Authors: Nancy Bell

Biggie and the Quincy Ghost (14 page)

BOOK: Biggie and the Quincy Ghost

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“Why Dallas folks?” I asked.

“Because the locals who could afford houses like that wouldn’t move this far out in the country on a bet,” Biggie said.

“How come?”

“Oh, J.R., they just wouldn’t. Don’t ask so many questions.”

A few miles farther out, the farms got shabbier, with fences falling and unpainted barns with tin roofs. After a while, the pine trees grew thicker and closer to the road, and the farms disappeared altogether. Every now and then we’d pass an acre or two that looked like a tornado had come through leaving just a few scrawny trees behind. Rosebud said those were places where the timber had been cut.

“It’s ugly,” I said.

“Those trees were planted for cutting,” Biggie said. “There’s very little virgin timber left in these parts. However, you’ll see some around the lake. That’s protected land.”

“Rosebud,” I said, just to make conversation so Biggie
wouldn’t launch into her conservation lecture, which I’d heard about a million times, “do you like living with us?”

“Sure.”

“Better than anyplace you’ve ever lived before?”

“I’d say just about.” Rosebud looked over his shoulder at me and grinned.

“Well, what if you won the lottery and could live anyplace in the world. Where would you live then?”

“Nowhere,” Rosebud said.

“Huh? Rosebud, you can’t …”

“Nowhere.” Rosebud pointed ahead. “There’s the sign.” He turned left onto a one-lane gravel road. “I reckon this here must be the bait shop.”

Rosebud pulled the car into a bumpy drive and parked beside a gas pump in front of a rickety building. A homemade sign on the top said BECK’S BAIT SHOP AND BAR. A wooden box on legs stood under the grimy front window. WORMS was spray painted in black across the front of the box. The screen door opened and slammed behind a man with a big beer belly. He was wearing overalls over a grubby tee shirt and running shoes with no laces or socks. The edges of his lips were stained with tobacco juice. He looked at Biggie’s big car.

“You folks get lost from the rest of the funeral?” He grinned a big toothless grin.

Biggie jumped out of the car and trotted up to the man. “Nope,” she said. “Just need a tank full of gas and a little information.”

The man took the nozzle from the pump and stuck it in
the fuel tank. While the gas pumped, Rosebud asked the man how to get to the Baugh place.

“Ya’ll ain’t the laws, is you?” The man looked first at Biggie, then Rosebud, then me.

“Do we look like law enforcement officers?” Biggie shot back.

“No’m. Reckon not.”

“Biggie, I could use a Big Red,” I said.

“Good idea,” Biggie said, pulling a bill out of her purse. Go in and get us all a cold drink.”

“Go on in the back and tell Marge to give you what you want,” the man said.

The screen door drug the floor, and I had to lift it up to get it open. I stepped into a dingy room with a counter running along the back wall and shelves all around which held cans of Copenhagen and Skoll snuff, cigarettes, motor oil, sardines, Vienna sausages, crackers, and a few jars of peanut butter. An old-timey Coke box, the kind you open from the top, stood in one corner with a sign over it that said, BAIT SHRIMP—$2.00, LIVER—50 CENTS A POUND, MINNOWS OUT BACK. I opened the lid and peeked in. It smelled to high heaven.

I looked up and noticed a door to the left of the counter, which was open. The sign above it said BAR—BILLIARDS. I heard George Strait singing about Amarillo by morning. I poked my head in the room, which was only lit by a jukebox and a couple of beer signs over the bar. A fat man was feeding coins into a pinball machine.

“Can I hep yew?” said a voice from the darkness.

Feeling really grown-up, I walked up to the bar and sat down on a stool. I slapped the five Biggie had given
me down and said, “I’ll have a Diet Coke, an R.C., and a Big Red.”

While a big woman with half-black and half-blond hair was getting the drinks, I had a look around. At a table in the corner by the jukebox, four teenage boys and one girl were drinking beer and talking real loud. When a slow dance started playing, the girl and one of the boys got up to dance. The girl was wearing a bikini top and really short cutoffs. The boy had his hands all over her, which was pretty sickening if you ask me. The girl didn’t seem to mind, though. She had herself plastered against him so tight you couldn’t have gotten a dollar bill between the two of them. They were moving pretty slow, but finally he turned her around. She looked at me and I like to have fell off that bar stool. It was none other than Emily LaRue. I think she recognized me because she hid her face in the boy’s neck and wouldn’t look back at me again.

