(I)
More white lies, Patricia thought when she set her
cell phone down. She’d just hung up with Byron, having kept the
conversation innocuous. She was still so befuddled over her trip to
the county morgue. What could I tell him, for
God’s sake? So she’d told him nothing of significance.
Dwayne’s head seemingly disappearing off his body as though it had
never been there? Junior Caudill with no internal organs? Patricia
was confident there was a scientific
explanation, but she simply couldn’t imagine what it was just yet.
Of course, they’d do more tests. . . .
Nevertheless, there
was no need to tell Byron. It’d just give him
one more thing to worry about.
She stepped out onto
the little patio off her bedroom to stand amid part of the garden.
The cicadas thrummed—she was finally getting used to it. It just
kept taking her back to her childhood. The scents off the myriad
flowers smelled luscious: asters, pyxies, and goldenrod. Being here
continued to supplant her. She was no longer the high-roller
attorney from the city; she was the country girl at home in the
midst of nature. But now so many ugly facts kept dicing that image
of the peaceful—and very sane—backwoods town.
Murder. Drugs. Turf
wars by some unseen dope gang.
Every place has something, she thought. Doesn’t matter if it’s the city or the
sticks.
At the end of the
yard, near the kiosk, she spotted Judy wandering about the flowers;
the troubled look on her face was no surprise. Talk about being thrown for a loop, Patricia thought. Judy was not a
sophisticated woman. Since Dwayne’s death, too many things that
were wrong about her environment threatened her ability to view her
life and the world.
She doesn’t know which end is up. . .
.
“Hi,” Patricia
greeted her, meandering up the path.
“Oh, hi, Patricia.
I’m just out moseying around. Beautiful day, isn’t
it?”
Small talk is all she can deal with, Patricia
realized. “Yeah, it sure is. And your
gardens really top it all off. Everything looks the same as it did
when we were kids.”
Judy sat down on a
stone bench, her hands clasped in her lap. “Yeah, but just because
they look the same don’t mean they are
the same. It’s like everything’s gone mad overnight. Chief Sutter
just called me, said Junior Caudill’s dead.”
Here we go. Patricia knew the day would be a
tailspin now. “I heard about that myself—”
“Drug dealin’,
murder, arson—all on my land. And God knows what killed Junior.
Never thought much of him—he was always into trouble—and now
he’s dead too. ”
“Judy, there’s no
reason to believe that his death is related to anything that’s been
happening in Squatterville.” Patricia knew at once that this was
going to be a long day. “He probably had a heart attack,” she
urged, not adding the little part about Junior not even
having a heart. “They’re still doing
tests is what I heard, and there were no signs of foul play.
Anyway, all these things that are happening lately don’t have
anything to do with you. There are a lot of Squatters living out
here. It stands to reason that a few of them will get up to no
good. It’s human nature.”
Judy looked up
dolefully. “I hate to think of what Mom and Dad would say about
this. They never had problems with the Squatters, but now that I’m
in charge around here, everything’s goin’ to hell. And now I just
feel worse about it. You come all the way out here to help me, and
look what happens. Folks killin’ each other. I wouldn’t blame ya if
you never came back to this godforsaken place.”
Patricia knew that
she had to work around her sister’s mood swings, not confront them
head-on. “Of course I will; you’re my sister. And you should come
out to visit Byron and me sometimes, too. But let’s just take
things one day at a time. Look at the good things. Your company’s
doing better than ever, and the Squatters who haven’t turned bad have never been happier or more
productive. You have this beautiful house in a beautiful place.
You’re a successful businesswoman with lots to look forward
to.”
Judy shrugged,
noncommital. Some people just had it in their heads that everything
was terrible. That’s my sister,
Patricia thought. “So what’s on the agenda today?” she
asked.
Before her sister
could answer, a horn honked. Past the shrubs Patricia saw an old
pickup truck idling on the dirt road that descended the hill toward
the Point.
Judy looked at her
watch. “My, where has the day gone? It’s time to go.”
“Go
where?”
“The Squatter
cookout. Oh, that’s right, you ain’t been to one since you were a
kid, but they are a lot of fun. Come on.” ,
Patricia honestly
didn’t remember these cookouts. When she looked at her own watch
she saw that she, too, had lost track of time. Where’s the day gone? She followed Judy down the
path that exited the backyard. “Who’s in the pickup truck?” she
asked.
“Ernie. He’ll be
driving us down there.”
