Popcorn Thief (14 page)

It figured. Karl even dressed better than he did.

“Hey, jailbird,” Karl said, reaching out his hand to shake
Franklin’s first.

“You ain’t never gonna let that go, are you?” Franklin
asked, surprised, but still taking Karl’s hand. “I didn’t know you knew Adrianna.”
Karl had been at the Sorrels’ parties, like most of the folks in town, but Franklin
hadn’t known they’d been friends.

Karl shrugged. “Everyone knew Adrianna.”

Franklin nodded. She’d always been talking with everyone at
the store, asking people how they were and how their day was going, even if she
didn’t know them. “You know the sheriff’s planning on coming after the
creature,” Franklin told Karl softly. “At your farm.” Even if Karl was his
rival, he still deserved to know.

“You’re shitting me,” Karl replied. “Dang it! How the he-heck
does he intend on doing that? He can’t even see it. I don’t even think it’s
real.”

“He says he’s gonna get a warrant, do a line shoot.”
Franklin shook his head. At least the sheriff had enough discipline over his
men that they wouldn’t go shooting each other.

“That even legal?” Karl asked.

“Sheriff thinks so,” Franklin said. “’Course that means the
thing’ll just come after Darryl or me.”

“Really?” Karl said. “You sure?”

“Every time it’s been injured, it comes looking for revenge,”
Franklin told Karl.

“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes,” Karl said, shaking
his head.

“Why, thank you,” Franklin said dryly. They stood in silence
for a moment, watching a group of young women walk by. “Why does that thing
like your fields so much, Karl?” Franklin asked. “Do you even know?”

“I didn’t remember until just recent,” Karl admitted. “When
Adrianna and Roy first came to town, they tried to buy my fields. Adrianna said
they was the most powerful in town. The place they got was the second most
powerful.”

“You think that thing is feeding off your land somehow?”
Franklin asked. No wonder the thing kept going back to Karl’s fields, why it
had attacked Adrianna. It was drawn to that power.

“Yeah. That businessman, too, wanted my fields.” Karl paused,
then added, “My popping corn’s better than yours.”

“No, it ain’t,” Franklin replied automatically, stung by
Karl’s statement.

“It is,” Karl insisted. “And it’s because there’s something
special in my land. I’ve seen how you treat your fields, how much precision you
use in drying your corn. You should be winning the prize. But you never will.”
 

“Bull,” Franklin said heatedly. He looked over his shoulder,
then looked down again, embarrassed at the older black woman giving him a dark
look for swearing. “I will win it. This year, too.”

“If you win, it’ll only be because someone’s been stealing
so much of my crop,” Karl said seriously. “It ain’t that you ain’t good,
Franklin. You are. You’re the best competitor I ever had. But I know, I
know
, there’s something special in my
land, especially since this summer.”

Franklin nodded, swallowing down the bitterness rising in
his throat. He wasn’t ever gonna beat Karl, was he? Everything was stacked
against him, as always.

“Don’t take it so hard,” Karl said, patting Franklin’s back.
“All that I got that’s special is that field. While everyone in town knows you’re
special, all on your own.”

Franklin paused, turning to look at Karl. He’d never thought
of it that way before.

Karl continued. “Most folks never gave me much credit for
what my farm produced. They knew it was the land. Could throw seeds across the
stones there and they’d grow.” Karl sighed. “I work damn hard. You can believe
it. But nobody else does. None of my great crops come from
me
. No one ever thinks I’m talented or special. It’s just the land.
Not me.”

“They’re still great crops,” Franklin pointed out.

“Yeah, and I wouldn’t trade that. But I just—I wish I
could take a bit more credit, you know? You earn that second-place ribbon. I
don’t know if I do or not.”

Franklin thought about that for a long time after Karl left
the room. He’d always thought he wanted to exchange his life for Karl’s.

For the first time, Franklin wasn’t so sure.
 

* * *

Just outside the church, Franklin saw Charlene talking to
some of the checkers from the Kroger. He walked over toward them, pleased to
see Charlene not only didn’t turn her back, but instead, excused herself from
the group and walked toward him as well.

“Morning, Miss Charlene,” Franklin said. “You look nice.”
And she did, in her white blouse with the frills down the front and a tight
black skirt. She still only wore work makeup, enough to be pretty but not stand
out. Large gold hoops, like what Mama wore, dangled from her ears.

