A Teeny Bit of Trouble (6 page)

“How’d you get a name like Emerson?” Red asked.

She gave him a side-eye glance. “I’m named after a famous essayist. Ask Daddy what it means.”

Coop gave me a sheepish look. “Ralph Waldo Emerson is one of my favorite writers.”

“One of your favorites, well.” I hadn’t known this. What other tidbits was he hiding?

Emerson peered around the edge of her seat. “Let’s play Me-ography. It’s a game, and it’ll help me get to know y’all better.”

“Sure, kid,” Red said. “What’re the rules?”

“Describe yourself in five words. It can’t be two, like peanut butter or South Carolina. I’ll go first. My Me-ography is McDonald’s, Chatham, hedgehog, puzzles, iPod.”

“Is McDonald’s one or two words?” Red chuckled.

“One.” She nudged his arm. “Your turn.”

He scratched the back of his neck, leaving white marks on the tanned flesh. “Detective, bachelor, fishing, psychology, biscuits.”

Emerson peered over her seat. “What about you, Teeny?”

Everything I loved had a slew of words—KitchenAid mixer, bacon drippings, red velvet cake. I thought a minute, then I said, “Peaches, asthma, bulldogs, cakes, truth.”

She pointed at Coop. His mouth kicked up into a smile. “Guinness, justice, chocolate, rules, dogs.”

“Let’s play again,” she said. “Only this time, name things that start with an E.”

E for Emerson. I was relieved when we finally pulled into Bonaventure. The town fathers had modeled the town after Savannah, and the nine, park-like squares were bordered with historic homes. On the main highway, the old manses had been converted into restaurants and boutiques. Bonaventure’s Me-ography would be food, funerals, family, gossip, and church.

Red’s forehead puckered as he glanced at the side roads. They spread out in all directions, each one terminating in a park, showing glimpses of statues, fountains, and gazebos.

“I never seen so many freaking streets,” he said.

“The avenues run north to south,” Coop said. “They’re named after U.S. states and big Southern cities.”

“Gotcha.” Red lifted one hand. “But what about the east-to-west streets?”

“Botanical names,” Coop said. “Oleander, hemlock, privet.”

I shuddered. All poisonous. Named by my Templeton forebears, a pack of British convicts who’d settled the town, but they’d fallen down the social ladder. My family would have plunged even more if the locals had known about our secret cookbook.

The van sped around Oglethorpe Square, past buildings with wrought-iron balconies and hanging petunia baskets. A crowd stood outside the Whigs and Tories Sports Bar, and farther up the street, a man in a scissors costume walked by the Hair I Am Salon.

“It looks like a little piece of Savannah broke off and drifted west.” Red’s lips puckered as he steered around a horse-drawn carriage.

“It’s quirkier than Savannah,” Coop said.

“And no paper mills,” I put in.

“Paper schmaper,” Emerson said.

Red loved food almost as much as me. So I pointed out a few trendy restaurants in the historic district. “Anthony Bourdain once passed through here,” I said. “He called Bonaventure quaint, kooky, and delicious.”

“It’s a tourist trap.” Emerson flipped her hand at the souvenir stores.

Red shrugged. “People gotta buy t-shirts somewhere.”

Philpot’s Pharmacy stood on the corner of Rowan Street and Philadelphia Avenue, just across the bridge from Oglethorpe Square. Several years ago, the building had been renovated. Green paint had been sprayed over the red bricks, and thick, emerald-tinted windows were installed. The locals had dubbed the building “Oz,” which was fitting because Lester was a bit wizard-like. He stood behind a tall desk rather than a curtain, and dispensed cures and unsolicited advice.

I squinted at the windows, trying to see into the store. Lester had been my pharmacist, and in all the years I’d known him, he’d never mentioned Barb or Emerson. He was a self-appointed drug czar, the kind who was suspicious of customers who needed pain pills or sleeping aids. Twice, he’d accused me of abusing my inhaler.

Red angled the van into a parking slot. I shifted my gaze to the door, where a
CLOSED
sign hung crookedly from the knob.

“Don’t stop here.” Emerson’s fist rose into the air. “Keep going. I command it.”

Coop leaned forward. “Honey, we already talked about this. Your father told me to bring you here.”

Her eyes brimmed. “Mr. Philpot isn’t my dad. You are. And if you leave me here, I’ll hunt you down. Then you’ll be sorry.”

A purple flush ran up the back of Red’s neck. For all of his toughness, he hated conflict. “It’s too hot to sit here,” he said. “Let’s buy some groceries and go to Teeny’s farm. After lunch we’ll call Mr. Philpot.”

