arkansastraveler (24 page)

That picture. Oh, Lord, that picture. If it was in this house and I found it, maybe Toby did, too. And maybe he wouldn’t hesitate using it against his father.

“Yes,” he agreed, chewing a sandwich. “Garnet does like to embellish her prayer requests. We all know that about her. But we love her anyway. A truer heart for God you’ll never find.”

I nodded and didn’t answer. My mind was whirling a mile a minute. If what was in that picture was made public, it would be the end of Grady’s career in Sugartree. Maybe in Southern politics altogether.

Not to mention Amen’s.

Though I tried not to think of it, the blurred photograph
of them kissing on the cabin porch where he’d been holding the prize fish moments before burned in my mind.

Three things kept repeating themselves over and over.

What had she been thinking?

Would Grady. . . or Amen kill Toby Hunter to keep their affair quiet?

And, dang it, would I ever hear the end of the fact that Gabe was right again?

I
FINISHED UP
my sandwiches and tea as quickly as I politely could.

“Thanks for your hospitality,” I said. “Don’t bother to see me out. I know the way back.”

“Okay, then,” he said, a bit puzzled at my haste, but never losing his smile. “I guess we’ll see each other at one of the festivities.”

“I’m sure we will.”

Outside, I heaved a sigh of relief and started down the gravel driveway toward the road. I sensed his scrutiny through the cabin’s huge picture window, though I didn’t turn around to verify what might just be my own paranoia.

Grady and Amen? If there were two people in this world I would have never connected romantically, it was them. Opposites in every way I could imagine—politically, socially, culturally. How did they go from nurse and mayor to lovers to political rivals?

Out at the road, Mr. Lovelis was trimming the grass around the mailbox with a Weedwacker.

“Hey, again, Mr. Lovelis,” I said.

He gave a curt nod but didn’t say anything.

I was a few steps past him when an idea hit me. I stopped and turned around. “Mr. Lovelis, how long have you worked for Grady?”

He turned the machine off and pushed back his cap with a grass-stained finger. Sweat shone on his brown forehead. “’Bout ten years.”

“So you worked for him when his wife was alive?”

He nodded, his old face neutral. His dark eyes watched me with the intensity of a wary dog who’d been punished too often.

“So I guess when she was in her worst time, before she passed away, she had nurses coming out regularly.”

He nodded again. “Some.”

“Would one of them have been Amen Tolliver?” I blurted out, regretting it the minute I did, but needing to know. Thank goodness the one thing I could count on with Mr. Lovelis was that my disloyalty to my friend wouldn’t go any further than his ears.

He nodded slowly, then turned the Weedwacker back on and went back to work.

I worried that piece of information like a terrier with a sock the whole walk back to the lake. Gabe was awake when I strode up, reeling in a wiggling fish.

“I can’t believe I actually caught something,” he said, laughing. “I was sitting here reading when the line jerked. I’ve been fighting with this little guy for ten minutes. Did you have a nice walk?”

“Great,” I said, digging for a Coke in the cooler, grateful for the cold, sweet burn as it trickled down my throat. I watched him reel in the fish—a good-sized bass that would impress even Uncle WW—shifting from foot to foot in anxiety. He was going to want to bite through steel when he heard what I’d done, but the fact that it proved his intuition right might mellow him some.

I waited until he had reeled in the fish, we’d packed up
the car, and were driving back toward Sugartree before I told him what had happened on my hike.

“You snooped through this guy’s private photo albums!” he bellowed. “Woman, do you have any scruples whatsoever?”

“You’re acting like I went through his underwear drawer,” I said, irritated that he was focusing on what I
did
rather than what I
found out
. “The photo albums were right out there in plain sight.”

His fingers squeezed the Explorer’s black steering wheel. “On his shelf in his study is not exactly in plain sight.”

“It’s not like I read his checkbook register or opened his medicine cabinet,” I argued.

