Easy as One Two Three (A Flap Tucker Mystery) Page 5

  9. Holy with Vision

  We said our goodbyes and got out to the truck in record time. It was really getting chilly. The snow was thicker. You could see it without benefit of headlights.

  Dally pounded the dash. “Get this heat on, Mustard.”

  He shifted into second and swung the truck around in the yard. “Take it a second to get hot, girl.”

  She wasn’t consoled. “I’m freezing.”

  “It’s not just the weather, you know.” I looked out the window. “You’re stuck as much by the ice of the situation as you are by the cold in the air.”

  She wouldn’t hear of it. “Is that right, Dr. Freud?”

  “Funny you should mention, I was just thinking of the good doctor inside just now.”

  She was still edgy. “Oh?”

  I was unwilling to give over to her mood. “Yes, oh. I was thinking, among other things, about the exact nature of a ghost.”

  That got her. She quit fidgeting. “A what?”

  Mustard was helpful. “He said a ghost.”

  I pressed on. “Oh, I know there’s some that’ll try an’ tell you it’s got something to do with ectoplasm and spiritual residue and whatnot, but I know better. A ghost is in the eye of the beholder. A ghost is the manifestation of the beholder’s guilt.”

  She was willing to play. “Say, you have been Freudenizing.”

  “Yes, I have. And you can toss in Jung, too, ’cause I got an explanation for the Little Girl of Lost Mountain, or whatever you call her.”

  She settled back. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “Did you know that every year the ghost of Anne Boleyn haunts Blickling Hall, the place of her birth — every May nineteenth, on her birthday. She’s seen sitting in a coach carrying her own head on her knee.”

  Dally’s exaggerated diction passed quite well for sarcasm. “Seen … by whom?”

  “Aha!” I had her. “That’s just the deal. Everybody sees it.”

  She let go of the attitude. “I’m not following this.”

  “It’s your Jungian Universal Unconscious. Everybody that sees her ghost shares in the collective guilt of a country that would chop off a poor girl’s head just because she had a daughter instead of a son.”

  “They chopped her head off because she had Elizabeth. I read a little, too, you know.”

  I folded my arms. “That’s right. Henry the Eighth wanted to have a son. Anne had a daughter who got to be Queen Elizabeth, by the way. But Henry didn’t care about that, he just wanted a son. He said it was her fault that they’d spawned a girl-child, so he lopped off her crown.”

  “Jeez. And you think —”

  “The collective unconscious of England is so guilty over the deal, they actually see her ghost.”

  Mustard piped up. “An’ you think that all us around here see the Little Lost Girl because we got guilt about her?"

  I tapped Dally on the arm. “See. Mr. Abernathy understands me.”

  He kept his eyes glued to the road. “No, I don’t. What do I got to have any guilt feelin’s about that poor little girl?”

  I shook my head. “Not you personally. It’s the whole town. There’s a palpable kind of depressive psychological energy around here that feels it ought not to have let a thing like that happen.”

  Dally looked at me sideways. “What in the hell have you been reading?” She leaned forward, rife with mock concern. “Oh my God, it’s more of that damn Joseph Campbell, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, hedging. “It’s good. It puts me to sleep at night.”

  “I’ll bet. But just whose guilt are we talking about?”

  “The McDonners’ … to start with. They’re pretty jumpy about that medication — the little girl’s sleepwalking condition, and their funny little neighbor … I’m saying they’ve got something to hide.”

  Dally looked at Mustard. “Know if they have any family skeletons?”

  He shook his head. “Not as I know of.”

  I looked at him. “Worth finding out.”

  But Mustard brought us back to the immediate. “I’m headed over to Cedar’s house. I guess that’s where we want to go.”

  I shifted. “Uh. Oh. Yeah.” I put my hands up close to the heat vent. “You know him?”

  “Sure do. He’s a good ol’ fella.”

  Dally tucked her hands under her arms. “Andy or Barney?”

  I knew what she was asking. The common joke about small-town cops was that they fell into one of two categories. One was a genuine guy who really cared about the right thing and how to do it. The other was a harmless incompetent with a fair measure of foolish pretension.

