We chatted in his pickup on the way, but I didn’t address anything of importance, figuring small talk would be better, but once we got to the fast food restaurant, I hit him like a journalist interviewing a police officer after a violent criminal had just been arrested. All right, not really, but I wanted to think I was tough like that.
“I’m sorry things got heated about selling Buford’s truck. I just don’t understand the need to sell it for so much less than it’s worth.”
He took a bite from his sandwich. “I know. Momma just wants to be done with it, is all, and Tucker’s not a bad guy, at least when it comes to Buford. He’ll do right by him when he sells it.”
I blinked. “When he sells it? I thought he was the one buying it?”
He nodded and swallowed. “Well, yeah, but he’s not keeping it. He’s gonna sell it and give Momma some of the money from the sale. It’s like one of those broker deals or something, I guess.”
Sounded fishy to me, and I wasn’t even sure I understood what he meant. “So, she’s selling Tucker the rig, and then he’s going to turn around and sell it again, and then split the money with her?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why doesn’t he just sell it for her?”
He shrugged. “Tucker offered to do it this way.”
I bet he did, I thought. “I don’t trust him.”
“But Buford did.”
I didn’t have a comeback for that other than, “He’s not been kind to me.”
“Why do you think that is? Don’t make sense to me that Buford hadn’t introduced you to anyone. Especially us. We’re kin. He should have.”
Instead of me hitting Atticus hard with questions, it had gone the opposite direction. “He planned to, it just never worked out, and then he…he…” I searched my bag for a tissue to press into the corners of my eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
I waved my hand. “It’s okay. I’m fine, really.”
“He spent a lot of time in that rig, and when he wasn’t there, he was at The Backwoods. Never did see you at neither place.” He took another bite of his chicken sandwich and then ate one of his waffle fries. “How long’d you say you two were together?”
I hadn’t. “I didn’t, but since you’re asking six months. And I’d been to the rig several times, but I never drove there. Buford always came and got me in his Jeep.”
Atticus stopped chewing on that waffle fry, and his mouth hung slightly open. “Oh.”
I nodded. “I’ve meant to ask where his Jeep is. You don’t happen to know, do you?”
He washed back the fry with a gulp of Coke. “Uh, yeah, Boone’s driving it.”
“I see. Buford was selling that—" My cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID, and it said Ruthie. “I’m sorry, I need to take this.”
He smiled. “No problem.”
I walked away from the table and quietly answered the call. “Hello?” I whispered.
“Hello, it’s Ruthie. I’m just checking in. Wanted to make sure everything was going okay. I received a call from Grace Lester. She mentioned you had some trouble with a broken window, and she’s dropped off a check for you here at the agency.”
“It’s going fine, but how did she find out about that?”
“Not sure, don’t know if that matters either, but it’s here when you can come by and get it.”
I glanced over at Atticus, who gleefully and obliviously chomped away on his lunch. “Okay, thank you.”
“Anytime.” She disconnected the call.
I knew I had to address the sting with Atticus. I just wasn’t sure how, and the five steps back to the table wasn’t nearly enough time to devise a plan.
“You don’t look happy,” he said.
I had sort of fallen back into my seat. “It’s been a long few days. I think it’s all kind of hitting me now.” Thank you, Atticus, I thought, for giving me an entry point. “When your fiancé dies from a bee sting to the neck, it sends your world spinning, you know?”
“Not really, but I guess it would.”
“That reminds me. Miss Clementine from the funeral home, before the funeral, she had me, I don’t know what to call it, I guess, approve some makeup changes to Buford’s um, body.” I fanned my eyes to give the appearance of drying my potential tears. “Because I guess they’d had a mishap of sorts of something. She didn’t explain. I asked how his neck was, given he’d been stung there, and she said they didn’t have to do anything to his neck because he didn’t have any sting mark on it. I don’t know why I thought he was stung in the neck, but I don’t think I can spend the rest of my life not knowing exactly how my love died.”
Atticus offered a clumsy attempt of sympathy by reaching for my hand. In the process, he knocked over my drink. Thankfully the lid saved it from spilling over, and only a bit dripped from the space where my straw was. The awkward moment though made us both laugh and reduced the tension building in my stomach from my dishonesty. I meant my acting.
“Where’d you hear he’d been stung in his neck?”
“I can’t recall, but I swear that’s what I was told.”
“Well, someone told you wrong.” A half laugh, the kind someone does when something sad and ironic happens, escaped his lips. “Buford got stung in the butt.”
“Excuse me?” I acted surprised.
“You heard right. You know he liked to sleep in his birthday suit, right?”
That definitely wasn’t in the dossier. I wiggled my jutted out chin up and to the side, and without making eye contact with Atticus, proudly said, “I am not that type of woman, Mr. Mableton. You should be ashamed for making those kinds of assumptions.” I wasn’t lying when it came to that, either.
When I did finally make eye contact, Atticus was redder than a ripe tomato from the farmer’s market. “I wasn’t assuming anything, Ivy. I just, I thought everyone knew that about Buford.”
“Why in the heavens would everyone know that about Buford? That’s private business.”
