A Killing at Cotton Hill (16 page)

Oscar looks at me like I've got a two-headed snake on my shoulder. He's not used to me coming in here much, and especially not late at night. “Samuel, what brings you out this time of night?” he says.

“Couldn't sleep,” I say.

“I hear that,” Oscar says.

The stranger looks over at me and winks, and then turns back to watch the show.

Caroline has seen me and she looks me in the eye for a second before closing her eyes and continuing the dance. I take a sip of the beer and it tastes awful after the wine I've had. I can't even begin to justify to myself why I came in here, but I suppose I'll have to see it through.

The song ends and Caroline peels herself away from Rodell. He wipes his mouth and anybody can see he's hard from grinding up next to her. He leans down and whispers something in her ear, grinning. She turns toward the bar and walks away from him, and his face darkens.

“I'll have another drink,” she says. Without looking over at me, she says, “Hello, Samuel. I wouldn't have taken you for a man who'd drink here.”

“Just passing the time,” I say.

Oscar hands her a drink that has a cherry in it. I'm surprised he has any cherries back behind the bar, much less knows how to make a drink with one in it. Caroline takes a sip and then eases over to me, coming closer than I feel comfortable with. She puts her hand on my thigh. “I hope you're not checking up on me.” On the jukebox another song starts up, some woman with a voice like an alley cat.

It's not like Caroline is a different person than she was this afternoon, but that whatever coiled thing lives just under her skin has been allowed to slither out into the open. She's wearing the same clothes she had on this afternoon, but now I see how tight the pants are and she's unbuttoned a couple of buttons of the blouse so you can see her endowments.

Rodell is watching us. “You here to get some of the action?” he says, his voice mean.

Caroline's face goes white and she puts her drink down on the counter so hard it sloshes over. She doesn't look at Rodell, but closes her eyes. I'm worried she's either going to faint or upchuck.

“Don't get all stirred up,” I say. “I just came by to see how Caroline's getting on. She's had a hard day. If you recall, she buried her mamma today.”

Some kind of sound like a growl comes out from Caroline and she pushes herself away from the bar and goes back to Rodell. “I want to dance some more,” she says. She puts her hands on Rodell's shoulders and molds her body to him.

But his expression has turned nasty. He was thinking that she was a good time in the making, and I've reminded him who she is. He steps back from Caroline, adjusts his pants and looks at his watch. “I better get on home. My wife will be wondering where I am.”

Caroline's smile is slow and seductive. “Story of my life,” she says. She tries to nestle back into him, but he steps away. He's halfway to the door when the man sitting at the bar, climbs down off his stool and prowls over to Caroline. “I wouldn't mind a dance with you,” he says. He puts a hand on her waist and pulls her to him.

“Oh, Lord, deliver me,” Oscar sighs. There's no mystery what's coming next.

Rodell stops cold and turns, menace in every inch of his body. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he says.

Caroline turns to look at Rodell, hair falling over one eye. She giggles and grinds into her new dance partner, who's looking like he swallowed something that didn't taste as good as he thought it would. “The lady said she wanted to dance, and you weren't up to it.”

Rodell only gets three steps toward them when Oscar says, “Bar's closing. Rodell, get on home. And you, too, mister. Drink's on the house.”

His face twisted with fury, the man pushes Caroline away, pulls out his wallet and throws some bills on the counter. He shoves past Rodell. “Damn two-bit hick town,” he says, as he slams out the door.

“You got that right,” Rodell says. He follows hard on the man's heels. Oscar comes from around the bar to get outside to make sure nothing more comes of it.

Caroline walks back over to her drink, her steps unsteady. She leans on the bar. “I guess you think now you know who I am,” she says.

“It's none of my business,” I say. “How did things go out at the farm?”

She still hasn't looked my way. “About what I expected. Between Patsy talking about the Lord and Leslie complaining about the money he's out driving over here, they pretty much took up all the space. And those kids of Patsy's. Reminds me of some movie about aliens. The way they look at you.” She shivers.

“What about Wayne Jackson?” I say.

She edges onto the stool next to me. “Oh, he's all right. He's had a chance to get a city shine on him, that's all. He's still the same little boy trying to get on Leslie's good side. He can save his energy.”

I wonder how the dynamic between father and son could have been so apparent to Caroline when she was a kid.

Her mouth twists. “I can't wait to get rid of that farm,” she says.

Oscar comes back in and sees Caroline sitting next to me. He eyes me with a look I don't care for. I'm not above appreciating a good-looking woman, but it wouldn't sit well if people thought I was after Dora Lee's daughter before Dora Lee was cold in her grave.

Caroline sets her empty glass on the counter and slides off the stool. “Let's get out of here.”

“Are you all right to drive?” I ask her when we are outside.

She snickers. “What is it, five minutes to your house? With all the traffic on the road between here and there, I think I can make it.” She slips into her car, showing plenty of leg. I follow her to my place.

If I think I'm done with Caroline, I find out pretty soon that she has other ideas. Once we're inside my house, she starts humming, and prances up to me and says, “I'm not ready to go bed yet. You have any music? We could dance.” She takes a few steps, jiggling to whatever tune she's hearing in her head.

I suppose I should appreciate that the way her body is moving around stirs me up in a way that I haven't felt in a long time, but I point at my knee and say, “My dancing is limited these days.”

“You can watch,” she says, her mouth all pouty. She moves closer to me, all the while swaying her hips. Her breasts are inches away from my chest, her cleavage deep and inviting. My heartbeat speeds up and her smile tells me she's heard my breathing get ragged. Despite my best intentions, I reach out and touch her hair. It's as soft as it looks.

