arkansastraveler (11 page)

I bit my tongue and smiled at her. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“That’s what you get,” Dove said when I safely settled her over by the refreshment table. “Why are you bein’ on her side anyway when she makes nasty remarks like that? Paul and the burning bush! Wonder what Moses would have to say about that?”

“So she’s a little confused. I’m just trying to keep the peace. You know, blessed are the peacemakers ’cause they’ll inherit the earth, not that that’s such a good deal these days.”

“The peacemakers will be called sons of God,” Dove said, correcting me. “So that lets you out.”

“I’m sure the Lord meant for it to be gender-inclusive. Anyway, just be good for two seconds, okay?” I pointed to the wall that held the high school student’s poster. “Ask yourself—what would Jesus do?”

“He’d’ve thrown up His hands in despair years ago.” She set her bottom lip. “The Lord has no use for someone that stubborn.”

“The oak calling the ironwood tree a hardhead,” I said.

“Go get your husband and leave me be,” she answered.

Even with a lot of puttering around back at Garnet’s house and a leisurely drive to Little Rock, I was still an hour early for Gabe’s plane. I tried to concentrate on a discarded copy of the
Arkansas Democrat-Gazette
, but my mind flitted back to Shirley Arnett’s words about lots of people in this town bearing a grudge against Toby Hunter. I was surprised that it wasn’t talked about or at least mentioned this morning at the quilting bee, but then again, maybe it had been before I arrived. If Sugartree Baptist was anything like our church back home, then the seniors, the quiet bedrock of the church, knew more than the young people about what was going on with folks. I definitely had to park myself in Beulah’s Beauty Barn one of the next few mornings and see what some of the town’s gossip queens were saying about Toby’s murder.

When Gabe walked through the Delta airline gate, I wiggled my way through the crowd toward him.

“
Querida!
” His strong arms closed around me and lifted me up. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, a sense of peace coming over me when I inhaled his musky male scent. It still amazed me how much this man could cause my heart to jump, even after almost two years of marriage. “I missed you like crazy,” he whispered in my ear.

“Me, too, Sergeant Friday,” I said, using my now affectionate but originally derisive nickname for him.

He let my feet touch the ground, and after a quick kiss we started toward the baggage claim area.

“Don’t you have any carry-ons?” I asked, linking my arm in his.

“Had a
Time
magazine, but I left it on the plane.”

I shook my head in amazement, wanting to ask him what he’d do if he got a headache or needed a tissue or a snack. But I didn’t. My husband is a remarkably handsome man, part Hispanic, part Anglo with deep-set gray-blue eyes, a still-flat stomach, and long, muscled runner’s legs. His thick black hair and mustache had only just recently been sprinkled by the silver age fairy, which only added to his appeal. I had no doubt that if his attractive brown brow had wrinkled even slightly with the signs of a headache or hunger, there would have been at least three women with supplies ready. And he would have made them feel like the most wonderful and kind-hearted ladies on earth for helping a poor, suffering man in need.

Then again, he also could be an unbelievably arrogant, patriarchal know-it-all who always, with no regard for
anyone
else, used all the hot water while taking a shower in our tiny house.

And he could make me laugh like no one else ever had.

“So,” he said as we waited for his bag, “what’s happened in Sugartree in the last two days? Did I miss anything exciting?”

“Not much,” I said, keeping my face nonchalant.

He stared at my face a moment, then groaned. “You found another body, didn’t you?”

“I
RESENT YOU
assuming I’m involved with it,” I repeated, watching him throw his bag in the back of the Explorer and shut the door.

“You’ve said that three times already,” he said patiently.

“I wasn’t anywhere near the body! You’re always assuming . . .”

He pushed me against the back of the car, his pelvis holding me captive, and took my face in his big, sure hands. “Let me kiss my wife before we get into it, okay?” When his lips touched mine, I couldn’t resist, and we kissed until an elderly man walked by and cleared his throat. Next to him, a gray-haired lady wearing a green cloth coat with a fake fur collar stared openly.

“Sorry,” Gabe said, winking at the lady, “but my sister and I haven’t seen each other in a very long time.”

The lady gasped and pulled at the now-smiling man’s arm, hurrying him along.

“That was real funny,” I said, climbing in the Explorer, laughing in spite of myself.

“Just trying to get into the swim of things. They
probably didn’t think it was strange at all. Actually, don’t you think they looked a bit alike? I bet their family tree hasn’t forked too many times in the last few generations.”

“
That’s
even less funny, Friday. Promise me, no cousin-marryin’-cousin jokes. I’ve got more’n enough to worry about with the squabbling sisters without wonderin’ about you gettin’ lynched because you’re pokin’ fun at Southern folks.”

He fiddled with the electronic gadgets in the Explorer, fitting the seat to his legs and adjusting the mirrors. “You’ve only been here two days, and your accent’s getting as thick as molasses. I find it extremely sexy.”

