A Killing at Cotton Hill (12 page)

“Help you carry something?” I say.

He looks me up and down with suspicion. “I'll hang onto my case,” he says.

Inside, Jackson spares us a drink of water, but doesn't offer anything more in spite of the fact that he's eager to know what we found out. I think about all those casseroles lined up in the refrigerator. Not that I want any of them, but it rankles me that he doesn't offer.

I tell Jackson we didn't see anything on our survey of the land that would make us jump up and holler.

“Well, I thank you for taking the time,” he says. We're standing in the kitchen. He hasn't offered us a seat.

Leslie Parjeter has been listening with great interest to our exchange. “You all was looking for oil on Dora Lee's land?”

“Natural gas, more likely,” DeWitt says. “But we didn't find any sign of it.”

“Be a fine thing if Dora Lee was sitting on property that was worth something,” Parjeter says.

“Daddy, I don't know why you care anything about that. You don't have any stake in it.”

“You don't know that for a fact. Has anybody found a will?”

Jackson and I both say no at the same time. I'm hit by a gut reaction to the idea of Jackson pawing through Dora Lee's papers. “I wouldn't worry,” I say to Parjeter, “You'll have your loan paid back.”

“So you know all about that, do you?” he says, his shrewd eyes taking me in.

“I know Dora Lee would want her debts paid,” I say.

Parjeter's eyes swivel to his son. “Unlike some.”

Jackson's jaw clenches, and I feel like all the air has been sucked out of the room.

I don't like being witness to a grown man being treated like a truant schoolboy, so I ask Jackson if he got around to calling his cousin Caroline.

Jackson's smile looks like he's been sucking a lemon. “I've had some business to tend to, and haven't had time.”

“You
better
tend to business,” Parjeter says.

DeWitt and I make a quick exit after that, and head over to the Ranchero, a pretty good Mexican café in town. We talk old times, and he tells me a couple of stories I've never heard, or have forgotten, about Jeanne when she was a youngster. It seems like five o'clock rolls around too fast. DeWitt wants to get home before dark.

“Lucille gets nervous when the light goes,” he says.

Ernest Landau has put out a flier around town saying that visitation at the funeral home for Dora Lee is from six to nine tonight. I get there about seven and see that a good many people have already stopped by and signed the book. I'm not surprised that Ida Ruth has set herself up to greet visitors. But I am surprised to see that Greg is with her in the front room. Ida Ruth has her arm through his, that way signaling to all who want to know that she is convinced that this boy had nothing to do with his grandma's death. I hope I haven't set both of us up for a fall.

Loretta is settled in talking to some church ladies, and I stop and say a few words to them. Then I proceed into the chapel to take a look at how they've fixed up Dora Lee. I'm glad to see a good number of flower arrangements. Dora Lee would have liked that. The spray that I asked Ernest to order for me with yellow flowers is here. Justine down at the flower shop has a good instinct for her work.

Dora Lee looks good, although her mouth is set in a way that makes her look peeved. And maybe that's as it should be, the way she died. Viewing of people's dead bodies is probably an odd custom, but the once or twice I've known people who insisted on being cremated, I felt an itchy sense that something was left undone. It's not a religious thing with me. Jeanne would have liked me to be a believer, but I told her that leap of faith was just too wide for me. I'd go to church with her when she wanted me to, and that's the way we worked it out.

As I'm standing quietly, thinking my thoughts about Dora Lee and her life, I hear a little ruffle of sound in the front room that alerts me. It's like a rush of swallows in an evening out near the tank. I turn around and look toward the door. A woman is standing poised there, and for a second I catch my breath. It could be Dora Lee twenty years ago, but in a different kind of life. The woman, Caroline, I'm sure of it, is dressed in a black suit and high heels and has a polished look that you see on TV women. I don't know fashion, but the suit has a cut that takes advantage of every curve of Caroline's body without being showy. Her light brown hair falls soft and free just short of her shoulders. She's wearing pearls and carrying a compact little bag. She's way over-dressed for a visitation, and the other ladies won't forgive her for it.

I have a pang for Dora Lee, knowing how much she would have liked to see Caroline dressed to the nines. Dora Lee always liked to be well turned out. I wonder if Caroline knows that.

She walks slowly toward the casket and I step back to give her a chance to take a look at the mamma she hasn't seen in so many years. She stands for a long time; long enough for me to wonder what thoughts must be going through her head. There's no outward sign that she has the slightest reaction to Dora Lee. But then she steps back and I can see she's unsteady on her feet. I walk over and take her arm and help her to a seat on the front row of pews.

Up close, Caroline is a little frayed around the edges. She has circles under her eyes and her complexion is pale under her carefully done makeup. I sit down on the pew near her and settle back. After a while she looks over at me. “You must be Mr. Craddock.” Her voice is like honey, which I didn't notice when we talked on the phone.

“Samuel,” I say.

She glances toward the coffin, then back at me. “Samuel, then.”

I move a little closer. “They did a good job with your mamma. She looks good.”

She nods, but by the look in her eye, she's thinking about something else.

“Your nephew, Greg, picked out the box. I hope it suits you.”

“It's fine,” she says. Wafting with the words is the smell of liquor.

Sometimes I wonder why so many people, even from a small place like Jarrett Creek, feel the need to take the edge off their lives with drink. Boredom, disappointment, fear? There are mean drunks, like Caroline's daddy was, and weepy drunks, people who get silly, or those who turn into themselves. I figure she's the last kind. Or maybe she's not a drunk at all; maybe she just had to fortify herself for this ordeal.