“Morning, Franklin. You still look like shit,” Charlene said
with a smile. “You ever sleep?”

Franklin shook his head. “Not much. I’m hoping that things
get settled soon though.” Either he was gonna take care of the creature, or it
would get him.

“I’m glad you came to the funeral,” Charlene said.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Franklin asked.

“You was there when she was killed,” Charlene said. “I
figured you might be too guilty.”

“What, are you thinking I killed her or something?” Franklin
asked. He kept hold of his temper, though, hoping Charlene wasn’t accusing him
of anything else.

“No, I don’t,” Charlene said seriously. “I know you did
everything you could to help that poor woman.”

Franklin nodded. He just wished there was something he could
have done, even if he’d gotten over there earlier.

“You know, the sheriff don’t really believe in all your talk
of a creature,” Charlene said.

“I know,” Franklin said with a sigh. How could the poor man?
He’d never seen it. Hell, most of the time no one believed Franklin’s ghosts, including
Charlene, and ghosts was harmless. Thinking that something that most folks
couldn’t see was deadly was just asking too much. “But he’s still going after
it,” Franklin added.

“Really?” Charlene asked. She had that gleam in her eye,
wanting to know more. “Details.”

Franklin happily obliged, telling her about the sheriff’s
plan to shoot up Karl’s fields.

“So that’s why he canceled his deputy’s leave. Wanted him to
come in, instead,” Charlene said, nodding.

“Really? He canceled leave? That’s just wrong,” Franklin
said.

“Don’t I just know it. Say, have you heard—” Charlene
broke off as Sheriff Thompson’s Crown Vic pulled into the parking lot, the
lights on top flashing. “What’s he doing here?”

“Beats me,” Franklin said, though sweat broke out all across
his shoulders. Had someone else been attacked? Was there someone else dead?

The sheriff got out of his car, leaving the lights flashing.
He walked directly toward Franklin. “You thought you were so clever, not giving
us your prints, that first time,” the sheriff complained as he bore down on
Franklin.

“What do you mean?” Franklin asked, backing up.

“I’m here to arrest you for the murder of your cousin,
Lexine. Now, turn around, hands behind your back,” the sheriff directed.

Franklin turned, helpless. What the hell? Why was he
suddenly a murder suspect?

Then he remembered the cob of corn, with his fingerprints on
it.

They must have finally gotten around to matching his prints
to it.

When Franklin turned back around, the cold metal of the
handcuffs cutting into his wrists, the first thing he saw was Charlene, backing
away and shaking her head.

He’d lost her friendship, for sure. Hopefully, he still had
a job.

* * *

“Did you really have to do that?” Franklin complained as the
sheriff removed the handcuffs once Franklin was seated in the back of the
sheriff’s car. The seat felt sticky under Franklin’s good suit, and the car
stank of sweat, stale French fries, and spilled sweet tea.

“Told you I was going to arrest you in front of your friends
and everyone,” the sheriff said with great satisfaction.

“I didn’t kill Lexine,” Franklin said.

“We’ll talk about that back at the station,” Sheriff
Thompson replied as he peeled out of the parking lot and raced back toward Main
Street.

Franklin sat back and banged his head against the seat. How
could this be happening? He hadn’t killed Lexine, any more than he’d killed
Adrianna. Was the sheriff thinking he’d been too involved, like Charlene had
been implying?

Mama would be so ashamed of him, right now. Sitting in the
back of a police car! She might’ve closed the beauty salon for a week to hide
her shame.

Since Franklin had recently been arrested, they didn’t have
to process him, like they normally would, with fingerprints and pictures.
Instead, the sheriff took Franklin directly to an interview room. A camera, set
up on a tripod, stared at him from the corner, the single eye of the lens
accusing him of things he’d never even thought of doing. The chairs were hard
and uncomfortable, the cushions made from black vinyl that squeaked every time
Franklin shifted in his seat. A dingy, formerly white particleboard table sat
between Franklin and the empty chair that would hold his interrogator.

Franklin had seen these rooms on so many TV shows. He’d
sometimes wanted to be the one questioning the criminal, but he’d never wanted
to be on this end of the table. The room felt small and closed in like a trap.
He kept telling himself to take deep breaths, despite how stale the air
smelled, how it felt like there wasn’t enough of it.