Quick as I could, I grabbed my drinks and change and hurried on out of there to tell Biggie what I’d seen. They were already sitting in the car, and before I could get a word out, Rosebud had pulled out of the driveway and we were sailing down the road.

“Are you positive it was Emily?” Biggie asked.

“Yes’m.”

Biggie turned and faced me. “And she was dressed how?”

“I told you, Biggie. She didn’t have hardly anything on. And she was acting real rude.”

“Rude? How?”

I don’t like to talk about such things in front of Biggie. “You remember that movie,
Dirty Dancing?
”

Biggie nodded.

“Well, that’s what they were doing, dirty dancing—only they weren’t as good as that couple in the movie.”

Biggie grinned. “Rosebud, turn this car around. I’ve got to go see this for myself.”

So, Rosebud turned the car around and Biggie went in and peeked into the bar then came back out shaking her head. “Let’s go,” was all she said.

T
he Baugh house sat in a clearing in the pines at the end of a rutty dirt road. It was a big house, unpainted, built up on stilts with a porch around the front and sides. Four skinny old cow dogs ran out from under the porch wagging their tails and sniffing us. I think they were hoping we had some food on us. Rosebud tossed them the peanut butter crackers he’d bought at the store, and the dogs swallowed them down and commenced whining for more.

“Go on, dogs,” Rosebud said. “Miss Biggie, y’all stay here while I see if anybody’s home.”

He climbed up the steps to the porch and knocked on the door. A tall man came out followed by an even taller woman who had dyed black hair slicked back in a bun. After her, came two boys who looked to be about Brian’s age wearing overalls with no shirts. Rosebud spoke to them for a minute and then motioned for us to come.

Biggie walked up to the man, stuck out her little hand and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Baugh. I’m Biggie Weatherford from over in Job’s Crossing. This is my grandson, J.R., and my associate, Rosebud Robichaux.

The man looked at Biggie like she’d lost every one of her marbles while the two boys scratched themselves. Finally, the woman spoke up. “Well’m this here’s my husband, Mule.” She pointed to the two boys. “Them’s the twins, Travis and Crockett. My name’s Faye. Now, what ’chall want with us?”

Biggie explained about how we had been at the hotel when Annabeth was killed. “It was a terrible thing,” she said, “and I intend to find out who did it. Could you spare us a few minutes of your time?”

The man’s bushy brows came together and he glared at Biggie. “Ain’t you a town woman?”

Biggie nodded.

“Git!” he said.

Biggie turned to the woman. “She was a beautiful child with her whole life ahead of her. You’re her mother. Don’t you want to know who did this to her?”

“Git!” the man said, louder this time.

“Shut up, Mule.” The woman seemed to tower over her husband. “It ain’t no sense in you gittin’ your guts in a uproar. It don’t cost nothin’ to hear what she’s got to say.” She turned to Biggie. “Come on in and set a minute.”

While the adults went inside to talk, I spied an old tire swing hanging from the limb of a chinaberry tree. Since I don’t get many chances to ride in a tire swing (Biggie won’t have one in her yard), I decided to try it out. I was
busy going around and around to twist the rope up real good so that when I let go, I’d whirl around in circles, when I heard a sound behind me, something like a giggle, but not exactly like one.

I let the swing unwind slowly, keeping my toe on the ground, for one time around so I could look to see what had made the sound. All I saw was the house, a barn, an old wagon, and some cows grazing behind a slat-rail fence. Must have been a bird, I thought, and lifted my toe off the ground to let the swing spin around and around as the rope unwound itself. When it finally stopped, I was dizzy, and, as the world spun around me, I saw something that hadn’t been there before. It was a person, or I thought it must have been a person, because it was standing on two legs. But that’s where the resemblance stopped. This creature had a mess of black hair sticking out in all directions. It was dressed in what looked like a potato sack with holes cut for arms, no shoes, and its arms and legs were brown and covered with scratches and mosquito bites. It was definitely laughing at me.

