Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (40 page)

WE’D DRIVEN THROUGH CRAVEN COUNTY outskirts under a starless sky and holiday traffic had added an extra hour. Plenty of extra time to delve into who exactly was sleeping with Hugh and how often. For the first leg of the drive, Katie Lee denied being intimate with him. Like a recording, Macy pushed. “You’re lying. Just admit it. I know you slept with him.”

“Why are you so concerned with his personal affairs?” Katie Lee snapped. “Have you been sleeping with him?”

“I haven’t slept with him,” I said on deaf ears.

Once we entered Raleigh city limits, Katie Lee’s eyes welled. She pulled off to the side and told us, “I’ve slept with him.”

“I can’t fucking believe this, that sneaky bastard’s been sampling both of us.”

INSIDE THE BROWN’S QUIET KITCHEN, Katie Lee pranced past the island and followed the TV glow to the family room where Dr. Brown lounged his slippered-feet on the foot of a raised leather recliner. Sprawled on the sofa, Mrs. Brown lay beneath a fringed throw. She roused her parents by shouting, “Hey, hey.”

“Hey y’all,” Katie Lee’s mom said, under sleepy eyes. “Was traffic horrible?”

Dr. Brown stood to hug us, “Ladies, it’s good to have you home. How’s the school work going?”

Over the shrill hum of a phone that echoed, Katie Lee said, “Oh Daddy, it’s impossible, but we’re managing.”

Mrs. Brown yawned. “Go on and answer it. I’m sure it’s for you.” 

Macy and I excused ourselves and carried our weekend bags upstairs. In the guest room, I went on damage control and told Macy, “This Hugh thing is not worth ruining a friendship. You both were blindsided. If you’re going to be pissed at someone, it should be Hugh.” I hoped the two could get over this. If I had to play referee all weekend, to keep them civil, it would put a crimp on my sleuthing.

Macy unpacked and didn’t respond. Footsteps trotted up the staircase, and Katie Lee leaned in the doorway, “That was Meredith. She’s having a party tomorrow night and everyone should be there.”

I’d bought a chain for the Egyptian eye Ezora had given me. The clasp had fallen to the front of my neck, and I slid it to the back. I’m not superstitious, but weird things had been happening. I’d been lucky to survive this year’s holidays. It couldn’t do any harm to wear the talisman in The Bern on Easter.

A MIXTURE OF BREWED COFFEE and sweet batter made the Brown’s house smell like the Pancake Hut. To commemorate Good Friday, I made a promise to give up the four letter expressive adjectives through the holy weekend, and prayed that I’d be able to shed clarity on the missing painting. Under closed eyelids, I searched for a solution. How would I make things right? I’d come to The Bern to confront a hunch that festered inside my head. At best, my plan was amateurish. 

Sunlight brightened the guest room I shared with Macy. When I heard the shower in the attached bathroom, I flung the comforter off and kneeled on the floor to dig in my overnight bag. Checking the batteries in my Sport Walkman, I unwrapped a blank cassette. There was a record button that I’d tested in a lecture.

The last time I visited Katie Lee’s hometown, I’d avoided Billy Ray. Not this trip. I hadn’t thanked him for the Valentine flowers and miniature painting he’d left for me. He and I had a lot of catching up to do. I wanted to hear all about his interest in the arts, and how he’d developed his craft.

I made a pile on the floor. The Walkman, a pair of black leather gloves, a bandana, a magnifying glass, a pen size flashlight, disposable camera and binoculars that had a travel-mishap somewhere between my dorm and New Bern. Even though they had a ripped strap and a chip in the left lens, they still worked. I didn’t own a purse. Carrying one was a nuisance. My coat would be bulky, but I had enough pockets in my army green jacket to hold the gear. I pushed record. “Testing, Testing. This is Rachael O’Brien. April 17, 1987. Good Friday. New Bern, North Carolina.”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

With one push, I scooped my surveillance equipment into my overnight bag. “Nothing.”

Macy wore a Hawaiian floral, strapless bikini, and on top of her head, the tortoise-shell sunglasses she’d swiped from Hugh’s place. After the realization in the car, Katie Lee told Macy to keep the shades. It was a peace offering of sorts. Katie Lee, guilt ridden for sleeping with Hugh, was mortified that Macy and I had discovered her secret. I knew the two needed time to chew through the revelation. Macy couldn’t stay mad at Katie Lee, but Hugh, I suspected would be in for a tongue lashing. When we went back to campus, he’d be like a mouse with its foot in a trap, lucky if he survived with only a missing limb.

Macy collected her wavy hair in a scrunchi. Smelling like a coconut, she tapped a polished-nail foot against the floorboards. “You’ve been acting weird since New Orleans. What’s going on?” 

I sighed.

“What really happened to you on that shamrock float? Did you do it with the little-person?”

“Macy! I told you what happened.”

She reached in my bag and lined up the binoculars, the bandana, the camera, the walkman, the magnifying glass and the flashlight. Like a hostess on Wheel of Fortune, her hand swept across the assortment. “What’s all this?”

“Boating equipment.”

She scoffed. “Stop fucking with me.”

Macy had the gift of persistence.

I smiled.

Arms crossed, she waited.

I sighed.

She drilled her eyes into mine.

“It’s complicated.”

“Anything worthwhile is.”

“I’ve stumbled onto an art forgery scam. The fakes are coming out of New Bern. My Dad’s reputation and business are in jeopardy. I’ve lost my mom, and I don’t want to lose Dad too. Tonight, I’m going to record a canary singing.”

“That’s fucked up. Translation please.”

“Billy Ray, Stewart Hayes and Bubba Jackson are producing, storing, and moving fake masterpieces through Lucky Jack’s Art Consortium. I think Nash may be involved. Dad refurbished two Clementine Hunters. One was titled
Baptism
. The piece is supposed to be in the New Orleans Art Gallery, but I’ve seen the painting in two galleries. Now the piece my Dad refurbished has gone missing and a copy is hanging in its place. I think Billy Ray has the original.”

“Billy Ray? You’re fuckin’ shittin’ me. I thought he was an eccentric redneck dufus.”

“I wish.”

“Tell me your plan.”

LYING ON A BEACH TOWEL all afternoon at the Brown’s dock, I hardly relaxed. In a few hours, we’d be going to Meredith’s party and my mind swept over the best and worst case scenario for tonight. Finding the original Clementine was the best I could hope for. Discovering nothing would be disappointing. Being discovered would be bad.

Mrs. Brown served a meatless Good Friday dinner of stuffed flounder, seasoned collard greens and for dessert, she’d made blueberry crumble in a cast iron skillet. The days were getting longer, and from the dining room table, I watched the filtered rays of sun splash on the decorative grass mounds and spring annuals that had been planted in beds along the front path.

“What are y’all’s plans?” Katie Lee’s mom asked.

“Meredith is home. She’s invited us over. I thought we’d take the boat. It’ll be quicker.”

Dr. Brown pressed his fork against his plate to gather the last of his crumble. “Make sure you secure her with a proper rolling hitch. Tides going out. No wake near the dock.”

Katie Lee stood to kiss him on top of his head. “Thanks, Daddy.”

Macy and I helped clear the table. From the sink, Mrs. Brown asked, “Is Patsy going with you girls?”

Katie Lee picked up the phone. “She should be here any minute.”

“Be sure to send her into the kitchen. I saved her a piece of crumble.”

Salty mist, compliments of the river, hung in the evening air. Trying to center my nervous energy, before Meredith’s party I slipped out to the Brown’s front porch. Methodically, I tipped the high back rocker in rhythm with the croak of night frogs. I’d asked Katie Lee who’d be there. She’d replied, “Most everybody.” With all the scammers in one place, tonight was my only chance to find out what the young entrepreneurs of New Bern do in their spare time.

Macy plunked down into the rocker next to mine. She took tonight’s task of finding the Clementine Hunter seriously. Her attire said so. I couldn’t decide if she leaned more toward a martial art professional or a caterer. Knowing her finicky food habits, I decided on martial arts. “Pssst. Rach,” she whispered.

I dug deep in the cavern of my chest for inner serenity. Every time we had a moment alone, Macy used the opportunity to freak me out. “What if Billy Ray paid someone to paint the miniature Valentine he gave you, and you have the wrong guy? What if Lucky Jack knows you took the invoice and told Billy Ray? They may know, you know.”

She motioned for me to lean toward her and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. In a quiet voice, a feat for a Queens, New Yorker, she said, “I know how to get Billy Ray to talk.” She stood to check the front door and scurried back. “We can seduce him. Get his pants off, then tie his balls in a tight noose.” Her warped enthusiasm had me questioning the art forgery details I’d confided. I closed my eyes tight and pursed my lips together.

 “What do you think?” she asked.

