When it’s a pleasant morning, mama likes to sweep the back porch. The exercise is good for her, the doctors say, and I think she might get a vague comfort out of doing a job well. Alzheimer’s patients use simple, repetitive actions as their own security blanket, as though cleaning a porch for six hours replaces having a life full of fear and love and joy and sorrow. The next morning I found Lorna sitting on the back porch with an unusually dapper Mama, talking to her while Mama clenched her favorite broom. As I poured myself a cup of coffee I could hear Lorna’s voice through the screen door. “Of course Jordan isn’t the easiest person to love. I guess you know that.
He likes his own way sometimes, and he can get a little sharp-tongued.
My mother never could stand him; she thought he was a real hick, despite his urbanity when he lived up north. I hope you’re not offended by that, Mrs. Poteet.” The gentle swishing of the broom against wood was the only answer. Mama had been unusually quiet since Lorna’s arrival. I paused by the door, not wanting to listen-but not being able to help myself. This sounded like the Lorna of old, the one who lived behind the bravado, and the one I’d been missing. “I think I understand now how Jordan felt when he lived up north. Missing home doesn’t sound so silly anymore. Of course he had you and Arlene and Mark to come home to. I’ve got a sick fern and a pile of bills.” I coughed loudly in the kitchen and slammed a cupboard door, letting her know I was around. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear much about Lorna’s lonely life up north. Maybe it was lonely now only because Greg was dead. She met my eyes as I came out onto the porch with the coffee, then glanced up toward heaven. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” was all Lorna ventured by means of conversation. I had to agree with her. The Saturday-morning sky was a faultless blue, shimmering toward white in the early-morning warmth. It was going to be another hot summer day, without a hint of rain. Or at least for the next five minutes. They say if you don’t like the weather in Texas, wait five minutes and it’ll change. Summer afternoons often brought quick, drenching showers when moist air pushed in from the Gulf. Afterward, it was like being in a sauna, your clothes adhering to your skin in the heavy humidity.
It wasn’t raining now, though, and I blinked up at the fine blue sky.
It offered a conversational refuge. “Yes, it’s real pretty.” I stared down into my coffee cup. I wasn’t going to ask her how she’d slept.
“I’m going to have to go into the library. Can you entertain yourself for a while?” “I’m quite good at that.” Lorna tucked her feet under her bottom. She glanced over at Mama. “Maybe I’ll just stay here and keep your mother company.” She blinked at me. “I’m sorry I never got to meet her before she got sick.” “Me, too. I think y’all would have liked each other.” I didn’t know what else to say; I didn’t believe that myself. Mama would have thought Lorna far too brassy, I feared. I finished my coffee. “I got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” “Here you are.” Sister strode out onto the deck, nodding a good morning at Lorna. “Are you ready to go over to the cemetery? C’mon, Mama, let’s go. Mark’s in the car.” I felt like I’d walked onto a stage and I didn’t know my next line. “Cemetery? Freddy’s funeral surely isn’t today, is it?” Sister’s green eyes steeled. “Jordan Michael Poteet, you have forgotten that today is the anniversary of Daddy’s death. Six years ago. I thought we’d go over this morning before work and put flowers on his grave.” She glanced at Lorna. “I guess you’ve had too much on your mind.” “Oh, God, Sister, I’m sorry. I totally forgot.
Yes, let’s go and do that now.” My face felt hot with shame and embarrassment. Daddy’s death had just about killed me; he’d been my best friend, my pal, my mentor, until the cancer took him in a slow, agonizing embrace. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten, especially in light of learning that Bob Don was my biological father. “I’ve got an order waiting for us at Neuberg’s Florist,” Sister said, ushering Mama inside and pausing on the doorway. “Lorna, I’m sure you understand that the family needs some privacy right now. Franklin said he could stay on guard until eleven, then they’ll have someone replace him.”
“Of course, Arlene. You guys go on to the cemetery. I’ll be fine.” She forced a smile and followed us inside. The Mirabeau cemetery, lying far from the river on the east side of town, is beautifully maintained-an expanse of clipped grass, marked by marble monuments to lives once lived. A gravel road cuts a circle through the middle; beyond it lie the oldest graves, those with solely German names, denoting the earliest Bavarian colonists who settled the river land.
