I crossed to the other widow, and Ian and I both put our foreheads to it. We could see the dining room and the kitchen beyond it. Nothing looked new, but nothing looked messy, and everything appeared to be well taken care of.
“Tell you anything?” Ian asked.
“I used to have a stove that color green. I got rid of it to get something a little less 1970s. But the green one had the best oven I’ve ever owned. The only unusual thought that comes to my mind is I wonder if that oven cooks as good as mine did.”
Ian looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“I don’t see anything out of place. Everything is tidy and doesn’t look dirty.”
“What about the front porch?” Ian said. “The . . . furnishings?”
“They seem strange for a single guy, is that what you mean?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. I’m probably as far from macho as anyone you know, right?”
“Yes.”
“Even I don’t think I’d have these sorts of things on my front porch by choice. If you wanted them, or . . . well, the woman in my life wanted them, then sure, but not of my own choice. Did you know him well enough to know if he was dating someone?”
“He and a bartender in town dated but broke up a couple weeks ago. Dianna Kivitt. She said she never came out here, though, and it wasn’t a long relationship.”
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t want to read into something that’s not really there, but you said he was a tough, gruff, silent-but-strong type of guy with a spider tattoo on his neck. I can only think of a couple reasons his front porch would have rocking chairs and wicker furniture. He was either dating someone, or he had another, secret life. Either way, down either path, there could be a killer, his killer.”
“Or it could mean nothing at all. Nothing,” I said.
“It could,” Ian replied doubtfully. “But I just don’t think so. Let’s go into town and see what we can find out.”
“First stop, the bar? Drinks on me.”
Ian laughed, and I realized how much fun it was just to be having fun with him.
Sixteen
If my hometown of Monson, South Carolina, was small, Orderville, South Carolina, was downright miniscule. And Monson had weathered the ticks of time better than Orderville. We’d maintained some of our old, small-town values and architecture, but lots of the buildings had been updated since World War II. That didn’t seem to be the case in Orderville.
It wasn’t the speed limit sign as much as it was the road conditions that caused Ian to slow down as we reached the edge of town. The road was paved, but suddenly and almost without warning, it became less than ideal, with ruts and cracks that wouldn’t have been kind to even new shocks and struts; Ian’s old truck would have protested loudly.
“Look at that guy,” Ian said as he nodded to our left. “Is he real or a mannequin?”
The gentleman he spoke about was on a stool, leaning back against the blue chipped-paint wall of one of the smallest gas stations I’d ever seen. His face was mostly hidden by a brimmed hat, but a long piece of straw came out from his mouth. He wore a red and blue plaid shirt and long overalls that seemed much more authentic than mine. His were heavily faded, worn thin in spots, and latched over only one shoulder. It was the movement of the piece of straw from one side of his mouth to the other that made me realize he was, indeed, real. Other than that, he was stone still.
The station building was a cube that seemed just big enough to accommodate its overalled keeper and maybe a counter with a cash register. A single gas pump sat outside, but there was nothing modern about it. There was no evident way to pay at the pump, unless of course, the gentleman leaning against the wall came to you and took your money. The pump was red and white with a clear globelike ball on the top, the writing on which had long ago worn away. I wondered if the machine made dinging noises as it pumped gas.
“He’s real. I thought those types of pumps were outlawed for safety reasons or something,” I said.
“I thought so, too, but did you see how the road changed when we reached the border of the town? Maybe the laws are different in Orderville.” Ian shrugged.
Following the station were five old boarded-up shacks, but a much less dilapidated building occupied a plot on the other side of the road. It wasn’t a well-put-together structure, but it didn’t look like it was going to crumble soon either. It was wide and deep and the hand-painted sign out front said, “Plant Starts. Get’em Here.”
“A nursery,” I said.
“Just the starts of one.” Ian smiled.
“Right.”
Dianna Kivitt’s bar, Bottoms Up, was located in a non-shack-like building down the road a bit from the nursery. The two buildings were separated by a small expanse of weeds and grasses; had deep tire ruts not marred the grassy area, it might have made a picturesque setting.
Bottoms Up appeared to be part of an improvised mini strip mall. Next to the bar was a hat store, cowboy hats specifically, and then an upholstery shop. The three establishments, though right next to each other, weren’t connected, and each had its own distinct look: the bar was all blacked-out windows; the hat store had no windows at all, its flat façade painted with illustrations of hats instead; and the upholstery shop sported two big windows in which several chairs were displayed. The ample parking lot in front of the three businesses was currently occupied by only a couple trucks, all directly in front of the bar. It wasn’t quite noon, and I smelled the distinct scent of hamburgers and French fries.
“There, Ian, let’s stop at that bar.”
“That the one?”
“Yep. That’s the one Dianna said she owned. She’s the one who supposedly dated Virgil. And I smell the opportunity for a yummy hidden dive burger and fries.”
“Sounds good.”
