Southern Fried

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My father is an eloquent man with few words.

Rather than spoil the moment by reminding him I wouldn’t be staying in Dacus, I filled the silence by asking, “Tell me about Melvin Bertram.” That name had danced around the edges of my brain all day.

“Whatever made you think of him?”

“I ran into Mr. Earnest this morning. He commented how interesting that we’d come home at the same time, me and Melvin Bertram.”

“He’s back?”

My dad’s not as plugged into the town gossip as my mother. Which might not bode well for his newspaper venture.

“That’s what Mr. Earnest said.”

“If anybody’d know, it’d be him, I reckon. ’Course, Bertram’s got family in town—a brother. Might be visiting for Thanksgiving.”

“Why do I know the name?”

“Don’t you remember? Several years ago? His wife disappeared. Everybody figured he’d killed her.”

Cathy Pickens

NOTE:
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

SOUTHERN FRIED

Copyright © 2004 by Cathy Pickens.

Cover photo © Arthur Rothstein/Corbis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2003058548

ISBN: 0-312-99553-9
BAN: 80312-99553-9

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition/April 2004
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition/March 2005

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

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To my parents, Paul and Kitty, who laid before my sisters and me a wealth of choices and challenged us: “What are you doing for the good of the world?” And to my husband, Robert, whose love, support, and humor are beyond words. This book is dedicated to them, with all my love.

Thanks to the original Mystery Mavens—Paula Connolly, Dawn Cotter, Terry Hoover, Susan Luck, Nancy Northcott, and Ann Wicker—and to the DSSG (you know who you are): You took me in and made me better. Thanks to P. J. Coldren, die-hard Malice contest reader who sent Avery on her way. And thanks to Susan Dunlap, mystery writer and mentor extraordinaire.

A
couple of county cop cars and several pickups, one loaded with an air compressor, crowded around the boat landing at Luna Lake. Pudd Pardee, head of the county rescue squad, leaned against the front fender of a rust-red truck that sported a bumper winch. As I parked my dad’s pickup alongside, Pudd jabbed his elbow into the ribs of a tall kid propped next to him. Judging from their gaudy laughter, they were sharing some guy humor.

Pudd heaved himself upright as I strolled over.

“Well, if it idn’t Miz Avery Andrews, attorney-at-law.”

“Thought you boys were out here dragging the lake for a body,” I said, tilting my head to stare up at Pudd’s unimpressive five-foot-eight height. “You’re making it look like open-mike night at a comedy club.”

“You know how this bidness can be sometimes, A’vry. If we didn’t keep our sense of humor, pretty soon these dead bodies’d git to us.” Pudd punched his companion in the ribs and cocked him a sly look,
then hitched up his jeans and arced a stream of tobacco juice past the bumper of his truck, barely missing his young buddy’s work boot.

“Pudd. Get serious a minute. The sheriff sent word. She’s holding Donlee Griggs for murder? He’s confessed to drowning Pee Vee Probert?”

“So you’re defending Donlee? Figured you would. Him bein’ so sweet on you and everything. He’s always been partial to that red hair of yours.”

I’ve always thought it more a burnished gold, but whatever. And Donlee developed crushes on any female unwary enough to smile at him.

“Yep.” Pudd sighed expansively. “He’uz sittin’ around the table at Maylene’s just last week, goin’ on and on about how the overhead lights in the courtroom lit up your hair like golden sunshine.”

My eyes narrowed to slits, a look I practice to cross-examine particularly loathsome witnesses. Didn’t faze Pudd, though.

Up until two weeks ago, I hadn’t seen Donlee since high school. Then I’d been appointed to represent him in a bail hearing on a drunk-and-disorderly charge. An unusual occasion for a class reunion, for sure.

“Think you’ll be able to get him off?” Pudd asked. “Or will you two be carrying on your star-crossed love affair through a wire mesh window?”

That didn’t deserve a response. I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and mimicked his good ol’ boy slouch, staring toward the lake and ignoring Pudd.

Something about this rescue scene didn’t register
as real, though the usual contingent of Ghouly Boys were present—the rescue squad guys and police scanner junkies. One old boy dangled his legs off the tailgate of his truck while he finished off a Bud. Another little clump included a couple of county deputies. Neither of them had missed many blue plate specials at Maylene’s.

In all, maybe fifteen guys stood around in various poses. And all pretended they weren’t sneaking glances in my direction. Something odd about their collective casual air. Or maybe I just expected more intensity at a murder scene.

Donlee had been stuffed into the backseat of a sheriff’s cruiser parked at the far edge of the picnic area. His full-moon face brightened when he caught my eye. He lifted his cuffed hands and actually waggled his fingers at me, flashing a gap-toothed grin.