“Did you get a place at the motel?” I ask.

She shakes her head. Her hair falls forward and she pushes it back.

“Then when you're done here, why don't you come out to my place? I've got plenty of room, and I won't bother you.”

I see the hesitation in her eyes, but after a second she gives a quick nod.

I get up. “That's all right then. I'll leave you to yourself. I'll be in the parlor with the others. You take your time.”

Now that evening church services are out, more people have arrived, standing around in little clumps. Ida Ruth hustles over to me as soon as she sees me. “I told everybody that Caroline is in with her mamma and to give her a little time to herself.”

“That was real thoughtful of you. I think it's all right if they go on in.”

Ida Ruth whispers to various people. I think about the fact that someone must have done this for me when I was in sitting with Jeanne, and I have to walk out on the porch to take a couple of deep breaths. I hear Reverend Duckworth at the other end of the porch, laughing. I look up to see him standing with two other men, all three smoking and looking relaxed. My aversion to Duckworth rises up in me and for two cents I'd go over there and punch him.

But none of the hard things are his fault, and I'm ashamed for taking out my grief on him, even in my thoughts.

When I duck back inside, Caroline has come back into the reception room and has been pounced on by Ida Ruth and two other church ladies. She glances at me with a look so full of despair that I have to look away. If Caroline's old friend Maddie Hicks were here, she might be able to take some of the slack, but I saw Maddie's name on the visitation sheet when I got here, so she's come and gone.

I look around and see that old Mrs. Ruggie has cornered Greg. She must be about ninety-five, and still as spry as a bird in her body, but her mind has long since left her behind. Her head is cocked to one side, looking for all the world like a little chickadee. Greg is nodding as if she were making sense.

I walk over to Caroline. “Can I steal her from you all?” I say to the ladies gathered around her. “I know she wanted to talk to her nephew a little bit.”

The three ladies frown at me. They were just getting started on the questions.

I thank the ladies and steer Caroline over to Greg, and hear Mrs. Ruggie saying, “I got me a new hat.” Greg is still nodding, but looks up as we approach and when he sees Caroline, his mouth falls open.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Ruggie. I just want to introduce these two. Caroline, this is your nephew, Greg Marcus.”

Caroline offers her hand and Greg takes it, still staring at her. “It's nice to finally meet you,” Caroline says.

Suddenly Ida Ruth is at my side. “Mrs. Ruggie, come on over here. I have to ask you something.”

Dora Lee once told me Ida Ruth was a quality person, and I'm seeing her in action. Mrs. Ruggie toddles off with Ida Ruth, filling her in on her new hat.

Caroline and Greg can't seem to think of anything to say to one another right off, so I say, “Greg, I don't see Jackson. Did you come by yourself?”

He tears his eyes away from Caroline. Not only must Caroline remind him of his grandma, but there's probably something of his mamma there, too. “Wayne said it was all right if I drove Grandma's car. He said he had a lot to do and couldn't make it tonight, but he'll be at the funeral tomorrow.”

“Are you talking about Wayne Jackson?” Caroline asks.

“Yes, your uncle Leslie's boy. He says he remembers you.”

“Yes, I imagine he does.” Her eyes have turned hard with whatever she's picking out from her memories. “Do you like him?” she says to Greg, startling both of us.

Greg blinks a couple of times. I can see he wants to make the right reply. “He's been friendly to me.”

“Mmm,” Caroline says.

“Caroline,” I say, “Greg is a fine artist. I hope you get a chance to see some of his work while you're here.”

“I hope so, too.” She turns to me. “You didn't mention that Wayne Jackson was here when you called. What's his business in this?”

I tell her that I was as surprised as she was, that I only met Jackson yesterday, after I talked to her on the phone. “I went out to Dora Lee's and he had set up shop there. He says his daddy sent him.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That sounds like him and his daddy.”

I wait for her to say more, but her interest has gone back to Greg. She puts her hand up to his cheek. “You don't look much like your mother, but you remind me of her somehow.”

Greg's face turns red and he starts to chew on his bottom lip.

I realize that people are wanting to leave, and are standing by to say “sorry” to Dora Lee's kin, so I step away. Caroline and Greg get their hands shaken and curious looks cast over them. Most of these people have known Dora Lee her whole life, and yet these two people who are closest kin to her are strangers to them.

Finally it's just a handful of people left. I tell Greg that Caroline is staying at my place. “You two have some things to talk about. You're welcome to get together in my kitchen, if you want.”

Caroline says, “I'm dead tired. I think I'd like to wait until tomorrow, if that's okay.” Her eyes are soft with her appeal, almost as if she's flirting with him.

“Sure is, ma'am,” he says.

A little smile flits across her face. “You don't have to call me ma'am. Just Caroline.”

“Be careful driving home by yourself,” I say to Greg. “On Sunday nights people burn up the road to get back home after the weekend.”

“You don't need to worry about me,” he says. He's taken with his Aunt Caroline and wants to show he's a man.

“Hold on just a second,” I say to Caroline as we start to leave. I go and tell Loretta I'm taking Caroline to my place for the night. “You suppose you could make some kind of coffee cake or something to bring over in the morning?”

“I guess I can do that.” Her posture gets a little straighter.

Caroline follows me back to my place in her car, a Toyota that's seen better days. Its engine makes an ominous sound when she parks behind me.

I'm itching to ask her some questions, but restrain myself for both our sakes. I introduce her to the spare room, glad I keep it made up for Tom's family's visits. As I show her around, I can see her relaxing, and I wonder what she was worried about.