Outcast In Gray: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 7)

by M. Glenn Graves

  16

  Starnes was sound asleep on top of the dark green throw that barely covered the couch. Ida and I were sitting at the dining room table. Both of us were sipping from small juice glasses full of White Magic. I had managed just three small sips and was feeling the effects of the powerful liquid that had been used as an antiseptic and anesthetic for my friend Starnes.

  Ida Carter had shown no signs of any effect from drinking her brew. She was on her fourth juice glass. Tolerance. I clearly expected to see some pink elephants on parade at any moment. Starnes was off somewhere in la-la land.

  “Detective, huh?” she said to me at some point in our waiting for Starnes to come around.

  I nodded for fear that my speech might be a little slurred.

  “You any good at what ya do?”

  “Sometimes,” I managed to say without it sounding like a drunk.

  “It could be a while before she surfaces,” Ida said. “I’ll cook us some vittles. You like beans and cornbread?”

  “Grew up on such,” I said being brave enough to actually speak now. Maybe it was the White Magic giving me false courage to venture into the realm of conversation. That or stupidity. I tried to listen to the sound of my words just in case I was dropping off the edge and entering the same nether world as Starnes.

  “Good. I’ll make us a batch or two of cornbread to go along with the beans I put on early this morning. Hope you can tolerate fat back,” she said from the kitchen.

  “I can handle anything after this joy juice,” I said.

  I thought I heard her laugh just before I passed out.

  When I woke up, I was sitting in the soft red cushioned chair adjacent to the couch. Starnes was still out cold. She was snoring softly. Someone had thrown a crazy quilt over Starnes and me.

  I heard some movement in the kitchen. I checked on Starnes before I walked into the kitchen. Her pulse was a little rapid, but considering everything she had been through, I figured she was okay for the time being. I looked under the quilt at her arm. It appeared that the bleeding had finally subsided.

  I made it into the kitchen without falling once.

  “Well, it’s about time ya came back. Can’t hold yur liquor, huh?” Ida said with a smile.

  “Apparently not.”

  “Ya want something to drink?” she cut a wicked gaze at me.

  I was about to answer when she continued, “There’s some milk in the fridge. It’ll help settle your stomach down a mite.”

  There was a small table with two chairs in the middle of the kitchen. I sat down after pouring a glass of milk. I drank it slowly. It felt good. It tasted good as well. I became aware of the fact that I was famished.

  “Starnes okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s still resting. Snoring softly.”

  “Sleep will do her good. She’ll roust about in a couple of hours. We’ll have some beans and cornbread for her then. Meantime, you and I can dig in, if you’re ready.”

  I was way past ready.

  She loaded up a plate full of beans and cut me two large slices of cornbread out of the cast iron skillet that she had removed from the oven and placed on top of the stove.

  “Good and ready,” I said. “What about your husband?”

  “He doesn’t eat,” she said.

  I made no comment thinking that it was best I remain silent at the moment. If she wanted me to know something, I figured that Ida Carter would tell me in her own good time. I watched her load up her own plate with beans and cornbread. She sat down across from me. Her plate had at least half as much food as mine.

  “You must think I’m a big eater,” I said.

  “Woman like you needs her energy, stamina. I figure you and Starnes have miles to go before you sleep.”

  “Woman like me?” I questioned.

  “Ain’t ya what they call a ‘tall drink of water’?”

  “I like the ‘miles to go before I sleep’ allusion better than the water metaphor,” I said.

  Ida presented me with one of her rare smiles once more. Mountain woman with a knowledge of poetry and dubious metaphors. I was still learning.

  “Zeb’s full of dementia,” she said in her own way.

  “More than memory loss?”

  “Yeah.”

  She moved her beans around her plate and nibbled on the corner of the crisp cornbread. The cornbread was delicious, but that didn’t surprise me. I figured that Ida had to have been a good cook to raise all of those children and keep old Zeb content.

  “Been mostly out of it for close to a year now,” she continued. “Hard to see him like this. Don’t advertise his condition. He told me a while back that he wanted to die at home. Tryin’ to handle that request the best I can.”

  She was staring at her plate without eating. I stopped, chewed what I had in my mouth and waited to see if she would continue. Sometimes detectives need to sit quietly and listen rather than ask questions. Some folks don’t like too many questions, but they will provide answers if a person simply waits and listens carefully.

  “Ya got anything to say?” Ida said to me looking up finally.

  “About?” I said.

  “Zeb.”

  “Sorry to hear that he is like that. I would imagine him being a good man to marry someone like you.”

  “If that’s a compliment, then I accept it.”

  “It is. But I do have some questions about your son, Randall Lee,” I said.

  “Haven’t seen him in a spell. He in some trouble?”

  “Not necessarily. Just wanted to talk with him.”

  “A detective wants to talk with my son, Randall Lee. Sounds suspicious.”

  “Does he still do much hiking?” I said.

