Shivaree (17 page)

THIRTY-TWO

Annie Krueger’s wide and oddly angled face had been ravaged by chicken pox. If she had ever found a single thing to smile about, embarrassment over a severe overbite would have prevented her from doing so. Her eyes sat too far back in her head and too closely together. A lazy right eye remained permanently turned inward to spy on its companion. Both rested on dark purple circles that never faded. With those eyes, Annie scanned the tables at the Blankenship Diner, or “Blank’s,” as its faithful patrons referred to it, making a special point to catalog each crease, each mole, each scar on the faces of those customers who lacked the imagination to go down the street even once in a while to eat at the drugstore’s luncheon counter.

She circled the room, coffee carafe in hand, celebrating the knowledge that one day, one day soon, she was gonna kill every last single one of these bastards. Put rat poison in the coffee, in the grits, in the beans, in every spoon of slop she sat before these swine. That was the only thought that kept her going, the sole thought that kept her sane as she rose each day to meet the sun and donned one of two identical uniforms, each a pale buttercup yellow that she knew made her sallow complexion seem even more jaundiced. Black collar, four black buttons, and black stripes over the pockets made her resemble an anemic bumblebee. Pinned-back lusterless brown hair imprisoned by a black hairnet, and graying tennis shoes. This was the outfit she wore six out of each seven days of her life. There was no point in trying to look pretty. Since childhood, harsh words and avoided glances had let her know she was too far away from that goal to make her efforts anything more than worthless.

She worked here, toting plates from counter to table, from table to kitchen, from Monday through Saturday, from breakfast until the moment when Barbara Jean arrived to work the dinner shift. A nod to Barbara Jean, perhaps a mumbled word or two, then she’d return to her parents’ home, where she would hand wash the scent of her sweat and the smell of bacon and onions from the buttercream dress, hanging it over the tub to drip-dry for the two days hence when she would wear it once again. Each and every evening, she’d put on her mother’s old robe, and make herself a cup of tea and sit in her father’s armchair, where she’d dream of the day when she would finally kill every single last one of the bastards who frequented the diner.

It had seemed an act of Providence, a prayer answered, a wish fulfilled, when a couple of years back, she’d spotted a glint from a brown glass bottle sitting in the trash behind the diner. Annie figured the rats found their way into the diner again, and the boss was trying to get rid of them quietly and on his own. Most of the label was still on the bottle, and the word “Poison” printed in red and surrounded by a red diamond, jumped out at her like a hallelujah. She’d carried it with her. Slept with it even, ever since. The only thing that surprised her was that she’d held off from using it this long.

Annie glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. Seven o’clock. Eleven and a half hours before she’d pass the last customer’s fouled plate back to Merle, the pimple-faced teenaged dishwasher, and walk the eight blocks east and three blocks south to arrive back home. The house would be dark and empty when she got there. Her father had passed four years back, and her mama joined him last fall. Now, with summer ending, and the nights growing long again, Annie wished she’d hadn’t tested the thallium on the cat.

“Annie.” An impatient voice caught her attention. She turned and fixed her misaligned gaze on Marjorie Thompson, holding up a lipstick-stained mug. If any woman in the world could sympathize with Annie’s pain and loneliness, it should be this fat, peroxided old maid, but Marjorie seemed oblivious to her own basic detestability. Annie crossed to her and filled the cup, the display of movie magazines fanned out around Marjorie’s plate catching her eye:
Picturegoer
,
Screenland
,
Photoplay
,
Why
, and a few whose titles were hidden by the ones Annie could see.

“Would your friends like anything?” Annie asked, glancing down at the faces of Marlon Brando, Kirk Douglas, and Susan Hayward staring back up at her from the magazines’ glossy covers. Marjorie missed her sarcasm, a look of confusion clouding her face. Annie nodded at the magazines. “Since when have you been such a movie fan?”

“I ain’t,” Marjorie said, reaching out with her left hand and pushing the magazines toward the table’s far corner.

Their eyes locked onto each other’s as Annie questioned why she had even bothered to speak to this hopeless woman. Maybe ’cause she was as near to the bottom of the pile of life as Annie herself? She let her gaze drift and started to turn.

“Can you keep a secret?” Marjorie asked in a whisper.

Annie wondered whether she should just pretend not to have heard and walk away. The clock caught her eye again. Eleven hours and twenty-seven minutes before she would hand the last soiled plate to the dishwasher. Annie could use the entertainment. She stopped midturn and looked back at Marjorie.

Marjorie, to Annie’s amusement, had broken out in a sweat, the moisture darkening the hair on her upper lip, a full bead escaping the pores of her large forehead. Annie thought of the bottle of thallium she slept with beneath her pillow, that she carried now with her in her pocket. She leaned in over the table. “Sure. I can keep a secret. What you got?”

