arkansastraveler (28 page)

“Just once more. Please.”

With halting sentences, he told me what happened that
night. Nothing was any different from the versions I’d heard from Amen and Emory. After he finished, I waited a minute before responding, picking up a maple leaf that had fallen on the table, crumbling it into fine red dust on the glass table.

“Quinton, that’s all the conversation that took place between you and Toby?”

His face contracted in disgusted irritation. “I told the police and Duck and his stupid attorney and everyone else on this planet that the only thing he said to me was ‘Nigger, quit following me or you’ll wish you hadn’t,’ and I said, ‘You cracker-ass piece of shit, if you or any of your friends come near my family again, I’ll kill you.’ ” He stood up, shoving the patio chair away with the backs of his knees. “But I
didn’t kill him
. I rolled up my window and drove away. He stood there and watched me the whole way. I saw him in my rearview mirror.”

I took a deep breath, taking in the woody smell of the October morning. Though I’d heard the story twice already, it took on a new seriousness hearing it from Quinton’s angry mouth. No wonder the police suspected him. No wonder Amen was so worried.

But hearing his story wasn’t my real goal here. I had to find out if Toby said anything to Quinton about his father and Amen.

“That’s all he said?” I asked. “You’re sure?”

“I’m
sure
.”

“He didn’t . . .” How could I say it? I looked up at his face, knowing I’d have to watch every piece of body language to see if I could detect a lie. “Did he say anything else about . . . anyone in your family? Did he . . . threaten . . . did he threaten Amen in any way?”

He tilted his head slightly, not sure what I was asking. “Threaten Aunt Amen? Like how?”

I lifted my shoulders and continued to study his face. He seemed to be genuinely confused.

“What I told you is all that we said to each other. Why are you asking about Aunt Amen being threatened? Did he say he was going to do something? Have his friends threatened her?” He clenched his large fists, his body tense, ready to fight.

I stood up and went over to him, touching him gently on the upper arm. I would have sworn in court that he didn’t know about Grady and Amen. Not unless he was the best actor this side of Sidney Poitier. “No, Quinton, no one’s threatened her. At least, not that I know of. It was just something I was considering. That maybe he had something on Amen and told you about it.”

“Are you suggesting he was blackmailing us?” His young face was shocked, then angry. “Aunt Amen is the best, most honest person I know. There’s
nothing
in her background for her to be blackmailed for. I can’t believe you’d think that low of her. I thought you were her friend.”

“I am her friend and I don’t think low of her, Quinton,” I said, wishing the look of disappointment in his eyes wasn’t directed at me. “It was just something that had to be considered.”

“Well, I hope she never finds out you thought that about her,” he said, looking at me with hard eyes. “I gotta go upstairs and take a shower. See you later.”

“Yeah, later,” I said, watching him walk toward the house. I hated it that he was angry and disappointed in me . . . but better me than his aunt. I sighed and went into the house looking for Emory. I found him in the sitting room of his suite, looking over some legal papers.

“What’re you doing?” I asked, flopping down beside him and laying my head on his shoulder.

“Just lookin’ at some papers that Daddy’s been after me to go over. What’s up, sweetcakes? You look plumb defeated.” He set the thick sheaf of papers on the dark wood coffee table in front of him.

I told him what just took place between me and Quinton, without telling him about Grady and Amen.

“I could have told you the kid didn’t know about the relationship between Grady and Amen,” he said, patting my knee. “You should’ve come to me first.”

I sat up, my mouth open. “You know!”

“Of course I do. Amen might’ve been able to fool everyone else, but I know her too well. Granted, I wasn’t sure of the depth of their relationship, but I sure as heck knew there was one.”

“They never slept together,” I said. “It was just . . . a friendship. Kind of like a mentorship, I think. He taught her a lot about politics, she said.”