  “Hiking? How’d ya know that he liked to roam around the woods?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  “Yeah, he likes the woods a bit. Goes about on the trails up the mountain behind us here, over towards Starnes’ place. As the crow flies, it’s about two to three miles over that way. He and Starnes used to play together when they were kids. He’d go over there and she’d come here, never could keep up with those young-uns’.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Several days. Couldn’t track ’im as a kid, don’t pretend to keep up with ’im now. Besides, they’re all grown, well, mostly grown. Farley Ray has a bit of growin’ to do yet. Spends too much time in jail.”

  “Can’t grow in jail?” I said.

  “Wrong kind of growth,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why are you askin’ about Randall Lee?”

  “I’d rather have you talk with Starnes about that. It was her idea to come here and speak with you,” I said.

  “Listen to me. I’m an aging woman who’s still got half a brain and a lot spit. I’ve heard good news and bad news most all my life. In the midst of rearing seven young-uns’, I’ve lost three. Two didn’t even make it out of me. So, I know pain and I know life. Ya need to tell me what’s going on. I might be able to help. Knowledge is better than ignorance.”

  I told her about the bones we found on the trail on the other side of the mountain. She drank her milk and listened to my narration. I gave her the details about Sam and Dog finding the bones.

  “And Starnes thinks that those bones belong to Randall Lee?” she asked.

  “I do,” Starnes said from the doorway moving slowly towards the table while she held tightly to the archway wall before moving further. She was still wrapped in her old quilt but looked better than I thought she’d look after her house-surgery and drinking escapade.

  “What on earth are ya doin’ up, young-un?” Ida said as she stood quickly and pulled out a small stool for Starnes to sit at the table with us. Ida guided her into a sitting position.

  “Didn’t want to miss the gossip going on in here,” Starnes said.

  “Hadn’t gotten around to gossip just yet,” Ida said. “Still chewing on some fact and speculation.”

  “I suppose I know
the next question you have,” Starnes said to Ida.

  “I reckon you don’t. You may be a police woman and all, but ya got no idea what my next question is,” she said as she went to the stove and filled Starnes a plate full of beans and two slices of cornbread.

  She put the plate in front of her and waited for Starnes to look up.

  “Whattaya have to drink, police-lady?” she said to Starnes and smiled.

  17

  I was nibbling on my third piece of cornbread while watching Starnes enjoy her second helping of beans. Ida was at the sink scraping her remaining beans and cornbread into a large tin can that was resting on the counter near the trash can. I noticed that she hadn’t eaten much of anything. It certainly wasn’t because her cooking was questionable.

  “You okay?” I said to Starnes.

  “Feel like new,” she said as she took her newly stitched-up right arm from underneath the quilt and examined it. She had been eating her supper exclusively with her left hand.

  I watched her examine the stitches and make a fist.

  “Look at this,” she said to me, holding out her hand. “I doubt if the Surgeon General could have done a better job of sewing me up.”

  The stitching was impressive. It was neat and thorough. Ida had used a blue thread for the sewing. I noted that it was thicker than the type of thread one might use to hem a garment. Ever observant detective. Besides that, I liked the blue crossing pattern on Starnes’ right arm.

  “Ida, you’ve done yourself proud,” Starnes said to her.

  She turned from the sink and looked at the two of us sitting at the table.

  “What, those stitches? Heavens, child, I’ve been doin’ that kind of thing for most of my married life. Youinses raise five rowdy boys and two girls who are meaner than common criminals, coupled with a red-neck farmer like Zeb Carter, and stitching like that comes with the territory. They would never have survived childhood if’in I didn’t stitch ’em up every week or so. I don’t recall ever having those young-uns in a hospital or clinic for sewing up some cut or gash or wound. Did it all myself. Haven’t lost a stitch yet. Nor a child from an injury.”

  “Well, I still think it’s pretty amazing what you can do,” Starnes said.

  “You been livin’ in the city too long, child. We mountain women can do lots of things those city women would never dream of.”

  She turned back to the sink and started filling a pan with water. I figured she was going to wash dishes, so I took my plate and utensils to her.

  “I’ll dry,” I said as I approached.

  “Thanks for your nursing,” Starnes said to her.

  “You think it’s Randall Lee because of the size of the bones, right?” Ida said as she scrubbed a plate, rinsed it, and handed it to me.

  I turned and looked at Starnes who was still admiring her stitches. She looked up at me with some surprise.

  “We do,” Starnes said to Ida.

  “Anything else?” Ida said as she handed me a fork, a spoon and a knife to dry.

  “Nothing but a bad feeling,” Starnes said.

  “Yeah, I’ve got one of those too,” Ida said and handed me a freshly washed glass.

  “I could be very wrong, you know,” Starnes said. “I’m still waiting on the report from the Asheville lab.”

  “Let me know for sure when it comes in. You know I need to do right by him. He was a good boy … a good man. Just different. Liked to be alone, you know. Liked the mountains, the trails, walking around in the woods. Never understood that.”

  When Starnes finally finished her supper, Ida took her plate and utensils and washed them. I maintained my position as the dryer until Ida completed her dishwashing task.

  “You girls find a place to sit in the living room. I’ll be back in a minute or two,” Ida said as she left us alone once more. I was of the considered opinion that she went to check on Zeb.

  I offered to help Starnes back to the couch, but she waved off my advances and walked briskly into the next room. I followed, figuring that I would catch her if she fell over. My help wasn’t needed. Apparently the White Magic was true to its name.

