Who Let That Killer In The House? (21 page)

“DeWayne killed himself,” Joe Riddley said firmly, pouring himself a second glass of tea. He always claims going to church is thirsty work. “It’s real sad, but true. So you all just let it go at that, you hear me?”

“Are they sure?” Buddy wondered. “I mean, DeWayne seemed to be on top of the world, between the team doing so well and having a job he liked. He came by Thursday morning and told me he really liked being back in Hopemore.”

“Nevertheless, the police are satisfied he killed himself,” Ridd said gloomily. “Chief Muggins told me so last night. However, I think somebody had to have pushed his buttons to make him do it, and in my book, that counts as murder. I just don’t know how we’ll prove it.”

Joe Riddley leaned across the table and pinned him with the glare he used to use when Ridd was eight and declaring he wasn’t going to church that week. “You all aren’t
going
to prove it. That’s what we pay police officers for. MacLaren has no call to go mixing in stuff like that.” He never calls me that unless he’s upset.

“Ike can figure it out,” I said in a soothing voice. “He’s a lot smarter than me.” When Joe Riddley relaxed, I figured maybe I’d learned a little bit from Mama after all.

We went on to talk of other things, but in a few minutes I noticed Ridd pounding one fist lightly on the edge of the table. That was unusual—Walker is generally the pounder in our family. I leaned over and asked, real low, “What changed your mind, son?”

I had to bend even closer to hear him. “I saw Chief Muggins last night at the Bi-Lo. We’d run out of snacks and he was getting his groceries.” Chief Muggins had been getting his own groceries ever since his wife made one too many trips to the emergency room with a broken bone and decided she’d be safer in Atlanta. “I asked if he had any leads yet, and he said he isn’t looking for leads—it’s a clear case of suicide. When I protested that somebody had to have driven DeWayne to do it, he shrugged and said, ‘I got more important things to do than try and figure out what makes those people do what they do.’ ” Tears reddened Ridd’s eyes. “You know as well as I do that if DeWayne had been white—”

“Hush,” Joe Riddley growled. “Don’t say things like that in public. She’s a magistrate.”

“And that still takes some getting used to.” Buddy’s eyes twinkled across the table. I gave Ridd a warning kick. We’d talk later when nobody was listening in.

I tuned in to Martha, who had come back and was telling Sara Meg about talking to Garnet’s psychology class. “She asked a real good question, too.”

“Oh? What was it?” Any mother likes to hear about it when her child has been bright.

“I talked about child abuse, particularly sexual abuse, and described symptoms and various treatments. Garnet asked the one question I’d failed to cover: ‘What happens to victims of abuse when they grow up?’ ”

“What did you say?” I asked, intrigued. Martha knew a lot about a lot of things, but this was one subject I’d never heard her discuss.

“Some remain victims, repeatedly seeking out others to abuse them in various ways. Some manage to get enough counseling and support to function pretty normally. We call those survivors. A few become thrivers—people who are strong enough to reach out and help others in similar situations. Some thrivers even become professionals—pastors, counselors, or psychiatrists.” She sighed. “But those are the rare ones. Most bear scars the rest of their lives. This class had an extra-good outcome, though. Garnet told me afterwards about a little girl she suspected was being abused, and it turned out she was right. The child has been sent to a safer place.”

“Who?” Buddy, Sara Meg, Ridd, and Joe Riddley spoke in unison. In a town like Hopemore, it’s easy to think that things like that can’t happen. We know our neighbors and pretty much what goes on in our neighborhoods. A lot of folks, for instance, suspected Charlie Muggins was beating his wife. It just took our youth pastor a while to convince her she could safely leave. I, too, wondered who the child was. The idea that she had been going through that kind of horror and we hadn’t suspected was intolerable.

“I can’t give her name, but it was one of Garnet’s piano pupils. I had the Department of Family and Children’s Services check it out, and they removed the child at once.” Martha heaved another sigh, one that seemed to come from far under the earth. “If we had the space, I’d love to take in kids like that. I can’t stand to think there are children who don’t have a safe, happy place to sleep at night.”

“Me, neither,” Buddy agreed, setting his glass exactly in the ring where it had been.

