Bootlegger’s Daughter (30 page)

“Wonder who Hardison’ll appoint if Byrd has to resign?” asked one of the attorneys.

“Oh Lord,” I grinned. “You don’t suppose this is where Hector Woodlief finally gets a public office?”

They reminded me that the governor would have to pick another Democrat, since Perry Byrd was one.

“Maybe I’ll have to rethink my editorial policy,” said Linsey as Haywood and Seth banged their horseshoes together and wanted to know if he was there to talk or play.

Linsey may have endorsed Luther Parker, but after running a brief story about how it’d been Denn McCloy who’d written those flyers, he’d quietly decided that the Ledger would have no further comment on the race for judge.

He also had enough of his grandmother in him that he’d refrained from sensationalizing Denn’s allegations against Michael Vickery, and the N amp;O was so surprisingly restrained in its coverage that I wondered if maybe some behind-the-scenes personal plea hadn’t persuaded the publisher to back off. Terry’s speculation that the two men had been involved in drug trafficking had not found its way into print; even so, a lot of people around the county had come up with a similar explanation for their violent deaths.

By now, it was two weeks since I’d discovered Michael’s body, and talk had begun to die down as life returned to normal for almost everyone involved.

Since the Vickerys were such faithful Democrats, kind-hearted Minnie told me that an invitation had been sent to them-out of courtesy for their position in Cotton Grove, not because she actually expected them to attend. “Of course, you can’t predict what Dr. Vickery’ll do,” she’d said.

Indeed, Dr. Vickery had played golf the Sunday before, causing some raised eyebrows; but Mrs. Vickery hadn’t yet been seen in public, not even in church. Their daughter Faith had stayed on after the funeral and was said to be concerned about her mother’s health.

By six o’clock, the luscious aroma of hickory-cooked pork well seasoned with Daddy’s “secret sauce” had a lot of people circling the cookers like buzzards. Over two hundred people had been invited and while I tried to act nonchalant about it, I was gratified by the number of dignitaries who had accepted Minnie’s low-keyed invitation to attend a pig picking “in honor of Deborah Knott, candidate for district judge,” even though I knew that several of them had also accepted invitations to a fish fry for Luther Parker the previous weekend.

Among the state’s movers and shakers were Thad Eure, former secretary of state and self-proclaimed “oldest rat in the Democratic barn,” there in his trademark red bow tie, and Bill Friday, former president of the state’s university system, who everyone regarded as a shoo-in for senator or governor if he could only be persuaded to run.

I had a cryptic conversation with a black female judge from the third division, who gave me some good advice and told me to feel free to call if I won and ever needed somebody to unload on about the way the system worked. She was nearing the end of her first term, and sounded cynical about certain aspects. “I thought my big problem was going to be race. Honey, race is nothing compared to being a woman in a good ol’ boy system.”

As the afternoon wore on and the sun began to set, Gray Talbert came driving through the back lanes in his black Porsche and parked at the edge of the orchard. I went over to welcome him and to thank him for his earlier letter to the Ledger.

“You didn’t change parties, did you?” I asked.

“Nope,” he grinned.

“So?”

“So why not?” he drawled with a supercilious smile that sort of got my back up. “Was I wrong? Aren’t you the best candidate? That’s what your daddy told me.”

“Oh? And what about your daddy?” I cooed sweetly. “Doesn’t he mind about you supporting Democrats?”

He shrugged indifferently. “I’m sure you know my daddy doesn’t give a damn what I do long as it doesn’t make the six o’clock news.” He spotted Morgan Slavin’s long blonde hair and ambled off to make her acquaintance.

I wasn’t sure which rankled more: that he’d written that letter to the editor to ingratiate himself with my father or that he’d opted to flirt with Morgan instead of me.

Soon Minnie sent one of her children to locate me and bring me up to the side porch where Daddy waited with Barry Blackman and my brothers and sisters-in-law. Minnie made a graceful speech of welcome, acknowledged the notables, spoke of Democratic unity, then introduced Daddy, who welcomed everybody again and said he hoped they’d forgive him for being partial to one particular candidate.

Laughter.

