Biggie and the Quincy Ghost (15 page)

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Authors: Nancy Bell

BOOK: Biggie and the Quincy Ghost
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“They make her live in the hen house,” I said, starting to feel just a little bit sorry for her.
“We’ll soon put a stop to that,” Biggie said. “She’ll be taken out of that home and put in foster care.”
“This blanket itches,” I whined.
“You stink, too,” Biggie said. “Rosebud, let’s stop somewhere and get J.R. cleaned up. Look, there’s a house right up there, and somebody’s outside. Maybe they’ll let us clean him up with their hose.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And, Biggie, I just remembered, I left my gym bag in the trunk when school let out last May. I got some clothes in there.”
Rosebud pulled the car into the driveway in front of a little white house that was set close to the road. The yard was clipped neat as a pin, and I could see tubs of red geraniums growing on each side of the front door. An old black man was standing out in the yard watching a little dog do its business.
Biggie jumped out of the car and walked up to the man, who took off his old felt hat and smiled at her. She spoke to him for a minute and pointed to me. He nodded his head and she motioned for us to come.
“This is Mr. Hance Johnson,” she said. “He doesn’t have a hose, but there’s a well out back with a bucket.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mr. Johnson said. “Looks like y’all had a little accident.” He pronounced it
acci-DENT.
“I just about got eaten by some alligators.” I couldn’t wait to get back to Job’s Crossing and tell Monica about my close call. She’d never believe it.
“We were visiting with the Baughs. Their daughter took J.R. out in a boat, then tipped him over into the lake.”
“Mmmm.” Mr. Johnson was watching his dog. “That girl tetched. Uh-hmm.”
“Do you know much about that family?”
“I mostly don’t go ’round them, lest I cain’t hep it.” Mr. Johnson kept on looking at his dog.
“Rosebud,” Biggie said, “why don’t you take J.R. around back and help him clean up while I talk to Mr. Johnson.”
Rosebud opened the trunk and got out my gym bag, and we went around to the back of the house. Up close to the tiny screened-in porch was a well with a bucket and rope hanging over it.
“Strip,” Rosebud said.
I looked around. There wasn’t even a tree to hide behind. “Here?”
“You betcha.” Rosebud was already lowering the bucket into the well.
I figured I was already in enough trouble, so I stripped and stood there, shivering, while Rosebud poured bucket after bucket of icy-cold water over me. He opened my gym bag and pulled out a towel, tossing it to me. Fast as I could, I dried myself off and put on my shorts and tee shirt.
“Rosebud, are you still mad at me?”
“You did a dern-fool thing and mighty near got me and you both killed,” Rosebud said. “Ain’t I got a right to be mad?”
“I guess. Rosebud, did you pull me out?”
“Who else?”
“Thanks,” I said, following him back to the car and thinking how Rosebud was the best friend I had in the world and I had almost gotten him eaten by an alligator. I’d have to think of something real good to make it up to him.
Me and Rosebud got back in the car and waited while Biggie finished talking to Mr. Johnson. He was doing most of the talking, all the while pointing back toward the Baugh place. Every once in a while, Biggie would ask a question and he would talk some more. Finally, she came back to the car and slid into her seat. She waved to Mr. Johnson.
“What all were y’all talking about, Biggie?” I asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Biggie looked out the window and wouldn’t say another word. I hate it when she does that.
W
hen we got back to the hotel, a familiar smell made my mouth water. “Fried chicken!” I yelled and headed toward the kitchen.
“Not so fast.” Biggie caught me by the elastic waistband of my gym shorts. “Upstairs with you, first. Get a good bath, shampoo your hair, and get into some clean clothes. Then you can sit down for supper like a gentleman.”
I got cleaned up in no time on account of I was having a fit to get downstairs and get my lips around some of Willie Mae’s good fried chicken. It’s my favorite thing in the whole world. The others were all seated at the table when I slid into my place. Biggie took her napkin and wiped a little soap I had missed from behind my ear. “My soul,” she said. “You must be hungry.”
