Pride v. Prejudice (17 page)

“I'm a talent scout for a gospel music syndicate in Memphis,” I said gaily. “I'd like to speak to a couple of you in private, if that's cool.”

“You were here yesterday,” said the blond girl with dark roots.

“Yes, I was. After a discussion with Grady, I decided to come back to hear you in action. A promising presentation.” I looked them over, noting the varied degrees of skepticism on their faces. It did not seem prudent to point out that I hadn't said what their presentation had promised. Queasiness came to mind. “Mariah, I'd like to speak to you in private, if that's okay.”

Dark Roots gaped at me. “Her? She sounds like a cat trapped in a toilet.”

“Or being shoved down a garbage disposal,” suggested a boy who was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette with a pungent aroma. He guffawed as he lost his balance and fell onto a pint-sized picnic table.

“You are not funny,” my victim squeaked.

I gestured for her to join me in a corner of the playground. I waited until we were out of earshot and then said, “I want to know what happened at the campout last year at Flat Rock.”

“What does that have to do with gospel music and Memphis?”

“We'll get to that in a minute. I know something happened, and I'm going to be very disappointed if you lie about it.”

Mariah scrunched up her face. “Nothing happened. We got there about three and set up camp. Some kids went swimming. We ate hot dogs, had a campfire, and went to bed. I was terrified a water moccasin would slither into our tent, so I stayed awake and kept my flashlight within reach. We had granola bars and orange juice for breakfast, and went back to the church so our parents could collect us.”

“That's the best you can do?”

“I told you everything,” she said, then clamped down on her lower lip.

“I'll say this for you, Mariah—you're a poor liar. Please don't force me to have a talk with your grandmother. Lobbie assured me that you're honest.”

Tears began to dribble down her cheeks. I felt like the infamous Cruella De Vil kicking a puppy, but I had little time to waste. I turned on the full-wattage maternal look and waited. She glanced at the kids milling around the door, took a breath, and said, “I am honest, but I swore on the Bible not to say anything. I'm not going to end up in hell because of some gospel music thing. I probably do sound like a cat in a toilet when I sing. I'm going to medical school after college. The only reason I'm in this stupid choir is because of my mother. Grandma made her join, so she made me.”

Reminding myself that the end justified being mean, I shook my head. “I'm sorry you feel this way. Do you realize that you'll have to take an oath on the Bible when you testify in court?”

Her eyes grew round, as if she were a deer caught in the headlights of a freight train. “Testify in court? I didn't do anything wrong.”

“Perjury is a felony. You're going to have to tell the truth sooner or later. I may be able to spare you from a humiliating ordeal in court if you talk to me.”

“I can't,” she said piteously.

“As you wish. The only thing I see to do is have a word with Lobbie and your mother, Jessabel. Don't blame me if you get into trouble.” I turned around and took a step, expecting her to stop me. She didn't. I wasn't optimistic that I could do any better with the other members of the choir. I'd culled what I thought was the weakest of the pack, and she'd turned out to be obstinate. My threat to speak to her mother and grandmother would remain hollow until I had a sliver of evidence about misdeeds at the campout.

Tick, tock.

 

9

I was seated in my car, debating the wisdom of leaving another slightly hysterical message on Caron's phone, when Dark Roots slipped into the passenger's seat. I hastily stowed Peter's cell phone in my purse.

“Are you really a music scout?” she demanded.

“No,” I said.

“You lied to us?”

“Yes.”

She frowned, perplexed by the concept of adults who lied with an element of integrity. After mulling it over for a moment, she said, “Why do you want to know about the campout last year?”

“It may help keep a woman out of prison for a crime she didn't commit. Are you willing to talk about it?”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You have no reason to believe me, dear. In your position, I wouldn't believe me either. The woman lives across the field from Flat Rock. The police arrested her for killing her husband with a shotgun. I think other people were involved.”

She gave me a shocked look. “One of us?”

“No, but someone saw or heard something. Mariah told me that she had to swear on the Bible not to talk about it. Did you swear, too?”

