The Persian Pickle Club (22 page)

Thinking of that loyalty made a lump come to my throat, and I looked out over the Judds’ rusty old steam thresher to the field of winter wheat that Prosper had planted. I wanted to ask Rita if she thought he would get enough moisture to make a crop of it, but how would she know? She wasn’t a farmer. Besides, I knew Rita wouldn’t let me change the subject.

“We’re not supposed to talk about it, even to one another. We agreed,” I said at last, not meeting her eyes. I turned a little to stare at the sawhorse where Mrs. Judd killed her chickens. The wood was bloodstained, and feathers were stuck in the ax marks. A puff of wind sent one of them up into the air, where it hung for a minute before floating away. A little yellow head lay on the ground. Mrs. Judd must have killed a chicken that morning, and the dogs hadn’t come around yet. “I guess you’d have to say we’re all responsible.”

“I know that, Queenie, but I’m not going to tell anybody, not even Tom,” Rita said. “I’ll keep the secret, too. You’re the only one I can ask. I wouldn’t believe what the others told me.”

That was true enough. Still, I shook my head. “I don’t want to say.”

“Please, Queenie, I promise I’ll never talk about it again. Ever. Even with you. After all, I am a Persian Pickle now. I share the responsibility for the secret. I think I have a right to know.”

Rita put her hand on my arm to keep me from getting into the car, but I opened the door anyway and put one foot up on the running board. We’d stayed too late at quilting. Grover would be wanting his supper.

Still, I didn’t climb in, because Rita’s question hung in the air between us like one of those chicken feathers, and I admitted she was right. She was a Pickle, and now she shared not just the secret of Ben Crook’s murder but the guilt. She deserved an answer. I put my other foot on the running board and glanced away at the members of the club, who were getting into their cars. Agnes T. Ritter fluttered her fingers at me, and I waved back.

“Queenie?” Rita said, and I turned toward her again. “Who?”

Mrs. Judd’s screen door slammed, and someone called my name, but I didn’t look up. Instead, I took a deep breath and looked Rita straight in the eye. Then I leaned over the top of the Studebaker door and said in a clear voice, “I did it.”