Carolina Moon (24 page)

“I said celibate not virgin.” He laughed like I might be stupid. “Besides, now correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve never thought of
Jesus as being somebody who might smoke a little dope. And, just in case you’re wondering, I certainly am
not
a virgin.”

“I was being facetious,” I said and pushed to get out the door. “You are as far from Jesus as that jerk they dug up in the topsoil.” I had to move quickly so I didn’t start crying from humiliation or something, and I set off a chain reaction of barks in the process. “You are
not
a nice person, I don’t care what Quee says about you. Maybe you do
service
her.”

“Celibate.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” I wanted to say something that would hurt his feelings right back but couldn’t think of anything that didn’t involve the girl in the coma. “Well, I’ll tell Quee I gave you the message.”

“Give me a ride?” he asked then in a sweet voice, probably his fake nice voice. “My truck is on empty, and”—he paused—“as a rule I don’t like to drive this way.”

“What way?” I asked. “Celibate?”

“Oh, this way . . .” He held his arms out to the side, like he was being made to walk a straight line. He said he was fine, but if he got pulled wouldn’t be.

So what could I do but wimp out and let him ride. I hid the tape recorder in my purse while he walked around to the other side. As soon as he closed the door, I turned on the radio, and what’s playing but a call-in show for lovers sending mushy messages across the country. I was about to say something, offer some explanation for why I suddenly felt so attracted to him back in the trailer—I thought I might say that for a second he looked just like a lover I have in the D.C. area—but I was interrupted by a broadcast report about Jones Jameson. No suspects. No leads. The story was being repeated for the second time—this time with an address of the radio station if a listener
wants to send money to the Jones Jameson Scholarship Fund—when we saw the police car parked in front of Quee’s house.

When I turned off the car, he reached across the seat and picked up my hand, squeezed like he meant to hold me in place for another second. “Come back when you’re not stoned by second-hand smoke,” he said.

I said, yeah right, that I was sure that I would. Everybody likes to be rejected by somebody who thinks he’s the chosen one.

“I hope so,” he said and kissed my cheek. He said that was an invitation that he doesn’t give often. And of course then Quee was peeking out the window and motioning us to come on in. I know I should have said something back, but right that minute I couldn’t think of anything that sounded smart. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter because he was out the door and up Quee’s sidewalk in no time. As soon as we got inside, that skinny white cop who puts me in mind of a turkey was standing front and center in the living room while relaying new bits of info about the death. I got this real paranoid feeling like
I
might be the one stoned out of my gourd. I started thinking, oh, God, what if old Mr. Lowe decided to tell Quee I made a play for him, and they set in laughing over my pitiful plight, the way they always do Ruthie Crow. And the funny thing, you out there in recorderville, is I’m
not
sure why I all of a sudden turned and grabbed him, and as if that’s not bad enough it’s like the urge hasn’t left me. If anything, my urges have gotten worse, especially right now, sitting in this room all by myself and feeling creepy about being here.

The cop told how Jones Jameson’s alpaca sweater was being worn by a scarecrow in a tobacco field not more than a hundred feet from that grove where they found the car. Now imagine that, a cold-blooded
killer takes the time to stroll through a field and dress up an old straw man.

“Well, it might have been somebody else that done, uh, did it,” the cop, Robert Bobbin, said. “Maybe some kid found the sweater in the woods.” His neck and ears flamed bright red with his grammatical error since not five minutes before, the lardo Radio Guy was going on and on about his awful replacement and how the least a person could do was learn to speak good English. He had been talking poetry with Ruthie all night; he had made a little game of trying to make everything rhyme. He said: I’m a healthy bloke, no need to smoke, to which Ruthie raised up her third glass of Chardonnay. I know from experience what she was feeling. She was feeling like what someone of my chemical makeup might be feeling after a bottle plus a glass or two. She was feeling good, but teetering dangerously close to pass-out/cottonmouth/hangover land.

Tom Lowe was sitting there red in the face trying so hard not to laugh over the scarecrow—of course he
had
laughed over Ruthie and Radio’s stupid talk. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, shaking his head. “But folks have been dressing up that old scarecrow for a long time now.”