Marjorie flashed her one last guarded look, then turned away to riffle through the purse that sat next to her in the booth.
Another movie magazine
, Annie thought as Marjorie held it up to her. The words “Magic at the Macambo” jumped off the cover.

“He told me he would go there someday,” Marjorie said. She held the magazine out to Annie, who sat the carafe on the table and pulled the publication from the other woman’s tight, moist grasp.

Annie’s eyes were nearly dazzled by the sight of the red walls and green upholstery in the cover photo. She took the magazine in both hands and held it farther down, taking the photo in fully. “Okay?” Annie said, sure Marjorie’s excitement was just another example of Marjorie being Marjorie.

“Page forty-two,” Marjorie said with a rapid nod. The earnest quality of her voice was almost too much for Annie to bear. Annie fought the urge to roll her eyes, and flipped through the pages until she found forty-two. Very little text, only a large photo done with one of those lenses that captures a wide space, even though the image is warped some around the edges. “Look. Right there.” Marjorie leaned forward and jabbed her thick index finger near the photo’s right side, an inch or so from where it ended.

Annie pulled the photo closer, and a little to the left, so she could focus on it better. She began shaking her head. “It ain’t him. It ain’t that Sawyer boy.” She held the magazine back to Marjorie.

“No. Look again.” Marjorie pushed the magazine back toward Annie. This time Annie sighed, but decided it would be easier to get away and back to her other customers if she humored Marjorie.

She tilted the magazine in so that it was better lit, but not blurred by the glare of the overhead light. She bit her lower lip, and tilted the picture back. The small face smiling back at her did indeed resemble Dylan. And it was true he’d run off to Hollywood with Ruby, but the odds just seemed too great, that Ruby’s fate would be so different from Dylan’s.

“You see it, don’t you?” Marjorie’s voice grew more excited.

Annie didn’t respond, but scanned the faces of those around the boy who might or might not be Dylan. “When was this taken?”

“The issue is from last year, so about a year ago, I guess.”

No sign of Ruby in the photo, but maybe that didn’t mean anything. Rumor said that the two had parted ways shortly after reaching California. Dylan, for Annie had begun to think this was indeed Conroy’s prodigal son pictured, sat next to a woman, but the photo must have been taken when she was moving, as her image had been blurred. Either that, or maybe it was something to do with the lens used in taking the picture.

Marjorie reached out and snapped away the magazine. “I’ve been looking in every single movie star magazine ever since I found this.”

Annie took a step back and reclaimed the carafe. Suddenly an unfamiliar wave of sympathy came over her. “Listen, I don’t think you should be wasting your time and money on those magazines. I mean, it may be him or it may not be, but if he cared for you, he’d write.”

Marjorie blanched and pushed back against the booth.

“I used to see the three of you in here. I know you think you and those two were friends, but they were only using you to pay the bill.” Annie’s words were falling on deaf ears, and something about that brought out her venom. “When you went to the ladies’ room they sat there, right where you are sitting now, snickering. At you.”

“You’re lying.” Marjorie slapped at the magazines with her meaty hands, trying to force them into a neat pile, but failing. “You’re jealous. If they were snickering at anyone, it was you. Ruby always said you shouldn’t be allowed to work around food. That your face made her lose her appetite.” It was Annie’s turn to flinch. “And Dylan . . .”

Annie spun on her heel before Marjorie could finish her thought, only to knock into Sheriff Bell. She rebounded off the taut muscles of his hard, lean body, the heat of this sensation nearly overriding the shame she had been running from. His blue eyes flashed at her, perhaps in surprise, maybe in annoyance. She tried to look away, but the sight of his bushy steel gray mustache held her. She wanted so badly to lean in, to press her lips against his. Feel the bristly hair tickle her nose. Feel his lips touch hers, his tongue pierce the opening of her mouth. He was older. Old enough to be her father even, but man enough to . . . Well, simply man enough.

“He called you the ‘sponge face.
’
” Marjorie spat the words at her.

Annie flushed, somewhat from desire and somewhat from a peculiar pain caused by knowing that the sheriff had heard Marjorie’s words.

Sponge face
. She hastened her eyes to look away from Bell’s face and focus on the checkerboard floor beneath his feet. She knew, yes, she knew she was ugly. Probably the homeliest thing the sheriff had ever laid eyes on. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing an acknowledgment of Marjorie’s words reflected in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” she said, pulling back and rushing around him. “Can I get you some coffee?”

