arkansastraveler (25 page)

“Need any help?” Isaac asked after we’d parked.

“Why, yes, sir, we would ’preciate it,” the man said.

As Isaac helped the man carry the tables to a wide smooth spot of grass under some shade trees that had obviously been designated the picnic spot, Elvia and I started unloading plastic gallon tubs filled with flowers.

“Put ’em over there with the others,” Dove said, pointing over to a pickup truck loaded with every color and type of flower imaginable. The side of the truck was painted with the logo of a smiling hen wearing a sandwich sign stating,
TIDWINKLE
’s
FRESH EGGS
.

A small protesting sound came from Aunt Garnet’s throat. Some of the flowers were Aunt Garnet’s prize roses, saved especially for her ancestors’ final resting spots.

“We’re commingling our bounty,” Dove said, ignoring her sister’s glare, “in the spirit of Christian fellowship. Now, let’s all get to work. There’s a lot to be accomplished today.”

Sharing a quick amused look with Elvia, we did as we were told and hauled the plastic buckets of flowers over to reside with the others. Then we carried two huge ice chests
of food over to where Isaac was helping unfold and set up the tables.

“What should I do after this?” Isaac asked me.

“Just get your cameras and do your thing,” I replied. “Elvia and I are going to get our assignments and start cleaning graves.”

There were, according to the pastor’s wife, over three hundred graves in this cemetery. Many were of families who didn’t have relatives here to pretty them up, but it had always been tradition to beautify the whole cemetery, so visitors like Elvia and I would help out wherever needed.

“Grab some clippers,” I told her after being assigned a section. I picked up a bucket of water and a wooden-handled scrub brush.

We were given a set of graves toward the back of the cemetery since our family plot had plenty of representation. Indeed, between Dove and Aunt Garnet and the various cousins, uncles, and aunts, the Mosely group of headstones would have more than enough primping. Hundred-foot-tall loblolly pines and chiquapin oak trees shaded the area where we clipped the long grasses around the moss-stained graves carrying the old-timey names of Charity Bennett, Essie Lue Smyth, Eldon Stryker, and Reddic Montgomery II.

Elvia and I worked without talking, me scrubbing the lichen-encrusted tombstones, she clipping the grass around the base, enjoying the a cappella singing of the wild finches, the rustling of the wind in the brilliant leafy tops of the sweet gum trees, and the low murmuring and occasional spirited burst of gospel singing. We stopped for a moment to stare with delight at an unbelievably bright carmine-colored cardinal who swooped down and landed on a headstone only a few feet away from us. It chattered at us in avian anger.

“There’s so much color here,” Elvia said, her voice a soft sigh.

I nodded in agreement. There was no doubt Arkansas had its natural beauty and that there was much to admire about this state, not only its God-given landscapes and rich animal life, but the resilience of its people and the goodness that ran through many of them, no matter what their status in life or color of skin. The type of people who would share their last crust with a stranger, help you if you were broken down on the side of the road, march side by side with you for your right to sit where you please on the bus or a vinyl-covered stool in a roadside cafe. I was tempted to say this to Elvia. But I didn’t. I went back to scrubbing the top of Velta and John Whittaker’s tombstone and prayed that hearts would soften—both hers and Emory’s.

“Hey, how many y’all get done?” Amen said, walking up holding an old rake with a duct-taped handle.

“More’n you, I’ll bet,” I shot back.

“Ha, I’ve been here since seven
A
.
M
. Y’all hadn’t even rolled out of the sack ’fore then.” She grinned at me. “You two look like twins.”

“Not my choice of clothing,” Elvia said, standing up and rubbing the small of her back. We were wearing identical Wranglers and faded red Sugartree Hornets sweatshirts.

“The jeans are mine, the sweatshirts are my cousin Rita’s,” I said. “I had to convince Miss Fashion Plate over there that graveyard dirt was something she definitely didn’t want to attempt to clean out of Ralph Lauren designer jeans.”

