Carnal Innocence (38 page)

Teddy was back. Josie knew he was expected since she’d spent the evening in Burns’s bed and the FBI agent had told her so. The idea of having a pathologist and a special agent to juggle had eased her hurt and anger at Tucker’s words.

She’d decided she wouldn’t speak to her brother for a day or two—at least until he’d apologized in person rather than sending Dwayne scrambling after her as proxy.

She was still brooding over it the following afternoon. While the rest of Innocence was reeling in shock over the latest murder, Josie sat at the counter of the Chat ’N Chew, freshening her lipstick in her new purse mirror. Teddy had promised to join her for lunch as soon as he’d finished his preliminary examination of the body.

“Earleen.” Pouting, Josie tilted the mirror back to fluff at her hair. “Do you think I’m a cold-hearted woman?”

“Cold-hearted?” Earleen leaned on the counter and flexed her aching feet. “Kinda hard to be hot-blooded and cold-hearted all at once.”

Pleased, Josie smiled. “That’s true. Being honest about things and not pretending otherwise doesn’t make you cold. Why, it makes you true to yourself, don’t you think?”

“That’s a fact.”

Using the mirror, Josie scanned the diner without turning around. Several of the booths were occupied. Beneath the crooning of Reba McIntire from the juke, the conversation was all about Darleen.

“You know, half the people in here didn’t have a minute’s use for Darleen while she was alive.” Josie snapped the mirror closed. “Now that she’s dead, they can’t say enough.”

“That’s human nature,” Earleen declared. “It’s like one of them artists whose paintings ain’t worth shit while he’s alive to paint ’em, then once he kills himself or gets hit by a truck, people fall all over themselves to pay a fortune for them. Human nature.”

Josie appreciated the analogy. “So Darleen’s worth more dead than she was alive.”

While she might have agreed, Earleen was superstitious enough not to speak ill of the dead. “It’s Junior I’m sorry for. And that dear little boy.” With a sigh, Earleen reached back to take an order off the shelf. “And Happy and Singleton, too. The living’s who suffers.”

While Earleen walked off to serve a customer, Josie murmured in agreement. She dug through her purse for her atomizer of perfume, then squirted scent liberally on her wrists and throat.

When Carl walked in, the conversation died, then picked up again in murmurs. Josie patted the stool beside her.

“Come on over here and sit. You look worn out.”

“Thank you, Josie, but I can’t. Just come by to get some food to take back to the office.”

“What can I get for you, Carl?” Earleen popped back behind the counter, hoping to exchange food for news.

“I need a half dozen hamburgers. Maybe a quart of your potato salad and some cole slaw. Make it a gallon of iced tea.”

“How’re you going to want them burgers?” “Make them all medium, Earleen, and load ’em up.”

Josie picked up her Diet Coke. “Y’all must be busy as one-armed paperhangers down at the office if you can’t even break for lunch.”

“We are that, Josie.” He was so tired himself he could have slept standing up. Belatedly, he remembered to take off his hat. “County sheriff and a couple of his boys’re
down. Agent Burns has had that fax machine clicking all morning. It’s hot enough in that office to smoke a ham.”

“With all of you working so hard, you must have some clues.”

“We got a thing or two.” He glanced over as Earleen turned expectantly from the grill. “Now, I can’t tell you what we got, official like. But Y’all know Darleen was killed like the others. We gotta figure it was the same person using the same weapon.”

“It ain’t right,” Earleen said. “We got some psychopathic killer running loose, and not a woman in the county can feel safe.”

“No, it ain’t right. But we’re going to stop him. You can take that to the bank.”

“Matthew says serial killers’re different.” Josie sucked on the straw. “He says they can look and act just like regular people. It makes them hard to catch.”

“We’ll catch this one.” He leaned closer. “I figure I should tell you, Josie, since you’ll be finding out soon anyway. Looks like Darleen was killed right there, right by the pond.”

“Sweet Jesus.” Earleen was torn between excitement and terror. “You mean to say he did it over to Sweetwater?”

“We got reason to think so. I don’t mean to scare you, Josie, but you want to be mighty careful.”

She took a cigarette from the pack on the counter and her fingers shook lightly. “I will be, Carl. You can take
that
to the bank.”

Slowly, she blew out a stream of smoke. And she intended to find out exactly what they knew the minute she could get Teddy alone.

There were reporters camped out in her yard. Caroline had stopped answering the phone. Invariably, it was another inquisitive newsman or woman on the other end. To distract herself, she took out the scrapbook she’d found in her grandmother’s trunk.

