Southern Fried (28 page)

“Cha-rles,” she drawled with exasperation. She nodded absentmindedly at me as I came in the door, then continued with her lecture into the phone. “You know good and well I’ve talked to Petty about her so-called complaint. After thinking about it, she decided that he really hadn’t harassed her. More that he made her uncomfortable. She hadn’t expected him to ask where someone could buy large-size lingerie around here. He—”

Charles must have interrupted her. I ducked under the stretched phone cord to get a Coke from the refrigerator. Then I perched on a stool at the counter. This one sounded too good to miss.

“Charles, it’s perfectly understandable that a man might want to buy lingerie, for a wife or—” Charles interrupted again, but then Mom talked on. “—or a
girlfriend. Just because Petty was a bit taken aback by the question doesn’t mean it was harassment.

“Yes. I know perfectly well that the board could be sued for allowing a hostile work environment to exist. But Petty’s not suing. And even if she did, she really wouldn’t have a case. Even she doesn’t think the environment is all that hostile, now that she knows the whole story.”

That brought another tinny tirade through the receiver from Charles. Charles Press, maybe? At the Economic Development Board?

“Well, Avery’s sitting right here. If anyone knows about harassment, it’s Avery.”

I hoped my mom was selling my lawyering skills and not revealing that she knew more about my former supervising partner than I would want her to know.

“Charles, the bottom line is that Petty’s fine about all this now and isn’t considering any harassment charges—”

She nodded at an interruption, then said, “Charles, I simply don’t see how we can help but support Sy. Buying women’s lingerie really isn’t the issue here—I know we have to consider the public relations aspects of this, I know this is a small town. But you might be surprised how accepting folks can be—”

At the next interruption, my mom rolled her eyes. “Charles, honey.” Uh-oh, the tone she uses when she’s not placating any more had crept into her voice. “The bottom line is Sy Bonifay may have a claim against us if we try to dismiss him.”

The buzz on the other end of the phone turned into a squawk.

“Charles, honey, there’s such a thing as the Americans with Disabilities Act. Now, I’m sure Avery could answer any questions you have, but my guess is that some psychological thing, whatever it is that’s led Sy to do this, would constitute some sort of disability. We can’t fire somebody because he has a disability, Charles. Not as long as he can do his job.”

The squawking sounds quietened. Maybe Charles needed to catch his breath.

“That’s fine, Charles. We can talk about this some more tomorrow.” Her voice lost its purr, like a cat who’d played its prey, toyed, pounced, then ended things. “Okay.”

She hung up the phone, the extra-long cord twisted from her pacing. I took another swig from my Coke can and fixed her with an expectant stare. “Well?”

“Well what?” Then she shrugged, resigning the innocent act. “That situation I mentioned to you, at the Economic Development Office? Can a female harass another female?”

“Sure. Same-sex propositions are treated just like—”

“No, no. Not that quid-pro-quo stuff you told me about. I mean creating what you called a hostile work environment. Saying things that make somebody uncomfortable to the point she can’t do her job. But what if it’s just girl talk? Can a woman do that to another woman?”

She stood with her hands on her hips, her head
cocked, her Reeboked feet in a fighting stance; she had no idea how anachronistic her conversation sounded, standing there surrounded by her white kitchen appliances.

“Well,” I mused, “that’s a tougher question. I can imagine situations where it would create a hostile work environment—”

“But just a simple question like, Where around here do you buy really nice big-size lingerie?”

“A woman got offended because another woman asked her that?”

“No, not exactly.” She pulled open the refrigerator and poured herself an orange juice. “No, she thought a man was asking her that.”

“Where to buy lingerie? Like for a girlfriend?”

“No, no. But would that be harassing, if a man asked it?”

“Probably not to most people. He’d have to know she found it offensive. She’d have to tell him. But if two women are talking, like you said—”

“No.” Mom pulled out the bar stool opposite me, settling in for an explanation. “You don’t understand. She
thought
he was a man. But he isn’t.”

I just stared. When I think I’ve learned not to be surprised by anything she throws at me, Mom comes up with a new one.

“A woman got offended because a man asked her where to buy lingerie, but—”

“But now she’s not offended because now she knows that he’s not really a man. He’s undergoing a sex change.”