He muttered irritably in Spanish.

“Now, stop that. Speak English or keep it to yourself. And, anyway, what I did is beside the point. The fact that he and Amen had a relationship that included kissing is a major break in this case.”

“This isn’t a case, Benni. At least, not for us.”

“You can’t deny we’re involved. My only problem is how to approach Amen with what I know without losing her friendship.”

We pulled out on the highway. I glanced at the weed-thick ditches lining the road and wondered where Mr. Lovelis had found Tara. I rolled the car window down and let the late-afternoon breeze cool my face. Tara’s wide, frightened blue eyes hovered in the back of my mind. I hoped she was getting some kind of counseling to help her through her ordeal. Gabe and I didn’t speak of my discovery again until we pulled into the driveway.

He turned off the ignition and twisted to face me. “It’s a waste of breath for me to tell you this is none of your business.”

“Yes,” I said, thinking, well, we agree on something anyway.

“Keep me informed,” he said, his voice crisp.

“I will.”

A pained expression, almost sad, came over his face, then was gone. “And be careful.”

I touched his chin with my fingertips. The roughness from his day-old whiskers caused a lurch in my stomach. I loved this man so much. “Gabe, all I’m going to do is ask Amen about it, I swear.”

He caught my hand and held it to his cheek. “Let’s unload the car and show my fish to your family.”

After they made a fuss over his fish, someone mentioned supper. Dove and Garnet assured us they had it under control. Their frugal natures had decided, competition or not, leftovers had to be consumed. From the kitchen where they were preparing our leftover supper, arguments about who was decorating which family member’s graves trickled out to the porch where we all sat waiting. Great-Great-Grandma Neeta’s tombstone was obviously a coveted assignment.

“They shelled peas this afternoon,” Isaac said. “Then we had to weigh them.” His face was amazed.

“They’re actually enjoying this,” Elvia said, smiling.

Uncle WW and I just shared an amused look.

“Hey,” I said, “just be glad they didn’t make you
count
them.” I stood up and stretched, making a point not to look at Elvia. “Tell the girls I’ll eat later. I want to go on over to Emory’s and see how he’s doing.”

It took all my resolve not to peek at her expression.

“Be careful,” Gabe called after me.

Over at Emory’s, I found him in the basement den lying on the leather sofa, an old Spencer Tracy movie flickering across the wide-screen TV. The sound was off and there was a cold pizza with one piece missing covering the square coffee table. His hair was uncombed and his face tinged a pale yellow. He wore a faded red Razorback sweatshirt and a pair of black sweatpants.

“You look like crap,” I said, lifting his legs and sitting down on the sofa.

“Go away,” he said, pushing at me with one bare foot.

“Oh, suck it up, you wuss. That’s what you get for drinking too much bourbon, no matter how expensive it was.”

He stared at Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn arguing on the television screen. “I repeat, get lost.”

“Are you going to let a little setback like yesterday throw you?”

He readjusted the three bed pillows behind him and poked at me again with his foot. “Yes.” Then he reached for the remote control and changed the channel to a monster truck race.

“She really does love you,” I said, slapping at his foot.

He looked at me with narrowed, bloodshot eyes. “Read my lips. I . . . don’t . . . care.”

“Yes, you do.”

He grunted. “And
if I did
, what difference would it make? She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me and my life.”

I stood up and gave his messy hair a tug. “So, what you need to do is convince her you’d give up that life . . .” I gestured around the large, book-lined room. “. . . this whole world for her. Like Gabe staying in San Celina for me. Women can’t resist a man who will give up everything.” I looked down at him. “That’s providing, of course, you actually would give it up for her. And for the record, cousin, I think you’re being a big crybaby. Grow some
cojones
.”

With that remark, I turned and left the room, not looking back. That was the most I could do. The rest was up to him. I was determined to have one more talk with Elvia, too, then leave it all to their hearts. I decided not to tell Emory of my discovery about Amen and Grady. Right now, he was too occupied with his own problems.