THIRTY-THREE

“No, not here for breakfast,” Bell said, and the waitress began to buzz away. “Wait. Hold on there, Annie.” As the waitress turned back to him, he noticed her face had turned as red as if she’d been caught with her skirt up. He usually kept his eyes partially averted when looking at the unfortunate girl. The sight of her full-on made his mustache twitch. How could the good Lord have let a face like that come into this world? Bell wasn’t sure if her look was intended as a trial for the girl herself or as a test of the Christian charity of others. Her beady, rodent eyes were tearing up. He didn’t have time for any of this female nonsense. Whatever was going on between these two girls, they’d have to work out on their own. “You seen either of them Sleiger boys in here lately?”

Bell felt a bit bad asking her about the Sleigers. A lot of the men around Conroy took fun in tormenting this luckless creature, but he knew the boys were two of the worst. They often joked about whether either would ever grow desperate enough to bed Annie. “A man could turn her around and make her use those boar tusks of hers to bite the pillow,” Bell himself had heard Wayne jest.

“Naw, not even then,” Walter had shot back. “I still think I’d rather cut it off first.”

Those words were not said to Annie’s face, but loudly enough she’d have heard the exchange all the same.

Annie’s face hardened, and her eyes dried like the spigot had been turned tight. “No, sir. I reckon I ain’t seen the Sleigers in going on a month now.” She paused. “Their mama usually packs them boys their lunch”—the words “mama” and “boys” were weighted when Annie said them—“so they don’t drop by much. Not for supper either. Guess they ain’t allowed out after dark.”

Her obvious and understandable hatred of the brothers gave him pause. He stopped and took her in. She flinched and dropped her shoulders as he let his eyes run over her, head to toe, asking himself whether this woman was the killing kind. She folded her arms across her chest and averted her eyes. No. This woman wasn’t capable of killing. And she was too much of a loner to form an alliance with someone who was. The only ally she ever seemed to have was that mangy cat that hung out in her yard. “How about Dowd Johnson? Bob McKee?”

Her eyes drifted to the floor. “Dowd. He was here the night before last. I haven’t seen Bob around in a bit longer, but I’m not sure how long.”

“Dowd here by himself?”

“No,” Annie said, shifting uncomfortably like she wanted to fly away, or maybe she just had to pee. “Well, he came in alone. Merle’s late, but you could ask him when he gets in.” She nodded toward the kitchen door. “Merle was standing outside on his break. He stopped Dowd on the way in and bummed a cigarette. Dowd gave him the cigarette, but something Merle said seemed to tick Dowd off. Dowd came in and sat down alone, but then he asked for change for the phone and made a call. Sam came in after a bit and joined him, so I reckon it was Sam he called.”

“Did you ask Merle what he’d said to make Dowd angry?”

Annie shook her head without even looking up at him. “No. None of my business.”

“How about after Sam got here? Did you happen to hear anything they were talking about?” he asked.

At that, she seemed to become filled with fire. She shot a look at him, her eyes burning like tiny black coals. “No, Sheriff. I don’t eavesdrop. That’s Miss Marjorie’s trick.” She spun around and stomped away—as best her dirty sneakers would let her—taking shelter behind the counter. When Bell turned back, Marjorie was sitting like she had a rod shoved down her spine, glaring daggers at the waitress.

Bell knew Annie was right. Enough folk had their private affairs leaked to the public for suspicion to turn on the women who worked the switchboard on the local exchange, and the greatest part of that suspicion landed on the plump, dull woman in the booth. It was actually Marjorie he had come looking for, knowing that if anyone had let anything slip, before or after the boys got themselves killed, it would be Marjorie who would have picked up on it. He fixed her with his best lawman’s glower, and strode in measured steps toward her. He slid into the booth across the table from her and removed his hat, checking the table for any spills before laying it down.

“So how about it, Miss Thompson?” he said, leaning back and running his fingers through his thick silver mane. “You heard anything interesting of late?”

Marjorie’s hands began to pile up the bunch of trash movie magazines she’d been dining with. “I don’t know nothing about any of those fellows. I gotta get to work.” She grabbed her purse and pawed through it until she turned up a wadded dollar bill, which she tossed on her dirty plate. She grabbed her movie star rags and purse and began hefting herself along the bench, obviously intent on making a getaway.

“You hold on just one second there, missy.” Bell set the flat of his hand down on the table, causing the utensils to clatter and Marjorie to startle. He reached the same hand up and pointed at her with his index finger. “Sit,” he commanded. “We ain’t done talking yet.”

Marjorie obeyed, letting her bottom reconnect with the bench. “I don’t know nothing about whatever it is.” She pursed her lips into an unattractive pout. “I’ll get in trouble if I’m late.” Her forehead bunched up into accordion creases. Petulance did not become her.

“You might know more than you think,” Bell said, changing gears. This woman, despite her age and size, was still a little girl on the inside. He’d get more out of her through flattery than with a whip. “As a matter of fact, I bet you know a lot more than anyone around here gives you credit for.” He let his tone turn to honey. “Most folk in this town may not give you the credit you deserve, but I sure do.”

