arkansastraveler (30 page)

When Ricky Don came back in carrying a steaming platter of biscuits, I tried to think of a casual way to go back over and talk to him, but couldn’t. And after my talk with John Luther and the threats he made about my family, it might be better if I didn’t.

“He didn’t do it,” a voice behind me said. I turned to face Mr. Lovelis. He was holding a small, stoneware bowl of chili topped with cheddar cheese.

“What?” I said, caught by surprise.

“The young Stevens boy,” he answered. “He didn’t do it.”

“How do you know that?” I couldn’t help asking.

“I just know.” He looked down at his chili. The grated cheese had melted in a thick, yellow blob. His gruff voice grew lower. “Best stay out of this ruckus, Miss Benni.”

A bit late for that, I thought. Though it wouldn’t be my
problem after Monday morning. There’d be two thousand miles between me and this mess. Considering that, I decided to press Mr. Lovelis for more information. “What makes you think Ricky Don didn’t kill Toby Hunter?”

He set his bowl of chili down on an early-American maple end table. “He’s a good boy. His parents are for the churches merging, and they brought him up to respect life.”

“Even good boys can lose their tempers for a moment. Nobody would blame him one bit . . .” I paused and looked down at my biscuits. What I was about to say wasn’t true to a certain degree. People would understand why he killed Toby, but the law would demand reparations. He could spend the rest of his life in prison. I glanced over at him as he was pouring soup into the bowls of two elderly black women wearing fancy hats and stockings with seams up the back of their trim legs. They were teasing him about his shaggy blond hair and his tiny gold hoop earring. He took their teasing in stride, smiling with respect and good humor.

Not knowing what else to say, I bit into a hot biscuit. The texture was perfect and the inside soaked with real butter. It almost melted in my mouth.

“Trust in the justice of the Lord,” Mr Lovelis said, giving my shoulder a gentle pat before walking away.

I stared after him, not certain exactly what he was trying to say. Did he know who killed Toby? Was it him?

I finished up my biscuit, then went to find Gabe. He was outside on the front lawn, staring up at the night sky.

“See a good star we can wish on?” I asked, looking up with him.

“Just getting some fresh air,” he said, putting an arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him, sighing deeply.

“Detecting’s hard work,” he said, his voice not entirely approving.

I bumped his chest with my shoulder. “Who said I’m detecting?”

“I’ve been watching you all evening. What have you found out?”

I told him about my encounter with John Luther and my conversation with Mr. Lovelis.

“Well, I’ve been doing a little detecting myself.”

I looked up at him, shocked. “What! Tell me what you found out. Right now.”

“While you and John Luther were shooting burning arrows at each other, me and your little Arkansas detective had a nice chat over potato salad and ambrosia.”

“About what?”

“He’s frustrated because his bosses have told him to back off investigating the Hunter boy’s death. He thinks there’s a coverup of some kind going on. . . .”

“I knew it!”

“And he wanted my advice about what he should do.”

“What did you say?”

Gabe pulled me closer. The warmth of his body heat was more comforting at that moment than anything I could imagine. “To tread carefully. To keep his eyes and ears open and try to discern who he could trust and who he couldn’t. I gave him the name of a buddy of mine in the FBI who might be able to help him. A coverup like that could have very serious repercussions. It could put his life in danger, not to mention his family’s.” He inhaled deeply. “I feel sorry for the kid. Corruption in a department is a hard thing to face when you’re as young as he is. Hard to face at any age.”

“Did he have any idea about what they’re going to do with Quinton? They don’t actually have anything but circumstantial evidence, right?”

He nodded. “Yes, but that’s enough to screw things up for Amen until after the election, which Detective Brackman thinks is exactly what his bosses intend.”

“So the most likely person involved in that is Grady Hunter,” I said.

“That’d be my guess.”

I shook my head and looked back up at the vast star-filled sky. “It’s hard to believe he’d use his own son’s death to further his political career. What kind of man does that?”

“An ambitious one.”

“So, what can we do?”

“Nothing,
querida
. Absolutely nothing.”

At the main meal at Miss DeLora’s our choices of lasagna or chicken and broccoli casserole were serenaded by a youth band consisting of three singers, an electric guitar, a keyboard, and drums. They played selections spanning the decades from the twenties to the eighties.

Amen’s son, Lawrence, stood behind the chicken casserole dish. A big, solid, shy-eyed young man, he was obviously a favorite with a lot of the church ladies. He took their compliments on his performance in last night’s football game in modest stride.

“Hey, Lawrence, do you remember me? Benni Harper. I think you were seven or eight the last time we met. Me and your mama used to play together when we were girls.” I held out my hand, and we shook. “I knew your mama when she was half your age.”

He gave a shy grin. “Yeah, that’s what she says. She says y’all used to really cut up together.”

I leaned closer, holding out my plate. “All the really bad things we did were
her
idea. Trust me.”

“I’ll have to ask her about that,” he said, grinning wider.

“Ask her about setting fire to the Winn-Dixie store.”

His eyes widened. “You bet I will.”

“She’s going to kill you,” Gabe said. “No parent likes people telling their kids about their wild escapades.” He gave a half-smile. “You two set fire to the Winn-Dixie?”

“Only the pile of cardboard boxes in back,” I said, laughing. “Firecrackers.”

He nodded in understanding.

I stuck close to Gabe as we ate our main dish, staying
away from John Luther and Mr. Lovelis, trying to forget about what the detective had told Gabe. He was right; there was nothing we could do.

“Need any help?” I asked Amen when I took my empty plate back into the kitchen. She was washing dishes, and Miss DeLora was drying.

