Snoop to Nuts (9 page)

“I’ll be glad to be there with you, too, Miss Amelia,” Hunter offered. “I don’t think there’s any reason in the world you shouldn’t go.”

She looked across the table at him and seemed pleased.

“In fact, I think all the Blanchards should be there,” I said. “Been through worse.”

Miss Amelia nodded. “Still, I can’t be the one to go talking to Selma. And sure not to Dora. Poor thing.”

“Why don’t you leave that to me and Lindy?” Hunter put in. “The sheriff’s been thinking the same thing since you mentioned it. Just holding off out of respect. Talked to ’em both once but they weren’t in any shape to say much beyond how you forced the parson to eat a whole lot of your caviar. Just mad at everything and everybody, I’d say. Looking for somebody to blame. Maybe, with a few days past, they’ll think different.”

“That takes care of the past and the present.” Miss Amelia ticked off an item she’d scribbled on her paper. “Now, let’s talk about the recent past. What’s been going on in the church? How the pastor’s been acting—anything different? Probably talk to a few church members to begin with. Maybe even the whole church board. Start with Hawley Harvey and move on to Elder Perkins. Those two think they’re the movers and the shakers around here, let them come up with something.”

“Hunter and I can talk to both of them,” I offered. “Anything else?”

“What am I missing here, Hunter?” Miss Amelia asked. “I know you don’t want to say what the sheriff’s doing that’s different, but if you’ve got any ideas, or any information that can help us, why, I just hope you’ll trust me enough to share.”

Hunter put one of his large hands on top of Miss Amelia’s. He nodded stiffly a time or two. “Nobody’s after you, Miss Amelia. The sheriff—everybody—knows you didn’t have anything to do with this. I’ll have a talk with him but I don’t think he’d be unhappy in the least to know I’m working with you. What I said before, that was just in case there was something he wanted kept secret. You understand—it’s my job.”

“I thank you for your confidence,” Miss Amelia said in return, the two of them into a kind of friendly formality that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “One more thing. That hog. Who was around his pen about that time? And who was in the kitchen around then?”

He nodded. “Talked to people in charge of the kitchen. Nobody could say who was around, or when. Everybody ran when the yelling started, is what people told me. I’ll get right on that hog pen, see who was watching the pens and if anybody remembers somebody there who shouldn’t have been.”

We all hushed when Cecil Darling came back holding out a dessert tray filled with dishes of a colorless pudding studded with tired raisins and drizzled with a bland-looking sauce.

“My prizewinning spotted dick,” he crowed, pushing his tray under our noses.

As one, we threw up our hands, warding off the lethal-looking dessert.

On the way out, Meemaw leaned toward me to whisper in a smug voice, “Only honorable mention.”

When all us Blanchards filed in through the wide-open doors of the Rushing to Calvary Independent Church, the entire congregation turned to stare. Miss Amelia led the way, head high, eyes pinned straight up to where Hawley Harvey stood in front of the white, cloth-covered casket, waiting to deliver the eulogy after Elder Perkins led the congregation in scripture and prayer and a short sermon. That Hawley Harvey’s face paled when he saw us and drew up into a look of disdain or even scorn didn’t make my heart slow down any. There were evidently people here who’d already judged Miss Amelia, or maybe the whole family, and we would have to meet them head-on.

Behind Miss Amelia came Mama, cheeks burning but ready to fight anybody saying one nasty word to Meemaw. Bethany followed Mama, a butterfly barrette holding back one side of her bright hair, making it curl around her cheek.

I wore my best mauve, go-to-meeting summer dress—no black in this church because Rushing to Calvary celebrated death as the beginning of a trip to live with God. Nothing to be sad about. Behind me came Justin, looking like Justin always looked only his jeans were pressed. Jeffrey was last, dressed to kill in a white summer suit with pale blue shirt and tie. Everyone, including Justin, had tried to talk Jeffrey out of attending since he never met the man and knew few people in Riverville, but he’d insisted that our fight was his fight, and as a guest of the family, he must be there to support us.