Caroline could see most of her own life on those
pages. Her parents’ wedding announcement clipped from the Philadelphia and Greenville papers. The studied, professional photographs taken at the wedding where her mother had worn an heirloom bridal gown— from the Waverly side. The card announcing the birth of Caroline Louisa Waverly. She’d been named for her paternal grandmother.

A few photographs, again professionally done, of the proud parents with their little bundle of joy. Then, of Caroline alone, one studio portrait for each year of her life.

No snapshots, she noted, no out-of-focus or candid shots, except for the few her grandparents had taken themselves on her brief visit all those years ago.

Newspaper clippings marking her musical career, showing her at six and twelve and twenty, and the years between and after.

It was one of the few things her grandparents had had of her, Caroline thought as she set the book back inside the trunk. Now it was one of the few things she had of her grandparents.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, and drew deeply of the scent of lavender and cedar that wafted from the trunk. “I wish I’d known you better.”

She reached in and took out a cardboard box. Inside, wrapped in tissue, was a tiny christening gown trimmed with white ribbons and yellowing lace.

Perhaps her grandmother or grandfather had worn it, Caroline thought as she ran her fingers over the soft white lawn. Surely her mother had.

“You saved it for me.” Touched, she brushed her cheek over it. “I couldn’t wear it when my turn came, but you saved it for me.”

Carefully, she wrapped it back into its bed of tissue. One day, she vowed, her child would wear it.

Useless raced out of the room to stand at the top of the steps, then raced back again as someone hammered on the door. Caroline set the box back in the trunk, then took out a pair of bronzed baby shoes. She smiled over them.

“Don’t bother, Useless. It’s just one of the idiot reporters.”

“Caroline! Dammit, open up before I have to kill one of these jackasses.”

“Tucker.” Jumping up, she ran downstairs with the dog at her heels. “Sorry.” As she unlocked the door, she could see the reporters crowding behind him, thrusting out their mikes, snapping pictures and shouting questions. She dragged Tucker in by the arm, then planted herself in the doorway.

“Get off my porch.”

“Ms. Waverly, how does it feel to find yourself living a real life murder mystery?”

“Ms. Waverly, is it true you came to Mississippi to mend a broken heart?”

“Did you really collapse in—”

“Is it true you killed—”

“Were you acquainted with—”

“Get off my porch!” she bellowed. “And get off my land while you’re at it. You’re trespassing, the lot of you, and we have laws down here. And if one of you so much as sets a toe over my boundary line without invitation, I’ll shoot if off.” She slammed the door, threw the bolt, and started to turn when Tucker scooped her up in a quick circle.

“Honey, you sounded just like my mama did when she got her dander up.” He kissed her before setting her on her feet. “You’re losing the Yankee in your speech, too. Pretty soon you’ll be saying ‘Y’all’ and ‘fix’n to’ just like a native.”

She laughed, but shook her head. “I will not.” She touched a hand to his cheek. He hadn’t shaved, but most of the fatigue had drained out of his eyes. “You look better than you did this morning.”

“That’s not saying much, seeing as I looked like death warmed over this morning. Felt like it, too.”

“You didn’t sleep.”

“I caught an hour in the hammock this afternoon. Felt like old times.” He drew her close again, but this time when he kissed her it was slow and easy. “So does that. I sure wish you’d lowered your standards of respectability
and shared my bed last night. I still wouldn’t have slept, but I’d’ve felt better about being awake.”

“It didn’t seem right, with the house full of your family, and—”

“And the police poking ’round the pond half the night,” he finished. Turning away, he walked into the parlor and glanced out of the window. “Do something for me, Caro.”

“I’ll try.”

“Go up and pack what you need, and come back to Sweetwater with me.”

“Tucker, I told you—” “You stayed last night.”

“You needed me to.”

“I still need you.” When she said nothing, he spun around. “This isn’t the time for poetry and romance. And I’m not asking because I want you in bed with me. I’d stay here with you if that was all.”

“Stay anyway.”

“I can’t. Don’t ask me to choose between you and my family, Caroline, because I can’t.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“If I go home without you, I’ll be eaten up with worry over you. If I stay, it’ll be the same for Josie and Della and the rest.” He pulled her back to him, held her close. Then, restless, he yanked away to pace the room. “He’s still out there somewhere, Caroline. And he was at Sweetwater.”

“I understand that, Tucker. I know he left the body there.”

