“N.L. seems to blame me, being Bobby Ray’s lawyer. And everyone related to me.”
“But you were court-appointed. You didn’t have any choice. You had to take the case.”
“Tell that to N.L. He’s on the warpath.”
Maddy had been mixing a summer corn salad, but she paused at her son-in-law’s words. “The DNA test was positive? But how can that be? This stranger’s eyes are brown and Bobby Ray’s were blue.”
“Apparently not. DNA doesn’t lie.”
“Maybe the family is confused about his eye color,” suggested Freddie’s wife Amanda. “After all, it’d been thirty years since they last saw him.”
“N.L. might get it wrong,” said Maddy. “But his mother would remember.”
“Not necessarily,” interjected Beau as he flipped the steaks. “Everybody knows Maud Purdue’s getting senile. Last month she went out to get the mail from her mailbox and wound up at the Dollar General on Main Street.”
“So what’s this Bobby Ray’s story?” asked Freddie. A little out of the loop, he’d been recuperating at the Northside Atlanta Burn Center when the return of the Lost Boy was making headline news.
“Don’t know,” shrugged Mark the Shark. “He refuses to talk.”
“Didn’t he claim to have been a pirate?” remembered Tilly. She was setting the patio table with her mother’s antique carnival glass plates. Aggie was helping.
“He said something about that before he clammed up,” nodded her husband. “What he told Chief Purdue is all we know. He refused to say a word to the FBI. On my advice.”
“But what did he tell you?” asked Maddy.
“Privileged conversation,” said Mark. “I couldn’t tell you what he said … if he had.”
“You mean he didn’t give you a hint about what he’d been up to for the past thirty years?” asked Amanda, intrigued by this modern-day mystery.
“Not a clue. Just repeated his claim that he was Bobby Ray Purdue.”
“But the DNA showed he was telling the truth,” persisted Amanda. “Isn’t his family happy to have him back?”
“Apparently they don’t believe the test. N.L. says it was obviously contaminated. He’s going to bring in another expert to retest the DNA.”
“Why doesn’t N.L. accept unassailable scientific proof?” Beau shook his head. “Those folks down at the Burpyville hospital know their stuff.”
“Because ol’ N.L.’s got his head up his –”
“Mark!” his wife stopped him midsentence. “Little ears,” she said, nodding toward their daughter Agnes, busily placing silverware on the patio table.
“Oh, sorry,” he smiled sheepishly.
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” grinned little Aggie. “I know where the sun doesn’t shine.”
≈≈≈
The next morning after church services, Maddy Madison paused on the steps of Peaceful Meadows to share the conversation about the Lost Boy with her pal Cookie Bentley.
The trim brunette simply rolled her eyes. “Really, hon, that’s last week’s news,” she told her friend. “Everybody in the entire state has heard about the results of the DNA test by now. It was an above-the-fold headline in the Indianapolis Star this morning.”
“Oh.”
“Now if we knew what actually happened to those Lost Boys, that would be Breaking News.”
“According to Mark, Bobby Ray refuses to say.”
“Then we have to find out.”
“Yes,” nodded Maddy, “that’s a good assignment for the Quilters Club.”
≈≈≈
At that very moment the man proven to be Bobby Ray Purdue was meeting with Shorty Yosterman at his house on Jinks Lane. Mad Malcolm Yosterman had passed away last year (an allergic reaction to a bee sting), leaving the house to his only son. Now 42-years-old, Shorty (né Malcolm Jr.) had gone to school with the three Lost Boys.
“Hey there, Shorty. How’s it going?” said the bearded man.
“Okay I guess. Whatcha want to see me about?” He eyed his visitor guardedly.
“That ain’t no way to greet an old classmate.”
“Maybe not. But we’re not old classmates. Because you’re not Bobby Ray Purdue.”
“DNA says otherwise.”
Shorty leaned closer as if sharing a secret. “Bobby Ray had blue eyes. I’ve still got a sixth grade school photo of him. Kept all my annuals and snapshots in a box on my closet shelf. Went through it last week and found a color photo. His eyes were blue.”
“Probably the picture faded,” shrugged the brown-eyed man.