Why were they making him wait like this? Franklin had
assumed they’d just jump right into questioning or accusing him. Were they
giving him time to stew? To think about his supposed crimes, so he’d be ready
to confess to anything?

Franklin jumped when the door finally opened and the sheriff
came in, carrying a plain file folder. He jumped again when the sheriff slapped
it down on the table.

“I know we asked you these questions before, but I’m asking
again. And this time, you better tell me the truth,” the sheriff warned. “Where
were you on Tuesday?”

“I was at work. You can check with anyone,” Franklin said.
At least Franklin knew he was covered there.

“And afterward?”

“I went home and worked in the field behind my house,”
Franklin said. He knew Lexine had been killed that afternoon, and he didn’t
have an alibi.

“And on your day off, Thursday, right? What did you do?” the
sheriff asked.

“I worked around my farm,” Franklin said. He shifted, then
regretted it, as the vinyl squeaked.

“Break it down for me. Step by step,” Sheriff Thompson said.
His beady eyes bored deep into Franklin.

“I got up at my usual time—too damn early. Made
breakfast, went out into the field back behind the house. Spent the day pulling
weeds, tying up tomato plants, shoring up the chicken-wire fence the squash is
climbing up,” Franklin said smoothly. Those were all the things he’d actually done
that day.

Darryl had always told Franklin to lie with as much truth as
possible.

“Then how do you explain your fingerprints at Lexine’s
house?” the sheriff asked.

“She was my cousin? I saw her a lot?” Franklin pointed out
reasonably. “I went out to her place often?”

“On one of the ears of corn placed next to her corpse?”
Sheriff Thompson slipped a photo out of the folder.

There was that damn ear of corn, put there by Gloria. A
white ruler had been photographed next to it. Franklin noted again that it had
been growing well, before Gloria had ripped it off the stem.

“I didn’t put that there,” Franklin told the sheriff
truthfully.

“Who did, then?” Sheriff Thompson said. He pointed to the
corn. “You said there’s no corn missing from your fields. But there are cobs
missing from Karl Metzger’s fields. You said you aren’t stealing his corn. But
here’s a cob with your fingerprints on it. It was put there after Lexine and
Earl Jackson were killed. Put there by you.”

Franklin chuckled nervously and shook his head. “I swear to
you, sheriff, I did not place that cob of corn there. I don’t deny that it’s
from Karl’s crop, or that my fingerprints are on it. But I did
not
put it there.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me some damned creature dropped
it there instead,” the sheriff growled.

Franklin shrugged. “That’s the honest truth, Sheriff. I
swear. I didn’t put it there. It was a ghost.”

“How can you be so damn sure it was a ghost?” Sheriff
Thompson asked, his eyes flicking from the photo to Franklin and back. “You’ve
been guilty about something since the start. Were you there in the house?” When
Franklin didn’t reply, the sheriff slapped the table hard. “Answer me!”

Franklin jumped. He didn’t want to admit that he’d been
there, at the house. That just wouldn’t be smart. Besides, Darryl would kill
him if he confessed to anything.

“Stands to reason, don’t it?” Franklin said reasonably. “I
didn’t put it there. Must have been a ghost. The ghost who took it from Karl’s
fields. Like she’s been taking the rest of his crop.”

“I don’t believe in your ghosts. You put it there,” the
sheriff said, jamming his finger into the photo. “You were there. In the cabin.
Before we arrived. And you didn’t report the crime. Why?”

“I wasn’t there,” Franklin insisted. “And even if I had been
there, I couldn’t have reported the crime. There’s no cell phone reception up
at Lexine’s place. It was one of the reasons why she bought that land.”

“I know you were there,” the sheriff said. “Or maybe, maybe
you aren’t lying about that. Maybe it’s something else. Something you feel
guilty about. Don’t you want to tell me, Franklin?” Sheriff Thompson’s tone
turned more gentle. “Don’t you want to help me get Lexine’s killer?”

“I thought you said it was probably Earl Jackson,” Franklin
said. “I still think he killed her to bring the creature into being. He
probably cast two spells, one while he was sitting in her driveway. Then he
went and killed her, and it came.”