“Sort of. I mean, like, we didn't have a choice, what with Grady and Mizz Yates standing there. Every last one of us swore we'd never say anything about it. I just got my learner's permit last month. If my pa finds out about it, he'll never let me get my license.” She shuddered. “I hate riding on the school bus. I have to be at the bus stop at seven o'clock every morning. It's awful in the winter.”

“I'm sure it is,” I said, “but it can't be as awful as going to prison for the rest of your life. You won't, of course, but an innocent woman will. Do you want that on your conscience?”

“I don't guess so,” she said without conviction, no doubt envisioning the horrors of the daily ride on a yellow bus. “But I did swear on the Bible, and I don't want to be struck dead or end up in hell for all eternity. You'll have to ask Mizz Yates and Grady.” She got out of the car and trotted toward the playground behind the church.

From what I'd heard (and hadn't heard), it was obvious that malfeasance had taken place during the camping trip, and I would have bet my accountant's life that it had happened around midnight. Unless the church was a great deal more peculiar than I'd realized, the oath had not required a denial of the existence of zombies. Tricia Yates had been alarmed when I'd entered her office. I hadn't been wearing a badge or a jacket emblazoned with the insignia of the FBI. It was true that I hadn't resembled a mild-mannered bookseller, unless the job description included a stained shirt and disheveled hair. If anyone should have been unnerved by my appearance, it was the delightful Deputy Frank Norton when he saw me crouched indelicately on the top of the stile.

A dubious claim to fame.

I finally decided my best chance lay with Tricia Yates. She was apt to be inside the church building. The service would end in five minutes, assuming the congregation had been inspired to beat the Baptists and Episcopalians to the local cafeterias and restaurants for Sunday dinner. Competition was stiff. If Tricia was among the pack, I had no hope of detaining her for a quiet chat.

I walked to the church playground. The teenagers had vanished, although a redolence of smoke hung in the air. I went through the back door. Sunday school classrooms lined the exterior side of a hallway, all dimly lit and unoccupied. I heard a resonating hymn being belted out by the congregation, followed by silence and then the rumble of footsteps and voices. When I reached the end of the hallway, I stopped to assess the situation before I turned the corner.

It was a wise move.

“They weren't that bad,” Tricia Yates said from no more than ten feet away.

Grady grunted. “Compared to what? A line of homeless people required to sing for their supper? Half the kids don't even know the lyrics. Slackers!”

“You have three months until the Thanksgiving performance. They'll settle down once they're back in school.”

“Yeah, and I'll be able to walk on water. The pope will call to invite me to the Vatican for brunch. He'll serve eggs Benedict and virgin Bloody Marys.”

“Don't be a drama queen, Grady,” Tricia said coolly. “By the way, that woman who was here yesterday was at the service this morning. I was so flabbergasted that I dropped my hymnal. Mr. Vanyonder harrumphed like a bullfrog as he picked it up for me. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Who is she? Why is she hounding me?”

“She might be hounding me. I'm not bad-looking, you know.”

“This is not about you, damn it!”

A door slammed. I peeked around the corner and saw Grady headed in my direction. I dashed into the nearest classroom and flattened myself against the wall. I held my breath until I heard another door slam. I was fairly certain it was the door that led to the playground. When I heard nothing more ominous than noises from the sanctuary, I went back into the hallway. Grady might have departed, or he might have stepped outside for a minute. Damocles's clock continued to tick and tock. I had no time for caution.

I walked to the office and tapped on the door. I interpreted a gurgle from within as an invitation to enter the room. Tricia Yates was holding a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a glass in the other. When she saw me, she began to tremble so wildly that I hurried across the room and grabbed the bottle before it slipped. “Why don't you sit down?” I suggested.

“Who
are
you?”

I placed the bottle on her desk. “We covered that yesterday. I know that something happened on the camping trip. If you refuse to tell me, the police will pick up all the members of the choir at their homes and take them in for questioning.” Yeah, and I'd be able to keep up with Grady while we strolled across the Tiber on our way to brunch.

