Sweet Jiminy (5 page)

She Googled Carlos Castaverde and immediately came across several hate websites. One claimed he was an illegal immigrant with a grudge against red-blooded Americans. Another listed his home address and offered a bounty for his head.

A more friendly site called him an unsung hero and thanked him for his service. Carlos himself didn't have a website and seemed to prefer a low profile, though Jiminy was able to find a bio piece on him in the
Greenham Gazette
that detailed how, after being raised in Texarkana by a Caucasian mother and Mexican father, Carlos had gotten his degree in journalism and then put himself through law school at night while working for a string of small town newspapers. He'd first made a name for himself seven years ago, when, in the course of covering a disputed school board election, he'd stumbled across an account of an unsolved shooting that had taken place in 1964. His subsequent investigation had eventually led to the conviction and incarceration of the superintendent of schools. The town had been outraged; the victim's family, grateful.

Since then, Carlos Castaverde had opened and pursued six other cases. He hadn't won convictions in all of them, but he had forced several towns to confront their unpleasant pasts. Not all of them appreciated the experience, and they'd made their wrath known. In a short interview conducted after the Jackson Honder case was won, the forty-four-year-old Castaverde was asked what made him get up every day and pursue the life he'd chosen. He'd answered, “Consideration of the alternative.”

Abrupt gunshots startled Jiminy out of her admiring reverie. She whirled around, her heart throbbing furiously.

“Dammit, missed again,” Jean muttered as she sauntered in from the backyard, a rifle slung over one shoulder. “Sorry for the noise, I was trying to shoot the geranium-gobblin' demon deer,” she explained.

Jiminy breathed in deeply, trying to calm herself down. It was only Jean. And everything was still alive.

“Do you hunt often?” she managed to ask.

Jiminy herself had never held a gun.

“Oh, darlin', that's not huntin', that's gardenin',” Jean answered.

Jiminy nodded, eyeing the rifle.

“Where do you keep that?”

Jean glanced down at the gun.

“Wherever. In the corner by my bed, in the car occasionally—back when I was allowed to drive—but it's by the kitchen sink generally. So I can grab it quick when those overgrown rats with antlers come around.”

Jean finally registered the terror in Jiminy's eyes and left the room to put the gun away somewhere out of sight. When she returned, she was carrying two glasses of iced tea.

“I know you said you didn't want any, but house rules are you gotta have at least a glass in exchange for computer privileges.”

Jiminy smiled and took the glass Jean offered.

“I should be bringing
you
things,” Jiminy said. “I really appreciate you letting me come here. I'm happy to get the chance to work on this stuff.”

Jean nodded indulgently.

“And what is it exactly that you're working on?” she asked.

Willa had told her a little bit, but not much. Jean had initially appreciated being spared the details, but now her curiosity was getting the better of her.

“I want to find out more about who killed Lyn's husband and daughter,” Jiminy said. “I can't believe their murders were never solved. You knew them, didn't you?”

“Of course,” Jean answered.

Fayeville was a small place, and it had only been smaller back then. She'd known Edward since they were kids, and Lyn since he'd married her. The same year Jean had married her husband, Floyd the prankster.

Jean suddenly didn't feel like talking anymore, but Jiminy was looking at her expectantly.

“Do you have any idea who might have killed them?” Jiminy asked.

Jean stared out the window, toward the woods that bordered her lawn. She stared a little too long.

“You do, don't you?” Jiminy pressed. “You know something.”

Jean closed her eyes, wishing she'd been raised to know how to politely kick a guest out of her house. She felt a migraine coming on.

 

The river that curved around Fayeville was slow and cold. It was filled with rainbow trout and water moccasins that slithered across the surface and made their home along the bank. Jiminy had never been on or in the river. She'd never fished it, never swam it, never even stuck a hand or toe in it. Now that she knew about Edward and the first Jiminy, it made sense to her that the people who would've naturally taken her to do such things avoided the river as a matter of course. Still, you'd think they would've provided her with some substitute. You'd think they might have brought her to the pool in town, particularly on the hot summer days that made kids fall into sweaty boredom comas. But Jiminy had never been there, either. Until now.

