Liar's Bench (13 page)

We both jumped at a sudden rat-a-tap tapping. I spotted a woodpecker plowing its beak into a nearby trunk, and my shoulders relaxed. Bobby saw the pecker, too, and let out a low whistle of relief. Then, trying to fuse some light into the dark that brought us here, he dropped to his knees, scooped up a handful of soil, and struck his fist to the sky, mocking a Scarlett O'Hara, “As God is my witness . . .” victory for leading us to the plantation house.

I laughed uneasily and redirected my gaze back to Hark Hill Plantation, slowly edging my way to the white plank fence that separated us from McGee's land. Resting my elbows on the horse fence, I leaned over and spied a small bush of jimson weed. The devil's weed trumpeted pale purple blooms, hugging the fence alongside the trailing honeysuckle. The picture was deceptive: bucolic, but gunpowdered with poison. The Greek revival mansion stood proud. Such breathtaking pastoral beauty, but elements of sad and ugly seemed to blanket it. Gooseflesh prickled my skin.

The summer wind raked up grasses, leaving blades shivering. A smatter of wild strawberries mottled the landscape. Scattered clumps of field mint tickled my nose, and fresh-cut hay sweetened the air. But it wasn't enough to smother the sour of the place.
I shouldn't have come,
I thought, a sudden sneezing fit echoing my regrets.

Bobby responded with a “God bless,” and pointed to the distant barns. “His horses live better than people.”

“I bet he holds his cockfights in one of them.” I counted five large horse barns, all well-kept, dotting the land like oversized red poppies. Horses and colts grazed lazily on generous turf, while others stood resting, shaded under elms and chestnuts.

Bobby tied another torn-off piece of shirt around the fence, then came to stand beside me. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh. What about you? It must be hard to see where your grammy lived.”

“Slaved. Where she
slaved.
Look at those long rows of stone fencing—the slave walls.”

“Yeah, most folks think Kentucky slave fences are pretty, but they always make me sad.”

Bobby spit into the wind. “Remember where McGee's office is?”

“Uh-huh. Unless he's moved it, the Spring House should be right over there.” I picked up a stick and pointed. A horse nickered softly, then quieted into a rooster's startled crow. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure McGee's office will be somewhere behind that horse barn from what I remember when Daddy brought me out. See over to the far left of the garden? The big barn sitting close to the house? It's behind that.”

Bobby stepped forward and lifted himself easily over the fence. Following, I scampered up the boards and dropped down beside him.

A dog barked, then another joined in. I shaded my eyes with my hands, searching for the source. A gruff male voice hollered out, shushing the dogs. They answered back, each yap lifting, carrying across the meadows.

“Beagles,” Bobby said, releasing a burst of air.

“Yeah, beagles,” I repeated numbly, still worried about where they kept the guard dogs, the Dobermans.

We stared in the direction of a small barn, waiting for an opening. At last, an engine came to life, and slowly the hum of a tractor rose, making its way somewhere behind a building. The distant thrum of its motor faded.

I swallowed my fear, shoving down the urge to turn around and hightail it back to my car.

“Okay, it's gonna be a helluva stretch to get from here to there without anyone seeing us,” Bobby warned. “We're gonna have to run between brush, horse, and tree. Ready?”

The pounding in my chest climbed up to my ears, leaving a rush in my head. I nodded. Bobby sprinted away from me, but I caught up and we rested under a tree. “I hope McGee will be gone. Daddy says he really doesn't live here all the time. Lives mostly in Nashville . . . uses this place as a tax write-off and for his fancy parties.”

“Hope so, too.”

“Maybe he'll only have a few farmhands around.” I smiled. “You got one more lap in you? We need it.”

Bobby grinned. “I'll give you a five-second head start.”

“On.” We moved on and made it to the first barn, poking our heads in to see the backside of a lone worker shoveling manure into the far stall. Speeding past, we reached the main garden. Once inside the tall maze of hedges, we slowed our pace.

Bobby stopped to stare at the huge marbled statues. I shifted uneasily, remembering my last visit to Rooster Run.