We sat next to each other, one long row of Blanchards in a pew near the back. Not one of us bowed our head, only looked straight forward, meeting every shocked stare from a judgmental congregant who thought we had no business being there. We gave back smiles to those who smiled, and nodded. Though we were a row of impenitent penitents, I had the awful feeling of being a stranger in my hometown.

Back at the ranch we’d all agreed that though Miss Amelia might be gossiped about, we were going to show faith and solidarity by staying at her side throughout the whole thing. No going off to talk to friends, which made Jeffrey throw back his head and laugh. “Since I have no friends in your quaint little town, I’ll be the first to pledge my allegiance to your poor grandmother.”

We hadn’t exactly cringed, but there’d been strained smiles and, later, whispered wishes he’d go back to New York.

Justin still had his cowboy hat clamped to his head so I nudged him with my elbow. He was out in the groves with other men so much of the time I couldn’t help but wonder if Justin was going wild, like one of the hogs down by the river.

“Sorry,” he muttered, just then realizing he was sitting in a church. He snatched the hat from his head.

I looked at the backs of people’s heads—all people I knew. I didn’t go to church here, hadn’t gone anywhere in a while, but I’d brought Miss Amelia to services many Sundays and picked her up afterward for a dinner at the Ninnie Baird Hotel, where Mrs. Baird’s breads and pies were still served at tables lined along the wide front porch. It was one of our rituals, like our Friday nights at The Squirrel.

I did like Pastor Albertson, the old pastor, who left the year before with not even a going-away party thrown for him. One day there. The next just gone. People wondered, I remembered. Some, I heard, were a little hurt and a bit angry with the man.

And I had liked Pastor Jenkins when Miss Amelia introduced us on the front steps of the church. He was one of those earnest men who mostly took a single, straight-arrow path through life, the kind of good man who could make me start examining the way I lived, looking for deficiencies, which was another good reason to stay away from church.

And I liked what Miss Amelia told me about the new man’s preaching style—no wildly stomping around with a mike stuck in his ear, thundering fire and brimstone out over the people. “Good man,” Miss Amelia said often from the moment the pastor and his wife and sister-in-law came to town. “Knows his Bible and doesn’t act like the rest of us don’t know a damn thing.”

The service began as soon as we were settled. Elder Perkins, a tall man with a large belly, adjusted his lapel mike and looked out over the crowd. Tyler Perkins had eyes buried in folds, like an old cowboy, except he’d never ridden the range, that I knew of, nor ever rode a horse. Above a collar straining at the top button, his face was going bright pink. On his head a shock of surprising and unruly bright red hair rose straight up.

Elder Perkins smiled down at his wife, Joslyn, president of the Women’s Church Committee, then out at the congregation.

First we sang a doleful hymn, then we prayed, then came a resounding sermon about the evils rampant upon the earth—which I tuned out on—and then a couple more songs from the choir with Finula Prentiss in good voice, especially on her deep and rolling “Ah—mens.”

When Deacon Hawley Harvey got up to give the eulogy, the congregation, as one, settled way back in our seats, knowing the way to the cemetery was going to be a long and tortuous one.

Hawley Harvey was known as a talker, someone of many words and many roads to where he wanted to go. President of the church board, he could drive meetings way into the night, with most of the board members coming out without a clue what he’d been talking about to begin with.

But Rivervillians are mostly kind people. We all sat quietly while Hawley, in his brown seersucker suit with sweat rings under his arms, shoe black hair brushed tight to his round head and sprayed in place, rambled on about the pastor, about the church, and about God’s strange messages delivered in strange ways.

I looked at my watch. Half an hour the man had been at it. Going over and over the pastor’s kind ways, how he’d folded his arms around the congregation the moment he came to town, and how there’d been no dissention among them since the Reverend Jenkins had pulled the reins of leadership into his strong and capable hands.

From time to time there was a muffled sob from down front, where Dora and Selma sat. Mostly there were sighs, as Hawley droned on and on.

The church was hot. Too many warm bodies in too close a space. I could feel my head lighten, and feared I might topple over.

Another reason I didn’t go to church anymore: The church ladies of Riverville saved their heaviest and most flowery perfumes for Sunday services and funerals. And the men—a good slap or two of cologne before heading out. Then the ushers shut the doors to the church and let them all stew in one thick potpourri until, more than once, back when I was a kid, I’d gotten light-headed and stumbled out into the fresh air and sunshine, falling to the grass to get my equilibrium back.