“What’s so funny?” I don’t like to be laughed at.

The creature pointed at me.

“Huh!” I said. “You ain’t much to be makin’ fun of anybody.”

It must have thought that was a real funny joke, because it laughed so hard it had to bend over, holding its sides.

“I don’t have to take this,” I said. “I’m going to the house.” I pulled my legs out of the swing and turned away.

“Wait! Don’t go.” The voice was like music. I spun
around and stared. Suddenly, I noticed the eyes. They were sky blue, almost too light to belong to a human, more like the eyes of a kitten.

“Where ‘bouts did you come from?”

“Over yonder.” It pointed toward the barnyard.

“Do you always go around scaring people?”

Another giggle.

I squinted at it. “What are you, anyway, a boy, or a girl?”

Before you could say “Jack Robinson” it lifted up the potato sack, and I could see right away that it was a girl.

“Don’t be doin’ that,” I said, embarrassed. “You live up there?” I pointed toward the house.

“Tee-hee-hee.”

“Well, what’s so all-fired funny?”

“Me, livin’ in the big house.”

“What’s so funny about that? Hey, are you crazy or something?”

“I live over yonder in the hen house.” The girl pointed toward the chicken house, which was leaning so bad it looked like a strong wind would blow it over, and had inch-deep cracks between the boards.

“You what?”

She looked at me like I was the one that was weird. “I live in the hen house. Got me an old bed in there an’ everything. Him and her, they don’t never let me in the house.”

I looked at the girl. Dirty and ragged as she was, there was something familiar about her. The hair was black, and the nose was different, but she had the same pale blue eyes and slender figure that Annabeth had had.

“Hey,” I said. “Was Annabeth your sister?”

I like to jumped out of my skin when she commenced howling like a coyote, tears streaming out of her eyes and making rivers in the dirt that covered her face. “Her’s gone,” she said. “Her gone away and left myself alone.” She howled some more.

“Hush up,” I said. “You’re liable to disturb them up at the house.”

She hushed right away and looked up at the house like she was scared to death. “Them better not come.” She took a step back toward the barnyard.

“Wait, don’t go. You got a name?”

She stopped, still watching the house. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Loosie-Goosie.” She swiped at her face with one grubby hand, leaving a trail of dirt across her cheek.

“That ain’t a name. What’s your real name?”

“Loosie-Goosie’s all I know. Hey, you ever see a alligator?”

“In the zoo’s all.”

“Want to see one? I know where’s a whole bunch of um.”

I looked up at the house. “I don’t know. We’ve got to be going pretty soon. Is it far?”

“See through them trees?” She pointed toward the back of the house.

I nodded.

“Lake’s right there. I got a boat down there.”

I figured this might be my only chance to get a look at Caddo Lake so, against my better judgment, I followed her.

“Keep your head down,” she said as we rounded the side of the house. “Don’t let um see us.”

We climbed under a bob-wire fence and started across an overgrown field. Pretty quick, I realized that those trees were farther off than they had looked at first. Loosie-Goosie walked barefooted right through a clump of bull nettles. I stepped around it, being careful not to let the nettles touch my skin. Finally, we reached the trees and I looked back toward the house, now just barely visible through the trees.

“Come on!” she yelled, darting in and out among the pines and sweetgums. Now the ground started to get marshy, and I could smell the lake. “Here!” she shouted.

By the time I caught up with her, she was untying a rope tied around an oak sapling, that was attached to a flat-bottomed boat. I stopped and looked around me. This lake was not one bit like our lake at home, which is open and blue. This lake was dark and spooky, the water almost black in the shade. Cypress trees draped with Spanish moss grew along the edges and out into the black water, their roots gnarled and wide at the bottom. The whole lake, as far as I could see, was a forest of trees with branches that hung so low some grazed the water.

“Well, git in.” She was already seated in the back of the boat, holding a long-handled paddle.

I got in.

“Don’t you have any oars?”

“
Oars, oars, got no oars. Got some whores and lots of boars, but I ain’t got no oars
,” she sang. “What’s oars?”

“Never mind,” I said, wondering what had possessed me to come here with her. She was obviously nutty as a
squirrel, but it was too late to change my mind; she was already pushing the boat away from shore with that funny long paddle.