The dead here start in the 1830s, and in a back corner lie markers with only first names, those of the few slaves that lived in this section of Bonaparte County and only found equality in their cold coffins. I parked my Chevy Blazer near the Poteet section; there were at least twenty tombstones with that surname. My mother’s people, the Schneiders, outnumber the Poteets considerably and there are even some of them in the old German section. I have not ever looked to see how well represented Bob Don’s people are. “My, it’s going to be hot today.” Sister fanned herself with a brochure from the florist as I struggled to pull the wreath out of the back. She’d abandoned her earlier frostiness to me, but I sensed I wasn’t entirely out of the doghouse. Mark stood, holding Mama’s hand. Mama seemed to know she was around old friends and happily gossiped with the breeze. We walked over to Daddy’s grave, looking lonely in its plot of Poteet land. His own parents were a bit farther away, and the plots next to him-the ones reserved for Mama, me, Sister, and Mark-were, of course, empty. I wondered if he missed us as much as I missed him. Sister and I set up the wreath, steadying it against the granite marker. Sister inspected the grave, making sure no fire ants had desecrated our father’s rest.
I stepped back to admire our handiwork. Sister frowned at me, as though I’d missed a cue. “Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?” she demanded. “What? You want me to make a speech?” I pointed at the wreath. “Doesn’t that say enough?” She stared at the flowers, and her tears came quickly. She cried silently for several minutes, Mark leaning against her in comfort, Mama watching a pair of bees dance above her husband’s stone. I crossed my arms, stared down at my shoes, and kept my own thoughts. Finally Sister wiped her face, sniffled, and said: “Mark. Take your grandmother to the car. I need to talk to Uncle Jordy a minute.” “Aw, Mom, it’s hot in the car-” “Here. Turn on the air conditioner.” I tossed the keys at Mark and he went, knowing she would brook no argument. Mama laughed as they stumbled among the graves, winding their way back to the road. “Look, Sister, I’m sorry I forgot-” “You just tell me, Jordy. I need to know. Are you forgetting about him? Does he not matter to you anymore, now that you’ve got a new father?” I blinked. “Of course he matters to me. How could you ask that? I could never forget Daddy!” “You did today. I realize that all this mess with Lorna has you distracted, but you don’t ever talk about Daddy anymore. We used to laugh about his old Aggie jokes, the way he could impersonate Cousin Pearl, how he taught us to play baseball when we were kids. You don’t ever mention that now.” I shook my head. “This is crazy.” “Is it? You’ve got a new father, one that’s just chomping at the bit to be the World’s Greatest Dad to you. I don’t have that luxury. I’ve buried my daddy. I don’t have a replacement waiting in the wings.” “No one-not even Bob Don-could replace Daddy, Sister. Bob Don may want to be a father to me, but hell, I’m still not used to the idea of him being my father. If you think this has been hard on you, you don’t have a clue what it’s been like for me.” I knelt by Daddy’s wreath and fingered the ribbon of blue-his favorite color-that hung from the circle of flowers. “And my having a relationship with Bob Don- if I choose to have one-doesn’t mean I’ve betrayed Daddy.” “I’m not so sure I believe that, Jordy.” I stood. “Have you forgotten that Mama, Mark, and I would probably be dead if it wasn’t for Bob Don?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. Have you forgotten that your precious Bob Don slept with our mother when she was married to Daddy?” “Hardly.” I patted my chest. “You wouldn’t have me to torture if he hadn’t.” “And that’s the man you have as a father now.” She wiped her tears and pointed down at the grave we stood arguing over. “I’m angry. I’m angry the man who could have broken up our parents’ marriage wants to be in our lives. And don’t say it’s just your life. It’s mine, too. You’re my brother and I love you. But I’m furious and I’ve got every right to be.” I shrugged. “I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know what I even want from Bob Don. I’m certainly not prepared to dismiss him from my life. You can’t ask me to do that.” “No. I don’t expect that.” I heard the distant whine of a car and saw a steel-gray Cadillac Seville churning dust along the cemetery road. “God, does he have radar?”
Sister asked. We watched Bob Don’s Caddy park behind my Blazer. He got out of the car, smoothing his crown of hair into place, carrying a large bouquet of flowers. “My God, he remembered and you didn’t.”