“Or maybe never.” Emerson lowered her fist. “Let’s go.”

We stopped at Piggly Wiggly, then we drove down Savannah Highway, past swamps, pine forests, hardwoods, and farms. This was the lower coastal plain, Zone 8 on the
Southern Living
gardening map. In this sandy soil, you could grow ginger and date palms and gardenias. Templeton Orchard was the only peach farm in the county, and the highway was jammed with billboards that advertised onions, peanuts, a butterfly hatchery, and
PICK YOUR OWN STRAWBERRIES.

The tires shuddered as we drove over the bridge that spanned Connemara Creek. Years ago, Coop and I had fished here, but it looked the same, with cattails and mudflats. Way off in the distance, a flock of white birds skimmed over the water.

“Egrets,” Emerson said. “They’re monotonous. That means they mate for life.”

“You mean monogamous.” Red glanced out his window. “But I’m not sure that’s true for egrets.”

“Is too. The boy egrets bring twigs and stuff to the girls. They make nests. If you don’t believe me, call Chatham Academy. They’ll tell you about egrets.”

Sir poked his damp nose against my arm and shuddered.

Emerson’s lips stretched into a wide-open frown, showing pink gums and small teeth. Once again, I was struck by her unusual features. I glanced at Coop—his mouth was plush and sculpted, and not nearly as wide as Emerson’s. His upper lip formed an M with well-defined peaks; hers was level. Lester’s mouth resembled an anchovy, and Barb’s mouth was shaped like a piece of red licorice.

I studied Emerson’s expansive, cartoonish lips. Could a smile be inherited? Or was the child going through an awkward growth spurt, which gave the illusion of an overly wide mouth? I touched my own lips and wondered where I’d gotten them. They didn’t look like Mama’s or Aunt Bluette’s. I assumed I’d taken after my dad, but no one knew who he was. According to Mama, he was either a redheaded hashish dealer or a green-eyed proctologist, but neither man had been local.

We drove past the Dairy Queen. I averted my gaze, but not before I saw a ghost of myself, an eight-year-old kid in pigtails holding two dripping cones. I’d stood outside, searching the parking lot for Mama’s car, until a policeman took me to Aunt Bluette’s farm.

Don’t look back. You are so over this, Teeny.

I turned away from the window, trying to shake off the image, but everything was so clear. It had been a hot day. The sun had pushed between my shoulders like melted butter. A burned, curdled smell floated in the air. As the cones melted, white ribbons streamed over my wrists and tapped against the pavement.

I drew in a hitching breath. Coop’s hand covered mine, as if he were blotting up that spilled cream. He looked into my eyes.

“How much farther?” Red asked.

“Take the next right,” I said.

The van swerved down a gravel lane. Peaches were lined up on both sides like a welcoming committee. He parked in front of a white clapboard house. My pulse beat out a soothing rhythm,
I’m home, home, home.

The guys opened the back of the van and unloaded the groceries. I ran to the porch, unlocked the front door, and stepped into the foyer. Sweltering air pressed in from all directions. The house had been empty for months, but it smelled the same as always, like country ham and browning biscuits. The welcoming bouquet drew me inside, as if my aunt had put her arms around me.

“This place is icky,” Emerson said.

Red climbed onto the porch, a grocery sack in each arm. “Don’t worry, kid. You won’t be here long.”

“Good,” she said, but her pewter eyes held a glimmer of fear.

I moved from room to room, turning on air conditioners. Within minutes, cool air spun in eddies, pushing back the peppery heat. I made my way to the sunny kitchen. The old, humpbacked refrigerator was still running. I’d left it clean and empty. I passed by the black cat clock. Its eyes and tail hadn’t moved in years, but the time was accurate: one o’clock. I smacked the tail and it whipped back and forth.

Emerson charged through the door, braids swinging. “I’m hungry, Teeny. Fix me something to eat.”

“You like hamburgers?”

“Only if they’re from McDonald’s.”

Red squatted beside Emerson. “Sure, kid. We’ll feed you. Just tell us your dad’s phone number.”

“Bite me,” she said.

After I put away the groceries, Coop and I walked to the backyard. He piled charcoal bricks into the rusty grill, humming to himself. I couldn’t stop looking at his hands. He had sturdy fingers, short nails, and knuckles the size of macadamia nuts. I wanted to press his palm against my cheek. The fear and anger I’d felt last night had gone flat and shiny, too slick to catch. If we’d been alone, I would have reached for his hand, but I could hear Emerson’s sassy, strident voice coming from the kitchen.

I looked toward the orchard. Egrets skimmed over the trees, flowing across the sky like spilled cream.

“Emerson’s monotonous birds are back,” Coop said, grinning. He lit the charcoal, and flames licked up. “Why is she so preoccupied with animal facts?”

“She’s keeping her mind busy. That way, she won’t think about Barb.”

He watched the egrets circle back toward the creek. “Is that why she’s got a sharp tongue? Because deep down, she’s worried?”

“When dogs are scared, they bite. She’s fear-biting. But with words.” I’d done that a time or two myself, until Aunt Bluette had filled up the gaping hole that mama had left.

He laced his fingers around my neck. “I’m so glad you came with me. And you’ve been so kind to Emerson. You really understand children.”

“Nah.” I shrugged. I just knew how it felt to misplace a mother. I heard a thumping noise. I looked down. Coop’s right foot drummed the grass, not an impatient gesture, but a controlled kinesis. Ten deliberate beats with each foot. It went still, and his left foot began tapping. I’d never seen him do this except when his mother called—Miss Irene was soft-spoken, but she could shake him up over silly things.

He leaned back and his forehead puckered. “Maybe I should I call Lester and let him know we’re here. I don’t want him to accuse us of kidnapping.”

“He can’t do that. Emerson might be your daughter.”

“Lester is her legal parent.”

The screen door creaked open and Emerson skipped out, holding a squirt gun that we’d bought her at Piggly Wiggly. Red was right behind her, gripping a platter in one hand. He stepped around us and set the patties on the grill. Flames spiked through the metal rack. He glanced at Emerson. “You, with the pistol. Douse this fire.”

Emerson marched to the grill and aimed her gun. A glistening strand of water arced through the air and hit the coals. They hissed and smoke boiled up.

“Maybe you got a future as a fireman,” Red told her.

She tucked the gun in her pocket. “I don’t want a blue-collar career. I’m going to be a volcanologist and live in Iceland.”

“That’s a big word for a little girl,” Red said.

“Huh, I’m not little. I’ve got a big brain. I know everything.”

“Yeah?” He hunkered beside her and tugged her braid. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

“I went to my new dad’s house and ate jalapeño dip.”

I drew in a sharp breath. Why was Red quizzing her? He had an associate degree in psychology, but I wasn’t sure if he knew how a child’s mind worked.

“What about before?” he asked. “At your mom’s place. Did she tuck you in bed?”

“She never does that.”

“You didn’t hear her leave?”

“Nope. My iPod was blasting.”

The kitchen phone rang. Each short, decisive trill made me wonder how the gossips had figured out that I’d returned to the farm—with two men and a ten-year-old. I stepped into the kitchen and lifted the receiver.

“Hi, Teeny. This is Lester Philpot.” His voice had a sour edge, making me think of pickle relish. “I heard you were back in town. And before you ask how I know, one of my loyal customers saw you and Mr. O’Malley at Piggly Wiggly.”

“We stopped by your pharmacy earlier,” I said.

“Sorry I missed y’all. I had an emergency.” He paused. “Barb has passed on.”

“Passed on?” Part of me knew what he meant, but another part imagined a BMW speeding past the minivans on I-16.

“Dead.” Lester blew out a sigh. “She killed herself.”

five

I lowered the phone to my chest and bent over, forcing myself to breathe. Barb had killed herself? No, not possible. I pictured that night on Sullivan’s Island, her white caftan billowing around her long legs. She would never kill herself. What had happened after the guy in the Bill Clinton mask had chased me? Had he gone back to the rental to finish strangling Barb? I could totally see this happening. But what had he done with her body?

“Teeny?” Lester’s voice rose up from the receiver. “Are you still there? Hello?”

I pushed the phone against my ear. “I’m here. But I’m in shock. Barb’s really dead?”

“Yes, we’re all stunned,” Lester said in a dry-as-Georgia-dirt voice.

I didn’t want to pry, but I had to know more. “What makes you think she killed herself?”

“She left a note. Blaming me, of course. She must not have been thinking clearly, or she couldn’t have ended her life at the Motel 6 in Sweeney, Georgia.”

That rat hole? Sweeney was a speck of a town on Highway 25, about thirty miles south of Bonaventure, noted for Vidalia onions and crystal meth. If Barb really had killed herself, wouldn’t she have picked a grand hotel in Charleston? Or even a cozy bed-and-breakfast in Bonaventure? Why would she drive to Sweeney?