As she pulled into the parking lot, she wished she wasn't alone. At least there weren't any cattle in sight.

The Fayeville Municipal Pool was shaped like a kidney bean and included a waterslide that was slightly the worse for wear, though the kids flinging themselves down it didn't seem to mind. On the far side of the pool stood a tall lifeguard chair positioned to watch over all. The lifeguard was the one Jiminy had come to see.

Before she could make her way to him, someone called her name.

“Jiminy Davis, is that you?”

An enormously pregnant belly sandwiched by a bikini had asked the question. Technically, the mouth on the head attached to the belly had asked it, but all Jiminy could focus on was the belly. She forced herself to look up from it to acknowledge its owner's face.

“Suze?” Jiminy asked.

Suze Connors had grown up on the farm across the river from Willa's.

The smiling round face nodded.

“Yep, it's me. Can you believe it?”

Jiminy wasn't sure she'd ever seen a more pregnant woman.

“Congratulations!” Jiminy cried. “You look great!”

“Thank you, what a nice thing to hear,” Suze responded. “Some people say I shouldn't be wearing a two-piece, but I say they should GET THEIR OWN LIFE,” she continued in a near shout, directing the accusatory part of her sentence toward a slender woman suntanning a few chairs over. The woman rolled her eyes and whispered something to her friend. Both of them giggled. Suze fumed.

“So, when are you due?” Jiminy asked, attempting to avert a rumble.

She was taken aback by Suze's sudden fury. Jiminy remembered her being a mild-mannered girl—someone she'd played with a handful of times during her childhood visits.

“Tomorrow,” Suze answered. “But my first three were all a week late, so I'm not holding my breath.”

“This is your
fourth
kid?” Jiminy asked.

Suze was nodding.

“Bryce! Savanna! Come meet Jiminy,” she called to a blond-haired boy and girl who'd been playing on the waterslide. “Melody's with her grandma,” she explained to Jiminy as her kids started swimming for the pool ladder.

“Oh, don't bother them, it's okay . . . ,” Jiminy attempted.

But the kids were already hurrying to obey their mom. Jiminy was surprised at how quickly they were in front of her, gazing upward.

“Jiminy and I used to play when we were around your age,” Suze told her son. “Are you here for a while?” she asked Jiminy.

Jiminy wasn't sure how to answer.

“I think so. Probably another few weeks, at least.”

“We gotta get together then!” Suze cried.

Jiminy nodded.

“Sure, that'd be great, definitely. I mean, you'll probably be pretty busy with your baby and your other kids, but if you get some free time . . . Are you married?”

Suze looked offended.

“Well, I should hope so! What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I just didn't want to assume—of course you're married.”

“Brad's on a tour of duty overseas now, but he should be home by Christmas. SAVANNAH, DON'T YOU DARE PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!”

Jiminy jumped. Behind her, Savannah released a small frog she'd caught in the grass by the side of the pool. She obeyed her mother, but she wasn't happy about it.

The shouting had caught the lifeguard's attention. He stood up quickly, gave a disapproving glance, then resumed his vigil. For an old man, he seemed remarkably spry and alert.

“I need to go,” Jiminy said to Suze. “It's good to see you again, and meet your kids. I'll see you around.”

Suze smiled and nodded, but she was already preoccupied with helping her son wrestle a pair of flippers onto his feet.

“Don't forget to come see me,” she replied distractedly.

Jiminy weaved past Savannah and made her way to the lifeguard chair, aware of how pale her skin was compared to the tanned bodies around her. Looking down at her arms and legs, she saw that her skin was even whiter than usual, thanks to the SPF50 she'd failed to completely rub in.

The lifeguard stared down at her. He was the ruler of this domain and prided himself on knowing everyone. This small, pale woman standing below him was a stranger, though she resembled people he knew. She'd have to explain herself.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“Are you Walton Trawler?” Jiminy asked.