“Now some of y’all’ve seen her hold her own against all the menfolk in this family, so you know she can handle anything they throw at her. The only thing against her is that she’s my daughter, and there ain’t much she can do about that. I just hope y’all’ll vote for her anyhow.”

Laughter and applause.

Next, Minnie introduced Porter Creech, the most colorful official in the Department of Agriculture and one of Daddy’s old hunting buddies. He began with a couple of sly remarks about how much it pleasured him to speak on behalf of the daughter of a farmer who’d done so much for agriculture: “A man, ladies and gentleman, who single-handedly increased the production of corn in this county by twenty-seven percent all during the thirties and forties. And when he quit raising corn-least he says he’s quit?”

(“Just enough for the cows,” Daddy said amid more laughter from the crowd.)

“When he quit raising cain, he started turning out a bumper crop of fine upstanding citizens, including this young lady here, who brings it back full circle. I’ve known her since she was nothing but a twinkle in Kezzie Knott’s eye and a blush on Susan Knott’s cheeks. I’ve watched her grow. I know what kind of intelligence and integrity she will bring to the bench if she’s elected.”

My three b’s of public speaking are be bright, be brainy, be brief; and since the first two would only undercut Porter Creech’s remarks, I limited myself to a few words of welcome, thanked them for their support, and concluded by turning to Barry as I said, “Preacher Barry Blackman has kindly agreed to ask the Lord’s blessing on us all.”

Barry delivered an eloquent prayer of thanksgiving for food and fellowship, then folks headed for the cookers, where the three master cooks had sliced the meat from the bone, deftly mixed some of the dry meat from the hams with the juicier shoulders, chopped it together a little, and were now prepared to start serving. Good servers can eyeball a crowd and tell whether to load the plates or stretch the meat out a little further to make sure everybody gets some.

At the head of the double-sided table were bowls of additional sauce labeled Hot, Hotter and The Devil Made Me Do It. There were huge platters of deep-fried onion-flavored hush puppies, bowls of cole slaw, and more bowls of Brunswick stew. A dozen or more round tables, each with ten chairs, dotted the grass, but many people either sat in lawn chairs they’d thought to bring or perched on a low stonewall that had defined Mother’s iris border.

I stood with my brothers and sisters-in-law for another thirty minutes or so, shaking hands with late arrivals, accepting their words of encouragement, and telling them, “Now y’all be sure and get you some of that pig before it’s all gone.”

We’d already used a host’s privilege and fixed ourselves a sandwich a couple of hours earlier when the pigs were turned, so we were in no hurry to fill a plate.

I was surprised to see Faith Vickery near the end of the line.

“So pleased y’all could come,” Minnie said, clasping her hand warmly.

“Well, Mama thought it would be good to get out of the house,” Faith said. She’d lived in California so long that there was no Southern accent left. Only the “Mama” betrayed her. She looked a little worried though as she said, “I just hope she isn’t overdoing. I haven’t seen her in the last half-hour.”

“Maybe down by the shelter?” said Will’s wife, Amy. “I thought I saw her going that way a little while ago.”

“Thanks,” said Faith and set out to find her.

“Is Dr. Vickery here, too?” I asked, not having noticed either of them.

“Faith and Mrs. Vickery are the only ones I’ve seen,” said Seth, and Haywood’s wife added, “If he’s here, he came by himself because he wasn’t in the car with them that I saw.”

Our reception line disintegrated as the others drifted off to eat or socialize. I lingered a moment to savor the relative quiet.

Stars were coming out and bats were graceful silhouettes as they swooped and darted overhead for night-flying insects.

Lights had been strung through the trees, and as twilight deepened, the fiddlers started tuning up down at the potato house, a warehouse-sized structure where hundreds of crates of sweet potatoes were cured out each fall. Tonight, the big space had been cleared except for a makeshift musicians’ platform at the far end. The sliding metal doors had been shoved up onto their overhead tracks, and strings of small clear lights turned the place into an open-air dance hall.

Uncle Ash was back from South America, and he and Aunt Zell were already following the teenagers down the slope for some serious square dancing.

I was surprised to see that people were still arriving and hoped it omened something for the runoff. The side pasture was lined three deep in cars, but the snaggle-toothed child who’d been helping her brother direct traffic had wandered down to the shelter. I saw her talking to Gayle Whitehead and pointing back through the crowd.

