Hush My Mouth (6 page)

When she swung open the French door, I was waiting in my outer office, car keys in hand. No way I was going to ride with her. She was too mercurial right now.

“First,” she said, “we need to find Skipper, the guy who hitched a ride from Atlanta with her. Any idea how to do that?”

Oh, now she was asking my advice. Maybe now she’d also listen.

“Edna Lynch. She has connections all over the county and she’s painfully ethical.” Edna was a grandmotherly, soft, short black woman who’d look more at home on the third shift in a cotton textile mill than on a bar stool sipping Barcardi with Philip Marlowe, but she had brothers and cousins who could whip ass and take names—and they were all afraid of Edna. As was I.

“Fine. Call her. Tell her what we know about him. Tell her to move as quickly as she can. I want to know—just. . .” She finished with a helpless gesture of her hands.

I left Fran in my front office and went to my desk to call Edna. It didn’t take long to tell her the little we knew.

“Okay,” Fran said when I rejoined her. “I want you to take me to the Pasture.”

“Right now?”

My grandfather’s ebony mantel clock said 6:15.

“It’s a bar, isn’t it? They’re barely getting cranked up.”

“Ye-es, but . . .” I hesitated. She was holding her grief at bay by rushing into angry activity. Reminding her that she still needed to formally identify the body and make arrangements to have it transported to Atlanta once the autopsy was complete seemed cruel. She’d recently helped Neanna deal with Gran’s death. She knew better than I did the overwhelming number of details. She was simply choosing to ignore them.

“What?” She stood with her hands on her hips, a manic glint in her eyes.

“Let’s go.” If retracing Neanna’s steps helped her deal with what had to be a crushing loss, who was I to question it? “My car’s around back.”

Monday Evening

The Pasture had survived several incarnations and police raids, and when I was in high school, it had been a shrine for a certain group of my classmates—the place they’d discovered sex, drugs, and local groups trying to play rock and roll. About that same time, I was clogging on Friday nights at the state park and learning to race my car down the mountain from Highlands. Decidedly tamer pursuits. Then again, I’d also managed to finish high school without getting pregnant, doing jail time, or getting shot. Life’s full of options.

Strolling up to the Pasture for the first time, I couldn’t help but be disappointed. The mystique had been so strong. In the harsh light of a long summer evening, it looked like what it was—a weathered, rambling, low-slung barn bounded in the front by an enormous gravel parking lot and, in the back, by a
broad, weedy field that hosted concerts by local bands hoping for the big time or national acts long past their prime.

Inside, stale cigarette and beer smells did battle with a coconut odor that I finally traced to electronic scent machines that periodically released tropical deodorizer.

The summer sunlight slanting through the few greasy windows did nothing to improve the scarred wooden tables and chairs crowding the large room. The only nod to decor—other than the once-red carpet—was the wall leading to the restrooms, covered with eight-by-ten candid shots of patrons and past acts in a mishmash of frames bolted to the paneling.

Fran had been right; this was about as far from “cranked up” as I could imagine. Not a soul in sight, no customers or employees.

We ambled toward the bar, the carpet sticking to my shoes with each step. The dark carpet had seen so many footfalls and spilled beers that it had melded into a dark goo. I wished I hadn’t looked down. Even low light and lots of alcohol or drugs wouldn’t make this place bearable, much less exotic. Yet another mystique-shrouded high school icon cracked and broken on the reality of wide-eyed adulthood.

“Hello?” I called, listening for sounds of life from the kitchen galley, which opened through a window to the bar.

“Can I help you?”

Fran and I both started at the voice behind us.

The Pasture’s greeter was a too-often tanned middle-aged man with long strands of blond hair stretched from his receding hairline. He was taller than I was, close to Fran’s height. His swagger said he thought he had a great deal to offer both of us.

“Ash Carter,” he said, offering Fran his hand and me his smile.