“God, but yes,” Quee said. “Honey do you remember when somebody put a lampshade on its head? Or what about the Shriners’ hat, back during one of their little conventions.”

“Here’s a question,” Ruthie said and eased herself down on Quee’s big velvet ottoman. “Was there blood on the sweater?”

“Nope.” Officer Bobbin moved closer to Alicia anytime the actual crime or body was mentioned, like maybe he could protect her from whatever words were let loose in the air. “No blood. Clothes must’ve been removed before he was killed; they don’t show any tears or signs of struggle.”

“All but the shoes,” Ruthie said. “My Aunt Myra said that was one stinking sight.”

“Yes, it was awful.” Bobbin moved even closer to Alicia, his hand right on the back of her chair while he glanced over at where that child of hers had fallen asleep with a grape popsicle in his hand. It had dripped all over Quee’s heavy old damask slipcovers, but she never said a word. It seems that child can get away with anything in this house, just like its mama, but Lord, don’t let me talk too long at one stretch or prop my feet up on that big piece of wood there by the front door, the
antique hall tree
. Bobbin was playing daddy, now that Jones Jameson is dead. What we know for a fact is that Jones Jameson drowned. Now there was a bump to the side of his head. It could be that he was all by himself, decided to go for a swim and fell, or it could be that he was struck with something kind of blunt.

“Like a rolling pin or a leg of lamb?” Quee asked. “I’ve seen both of those used in the movies.”

“Like a baseball bat? boat paddle?” Tom Lowe offered this question in the most serious way possible, so serious that Bobbin stopped to think about that. “Because why would he swim in shoes?”

“We just don’t know,” he said. “His wallet was missing, so it could have been a robbery. But Alicia doesn’t need this talk.”

“It’s okay.” She patted him on the arm and stretched out those skinny little legs. Alicia made Ruthie Crow look like Miss Piggy, and I was thinking of pointing that out but then thought better. I mean, I look like the Amazon warrior next to the two of them. And Quee? Well, let’s just say something like hippo or rhino. But who looks better? Well, of course me and Quee (no rhyme intended).

“I was just telling what my aunt said.” Ruthie’s speech was getting very slow and her eyes were all droopy, making her look even older
and scrawnier than she is. “But if nobody cares what I have to say, that’s fine.”

“We care, Ruthie,” I offered, certainly not because I care, because I don’t give a rat’s smelly ass for her, but you know it’s part of my job to say those things and I’m flying on autopilot. I patted Ruthie and, even though I hated to, I touched Radio on the shoulder and suggested they get a good night’s sleep. After all, they would be going home the next day. The truth is that Quee had to try and let out some britches so that the Deejay could fit into something other than a great big towel.

At the same time, Officer Bobbin lifted the kid up in his arms and carried him down the hall to go to bed. Alicia followed right on his heels like she might be a ghost.

“Finally,” Quee said and stretched out on the sofa, propped her feet up on a rose satin pillow. “I couldn’t take any more of that talking.”

“So why am I here?” Tom asked. “I mean there I was, having a nice quiet evening at home and then she drives up and parks like some kind of spy.” He pointed at me like this was the first time he’d ever even seen me. “She scared the hell out of my dogs.”

“I thought I might need you to go get Alicia.”

“Why didn’t I just go get Alicia?” I asked, but of course the answer was clear. She had in her mind that Tom Lowe needed to be fixed up with Alicia. There old Jones Jameson with his messed-up body is barely hauled over to Tucker Funeral Home and all tucked into a box, but what Quee is matchmaking. “I mean, it seems to me that Alicia has somebody who is very attentive to her needs.”

“Yes, it does,” Quee said.

“We all need for someone to be attentive to our needs,” I continued. Quee and Tom looked at each other and laughed. “Psychologically, I mean.” I went on to tell them about what a pleasure it had
been working with the woman who lied that she was a smoker and checked in purely for a couple of days of peace and quiet, television and back massages. That woman had told me that she didn’t understand how anybody with a job and children had the time for an affair. She said that her fantasy was a day without a word spoken, a hot bath, and something like the
Bob Newhart Show
on the television. Now, we were talking. Of course I
could
understand how a woman without children might have plenty of time for an affair or whatever she might be able to get, but Bob Newhart? We both love him. I hope that if these tapes of mine are like a little time capsule then I can do some good for mankind by telling the secrets to real happiness as we discovered in that very therapy session where, I must confess, I did most of the talking. Ben and Jerry’s and Bob Newhart.