Sister walked in Bob Don’s direction as he tentatively approached Daddy’s grave. “Hi, Bob Don. I’m sure you and your son would like some time together.” He heard the hardness in her voice. “I’m sorry, Arlene. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” “Give Jordy a ride to the library, would you? I have to take Mama home.” She didn’t wait for a reply. I remained silent as he laid the flowers on Daddy’s grave, the only noise the retreating engine of my car as my sister gunned it down the cemetery path. “Thanks for coming,” I said, at a loss for original conversation. “I’m a little surprised you’re here.” “I’d planned to stop by today, but I called and Lorna said y’all were out here. I hoped you wouldn’t mind me coming out while you were here.” “I don’t mind. I can’t speak for my sister.” He tucked his hand into the back of his well-worn khakis. “She still ain’t used to me. That’s okay.
It’ll take some time.” “Yeah, but she has to be willing to give you that time, Bob Don. She’s not exactly comfortable with what you represent in our family’s past.” “Boy, you are the biggest brooder I ever saw.” Bob Don smiled up at me, shielding his eyes from the morning glare. “I’ve always believed that a man should go on with what life dealt him and try not to fret about it so much.” The thought rose in my mind, unbidden: Maybe that’s why you could wait until my mother was crazy and my daddy was dead to tell me the truth. It wasn’t fair; he’d only been holding up his end of a damnably hard bargain. “I don’t mean to be a brooder. I suppose I have more than my share to fret over.” “Arlene messing with your head?” “No. Lorna and Candace.” I kicked at the grass. “I got women troubles, Bob Don. I got one in my house that needs me and one that’s pretty upset about the situation.”
“You love that Lorna?” Bob Don has never been one for beating around bushes. “I did once, I think. I’m not sure. I don’t know what love is.” “Now that, boy, is unadulterated bullshit.” Bob Don put his hands on his ample hips and shook his head at me. “Excuse me?” “Nobody who was raised with as much love as you could say they don’t know what love is. Your mama loves you.” He pointed down at Lloyd Poteet’s grave. “And you can’t tell me that man didn’t love you. God, he loved you. And your sister and your nephew love you, and I do believe Miss Candace Tully loves you. You’ve known more love in your life than most, Jordy. So don’t try telling me that you can’t figure out what to do about them gals ‘cause you don’t know what love is. You’re just goddamned lazy.” He imitated a drawly rasp of a whine on the last few words that I was sure represented my voice. I started to parry with a sharp reply, but ended up staring down at Daddy’s grave. Bob Don’d scored a hit against me and I knew it. I ran a finger along the clayred granite top of Daddy’s marker, the stone beginning to heat in the rising temperature. “Do I love Lorna? I’m sure I did once.” “Once ain’t now.” “No, it’s not. A lot’s changed. I’m not sure what I want.
If I was back with her-” “You could go on back to big ol’ Boston town and not fret no more about having a new daddy and a sick mama.” Bob Don, awkwardly, put a beefy hand on my shoulder. And as I looked into his face I saw that folks had been wrong; I wasn’t the spitting image of my mother. There was a lot of his face in mine-the wide eyes, the gentle taper of the nose, the high cheekbones, and the ruddy skin.
Standing over my daddy’s grave, I nearly shuddered at the shock of the realization. “I’m not interested in ducking my obligations, Bob Don.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you were. God knows I’m not one to accuse some soul of avoiding responsibility. But I think I know what that Yankee gal means to you. Your old life back, with none of these complications. You may love Candace and your mama, but they make life a little harder to live.” “Can you take me to the library? I’m running late now and if I lose my job, my life will be complicated for sure.”
“Glad to, son.” He glanced down at the double spray of flowers on Daddy’s grave. “See, Lloyd? I’m doing my best to take care of him now.
Just like I promised.” I spent the rest of that Saturday morning doing library business: drafting a grant application for more government money (the competition among rural libraries can be intense), ordering some new children’s books (that’s our fastest-growing section-we’re a fertile bunch in Mirabeau), and getting advice on how to heal my arm from our elderly patrons, many of whom still believe that a shot of whiskey mixed in a dollop of honey will cure pert near anything. I’d called Junebug earlier in the morning and told him what Lorna had told me about Greg’s business and his silent partner, Doreen Miller. He hadn’t called back with any news. Eula Mae and Nina Hernandez stopped by to festoon the library bulletin board with colorful flyers that proclaimed JOIN SAVE OUR RIVER ECOLOGY (S.O.R.E.)! CONTRIBUTE AND PROTECT MIRABEAU’S FUTURE. “I hope,” I observed acidly while watching Eula Mae indiscriminately shoot the cork with a staple gun, “that those flyers are printed with nontoxic inks on recycled paper.” “Of course they are!” Nina retorted. She seemed to have recovered from her interrogation after Greg’s murder and to be possessed of a new zeal to defeat the land-acquisition plans. I winced as they stapled right over my poster for the summer reading program. “I don’t think there’s much chance of Intraglobal continuing with their plans for Mirabeau. Greg Callahan has one silent partner that no one can find yet, and she’ll probably want to pull out.” “We aren’t taking that chance.” Eula Mae smirked. “If it’s not Intraglobal, it’ll be some other scum-sucking outfit of post-Eighties yuppies looking for one last frontier to ruin.