Ian parked next to a truck that was older than mine and though also orange, was much more faded.
Inside, Bottoms Up was dark and cold, and smelled more like cigarette smoke than hamburgers and fries. It didn’t look like anyone was drinking yet, but toward the back wall a pinball machine bell dinged as an older gentleman played and cursed it at the same time. A string of Christmas lights decorated the front of the long wooden counter, the area behind which was the only well-lit space in the bar. There, Dianna Kivitt was at work, her attention focused on something she was either cleaning or organizing.
“Welcome to Bottoms Up,” she said without looking up. “Sit anywhere, or make it easy on me and come up to the bar. Either way, a tip is always appreciated.”
We wove around the few tables and chairs and then found a couple comfortable stools at the bar.
“Hi, Dianna,” I said.
She finally glanced up. It took her a second, but she soon said, “Becca, right? The one with no poker face at all?”
“That’s me.”
“Well, welcome to Bottoms Up, I guess. Couldn’t get enough of Swayton County? Had to come find us today?”
“Something like that. This is Ian.”
The smile she beamed at him was much friendlier than the one she’d had for me.
“What can I get for you?” she asked suspiciously.
“I’d like a diet soda,” I said.
“I’ll have the same,” Ian said.
“Sure.”
She had the sodas, with cherries, in front of us quickly. “So, really, what are you doing in Orderville? Nobody comes here just to visit me. Well, that’s not totally true. Lots of people come from around town to visit the bar, but that’s only because there’s no other one closer to where they live.”
“I was curious,” I said.
“About?”
“Virgil.”
“Oh.” Dianna nodded and then looked away. She picked up a towel and started drying some shot glasses that clearly didn’t ne
ed to be dried. “I told the police. This morning, I told them I’d dated Virgil. They didn’t seem to care.”
“Bet that made you feel better, though,” I said as I chewed the cherry stem. I was going to order my diet soda with a cherry from now on.
“It did. But like I said, they didn’t care a bit. They . . .”
“They what?”
“All they did was ask me if Virgil ever acted funny around me. They wanted to know if he and I had ever been followed or some such nonsense.”
Ian and I shared a questioning glance. “Had you? Had he, acted funny, I mean?” I said.
“I dunno.” Dianna shrugged. “Virgil was a funny guy. I’d known him some twenty years, and I still didn’t know him all that well. What was supposed to be funny? And if someone had followed us, I wouldn’t have known. Why would I pay attention anyway? We’re a small town; we all see each other everywhere and all the time. I could have mistaken being followed for someone doing the same errands as I was. And we didn’t date all that long either. We weren’t in love, you know.”
“Did he go on to date anyone else?” I asked.
“Not that I saw, but he never invited me for dinner at his house like he had Randy, so what do I know?”
“Do you know where he lived? Had you ever seen, driven by, his house?”
“Sure, I already told you I did, at the poker game. It’s one of the ways to get to the main highway.”
“So you know about his big porch?”
“I guess.”
“White rocking chairs and wicker furniture?”
Dianna blinked. “No, not on Virgil’s porch.”
“He owned the bungalow right outside town? The one with all the rosebushes and bougainvillea?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Ian and I drove by there today, and there were white rocking chairs and wicker furniture on the porch.”
Dianna shrugged. “Well, maybe he’d put them there just recently. From what I remember, there was only one chair on the front porch, a lawn chair. Virgil chewed, too. I remember you could see his spittoon from the road.”
I’d seen no lawn chair and no spittoon.
Honestly, none of this meant much of anything. Virgil’s taste in furniture might have changed recently, or maybe he’d wanted to stop chewing tobacco, so he got rid of the spittoon. Maybe the house was being put up for sale and the real estate agent thought a slight porch redecoration would up its curb appeal, but I couldn’t help but think that Ian was right: there’d been some sort of female influence in his life. It clearly wasn’t Dianna, though, so who would it have been?
Orderville was small enough that if someone sneezed, surely they’d hear a “bless you” from the other side of town. And who would know more about the citizens than the local bartender? Maybe the local hairstylist, I thought.
I felt kind of like we’d hit a dead end, but something else occurred to me. “Dianna, do you know anything about the two brothers who started the fair?”
“No, not a thing.” She was lying. A flicker of surprise had crossed her face when I asked the question, and then she’d looked away so quickly, I had no doubt she knew exactly who I was talking about.
Ian nudged my knee with his. He knew she was lying, too.
“Excuse me a minute,” she said. She didn’t put down the towel or the shot glass she was drying as she scurried down the bar and around a curtain.
“That was interesting,” Ian said. “Even you’re better at lying than she is.”
“Why wouldn’t she want to tell us?”
Ian shrugged.
I didn’t know what else to ask Dianna, but Ian and I didn’t want to leave. We’d been there only a few minutes, and though burgers and fries didn’t sound as appealing as they had before we walked in, there might be more to learn at Bottoms Up. Besides, I didn’t know Orderville well enough to know where we should go next anyway.