  Mustard shook off the stereotypes. “I don’t like to joke around about Cedar Duffie. He’s prob’ly the finest policeman in the United States.”

  Dally shoved an elbow at him. “This is an uncharacteristic bit of reverence.”

  He nodded in a fairly solemn fashion. “I’m not kiddin’. He was a Marine. He’s the real thing. He come back here after seein’ the world on account of he thought he could help us up here. I admire the man.”

  Dally nodded. “I gathered.”

  I switched the subject. “So you noticed how jumpy everybody at the McDonner household was about medication.”

  Dally leaned my way. “Well — yeah.” It was obvious.

  “Wonder what she takes it for.”

  Mustard shook his head. “I don’ know — but she did change, like, in her personality — about a year after Ginny was born. She used to be out an’ about all the time. Now she’ll spend the most of her time workin’ around the place … or over there at the church.”

  That was worth noting. I remembered the look in her eye when she was talking about Preacher Dave. I took a stare out the side window. “What kind of church is it?”

  Mustard did not make fun. “They take up snakes.”

  I couldn’t see it happen, but I knew Dally was rolling her eyes. “Snake handlers?”

  Mustard nodded. “It’s a real thing, hon. They drink lye too.”

  That was a new one. I knew about snake handling, but, “Lye?”

  He was very matter-of-fact. “Or some kind of poison. Drink it right down. Don’t bother ’em a bit.”

  I had to know. “Speaking of ‘bit’ — the snakes ever get anybody?”

  He shook his head. “Naw. It’s really somethin’.”

  Foolishly Dally looked to me for the answer. “What’s the idea there, exactly?”

  And as fate would have it, I felt I had the educational wherewithal to mouth off. “Bible says, ‘And they shall take up serpents’ — but the serpents won’t harm you if you have the Holy Spirit on you.”

  Her turn to shake her head. “Only in America.”

  But I had to set her straight. “Well … actually no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “And I quote: ‘Allowing Tao to come into you makes you innocent like a child — whom poisonous serpents will not bite, wild animals attack, nor birds of prey approach.’ So how do you like that?”

  Mustard leaned his ear my way. “What’s that from, that quote?”

  Dally answered for me. “Tao Te Ching — another book that puts our boy here to sleep at night.”

  “What is it, Chinese?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  He cocked his head. “Is it old? I mean, like, old as the Bible?”

  I nodded. “Some say older.”

  He smiled. “Huh?”

  Dally looked at me, and the edge was off. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  I looked at her, that plum of a kisser. “Yeah, well, if I ever do — let me know, will you? I’d like to do something about it.”

  She settled in just a little closer to me. “Will do.”

  We plowed through the accumulating snow, skidded a little into the next driveway. It was the smallest house yet, and an all-brick job. There was a four-wheel-drive jeep of some sort parked in the front. Had cop lights on top.

  Before we
had even pulled up to the house, the porch light was on.

  In the doorway there stood a rock of a man. Looked a little like a young Victor Mature with a crew cut. His clothes were messy and torn, like he’d spent most of the day crawling through the woods. He looked exhausted.

  He held his hand up against the glare of the headlights. “That you, Abernathy?”

  Mustard called out. “Yup. Got some visitors, too, bud.”

  He was craning his neck to see us. “Who are they?”

  Mustard cranked off the engine. “It’s Sissy’s cousin Dally an’ her friend Flap Tucker.”

  He squinted, his eyes adjusting. “Flap Tucker? From Atlanta?”

  Dally eyed me. “Your reputation precedes you. What, didja leave a girlfriend up here?”

  Mustard tried to help me out, looked at Cedar. “You know ’im?”

  He looked down. “I heard of him.”

  Since he was looking down at his porch, I couldn’t tell if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

  Mustard just went right on. “Well, he’s here to help us find Ginny.”

  He looked up at last, but it was still a poker face. “He’s the one to do it.”