I looked behind me when I heard the door open. All I saw was that it wasn’t Hunter, who hadn’t showed as he’d promised. I felt a slight shiver of anger then pushed it out of my mind.

Hawley was going into the second half hour of his eulogy, beginning to rock back and forth on his high-heeled boots. I didn’t think I could take much more. He’d gone way beyond listing the qualities of Pastor Millroy Jenkins, all the way into upcoming plans for the new addition to the church and how the church was prospering. Forgetting where he was and what he was doing there, he even laughed out loud a time or two—thanking God for a bull market that was bringing them all such great prosperity.

He went on to talk about the upcoming ground breaking, inviting everyone—“If you invested in the church or not”—to come and be a part of the glorious celebration.

I was about to nudge Justin to move his knees aside and let me out, when Morton Grover, saloon owner and also on the church board, rose from his seat in a front pew, where he’d been sitting next to Dora and Selma, to go up and stand quietly beside Hawley, his head down, hands folded in front of him. I figured the poor guy had to get back to the Barking Coyote and was out of patience with the garrulous Hawley.

Hawley glanced at the man now standing next to him and looked perplexed, as if he didn’t have a clue what he wanted. He kept right on talking and carrying on until he finally pulled in a long breath and Morton stepped right into the momentary quiet to invite everybody out to the cemetery for the interment, then back to the church for a luncheon afterward, provided by the church ladies. Hawley’s mouth dropped open, obviously having more to say on the subject of church improvements and their burgeoning coffers. The pallbearers were out of their seats as if a gun had gone off. The people followed, standing at attention as the casket was rolled out the doors and into the hearse, which then drove the pastor around to the back of the church acreage, where tombstones lined over two acres of flat and sandy ground.

My family linked arms and walked, instead of drove, out to where the casket was set over a yawning hole in the earth. There were more words said, this time only by Elder Perkins. Everyone was directed to file by the casket for their last good-bye, and then back to the church for the delicious repast the ladies had been working on since the pastor died.

After the ceremonies, the family stood outside the church as Miss Amelia and Miss Emma argued over going in for the luncheon.

“Now Mama.” Miss Emma leaned close to murmur. “I’ve got a lot of work to get to. Orders coming in from everywhere. That Giacomo, in Italy, is threatening to take his business to another farm if I don’t lower my price. You know how it is this time of year, everybody wanting to lock in prices and all the wrangling that goes on. I don’t have another hour to stand around talking and eating.”

Miss Amelia narrowed her eyes at her daughter, who had the good grace to look away.

“I know. I know, Mama. I won’t be showing respect . . . but hell’s bells, I’ve been here all morning—with Hawley going on and on the way he did. I’ve truly got to get back to the ranch. Not like anybody else is going to do my job for me.”

“Me, too, Meemaw.” Justin, big dark cowboy hat clamped firmly back in place, stepped up. “Got the men cutting brush down by the river. I’ve gotta get back.” He wandered off as if already making his way home.

“And I’ve got a couple from Sheridan comin’ out this afternoon to look us over before they book their wedding.” Bethany stuck her head into the center of the group and added her two cents. “I have to get home. And anyway . . .” She stopped to glance around to where people were giving the family a wide berth, and then to where Jeffrey stood off to one side, talking earnestly with Hawley Harvey. “Poor Jeffrey would like to get going. He doesn’t know a soul here.”

“Seems he’s met Hawley Harvey,” I pointed out as the two men stood engrossed in deep conversation. “Probably trying to talk Hawley out of church property for that mall his daddy wants to build.”

Bethany blew off my meanness and waved a hand in Jeffrey’s direction as if it was some cute trick he was doing, meeting the locals.

“What Jeffrey wants doesn’t mean a hill of beans, Bethany,” Mama hissed at the back of Bethany’s head. “I don’t like you hanging around that boy the way you do. I’m about ready to show him the door. Last thing we need right now is somebody staying at the house while all this is going on. Tell you the truth, young lady, I’m getting the feeling even Justin is ready for his old college buddy to say adios.”