“Oh, Benni-girl, it was more than that, but I believe her when she said they never slept together. I’ve watched her through this campaign, even defended her to her own people a few times when she didn’t go for his jugular vein as hard as I knew she was capable. I figured there was somethin’ there keeping her from hanging him out to dry, even a few times when he deserved it. I think she fell in love with him during those months they were waiting for his wife to pass away, but could never admit it.” He rubbed his chin and turned to me, his light green eyes curious. “How’d you become privy to this little secret, might I ask? Did Amen tell you?”

“No, I . . .” Again I was going to have to justify my snooping to someone. Why is it that it seemed so much worse when I told about it than when I did it? I explained about the photograph I not-so-accidentally saw.

He laughed, though it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Just like most criminals, he has to have some evidence of the deed. I wonder why that is?”

“So, do you really think that Quinton didn’t know?” That would clear him for good, at least in my mind.

“I’m sure he didn’t and I don’t think he killed Toby. But the fact that you found that picture so easily does tend
to make me agree with you that Grady’s son could have found it, too.”

That seemed a good time to tell him of my uneasy, even suspicious feelings about Grady. “Do you think I’m absolutely nuts?”

His face grew sober. “Unlike Amen, I don’t see our esteemed mayor with such a glowing halo. He’s unfortunately one of those Southern men who give us all a bad name. On the outside, all good manners and ‘yes, ma’am.’ Everyone’s equal in the eyes of the law. And, ‘yes, I believe in affirmative action,’ but behind closed doors they’re sayin’ ‘I’ll work with ’em, but I don’t want them livin’ in my neighborhood or marryin’ my pretty white daughter.’ Talk about your mixed messages. In my opinion, that’s how a lot of seemingly good people end up with sociopathic kids. I think his son was entirely capable of threatening to blackmail his own father and I believe that Grady Hunter is entirely capable of killing his own son.”

I stared at Emory, surprised quiet for the second time in ten minutes. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

He picked up the papers from the coffee table and stuffed them in the cordovan leather briefcase sitting under the table. “I’ve been just a tad occupied. And to be honest, I was hoping it wouldn’t become an issue. I was hoping we could get this accusation aimed at Quinton taken care of without dragging his family into the quagmire.”

I punched him lightly on the arm. “We tell each other everything, Emory Delano Littleton. How could you?”

He gave me a level look, then said, his voice a little sad, “Not everything, sweetcakes. We haven’t told each other everything since we were kids.”

I stared into his green eyes. This man I loved like my own brother. No, more than my own brother. Like my own heart.

“You’re right,” I said softly. “Look, forget Amen and Quinton for a minute. What about you and Elvia?”

He gave a small smile but didn’t answer me.

I gave a little shriek and hugged him. “You’ve thought of something, haven’t you? I knew you wouldn’t give up! I just knew it. What are you going to do?”

“Never you mind. This is between me and Elvia. If it works, you’ll be one of the first to know.”

“
One
of the first?” I said, pushing him. “I should be the first.”

“Get out of here, young Harper woman,” he said, leaning down to close his briefcase. “Don’t you have a carnival to work?”

I glanced over at the mantel clock over the fireplace. Ten after ten. “Oh, geeze! I gotta go. I was due at the fishing booth at ten.”

“I’ll just bet you got a line of anglers a’waitin.’ ”

T
HE CARNIVAL
,
SPONSORED
by Zion Baptist and Sugartree Baptist was already in full swing by the time I walked the three blocks from Emory’s house. The Ping-Pong ball drop at noon was a big incentive for people to be out and about this Saturday morning, but there was also the fact that everything at the carnival—games, food, and drinks, even chances at the beautiful cakes baked by the women of the church for the cakewalk—cost only a dime. The whole point of the carnival was not to make money, but to bring the community together—hopefully, to bring the two churches together. I waved at Dove and Elvia as I passed the candy apple booth and found the fishing booth at the far end of the church parking lot. Gangs of screaming, laughing children, black and white, raced from booth to booth, faces smeared with cotton candy and mustard from the hot dogs being barbecued by the church’s youth group under a towering white oak in front of the church. Some quick work by members of both churches had made certain the swastikas were already erased with a fresh coat of paint.
I wondered if they’d asked John Luther to help.

