Snoop to Nuts (8 page)

“Call that boy back,” Miss Amelia said after a long and very quiet five minutes on the road.

“Which boy?” I had my eye on a white car traveling too close behind me. I tapped my brakes, warning him off my rear end. I took another look but couldn’t see who was behind the wheel.

“Hunter.”

“Huh? What do you mean ‘Hunter’?”

“Just what I said. I want you to call him.”

“And tell him what?”

“Tell him we’re not going home yet. I want to see him over at The Squirrel. We’ve gotta talk. I’m starting to get the feeling he’s the only one’s able to help.”

“I’m taking you home, Meemaw. Mama said to get you back to the ranch as soon as possible.”

She sighed. “First we’re going to The Squirrel. I didn’t get any breakfast and I’m hungry. Then I’ll go home. I’m going to Columbus with Ethelred this afternoon. Ben’s coming over tonight. Got a full day ahead of me.”

“For heaven’s sakes, why are you going to Columbus with Ethelred?”

“Because I said I would.”

“What? You going shopping at this particular moment in your life? Wait ’til I tell Mama.”

She sat back and drew in one long, angry breath. “I guess you and Emma see me as nothing but a sad old lady who doesn’t know what she’s doing. I’ve been kind of feelin’ like that lately. But not anymore. Looks to me like somebody set me up to take the blame for the man’s death all along. I take that personally, Lindy. Very, very personally. Now, you call that boy. Tell him to meet us at The Squirrel soon as he can get there.”

I sputtered for only a minute before swallowing my pride and calling Hunter.

*   *   *

The white car stayed behind me right up until I made my turn on to Carya Street. It hung back, even let a couple of cars pass, then it disappeared. No use saying anything to Meemaw. She would only turn around, gawk at him, and embarrass me.

What I was worrying about was the press. They’d be flooding into town soon enough, I figured. A poisoned pastor was great fodder for sales. Add to that a seventy-seven-year-old grandmother as the major suspect, and before we knew it, a wind of words would be blowing straight across Texas.

I pulled into The Squirrel’s dirt lot and parked among a dozen or so other pickups. I checked behind me but the white car was nowhere to be seen.

“Hunter said he’d be along in half an hour or so,” I reminded Meemaw as I checked my purse to see if I’d brought my wallet along. “Had some report to get in.”

“Guess he was surprised to hear from you, the trouble you two seem to be having.”

“Leastwise he’s coming,” I said, giving nothing else away.

“You know that boy would never turn on a Blanchard, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“Don’t count on it.” I blew away the idea and pushed my door open.

Hot morning. One of those days when the sun felt like it was sitting on top of my head. When the air felt like melting wax on my skin. Not that I didn’t like it—better than cold winter days. Still, I hadn’t had a shower that morning. I felt my clothes were molded to me by sweat. Not a good way to feel if I was going to see Hunter so soon—up close and personal.

Meemaw slid off the front seat on her side. “That boy’s loyal and you know it.” She raised her voice at me as I came around the back of the truck. “That boy’s been crazy about you since he was running around with his diaper hanging half off.”

“That was puppy love.”

“You call it whatever you like, young lady. I know that special gleam in a man’s eye when I see it. Think it’s about time you started gleaming back a little.”

I stopped just outside the door to the restaurant, pulled my jeans out of my backside, and thought over what she was saying. “Let me see if I’m getting this right. What you’re saying is you want me to shamelessly use his feelings for me to get what we want out of him. That it?”

Her mouth flew open. Her eyes flew wide. “You think that about me, Lindy? Well, shame on you.”

*   *   *

The restaurant was half empty. Ten of the people at the tables kept their faces turned away when we walked in. The other half waved and gave Meemaw a thumbs-up.

We settled down in a back booth with no one around us. Miss Amelia opened her purse and fiddled inside, taking out a piece of paper and a pen. “Think I’m gonna mark down a few names, Lindy,” she said loud enough for all to hear. “Got a ‘no pie’ list going for folks turning on me like those you just saw.”

