Sweet Jiminy (9 page)

Just south of Fayeville, Interstate 34 sliced through fields and hills, crisscrossing the Allehany River dozens of times. The winding backroads that had existed before the interstate still shadowed it in a twisty, incompetent way, but from the moment it was built, Interstate 34 had been faster, smoother, and straighter.

As soon as I-34 was completed, new restaurants sprang up near its Fayeville junction. This development, in combination with the grand opening of the HushMart superstore along the access road that led to the interstate, had turned Fayeville's previously bustling Main Street into a neutered, orphaned remnant of another era. It seemed to take no time at all for McDonald's and HushMart to become much more popular than Lucy's Snack Spot or Kurley's Hardware. Even residents who lived within walking distance of the Main Street stores and restaurants no longer just strolled down the block for the things they needed or desired. They were now much more likely to get in their cars and drive toward the interstate instead.

Part of the access road that connected the interstate to Fayeville wasn't as smooth as county officials would have liked. The construction company hired to do the job had failed to adequately take into account the eroding bluff that overhung the planned junction, and as a result, the motorists navigating it were confronted with the added challenge of looking out for falling rocks. Someone from Highway Maintenance was tasked with clearing the rocks out a couple times a week; more frequently when there were storms.

Bo knew about this danger and was prepping Jiminy for the challenge of potentially having to stop and start again, after she had been so happy flying along in fourth gear, slightly too fast for a curvy road.

She was preparing to downshift into third when she was suddenly and instantly blinded.

Bo was, too.

“What the . . . !” he said.

He was exclaiming at the strength and brightness of the light burning into their corneas, but he was also aware that Jiminy wasn't slowing down as planned. He was worried that she might have taken her hands and feet off the controls completely, retracting like a frightened turtle. He couldn't check to ensure this wasn't the case, because he couldn't see anything.

“Brake!” he shouted as they nearly rammed the pickup truck that was assaulting them.

It had come quickly around the curve, safe in the boulder-free lane, with its brights on high, trained on their windshield. It swerved now to avoid them, slowed, and came to a stop.

Bo listened to the sickly crunch of abused machinery as Jiminy brought their own vehicle to an abrupt halt, diagonally across the oncoming lane.

“Reverse!” he shouted, knowing that another car could come around the curve at any moment and slam into his passenger side door. But Jiminy was too shocked to comply.

“Reverse,” he said more softly and urgently.

She looked at him for a moment, then struggled with the gear shift. But it seemed that in her startled fright, she'd regressed to square one. She stared down with a look of complete bewilderment. The gear shift might as well have been a cucumber, for all she could remember of what she was supposed to do with it to make this big chunk of metal move for her.

Bo was a calm person, but he knew when he was in real danger. He had a flash of what the pain of impact would feel like, how a life of paralysis would change his plans. He opened his door.

“Scoot over,” he commanded.

He slammed his door shut, put a hand on the hood of the truck and launched himself over the front of it, half-sliding, half-scrambling to the other side. His feet landed on the asphalt and he wrenched open the driver's side door to see Jiminy still sitting there, confused.

“Move!” he shouted, helping her roughly along.

“You! Stop right there, boy!” a voice shouted from behind him.

But Bo had seen the glare of headlights on the trees and knew an oncoming car was moments away from their spot, probably driving as fast as they'd been. And now that he'd forced Jiminy into the seat that would receive the impact, he'd be as good as murdering her if he didn't ignore whoever was yelling at him and act quickly.

He slid into the driver's seat, threw the truck into reverse, and jerked them backwards just as an '86 VW Cabriolet veered obliviously around the corner.

It was a car Bo and Jiminy both knew well. As they panted to regain their breath, they watched the Cabriolet screech to a halt to avoid hitting the truck that had caused all the trouble in the first place.

 

“Sweet Jesus,” Lyn exclaimed, as she looked back to make sure it was Bo and Jiminy she thought she'd seen.

It was. And here, too, was Roy Tomlins and his grandson Randy, standing outside yelling while their truck blocked up the road. Lyn couldn't sort these various pieces into an arrangement that helped her understand the scenario she'd stumbled across.

She took a deep breath and opened her door.

“I'm warning you for the last time to get outta that car, boy!” Roy was growling.

He was as old as Lyn, filled with a timeless rage.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked.

Get out of the car, Bo, she mentally beamed down the road. Though she wasn't positive that this was the best psychic command. If he got out and moved toward them, he'd just be voluntarily coming into range. Perhaps it was better for him to stay in the car, next to the girl. Except for the fact that Roy Tomlins had shouted a direct order that would go unheeded at all of their peril.

“This ain't none a yer bizness,” Roy's grandson Randy snarled at Lyn.

Lyn addressed her words to Roy.

“That's my great-nephew, Mr. Tomlins. And Willa Hunt's granddaughter.”

Lyn kept her voice submissive. Roy stared hard at her. Something in her tone, or her look, or the sound of the crickets resuming their night song, made him pause in his fury. He stared another beat, then turned and walked toward Bo and Jiminy's car. Lyn hurried after him, struggling to keep up, careful to avoid getting too close.