“Where have you been, Benni Harper?” Mrs. Versie Pitts asked. She was frantically trying to take dimes and attach small prizes to the three strings dangling over the flowered sheet separating us from our customers.

Great, I thought, when I realized we’d be working together. Hopefully we’d stay busy enough that my uterus didn’t become the central topic of conversation again.

“Sorry,” I said, tossing my purse in the corner. “Here, let’s just put a cup out front for the dimes, and we’ll both tie on prizes.”

I grabbed a large paper cup from our lemonade stand neighbors and scribbled with a felt pen across the front—
DIMES HERE
. I sat it in front of the Fishing Booth sign and freed up both our hands to attach the small plastic kazoos, horses, farm animals, sparkly rings, candy necklaces, yo-yo’s, parachute men, whistles, compasses, miniature bottles of bubble water, and hair clips to the clothespin hooks. Someone who was obviously experienced at these carnivals had painted the skinny wood fishing poles pink, blue, or yellow so all we had to do was look up and see if we attached a girl, boy, or nongender prize.

After an hour and a half of attaching prizes and giving the jerky strings a tug so they knew they’d “caught” something, there was a lull in customers.

“Wow,” I said, sitting down on a metal folding chair. “This must be one of the most popular games at the carnival.”

Mrs. Pitts laughed and sat down next to me. “The little ones always have liked this game. And some of the older children play it, too, just for the memories, I think.”

I laughed with her. “It was always
my
favorite game.”

A head popped around the sheet. Mr. Lovelis asked, “Thirsty?” He held a tray of drinks.

“Sure,” I said and handed a paper cup of lemonade to Mrs. Pitts, then took one for myself. “Thanks, Mr. Lovelis.”

She gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, Frank. How lovely.”

Without changing his perpetually sober expression, he nodded and moved down the line to the basketball toss game next to us.

Sipping my lemonade, I commented, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mr. Lovelis smile.”

Mrs. Pitts took a dainty sip, then slightly puckered her pink lips. “Frank Lovelis has had a sad life. Not a lot to smile about.”

I didn’t answer but widened my eyes in interest. Though I liked Mr. Lovelis, he
was
the one who found Tara that night and did have a mysterious past. At least mysterious to me. Right now I was sitting with the one woman who could clue me in. But getting information was a delicate thing when you were dealing with good Christian women like Mrs. Pitts who took seriously the Bible’s admonitions against idle talk and unnecessary gossip.

When she didn’t elaborate, I prompted, “That’s too bad. Aunt Garnet told me about his story.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. She told me he had a story . . . just not what it was. “You’ve been very kind to him.”

“He’s been a real blessing to our church,” she said. “And I hope we have been to him. Losing your family isn’t easy.”

I nodded, acting as if I knew exactly what she was talking about. “His wife and . . .” I paused and shook my head, as if trying to recall the details. I took a big chance and said, “The accident . . .”

“Daughter,” she supplied. “Though I wouldn’t call it an accident.”

“No, no,” I said hastily. “I mean . . . I just said that because I didn’t know what else to call it. It was such a . . . tragedy.”

“No, it was not an accident. That terrible man knew what he was doing when he broke into their house. Poor Frank. He’s never forgiven himself.”

“It really wasn’t his fault,” I faked. “Not actually . . .”

She sighed and sipped at her lemonade. “No, not really. If he hadn’t stopped by that bar on the way home he would have been there, but it wasn’t actually his fault.”

“The man went to prison, right? Down in . . .” I was starting to feel guilty for my prying, but I had to find out the rest of the story now. Bless her heart, Versie Pitts was the only person in this town I could be this obvious with and get away with it.

“Georgia,” she supplied. “He’s still on death row from what I hear. Lord forgive me, but I hope he meets his judgment soon. What he did to Frank’s wife and daughter before he killed them. . .” She stared down into her lemonade, her face sad and a bit puzzled.