This is just what I need. Patricia thought The
truck jostled down the dirt road, springs creaking. She and Judy
had squeezed up front on the bench seat, the pickup’s back bed
loaded up with baskets of food and chests full of ice. Of course,
Patricia ended up being in the middle, pressed right up against
Ernie behind the wheel. Ernie wore his typical work jeans and boots
but also a nice white dress shirt. Redneck
high fashion, Patricia mused. Why does he have to look
so good all the time? By now the
situation amused her as much as aggravated her: how fate kept
putting them together. Every time he shifted gears, his hand slid
against her bare knee. Yeah, that’s
just what I need. . . .
“Really whacked out
about Junior Caudill, huh?” Ernie made conversation.
Don’t bring it up! Patricia wished she could tell
him. Don’t bring up anything that’s been going on. Judy’s enough of a basket
case as it is. “He probably just had a heart attack; it
happens.” She desperately shifted subjects. “So what kind of food
did you prepare for this banquet?”
“Oh, just side
dishes,” Judy answered glumly. “All the main courses they make. The
Squatters really do have a talent for usin’ what the land gives ’em
and turning it into a cuisine a’ their own.”
Ernie laughed,
nudging Patricia. “Aw, yer sister’s a big fan of Squatter food,
Judy. Just the other day she drank a whole cup of ald that Regert made for her down at the pier. Said
it was the best thing she ever tasted.”
Patricia frowned,
remembering the drink’s tang. “Actually, Ernie, it wasn’t the best thing I’ve ever
tasted.”
He raised a finger to
denote an additional point. “Oh, yeah, and she also ate a whole
bowl of pepper-fried cicadas.”
“I ate one! And never will again.”
Ernie winked at her
with a cocked grin. “She never did tell me if they worked,
though.”
Patricia almost
blushed at the inside joke, recalling the wives’-tale insistence
that cicadas had an aphrodisiac effect.
She also remembered
the dense sexual fugue state she’d experienced after eating
it.
I was going to have sex with him. . . . She choked
before she could respond. And I can’t blame
the damn fried cicadas. I can only blame my own weakness and
immorality.
But she’d stopped
short, hadn’t she? I said no at the
last minute, so I never really cheated on
Byron. . . .
Judy was scowling at
her. “Patricia, one thing you don’t
need to be eatin’ are cicadas, not unless your husband is with ya.”
Ernie chuckled softly
to himself, their inside joke still alive. Patricia wanted to wilt
right there on the front seat. My God . .
.
Ordinarily the acre
or so of land before Squatterville was barren, but now it looked
more like a fairground. Savory smoke drifted off of open-pit fires
over which abundant meats were being cooked. Squatter women busied
themselves at fold-down tables, serving up plates heaped with
steaming meals. Lines of people, Squatters and townsfolk alike,
trailed around the table, chatting amiably. As the sun faded, the
scene appeared almost surreal: faces seemed diced into wedges of
firelight. Chatter warbled in and out, and laughter rose
up.
“There’s pitchers of
ald over there.” Ernie pointed to
another table. “Too bad there’s no booze.”
“Hush,” Judy
whispered. “Just ’cos Squatters don’t drink don’t mean we can’t.”
And then Patricia and Ernie saw her lower a silver flask into a
pocket.
“This is some feast,”
Patricia said, marveling over the various dishes set out. Ernie
appeared behind her with a loaded plate. “Try some duck. The
Squatters do it up great. It’s slow-roasted.”
Patricia took the
plate. It smelled delicious, the skin dark and crisp.
“And you must have some of this, big sister,” Judy insisted,
thrusting a pewter mug toward her. “Squatter ald.”
“I had that the other
day. It tastes like swamp water!”
“Shh! The
Squatters’ll be offended, dear. You can’t decline their
hospitality,” Judy whispered lower. “And don’t worry; I tuned it up
with a drop of vodka.”
“Oh, teirific . .
.”
“Come on,” Ernie
coaxed her further. “When in Squatterville, do as the Squatters
do.”
When Patricia took a
sip, her brow shot up. Oh, yeah, just a drop of vodka . . . “You’re just trying to get me drunk,”
she joked to him.
“Why?” he said,
deadpan. Then he cracked a smile and laughed.
Oh, that’s right. She’d never forget what almost
happened in the woods. I’m just a
tease. The roasted duck came apart fork-tender beneath
crunchy skin. “My God, this is probably the best duck I’ve ever
had.”
“Glad ya like it,”
Ernie said. “It’s not really duck. It’s seagull.”
“You’re so funny. . .
.”
Her eyes roved the
other offerings on the table: stout sausages, steaming kettles of
stew, homemade biscuits and seasoned flatbreads. The aromas were
almost erotic. Byron would go to town
here, she thought. Another table sat heavy with various crab
dishes. Something like a Newburg cooked in empty shells,
crab-stuffed wild peppers, crabmeat po’boys. She helped herself to
several fried crab fritters and found them delectably crunchy
inside. “These are fantastic!” she exclaimed, cheeks
stuffed.