I showed him my fist. “Just watch it, okay?”

He leaned over and kissed it, then grinned at me. “You know I’ll have half the ladies in town charmed before dinner and the rest by dessert.”

“That’s supper here, you arrogant, Midwestern son-of-a-sodbuster. Dinner’s done and gone already.”

“Duly noted, sweetheart.” He rested his hand on my thigh. “Two days apart is too long.”

I put my hand over his, pressing it into my leg. “Likewise.” We smiled at each other. “How did Scout react when you left him at the ranch? Does he miss me?”

“Are you kidding? When I left, your dad was asking him if he wanted bacon or sausage with his scrambled eggs. Your puppy’s not even going to know your name in a week.”

I smacked his thigh. “That’s not funny.”

“So,” he said, his face turning into its sober, chief-of-police expression. “Tell me about this homicide.”

In the hour’s drive to Sugartree, I filled him in on who was who, what had happened last night at the fund-raising dinner, and what Shirley Arnett had told me this morning at church.

“A detective hasn’t talked to any of you?” he asked, slowing down as we came to the center of town. Activity
was winding down for the day since it was almost five o’clock. Half the parking spaces surrounding the redbrick courthouse were empty. A couple of men in conservative Brooks Brothers–style suits talked and laughed in front of the courthouse’s double glass doors. “That’s odd. Then again, it’s probably a very small department.”

“Haven’t talked to anyone yet,” I said, glancing at Amen’s campaign office as we drove by. It was dark and empty. Five doors down, at Grady Hunter’s, the lights were on, and people moved about inside. “Turn right here.” I wanted to show him Emory’s house, so he could form a mental picture of last night’s events.

“Just how much money does your cousin have?” he said when he saw the house, a surprised expression on his face.

“A lot, and believe it or not, that’s making it harder for Elvia to commit to him, not easier.”

“I believe it,” he said, taking one last glance in the rearview mirror as we turned the corner to drive up my aunt’s street. “Marrying someone of a different culture is hard enough. Marrying out of your economic class is often an impossible hurdle to overcome.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, turning to face him, straining against my safety belt. “Are you telling me that you’re going to feel different about Emory simply because he has a little money?”

“That mansion tells me he has more than a little money.”

“So what if he does? That doesn’t change who he is.”

“No, but to pretend like it doesn’t matter is being naive.”

It was a hard thing for me to consider when it came to my cousin. I always knew he was wealthy, but somehow it never seemed to matter. Maybe it’s because I saw him through times when Uncle Boone’s business hadn’t been doing very well, and Emory had remained the same generous, caring person.

“It shouldn’t matter,” I insisted.

He didn’t answer me, knowing that there wasn’t much
further we could get with this line of conversation.

“Is Aunt Garnet anxious to see me?” he said, his voice teasing.

“She can’t wait, and you know it. I’m telling you, though, you’d better walk softly the next week or so. She and Dove are on the warpath, and they might be taking hostages.”

“As long as I’m fed Garnet’s angel food cake and Dove’s fried okra, I’ll be a happy prisoner of war.”

“There’s a good chance you might have missed the cooking competition. They’ve moved on to bigger and better battles.”

But they surprised me and managed to put a meal on the table in honor of Gabe. There weren’t duplicate foods, but there was essentially two meals with each of them fixing their best dishes. He was in Arkansas hog heaven.

At dinner Emory told us that a detective had finally dropped by to question him and Boone. The young man had caught them just when Elvia and he were arriving home from Little Rock. Boone wasn’t home, so the detective said he’d try to find him at his office.

“What’d he ask you?” I said, buttering one of Aunt Garnet’s cracklin’ corn bread muffins, holding up my hand before Dove could speak. “Pass the sweet potato biscuits, please.” Dove’s face relaxed into a smile. If this kept up, we’d have to start our own Weight Watchers chapter.

“Just what I saw and heard. Wanted to know if Toby actually threatened anyone.”

“I can’t believe I missed the whole thing,” Elvia said.

“It happened pretty fast,” I said. “Did the detective give you any idea who they suspected?”

Emory took a sip of iced tea. “I think he was fishin’ to see if Quinton, John, or I had threatened Toby. He seemed especially interested in Quinton.”

“I hope they don’t try to pin it on Quinton just because
he’s black,” I said, voicing out loud what all of us had been thinking.

“Me, too, sweetcakes,” Emory said. “But it wouldn’t be the first time in Southern history, believe me.”

We were sitting on the front porch in gastric misery, watching the sun hover around the tops of the pine and hickory trees, when Dove and Garnet appeared on the porch carrying their respective black leather purses.

“I’m off to stuff envelopes for Amen,” Dove said, leaning down to kiss Isaac on the cheek.