“Like hell. Now tell me what d’you want from me?”
“Doesn’t matter that you don’t recognize me. I remember you. Like that time you got in a fight with Roger Moseby and broke his nose. Or the time you shoplifted a Barlow knife from Ace Hardware.”
“How’d you know about that pocket knife?”
“I was there, you idiot. I am Bobby Ray Purdue.”
“Damn. This is so confusing.”
“Now listen up, Shorty. I want you to take a message to my mama. She refuses to see me. My brother Newcomb has poisoned her mind about me.”
“N.L. doesn’t wanna give up half interest in E Z Seat to a stranger claiming to be his brother.”
“I told you I ain’t no stranger. I’m Bobby Ray.”
“If you say so. Now about that note –?”
The bearded man handed him a folded piece of paper. “Here it is. Don’t you go reading it. Ain’t none of your business. Just see that she gets it. I’ll owe you big for this favor.”
“If you’re Bobby Ray, you still owe me two dollars I loaned you back in 1982. Money to buy a used Schwinn bicycle. I think that bike’s still sitting in your mama’s barn after all these years.”
“Go get it,” smirked the man claiming to be Bobby Ray. “You can have it – and we’ll call us even.”
Chapter Four
“Woo,” said Aggie, jumping back as she encountered her Uncle Freddie in the hallway at her grandmother’s house. “You look scary. Are you always going to wear that mask?”
“It’s not a mask,” sighed the disfigured man. “I’m always going to look like this. Should be good for Halloween, huh?”
“Does it hurt?”
“Some, but less each day. I have a cream that helps.”
“I’m sorry you got hurt, Uncle Freddie.”
“Me too, Aggie. But no use crying over split milk.”
“I’d cry because my mama would be mad I spilled my milk,” she replied innocently. “She doesn’t like to clean up after me and the baby too.”
“What say you and I go down to the DQ for some custard?” he suggested. “That is if I’m not too scary to be seen with.”
“You’re scary, but not to me. I’ll go ask my mama if it’s okay to go. I want a parfait. There’s gotta be a cherry on top.”
“Sure thing,” he grinned, his face feeling like cardboard as the skin tried to wrinkle. He was trying to get used to being seen in public. He couldn’t wear a paper bag over his head for the rest of his life. Here I come, ready or not, he muttered under his breath.
≈≈≈
Beau Madison was having a cup of coffee with Chief Purdue at the Cozy Diner. They often met here on weekday afternoons and called it a “Town Council Meeting.” Things were slow in this tiny Midwestern hamlet during the summer months. The caffeine got them through the rest of the day.
“What are you going to do about the Lost Boy?” the mayor asked his friend. “Don’t like our town being in the national news like this.”
“Don’t plan to do anything. The DNA test proves he’s who he says he is. He hasn’t committed any crimes that we know of. So leave him be and the publicity will die down.”
“How come he won’t tell where he’s been for thirty years? Or what happened to his two companions?” Beau added a dollop of sugar to his coffee and stirred it with a slightly-bent spoon.
“His business. Even the FBI has packed up and gone ba
ck to Indianapolis.”
“D’you think he’s covering up something terrible? Like maybe he murdered the other two boys and has been on the run all this time.”
“No bodies were ever found. No bones recovered. At the time, volunteers searched Never Ending Swamp pretty thoroughly. I remember my papa telling me the searchers held onto ropes so they wouldn’t get separated or lost themselves.”
“Hard to do that with all the brambles and trees out there.”
“Yes, I expect so. But they didn’t turn up a single clue. Not even a footprint.”
Beau took a cautious sip. Eunice Miller made the coffee McDonald’s-Lawsuit-hot here at the Cozy Café. “How do we know those boys even went into the swamp? Maybe they hopped a freight train to Chicago.”
“Ol’ man Baumgartner swore that he saw them climbing over the fence that separates his pasture from the swamp. That’s all folk had to go on.”
“Think he was telling the truth?”
“Why lie about that?” shrugged Jim Purdue, carefully blowing on his coffee. “Besides, that old coot has been dead twenty years now. We’ll never know any different.”