“He killed her there.” Eyes filled with turmoil, he turned back. “He killed her there, in sight of my house, by the trees where I fished with Cy only days ago. A tree my mother planted. Burke told me enough, maybe too much. I’m going to tell you. I don’t want to, but I’m going to so you understand that I’ve got to go back there, and I’m not going without you.”

He took a long, measuring breath. “He staked her out on the ground under the tree. They found the holes where he’d staked her hands and feet. And the blood the rain didn’t wash away. I saw what he did to her. I’m not
likely to forget what she looked like when I helped pull her out of the water. I’m not likely to forget it was done where my mother planted a willow tree, where I used to play with my brother and sister, across the water from where I kissed you the first time. I’m not likely to forget any of that. He’s not going to touch anything else that’s important to me. Now I’m asking you to get what you need and come with me.”

She stepped forward to take the hands he’d balled into fists. “I don’t need much.”

C
aroline was used to restless nights. Over the past few years she’d developed a grudging envy for people who could climb into bed, close their eyes, and slip effortlessly into sleep. Since settling in Innocence, she’d come close to joining the ranks of those privileged dreamers. Now it seemed she was back at square one, facing long, dark hours in the frustrating pursuit of sleep.

The tricks of the insomniac were routine to her. Hot baths, warm brandy, dull books. The first two relaxed her body, but when she tried reading, her mind kept drifting away from the words on paper. There was a television cleverly concealed in a cherrywood armoire, but none of the late night shows caught her interest or bored her enough to trick her brain into sleep.

She couldn’t complain about the heat, not here in the lovely cool of her room at Sweetwater. And she was used to strange rooms and strange beds. The one she’d been given was as gracious as any she’d found in the fine hotels of Europe. The bed was delicately feminine with its draping canopy and lacy pillows piled high. If that didn’t seduce sleep, there was a plump daybed in misty
blue satin that angled toward the french doors and offered a view of moonlight.

Vases of flowers fresh from the garden sweetened the air. Charming watercolors were scattered over the warm rose-tinted walls. A lady’s dressing table held elegant antique bottles that glistened in the lamplight. There was a small fireplace of blue stone that would provide warmth and comfort on chill winter nights. She could picture herself cuddled under thick handworked quilts on some windy February midnight, watching the flames crackle and shoot shadows up the walls.

With Tucker.

It seemed wrong to think of being nestled up against him, in absolute peace, when there was so much grief and heatbreak around them. Another woman was dead, and she lay alone in some cold, dark room while her family was left to weep and wonder.

It had to be wrong to feel this soft glow of happiness, this insistent spring of hope when death hovered so close.

But she was in love.

Sighing, she curled on the window seat, where she could see the moonlight stream into the garden. The flowers were silver-edged and still, a touch of magic waiting to be plucked. Beyond, far beyond, was the glint of the pond that was Sweetwater. She couldn’t see the willows, and was glad. If that was hiding from pain, then for one night she would hide. For now it was only a beautiful spot laced by moonlight.

And she was in love.

It wasn’t possible to choose the time and the place to lose your heart. Caroline had come to believe it wasn’t possible to choose the person who would take it. Surely if she could have chosen, it wouldn’t have been here and now. It wouldn’t have been Tucker.

It was a mistake to fall in love now, when she was just beginning to understand her own needs and capabilities. Now, when she had only begun to learn she could stand on her own, in charge of her life. It was foolish to fall in love here, in a place torn apart by
tragedy and senseless violence, a place she would have to leave in a matter of weeks.

It was ridiculous to fall in love with a man who had made a study of romance and seduction. A charmingly lazy womanizer. A murder suspect. A poetry-spouting wastrel.

Hadn’t she told herself he was just another Luis with a southern twist? And that by falling for him, she was proving herself to be the kind of woman who always chooses poorly and lives to regret the results?

But she couldn’t make herself believe it, as much as she’d once wanted to. There was more to him than that, more than he admitted to himself. She’d seen it in the way he cared for Cy, in his loyalty to family, in the way he quietly held the reins of Sweetwater and a dozen businesses without strutting his power or demanding gratitude.

With Tucker it wasn’t self-deprecation, it was simply his way. Here was a man who did what needed to be done, and did what was right without thinking about it. And who did it without stirring up the air with demands and worries and desperation about tomorrow.

No, the air around Tucker Longstreet was as calm and placid as the naps he was so fond of taking in the summer shade. As peaceful as a long, lazy tale spoken in a drawl to the music of a porch rocker. And as smooth as a cold beer savored on a hot night.

That was what she needed, Caroline thought as she rested her head against the window glass. That basic acceptance that life was usually a joke, and a person should be able to smile her way through it.