“I guess you would be, too, if you’d almost gotten
eaten alive by an alligator.” I looked at the platter of chicken that was being passed around the table, hoping nobody would get the pulley bone before it got to me.
“Don’t be a smart aleck.” Biggie spooned a pile of mashed potatoes onto her plate and slopped some cream gravy on top. “Want some potatoes?”
I nodded, then looked around the table because everything had suddenly gotten quiet. The people had all stopped eating and were staring at me.
“What?” I said.
“Well, land’s sakes, J.R.,” Miss Mary Ann said. “You just said you almost got eaten by an alligator!”
“What happened?” Mr. Lew Masters looked at me, concerned.
Brian, who was sitting on my left, mussed my hair. “Like, what happened, man?”
So I told them. I left out the part about the girl, Loosie-Goosie, raising up her dress. “That girl’s crazy,” I finished, “but that’s no reason for her daddy to beat her on the head with a boat paddle.”
“My stars!” Miss Mary Ann said.
“Had anybody consulted me, I would have warned you not to go out there,” Lucas said. He tut-tutted and shook his head. “No place for civilized people. No place at all.”
“Well, first thing tomorrow morning, I’m going right down to the courthouse and report him to the child protective people,” Biggie said. “That child needs to be taken out of that home.”
“Rosebud was ready to put her in the car and take her right then,” I said, thinking how glad I was that Biggie
wouldn’t let him. I’d had more than enough of Miss Loosie-Goosie Baugh for one day.
“That would have been kidnapping,” Lucas said. “Now, Biggie, are you sure you want to go poking your nose in something that doesn’t concern you? They are ignorant swamp people. They have their ways of raising their young—and they have never been our ways.”
“That’s right,” Miss Mary Ann said. “You really should stay out of it, Biggie.”
Mr. Masters nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“I’m going,” Biggie said. “I have a feeling Annabeth would have wanted me to.”
“Could I have another piece of chicken?” I asked.
After supper, Biggie caught up with Brian in the lobby. “Could I have a word with you?” she asked.
Brian looked at his watch. “I have to meet someone at seven,” he said.
“This won’t take a minute.” Biggie led him into the little side room where we had met with the sheriff. I followed.
“Son,” Biggie said after we had all taken a seat, “there’s a young lady in this town who needs your help.”
Brian looked surprised. I guess he had been expecting Biggie to ask him about the murder. “Ma’am?”
“Are you religious at all?”
Now, Brian looked really surprised, and I guess I did, too. Biggie doesn’t usually talk that way.
“I guess,” he said, embarrassed. “Why?”
“Because, if you are, maybe you feel a sense of responsibility for your fellow human beings.”
“Well … sure,” Brian said.
“Then you wouldn’t mind helping one of God’s creatures who is sorely in need of a friend?”
“You mean that kid? Annabeth’s sister? Sure. What can I do?”
“No, I don’t mean Lucy; I mean Emily Faye.”
Brian looked away. “No, ma’am. No way. I’m not having anything to do with her.” He brushed back his hair with his hand. “If you knew what I know about her … .”
“We do,” Biggie said. “We saw her out at the bait shop this afternoon.”
Brian let out a sigh. “Well, then, Miss Biggie, if you know what she is, what makes you think I could help her—if I wanted to?”
“I betcha I can tell you,” I said, surprising myself. “Uh, well …”
Biggie looked at me, surprised, but didn’t say anything, so I went on. “When I was in third grade, we had a new kid move to town. He was from up north somewhere, and he didn’t dress like any of us. He wore
white
Keds to school, and soccer shirts, while all the rest of us wore tee shirts and jeans and high-top basketball shoes. The kids took to calling him ‘Miss Jenkins’ after a lady who works in the cafeteria and always wears white Keds.” I paused and looked at Biggie to see if she’d tell me to shut up. She just nodded for me to go on.
“Not only did he dress funny,” I continued, “but he was a loud-mouthed know-it-all—kept bragging all the time about how much better it was back in Ohio where he came from. Everybody hated his guts, even the teachers. Well, one day, I came home from baseball practice, and
who should be sitting on my front steps but old Sammy Knudson, that was his name. I like to croaked.”