“I’m off to stuff envelopes for Grady,” Garnet said, glaring at her sister’s back.

“Oh, Lordy, I’m just stuffed,” Uncle WW said, patting his small pot belly and causing the rest of us to laugh.

It wasn’t fifteen minutes later that an undistinguished white Ford sedan drove up and a young man in his early twenties stepped out. He was wearing a subtle plaid sports jacket, conservative gray pants, and black loafers. His brown hair had been freshly cut, revealing a white line around his tanned neck that we could see from the porch. As he was walking up the drive toward us, his shoe caught on something, causing him to do that little catch-yourself dance to keep from falling. His round, choir-boy face was red as a pomegranate when he righted himself and continued toward us.

“That’s the detective who talked to us this afternoon,” Emory said, standing up to greet him. “Billy Brackman.”

Gabe chuckled softly next to me. “Make sure and ask for his Junior G-man badge.” I frowned and shook my head at him to behave himself.

“Nice seein’ you again, Mr. Littleton,” the young man said when he reached the bottom step.

“Billy, I told you Mr. Littleton’s my father. Just call me Emory.”

Billy cleared his throat, his face still flushed. “Yes, sir, uh, Emory.” He glanced around at the rest of us and said,
“I hate to bother y’all on this fine evening, but I’m lookin’ for a . . .” He double-checked the small wire-ring notebook in his hands. “. . . a Mrs. Albenia Harper.”

“That’s me,” I said, standing up.

“Uh, Mrs. Harper, if you’ve got a few minutes to spare, I’d sure appreciate you talkin’ to me about the events surrounding the altercation at Mr. Boone Littleton’s house last evening.”

“Sure,” I said, walking across the porch toward him. “Where would you like to talk?”

He pointed out toward his car. “Why don’t we just walk out there where we won’t disturb these fine people. It won’t be but a few minutes of your time, I promise.”

“No problem,” I said.

Out by his car, he fumbled through his notebook, still trying to regain his composure. He looked up at me and said, “Please bear with me, ma’am. I have the questions I need to ask here somewhere.”

“My husband’s a police officer,” I said, trying to break the ice. “He was the dark-haired man sitting next to me.”

“Is that right?” He glanced over at Gabe. “Where at?”

“Right now he’s chief of police in San Celina, California. That’s a college town about five hours north of Los Angeles. But he worked for the LAPD for twenty years in undercover narcotics and homicide.”

His eyes widened as he tried not to look impressed. “Really?”

“When we met, I was throwing rocks at a police car. I was a suspect in a murder.”

He stared at me a moment, then laughed. “You’re shittin’ me.” His face turned red again. “I’m sorry, ma’am. That was a real unprofessional thing to say.”

I laughed. “No, I’m not kidding you, Detective Brackman. But I didn’t do it, I swear, and he married me three months later.” I leaned closer to him and whispered, “They were very small rocks, and I was really, really stressed.”

He grinned, his shoulders relaxing a little under his jacket. “I’d surely like to hear
that
whole story sometime.” He glanced over at Gabe again. “LAPD, huh? Cool.” He shoved the notebook in his pocket and said, “Shoot, forget this. How ’bout I just ask you what happened?”

He listened intently without interrupting when I told him everything I saw and heard from the time I was in the attic until Toby Hunter and his friends drove away.

When I finished, he waited a moment before commenting. A cool evening breeze kicked up some leaves, causing them to stick to our legs. I reached down and brushed them away.

“So,” he said. “I don’t reckon you recall anyone makin’ any threats.”

“No, not to speak of.” Amen’s remark about killing him if she had a gun wasn’t something I was going to give this detective. Amen would no more kill than I would.

He looked at me a long moment, waiting.

“No,” I repeated, wanting to kick myself for giving him something to even consider. You’d think after being married to a cop I’d have learned to answer simply yes, no, and I don’t recall.

He scratched behind one ear. “I heard Quinton Tolliver was pretty upset.”

“Wouldn’t you be if someone spit on your grandmother?”

“Did you hear him make any threatening remarks?”

“No. Do they have any suspects? I’m sure a guy like that had all sorts of marginal friends.”

His young face was genial but unrevealing. “Ma’am, I appreciate your cooperation. You and your family have a good evening now.”

Rats, he was obviously experienced enough to sidestep nosy questions. I smiled and said, “Thank you, Detective.”

Back on the porch, Emory was teasing Elvia, trying to
get her to admit that pulled pork barbecue was better than carnitas.

“It’s okay,” she said, smiling. “It’s just kind of bland, don’t you think?”

“Bland! How can you say that?”

“Maybe with a few jalapeño peppers . . .”

He made some exaggerated gagging sounds.

“Okay, you two,” I said, going over and sitting on my husband’s lap. “It’ll be pork barbecue on Mondays and carnitas on Tuesdays. Does that solve your problem?”