She needed to smile right now, Caroline thought. She needed that island of serenity he so effortlessly carried with him.

She needed him.

So why was she sitting here, searching for sleep, when what she wanted was within reach?

On impulse she uncurled from the window seat. On her way to the terrace doors she plucked a sprig of freesia from a vase. She stopped by the gilt-framed mirror long enough to smooth her hair. Just as she touched her hand
to the knob of the doors, they opened to the sultry night. And to Tucker.

Her heart gave a quick, giddy leap that had her stepping back.

“Oh, you startled me.”

“I saw your light.” He wore loose cotton pants and carried a blade of sweet peas. “Figured you couldn’t sleep either.”

“No, I couldn’t.” She looked down at the freesia in her hand, then smiled and held it out to him. “I was coming to you.”

The gold of his eyes deepened as he took her flower and offered Caroline his. “Isn’t that something? Here I was thinking that since your notions of propriety wouldn’t let you come to my room, I’d have to come to yours.” He skimmed his fingers through her hair, then cupped her neck. Against her cool skin, his hand was hot and firm. “‘Desire hath no rest.’”

She stepped forward, into him. “I don’t want rest.”

Reaching behind, he pulled the door closed. “Then I won’t give you any.”

He caught her against him, and the first kiss was hungry, as if it had been years rather than hours since they’d tasted. The flavor of need was potent and addicting. They fed on it, enhancing appetites with murmurs and sighs.

Breathless, she pressed her lips to his throat, clinging to him as they stumbled toward the bed. He caught her hand as she reached for the lamp, drew her fingers to his mouth to nibble and suck.

“We don’t need the dark.” Then he smiled and covered her body with his.

While they made love in the light, and most of Innocence slept uneasily, McGreedy’s bar was hopping. It was the beginning of a long weekend that would culminate in Fourth of July celebrations. The town council, which consisted of Jed Larsson, Sonny Talbot, Nancy Koons, and Dwayne, had—after heated debate—
decided against canceling the annual parade, carnival, and fireworks display.

Patriotism and economics had swayed the vote. Fun Time, Inc., had already been paid a hefty deposit for the carnival’s two-night stand, and the fireworks had cost the town treasury a pretty penny. As Nancy had pointed out, the Jefferson Davis High School band and the Twinkling Batons majorettes had been practicing for weeks. To cancel the celebration at this late date would disappoint the kids and lower everyone’s morale.

It was pointed out that it was unseemly and disrespectful to ride Crack the Whips and have pie-eating contests with Darleen Talbot barely cold. It was argued back that the Fourth was a national holiday, and that Innocence had ordered up its own patriotic celebration for more than a hundred years.

It was finally decided that a short speech honoring Darleen and the other victims would be given from the bandstand, and a moment of silence would be observed.

So banners and bunting had been hung while Teddy autopsied Darleen in Palmer’s embalming room.

In McGreedy’s some of the patrons had already begun the celebration. If the laughter was a bit wild or forced, if tempers were edgy, McGreedy was content in the knowledge that his Louisville Slugger was handy behind the bar.

He kept an eye on Dwayne, who was drinking quietly and steadily at the end of the bar. Since he was sticking to beer tonight, McGreedy didn’t worry overmuch. It was whiskey that set Dwayne off, and at this point Dwayne looked more unhappy than drunk.

He knew he’d probably have to swing his bat and kick a few butts before the weekend was over. Tonight seemed friendly enough, though there were a few hardcases huddled in the corner, tossing them back and talking quiet. Whatever they were planning, he’d see that they took it elsewhere.

Billy T. Bonny took a slug of house whiskey. It pissed him off that McGreedy watered it down, but tonight he had other things on his mind. Every damn body in town knew he’d been seeing Darleen on the sly.
It was a matter of pride that he do something about her murder.

The more he drank, the more it seemed to him that he and Darleen had been in love.

He was among friends, half a dozen like-thinking men, including his brother, who were tanking up on liquor and hate. They spoke in undertones, wanting to keep their circle closed.

“It ain’t right,” Billy T. muttered again. “We’re supposed to sit around with our fingers up our asses while some jerkoff from the FBI takes care of things. Well, he sure as fuck didn’t take care of Darleen.”

There was a general murmur of agreement. Cigarettes were lit. Deep thoughts were considered.

“What the hell good did some Yankee lawman do her?” Billy T. demanded. “Him and Burke and the rest of them’re running around in circles while somebody hacks up our women. Oh, we’re good enough to go out and look for bodies, but we’re not supposed to do anything to protect what’s ours.”