“If you're a police officer, show me your badge.”

I sat down. “I'm acting in an advisory capacity.” It sounded good, but I sensed she wasn't buying it. I toyed with the idea of tossing out Peter's name, rank, and serial number, then dismissed it. One must retain some standards. “Sarah Swift's trial starts in less than forty-eight hours. Did you watch the news last evening?”

She poured two inches of bourbon into the glass and gulped it down with the practiced ease of a cinematic cowboy bellied up to a bar. “I don't know how she got away with it as long as she did. She must have been terrified someone would recognize her.”

“She said Tuck was paranoid,” I commented, hoping she'd continue.

“I would be, too, if the FBI was after me.”

“Then you knew Tuck and Sarah.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked as she poured more bourbon into her glass. “I read the newspaper and watch the news. I paid some attention to the story because many members of our congregation live out that way. Not that any of them were involved, mind you.”

I folded my arms. “I read the articles, too. None of them mentioned that John Cunningham's nickname was Tuck. Not many people called him that.”

“Well, I must have met him somewhere.” Tricia may have been in a slight fog, but her look was calculating as she took a more discreet swallow. “I might have bought blueberries from him at the farmers' market. I really don't remember.”

“There was no mention of the farmers' market in the newspapers,” I said, not at all sure this was true. Her eyelids began to flutter, and her lips were quivering. I went in for the kill. “You and Tuck were friends, weren't you? Did you meet him at the library?”

“What difference does it make? I can assure you that whatever happened at the campout had nothing to do with that horrible murder. There was misbehavior of a trivial sort. Teenagers can be worse than animals. No sense of proper decorum or respect.” She put her elbows on the desk and leaned forward, giving me an iota of optimism that she was about to divulge the dirty details. “For them, it's all about sex, drugs, and alcohol. Give 'em an inch and they'll take a hundred miles. I wanted to spank every one of them and send them to bed without supper.”

“Why didn't you?”

“They'd already eaten, for one thing, and Grady thought it was better to just forget what happened.”

“What happened?”

She waggled her finger at me. “That would be telling, wouldn't it?”

Indeed it would, but that was the point of the conversation. Rather than saying as much, I tried a different approach. “How long have you lived in Farberville, Tricia?”

“Long enough to be sick of it. There are times when I want to go out onto my balcony and scream. The apartment complex is jammed with noisy, ill-mannered college kids who party all night and drive as if they're blind. Last week I was almost run down by a motorcycle while I was taking my trash to the bin. The seniors in the church have square dances and clubs for knitters and quilters. No one reads books or goes to concerts. If I could afford it, I'd move to a city, even if it meant living in a dinky studio apartment.” She stared at me as she took a swig from the bottle. “Do you know what they pay me here? Minimum wage, that's what. I work thirty hours a week so they don't have to provide health insurance. Every Christmas I receive a hundred-dollar bonus and a stack of fruitcakes.”

“Surely you could find another job,” I murmured.

“I don't have a college degree, and I'm too old to clean houses. I never for a minute believed I'd end up like this, counting pennies to pay the rent and conversing with my houseplants.”

“Why did you move here?”

Her eyes slitted. “It's complicated. Why don't you run along and pester somebody else? I need to count the offering and put it in the safe before I can leave. This job doesn't pay overtime.”

I did need to run along, although I wasn't sure whom I would pester next. Many candidates came to mind. “I will, but I need to know when and where you met Tuck. If I have to sit here all afternoon, then so be it.” I leaned back in the chair and gave her an inscrutable smile. It might have been on the smug side.

Hers was on the manic side. “Maybe the library. I go several times a week to use the computer, read magazines, and check out books. Perhaps I bumped into him there and he mentioned his name. It's uncommon enough that it lingered in my subconscious. Yes, I'm quite sure we chatted while we were browsing in the stacks. I'm addicted to historical fiction and biographies.”