Concentrating to center myself, I selected appropriate words. “I’m not tying up genitals or participating in torture-tactics that involve reproductive organs.”

She rolled her eyes and rocked a few strides. “Why did Katie Lee let Nash back into her life if she’s fooling around with Hugh?”

“You want my take?”

She nodded.

“Nash is a mixed bag of nuts. He can leave a bitter aftertaste like the Brazilian, and part of me wants Katie Lee to dump him. Other times he says something complicated and even insightful, like a macadamia. As much as I hate to admit it, part of me likes Nash, and I sympathize with Katie Lee.”

“He must be fucking fantastic in bed. It’s the only explanation. I’m gonna ask her.”

“Are you two back to normal?”

Macy clicked her polished nails. “She didn’t know Hugh, and I had a thing. We hid it.”

“You went ballistic when she asked where you found her tortoise-shell sunglasses. How did you know she was fooling around with Hugh? I mean she could’ve just stopped by his room and left them there.”

“I have womanition. It’s the seventh sense.”

Squeezing my eyelids shut, again, I braced myself for the hooey casserole Macy cooked.

“Ever since the snowstorm, Hugh backed-off me. Not completely, but enough to notice.”

“Define backed off?”

“He wasn’t as needy. He lost his edge, and I guessed he was getting some somewhere else, but I couldn’t prove it. Then he got sloppy. Forgot to meet me. Changed the location. Became careful about coming and going from my room. When I found the small frame sunglasses on the shelf above his headboard, my womanition spoke to me. He was double-dipping.”

“Are you freaked out that Hugh’s been fooling around with both you and Katie Lee? That’s a lot of sharing even for good friends.”

“I’m mostly mad at myself, for thinking I didn’t want to be exclusive.”

“Now what?”

“I need to talk to Katie Lee. After that –- we’ll see.”

A shrill whistle, some kind of birdcall, shrieked through the screen porch door.

“Y’all ready?” Patsy asked.

NOTE TO SELF

Never would have pegged Hugh for a thrill-seeking, multitasker.

39

H
idden
T
reasure

The
Bayliner rested in the water. When it wasn’t in use, it hung on pulleys under a covered dock. Dr. Brown had taken the vinyl cover off and tied her to the end of the pier. Patsy, Macy and I hopped into the boat, and Katie Lee started the engine. I focused on one goal.
Find the Baptism.

I shouted to Katie Lee above the churning water. “Did you see that guy waterskiing beyond your dock this afternoon?”

“The hot one in the wet suit, jumping the wake?” Patsy asked.

“Yeah, that guy. Is he a local?”

Patsy pulled out a cigarette and bent her head between her knees to light it in the moving boat. “I’ve never seen him before. Katie Lee, did you recognize him?”

Katie Lee stuffed a beach towel under the driver’s seat. “Sure didn’t.”

If one of them had known him, it would have calmed my paranoia. It was crazy, but I’d sworn I spotted Storm Cauldwell slalom ski the wake behind a speed boat on the Trent River.

“Raz,” Patsy said. “Did you bring that lip-gloss we talked about?”

Lip-gloss was Patsy’s code for blackmail items.

Earlier in the afternoon, Patsy and I had hung out on the Brown’s dock. We sunned ourselves and talked about Nash. Before we left Greensboro, Patsy had asked me to bring Nash’s engraved lighter and Bridget’s gold snakemouth loop earring. “I don’t know what good it’ll do us,” I’d told her.

“It’ll send a message. ‘Nash Wilson is a shit, and I’m over him.’”

Time had dulled the enormity of the deceit. Sometimes I’d even forgotten that Nash had slept with Bridget. In my mind, Katie Lee’s fling-thing with Hugh leveled the cheating field. I could’ve been convinced to blank-out that bit of memory. Other things with bigger consequences consumed my brain space. 

Nash hid his illegal activities from Katie Lee. If I found the evidence, Nash, if involved, could be charged for conspiracy. That wouldn’t be welcome news to Katie Lee. Finding the painting would have consequences on our friendship that I didn’t want to think about.

“I brought it,” I said, and Patsy nodded acknowledgement.

The sinking sun sent the Western horizon ablaze in pinks and a lone, curved-billed ibis soared above our heads. Katie Lee skirted the ski boat across a still puddle, more like a lake than a river. Racing along, my hair blew like a sail with a loose rig. I buttoned my jacket partly to keep warm and partly to keep my bulging pockets still.