Well, by then Bobbin and Alicia were back in the room and so with the idea of lightening up the terribly dark mood, I began telling about this game I used to play in college all the time—sometimes in a group and sometimes right by myself—a game called “Hi, Bob,” which is really very simple. You see, you just go and buy yourself some beer or whatever it is you like to drink, and then you get a comfy seat and tune in to Bob Newhart. Every time that somebody says “Bob” you have to drink, and every time somebody says “Hi, Bob” you have to chug.

“You’d be amazed how many times they say the name Bob on that show.” I turned to the officer. “Does anybody ever call you Bob?”

“Once in a while.”

“I mean, Bob Bobbin is like a tongue twister.” I thought somebody else would speak up, laugh, something, but nobody said a word until it was clear that Mr. Fixit couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

“Well I’d think you’d have taken Tongue Twister in college right there along with Hi Bob.” Tom Lowe stood and stretched, his T-shirt
rising with him just enough to show a strip of his hard tan stomach. “Did you want me to hang out anymore?” he asked, and of course Quee said no, looked at me as if to say “Hop to it, drive the boy home.” He told Alicia again how sorry he was, shook Bobbin’s hand, patted Quee on the shoulder, and then there we were right back where we started in the car with the radio playing so that we wouldn’t have to talk.

“Wonder who got him?” he finally asked just as I was turning into the dark stretch of road that leads to his trailer, as if that wasn’t creepy enough. “I mean, somebody did. Don’t you keep wondering, like did this person make him strip or what?”

“Maybe he was doing something
with
somebody and somebody else walked up and caught him.”

“Possible.” He leaned in close to me as if to guide me down his dark little road, pine twigs snapping beneath the tires. “That would mean there’s a witness. Could be that somebody had been watching him for a while. Somebody could have been stalking him, ready and waiting.” He lowered his voice, and I felt a chill up my arms. “Or maybe it was just a random robbery.”

“Any ideas who? I mean if it
was
someone around here.”

“It would be easier to guess who it wasn’t.” He ran his finger along the gooseflesh of my arm making the little hairs stand up. “I’ve got this idea for like one of those K-tel albums. . . .”

“Albums?”

“CDs, whatever,
Songs to Stalk By
, whatta you think? ‘I’ll Be Watching You’ and ‘Run for Your Life.’” He laughed. “Songs for the discriminating stalker.”

“Nice.” I didn’t add to his little game even though ever since I’ve been hearing that old Beatles’ song “I’ll Get You” over and over inside my head.

“Or what about the Tragedy Theme Park?” He pawed my arm for a response like he might be one of those mongrel dogs of his coming and going. “You know, like there’s a simulated Space Challenger, Guyana Juice Bar, Waco Golf instead of Wacky.”

I think he was wanting to make up for the way he’d treated me earlier, but by then I felt just like I was made of stone. I mean there was a part of me with ideas connected to the book depository and Ford’s Theater, but there was also a part of me still back there in Quee’s house trying to picture what had happened to Alicia’s husband. I mean he was (in the words of Bobbin) nekked. I felt sorry for Bobbin because he never noticed that saying “nekked” wasn’t the right choice; and there he was being so careful of all of his grammar in front of Alicia, whose husband, though mean and dead,
was
Phi Beta Kappa, and in front of Ruthie and Radio, since they considered themselves the literary leopards (Gerald always called himself a “lion,” so a spotty version of Gerald sounds about right).

“Come on.” He tugged on my arm, then moved his hand up to my cheek. “I’m trying to make up.” He leaned in closer so that there was no mistaking those big eyes staring right into mine. “You’re not making it very easy.”

“So come back when you’re not stoned.”

“Okay.” He slid over and opened his door, and all I could think of again was that old Hookarm story. I waited and watched as he walked in front of my lights, froze there with his hands up to his head like antlers; then he came to my side and rapped on the window.