She made a few notes but I could see they had nothing to do with a list of names.

“Meemaw.” I leaned across, shaking my head at her, but liking that the old spirit was back. “You are turning into a vengeful person.”

“Least I won’t be a ‘sittin’ on death row’ person.” She sat back and smiled at one of the snubbers, who looked away fast.

Cecil Darling made his way toward us, hands thrown above his head, eyes rolled to heaven, a spout of specious pity about to pour from his flaccid lips.

“Whatever do you know? The mass murderer of Riverville here, gracing my fine dining establishment.” There was a wicked gleam in Cecil’s eye. “Whatever can I do for you ladies? Arsenic pudding? A little strychnine clotted cream? Or better yet . . .” He clapped his hands together and rolled his eyes heavenward. “The pièce de résistance, the dish to end all dishes . . . oh, excuse me . . . not end, but the equal of all other dishes. My very special cassoulet de cyanide.”

He turned to bow to the appalled patrons, who looked furiously down at whatever they were eating.

“There.” He leaned toward Miss Amelia, a happy gleam in his eye. “That will take care of them for you.”

Miss Amelia looked up, surprised by the pompous little man. “You are a truly brave Englishman, Cecil. Churchill could have used you in the dark days of World War Two.”

He beamed, smile spreading from ear to ear. We ordered the special of the day: bubble and squeak, though ordinarily we would never have ordered one of his fussy English dishes. Today was different. This was a day of firm liaisons and choosing up sides. Of eating scrambled-together leftovers while smiling and making polite conversation. Though the smiling did stop for a minute when Miss Amelia pulled something she thought was part of a turnip from her dish.

“Humph. If you call this fine dining, hot dogs and beans must be food for the gods,” she whispered across the table at me.

Cecil, his movable face stretched into wonder, came back after the food was served to lounge beside our table again. “So the sheriff let you go, did he? What’s this world coming to, I’d like to know? Dangerous characters let loose on the streets.”

“Said he was coming for you, Cecil,” I said, not able to stop myself. “People saying you’ve been poisoning them for years. And, you know, you’re not from Texas. Everybody knows a foreigner’s got to be the culprit.”

Cecil gave us both a forced smile. “And how do you like my bubble and squeak?” He nodded toward our plates.

Miss Amelia pretended to taste a bit of it again. “Reminiscent of my own shepherd’s pie. With the addition of bits of rubber.”

He pretended to great hurt. “Next time try the bangers and mash. You’ll love it. Just your kind of thing, I’d say. A cluster of dead sausages buried in a funeral pyre of potatoes.”

“How did England ever let you go, Cecil?” Miss Amelia relaxed back in the booth and smiled at the fussy little man.

“And wasn’t there something we could have done to stop it?” I added.

Before he could come up with a witty quip, waitresses from the Barking Coyote Saloon, probably soon heading into work, walked in with a few loud “look at me” laughs. They hurried over in a tumble of long legs, short skirts, and tall hair, to hug us and mew their sympathies.

“Not one person in this town thinks you had anything to do with this parson business,” Suzy Queen huffed then leaned down close so that her bouncy breasts hung uncomfortably in front of Miss Amelia’s face.

“Anybody give you trouble,” she whispered near Miss Amelia’s reddening ear, “we’ll take care of ’em over to the Barking Coyote. Won’t know what in the heck they’re drinkin’.”

Finula Prentiss grinned behind her, a kind of wolfish look I’d seen on her face before. Suzy Q was a fine person, but Finula Prentiss had never been a favorite of either one of us. Finula was in the business of what Meemaw called “kissing cowboys” or what I called “horizontal entertaining.”

“That woman would turn on you fast as look at you,” Meemaw always said.

I watched as Meemaw gave Finula one of her tight head nods, pulling back from the thick scent of musk.

Before sashaying away, Finula smiled wide down at me. “Think the two of you should come on in for some line dancing again. People still talkin’ about that last time.”

I agreed we should. I hadn’t forgotten that last time either. Miss Amelia, as stiff and tall as a pecan tree, gracefully holding the hand of Jefferson Foster, a grizzled old cowboy who never said a word to anyone and was never known to take to the dance floor before that night.