“So why not just ’fess up, tell us what happened?” He was speaking of Bobby Ray now.
Jim shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he’s planning to write a tell-all book and sell it to some big New York publishing house. He’d make millions.”
The mayor nodded. “He just made millions. N.L. signed the papers this morning giving him half ownership of E Z Seat.”
“Bet N.L. was gritting his teeth as he did that.”
“He wasn’t any too happy,” said Beau. “My son-in-law was there. Mark said ol’ N.L. refused to say one single word to his brother. Just signed the papers, then turned heel and walked out of the room.”
“He and his mama – my Aunt Maud – refuse to believe the DNA test. They still think he’s a fake.”
“Do you?”
“Don’t know how you’d fool DNA,” said the police chief as he cautiously tasted his coffee. He burned his tongue.
≈≈≈
Bobby Ray – or the guy claiming to be him – phoned Shorty Yosterman that afternoon around 6 p.m. That gave the lanky man time to get home from Pic A Pair, the shoe store on Main Street where he worked as a salesclerk. “Hello?” came Shorty’s reedy voice. “Who’s calling?”
“It’s me, Bobby Ray.”
“Says you.”
“We’ve already been through that. Did you deliver the note to my mama?”
“Dropped it off at Sunday night’s church service. She wasn’t none too happy to get it.”
“Did she give you any message?’
“Said she’d be there.”
“Thanks.”
As he started to hang up, Shorty Yosterman said, “Wait up.”
“What?”
“That Schwinn bicycle you said I could have –?”
“Yeah?”
“I went by to look at it on the way to work. Tires are flat.”
“That’s your problem,” the man said as he hung up.
≈≈≈
Aggie and her uncle were seated at the counter inside the DQ. The air conditioning was humming in competition with a Golden Oldie playing on the jukebox – “How Much Is That Doggie In the Window?” by Patti Page.
Aggie was waving a finger like a symphony conductor in time to the music as she spooned her parfait with the other. She liked the song because it reminded her of her dog Tige. She and Tige had great adventures together. Her grandfather was irked because her dog had dug holes in the park across the street from Aggie’s house, creating a reseeding project for the City Park Department.
Technically speaking, Caruthers Corners (pop. 2,643) wasn’t a city … and the Park Department consisted of the Gilbert Brothers who had a contract with the mayor’s office to look after local parks and trees. Beau Madison had paid for the reseeding out of his own pocket.
Aggie’s uncle sat next to her at the counter, slurping on a double cone of strawberry. It was cold to his tongue, a good sign. There had been a period during his recovery when his sense of feeling – particularly temperatures – had been dulled. But the nerves seemed to be healing themselves.
Looking in the mirror that backed the aluminum columns of frozen custard marked VANILLA, STRAWBERRY, CHOCOLATE, and PISTACHIO, Aggie saw a strange reflection. Out in the parking lot was a circus wagon drawn by two white horses. She couldn’t read the words printed on the side of the colorful wagon because they were in reverse in the mirror. But she could make out the lion and tiger and bear (oh my!) painted on its side.
“Clown,” she said.
“Hey, I don’t look that bad,” protested Freddie. His medicating cream left his face looking pale and pasty, but that remark was hardly called for.
“I didn’t mean you,” his niece laughed. “There’s a clown coming in the door.”
Freddie whirled around on his stool and spotted the man with white greasepaint and a round red nose – a clown indeed. He’d have to learn to be less sensitive, he reminded himself.
“Hi, Mr. Clown,” called Aggie to the new arrival.
“Hello, little girl,” he answered. Then called to the teenager behind the counter, “Could I have chocolate sundae to go?”
“Sprinkles?”
“How’d you know my name?”
The counter girl looked embarrassed. “No, I mean do you want sprinkles on your sundae?”
“Oh, no thanks. Just a maraschino cherry will be fine. Matches my nose.”
Aggie giggled at his jest. “It does,” she agreed.
Sprinkles the Clown tweaked his red rubber nose and it gave off a honk! honk! that made Aggie giggle all the more.
“Is a circus coming to town?” asked the counter girl as she handed over the chocolate sundae and made change for a ten-dollar bill.