Donlee had been a six-foot-seven goofball even in high school. I’d received my share of do-you-love-me-check-yes-or-no notes shoved through the vents in my locker. I couldn’t quite believe he’d killed somebody. But isn’t that what folks always say? “He never seemed like the type.”

I kept staring toward Donlee but didn’t waggle my fingers back at him.

“You know why he committed this heinous act, don’t you?” Pudd asked, feigning seriousness and trying to pretend he didn’t see Donlee making nose prints inside the cruiser window. “Tragic, itn’t it? It ’uz his true love for you that drove him to it.”

Pudd’s companion—a dark, lanky kid barely out of high school—snorted. When I turned my back on
Donlee to glare at him, he shifted his attention to a puddle of Pudd’s tobacco spit. At least my slit-eyed stare worked on somebody.

But it didn’t stop Pudd. He just kept smiling. He’d always liked a good joke, but I hadn’t figured out the punch line on this one. Joking about this just seemed mean-spirited. So I ignored him.

The Donna Karan suit I’d put on for my official lawyer visit with Donlee wasn’t heavy enough for an early-morning visit to a boat landing. The November breeze off Luna Lake—which was really more of a pond—nipped through my silk blouse.

“Any idea where the body is? Or how long it might take to locate it?” I tried to get Pudd to focus on the fact that somebody had died. Anything to avoid having to consult with my client. It was just too sad.

Pudd kept staring and grinning and working his tobacco wad. The guys scattered in clusters around the lake’s edge alternated between studying the water and sneaking looks over at us. They seemed to be eyeing us more than the activity on the lake.

“Nope,” Pudd said.

The breeze wasn’t strong enough to push up waves. Bubbles appeared at regular intervals on the lake’s dark surface.

“How long can those guys stay under there?” Even the thought of it felt cold.

“Aw, they can swim all day with those suits. The ones freezing their arses off are those two numbskulls bobbing around hi that boat out there.”

In a two-seater flat-bottom johnboat, two men huddled in camouflage-green jumpsuits and jackets. Every now and then, one would crane over the side as if he could see something in the greenish-brown water. Then, turtlelike, he’d poke his neck back into his coat collar.

“Those guys love it,” Pudd said. “Gives ’em a chance to practice.”

“Practice?” He wasn’t taking any of this seriously enough. My next question was cut off by the arrival of another pickup. It slid to a stop behind my truck.

The newcomer’s door popped loudly as it opened, then squawked shut. As soon as he slammed the door shut, I found myself face-to-face with the reportedly dead Pee Vee Probert.

“Pee Vee!” Pudd threw up his hands in mock surprise. He had shifted from comedian to dramatic actor in the time it took Pee Vee to slam his door. “You’re alive!”

” ’Course I am, nidjit. Heard you all ’uz dragging the lake. Come on the scanner. Found anythin’ yet?”

“Actually,” I observed wryly, “you’re not supposed to be here.”

He jammed his hands on his skinny hips. “Sez who? Hit come over the scanner.” Like that was all the permission he needed.

“No, I meant you’re not supposed to be here.” I pointed at the ground where we stood. “You’re supposed to be
there
.”

With his lips pursed in his sun-dried face, Pee
Vee’s gaze followed my pointing finger to the lake. He stared for a few seconds at the small rivulets the breeze made on the lake and at the two guys sitting, like a couple of sillies, in the boat. Then he looked at me as though he might need to put some distance between himself and a crazy person.

“What the—”

Pudd couldn’t hold it a second longer. Tobaccostained spit spewed from his rubbery lips, and he doubled over as far as his protruding belly would allow, sounding like a Macy’s parade balloon with the air hissing out of it.

Pudd guffawed. “You ain’t got sense enough to know you drowned, Pee Vee.”

Pee Vee looked bewildered. But I was a few hundred yards ahead of Pee Vee on this one. Not that that was hard to do.

“Donlee Griggs apparently told these guys he drowned you in the lake,” I explained.

“He never!” Pee Vee’s voice shrilled.

“No, he didn’t. But he—”

“—called the dispatcher.” Pudd pinched his thumb and forefinger across his eyes to wipe away tears of laughter. “Told ‘em he’d held a gun on you, off the dock over there. Kept you swimming till you drowned. He said—” Pudd’s voice cracked like that of a twelve-year-old in the church choir. “He said it ’uz over a woman.”

Pudd poked at his companion. The kid kept eyeing me nervously.

“
That
woman,” Pudd blurted, pointing at me.

“I never!” As Pee Vee whirled on me, his indignation carried his voice up another octave.

We’d drawn a crowd by this time. The rest of the crack law enforcement team who’d gathered around the boat ramp joined us for a close-up.