Then Hang All the Liars (12 page)

“‘Woman,' Frank couldn't help but yell, ‘don't you even care if our barn burns down?'

“And she didn't even bother to respond, but you could tell she didn't care. Not a whit.

“Well, the next day everybody found out why. All the Tallbuttons in Bulloch County—which is to say, all the Tallbuttons—were gathered in the First Baptist Church of Hopeulikit to see Maureen and Mahatma joined in holy matrimony, and I'll tell you there was some buzzing going on when they got a look at Mahatma, though people were trying to be polite. That is, all of the Tallbuttons except Florence. She was too busy unloading Miss Hazel out of the back of her pickup truck onto the picnic grounds that had been set up behind Mavis and Medford's house. It was a struggle, but with the help of poor jilted Floyd, she did it. And she was standing right there beside Miss Hazel when the wedding party arrived. There was Florence, in her best Sunday-go-to-meeting dress. And there was Miss Hazel, pit-barbecued whole with an apple in her mouth.”

“Oh, shit!”

“Well, I'll tell you, Mavis said a lot worse than that. And she started for Florence, but Florence was too fast. She'd made her plans well in advance.

“‘Gun it, son,' she shouted and jumped in the door of Floyd's pickup truck when he came wheeling through the yard. Those that saw it said they looked just like Bonnie and Clyde.

“Mavis left the whole wedding party behind, left Maureen and her groom—in fact, yelled at Maureen as she drove out behind Florence, ‘This is all your fault. I hope you're happy now!'”

“Did Maureen cry?”

“Hell, no. Anybody who'd jilt her fiancé at the blood test wasn't gonna shed a tear over a little old thing like that.

“‘Crank 'em up, boys,' she yelled at the band, and the drinking and the dancing went on late into the night.”

“Meanwhile, we've got Mavis chasing Florence and Floyd down the highway.”

“Yep, and Florence and Floyd had a good little start on her, and they knew where they were headed.”

“Which was?”

“Panama City. Florence had just called up and renewed those reservations that had already been made in Floyd's name. So they drove like hell into the Greyhound terminal here in Savannah, and Florence had timed it so that no sooner had they abandoned that pickup in the parking lot than they jumped right on the bus.

“‘Did you see her face?' Florence kept crowing over and over until an old man in the back of the bus yelled, ‘Lady, would you shut up?'

“So she whispered, ‘Did you see her face when I said, y'all come on now and have some barbecue?' Then she and Floyd liked to have died laughing.

“But that didn't last very long, because they hadn't even hit the city limits heading toward Panama City when the bus stopped at a red light and Mavis shot right through that folding door with her double-barreled shotgun. Missed the driver 'cause that's what she intended to do, but she certainly got his attention.

“‘What do you want?' he yelled.

“‘Open the goddamned door!'

“Well, you can imagine. He did. Mavis stepped on and popped right up to Florence and Floyd and said, ‘You think you so smart, you got another think coming.' Then she turned to the driver. ‘Drive!'

“‘No, ma'am. I can't do that.'

“‘Why not? You done lost your nerve?'

“‘No ma'am, but I can't go nowhere if you ain't got no ticket. A gun ain't the price of admission to this bus.'

“‘Hell, man, I could kill you dead.'

“‘Yep, you could. But I don't think you're gonna.'

“And he was right. Because Mavis Tallbutton may have been crazy, but she wasn't
that
crazy,
so it was what we call a Mexican standoff. Except that by this time there were people out in the street who had noticed when Mavis had blasted her way through the bus door, and they had called the police who had surrounded the Greyhound like Indians around a wagon. American Indians.”

“I didn't think you meant India Indians.”

“I didn't.” Julia grinned. “Well, Mavis hadn't gone this far to give up just like that, so she held them off as long as she could.”

“How long was that?”

“A good thirty hours. Until she fell asleep.”

“People must have gotten awfully cranky on that bus.”

“Well, they did. It wasn't exactly a picnic. But luckily it wasn't
too
full, and it did have a bathroom. Mavis would let them go, one at a time, if they promised not to try any funny stuff. And she did let the police toss tuna fish sandwiches and canned Co-Colas in through the windows. One man was really courting disaster, though, when he said if they didn't mind, he'd prefer some pork barbecue to tuna fish.”

“Uh-oh. And then eventually she fell asleep?”

“Yep. Just nodded off and the bus driver reached over and took the shotgun out of her hands and that was it. The police took her off to jail.”

“So what's this about autopsying the pig? Why autopsy a barbecued pig? Didn't they eat it anyway?”

“Sure. Miss Hazel gave her all for one hell of a party. No, it wasn't that pig. I thought you didn't know this story anyway.”

“I didn't. But Beau said—”

“Beau Talbot? That handsome thing! Honey, you know there are women around here have considered committing crimes just so he would come to the scene. I'd forgotten you knew him.”

“We used to go out when we were kids.”

“Uh-huh. And?” Julia's tongue flicked at the corner of her mouth as if licking strawberry ice cream.

“Now, Julia, I can't believe you've missed Beau Talbot in your travels.”

For it was a well-known fact, well-known because she told anyone who would listen all about it, that Julia Townley had sampled most of the better manflesh that was worth bothering with in the state of Georgia.

Julia laughed her big laugh. “Honey, I've missed a few. Though I've always regretted that one.”

“Well, he's right there in Atlanta. Help yourself. Now go on. Finish up about this pig.”

“All right. The pig they're autopsying isn't Miss Hazel. It's one of those of Florence's that died when the barn burned down. They're trying to determine if they all died of smoke inhalation and running their heads into the walls or if Mavis had poisoned them.”