“I’m glad Garnet told
you
.” Sara Meg emphasized the last word, sounding more sad than glad. She added wistfully. “I don’t even know who her piano pupils are. I didn’t know she was taking psychology. She tells me nothing. If you have a lecture on secretive daughters, I’d like to hear it sometime.”

“Introductory psych is such a waste of time, though.” Buddy sounded like he was the world’s foremost authority on the subject. “It teaches kids just enough to make them think they’re messed up without giving them tools to fix themselves. Take me, for instance. I took it, and I’m still a mess.” Everybody laughed. I appreciated his lightening things up a bit.

“Maybe Garnet will become a psychiatrist,” Joe Riddley suggested thoughtfully. “She can try to fix Buddy, and even if she fails, she can support you both in your old age.”

Everybody laughed except Sara Meg. “Somebody may have to,” she said in an unsteady voice. “Have you all heard they’re definitely putting a big superstore out on the edge of town?”

Joe Riddley nodded. “They’ve already started bulldozing.” He slewed his eyes toward me and sent a silent message:
See? I told you Sara Meg never notices a thing
.

I frowned at him. I didn’t want her seeing that look. I said, “At least, if Garnet works for Laura she can help out a bit. Did she get the job?”

Sara Meg nodded, but before she could say anything, Buddy leaned across the table with a worried pucker between his eyes. “I wish you hadn’t suggested that, Mac. Garnet’s not real strong, and she’s already got a lot on her plate.”

“It’s not hard work,” Sara Meg protested. “She’s at a desk all afternoon, and Laura told her she can study when things are slow.”

“But we agreed she’d concentrate on school,” Buddy reminded her.

“I know, but she wanted to give it a try. . . .” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

“At least she told you about the job,” Joe Riddley pointed out. “That’s a good sign.”

Sara Meg brightened. “It is, isn’t it? Of course, she was real excited about it, and I was the first person she saw. If she’d run into Buddy or Hollis first—or anybody else she knew—I wouldn’t have heard a word. Still, she did tell me. And like Mac said, it will help to have her earning something.” Now it was her forehead with the worry pucker. “What are you all going to do? I don’t know whether to try to sell out now or wait to see if the store can make it. I’d feel real dishonest selling to anybody if it’s going under, but if I try to make it and can’t—” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

We all said what we could to reassure her—it would take months to get their store up and running; she didn’t have to make a decision right away; maybe something else would come along. None of us sounded real convincing. Maybe it’s because we weren’t convinced.

Finally, Ridd leaned across me and suggested to Sara Meg, “Maybe you ought to marry a rich man. Have you considered that?”

Martha reached over the table and smacked him lightly. “Men! You think you’re the answer to all our worries.”

That, finally, brought back Sara Meg’s smile. “Find me an eligible millionaire, and I’ll marry him tomorrow. Hollis would be thrilled. She’s thrown every single man in town my way.”

“What about Garnet?” I wondered. “Would she mind?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?” Sara Meg asked Buddy.

He considered the matter, then shook his head. “I don’t know, either. Garnet and Fred were real close.”

Martha decided this was an opening for what she wanted to say. “I’m not sure she’s come to terms with his death. Has she ever gotten counseling?”

“No.” Sara Meg looked distressed. I’d be distressed, too, if I figured other people worried about one of my children, but

she wasn’t reluctant to discuss it. “Lately she seems even quieter than usual, and I’ve caught her crying a few times, but when I ask about it, she bites my head off.” She hesitated. “I found her daddy’s picture under her pillow last week when I was stripping the beds.”

“The local counseling center has some good grief groups,” Martha suggested. “She might benefit from talking to somebody and maybe joining one.”

“Maybe so.” Sara Meg sounded like the idea had never occurred to her. “Sometimes I think she blames me for Fred dying. And between finding that picture and watching the two of them circling each other these past few days like dogs ready to fight, I’m getting crazy myself. Did you ever feel like you could happily give your children away?”

“I tried several times,” I told her. “Took out ads and everything, but nobody would have them. Speaking of kids, here come four good-looking specimens searching for a home.”

Garnet and Cricket arrived first. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to the girls after church, so I told her, “You look mighty pretty today,” although she’d have looked better in something brighter than that brown skirt and a beige cotton sweater. “You look almost as good as your mama.”