Back at the house, I took my plate of leftovers and shot
the breeze with the men on the porch for a while, then said a quick good night to Dove and Aunt Garnet in the kitchen. They were busy at opposite ends of the big country kitchen making cookies to take to the cemetery tomorrow. I didn’t dare ask whether it was quantity or quality they were competing for so I took a butter cookie from each and headed up to Elvia’s room.

I knocked softly on the door. “Cookie delivery,” I called.

“Come on in,
amiga
.” She was sitting on one of the beds, flipping through a
Better Homes and Gardens
magazine.

“Snagged two fresh cookies from the cookie competition going on downstairs,” I said. “Want the dog or the cat?”

She shrugged, and I handed her the cat wrapped in a paper napkin. “Why are Dove and your aunt making cookies?”

“Since it’s a little ways out to the old pioneer cemetery, we always take lunch. Better not eat breakfast tomorrow so we can partake of both ladies’ feasts. You’ll have a good time, I think.” I bit the head off my dog.

She leaned against the headboard and nibbled on the cat’s ears. “Only two more days after that until I go home.”

With that comment, I decided to get down to brass tacks. “I just saw Emory.”

She continued eating her cookie and didn’t look at me. “So?”

“He looks and feels terrible. In his misery, he drank too much bourbon last night and is feeling the effects of it today.”

“Why should I care about that?”

I flopped in front of her on the bed. “Because you are being a
cabeza dura
, not to mention self-righteous and just plain stupid.”

Her dark eyes flashed in anger. “You think I’m a hardhead because I don’t want to raise my children in a racist environment?”

I plunged right in, figuring even if she got mad at me, I had to at least give it a shot. “I think you’re being stubborn and silly and will regret it the rest of your life if you throw away a chance to marry someone who loves you as much as Emory does. And as for raising your children in a racist environment, you two didn’t even get far enough to talk about where you’re going to live, for pete’s sake. All I gotta say is life is hard, my dear friend, and no matter where you live you and your children will have to face prejudice, so you may as well face it with someone who loves you and would love and protect your children with every ounce of his heart and body.” I jumped up and tossed the remainder of my cookie in the plastic trashcan. “And that’s all I have to say on the subject.
Buenos noches
.”

I left before she could get a word out. Chew on
that
, I thought.

“What have you been doing?” Gabe asked a half-hour later as we were settling down in bed. “You’ve got an entirely too satisfied look on your face.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” I replied.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, Uncle WW and Gabe decided to go fishing instead of going to the cemetery. Isaac, of course, couldn’t resist the photographic opportunity. I drove me, him, and Elvia and the load of flowers and gardening equipment while Dove and Aunt Garnet followed in her huge Buick.

“For the life of me I don’t understand how they can fight like they do and still ride in the same vehicle,” Isaac commented, glancing uneasily in the rearview mirror. “What do they talk about when no one else is around?”

“Probably us,” I said, laughing.

The old Sugartree cemetery was about five miles past the turnoff for Mayhaw Lake down a narrow, hard-packed dirt road. Dappled sunlight shining through the oak and piney woods rippled across the hood of our cars and our
faces as we drove carefully down the bumpy road. When we turned a corner and the rusty white wrought-iron gates appeared, we slowed to a crawl. A metal sign hung from the iron entrance arch:
SUGARTREE FREE CEMETERY
. Underneath it, another sign dangled. The weathered piece of plywood held the hand-painted admonition:
THIS CEMETERY IS NOT A COUNTY
-
MAINTAINED FACILITY
.
PLEASE CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF
.

Near the entrance, there were already a dozen or so haphazardly parked cars. I pulled in next to a shiny old yellow Cadillac where three elderly black women in flowery pantsuits and one elderly white man wearing a white straw cowboy hat were struggling to unload some folding tables from the trunk.