Fran glanced at me, perhaps hoping he wouldn’t notice that
she was trying not to laugh. Didn’t look as though the debonair aging redneck playboy was going to find a slot on her dance card.

“A special table for you two ladies?”

Fran bit her bottom lip. Ash Carter cut a cartoonish figure as an aging swinger, but I hoped she could control herself.

“No. Thank you, though. Are you the owner, Ash?”

“Um, one of them.”

Bad start, Avery. Something in his eyes went cautious. Maybe I sounded too much like a salesman—or a health inspector.

Stepping closer so I’d have to look up, I poured on my best sorghum syrup voice. “I was hoping you could help us. Fran’s looking for information about her sister. She came up here from Atlanta last week to attend a concert, when you all had Nut Case up here? We’re not sure where she headed after that. So we thought we’d start here, see if anybody remembered seeing her.”

The caution around his eyes and mouth didn’t relax much. Of course, I’d gone from threatening his business with an inspection to threatening his business with bad publicity over a missing girl.

“Well.” He rubbed his chin as if conjuring a thought. “I’d sure like to help. That concert was sold out, you know. The pasture out back was jammed. Nobody turned a young lady in to lost-and-found afterwards, I can tell you that.”

His weak laugh said he regretted his joke before it was out of his mouth. He looked away from Fran, smoothing the back of his hair.

“Maybe you could take a look, in case you remember seeing her that night? Maybe who she left with?”

I pulled the photo Fran had given me from my pocket.

He respectfully studied it for a time before shaking his head.

“No-o. I can’t say’s’t I do remember her.” He gave Fran a smile full of teeth too bright in his sun-damaged face. A golfer? Probably. I couldn’t picture him as a hiker or a hunter, but I could
see a younger incarnation at the Myrtle Beach Pavilion. He’d probably shagged away some long-ago summer nights—the South Carolina beach dance, not the euphemism for what the sexy, slow swing-step conjured up.

“Everybody leaves with somebody,” he said.

He handed the picture to me and avoided meeting Fran’s narrowed eyes. Fran’s jaw muscles knotted as she gritted her teeth, but she didn’t let his insensitive comment distract her from her mission.

“Is there anyone else around who might have seen her that night?”

“Not right now. Later, of course. Folks start coming in after they get off work. Mondays aren’t big nights. You girls are welcome to stick around. A beer on the house? Maybe some white wine?”

Fran bit her lip again. I’d better get her out of here before she snickered in his face or her lip started bleeding.

“That’s very sweet of you,” I said. “We’ll take a rain check.”

He fumbled in the pocket of his wild print rayon shirt. “Make sure you look me up. Here’s some drink coupons. To help get the party started.”

“Thanks.” I accepted for both of us, not trusting Fran’s reaction. My mama had raised me to be gracious, no matter what—which I’d found went a long way in getting help or information when I needed it. The part of me related to Aunt Letha wanted to braid poor Ash’s remaining strands of hair into a knot on top of his head. Hence the source of many a Southerner’s schizophrenia: Should I fight or be polite?

“Could you by any chance tell us where Nut Case is playing now?”

He shrugged. “Not right off the top of my head. Edmonds might know. He’ll be in later.”

I got the full benefit of his expensive dental work. Someone should have told him years ago that sunscreen is the fountain of youth.

“You talking to me?” A voice came from the kitchen, followed by the creaking of the double-swing door.

Ash licked his lips. “Lenn. There you are. Didn’t know you were here.” His voice grew loud with hollow welcome. “Meet our guests.”

I extended my hand to the tall newcomer. “Avery Andrews. This is Fran French.”

“Lenn Edmonds. Nice to meet you.” His melted chocolatebrown eyes warmed with his smile.

I could see why Ash might not be anxious for us to meet his partner.

“The Lenn Edmonds who played football at the University of South Carolina?”

He ducked his head with practiced modesty, pleased that I knew.

“Long time ago.” He patted his slightly padded midsection. “Sure can’t run like that now.”