My mouth hung open. “The guy you all lured to head the Economic Development Board is in the process of becoming a woman?”

She nodded. “So now Petty’s not offended at all. But Charles Press is about to throw a blood clot.”

“Sy Bonifay’s the new guy, the one you found strange? You thought his eyes looked funny.”

“Sure. But he doesn’t look funny now.” She gulped some juice. “I mean, before, something just didn’t seem quite right. Before, he was in the wrong context. He didn’t ring true. Now,” she shrugged, “he makes sense.”

Unlike the low-country flatlanders I’d left a few weeks ago, the citizens of Dacus, with their mountain leanings, seemed more inclined to accept people in all their weirdness. But this would be a bit of a stretch, even for Dacus. It obviously didn’t stretch my mom, who hopped up and started pulling leftovers out of the refrigerator.

“Meat loaf for supper?” she asked.

“Great.” Leftover meat loaf is always better than fresh meat loaf—and an infinite improvement over the culinary wasteland in the cabin’s cupboard.

For I while, I played couch potato in front of the TV, mulling over what I knew about Harry, Lindley, and Sylvie, and particularly about Noodle and Harrison Garnet. Then I puttered around setting the table for the three of us while Mom made mashed potatoes. Dad arrived in time to catch the weather on the Greenville station’s evening news.

“Oh, Avery,” Mom said, startling me as I dumped a blob of ketchup on my meat loaf. “In the midst of
everything, I forgot all about your phone message. I’m so sorry, honey. It might be important.”

She scooted out of her seat at the kitchen table and reached across the counter to push the button on the answering machine.

His voice came through slow and clear. “Avery? Jake Baker here. I been waitin’ and waitin’ to hear back from you. You comin’ to Charleston to help me whup these insurance bastards’ asses or you gonna hole up there in that godforsaken backwater writing wills and dyin’ of boredom?”

The look that passed across my dad’s face read as a confused mix of hurt and embarrassment. Then, perhaps sensing my glance, he focused on working more butter into his mashed potatoes. Both he and Mom kept their eyes on their plates while Jake’s booming voice rambled on.

“You know I can beat the socks off any deal you had at that prissy-pants Calhoun Firm. If we’re as good together as I think we’re going to be, you can make more in one good case than you can in ten years up in those hills. You ready to roll the dice and get in the game? You hurry up and give me a call before I come up there and load you in the Lamborghini myself.”

The machine announced the end of the messages and recited the time and date.

My dad, his eyebrows furrowed together, finally broke the silence. “You thinking about leaving?”

The hurt on his face and the stiff control in his voice made it hard for me to look him in the eye.

“Jake Baker’s offered me a job in Charleston.”
How to explain Jake Baker and the confusion of pros and cons: a real job, the chance—though maybe remote—of big money, fighting for the Davids rather than the Goliaths, the slimy lure of success and the chance to shove it back in the Calhoun Firm’s face.

“But,” I said, “we really haven’t talked any details. I’ll have to find something sooner or later.”

Dad nodded. Mom—who’d certainly heard the message earlier and hadn’t mentioned it—changed the subject, filling Dad in on the Economic Development office excitement. And Dad, getting into the spirit of being a parent who wants a kid with a mind of her own, chatted about how he’d isolated the short in the delivery van’s electrical system.

Against the background of that comforting chatter—and trying to forget the look on my dad’s face—I made a decision. After helping Dad clear the table, I went to the den to call Harrison Garnet.

His voice sounded surprisingly cordial. “I’ll be home all evening, Avery. Feel free to come on by.”

I
still hadn’t gotten used to it getting dark before six. I By the time I rang the bell beside the Garnets’ front door, the walkway and porch were visible only because the entry-hall light shone through the lacy door curtains.

Inside, Harrison Garnet rolled into view before the chimes stopped sounding.

“Avery,” he said, leaning forward to pull the door open. “You got here sooner than I expected. I meant to turn on the porch light for you. Come on in.”

His casual hospitality took me by surprise. He wheeled ahead of me into the parlor and offered me a seat. I had to perch on the edge of the wingback chair so my feet would touch the ground.

“I heard on the news,” he said, settling back in his chair, “that the sheriff has just arrested the fellow they suspect burned down the office.”