  “We should be going,” I said to Starnes.

  “Yeah,” she said and nodded, but I detected a hint of reticence.

  “You don’t want to leave her just now,” I said.

  “Something like that. I feel bad for her.”

  “Nothing definite yet.”

  “True, but still, you and I know the likelihood of it being true.”

  “You may know the truth of it, but I’m just here watching you collect evidence.”

  “Yeah, I get that. Idle observer with no hint of an opinion about anything. You misplace your intuition?” Starnes said as she rubbed her left hand over the superb stitching creatively embedded in her wounded arm by Ida Carter earlier that day.

  “No, just not willing to say for sure at the moment.”

  “Me either. You know, I don’t think I’ll even have a scar from this. I’ll bet there are surgeons who would kill to do stitching like this.”

  I drove us back to Starnes’ place after we left Ida Carter. We stayed another hour but not much talk ensued during that time. Ida told us again to let her know something definite about those bones. We promised to do that. It was the least we could do after her unique hospitality was given to us. Shot at us, nicked Starnes, gave us a drink stronger than forty-year-old Scotch, stitched up Starnes better than a professional surgeon, fed us, fed Dog and Sam, and even gave us a quart jar of White Magic to take home. All in all it had been an interesting experience to meet this intriguing mountain woman.

  18

  A dreary rain set in sometime during the night and was still lingering the next morning. I stood on the front porch sipping my coffee watching the drizzle change from minimal to a downpour then back to minimal ever so often. It was like the rain couldn’t make up its mind whether to come or go.

  There was an accompanying fog to go with the rain. The overcast seemed to be stationary with few opportunities for a break in the clouds. It was a quiet beauty that surrounded me while I enjoyed my brew. I thought about the White Magic now and then. I wondered if it would blend nicely with the java.

  Dog and Sam were lying about waiting on the rain to stop as well. I knew that Sam didn’t like the rain much, but I was learning the druthers of Dog in regards to weather conditions. It could have been that she was simply doing what Sam did, half sleeping and half waking, not fully committed to either. Sam was a master at dozing and waking, then dozing again. I had spent some dreary, rainy days in Norfolk watching him do this.

  The rain intensified significantly as the front door opened and Starnes joined me with her coffee cup. She was using her left hand.

  “Meditating?” she said.

  “Waiting for the rain to stop.”

  “Looks like it’ll be here for a spell.”

  “A spell?” I said.

  “Day or two, maybe more. Might as well enjoy the wet. At least it is warm.”

  She was right about that. It was the warmest winter I could recall in recent years. Still, for a mountain person to speak of warm winter is a bit of a stretch. Norfolk sometimes enjoyed some mild, warm winter time, but you could always count on some cold wind blowing in from the Atlantic to attack whatever warmth might be lurking over the city.

  Starnes was right about the warmth here in McAdams County. I didn’t even have my coat on as I was sipping my early morning coffee on this mild winter day.

  “Your arm feels okay?” I said.

  “Yeah. Feels great. Can’t imagine it feeling any better.”

  “Ida’s surgery or the White Magic at work?”

  “Surgery was spectacular, but my money’s on the joy juice that sent me to Never Land for a few hours,” she said.

  Starnes was quiet as she nursed her coffee for several minutes. I did the same.

  “I noticed that you’re walking some better. Leg must be healing nicely,” Starnes said.

&nb
sp; “All of the hiking around the mountains has helped, I suspect. And speaking of that, you planning any more explorations for bones?” I said.

  “Not in this mess,” she said pointing her coffee cup to the heavens.

  “Whatever crime scenes there be, they’re likely being destroyed by the rain.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So we wait.”

  “So we wait,” she said.

  Two days later it was still raining, but now it had finally decided to be a drizzle instead of intermittent downpours. The fog still covered the valley and seemed to be more dense than when it began raining two days back. I had finished my only volume of Baldacci that had accompanied me on this venture and had searched in vain for some work of fiction on the shelves of Starnes’ small living room bookcase. She had nothing but forensic science and the like lining her bookshelves. No wonder the lady knew so much about the gathering of evidence.

  “You don’t read fiction?” I said to her on the afternoon of the third day of our seclusion from the warm wintry drizzle that had taken up residence in the county.

  “Why would I want to read fiction?” she said.

  “Escape from reality?” I said.

  “I don’t want to escape from reality. Sounds suicidal.”

  “Nice to read something that’s not actually happening around me,” I said.

  “I have my forensics to pour over. Much of it is not actually happening around me,” she said with almost an attitude.

  “Yeah, but it’s not a story.”

  “You like stories, huh?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “I don’t care much for stories. I’m a scientist. I’m looking for facts, data, evidence, clues.”

  “Stories have clues, too, you know.”

  “They’re fictional. How on earth could they contain clues for what you and I are up against?”

  “Insights. You never know where a clue might come from.”

  “Well, it’s not going to come to me from some work of fiction, I can tell you that. Here,” she threw a book at me which I luckily caught in my left hand. “Read that. I think there’s some stories in it that’ll make your hair stand on end.”