“Did you tell her we always take a group picture after lunch?” Amen asked, chuckling.

“No!” Elvia exclaimed, answering both Amen’s question and the question as to whether she’d be in the picture.

“Thank you very much, Miss Mayor-Elect,” I said. “I was saving that surprise for after I’d fed her.”

“I’m taking a break,” Elvia said, giving me a small glare. “Even though you don’t deserve it, would you like something to drink?”

“I’ll come, too,” I said, throwing my scrub brush in the bucket of dirty water. “I need to empty this and get new water anyway.”

“Dump it here and we’ll get some in the creek,” Amen said, pointing over to a thick stand of willow trees. “It’s closer.”

“Okay,” I said, then turned to Elvia. “I’ll join you as soon as I get fresh water.”

“Good,” she said, “then we can discuss the picture you
forgot
to tell me about.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, smiling big at her. She shook her head and smiled back, not really mad.

“I envy your friendship,” Amen said as we walked past a group of elderly ladies in almost identical dark stretch pants and flowered polyester blouses arranging mixed bouquets of red and pink roses, cultivated daisies, and stalks of wild tiny-flowered pinkweed. “The easiness of it.”

One of the women started singing, “It Is Well with My Soul,” in a deep, full-throated alto, and gradually, as I followed Amen down the narrow path toward the creek, one after another, the soft, high-pitched sopranos of the other ladies joined in, and we were serenaded all the way to the bubbling creek below.

“Well, being constantly in each other’s presence since second grade helps,” I said. “And we forgive each other a lot.”

She nodded, her face thoughtful as we dipped our empty buckets into the deepest part of the creek. The agitation of our buckets caused tiny brown fish to dart behind a grouping of jagged rocks.

“Does the race issue ever come up?” she asked, not looking at me.

I waited a moment before answering, knowing we were on unsteady ground. “You probably aren’t going to like my answer, Amen, but actually, no, it doesn’t that often. Mostly we ignore it.” I stopped, then said, “No, I take that
back. We don’t
ignore
it. It just isn’t an issue in our everyday life.”

“And you think that’s okay?” she said, her voice bitter, her dark eyes appearing angry. “You think that’s realistic?”

I jerked my bucket of water out of the creek, sloshing half of it against my jeans, flinching visibly when the cold wet denim stuck to my thigh. “No, it’s not
okay
, it’s just the way it is. I’d discuss it with her if she wanted. I’d discuss it with Gabe if he wanted, but mostly we just live our lives, you know? A lot of the stuff that happens to all of us every day doesn’t have a thing to do with the color of our skin.” I set my bucket down, irritated and apologetic at the same time. “Amen, what do you want me to say? I’m at a loss here about what you want. I’m your friend and I know you’re black and I’m white and there’s a million things about what you and Elvia and Gabe have gone through that I’ll never, ever understand, but I truly don’t know what you want me to do or say. I’m your friend. I love you. I’d give you the Sugartree Hornets sweatshirt off my back if you wanted it. That’s all I know to say.”

She stared at me a minute, her face unreadable. Then a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Keep your ratty old sweatshirt, you smart-mouthed cracker.”

“That’s Miz Cracker to you,” I said, picking up a handful of acorns and tossing them at her.

As we started back, though I didn’t want to wreck our easy mood, I also knew that I might not find her alone again, so I casually said, “I had lunch with Grady Hunter the other day.”

“Is that right? How’d that come about?”

I told her about my and Gabe’s impromptu fishing trip and my accidental meeting with Grady on my hike. “He seems like a very nice man,” I said.

“Told you he was,” she said, moving ahead of me on the path.

“You never told me you worked for him,” I said to her back.

She stopped and turned slowly around, her chest heaving slightly with the strain of our uphill climb from the creek. Her shaded eyes studied me without blinking. “I took care of his wife,” she finally said. “For the last nine months of her life.”

I hesitated, then blurted out, “I saw a picture of you and him.”