And me sitting there like a wallflower, praying to be asked to dance—something I usually detested—and not left there alone to sit out the “
Waltz Across Texas
.”

The women toddled off to a table, passing Hunter as he made his way toward us.

“Glad I ate,” Hunter said as he set his hat on the table then leaned down close looking over the remnants of food on my plate. “Grabbed a sandwich after you all left.”

He smelled good. And looked good. And smiled good. And gave off heat that might have made me think of taking long naked swims in a Greek pool if I wasn’t so self-conscious about what I was or wasn’t feeling about him. I pushed over so he could move in beside me, well aware of the big gun on his hip. He clasped his hands together on the table and leaned his wide, blue back toward Meemaw.

I didn’t want my grandmother noticing how red my face was so I frowned hard and leaned back with my arms crossed.

Hunter turned to look over at me. “We gonna be friends again?” He smiled wickedly and flashed those blue eyes at me.

At my still sour face, he asked, “Find a worm in your lunch?”

Sufficiently cooled off and scrubbing Greek pools from my head, I looked to Meemaw, who sat with one eyebrow lifted in my direction. I could hear words like “sad excuse for a female” going through her head.

“I guess I know well enough why you wanted to see me, Miss Amelia,” Hunter started right in. “Trouble is, I might not be able to help, not without giving away information the sheriff wouldn’t want me to hand out.”

I made a small sound of disgust. Miss Amelia stopped me with a look. “Of course, Hunter, can’t go givin’ away the sheriff’s case.” She smiled big at Hunter. I could swear she was flirting.

“Hunter’s been our friend for longer than he’s been a deputy,” I said as if he wasn’t there next to me. “You’d think that would be more important—”

“Whoa, there.” Hunter reared back. “You got something to ask, ask it. I said I’ll do what I can. I think the two of you know that by now. What I can’t do, I’ll work my way around. Now, what’s goin’ on and where are you two thinking of heading with this? I know you well enough to know you’re cooking up something.”

“We all know I didn’t poison the parson.” Miss Amelia started in, fingers tapping lightly on the paper in front of her. “Let’s start right there. The man is dead, so that means somebody else killed him. I’ve been goin’ over everything in my head, and I think there’re places we’ve got to start looking and places we don’t know about that we have to uncover. You with me on this so far?”

Miss Amelia looked from me to Hunter.

“Here’s what I’m thinking.” Meemaw settled down into herself. “We know the poison, thanks to the sheriff and Hunter here. Easy to get spotted water hemlock just about anywhere in Texas. Thing is, first, you’ve got to know what it looks like, second, how much it would take to kill a man, and third, how to get it into the victim.”

“All of that’s pretty easy. Not a single family in Texas hasn’t heard of a steer or horse or even a dog dead from chewing on hemlock,” Hunter said.

“Okay, so we’ve got that nailed down. Could be anybody in Riverville . . .”

“Or outside Riverville,” I put in. “The Jenkinses have only been here about eight months. Who knows what they left behind in Tupelo? Parsons have been kicked out of churches for a lot of reasons and those reasons not reported to their next parish. Boards just glad to pass problems on to somebody else. I think that’s what you’ve got to look into, Hunter.”

“Already been in touch with the police there in Tupelo,” Hunter said. “They’re checking on it for me. The officer I spoke to said he’d never heard a bad word against the pastor. But we’ll see what he comes up with.”

“Never struck me as the kind of man to leave grudge holders behind him.” Miss Amelia frowned. “Still, somebody’s got to talk to Dora and Selma. Maybe after the funeral. I hate to even think about it—the two of them in mourning, and mad at me. But this can’t wait.”

“You going to the funeral in the morning?” Hunter asked.

“I’m going,” I said, all set and determined.

“Don’t think I should,” Miss Amelia said. “Sad . . . but.”

“Yes, you’re going. With me. Nobody in this family’s done anything to be ashamed of. We’re going. And that’s that.”