He sounded relieved, almost excited about the news.

I’m sure I looked puzzled. “Where’d they find
him?” I asked, buying more time to study his reaction.

He shrugged. “Some trailer north of town. His name is Dorrance—or Noodle Waitley, I think. Something like that.”

“Mr. Garnet, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I watched his face. He sat, his elbows on the chair arms, his hands in his lap, his face open and polite, like a round-faced balding child on his best company manners.

“Mr. Garnet, I won’t beat around the bush. I’m rather surprised you’re so relieved they caught that guy.”

He crooked his head slightly to one side, puzzled.

“Aren’t you afraid of what he’ll say?”

He raised his hands slightly, palms upward. “I expect him to admit he burned my office, put my company in danger, and left my people without jobs.”

“But aren’t you afraid he’ll tell them who put him up to it?”

“If he had an accomplice, I certainly hope he’ll name him. I’d like to know who thought it was such a good idea. And I want to know why they took such pains to throw suspicion on me.”

His mouth twitched in an exasperated grimace. “Even if he confesses on the courthouse steps at high noon, I doubt that’ll convince Dawson Smith that I didn’t try to burn my own records.”

“You didn’t hire Noodle—um—Dorrance to set the fire?”

“Good God, Avery. Certainly not. How could you
think such a thing? And you the one that made them so suspicious in the first place. Avery, I—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Garnet. I had to ask. We have an attorney-client relationship. I need to know what’s protected under that and what’s not.”

The quizzical tilt of his head returned.

“You see,” I glanced down at my hands. “I found out today that Dorrance—who goes by the name Noodle—used to work for you.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head absently. “I—don’t remember anybody in the plant by that name. A lot of those folks have been with us for decades, but some of them—”

“No, Noodle drove a truck for you. Back in the early seventies. Back when you were paving the parking lot and clearing the plant of all those barrels. Those barrels that Dawson Smith and his merry band are interested in.”

I paused, but he said nothing. His eyebrows knit together and he clenched his fingers into a knot.

“Dawson Smith is poring over what’s left of your records—and the arson investigator indicated they had plenty to work with. I imagine he expects to find proof—probably in purchase invoices—of what materials you bought for the plant. Then he’ll compare those with the records of what got hauled off legally. Then he’ll compare that with what they find leeching into the soil and groundwater behind your plant.”

Harrison Garnet shook his head, looking not like a belligerent businessman but a bewildered child. “I could tell them what’s in those barrels. Just some
old rags. That’s ancient history. Why would that concern anybody today?”

I have learned, from years of talking to people who want to keep things from me, that I can’t always tell when somebody’s lying. But if Harrison Garnet wasn’t telling the truth as he knew it, then he won the prize as the best liar I’ve ever seen.

“What’s in those barrels?”

“I told you. Rags. They’re the trash barrels we used to catch the rags they used to wipe glue. You know, when they fitted furniture pieces and such.”

“But that glue is a hazardous material, Mr. Garnet.”

“Hazardous? It’s glue. I guess if you ate it or took a bath in it or used it for eye wash, it’d be bad. But it’s just glue.”

I could actually believe he was as naive as he sounded. He really didn’t have a clue.

“The EPA and the state guys won’t see it that way, Mr. Garnet. They suspect it contains phthalate, an EPA priority pollutant. And maybe some other materials.” I didn’t mention my suspicions about Noodle’s little back-haul scheme. Maybe, just maybe it had nothing to do with Garnet’s property.

“So what’s this phthalate stuff supposed to do to people?”

“They don’t really know, though it causes tumors in lab rats.”

He pursed his lips into an expression of mild disgust. “Why are they wasting time on this? Why not spend time with the really dangerous stuff? They cry wolf—everything’s dangerous, nothing’s
safe. Avery, people worked with that glue day in and day out their whole lives with no problem. How can somebody come along now and say, Oh, that’s dangerous?”

“Maybe they were harmed.”

He snorted. “Life’s tough, Avery.” He patted his knees. The wheelchair wobbled a bit with the force of his movement. “Then you get to die. But before that, you get to listen to a lot of government research that tells you don’t drink coffee, don’t eat shellfish, don’t eat peanut butter. For God’s sake, you can’t even drink water anymore because it might have something in it.”