“Because he told everyone, that’s why. Said he liked the way the cold sheets felt on his skin. We used to make fun of him all the time. He never told you that?”
“We never discussed those kinds of things. I told you, Buford treated me like a lady.”
He raised his eyebrows, pressed his lips together and leaned his head back. “Okay then.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t you laugh. It’s disrespectful.”
And then he let loose.
A minute or two later, after he’d laughed himself into tears while I sat there, steely-eyed and stone-faced, he finally stopped long enough to wipe his eyes, apologize, and keep a straight face. “When he didn’t show up to work in the morning and didn’t answer his cell phone, Tucker called me, so I called Momma, who said she hadn’t heard from Buford in a few days, so I drove out and saw the rig in its regular spot. The door was locked, so I knocked, but no one answered. I heard voices and could tell it was the TV. I hollered for Buford, but he didn’t answer. I climbed up and looked in, but the cab was covered with the curtain, so I drove over to Momma’s and got the spare key, and that’s when I found him.”
“Did you see the sting entrance?”
He nodded. “Now don’t go spreading that around. I don’t need people thinking I checked out my cousin’s—”
I held up my hand. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Hard to tell anything was there, the area was so swollen.”
“I need to know. How was he? I mean, was he lying on his back like he’d been asleep or do you think he’d tried to get up and get his EpiPen?”
“Ivy, why’re you doin’ this to yourself? None of this matters now. What’s done is done. There ain’t no bringing Buford back.”
“I know that. I just need to understand. He knew he was allergic. Why wouldn’t he give himself the shot? None of this makes sense.”
“It doesn’t, but it’s not like Buford’s here to tell us, s
o it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
I pushed the rest of my nuggets aside. As hungry as I’d been, I couldn’t eat them. None of the circumstances surrounding Buford Lester’s death made sense, and even though I didn’t know the man, it had upset me, and I needed to find out the truth. “I need to get back to the truck. I’ve got more to go through, and I’ve got some other things to take care of, too.”
He narrowed his eyes in my direction. “Other things?”
I shifted in my seat. “Yes, other things.” Other things I had no intention of discussing with anyone in Buford’s family.
Neither of us spoke much on the drive back to the trailer park. I couldn’t stop thinking about Buford, and how he’d most likely died from a needle to his behind, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Was he that hard of a sleeper that it hadn’t awakened him? I couldn’t imagine that to be true, but it was the only logical answer—well, the only reasonable answer. I for one knew if I’d had a knitting needle of that size poke my cheek while sound asleep it would have at least startled me, but my head smacking against the truck’s ceiling would definitely have jarred me awake.
Maybe that had happened, but by the time Buford’s head cleared of the sleepy fog always there in the middle of a surprise awakening, it was too late? In any case, Atticus was right. Buford wasn’t around to tell us, but that didn’t matter, because I fully intended to find out.
7
I dug through every crack and crevice, every opening, every compartment and space I could find in Buford’s rig, searching for the mysterious, elusive thing yet defined that Tucker insisted I had, and anything that might lead to me understanding why Buford didn’t save himself, but I couldn’t find a thing.
I spend the entire day, except for my time at lunch with Atticus, and well into the evening focused on that rig. I’d told Christopher I didn’t think it would take long, and I was surprised it had. He came by shortly after I returned from lunch, checked on me and then had to leave to interview a suspect in another case. At six o’clock he called, and I said I was getting ready to leave, which I thought I was, but the next thing I knew, it was dark, and I still wasn’t done.
At somewhere around eight o’clock, dark circles under my eyes, sweat staining my armpits, my toes cramped from wearing shoes all day, and the good Lord only forgiving my horrible stink, I finally decided to give up and go home. It wasn’t completely finished, but it was as good as it would get, at least where I was concerned.
I packed up my things and threw a few of Buford’s into another bag. Things I thought might be relevant and didn’t feel comfortable giving to Alice. I locked up the rig, climbed out and headed to my car. It was dark, but the street lights guided me, as did the glowing red cigarette moving up and down near my car.
“Wondered how long you’d stay in that thing,” Tucker Hyut said.
I stiffened but did my best not to show fear in my voice. “Not now, Tucker. It’s been a long day, and I just want to go home and get some rest.”
“Where is home, Ivy Sawyer?”
I froze. The offensive body odor from all that work early worsened as a cold sweat enveloped my entire body. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“There’s a lot of bad things happening in the world today. A pretty girl like you ain’t safe alone at night. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me to let you go home without an escort.”
I clutched my bag to my chest. “I’m doing just fine on my own, thank you.”
“You ain’ gonna refuse me my offer to help, now, are you?”
“I sure am.” Daddy always said whenever I was scared to just pretend everything was fine and do what I needed to do. Fake it till you make it, he’d said. So, I pretended to not be intimidated by Tucker Hyut and walked toward my car, even though he blocked my driver’s side door. Instead of trying to get in, I walked to his right, opened the door next to him, threw my stuff in, shut it and said, “You need to move.”
He stared at me.
“Now.”
He stared at me again. “You’ve got something I want.”