 

Inside the car, Jiminy was shaking.

“I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry,” she kept repeating.

She was mortified that she'd frozen up. She knew how close they'd come to serious injury, all because of her incompetence. And now these men were yelling at them, and Lyn was there looking worried and beaten down, and Bo had a grimness to his face that Jiminy hadn't seen before. It scared her. He seemed resigned to some kind of disaster.

“I need to get out of the car,” Bo said quietly. “But you stay put.”

“I don't understand what's happening,” she replied, wishing her voice wasn't such a whimper.

“Just stay here,” Bo replied. “Just stay here.”

She didn't know why they were being shouted at when they were the ones who'd been blinded. She couldn't comprehend how a barely avoided accident seemed to be spiraling toward a worse one. She was bewildered by the unfolding events, whereas Bo seemed to understand exactly what was going on.

Jiminy had an urge to kiss him like she would if he were going off to war. She leaned over to do it, but he gripped her shoulder hard.

“Why are you trying so hard to get us killed?” he said harshly.

He opened his door and got out, leaving Jiminy stunned.

 

Thank you, Lyn thought to herself. On the walk over, she'd realized that Roy and Randy thought Bo might speed off to escape their wrath, and that they were determined to make sure this didn't occur. Bo wouldn't do that with Lyn there, but she wondered what his reaction would have been otherwise. Lyn knew it was a very good thing she'd come along, and this was a feeling she was unaccustomed to having.

She met Bo's eyes as he stood up straight beside the car, closing the driver's door behind him.

“I toldja stop, boy,” Roy said.

“Yes, sir, but I knew another car was coming and we needed to get outta the way in a hurry,” Bo replied.

Roy didn't like logic that disagreed with him.

“I toldja stop.”

“Sorry, Mr. Tomlins,” Bo said. “Hello, Randy.”

Bo and Randy had gone to high school together. They'd played on the same football team.

“I'd stay quiet if I was you, Bo,” Randy said and scowled.

He was staring past Bo at Jiminy, still seated in the car. He started toward her but was stopped by Bo, who wouldn't step aside. Lyn silently cursed and with her eyes urged her great-nephew to move. The girl was not the one who needed protecting.

“Outta my way, boy,” Randy ordered.

Bo hesitated for a moment and locked eyes with his old teammate, grappling with a desire to smash his fist into Randy's face. But feeling his great-aunt's agitation, Bo reluctantly moved aside instead. Randy pushed roughly past him, rapped his knuckles on the car window, and opened the driver's side door.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly.

Jiminy nodded stiffly.

“I'm fine.”

“You can speak freely, I won't let anything happen to you,” Randy said.

“I'm fine.”

“You with this boy willingly?” Roy called.

Lyn sucked air into her lungs. Surely Roy Tomlins didn't think he'd stumbled across a kidnapping. He just didn't like what he saw, and wanted to dress it up in a costume that would offend others, too.

Jiminy looked confused.

“With Bo?” Jiminy said. “Yeah, of course.”

This answer didn't bring Lyn any relief, because she observed its impact on Roy and Randy, who were now looking even angrier.

Lyn cut in. “Mr. Tomlins, Bo's been working for Miz Hunt over the summer, and that sometimes involves driving Jiminy places.”

As soon as Lyn had started speaking, Roy had put his hand up to block her words, but they'd wended their way through the cracks between his fingers, and now Roy seemed to consider them. Lyn hoped that he would. She recognized that he needed an excuse to back off and leave them alone. She wanted to fashion one for them all.

“That so?” Roy said, turning to Bo. “You working for Miz Hunt?”

Bo nodded. Technically, this was true, though it pained him to play the role his great-aunt was asking him to.

“But she was the one driving,” Randy said.

They'd seen them clearly. That was the point of having the brights on in the first place, to reveal what was going on with folks when they thought it was just them. The white girl had been driving, and the black boy had been sitting too close.

“She wanted to learn how to drive stick shift,” Bo answered. “Sir.”

Lyn's wrinkled nose had told him to add the “sir.” She was enlisting different parts of her face to ensure that Bo acted the way he should, each twitch and furrow sending a clear signal, working overtime to keep him out of harm's way.

“And
you
were teaching her?” Roy queried.

Jiminy sat up straighter in the car, looking as though she was just waking from a hazy dream.

“Bo doesn't work for me,” she said righteously. “He's my boyfr—”

“He's Miz Hunt's employee,” Lyn interrupted.

She was frustrated that her invisible strings didn't reach to this troublemaking girl. Furious that the girl didn't automatically better understand the ways of this place, or what was at stake.

“And our families go way back, as I think you know,” Lyn continued. “Miss Jiminy I've known since she was born.”

Jiminy gaped at her. Roy looked from one to the other, and then at Bo, who was staring at the ground. In the silence that followed, the crickets grew louder. Roy shifted his weight and rubbed the back of his hand roughly across his nose.

“Just needed to make sure no one was in any kinda trouble,” he said finally.

Lyn's insides unclenched. They were going to be okay.

“We weren't till you blinded us,” Jiminy retorted. “Your head beams nearly killed us.”