I hadn’t had much opportunity to talk to Gayle since Denn’s death and indeed, I’d almost tried to avoid her because she kept wanting to talk about the SBI’s failure to find Denn and Michael’s killer, and I couldn’t really comment on the drug-connection theory making the rounds because Terry Wilson had sworn me to silence.

On the other hand, there was still such a ragged and unfinished feeling that I couldn’t quite put it behind me either. Usually when I hear a murder case unraveled in front of a jury, I’m left with a satisfied sense of understanding how and why. This time, some of Michael’s actions still weren’t clear, and I knew Gayle had begun to pick up on my frustration.

Stevie came past. “Neat party, huh?” he said. “I’m ready to boogie. You seen Gayle?”

“Right over-” I started to point, then realized Gayle was no longer there. “Well, she was right over there.”

As he headed off to look for her in the growing darkness, I had one quick surge of envy that there wasn’t somebody special here for me, too. Before the night was over I’d probably dance with Jed Whitehed, Terry Wilson, Dwight Bryant, maybe even Gray Talbert, but none of them would quicken my pulse the way Gayle quickened Stevie’s.

More people were drifting down toward the music and dancing now, though there were animated huddles around several tables with brisk political discussions and bursts of raucous laughter here, some quiet lapel-pulling there. I saw the tobacco lobbyists in earnest conversation with one of our state assemblymen. There was such a shortfall in revenues that for the first time in years there was serious talk that the state assembly might actually consider raising the three-cents-a-pack cigarette tax.

Bo Poole was in earnest conversation with the vice president of the Democratic Women as I passed.

Daddy and Dwight had their heads together talking fishing with Terry-“that sucker fought me all the way across the lake, heading for them root snags and-” Out on the dance floor, Reid had made up a square with Fitzi, Will, and Amy, and some others I didn’t recognize. Will looked as if he might’ve visited the beer keg a little more than he should’ve. Stevie still hadn’t located Gayle and was scanning the crowded floor for her.

L. V. Pruitt, Colleton County ’s coroner, had stepped up to the front of the platform to call the figures. A small spare man who normally spoke in hushed funereal tones, he had a lively inventive talent for spontaneous rhyme and could make himself heard above the fiddles: “Now you swing your partner out the back door, then you promenade all around the floor! Ladyfolks left and the gentlemen right; see who goes home with who tonight.”

Out beyond the circle of light, as many people were talking in tight clusters as were dancing.

“-like a drowned puppy that needed to be put out of its misery!”

“-so I said, well, if that’s the way the rest of the pulpit committee felt, I’d go along with their decision and just go home and pray on my own failings because-”

“-’cause the main thing to remember is that integration’s been a bigger success in the South than it could ever hope to be in the North and the reason-”

“Still didn’t find your mother?” I asked Faith Vickery, who was standing on tiptoes to see across the crowd.

She came down on her heels and looked at me blankly for a moment, almost as if she didn’t recognize me. “Oh. Deborah. No, and I’m concerned. She really isn’t well, you know. She really shouldn’t have come.”

“Why don’t I go look up at the house?” I offered. “Maybe she’s sitting with some of the older women on the porch.”

“No, I already looked there.”

Some of Faith’s concern began to transfer itself to me. What if she’d stumbled and fallen out here in the dark? “Do you want me to stop the music and ask if anyone’s seen her?”

Faith looked undecided. “You know how Mother is,” she said. “If she’s just off in a quiet corner somewhere in conversation with a friend, she’ll be so annoyed at me for making a fuss.”

It occurred to me that perhaps she might have been too overwhelmed by too many sympathetic well-wishers and had gone on back to the car to wait for Faith.

“I’ll bet that’s it!” Faith exclaimed. “I’ll go right now and check and if she’s there, I’ll just take her on home. Please thank your brothers for inviting us.”

She cut across the side yard and headed for the part of the pasture where she’d parked.

Up by the house, where the pasture gate actually entered the lane, a departing guest struggled to maneuver a car into the lane without scraping any of those parked on either side. As I neared the gate, I realized it was Gayle behind the steering wheel of an elderly Mercedes. She seemed to be having difficulty driving the large car.