“Come on,” she whispers. She puts her hand on my chest.

I tear my eyes away, wishing I hadn't drunk the wine at Jenny Sandstone's. I take her hand and move it away from my chest. “You're an attractive woman, no doubt about that.” My voice doesn't even sound like my own. “But it's been a long day, and I've got to be up early.”

Her smile tightens. “You afraid somebody would find out?”

“I'm pretty sure I wouldn't feel good about myself if things got out of hand.”

Her laugh is brittle. “Guess I've lost my touch.”

I force a laugh. “I have to disagree. But I have Dora Lee to think about.”

Thunder comes over her face and she shrugs and turns away. I'm tempted to take advantage of the mood and ask what it is that was so terrible that it still has a hold on her all these years later. But right now I want to cool things down. “I'll be up and out of here before you get up in the morning,” I say.

She mumbles something and walks toward her room.

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding onto and head for my bedroom. It takes me some time to get to sleep.

Bobtail High School is a consolidated school that brings in kids from several small towns around it. Its grand, state-of-the-art sports facilities are a contrast to Jarrett Creek's dinky clubhouse. Despite that, Jarrett Creek's ragtag football team consistently trounces Bobtail's team, so the schools have a bitter rivalry.

Even though I've called ahead and made an appointment, the principal keeps me waiting. The secretary tells me he's had an unexpected situation to deal with. Eventually two shame-faced boys shuffle out of his office. It's been a long time since I was in their situation, but I still remember exactly how they feel after being reamed out by the principal.

On the way over, I've plotted how to approach the principal with questions about the art teacher, Alex Eubanks, but I need not have bothered. The principal, a short, trim man with thinning hair, has no compunctions about laying out his opinions. “Eubanks is not the caliber of teacher I want to encourage in my school. I only came in as principal two years ago, and if Eubanks hadn't been here so long, I would have fired him. As it is, I'm trying to find a way to get him to quit.”

“How old a man is he?”

“Forty-five. It's not his age that's a problem, it's the fact that he's got a terrible attendance record, and when he's here he doesn't know how to engage the students. He plays favorites and doesn't know a thing about discipline.”

“Does he know anything about teaching art?”

The principal narrows his eyes. “A monkey could teach art if he knew something about how to run a classroom. It's not rocket science.”

Until he says this, I'm on his side about Eubanks, but now I'm ready to give the art teacher a second chance. “I need to have a word with him. Does he have a free period?”

“Today all his periods are free. He didn't show up—not that that's unusual.”

“Is there a way I could get his contact information?”

The principal punches a button on his phone and instructs the secretary to give me what I asked for. I expect he's breaking some privacy law by being so casual with Eubanks's information, but I'm not in a position to complain.

Two cars are parked in the driveway at Eubanks's address, but no one answers the door. Then, just as I turn to leave, a middle-aged woman comes driving up and parks behind one of the other cars. She jumps out and starts hauling out tote bags of art equipment. When I walk toward her, she says, “Are you new? The class is at Alex's studio around back.”

I help her with her bags and follow her around the side of the house to the backyard, where a low, rectangular building takes up most of the yard. A sign outside reads,
Alexander Eubanks Art Studio
.

At the door, the woman looks me up and down. “Where are your supplies?”

“I'm just here to talk to Mr. Eubanks. You take classes from him?”

“Oh, yes, I've been taking his watercolor class for over a year. He's a wonderful teacher.” She lowers her voice and says, “A little strange, but very encouraging.” From the look of the painting that's sticking up out of one of the tote bags, she needs a good bit of encouragement.

The studio is a big space with tables and easels. Eight middle-aged people are setting up to work, with no teacher in sight. The walls are hung with a hodgepodge of work from watercolors to acrylics; from bluebonnets, cows, and cactus, to slashes of color that are probably supposed to represent abstract art. I'm inspecting one of the watercolors, with good workmanship but no imagination, when a man says, “Can I help you?”

Eubanks is a sight to behold. A short man, his sandy hair stands out at least six inches from his head like a wire brush. He wears big round glasses with green frames that make him look like an owl. He's got on a black T-shirt advertising his studio, and baggy shorts show off hairy, bowed legs.

I introduce myself and tell him I want to consult with him about something. “I can see you're busy. I can come back later.”

“Consult with me about my work?”

“Partly. It's about a youngster you taught art classes to, Greg Marcus.”

He looks suddenly wary, and glances around, as if worried we'll be overheard. “What about him?”

“Like I said, I could come back later.”

“Wait outside. Let me get my class started. Then we can talk.” His speech is rapid fire.

Standing outside the classroom, I hear Eubanks reel off instructions to the class. I wonder what the principal would say if he knew the art instructor had blatantly taken the day off to teach a workshop.

Eventually Eubanks comes outside. “Now what is it you want to talk about?” There's an aggressive tone to his question.

“I'm a friend of Greg's family. I guess you heard that Greg's grandmother was killed last week?”

“Terrible thing.” He knits his brow. “What's that got to do with me?”

“I understand Greg took lessons from you for a while.”

“For two years. Then he quit. I guess he didn't have what it takes to be a true artist. I haven't seen him in several months.”

“You don't think he had talent?”

“Not as much as he thought he had. He was a cocky boy.”

“You were a good teacher. I see from his painting that's he's learned some solid basics. But I understand the reason he quit was that his grandmother couldn't pay for lessons anymore.”