By the stricken look on her face, there was no doubt what photograph we were talking about. She slipped a hand over her eyes, and her slender body trembled slightly in the warm dappled sunlight. “He kept . . . He showed you that picture?”

“No, it was in an album. He doesn’t even know I saw it. I . . .” My face grew warm. “I’m sorry, Amen. I saw it sticking out from behind another photograph and I looked at it. He was obviously trying to hide it, and . . . I’m . . . sorry.”

Her hand came down, and a tired expression seemed to lengthen her face. “It’s not what you think. We didn’t
do
anything. Not that he didn’t try . . . and not that I didn’t
want
to. But we didn’t. That kiss was it. I told him to destroy that picture. He took it with a timer. We were just goofing around. We weren’t thinking.”

“Were you in love with him?” I asked.

“No!” Her answer came too quickly. “It was just a kiss.
That’s all
. He was stressed, my William had just died, and we were both lonely and confused. We spent a lot of the time I was there talking. I learned a lot about politics from him, believe it or not. During his wife’s last months, she slept a lot, and there wasn’t much for me to do except wait with him. He loved his wife, and I loved William, but she was dying, and I missed William . . . Grady’s wife died a month or so later, and my job was over. We never spoke about it again.” Her fist came down hard on her thigh. “I
can’t believe he kept that picture. If that came out, it would look like . . . It would ruin . . .” She stopped. Above us, a squirrel chattered in agitation, scolding us for invading its domain.

“Both your chances of being elected mayor,” I finished.

“Yes,” she said softly.

A thought occurred to me. “Are you sure no one else knew about it?”

“Who could . . .” But the answer came to her before she finished her own sentence. “Toby,” she whispered.

“If I found it so easily, what if he did, too?”

She leaned back against the thick trunk of a white oak tree, looking up through the gnarly branches. The squirrel continued to chitter at us. “But if he used it, it would hurt his father just as much as me, maybe more. Why would he do that?”

“Maybe that’s what he wanted. And maybe Grady found out about it and stopped him.”

Shock widened her eyes. “Are you suggesting that he killed his own son to save his career?” She shook her head vehemently. “No way. I know Grady. He’d resign first.”

“Look, Amen, I know you like and admire Grady Hunter, but I’m telling you we’ve got to get the suspicion off Quinton. Frankly, I would think you’d be glad to find someone else for the police to point a finger at.”

Her eyes flashed anger. “Benni, my nephew didn’t kill Toby Hunter, and I’m going to prove that, but not by directing the blame toward an innocent man.”

Who I wasn’t sure was so innocent. But with how she was reacting, I wasn’t about to say that. Obviously there were some complicated emotions running through her concerning Grady, and they were beyond my ability to decipher. “Okay, then let’s look at who else wanted Toby dead.”

“Half the town,” she said sharply.

“Granted, but we need to narrow it down.” I didn’t want
to mention how much influence Grady had with the police, that possibly he could be directing the suspicion away from himself. Right now, I knew she wouldn’t believe that. “There’s also John Luther and Ricky Don, both of whom had means and motive.”

“I can’t imagine John Luther beating anyone to death, can you? He’s just not that violent. My gosh, when we were kids, he was afraid to hold the frogs we caught down at the creek. Remember?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, wishing I didn’t know what I did about John Luther. “No one completely knows another person. And we’re not kids anymore.”

“That’s the truth,” she said, sighing deeply. “Oh, Benni, I want Toby Hunter’s killer caught, I truly do. I just wish it was someone I didn’t know, and the chances of that are pretty slim.” She picked up her bucket of water. “Are you going to tell the police about Grady and me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It has no bearing at all on their case.”

“That we know of,” she said softly.

We didn’t voice what I knew we both were thinking. What if Toby had found that picture and not told his father about it, but blurted it out to Quinton? Could Quinton have struck out in anger and killed Toby? Or . . . this suddenly occurred to me. What if he’d shown it to Duck? A sick feeling churned in my stomach.

“Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, what am I going to do?” she asked, looking up, her face crumpled in sorrow.