“No, Tucker. I do not, and you know what? Buford doesn’t have whatever it is you’re talking about, either, because I looked. Whatever it is you think has any value in that truck, if you think I have it, or if you think it was in that truck, you’re wrong. It’s not, and I can promise you, I do not have it. I didn’t find anything of value in there, Tucker. Nothing.”
His head jerked back a touch, but he recouped it quickly with a dismissive nod. “Lying ain’t becoming on such a pretty face.”
“And I’m not a liar.”
“Well, we both know that right there ain’t the truth now, don’t we, Ivy Sawyer?” The disdain and spite dripping from his tongue as he said Ivy Sawyer made my skin crawl.
“I asked you to move.”
He pushed himself away from my Tribute.
“We ain’t done, you and me.”
“Yes, Tucker Hyut.” My disdain matched his. “We are.” I hopped into my car as if I didn’t have a care in the world, closed the door, waved goodbye the same way, and left. When I saw him unlock Buford’s truck in my rearview mirror, I knew he wasn’t planning on following me, and I was finally able to breathe again.
I got home, went straight to my room and emptied out the contents of my purse. I took the knitting needle wrapped in the glove and stuffed it into a shoebox of high school notes on the top shelf of my closet behind an old blanket, and put it right back where I’d found it. I stripped off my disgusting clothing and then dragged myself into the shower. Utterly exhausted from all that work in such a cramped space, I did yoga poses to stretch my tight, sore limbs. It was my own little version of hot yoga, North Carolina style. After I dried off, I fell into my bed. I knew I had to deal with Tucker Hyut, but my mind and body couldn’t handle anything else, so I decided I’d call Christopher about it after I’d had some rest, and after I figured out what was going on.
A nightmare about wasps, knitting needles, Tucker Hyut and Caroline Hartford woke me up at two o’clock in the morning, and I couldn’t fall back asleep. I spent an hour wondering why I’d dream about Tucker Hyut and Christopher Lacy’s ex-girlfriend. And okay, shoot me, but I found a sick comfort in thinking my sort-of archnemesis ended up with some smarmy guy with poor grammar that stunk like rotten onions. Sure, a nightmare was still a nightmare, but at least there was that.
I may have been raised with proper manners, but I wasn’t perfect, and since the argument with Christopher had left a bad taste in my mouth, I needed someone to blame, and a part of me preferred to blame Caroline Hartford instead of Christopher since I’d always kind of had a little crush on him.
Okay, maybe more than a little, but whatever.
Thinking about Christopher distracted me from thinking about Buford for all of ten minutes before my brain began its descent into some crazy place I couldn’t comprehend.
I tiptoed into the kitchen, doing my best to dodge the creaking spots on the antique beige carpet for fear of waking my parents. Little did I know several new spots had developed since I’d been gone. I cringed as my feet hit each one. I opened the office supply drawer, as Momma called it, took a pen and a notepad and tiptoed back to my room, dodging the same spots and making it up the stairs two at a time without one creak. I’d impressed myself with that trick.
When Daddy tapped me on the shoulder halfway down the hallway back to my room, I jumped and screamed. “Daddy, why’d you go and do that? Momma’s going to skin us both.”
He laughed. “Momma ain’t even here.”
My eyes shot open. “What?” I put my hands on my hips and stuck out the right one. “What kind of trouble are you in?”
He laughed louder. “Meme, I didn’t do a thing. She volunteers at the old folks home once a month. Stays there and handles the night watch and tonight’s her night.”
“The night watch?”
“Yeah, they got three or four escapees. They like to go out and square danc
e in the middle of the night. Problem is, they get a little too happy when they’re out square dancing if you know what I mean, and they don’t always get home. A few times they’ve ended up in jail, so they had to bring in volunteers to make sure they don’t sneak out anymore.”
Only in the South. That kind of thing just happened in the south.
“Wow, I sure hope I’m that much fun when I’m old.”
That time Daddy laughed a big, hearty belly laugh. “I hope I’m that much fun when I’m old.”
“You’re getting close, Daddy.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Let’s get you back to bed, Princess. You need your rest.”
He walked me back to my room. “Daddy?”
“Yeah, Meme?”
“Remember when I was little, you used to tell me people are generally good?”
He nodded.
“You still think that?”
“I do, Meme.”
“But what if they’re not?”
He pushed a floppy blond curl from my eye. “Not all the apples in the basket will be, Princess. You got to take the good with the bad.”
“I know, and when you find a bad one, you toss it and let nature take its course.”
“That’s right. You okay honey?”
“Yeah, Daddy. I’m fine. Just tired is all.”
“Well, you go on and get that beauty sleep so you can get back to the big city and that dream of yours.”
“I’m not sure it’s ever going to happen. Seems impossible lately.” New York City felt a lifetime away.
“Anything’s possible Mayme. You’ve proved that over and over again, and you need to remember that.” He hugged me. “Now, go on. Get some rest. I love you.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”
I crawled back into bed, but I didn’t sleep. Instead, I made notes about Buford Lester and everything I thought about his situation. After writing out seven pages of information, I wrote one sentence in all capitals and circled it.
Mourning Crisis Page 13