Lyn groaned inwardly as Roy's gaze snapped back to the girl. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Here he'd started out concerned for her, and what did he get in return? Attitude, not gratitude. Though maybe he shouldn't have been surprised, considering she was Willa and Henry's granddaughter. He'd seen her around, he realized now. At Grady's Grill, asking too many questions. She was trouble, that much was for sure.

Roy felt a throbbing in his right temple as he tightened his free hand into a fist. He wanted to teach her a lesson. But what could he do, really? Randy would spring to action with a word, but it was already so late, and Roy was tired. He was ready to move on to the ice cream he was going to eat when he got back home.

“Well, thank goodness no one got hurt,” Lyn said cautiously.

Roy squinted at his captive audience, each in turn.

“Y'all watch yourselves,” he said, his voice thick with implications for disobedience. “I know plenty of folks who wouldn't be as understandin' as us.”

Jiminy, Bo, and Lyn remained silent and motionless as Roy and Randy turned and walked back to their truck. But as their taillights disappeared around the far curve a few moments later, Jiminy burst into tears.

Chapter 8

C
arlos Castaverde
was trying to think of a seven-letter word for the movement of water across a semipermeable membrane when his secretary stuck her head through his office doorway.

“Someone to see you.”

He nodded without looking up. He knew this answer. He could practically taste the word on the tip of his tongue.

“Mr. Castaverde?”

And away it went. He'd had it and lost it. He sighed and looked up from his crossword, hoping that if the answer still lingered in the air nearby, it would somehow find its way back to him.

Delicate and fresh-looking, the young woman standing in his doorway reminded him of watercress.

Since boyhood, Carlos had been fascinated with plants, and studied them with the religious fervor his parents wished he'd apply to the salvation of his soul. But Carlos didn't care about churches; he cared about field guides, soil acidity, rainfall patterns, and chlorophyll levels. To help him memorize the details of various plant types, he'd begun making instant associations between people he met and plants he already knew. Over time, he'd honed an encyclopedic knowledge of all the major flora, as well as an unshakeable new way of thinking about people.

The watercress woman spoke again.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No, come on in,” Carlos replied.

She walked across the room and folded herself into a seat, then stood again, her slender arm outstretched.

“I'm Jiminy Davis,” she announced.

“Carlos Casteverde,” he replied as he shook her hand. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm from Fayeville, Mississippi,” Jiminy said. “Or at least my family is. And something happened there.”

Carlos nodded, waiting for her to elaborate. He didn't know exactly where Fayeville was, but the nearest town in Mississippi was a six-hour drive away. The girl had traveled to see him. As busy as he was, he decided to hear her out.

“Something awful. Forty years ago. Like what you've seen and fixed already,” she continued.

Carlos had seen and fixed more than he wanted to think about. No one of these buried mysteries was like any of the others, and the last one never prepared him for the next. Practice made him better at uncovering and pursuing, but it never dulled the shock and fury.

“No one seems to know who did it exactly, or if they do, they're not telling. And everyone seems content to just let it lie. But it's not right. And things are all messed up there. I didn't realize it at first, but they are.” Jiminy paused.

She stared at the floor for a long moment, then lifted her head to look at Carlos again.

“Things there just aren't the way they're supposed to be,” she said.

Carlos watched her closely, trying to remember the last time he'd successfully grown watercress. It was the kind of thing best stumbled upon in nature, floating thick in a cold, shallow stream.

“I'll need to learn a lot more,” he replied as his crossword answer came to him, permeating the membrane of his forgetfulness at last.

Osmosis. Of course.

 

An hour later, Jiminy had shown Carlos the notes she'd made on everything to date, along with the photocopied clippings from the
Ledger
and her grandfather's diary. She'd explained the circumstances of Edward's and Jiminy's deaths, and relayed the stories from the county pool and Grady's Grill and the stretch of highway near Falling Rock Curve. Carlos had looked at and listened to it all, and now Jiminy was waiting to see how well she'd done.

As she waited, she stared at his cheekbones, following their slant down toward a mouth that was set in a thinking frown. She noted for the second time that Carlos looked like somebody famous who was trying to go unrecognized, though she couldn't place her finger on exactly who. It was something about his eyebrows and cheeks, something Native American to the shape of his features. She felt she'd seen him in a western, or a cop show.

He certainly wasn't dressed to be noticed. Jiminy wondered if he changed out of his jeans and flannel shirt on the days he went to court. There wasn't anything scruffy about him—he was all clean lines and smooth shaves—but he wasn't scrubbed. And if she hadn't researched him and learned that he was forty-four years old, she wouldn't have been able to tell his age. She'd have guessed anywhere from thirty to fifty. Older than her, but perhaps not significantly.

If Carlos didn't help her, she wasn't sure what she'd do. She was determined to prove some things, but she didn't have the expertise and resources to pursue the unsolved Waters case on her own. She'd begun the fieldwork, but she needed Carlos in order to make something of it. And in making something of it, she hoped to make something of herself.

Carlos tapped the eraser of his pencil against his temple. He opened up a large, flat, tan book. He glanced up at Jiminy's entreating gaze.

“I can be in Fayeville next Tuesday,” he said.