Bethany turned and clenched her jaw. “I’m old enough to know who I want to be with and who I don’t want to be with, Mama. There’s nothing wrong with Jeffrey but being from New York City. You chase him away and I’ll just go visit him there. See if you like that any better.”

Mama pulled in a long breath and held it as if she was going to blow Bethany clear back to the ranch. Looking around, as people turned our way, she let out that breath, nodded to a few of the folks, and left. The way she held herself as she hurried along the path, I knew somebody was going to catch hell back at home.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Freda Cromwell, town gossip, scuttling by without as much as a “Morning.” I had to laugh. One good thing to come out of all of this: Freda Cromwell was snubbing the murdering, battling Blanchards.

So it was just me and Meemaw at the lunch. Surrounded by the Chaunceys. Miranda wore a slightly newer version of her old pants, shirt, jacket, and boots. Melody was dressed in a fancy dress complete with fringe. Her hair had been curled by what looked to be a very hot iron—it lay in tight sausages around her head. Ethelred had attached herself to Meemaw and sat craning her neck around to see who was looking.

For me, the only other good thing about being there for the platters of cold cuts and cheeses and the rows of creamy casseroles and baked beans and pot after pot of chili was when Hunter finally came in. He walked right up to where Miss Amelia and the rest of us sat at one of the tables. He tipped his hat, nodded, then took a place beside me.

“Sorry,” he leaned in to whisper close to my ear, warm breath moving my hair, tickling my face. “I took a chance, going over there to the fairgrounds. I wanted to take a look around again. Hog pens still up. Talked to Milo Froymann, superintendent there, and a couple of other men.”

“Anything?”

“One told me those pens were all the same. Had to be either left open without thinking, you know how occupied people get during Ag Fair. Or, they said, the latch could’ve been pulled back on purpose and left for the hog to find his way out.”

“So anybody could’ve done it.”

He nodded, then whispered, “They said lots of people were back there. Open to the public. Judging was all over. Nothing but folks coming through to talk to the ranchers or groups of kids coming through with 4H and summer school groups. Said there was a big group from the parson’s church came through just before the hog got out but he didn’t remember anybody hanging around or looking suspicious.”

“You talk to Selma yet?” I asked, thinking of the woman and not wanting much to disturb her. “I can see there’s no way I’m going to get to talk to her today, let alone poor Dora.”

I looked around for Miss Amelia and found her surrounded by neighbors and town folk. Evidently people were very seriously choosing up sides. More than half of them came over to hug Miss Amelia and say how sorry they were she got caught in the middle of all this. The other half stood around with their plates of beans and made muttered comments, mouths too full to make much noise.

Somebody’s Chanel No. 5 was making my eyes tear up. I took Hunter by the hand and led him back outside.

“I’ve been thinking, too,” I said when we were halfway up the path toward Selma’s garden. “Whoever hired Pastor Jenkins might just know a little bit more about him. Would that be Hawley? Maybe the board? Meemaw said sometimes a pastor comes to a new church with a little bit of baggage. Could be the case here.”

“What I heard,” he said, “is Selma was always saying how happy he was where they used to be, over there in Tupelo.”

“Heard her say that, too. Right when I first met them. Heard her say how good Dora and Millroy are to her. She owes them a lot so you’ve got to remember, she might be one to color the truth a little out of gratitude.”

I thought awhile. “But that’s another thing we have to look into. What happened to Selma? I think somebody was saying she used to teach. What went wrong, she’s so dependent now? When did she hurt her leg? We can’t overlook a single thing, can we, Hunter? I mean, I’m not planning on packing Meemaw’s bag for Huntsville anytime soon.” I smiled but I meant every word I said. Nobody. Nothing would stand in the way of getting the truth about what happened at the fair.

“I’ll drop Meemaw over at the Nut House and meet you back here. Don’t you think we better talk to some of the elders?”

“Sheriff did already. But it won’t hurt to ask a few more questions. I’ll be here when you get back. They should be around when this is over. We’ll figure out what to do about Dora and Selma later.”

I agreed because nothing else was coming to me at the moment.