I looked around as we drifted through what seemed to be a broad channel that wound like a watery road through the trees. A great white heron swooped down near the shore and waded through the murky water, occasionally dunking his head and coming up with a fish in his beak. I liked to jumped out of my skin as a fat, black water moccasin swam by making a vee in the water not two feet from the boat.

“How far to the alligators?” I asked, and I’ll admit, my voice might have been just a little bit shaky.

“
Alligator, crocodile, maybe a minute, maybe a mile.
”

Now, I was nervous. I looked behind me, but all I could see was a wall of trees. It was getting darker as the trees grew thicker, and the branches almost covered the sky.

“Let’s go back,” I said, hoping she didn’t notice the tremor in my voice. “There’s not any alligators around here.”

Loosie-Goosie dug the paddle into the mud of the lake bottom, stopping the boat. “Look,” she whispered. We had drifted to a place where a point of land jutted out into the water.

At first, I didn’t see anything but buckeye shrubs, cattails, and a few logs half submerged in the water. Then, one of those logs moved, then another and another. Loosie-Goosie sat very still in the boat, a little smile on her face. I looked closer and saw a partially submerged head with two round searching eyes. Alligators! Huge ones! I stared, afraid to move, while one opened his mouth wide
showing off two rows of sharp yellow teeth. “I see four of them,” I breathed.

“
One, two, three, four. That’s all there is, there ain’t no more
,” she sang softly.

One of the gators slowly turned himself in the water so that one of his ugly eyes stared straight at our boat.

“Shhh,” I hissed. Suddenly, I realized that I’d made a big mistake. I should never have let this crazy girl talk me into coming with her. “Let’s go back,” I whispered.

“The little titty-baby wants to go back,” she said, almost to herself. “Us just rock the baby to sleep. That’s what us’ll do; us’ll rock the baby.” With that, she put her hands on either side of the boat and commenced rocking from side to side. “
Go to sleepy, little baby. Go to sleepy, little baby
,” she sang, rocking harder and harder until the sides of the boat slapped the water with each rock.

“Go to sleepy, little baby.” Slap, Slap. “Go to sleepy, little baby.” Slap.

I tried to hold on, but the water was making the edges of the boat slippery. I tried to grab the wooden plank I was sitting on, but it came loose from the boat and flew out of my hands. I grabbed wildly for anything to hold on to just before I toppled over the side. Just as my face hit the water, I thought I heard Biggie calling, “J.R.! J.R.!”

The next thing I remember is bumping down the road away from the Baugh’s place sitting in the backseat of Biggie’s car. I was wrapped in an old camp blanket Rosebud keeps in the trunk. My hair was caked with mud; my head hurt; my ears were stopped up and rattled whenever I
turned my head. I smelled like mud and dead fish. The wool blanket itched and stuck to my skin.

“At least, I’m not dead,” I said.

“You might have been.” Biggie turned around in the seat and glared at me. “What in the world were you thinking about, J.R. Don’t you have a brain in your head?”

I didn’t think she expected an answer.

Rosebud was wearing the army green coveralls he keeps in the back of the car for fishing. “I ought to whup your butt,” he said. This was serious. Rosebud was never mad at me.

“I’m sorry.” I squirmed under the itchy blanket. “How’d I get rescued?”

“We couldn’t find you when we got ready to go,” Biggie said. “I called and called. Finally, Mrs. Baugh said maybe you’d gone to the lake. When we got there and saw the boat gone, we went around the shoreline looking and calling.”

“We were way, far out,” I said.

“Not as far as you thought.” Rosebud drove slow around a pothole. “There’s a trail that goes around the lake. Took us right to where y’all was.” He shook his head. “When you fell out of the boat, you hit your head on the side. Knocked you clean out.”

“What happened to that crazy girl, Loosie-Goosie? I’d like to kill her.”

“Her pa just about did,” Rosebud said. “Started right in beatin’ her upside the head with the boat paddle. I had to pull him off of her.”

I felt sick to my stomach. “And y’all just left her there?”

“I’m going straight to child protective the minute we get back to town,” Biggie said.

BOOK: Biggie and the Quincy Ghost

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