“Now she asks,” Amen said, rolling her eyes at Miss DeLora. “After her stomach’s been filled.”

“Hey, I grew up in Baptist churches,” I replied. “I know you have to get to the front of the feed line or you’re SOL.”

“What’s SOL?” Miss DeLora asked, her face perplexed.

“Sure Outta Luck,” Amen said, winking at me. Then she took the drying towel out of Miss DeLora’s hands. “Grandma, you go on out and mingle with folks. Benni can help me dry.”

“If you’re sure,” she said, untying her starched cotton apron. She handed it to me. “Here, let me tie you.”

After she left, I asked Amen, “Where’s Quinton tonight?”

“Told him to stay home, lie low for a while. He’s really annoyed about it. Gets started on some big conspiracy theory he claims this is all about. Even Lavanda’s getting sick of listening to him, and she thinks he walks on water.” She swished a washrag through an iced tea glass, then dipped it in the hot rinse water. “You know, keeping him safe is turning out to be more of a job than running for this stupid office. Sometimes I think I’ve bit off way more than I can chew without choking to death.”

I picked up the glass and started drying. “You know, Quinton might not be far off on his theory. Listen to what Gabe pried out of that young detective they have working on the case.” I told her about Detective Brackman’s belief about a coverup.

She quietly washed and rinsed glasses as I talked. After
I finished, she took a few moments to answer. “That means Grady would have to be involved.”

“It certainly seems that way to me.”

She turned to look at me, holding a dripping glass, her face tense. “I don’t want that to be true. He’s . . . he was my friend.”

“I know,” I said, taking the glass from her hands and dipping it in the rinse water.

D
ESSERT WAS NOT
a long drive away. Grady Hunter’s huge lodge house was lit up bright and inviting when we arrived. It was a house built for entertaining, and he was the consummate gracious host.

The desserts were a sight to behold. Every Southern specialty had been expertly prepared for our partaking—Lemon Chess pie, banana pudding with a perfectly golden brown meringue topping, pecan pie, a gorgeous Lady Baltimore cake, and peach cobbler with real whipped cream.

“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I said to Elvia, taking a crystal dessert plate and getting in line.

“A small bite of each will satisfy,” she lectured behind me.

“Maybe for you,” I countered, taking a big spoonful of peach cobbler.

After eating enough to feel justifiably guilty, I wandered around the woodsy living room where Grady and I had sipped tea a few days ago, casually listening to snatches of conversation, most of which revolved around how the Razorbacks were doing this year. I finally settled down on a corner sofa where I could observe the crowd without participating. After my depressing conversation with Gabe and seeing the agony this whole situation was causing Amen, all I truly felt like doing was cowardly flying back home tonight, leaving this whole mess for someone else to clean up. I picked up a
Sugartree Today
magazine and was
flipping through the recipes when Grady Hunter’s voice interrupted me.

“So, did you get enough to eat?” His smiling face looked down at me.

I set the magazine down. “Sure, everything was great.”

“My cook’s a truly gifted baker,” he said.

“Yes, she is.”

Without asking, he sat down next to me on the sofa. “Bet you’ll be glad to get back home.”

I murmured an affirmative answer.

“When do y’all leave?”

“Monday morning.”

“Has your trip been fun?” His face was genial, his eyes steady as a mule’s.

“Sure, but it’s always good to go home.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “You know what has become hardest for me now that I’m older? When visitin’, I mean.”

“What’s that?”

“You just can’t be yourself, and I find that immensely tiring.”

I thought about his comment for a moment, then said, “But isn’t that what being a politician is all about?” I felt my face grow warm. Geeze, what a rude thing to say. I basically just accused him and politicians in general of being phonies. Even though I believed it to be true, maybe I’d better buy that new Miss Manners book when I got back to San Celina and memorize it. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I meant . . .”

He gave a tired, cynical chuckle. “It’s all right, I know what you meant. And I agree with you. With this race between me and Amen, I’ve come to reconsider my desire to be in politics. There’s a big part of me that would love to quit and just sit at home and read books on Southern history. That was my major in college, you know. History.”

“Then why don’t you?”

He shook his head sadly. “Too many favors owed. A lot
of people went to a great deal of trouble to get me here.” He smiled again, his politician’s friendly smile. “And I’d like to think I could make a difference in people’s lives.”

I crossed my legs and shifted in my seat, trying to think of something else to say. Though he could provoke sympathy in me, there was something about this man I didn’t trust. Was his little emotional confession a ruse to gain my sympathy, another politician’s game? As cruel as it was, I decided to hit a nerve.

“Why are you doing this tonight?” I asked.

His face was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

I looked him directly in the eyes. Their deep blue depths reminded me of a lake I’d seen once in the High Sierras when I was a girl. Daddy told me the lake had no known bottom, and that thought fascinated me. We camped there for three days, and each morning Daddy would find me at the edge of the lake peering into the water, certain if I stared down in it long enough, I could prove my dad wrong.

“Your son was killed—murdered—only a week ago. How can you stand being out in public like this? Hosting a party?” I watched his face, waiting for a reaction.

Like the practiced politician that he was, his expression didn’t reveal any emotion when confronted with a situation he didn’t control. Then a sadness flowed over his features. Was is real or manufactured?

“People expect me to carry on,” he said, standing up. “That is what a good leader does. I bear my pain in private.”

At that moment, one of Zion Baptist’s members, a tall, walnut-colored man, clapped his hands for our attention.

“Friends, I’m afraid we’ve some sorrowful news. Our dear Quinton’s been rearrested.”

A collective sigh came from the crowd, followed by a building, angry murmur.

He held up his large hands, and the murmuring softened. “Please, join me in a prayer for his deliverance.”