Nina and I are amassing a good-sized war chest to fight development on the river.” “Just how big has this gotten, Eula Mae?” She is one, after all, to throw herself entirely into a project. Lucky she’s never developed an interest in quicksand. “We’ve raised nearly fifty-five thousand dollars,” Eula Mae said, the pride evident in her voice.
“With more pledged on the way. We’re going to hold a big dance over at the Veterans’ Hall, and we’ve got people going door-to-door to solicit contributions, and-” “And you are about to staple those to the bricks.
Give me that.” I wrested the staple gun from her over-eager hand before she could attach the next notice to a spot beyond the bulletin board. “Well, aren’t you a mite grumpy? Things tense over at the Chateau de Yankee Amour?” Eula Mae asked sweetly, grabbing the staple gun back from me. “Everything is fine,” I replied. “Don’t y’all have somewhere else to go? Or someone else to bother? I can’t believe Miss Twyla is letting the two of you run this.” I usually have a saint’s patience with Eula Mae, but today I felt decidedly heretical. “Miss Twyla has her mind on strategic matters. C’mon, Nina,” Eula Mae said, shaking her head sadly at me. “Jordy is just upset he’s not going to be able to sell that land of his now. Of course he’s probably getting ready to go back to Boston anyway, where I’m sure they’re used to having nasty polluted rivers.” With that parting shot, she left the field, an equally haughty Nina in tow. With the S.O.R.E. Sisters dismissed, I’d just finished eating a ham sandwich I’d fixed in our little back kitchen when Gretchen arrived. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased to see Gretchen. She’d gobbled that annoying Billy Ray Bummel like a freetail bat on a skeeter, and I had to like her a little for that. Even if the rest of the time she could be a bitch. She paused in front of my desk, dressed nicely in a chambray skirt and white dress shirt, turquoise and silver dripping from her neck, wrists, and ears.
Her graying hair had that just-did look. “Jordy, how are you?” “Fine, Gretchen, and you?” I wiped away the last of the crumbs on my mouth.
Since I didn’t have a napkin, I had to use the back of my hand. One Gretchen eyebrow arched and I tensed myself for criticism. As though she could say anything about my bad manners; I’d seen her stinking drunk. “Better than this morning. I thought you might like to know that oaf Billy Ray was just out at our house grilling Bob Don. He is absolutely fixated on that wire that the killer used to strangle poor Mr. Callahan.” I blinked. “He can’t think Bob Don had anything to do with this. It’s ridiculous.” “The ridiculous is Billy Ray’s specialty,” Gretchen snorted. “He’s totally ignoring that the fence isn’t just on our property. It’s on the line with the Loudermilks’ property.” “That’s true.” I nodded. “But maybe he’s already questioned the Loudermilks about it.” “I seriously doubt that. Parker Loudermilk says jump and Billy Ray says how high. Even though Billy Ray doesn’t work for Parker, he just can’t stifle that suck-up reflex of his.” I thought for a moment. “Why are you telling me this, Gretchen?” She was coming to me as an ally, but she’d certainly never encouraged my relationship with my birth father before. I was suspicious; it would be just like Gretchen to pretend to make pleasant overtures to me then slap me silly when I let my guard down. If Bob Don had told her we’d had a heart-to-heart out at the cemetery, she’d be envious as hell.
Gretchen is the kind of lady that if you had a heart transplant, she’d want one, too. Her lipsticked mouth thinned into a red line. “That’s a mean thing to ask. Obviously I want you to know that they’re bothering your-Bob Don.” She still couldn’t say the words your father, hadn’t been able to since the night she’d drunkenly, meanly informed me of my parentage. She set her blue leather purse on my desk. “I just thought you might like to know. So you can give him a call. Or maybe you can get Billy Ray to lay off him.” “Thanks, Gretchen, I will call him.” I glanced around the library; on such a fine summer day we were nearly deserted, except for permanent-fixture Old Man Renfro in the corner, reading a collection of Wallace Stevens’s poetry. “Can I ask you a question? I’m just curious why you had lunch with Greg Callahan the day he died. I understand he was supposed to have lunch with the Chamber of Commerce that day.” She measured me with a long stare.