Dianna would have to come out eventually. I assumed the kitchen was behind the curtain, along with whatever other places were needed to run a bar—an office, maybe?
My instincts about wanting to stay put paid off a few minutes later. The door opened, letting in a figure silhouetted by the block of sunny light behind it. Once the door closed, my eyes quickly readjusted and I saw that the new customer was Jerry.
I waved him over.
Like Dianna, he took a beat or two to realize that he knew me, but he was much quicker with his smile.
“Becca, the jam lady and Scott’s ex-wife. Hey, what’re you doing here?” He bounded up onto the stool next to me.
I shrugged and introduced Ian.
“I tried to call you, but it rang twice and then went silent,” I said.
“Really? Huh. I don’t know why. I’m here now, though. What’d’ya need?”
“What are your plans since the fair is done?” I asked.
“Sad, huh? It was a big deal around here. Oh, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Thought I’d stop by and see if Dianna had any good ideas.”
“I might have something. My sister manages the farmers’ market where I sell my jams and preserves. She said a corn-dog trailer would be a welcome addition. You just have call her. She’ll check your references and you can jump right in.”
He seemed to freeze for an instant, and then he blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I . . . that’s super great of you. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You know where Monson is? Bailey’s?”
“I’ll find it. I won’t call. I’ll go out there this afternoon.”
“Good. You’ll like it there.”
“Awesome. Hey, can I buy you two a drink, lunch?” Jerry said.
“No, thanks”—I took a sip of my soda—“but do you have a second? I have some questions about . . . Orderville.”
“You thinkin’ of putting a farmers’ market here? Hey, that’s not a bad idea.” Jerry scratched the side of his head in thought.
“Not really, but someone did mention the idea was being considered. I tried to answer their questions, but I think I need to know more about the town to give an opinion about whether a market would work here.”
“Sure. I haven’t been in town long, but there’s not that much to know, I suppose. It’s so small.”
“Maybe the fact that you’re still kind of an outsider will help. You won’t have any strong prejudices yet.”
“Go ahead.”
“First of all, why was the fair such an important event?” I asked. “I think I can say this to you since you’re new to the area. I don’t want to insult anyone, but really, what was the big deal? It took a murder to get people even interested in coming out to it. And the rides, well, they were in pretty bad shape.”
Jerry rubbed at his chin. He looked like he was putting real thought into his answer. There was an intelligence to his eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. That assessment probably wasn’t fair because we’d only known each other briefly, but the difference was so stark, I couldn’t help but wonder about it. Then, just as quickly, his eyes went back to the Jerry I thought I knew: a little less intelligent and a little confused.
“Good question,” he finally said. “All I know is that it was the talk of the town. It was all I heard for a while—who’s going to work at the fair? What’s so-and-so going to do at the fair? You know, that kind of thing. But there was also something else. There was a sense of . . . well, people were worried, too. I think the fair’s always been a challenge, always been hard to get people to come out to it. I noticed the rides, too, but I didn’t think anyone was worried about them as much as they were about attendance.” He looked around the bar. The man playing pinball was still the only other customer in the place. “I just think no one has anything else much better to do. I think it’s a good diver
sion. People get pretty bored doing the same thing all the time. It just gave everyone another option. Maybe. Or . . .”
“Or?” Something told me he actually knew the real answer but had mumbled through all the other stuff first.
“Aw, shoot, I guess I can tell you, but I don’t put much stock in it, you gotta know.”
Both Ian and I nodded.
“It’s that silly gypsy magic.”
“What do you mean?”
“The festival is a tradition, put in place to honor Jena Bellings—people don’t like to say her name, though; it’s weird—but I don’t know the details about her. Anyway, it’s said that the years they don’t have the festival are the years everyone suffers. Crops fail, people get sick and die, bad things happen, so they just keep having the festival so as not to be cursed by gypsy magic.” Jerry laughed.
I didn’t laugh. It took a minute to get my mind around the idea that an entire town could be held hostage by something like “gypsy magic.” But if my mother’s story about Jena was true, then Jena had held Monson hostage, too, in a way.
“Who’s Jena?” Ian asked.
“Oh, yeah, you weren’t at the fair,” Jerry said. “Have Becca tell you about the billboard painted with the creepy house sticking up from the middle of the corn maze. That was apparently Jena’s house. I wish I could get the whole story, but she was some sort of ‘gypsy’ I guess. People around here whisper about her; something about good and bad luck.”
Ian nodded. “Interesting.”
“They’re a superstitious and secretive bunch.” Jerry had transformed again, sounding somehow different, perhaps more serious. “Guess we all have our secrets though, huh?”
I blinked at his tone, but he smiled again and his eyes dimmed back to normal. It was a curious trick.
He leaned close to me, though Ian could hear him when he said, “Some crazy people even get spider tattoos on their necks.”
A Killer Maize Page 15