  And I couldn’t tell if that was an honest assessment or an ironic twist. I’m saying the guy was hard to read.

  When in doubt, jump into the fire. If you get burned, you know better next time. I jumped. “We’re in kind of a hurry, as you might imagine, but I was hoping to ask you just a few questions that’ll put everything into perspective.”

  He held out open palms, a universal signal of acceptance. “Come on in. I’ve only got a minute. I want to get back out there.”

  We piled out of the truck and into the little house. It was dimly lit, and not as warm as the others had been. There was one big front room and the rest were dark. No offer of coffee. Just as well. I was getting a little jangly.

  Dally and Mustard sat and made small talk. I asked if I might take advantage of his facilities. He gave me a curt nod down the hall. “First on your right.”

  I felt my way to the room in question. You know how in most bathrooms a person will have hand towels and little soaps or some kind of cleansing agent close to the sink, and often there’ll be pictures and whatnot? Nothing of the sort for our boy Cedric. He was a no-nonsense kind of a guy. Just the facts. Bathroom tissue: check. Water: cold. Still, what caught my eye was the half-open medicine cabinet — with enough prescription bottles in it to lift a battalion of depressives.

  I sauntered back out toward the living-room area.

  “What’s with all the pills?”

  He was not in the least offended. “Got shot a couple times.”

  I sat beside Dally. “Me too.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Mine was in the line of duty.”

  I nodded. “Me too.”

  He kept his eyebrows up. “Really? Where?”

  I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I was in the service.”

  He smiled. “Me too.”

  Dally leaned forward and swiped at me with a casual hand. “We’ve really got no time for old war stories now, do you think?”

  I nodded, looked around. “Nice place.”

  He sat back. “It’s home.”

  “So, look — what’s happened to Ginny McDonner, do you think?”

  “Simple. She’s out their lost in the woods. If she’s not already dead, the snow and the cold — and another night out — will most likely take care of her. I came home for some warmer clothes and a bite to eat. I’m going back out again quick as we finish here. I’d feel a little guilty about spending too much time with you all … under the circumstances.”

  I nodded. “So I’m glad we caught you.”

  He breathed out. “What you need to ask?”

  I gathered my thoughts. Might as well just blast. “Mr. Wicher ever been arrested? What happened to Ms. McDonner the year after Ginny was born? And …” I glanced over at Dally.

  Dally jumped in. “Are Minister Dave and Ms. McDonner seeing each other?”

  That quieted things down quite nicely.

  I stepped into the silence. “Um, that’s her question, not mine.”

  Mustard had to speak up then. “This the way you do it down in the city, is it?”

  Good point. I shook my head. “Actually no. I’m usually a little more subtle. And you know your cousin Dally to be exceedingly polite under most circumstances.” I could hear my voice getting louder. “But there’s a little girl missing out there in the cold and she’s going to die if we don’t move really fast. So a lot of my boyish charm is cast aside in the urgency of the moment. I swear to God, ordinarily I’m sweet as honeysuckle, ask anybody. But desperate times call for desperate rude-ass behavior. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mustard looked at me. Tired as he was, I could see he understood my sense of immediacy about the whole thing. So I checked out the ex-Marine. He was nodding his head.

  “I agree — all except the cussing part. I feel it’s impolite to use such language in the presence of a female person under any circumstances.”

  But just as Dally was about to question the nature of Cedric’s possible sexual relationship with his own mother, Mustard stood up.

  I mean it was a dramatic moment. He shot up like a rocket ship. You could actually feel the woosh of air as he came to his feet.

  I stood too. “Easy, big fella. What’s up?”

  Almost like he was in a trance: “The hut.”

  Dally said it first. “The what?”

  He looked down at her, almost sick with revelation. “The hidin’ place she had in the woods — the Lost Pines Girl. I done tol’ you’uns about it, the little ol’ tree hut made out of pine straw.”

  She remembered. “When you were a kid, they told you it was still out there in the woods.”

  He blinked. “That’s where she is.” He closed his eyes. “I know she is.”

  Cedar was trying to look at all three of us at the same time. “What? What are y’all talking about?”