“Indeed, I am,” he answered.

Walton was old, certainly, but he emanated a youthfulness that matched the energy of the kids surrounding him. He'd been the town doctor for fifty years and now filled his retirement with volunteer work and various other projects. His face was tanned and wrinkled, and he wore a weathered fishing hat to protect his bald head. His swimming trunks were decorated with fuschia palm trees.

“Who are you?” he inquired.

He wasn't as friendly as Jiminy had hoped he'd be.

“I'm Jiminy Davis, Willa Hunt's granddaughter. I'm interested in learning more about Fayeville, and Jean Butrell suggested I talk to you. She said you're kind of the town historian, published and all.”

Walton had written several books about the region. He looked more intently at Jiminy, before shifting his gaze to scan the pool.

“I can't talk now, I'm on the job. Stop by Grady's Grill this evening and we'll chat.”

Jiminy nodded. It didn't seem as though he was going to say anything more to her, so she turned to walk away.

“You have your grandpa's eyes, you know,” Walton said.

Jiminy paused and turned back.

“Really?”

No one had ever told her this before.

“Spittin' image,” Walton nodded. “You must break your grandma's heart.”

 

Roy Tomlins always took his lunch break on the benches of the courtyard lawn, and he generally stopped by Grady's Grill for his post-work beer. He liked the feel of Grady's—the sawdust on the floor, the ashtrays on every table, the counter lined with bottles of local hot sauce. He liked that it was generally filled with men he knew, with men he'd known all his life.

They were dying off now, the men of his generation. There were only a handful of them left, and they were vastly outnumbered by the women. Old women live forever, Roy mused. His wife would likely outlast him by decades, continuing to be a waste of space long after he was gone. Roy hated feeling overwhelmed by women, hated the way they banded together when their husbands died off. There was no helping the situation though. This was what it had come to. At least now that Roy had grasped the reality that the guys were on their way out, he felt a new appreciation for their company.

“Evenin', Grady.”

“Evenin', Roy. People still sending letters?”

Grady liked to tease that the postal service was on its last legs now that so many people had electronic ways to communicate. Grady himself didn't email anyone. He still sent letters and occasional care packages to his son and daughter on the West Coast, which Roy knew because Roy monitored everything that crossed his counter.

Of course Roy was well aware that opening someone else's mail was a serious criminal offense, so he only did it when he was really curious. He kept a steamer in the closet of his office to make it easy, and then he'd seal the envelopes back up good as new. Working in the postal office was an excellent way to keep tabs on the town, a role that Roy took extremely seriously. He considered himself a patriot, first and foremost, and was therefore positive that his watchdog actions were justified, even necessary.

The bell over the door announced a new arrival as Roy was trying to make out the label on a hot sauce bottle in the shape of a naked woman. He turned slightly and looked over his shoulder. It was Walton, which he should've expected.

“Evenin', Walton. Save any lives today?” Grady asked.

“Not yet,” Walton answered.

Walton took his regular seat at the table by the window and began rolling one of his cigarettes. He took pride in only smoking homegrown tobacco. And he restricted himself to smoking only one cigarette a day, mainly because he'd been a doctor for so long and felt he had to keep up appearances. He ate an apple a day also, and hoped that the two canceled each other out.

“Howdy, Walton,” Roy grunted.

“Evenin', Roy.”

Noticing how hard Roy was studying the Some Like It Hot Sauce, Grady grabbed it and handed it over.

“Well, I'll be,” Roy exclaimed, running his fingers over the plastic breasts. “This really local?”

“Yep,” Grady affirmed. “Some guy over in Baileyville makes it. I can get you your own if you're interested. She don't come life-size, though,” he added with a chuckle.

“How does she taste?” Roy asked with a grin. “Dish me some of that barbequed brisket so I can test 'er.”

From behind the counter, Grady complied. Roy splashed a generous dose on the brisket and took a bite, then grimaced. Grady nodded knowingly as he put the bottle back on the shelf.