“I had invited him over,” Biggie said with a smile.
“Well, I just walked right past him and went up to my room and slammed the door,” I said. “Then Biggie came up and told me I had to play with him because his parents were out of town and we were keeping him. Overnight!”
“So, what happened?” Brian said, kind of bored.
I could tell he wanted to get this over with, so I hurried on. “Nothin’ much. I went back downstairs and got him off my porch in a hurry, so nobody would see him there. I took him out to the backyard and told him he could throw me a few balls so I could practice batting. He didn’t argue, just followed me and commenced tossing balls. Man, could he throw—fast balls, curve balls, grounders. Well, after awhile, I let him bat, and he sent one right over Mrs. Moody’s fence and into the next yard. I asked him how come he never told anybody how good he could play, and he said nobody had given him a chance, that they wouldn’t even talk to him. I had to admit it; he was right. After that, we got to talking, and it turned out, he was a good guy, just different. I gave him a few pointers on how to dress and how to get along with kids, and before the school year was out, he’d made some friends and the coach had made him alternate pitcher on the baseball team.”
I stopped and let out a sigh as Brian looked at his watch. “Well, that was nice of you, J.R., but I guarantee, Emily Faye is not anything like your Sammy. She’s poison, and I’m steering clear of her.” He looked at Biggie.
“Sorry Miss Biggie. I know you’re only trying to help.” He left the room and we heard the screen door at the front slam as he left.
Biggie got up and gave me a hug. “You did good, honey,” she said.
“It didn’t help a bit, Biggie. You saw how he acted.”
“Maybe it did. Sometimes, when you plant a seed, it takes a while for it to sprout. Know what I’ve a notion to do? I’ve got a notion to examine that little room you told me about. You game?”
“Sure!”
“Then go find Rosebud. I’d like for him to go with us.”
Twenty minutes later, we were standing in the courtyard in front of the little door. Rosebud pushed it open, holding the big flashlight he had borrowed again from Miss Mary Ann’s sewing basket. He took his big hand and swiped away a cobweb before letting Biggie go in ahead of him. I followed.
“It smells like something has died in here,” Biggie said. “Rosebud shine your light in all the corners. It may be a rat.”
Rosebud swung the light slowly around the room until it stopped at the pile of old rags I’d seen before.
“Maybe it’s another body,” I said, surprised that my voice trembled.
Rosebud walked over and kicked at the thing. “Naw,” he said, “it ain’t nothing but an old blanket. Sure smells though.” He spread the blanket out, holding it with two fingers by the corners, and examined it with the light. It was covered with dark stains. “Miss Biggie, I believe this thing’s got blood on it.”
“Let me see.” Biggie walked over and looked. She touched it with one finger. “It’s still damp,” she said.
“You reckon it’s Annabeth’s?” I asked. “And if it is, how come it’s still wet? It ought to have dried up by now.”
“Not necessarily,” Biggie said, holding her hand over her nose. “Not in this damp cellar. Rosebud shine the light on the floor—see if there’s more blood. Stop right here. What’s this?”
Rosebud touched the dark spot she was pointing to and raised his finger to his nose. “Blood,” he said.
“Leave everything, and let’s get out of here,” Biggie said. “I’ll report this to the sheriff first thing in the morning.”
Once we had left by the little door and were standing in the courtyard, Biggie looked back toward the little door. “My soul,” she said. “That door is almost invisible against the brick foundation. It’s no wonder the sheriff and his men never saw it.”
I saw what she meant. The door was hidden behind a big bush, and the worn paint was almost the same color as the bricks.
“Biggie,” I said, “I’ll bet whoever killed Annabeth stabbed her in there and then wrapped her in that blanket and moved her to the fountain.”
“I’ll bet you’re one hundred percent right.” Biggie rumpled my hair. “Well, there’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s all go get bathed and into bed. Tomorrow promises to be a busy day.”

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