“No exactly,” replied the clown, taking a bite of the creamy frozen custard. “We’re holding up at Ben Bentley’s farm till a play date opens up in Burpyville. I’m just exercising the horses, Doc and Dopey.”
“Aren’t Doc and Dopey two of Snow White’s dwarfs?” said Aggie, squinting in puzzlement.
“Right you are, young lady. All seven of our animals are named after Snow White’s little friends. See that lion on the side of the wagon?” He pointed out the window. “That’s Grumpy. He’s got a bad temper. And that tiger? We call him Bashful because he’s shy. Wants to hide in the corner of his cage all the time. The bear’s name is Sleepy. Always wanting to hibernate winter, summer, or spring.”
“What other animals do you have?”
“Not many – seven as I said. We’re a very small circus. We also have an elephant named Happy and a baboon we call Sneezy. He has allergies.”
“Oh boy! I can’t wait to see them.”
“Sorry, little lady. We’re not going to be putting on a show here.”
“Doesn’t matter,” smiled Aggie. “I can come out to Ben Bentley’s farm and see them. He’s married to my good friend Cookie. She and I are in the Quilters Club together.”
Chapter Five
Bootsie Purdue raised on her tiptoes to kiss her husband goodbye as he left for work. At 6’ 2” Jim Purdue towered over her by nearly a foot. He was pulling an extra shift because one of his deputies was sick, a summer cold. She thought he looked handsome in the blue police uniform with the shiny badge with CHIEF engraved on it, not bad for a man in his late 50s.
“Will you be late?” she asked. Bootsie liked to have a hot meal on the table when he came home, so timing was a keystone to her household chores. Other than the Quilters Club meetings every Tuesday and playing bridge on Thursdays, her life revolved around making a good home for Jim.
“Dunno,” he grunted. “This Lost Boys case is taking up a lot of time. The State Police have been in my hair all week.”
“You don’t have any hair,” she teased. “Least not since college.”
He put on his police cap to hide the shiny dome of his head. “Thanks
for reminding me.” His male pattern baldness left a ring of dark hair that made him look like Chris Bauer, that actor who plays the cop on True Blood. He and Bootsie watched that television show every week, an entertaining vampire soap opera.
“So your cousin Bobby Ray gets half interest in E Z Seat now that he’s returned from the dead?”
“That’s the way his daddy set up his will, half to Newcomb Lamont and the other half to Bobby Ray once he turned twenty-one.”
Bootsie did the calculation in her head. “That would have been back in 1991,” she said.
“That’s the problem. Bobby Ray had been legally declared dead by then. The DNA test was key to Judge Cramer’s setting aside that declaration and giving him his birthright.”
“Bet N.L. is none too happy about all this.”
“Not very. He didn’t like his brother very much when they were boys. And he’s none too happy to be sharing the reins with him now.”
≈≈≈
Beauregard Madison IV had a new secretary – Martha Barnswell, a recent graduate of Caruthers High. She was very efficient, even if she was younger than his daughter Tilly.
Tilly could barely hold life together lately, what with the baby now walking and Agnes entering that prepubescent period known as “tweens.” Her husband Mark was busy with his law practice, although it would have been more to Beau’s liking if he hadn’t taken on Bobby Ray Purdue as a client. But business is business.
“Martha, can you find me the Sammy Hankins file?”
“It’s on your desk,” she called from her post just outside his tiny office.
“Oh, thanks.” As mayor, he got entangled in all kind of disputes, like this property line quarrel between Sad Sammy Hankins and Errol Baumgartner. He’d known Sad Sammy since grade school when he’d got his nickname due to a worrisome nature. Surprisingly, Beau had never met this other guy. According to town scuttlebutt, Errol Baumgartner was something of a recluse. He’s inherited the farm from his grandfather, the last man to see the Lost Boys as they crossed his pasture and disappeared into the Never Ending Swamp.
Beau’s son-in-law was handling Sad Sammy’s case too. But that didn’t keep Sammy from petitioning Beau – his old high school chum – to intervene. Friends in high places and all that.
3 Coming Unraveled Page 2