She relaxed, reaching over to set her belongings next to her on the bench. Her forehead smoothed and she leaned in a bit toward him. “Credit for what?”

Bell smiled widely and shifted in his seat. “Credit for what?” he echoed her. “Goodness, young lady, if anyone knows how everyone in this area is connected to each other, it’s you. I bet most times someone wants to be rung through, you know who they are calling before they even tell you.”

Her dull eyes showed a tiny spark. “Well, yes, I reckon that’s so. I mean, people tend to talk to the same people. You get to know, you know?”

“Well, maybe, but I bet you are better at remembering who talks to who than I’d be.” He let his right hand wander across the table to the crown of his hat. “But with all these people phoning up the same people all the time, do you ever get curious when someone asks you to connect them to a different number than they usually ask for?”

Marjorie started to answer, then stopped herself. She leaned back and looked down her nose at him. “I ain’t paid to be curious. Folks’ business is their own. Not mine.” Her words began to pick up pace. “I just put the caller through, and move on. What they talk about ain’t none of my business. No, I just put them through and move on.”

Bell had to force his eyes not to roll upward. Instead he leaned forward, speaking softly like he was about to offer up the most tantalizing secret. She, too, leaned in toward him, so he knew she was hooked. “No, no. Of course you don’t listen in, but I bet you’d remember if someone put a call through. You’d just connect them . . . and move on, but you’d notice. You’d remember.”

Her eyes shifted back and forth as she sought her answer. “Yeah,” she began, her voice full of caution. “I’d probably notice.”

“And remember,” he said, and nodded to assure her.

She licked her lips. “Well, yeah.”

“Good.” He picked his hat up and put it on. He folded his arms and leaned into the table. “So, did the Sleiger boys call anyone or get a call from anyone they wouldn’t normally have?”

She shook her head. “No. Their mama don’t let them use the phone. She’s told us not to let them.”

From behind the counter Annie snorted. Bell turned back. “I thought you didn’t listen in on customers,” he said and turned away before seeing the effect his words would have on the waitress.

Marjorie seemed emboldened by the rebuke. “Why you coming in here and asking about the Sleigers for anyway?”

Bell considered whether now was the time to spread the word, to see if someone might come forward with something he could use. Telling Marjorie was probably the best way to do that. Better even than taking a full-page ad out in the newspaper. The newspaper had already come out and wouldn’t publish again until tomorrow morning, but Marjorie would have the whole town buzzing before the sun finished its slide. He shifted. “I’m afraid the boys have gone missing.”

“Missing in Conroy?”

Her question coaxed a genuine chuckle from him, but it quickly faded. Conroy was too small and its people too nosey for anyone to just up and disappear. No, Bell knew the boys were dead, too. He nodded. “And Dowd and Bob turned up dead out at the Vaughn farm yesterday morning.”

“Killed? What, they shot?” she asked.

Seeing the twinkle in her eyes made Bell want to slap her. “No, not shot. Dowd was”—he struggled for the right word—“mauled.”

“Like by an animal?” Marjorie made no attempt to hide her disappointment that Dowd’s death might not be the result of murder.

“Well, yeah,” he said, wondering if he should reward her with the rest of the story. Finally he plunged in. “But Bob. His head was ripped clean off, and his body was tied to the steeple over at Five Point.”

She sat up straight and raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said, again stifling the urge to strike her. Instead he leaned in close to her and whispered. “Really. So maybe you could help by keeping an ear out for things, if you know what I mean, if just for now.” It wouldn’t do for folk to hear him asking her to spy, so he lowered his voice even more. “And don’t you tell anyone I asked you to, you hear me? You just let me know if anyone makes any calls that seem out of the ordinary. You call the office and ask for me if you hear anything.” He doffed his hat, and slid out of the booth.

He stood and began heading toward the exit, when her voice caused him to turn. “But that don’t make no sense, Sheriff,” she called loudly after him. “You saying someone used an animal to kill Dowd?”

He slipped a thumb behind his belt and gave her question some serious thought. He shrugged. “Maybe. Know anyone capable of pulling such a stunt?”

“I do,” Annie said from behind the counter, then looked around the room, seemingly for confirmation from the other diners who were looking on. “We all do, don’t we?” There were a few silent bobs of the head around the room, but no one spoke up. “And you do, too, Sheriff.” Annie stepped around the counter and scurried up toward him. “That weird old Charlie fella who comes in every Friday. The one with the cloudy eye. He takes those dogs of his with him everywhere.” She began shaking her head, as if to underscore her point. “Those dogs are darn near wild. I bet they’d rip a man clean apart if old Charlie sicced them on him. You lookin’ for someone crazy enough and mean enough to do it, Charlie’s your man.”