“Who cares?”

“Well, the prosecutor does. They're throwing everything at Mavis but the kitchen sink. I guess they need to decide if she murdered all of Florence's pigs on purpose or accidentally, in addition to burning down the barn and shooting and hijacking the bus.”

Sam finished up the last bite of her onion rings and the last swallow of her fourth iced tea and sat, grinning. “Hoke's not going to like this at all.”

“Hoke Toliver?”

“You know Hoke?”

“Ummm-hummm.” Julia grinned that kind of grin.

Sam reached for her wallet. “Hold it. I don't want to know about it.”

“Don't you think that crew cut's cute?” Julia laughed. And then she reached over and swatted Sam with the back of her hand. “Come on, girl. Can't you take a joke? Now why isn't Hoke gonna like this story?”

“Because the big boys upstairs are going to say it's Southern Gothic nut stuff, not hard news.”

“You want to tell me that all those wars and hearings and bullshit on the front page are about anything in the world except pussy and power and greed and little boys worried about the size of their dicks? What the hell do you think news
is
,
girl?”

Sam dropped money on the table. “Well, you know, I never realized you were so smart, Julia. I've said the same thing more than once myself.”

“Sheeeeit.”

Nine

Savannah's Chief Detective Dan Clayton was blond and wiry with the kind of energy more at home in New York City than this dawdling Southern town.

He'd come around the side of his desk and was sitting with Sam, reminding her of Hoke, except instead of the cigarettes, Clayton chewed.

“Pardon,” he said, pointing to his mouth. “Gave up smoking almost a year ago. Wife says I don't quit the gum soon, she's trading me in. But I do that, it'll be the rocking next,” he said, the chair rocking in constant motion, “and after that the talking. She says I run races even in my sleep. But I guess you didn't come here to talk about my problems. What can I do you for? You writing about the bus kidnapping?”

“No,” Sam said when Clayton finally took a breath. “Julia Townley just told me more about that than I ever need to know.”

“Julia?” Clayton snorted. “She's something, idn't she? There's folks around this town think she ought to be run off, but I say, fuck 'em if they can't take a joke. Lot of high and mighty people in Savannah pretending they never screwed or went to the outhouse. You know what I mean?”

“Sure do.” Then she got down to it. “You remember I called you a few days ago about Randolph Percy?”

“Oh, yes.” He leaned back within a centimeter of disaster. “Now I gotcha. Well, I tell you. He's a smooth old bird. One of the slickest.”

“Then there've been other inquiries?”

“Hell, yes. Had calls from departments up in Charleston, in Macon, from down in New Orleans. One not long ago from Decatur, right next door to you.”

“And?”

“It's always pretty much the same. You can't arrest a man for having an eye for rich old ladies. And I'll give it to him. He has the best taste in septuagenarian lookers I've ever seen.”

Clayton was up and pacing the room now, his feet pretty much keeping time with his gum.

“The questions always come from family or friends. Never from the women themselves.”

“But they're able to ask?”

“What do you mean?”

“They're alive?”

He stopped and pulled the gum out of his mouth and stared at it before popping it back.

“Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. Now am I right, you've got another old lady in Atlanta who's got herself involved with Percy and you're concerned about her, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I'll tell you, this is how it seems to go. Sometimes the woman dies and leaves Percy her money. Usually quite a bit of it, though I'd say he hasn't hit the pot at the end of the rainbow yet. And sometimes she doesn't die, and she and Percy have a fine old time. 'Course, I imagine she picks up all the checks, but that fact never seems to bother her. I mean, we haven't gotten any calls from
them,
complaining, if you know what I mean.”

“You think he's a killer?”

Clayton turned, stared at her, and chewed for a few beats.

“Could be. Very well could be. But there's never been reason enough for pursuit.”

“Any autopsies?”

“Yep, as a matter of fact. A couple. Natural causes. Complications of old age. It's not like if he does kill 'em he bashes 'em with a baseball bat. Gets kind of iffy, you know, when you're dealing with people that age. It's not the same as investigating a thirty-five-year-old who's popped off and left him a bundle. Then we'd have something to look at.”

“You know the Cohens?”

“You mean the Cohen he married?”

She nodded.

“They're not going to talk with you. This was all before my time, but I know the story. Town's small enough that nothing's ever secret, and nothing's ever forgotten. I could tell you dirt from before the War Between the States if you wanted to hear it.”

“Not right now.”

Clayton grinned and shifted his gum.

“Didn't think so. But anyway, the Cohens paid Percy off and shipped their daughter up to an aunt in New York where she got married to Ruben Glass in less than a year. Brought him back down here with her, and they're enjoying their grandchildren in a house over to East Harris. But they all sat shiva—you know what I mean—over the marriage to Percy. Far as they're concerned, it never happened.”

“So there's nobody else I oughta talk to?”

“Nobody who's gonna do you any good. What I
do
think is I wouldn't trust Randolph Percy anymore'n I'd put faith in one of those rabbits he pulls out of his hat. A snake-oil salesman if one ever drew breath. Wouldn't surprise me in the least if from time to time he doesn't help a lady along to her just reward. So if I was you, I'd get my friend the hell away from him fast as I could. Though…”

He stopped for a minute and stared at the wall like he saw something.

There was nothing there but a spidery crack.

“Though what?”

“Aw, I don't know.” Clayton shoved his hands in his back pockets. “It's, hell, I guess it's a sexist thing to say anyhow.”