There was something dull still in her eyes, even if she’d laid off the liquor. I’m not sure after all those years of drinking that a person could just spring back to life. I had to admire Gretchen though; she could take up for herself. “Yes, he did mention that he was supposed to have lunch with the Chamber of Commerce officers, but they’d had to cancel. I don’t know why. He ran into me outside the Sit-a-Spell and asked me to lunch.” “You’d met him before?” She smiled. “Why, yes, he’d come out to the house to offer Bob Don money for our riverfront land.” “Really? Bob Don said that he’d come and seen him at the car dealership.” “He was looking for Bob Don, so he came out to the house first.” Her words spilled out quickly, too quickly. “So I sent him over to the dealership.” “I just wondered.” “It’s really none of your business, though, who I have lunch with.” “But he didn’t know many folks in town, and he ended up murdered. I’m sure the police have already questioned you-” “Oh, that idiotic friend of yours, Junebug?
Honestly. I do wish that Bob Don would run for mayor someday so he’d fire that incompetent.” “He’s not incompetent. Or is he just an idiot because he’s my friend?” She smiled, back on familiar territory, with the battle lines drawn between us. “You, as always, have a high opinion of how much you bother me. You don’t bother me, little boy.”
Little boy was her favorite nonendearment for me and I knew when she used it that I was hitting nerves. She fumed on: “You think I’m the queen bitch in town, anyway, no matter what I do. I come here to tell you that Bob Don might need some support and you attack me.” “No, I don’t think you are the queen bitch, Gretchen, and I didn’t attack you.” I forced myself to take a long breath. “Can’t we try and make peace, please? I know you don’t like me being in your and Bob Don’s lives much and I’m sorry that it upsets you, but I am here. I’m here to stay.” The words came easily, far more easily than they ever could talking to one father over another father’s grave. “If you’re so proud of having Bob Don as your daddy, why haven’t you announced it to all the world?” Her bottom lip curled. “You sorry hypocrite. You accuse me of interfering with your relationship with my husband, and then you don’t have the nerve to own up to what you’re defending. You really are just a little fraud.” She leaned down into my face and I could smell the vaguely unpleasant odor of sweat under powder. “What did that Yankee gal see in you, anyhow? What does someone who counts in this town like Candace Tully see in you?” “I know what Bob Don sees in you, Gretchen. Someone to feel sorry for.” She stiffened and drew back. I felt bad for taunting her about her problem, but she’d hit a raw nerve with me and I’d lashed back without giving much thought. “As long as you’re casting aspersions, why don’t you look in your own house for someone to grill?” Her voice had a hollowness to it, like her throat had been drained of blood. “Yeah, right, like I’d believe anything you say.” She’d rip Lorna to shreds if she thought it would hurt me. She shrugged. “Makes no never mind to me, little boy. But you might want to be more careful about who you have taking care of your precious mama.” “What did you say?” “That snooty nurse of yours. I saw her talking three days ago with Greg Callahan, in his car. I didn’t know who he was then, of course, but I recognized him when met him.
‘Cause I wondered why Clo Butterfield was sitting in a car down in the town square with a rich-lookin’ white fellow.” “You’re making this up.” Her smile was pure enjoyment. “I’m afraid not. He was probably wantin’ to know just how poor you are so he could entice you to sell him your land. I mean, Clo Butterfield could probably tell him just how much financial strain you’re under. You got to depend on Bob Don to pay her measly old salary.” “If Clo was talking with Greg, I’m sure there’s a good reason.” I couldn’t think of one, though. And why hadn’t she mentioned it? “Ask her,” Gretchen suggested unhelpfully.
“But if you fire her, don’t be expecting Bob Don to hire you another one. You’re lucky he’s even willing to put up the money for your crazy old mother anyway.” I stood, feeling heat in my hands. “I think that’s enough, Gretchen. Maybe you should go.” Gretchen tucked her purse back under her arm. “I’m sorry I even tried to talk to you about Bob Don. I can only tell him that I once again made an effort to be friendly to you and you pushed me away.” She turned on her heel in a way I’m sure she’d mastered from watching soap operas and took her leave, whisking arrogantly out of my office. I could only imagine what sort of version of this incident Bob Don would hear. Gretchen was right on one point, though. I hadn’t publicly owned up to Bob Don being my dad. And he was caught between two people that he cared about who obviously had nothing better to do than snipe at each other. I made myself sit down.