“Probably raped ’em, too,” Will said to his beer. “Probably raped the shit out of ’em before he sliced ’em. You gotta figure it.”

Wood Palmer, cousin to the undertaking Palmers, nodded sagely. “Them psychos always do. It’s ’cause they hate their mothers and want to screw them all at the same time, so they use other women.”

“That’s bull.” Billy T. finished off his whiskey and signaled the waitress for another. His blood was already so pumped with alcohol, he could have opened a vein and fueled his gas tank. “It’s ’cause they hate women. White women.”

“There ain’t been no black woman killed, has there?” his brother piped up. John Thomas had been drinking shooters for the best part of two hours, and was raring for hell. “Four women dead and not one of them colored.”

“That’s a fact,” Billy T. said, and snatched up his whiskey the minute it was served. “And I guess that tells the tale.”

Wood scratched the stubble of his beard while the
others grunted in agreement. What Billy T. was saying made good sense to him, especially filtered through a haze of tequila. “I heard tell their heads was nearly cut clean off and their sex organs was carved up. That’s psycho stuff.”

“The cops want us to think like that.” Billy T. struck a match, watched it burn. There was fire in his blood tonight, and it needed someplace to spread. “Like they wanted us to think it was Austin Hatinger killed his own daughter. Well, we know it wasn’t.” As the match fizzed out between his thumb and forefinger, he shifted his gaze from face to face, and what he saw pleased him. “We know it was a nigger. But we got us a Yankee fed, a nigger deputy, and a sheriff who’d sooner lock up a white man than a colored.”

Will cracked a peanut. He was drinking beer and drinking slow. Justine was already giving him grief about spending so much of his pay on drink and pool. “Come on, Billy T., Sheriff Truesdale’s okay.”

“If he’s so okay, how come we got four women dead and nobody paying for it?”

As all eyes turned on him, Will, sober enough to be prudent, decided to keep his own counsel.

“I’ll tell you why,” Billy T. continued. “’Cause they know who did it, sure as Christ. They know but they don’t want any trouble from the N.A.A.C.P. or any of those other egg-sucking groups. It’s the niggers and the ever-fucking liberals responsible.”

“They ain’t hardly talked to no coloreds either,” Wood muttered. “Don’t seem right.”

“That’s ’cause it ain’t,” Billy T. said viciously. “But there’s been one they’ve talked to right enough.” He struck another match for the pleasure of watching it burn. “They’ve been over to talk to Toby March. That special fucking agent asked plenty of questions about him.”

“Talking’s all they do,” Wood mumbled. “And we got another woman dead.”

“Talk’s all they’re gonna do.” Billy T. nodded as the others began to shift restlessly in their chairs. He could feel it, the hate, the fear, the frustration all
melding together in a pot simmering with the summer heat and flavored by whiskey. “They’ll keep talking and asking questions, and he’ll do it again. Maybe one of our women next time.”

“We got a right to protect our own.”

“It’s time somebody put a stop to it. One way or the other.”

“That’s right.” Billy T. wet his lips and leaned in. “And I think we know what needs to be done. It’s that March bastard doing it. They homed right in on him, then backed off. They even know he has a taste for white meat.”

“He was sniffing around Edda Lou, that’s for sure,” John Thomas put in. “Somebody shoulda fixed him then. Fixed him good.”

“And you know what he’s doing?” They all turned to listen to Billy T. “He’s laughing at them. Laughing at us. He knows they don’t want no race trouble down here in Mississippi that those Yankee papers can turn all inside out. He knows they’re going to look the other way ’lest they catch him with a knife in some white woman’s throat.”

“It’s him all right,” his brother agreed. “Didn’t I see him standing at Edda Lou’s window?”

“He was working at the rooming house,” Will began.

“That’s right.” Billy T. sneered. “Working on how he was going to get Edda Lou out to the swamp so he could rape and kill her. He done work for Darleen, too. She told me how he came to patch her roof.”

“He done work out to the trailer court where Arnette and Francie lived, too,” Wood put in. “I seen him having a soda pop with Francie and laughing.”

“That’s how they tic all together.” Billy T. took a last drag on his cigarette. “He got around them that way, and starting thinking how he’d like to do it to them. How he hated them for being women. White women. The cops don’t want to see it, but I do. I see it plain, and I’m not giving that black bastard the chance to kill another of our women.” He leaned forward, sensing the moment was right. “I got me some nice strong rope in the back of
my car. Every one of us here’s got a rifle he knows how to use. I say we kick off our Independence Day by ridding Innocence of a killer.”