“Let's go,” I said in a tiny voice. “The Spring House is up there, past those hedges.” I stepped away from the bush and started trailing behind my shadow. I glanced up to the western sky to check on the time. It was possibly four, maybe five o'clock. . . .

When we made it to the far end of the maze, Bobby separated pieces of the hedge so we could get a good look at where we were headed. The Spring House sat about thirty yards away from the main house.

“It's like a ghost town,” he whispered. “And on hump day at that. You'd think a place like this would be buzzing midweek . . . creepy.”

“Uh-huh. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies.” I thought about McGee, his cold eyes. I wondered if he had slipped into Mama's funeral after he sped by the procession line. I didn't recall seeing him. Would he go to Tommy's funeral?

We squeezed through the hedgerow and shuffled toward the Spring House, looking over our shoulders as we went. Making our way around to the side of the old fieldstone building, we stopped under the window and looked up, trying to figure out how we could hoist ourselves up to peek inside.

The window, old leaden glass in a wooden lattice, stared out seven or eight feet above the ground.

I glanced over my shoulder to the towering mansion. It looked like there were sneaky eyes tracking us from its many tall panes of glass.

Bobby turned to face the Spring House and scrunched down into a crouch. Tapping his shoulder, he motioned for me to climb on, then placed his palms flat against the stone wall. Straddling his shoulders, I eased into a sitting position and placed my hands on the wall. He interlocked his arms securely above my ankles and lifted me slowly up to the window.

I cupped the sides of my face and smashed my nose to the window, searching. “No one's here,” I whispered. “There's just some file cabinets . . . two chairs, a desk and a lamp, a sofa and TV. A closet. Hmm. And looks like a cage over in the corner—an animal cage of sorts. But I can't really tell.”

“Let's go around. Try the front door first,” Bobby grunted, lowering me to the ground.

The old arched door of McGee's office pushed open easily. A blast of damp clay and musty stone hit us. Hurrying inside, we shut the door tight.

We stood in silence, waiting as our eyes adjusted to the darkness. The only light, slivers of sunshine slipping through the one latticed window, spilled onto a dark wooden floor.

“Let's find a lamp,” Bobby whispered.

I moved toward the desk, but stopped dead cold when I heard a low squawk, and a series of clucks followed by a
whoosh whoosh
. Panicked, I looked over to the cage in the corner, then to Bobby who was already moving across the room. I made it to the cage just as a rooster puffed up and let out a startling high-pitched crow, then another.

Bobby crouched down and made patterned clucking sounds, strumming his fingers along the cage's wire. Soothed, the rooster settled his feathers, cocked his head, and stared at us beady-eyed.

“A cockfighter,” he said. “Look at his tail and saddle feathers. Man, these colors are righteous!”

I scanned the room, looking for the ledger, or anything that might be useful to us. I spotted a piece of paper atop a file cabinet that butted up to the wall. I hurried over and snatched it off, lifting it up to a stream of light.

“Find something?” Bobby asked, eyeing the rooster.

“A note of sorts.” I moved back to Bobby.

“What does it say?”

“It's an invoice. Says here”—I flicked the paper—
“August 5th, Cock #114—Fire-Rooster.
It's some sort of transportation document to McGee from Senator John Yinsey's estate. And it's got a handwritten note at the bottom:
Sen. Yinsey will be attending the August 19th Rooster Run cockfight and will be fighting his prized cock, Fire-Rooster. Sen. Yinsey requests two female companions for the weekend
.”

Bobby sucked in a breath. “Man! THE Senator John Yinsey of Tennessee?”

“Yeah,” I breathed, shaking my head in disbelief. “It's even got his signature—
Senator John Yinsey, Esq
.—right next to McGee's. Whoa. Can you believe it?”

Bobby shook his head, eyes wide.

“Sure looks like the good senator enjoys a few Kentucky sins,” I said as a shiver circled my neck and crawled up, tightening my scalp. “Hmm. Wonder what the citizens of Tennessee would think if they found out their tax money goes to illegal cockfights and whores?”

The rooster ruffled its feathers and
clucked, clucked, clucked.