Clo with Greg? What the hell was that about? Or was it just a lie on Gretchen’s part to rile me up? I picked up the phone and dialed Bob Don’s number. He answered on the first ring, his drawling voice sounding tired. “Bob Don? Hey, it’s Jordy.” “Hi, son, how are you?”
“I’m fine. Listen, Gretchen was just by and said that Billy Ray was giving you a hard time about that wire. You okay?” “Oh, I’m fair to middlin’. I think he’s figgered that I didn’t have anything to do with that poor feller’s murder. Once he saw that Callahan was going to offer me fifty thousand for that land, he realized I would have been a sight happier with Callahan alive.” “Fifty thousand? Wow.” I wondered if my land, somewhat smaller in size than Bob Don’s lot, would have fetched such a high price. “Gretchen told you they were bothering me?
That was decent of her to come by and see you.” His voice held a shred of hope that there’d be peace between his wife and son. I opened my mouth to tell him how charmed I’d been by sweet Gretchen’s visit, then shut it. “Yes, it was thoughtful.” “You are trying, aren’t you, Jordy, to get along with her?” “Sure, Bob Don.” “Good, ‘cause I’ve been awful worried about her. I been wondering if she’s been nippin’ a bit when she gets upset.” I cleared the stone from my throat. “You mean drinking?” “Yeah. I don’t have proof, but after Callahan got killed, she seemed a little tight. But I couldn’t smell it on her breath, and I couldn’t find a bottle anywhere, so I couldn’t say anything. It might’ve been nothing; she just might’ve been upset. It’s unnervin’ when someone you just met dies.” “You’re right about that,” I murmured. Great, Gretchen might be leaning back toward the bottle and here I was giving her a little shove. I hoped I hadn’t upset her too much with our bickering. The last crisis Bob Don needed was Gretchen tumbling out of sobriety. Bob Don asked about Lorna and Mama; I assured him they were fine. He invited me to have lunch with him next week and I accepted. “Well, goodbye, son. I enjoyed our talk this morning. You call me if I can help,” he finally said. “I will. Thanks.
Goodbye.” I hung up. He called me son all the time, and I called him by his Christian name. I couldn’t call him Dad; I’d already had a father I’d loved and lost. I abhorred the prospect of hurting Bob Don, but I couldn’t help myself. Bricks walled in my tongue anytime I thought of referring to him in fatherly terms. I went back to my work, rolling my eyes at the administrivia involved in grant writing and wondering if robbing banks would be simpler. Junebug called me later, sounding bone weary on the other end of the line. “Teresa examined the house today. She’s pretty sure that Freddy was holding the explosive when it went off. It was about a 14?-inch pipe bomb, and we think it was in a briefcase.” He paused. “Chet might be able to rebuild, but it’s going to be a long process. He might just tear the Mirabeau B. down and start again.” I swallowed; that house had been a part of growing up for every native of Mirabeau, and I couldn’t imagine some new building in its place. I concentrated on what Junebug had said about Freddy. “So what the hell does it mean that Freddy was next to the bomb?” I asked. “He’s the mad bomber and he blew himself up? I can’t see Freddy doing anything to hurt real-estate prices, and terrorism does have that effect on the market. Unless he wanted to blow up the Mirabeau B. to build a fast-food restaurant.” Junebug didn’t laugh at my tasteless humor. “I don’t know. I also am trying to track down that Doreen Miller Lorna told you about. Haven’t found her yet. I got the Boston police going through Intraglobal’s offices, but they haven’t found anything. Doesn’t seem like Mr. Callahan kept too many records.” Odder and odder. “Well, what about Greg’s lawyer, that Martin Noone fellow? Or this Gary Zadich that Greg was going to sell the land to?” “I talked to Zadich today. He says he never even heard of Greg Callahan or Intraglobal, but I’m not sure I believe him. He sounds like a Houston wharf rat to me. I got the chief over in Bavary talking to Mr. Noone, but he says he only met once with Callahan to discuss being the attorney of record on the deal. He doesn’t know anything about Callahan or Intraglobal.” Junebug paused. “I did learn a singularly interestin’ fact, though. Did you know Tiny Parmalee worked with explosives when he was in the army?” “Now I know the Department of Defense needs more careful monitoring,” I muttered. “Are you serious?” “Yep. I think Sergeant Garza and I may have to have a few talks with ol’ Tiny.” Tiny Parmalee as the bomber? It’d never occurred to me; frankly I didn’t think he would know lickety about pipe bombs or blasting caps. Apparently I was wrong. I suddenly remembered his gibe at me at the library about nearly getting blown up. My mouth felt dry and I switched topics. “I’m wondering something, Junebug, if you can tell me. There was that phone number written on the pad in Greg’s room. Did you find out who that belonged to?” There was silence on the other end. “Yeah, but I think I better keep that close to my vest.” “Oh, come on! I helped you with that computer stuff. I’m just curious as to who Greg was calling.” If he’d been having little tete-a-tetes with Clo, God only knew who else in town he’d been visiting. Perhaps he and Sister had gone canoeing on the river, or he’d taken Mama to the movies in Bavary. “I’m counting on your discretion, Jordy,” Junebug warned. “You got it.” I practically leaned into the phone. “Which is why I know you won’t ask me again.
Goodbye.” The phone clicked in my ear, which was good. I didn’t want Junebug to hear what I called him. I finished my day’s work on writing the grant request and left the library in the hands of Florence Pettus. (On an incredible summer day like today, it was as empty as last year’s bird nest.) Then I headed toward Freddy Jacksill’s office.
He’d ended up dead as well, and I wondered if I could piece any of this jigsaw together if I started in his corner. Rivertown Real Estate stood in a corner spot in Mirabeau’s downtown block, right off Mayne Street. It occupied the bottom two floors in a faded red-brick building. Like several of the other buildings in downtown Mirabeau, it had 1844 carved into its stone, signifying the year the town began its one and only major growth spurt. Being a Saturday, there wasn’t much activity going on in the business district, except for a few old men sipping cold Dr Peppers in the shade of the hardware store. A CLOSED sign hung lopsided on the door, but I could see Freddy’s partner, Linda Hillard, on the phone at the front desk. I tapped and she waved at me, still speaking into the phone. Trying the doorknob, I found it unlocked and stepped into the welcoming coolness of air-conditioning.
Linda was practically barking into the phone, in her raspy smoker’s voice: “Yes, Miz Tyree. I understand that you were supposed to close on your house this Monday. But Freddy’s dead, ma’am, and we may just have to push it back. I haven’t been able to find your file.” A moment’s silence. “Yes, Miz Tyree, I know that life goes on.” Linda made an obscene gesture toward the receiver while still keeping her saleswoman’s smile firmly in place. “Yes, I’ll call the title company and see if we can proceed on schedule. Yes, Miz Tyree, I’ll call you back later. Goodbye now.” Linda slammed the phone down and muttered, “Mean old bitch!” She didn’t seem to notice that I’d come in for a moment as she ran her hand through her short red hair and adjusted her tortoise-rim eyeglasses. Then she glanced up at me and managed a smile. Linda keeps our romance section at the library circulating pretty well. “My favorite librarian. How are you?” “Fine, thanks. I wanted to stop by and say how sorry I was about Freddy.” “Oh, thanks, Jordy. I shouldn’t even be here, but Freddy had so much business going on all over the county that I’ve been on the phone all day calling his accounts. I just can’t leave ‘em dangling; my competitors over in Bavary might pick them up, and I can’t afford that. Don’t I sound awful?” She blinked back tears behind her thick glasses. “Freddy’s dead and I’m worrying about stupid old land. I have just become every negative real-estate stereotype.” I sat down next to her. “No, you haven’t. All you can do right now is cope and do your best.” She gestured to the back of the office. “I got some coffee brewing, and my mama brought me a fresh peach pie this morning. Want a piece?” I nodded and followed Linda back to the small kitchen area of the office. “I suppose you’re here for the same reasons that Miss Twyla and the Loudermilks have been bugging me all morning. Not to mention that crazy tree hugger from Austin.” “Uh… I don’t know. I did want to talk to you about Greg Callahan.” Linda made a face as she cut two good-sized wedges from the pie. The crust looked that perfect brown you only get with home-baked pies and my mouth began to water. “I’m tired of hearing about him. I’m starting to think he was nothing but a crook.” “Why do you say that, Linda?” I asked carefully. Obviously Junebug hadn’t yet spilled Greg’s land scam. She placed a plate of pie, a dessert fork, and a linen napkin in front of me (Linda is a details person), then turned back to the coffee machine. “Decaf okay with you? I’m too hyper to drink octane.” “Fine,” I said. “I think Greg might have been a crook, too.” “He tried to buy your land, right?” “Well, his colleague Lorna Wiercinski made a pitch to me about it. I knew her in Boston.” No need to tell Linda more; she was a gossip. That’s why I was talking to her. “Oh, that tall girl. She’s a looker. I thought Callahan might be chasing after her, but I didn’t know. Lord knows Freddy would’ve liked to get to know her better.”
Linda’s hazel eyes misted. “Poor Freddy. I guess he won’t get to annoy any more women. Old sweet thing never did get flirting down right. And poor sugar thought this Intraglobal deal was his lucky ticket. He kept hinting about how much money he’d make, even after poor Mr. Callahan got killed.” I sipped at my coffee. It tasted slightly smoky and stale. I tasted the peach pie-perfection: sweet and sticky and crisp.
“Did you spend much time around Callahan?” It was a simple question, but it seemed to require ample consideration from Linda and several chomps of pie. “I didn’t see too much of him-he was Freddy’s pet project. Freddy had this image of getting some huge commission off the land sales and didn’t want me horning in.” She coughed, as though attempting to dislodge further information from her throat. I pulled.
“I thought there was something shady about him, too, Linda.” It didn’t require much of a yank to get her talking again. She leaned forward, as though the remains of the peach pie might have ears. “Not as much shady as lecherous. I think he was stirring up a mess at the Loudermilk place.” I bit my bottom lip. It had been obvious during the fire that Jenny and Dee Loudermilk were both unusually distraught, and Parker had seemed angry with Dee, telling her to keep her mouth shut.
“I thought something was going on between all of them when the Mirabeau B. was burning down,” I confided. “Parker seemed awful mad at Dee, but I didn’t know why.” My tidbit sparked Linda’s interest. She toyed with a slice of peach on her plate. “Well, he ought to be mad at that daughter of his, too. She’s nothing but a conniving little slut.”
“What, you mean Greg was chasing after Jenny and Dee?” I forgot to lower my voice, and although the office was empty, Linda shushed me.
“Chased and caught, I do believe. But I’m not certain.” “Wait a second, Linda, he wasn’t even here that long. And he wasn’t even that good-looking.” I was still irked that Lorna had taken Greg for a lover, so my memories of him were not kind ones. “How on earth did he seduce a mother and a daughter in that short time?” Linda shrugged.
“Well organized? Or well something. I don’t know. I just know that I caught Freddy admonishing him to stay away from Dee and Jenny if he didn’t want to sour the land deal.” I slumped. “Well, that’s hardly evidence of an affair, Linda.” “Give me more credit than that, Jordy.
Callahan was using the phone plenty to sweet-talk Jenny Loudermilk. I, well, accidentally”-the word was ever so slightly emphasized-“picked up line four when I was trying to hit line three last Monday morning and heard Greg asking Jenny to meet him.” “How do you know it was Jenny?” “He kept calling her Jen babe. As soon as I heard that petulantly whiny voice, I knew it was her.” “And what were they meeting for?” ‘To talk.” Linda made it sound like it was illegal. “And they had to be careful so they didn’t get caught, he said that in particular.” I mulled this over; Linda took my silence as judgment.
“Look, I don’t usually eavesdrop. I was just protecting this agency. I didn’t like Freddy being so involved with Greg anyhow-we hardly knew anything about him. He seemed too polished, too perfect in how he presented himself. Not a wart on the man.” She sniffed. “I mean, you could ask Jenny or Dee. They might know if he had any warts.” “Have you told all this to Junebug?” I asked. Linda glanced down at the remnants of her peach pie. “Yeah, but he didn’t seem too interested in it.” I leaned back in my chair. Assume, I told myself, for one moment that what Linda says is true. Greg sleeps with Jenny. Greg sleeps with Dee. Does either woman know about the other’s involvement? And what about Parker? What would he do if he thought either his wife or daughter had been seduced by this Yankee interloper? And if Freddy found out about Greg’s alleged misconduct with the ladies Loudermilk, could that give Parker a motive to silence both men? Freddy had said he’d make money even after Greg was dead. I remembered Parker Loudermilk’s dark eyes, the consuming blaze dancing in the black ballroom of his irises, his comment on the fire’s momentarily satisfying beauty. And I felt a chill in my heart.