On her third one,
Judy tugged her arm. “Not too many a’ the fritters, hon. It’s the
Squatter crabcake recipe wrapped around a fried
cicada.”
Not those things again!
Ernie
laughed.
Next Patricia scanned
around in general. The quiet revelry buzzed around her; it all
seemed so hearty and honest. But again she thought it strange to
have such a feastlike cookout so soon after four Squatters had been
killed. The positivity of their religion, she remembered.
Almost like evangelists. Even death is a
joyous occasion, because death is just another step toward eternal
life in heaven.
Patricia hoped that
was true.
She sampled more
food, finding the cuisine complex and fascinating. Judy wandered
off, tipsy already, while Patricia and Ernie stood aside to eat and
people-watch. I must be getting tipsy,
too, she suspected, or maybe it was just fatigue compounded by the
perplexities of the day . . . especially her experience at the
morgue. She pushed the morbid images from her mind and instead just
tried to relax, melting into the lazy, darkening atmosphere.
Squatters greeted her happily, offering her more of their wares.
Music—a quavering violin, it sounded like—echoed around the
grounds, yet she couldn’t pinpoint the source. As the sun died
completely, faces seemed brighter and more focused somehow, in
spite of the seeping darkness.
“There’s the money
man,” Ernie commented. At the last table she spotted Gordon Felps
sampling a cobblerlike dessert. He seemed to sense her notice,
looked up and nodded to her, then returned his attention to the
person talking to him: Judy. She doesn’t
really have a crush on him, does she? Patricia asked
herself. She could tell by Ernie’s sedate expression that he found
it amusing. But at least her sister was getting over Dwayne;
perhaps it took his death to make her realize what an awful person
he truly had been, not even worth mourning. Chief Sutter and Trey
cruised another table full of plank-roasted bluefish and large
soft-shell clams whose necks stood out straight from steaming.
Sutter actually manipulated two plates of food, which wasn’t
surprising. Eventually he wended his way over to Patricia and
Ernie.
“Some spread, huh,
Patricia?”
“It’s incredible,”
she said. “I didn’t think I’d like much of this type of cuisine,
but so far every single thing I’ve had is delicious.”
“Even the
crab-and-cicada fritters?” Ernie joked.
“Even the
crab-and-cicada fritters, Ernie,” she admitted.
“Oh”—Sutter changed
the subject—“the county coroner told me you’d been in
today.”
Damn. She hoped this wouldn’t open a can of worms.
“I just wanted some details on Dwayne’s death.”
“Pretty off-the-wall.
So you also know about Junior Caudill, then.”
It wasn’t a question;
Patricia sensed he was fishing for something. “Yes, she did mention
it.”
“Even stranger than
Dwayne.” Sutter shook his head.
“Damn near everyone
in town’s heard that news,” Ernie piped up. “Some contagious
disease that dissolved all his insides.”
Sutter smirked.
“There ain’t no contagious disease, Ernie, and don’t’cha be tellin’
folks anything of the sort. The rumors’re bad enough around
here.”
Ernie shrugged. “Just
tellin’ ya what I heard, Chief.”
“I don’t think it was
anything contagious, Ernie,” Patricia added. “But I don’t guess
we’ll know anything until more tests are done on the
body.”
“The kick in the tail
is there ain’t no evidence a’ foul play, yet everyone thinks that’s
exactly what it was,” Ernie said.
Patricia kept her
mouth shut and her ears open.
“And it don’t help
for Junior’s brother to be accusin’ Everd Stanherd of being
involved and then for Everd to disappear,” Sutter stepped up the
gossip. “I don’t believe nothin’ that comes outta Ricky Caudill’s
yap, but that don’t change the fact that I got no choice but to
drag Everd ‘n’ his wife in for questioning.”
Interesting, Patricia thought. “I hadn’t even
noticed. Neither Everd nor Marthe is here.”
“Probably never see
’em again,” Ernie said.
“Maybe they ain’t
disappeared at all,” Sutter offered, stuffing his face. “Maybe
they’re dead.”
“How would they come
to be dead?” Patricia had to challenge.
“Well, it was
something Trey was kickin’ about, and now that I think of it, it
makes sense. Already had a couple a’ turf killings over dope. Maybe
Everd ‘n’ his wife were part a’ the same dope ring that David Eald
and the Hilds were in.”
Both Patricia and
Ernie frowned at that one.
Sutter looked like he
regretted the suggestion a moment later. “Well, I guess that is
stretchin’ things a bit.” Suddenly he was looking around. “Speakin’
of Trey . . .”
“He was just here a
minute ago,” Ernie said.
Patricia looked
around herself, straining her vision in the fire-diced dark.
Sergeant Trey was nowhere to be seen.