  I filled him in. “The getaway place for the little ghost girl of Lost Pines — or whatever you’d call her. She ran off to a little place she’d made, or somebody’s made. Mustard thinks it’s still out there.”

  Mustard was holy with his vision. “They say it’s like a little house. Ginny might be safe in there. She might be all right.”

  I barely had the heart to speak up. “That place isn’t going to be there after all this time. Sounds more like wishful thinking to me, pal. Besides, wouldn’t somebody have already checked this out? Like her folks?”

  He shook me off, still in a kind of trance. “Don’t nobody quite know where it is.”

  “Or even if it’s out there at all. But.” Cedar stood then, stared down at me. “You ever been hunting with Mustard?”

  I shook my head.

  He reached over on the chair where he’d been sitting and grabbed his coat. “He gets a feeling like this? There’s bound to be game.”

  It was something I more or less had to go along with, given my own peculiar disposition toward the concept of hunch. “Okay, Cedar. Let’s take your car. It’ll seat all four of us and we can talk on the way.”

  We were out the door before he even had his coat on.

  10. Nightshade

  Dally in the front seat, Mustard and me in the back, Cedar shoving that beat-up Jeep through the night. Mustard gave direction. “Head for the old abandoned farm.”

  Dally turned around and patted his arm. “You okay?”

  He nodded absently. “I get these feelin’s.” Softer. “I’m usually right.”

  Despite my fascination with Mustard’s odd state, I saw no reason to abandon trying to get answers to my own questions. “So, has Wicher ever been arrested?”

  Cedar kept his eye on the road, apparently knowing exactly which abandoned farm Mustard was talking about. “I recently locked him up for a spell.”

  “For?”

  “Did you meet him?”

  “Uh-huh.”
>
  Cedar was very neutral. “Exhibit any odd behavior?”

  Dally ventured. “Like talking to his dead wife?”

  Cedar kept his eyes on the road. “Here recently he’s taken to telling everybody that he’s been talking to the dead on a regular basis. I thought he might just need a little rest.”

  I wasn’t sure what passed for “a little rest” in these parts. “So you put him, like, in the psycho ward around here?”

  Cedar nodded. “He stayed over at the hospital for a spell. Seems better now.”

  I pressed. “Uh-huh. That all? Nothing else?”

  He started to say something, then turned his face my way, eyes still carefully to the front. “Like what?”

  “Loath as I am to be accused of ill manners once more tonight, I have to say he exhibited a tendency toward the … he seemed to have demonstrated what we all perceived to be a somewhat unhealthy appreciation for little girls.”

  In the same posture as before, Cedar spoke calmly. “You want to know does he molest children.”

  “More or less.”

  Cedar turned his face back again, squarely to the road. “Mr. Wicher is a lonely old man. There aren’t that many of us who wouldn't exhibit a strange behavior or two under the same circumstances as he’s had to live with.”

  I stayed shoved forward, my head nearly in between his and Dally’s. “And yet I notice you do not entirely answer my question.”

  He nodded. “I do not.”

  The snow was really beginning to whip up, and it gave a false impression of light. Out of the corner of your eye you were tricked into thinking things were brighter than they actually were.

  I sat back. “And what about Ms. McDonner? Anything you want to tell me about her?”

  “She’s not having an affair with the preacher, I’ll tell you that. Her attachment to him is genuinely spiritual. You met the guy?”

  “Dave? Not yet.”

  “David. And you come back and talk to me after you do. He’s got something for you.”

  “Got something for me?”

  “I mean for everybody. He’s packed tight with the Holy Spirit.”

  I looked at the back of his head. “Are you also one of his flock?”

  “Me? Naw. I’m an Episcopalian.”

  And that made all the difference. Now I understood more about just who was driving the Jeep. In the South, Episcopalians are the aristos — or think they are. The upper echelon. All the fun of being a Catholic and none of the guilt. I myself had, in fact, all the qualifications needed to be an Episcopal priest save the diploma — being that I was both divorced and serious about my wine.