign sports car crunched to a stop on the gravel under the porte cochere. My mother, surprised to see Louise Landis, gave her a friendly hello. They were glad to see each other again. And me, I was even more glad to watch Dwayne getting out of the car.
Ree-Jane twisted herself around so that her chin rested on the back of her chair in a coy sort of way, and called, “Dwayne! Hel-lo!” Dwayne’s appearance got her over the retort from Louise Landis.
In the background, my mother was hearing all about the orphans’ lunch, apparently thinking Lola Davidow and Louise Landis had just been arranging it, while Mrs. Davidow (as I thought she would) assumed my mother knew about it all along but didn’t care one way or the other, having poured herself another martini.
Of course, Ree-Jane thought Dwayne had come to see her wonderful self and smiled lavishly at him as he walked up the porch steps. He nodded to her (coolly, I was happy to see), then, more energetically, put out his hand to shake my mother’s, then Lola’s, then Louise Landis’s. I had no idea Dwayne was so very mannerly. I could see in my mother’s eyes he had climbed a rung or two up the breeding ladder. Of course, it might not get him a seat in what I sometimes believed my mother fantasized was her Paris salon life, but he was still a cut above most of the uncouth inhabitants of Spirit Lake.
Ree-Jane was craned around, staring at the red car. “I haven’t seen your car before, Dwayne. It’s really something!”
He smiled a little. “Not mine; it’s a borrower. I drive a broke-down truck.”
It was then I knew Dwayne was a man who didn’t need the world’s favor. Most men would have let us think the fancy car was his. Not Dwayne. He didn’t need to impress us, he didn’t need our approval. I thought of how rare this quality was. I sure didn’t have it; no one on this porch had it with the possible exception of Louise Landis.
Dwayne was turning down—very politely—the offer of a drink, as Ree-Jane asked him what brought him here, certain it was her baby-blue self.
He smiled at me. “To pick up Emma.”
Oh, for a snapshot of Ree-Jane’s open mouth! Wondering if I could stand another moment of glory, I crimped my mouth shut against shouts of glee and tried to look nonchalant.
My mother, understandably, I guess, raised an eyebrow. Mrs. Davidow would’ve too, except her eyebrows were engaged in looking sober. “Emma? What for? Where are you going?”
As if he were looking at cue cards written by God, Dwayne gave the perfect answer. “Scene of the Crime. Emma has to look it over again.”
Ree-Jane, who wasn’t getting cue cards, worked her mouth, but couldn’t come up with anything, and just sat twisting a lock of her blond hair so madly I thought she’d pull it out. Goody.
Between Louise Landis and Dwayne, my day had really improved. If tomorrow I said “Dwayne Hayden came by in his red Lotus Elan to drive me to the scene of the crime,” it would not be hearsay.
My mother was discussing the food Louise Landis would like for the orphans’ lunch. Neither she nor Lola had figured out the source of this. Of course, Miss Landis now was pretty sure no one had sent me to Flyback Hollow to check on the details, but if she did, she wasn’t talking.
So, before any of them could ask me any embarrassing questions, I said to Dwayne it was time to get going, and we got. Ree-Jane did not want to stare at the car disappearing down the drive, or me turning and waving to her, but she couldn’t help herself, and I almost felt sorry for her.
But it’s a long way from “almost” to “most,” as long a way as from here to the Rony Plaza.
64
Bugswirled,stumppocked
“That is one helluva story, Emma.”
We were sitting on the wide smooth rock on the path near White’s Bridge Road where Dwayne always stopped for his cigarette break. The air was soft and cool and the moon had risen as we sat there.
I was leaning over, my chin resting on my knees, pulling up grass and weeds. It helped me think. “Well, but do you believe it? Because the Sheriff I don’t think does.” I told him about our talk in the Rainbow. “He said it was hearsay; I’m a hearsayist.”
“It’s probably a lot more complicated than that. You know what the law’s like.”
“No, I don’t.”
Dwayne pulled over the small insulated cooler he’d brought along. It was one of those six-pack-sized ones. “Want a beer?”
That made me so impatient, when here I was, telling my story. “No. You know you wouldn’t give me one even if I did.”
“Want a Coke?”
“Yes, thank you.” It surprised me that Dwayne must’ve thought about me when I wasn’t around. Although a lot of people probably would have preferred me that way.
He flipped off the caps with a bottle-opener he took from his back pocket. He handed me the Coke. “Maybe you should’ve heard DeGheyn out, instead of stomping off like you did.”
“I did not stomp off!”
“Uh-huh.” Dwayne tilted the bottle of Rolling Rock and drank off nearly half.
“I didn’t!”
“Sure you did. Takes one to know one.” He turned and smiled. “I’m a prime stomper.”
“You? But you always act like nothing ever bothers you.”
“Well, it does.” Dwayne exhaled a big smoke ring and then sent smaller ones thro
ugh it.
Smoke could do so many things, I thought. I watched the rings dissolve and said, “But you never answered my question. Do you believe it? You think I’m making it all up?”
“Did I say that? What the sheriff is probably thinking is the only witness to all of this is Ben Queen, and he can’t be found.”
“The only witness? What about me? That’s what I mean; you think I’m making it up!”
“You’re not a witness; you’re the victim.”
Victim. I liked the sound of that. It was so much more than being just a “witness.” I leaned my head against the stumppocked stump and thought about it. “Well, how do I know but what he thinks I shot her?” The idea excited me, though I didn’t believe a word of it. “Shot her, and then just threw the gun in the water?”
Dwayne scratched the back of his neck, thoughtfully. “Well, I wouldn’t let it worry me. You’d be tried as a juvenile and probably get off with ten, fifteen years.”
“Du-waaaayne! Stop that!”
“This Queen fella—he’s probably fled the coop, what with everybody looking for him.”
“No, he hasn’t.” I said this without thinking. “He’s looking for someone, too.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“I think she’s his granddaughter.” I told him about the Girl, about the five times I’d seen her. For some reason he seemed to be the right person to tell it to.
He shook his head. “My Lord.”
I was glad he was impressed. “It’s like a Greek tragedy.” I stashed my Coke by the stump.
“What about this girl? Anyone else know she exists at all? Anyone else seen her?” He turned to look at me in a way that could be described as “meaningful.” The look was full of it, I was annoyed to see.
“Don’t look at me like that. She exists.I saw her those five times.”
“Oh, I’m not contradicting you saw her.”
“Then what? What? You think she’s a figment of my imagination?”
“That’s what you said Ben Queen said.”
“But he didn’t mean it! He was only pretending.” I was really irritated. “William Faulkner would believe it. He would. Maybe she’s a shape to fill a lack.”
Cold Flat Junction Page 41