“Um, they’re looking for Fran’s sister,” Ash said. “She was supposed to be here Friday.”

I held out Neanna’s photo. As he studied it, I noticed a middleaged woman in a tight T-shirt pass by the other side of the galley window. Probably a waitress getting ready for a slow tip night.

“You remember seeing her?” Fran asked.

Lenn stared at the photo and slowly shook his head. “No. Not Friday. She sure looks familiar, but I don’t think I’ve seen her here. What did you say her name was?”

“Neanna Lyles.”

He shook his head again. “No. That doesn’t ring a bell. She’s awfully pretty.” He handed Fran the photo.

“You didn’t see her, Ash? Ash works the crowd, usually,” he explained.

“No.” Ash slid his hands in the pockets of his too-tight jeans. “Not that I remember. Big night, Friday.”

“Whew, it sure was. Which means tonight’ll be dead.”

“Excuse me.” Fran had just spotted the woman at the far end of the bar. “Excuse me, ma’am.” She strode toward her, holding out the photo. “Did you happen to see this woman last Friday night?”

The waitress met Fran halfway, reaching for the photo but studying Fran. Her brassy blond hair was brittle, and her makeup only emphasized the deep wrinkles and sags.

“No-o.” She shook her head. “Can’t say that I did.”

Lenn looked disappointed. He gave Fran a consoling smile. “I hope you find her soon. You must be terribly worried.”

Having Lenn Edmonds working the crowd would be good for business, I thought.

“Oh, we’ve already found her,” Fran said. The barb in her voice wasn’t lost on either Ash, Lenn, or the waitress.

“She’s dead. The police found her body early Saturday.”

I tried to watch the two men for their reaction, but found my gaze darting back to Fran. She was too close to the edge and she worried me.

“Oh, my. I’m so sorry.” The sun wrinkles around Lenn’s eyes softened in concern, and he raised his hand as if he wanted to hug her but then thought better of it. The tip of Ash’s tongue flicked out as he glanced at Lenn. He rocked up on his toes, his hands still jammed in his pockets.

Fran looked from one to the other without really seeing them. Her anger over the reality of her words had taken over.

Lenn looked as though he wanted to ask what had happened, but he was astute enough to read the tight set of Fran’s jaw and the tears pooled around her eyelashes.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

I stepped to Fran’s side and put my arm around her waist.

“Thank you,” I said. “If you think of anything, please give me a call. We sure appreciate your time.”

I handed both Lenn and Ash one of my business cards and steered Fran toward the door.

A car and a small pickup truck crunched into the lot as we climbed into my car. Probably the hired help. Even though the sun was setting, this place wasn’t somewhere people came for an early supper after work. They came here to meet other needs; judging from the jangle of odors inside, eating would not be high on the list.

Fran slumped in the front seat of my vintage Mustang.

“The inn’s on the way back into town,” I said. “I’ll just drop you off and meet you early tomorrow for breakfast. You can get your car from my office then.”

She nodded.

I was grateful she hadn’t argued about leaving her car. I didn’t want her wandering around alone playing Nancy Drew in the middle of the night. Maybe it was her grief. Maybe it was because she felt she could count on me to be the adult so she could take a break from that role, after being the adult for both herself and Neanna—and perhaps for Neanna’s Gran. Or maybe she was used to being the pampered, headstrong child. Whatever the reason, her inner child ran the risk of interfering with what she’d hired me to do. I needed to do what I could to prevent that.

I turned onto the winding two-lane road toward Dacus. We passed scattered brick ranch houses and house trailers, some with roadside mailboxes bearing familiar family names. A few cars met us, headlights on now as full dark fell among the hardwoods and pines lining the rural road.

“Avery?”

Fran stared straight ahead. “I want you to understand something. Neanna didn’t kill herself.”

I didn’t reply.

“She didn’t. I know you think that’s just nutty denial. It’s not. I knew Neanna. Sometimes better than she knew herself. I knew the good
and
the bad. She didn’t, Avery.”