She brushed a hair off Sara Meg’s collar. “Yeah, she looks pretty good
today
.” If we hadn’t known better, we’d have thought Sara Meg was an ordinary woman with a pretty face she wore on Sundays.

As Hollis came up to the table, Joe Riddley said, “Fine job today, honey. I didn’t know we had a budding singer among us.”

She turned such a happy pink that her freckles almost disappeared. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure I could hit that A without squeaking, but it came out all right, I think.”

“It came out great,” Bethany corrected her. She looked happy, too, so I guessed that whatever had been wrong between them was fixed.

“And you played beautifully,” I told Garnet, trying to include her in the conversation.

She shrugged. “It’s easy playing music for folks to sing to. Nobody notices your mistakes.”

“She likes playing Art’s songs.” Hollis drew out the last two words as only a little sister can. “He wrote her one that’s actually not bad.” Ignoring Garnet’s quick, angry motion, she sang softly, “ ‘I once saw an angel in a forest glen, walking with her hair ablaze. She turned to give me a winsome grin, and—’ ”

Garnet elbowed her. Hollis elbowed her back. Bethany pulled her away.

“Who’s Art?” Sara Meg asked the rest of us.

“He’s a poet,” Hollis drawled, sticking out her tongue at her sister.

Garnet seized her shoulder and shook her in fury. “You have no business going through my things.”

“Garnet!” her mother cried. “Stop it!”

Garnet stopped, but she spoke with venom. “She keeps going through my private stuff and you don’t do a thing about it.” She looked at the floor and added sullenly, “That song was a class project. Art’s taking a poetry class and wanted me to set it to music.” She stomped off toward the door, then turned and looked back.

I looked quickly at Hollis to make sure she hadn’t been blasted into outer space by that glare. Like the angel in Art’s poem, she was grinning.

20

Joe Riddley and I decided to go back to our place for a Sunday-afternoon nap. Ronnie had a key to Walker’s if the women needed a snooze. I could have slept a lot longer if we hadn’t gotten a frantic call from Martha.

“Cricket’s missing. Bethany went home with Hollis, and the rest of us came home and slept. When Ridd and I woke up, he was gone. He isn’t on the property.” That’s better than an alarm clock for any grandmother.

I shook Joe Riddley. “Cricket’s gone off somewhere and Martha can’t find him.” He had on his pants and shoes and was clattering down the stairs before I got my hair combed.

I snatched up my pocketbook as he grabbed his cap. Those things are so much a part of us, our boys tease us that they’re going to bury Joe Riddley in his red Yarbrough’s cap and me with my pocketbook. I tell them to buy me a new one for the occasion.

“You look around downtown. I’ll swing out toward the nursery,” Joe Riddley ordered as we ran to our cars. We took off like we were part of a movie about a high-speed car chase. I beat him down the drive by a hair.

My heart was pounding as I clutched the steering wheel, frustrated I couldn’t soar over the trees looking for that precious small boy. In far less time than it takes to tell it, I’d pictured him hit by a truck on the highway, struck by a car in the Bi-Lo parking lot, and swept into a van and carried off to California. As I passed Spence’s pasture, I scanned it, but thank God, it was empty. The cattle pond is mighty tempting to small males. Just ask my two sons.

I was almost to the highway when I saw Cricket coming my way, pedaling his little bike with a lot of difficulty on the gravel. I screeched to a stop and jumped from my car. Joe Riddley skidded to a stop behind me.“You scared us all to death,” I stormed. “What on earth are you doing all the way down here? It’s over a mile. And how did you get across the highway?”

His face was pink with exertion and sweat matted his hair, but his grin was proud. “I looked both ways and nobody was coming. It’s boring at our house,” he added.

“Not anymore it isn’t,” I told him grimly. “You scared the living daylights out of everybody. You can’t go riding off—”

“Easy, Little Bit.” Joe Riddley put a hand on my shoulder. “Taking a ride, son?”

“Coming to swim, actually.” That was a new word, and he was proud of it, too. “Mama and Daddy are sleeping,” he added, as casual as if he rode down every day.

“You aren’t allowed to swim without grown-ups,” his granddaddy reminded him. How on earth did that man stay so calm in times like this? It drives me crazy sometimes, but it’s one of the things I love about him and depend on.