“Wonder what the Mrs. Yinsey would say?” Bobby
tut, tut, tutted,
mocking the rooster, who responded with silence. “Good boy, Fire-Rooster.” He raised a brow and gave a devilish smile. “Ya know, maybe I should release him. . . .”

“Daddy says cockfighting and dogfighting are cruel—that men who do this to animals will do it to people, too.” I thought about what Tommy had done to the pregnant cat that had made a home under Mama's front porch, after he caught her sneaking scraps to it. A cold fury streaked across my heart. “Bobby, don't release him while we're in here, or he might flog us. Wait 'til we're ready to leave and then free him.” I winked. “Outside.”

Bobby grinned as he poked his fingers inside the cage wire and rubbed the rooster's wattle. Fire-Rooster stretched a shank as if he agreed.

I folded the invoice and slid it into the pocket of my jeans. “We better hurry up and try to find that ledger, Bobby. The door was unlocked—probably means someone just stepped out for a bit. If McGee catches us, we'll be walking home buck naked or worse.”

“Okay. Pass me that chair,” he said, pointing to a wooden one beside the desk. I dragged it across old planks to Bobby, who set it under the window and climbed up onto the seat. He motioned to the desk. “See what else you can find. I'll keep watch.”

I opened the tiny closet. “Oh, wow, Bobby, have a look.” I held up the satin white Klan robe. “Whoa, who would've thought ol' man McGee was into this?”

“Coward,” Bobby hissed, and jumped to the floor.

“See these plum stripes on the arm, Bobby?”

“What are they?”

“There's a lady who lives out near Tubertown Road. Name's Edgarita Bower. She's a fifth-generation Klan who sews the robes and hoods. She buys most of her fabric from Nettie's Nest. I pulled out the wrong color bolt one day and she got mad, and gave me a lecture about their colors. The purplish color is for leaders.”

“Should be
yeller
for coward,” Bobby spit.

“Look here, Bobby, there's a flyer in the side pocket.” I studied the drawing of a robed Klansman and read the words:

“That's McGee's address here,” Bobby spit. “How can Sheriff let them do it?”

“I heard last year that a bunch of Klan went up to Louisville and rallied on the courthouse steps. A colored girl stepped into their protest area and they threw
rocks
at her. The police escorted the girl back over to her side, calling it ‘freedom of speech.' ” I dropped the robe. Bobby ground his sneaker into it, before climbing back onto the chair.

I made my way over to the couch, raised the sofa cushions, and looked on top of the expensive cherry desk. Empty, except for a crystal-cut lamp, some coins, and a calendar. I turned on the light, then tried to pull out each of the desk's six drawers. All of them were locked except for the top left. I rummaged through it. Nothing but pens, a wooden box of old knifelike gaffes used for rooster fighting, and the usual junk.

“Nothing here but razored gaffes. There might be something in the rest of these drawers, but he's got them locked up tight . . . No keys.” Puzzled, I tapped my foot. “There's got to be some other hiding place in here, big enough to hold real secrets.”

“Check the cabinets over there where you found the invoice,” Bobby whispered over his shoulder.

I tapped my foot again. “Yeah, I'm gonna check the floorboards, too.” I walked back and forth and up and down over the oak planks, bending over to inspect any creaky boards, trying to see if I could pry one free, hoping I'd find the ledger hidden beneath. I peered at the walls, running my palms over the cracks, searching for loose stones. “Hmm.” I looked carefully at the stones.

“Anything?” Bobby asked.

“No, but I remember Grammy Essie had a big ol' loose creek stone inside the house, by the mantel. She said it was a safe place for her jewelry. And when ol' man Higgins passed, his niece said they found two bags of silver dollars hidden behind a field stone in his Spring House.”

“Keep looking!”

I hurried over to the file cabinets. “Locked,” I said, kneeling down to tug on the bottom drawer. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed paper peeking out from behind the cabinet. The wind must've blown it off the top when we came in. I reached around and pulled out two tiny scraps of paper. One had a string of numbers inked across, the other, a receipt with names: