Southern Fried (30 page)

“Of course I would shoot you, Sylvie. And much worse. You know I would. So you won’t give me an excuse.” He actually sounded as though he regretted that she wouldn’t.

He continued. “I have something much worse hi mind for you. A nice, nasty, prolonged trial. Right here in Dacus. Imagine, the Dacus DAR regent, Garden Club president, and mother of a state gubernatorial candidate on trial for a sordid and bizarre murder. Tabloid TV will love that You’ll probably make all the talk shows and the grocery checkout lines. Like that Texas cheerleader’s mom who tried to kill her daughter’s rival. Avery, you reckon those Court TV folks’ll come to Dacus for the trial?”

He didn’t turn to face me, but Sylvie shot me a venomous glare. Neither of them expected an answer.

L.J. got to the house faster than I’d expected. Of course, the Law Enforcement Center’s only a few blocks away. By the time I opened the front door for L.J. and two deputies, Sylvie was screaming, looking like a candidate for the psycho ward.

“You little worm,” she shrieked. “You torture me and abuse me all these years. Your sordid little affairs, your evil accusations. I can’t take it anymore.”

Foolishly, she tried to jerk away as L.J. leaned over to cuff her. Jerking away from L.J. wasn’t her best move. One of the deputies closed in and they quickly cuffed her hands behind her.

L.J. had relieved Harrison of his gun as soon as she’d entered the room. She’d emptied it of bullets and spun the cylinder into place with a practiced quickness while the deputies had stood, like left and right tackles, in front of a seemingly deranged Sylvie Garnet. The deputies and L.J. appeared completely unmoved by the scene.

As the two deputies led her past me toward the parlor’s lace-curtained French door, I noticed spit flecking her lipstick. Some strands of her Queen Elizabeth lacquered hair had shaken loose. Shards of hatred stung her eyes.

I could see Sylvie’s planned defense already. She must watch enough TV to know that, in the South, a wronged woman has a better-than-average shot at getting away with murder.

I shuddered as I thought of her smiling and waving good-bye to Lea Hopkins Bertram. Sylvie Garnet was sane. Frighteningly sane.

T
he next morning, I forgot my ten o’clock appointment with Geneva Gadsden. I belatedly remembered Geneva and her crusade to silence the defiler of Katie Hope’s memory as I pulled my lunch out of the cracker machine at the Law Enforcement Center.

Great. Two clients down in two days—no, three, if I counted both Nila Earling and Harrison Garnet.

L.J. had obviously enjoyed herself. She had questioned me, Harrison Garnet, Noodle, and who knows who else late into the night, then invited me back early this morning. I earned a cracker break only because somebody had to type my statement so I could read and sign it. Typing it with two fingers, if I had to guess, judging from how long I’d been waiting.

At least I hadn’t had to face Geneva Gadsden. One crazed woman in a twenty-four-hour period filled my limit. I toyed with the idea of calling Lou Wray at Carlton’s office to see if she could get a message to Geneva. But I didn’t toy with that idea long. I strolled across the waiting room to the phone, my footsteps loud on the tile floor.

The phone book fell open easily to the Yellow Page listing for bail bonds. The White Pages listed only one Gadsden. Then I discovered I’d spent all my change in the snack machines.

Maybe I could use a phone back in the cop cubby-holes. What were the odds Geneva would have an answering machine so I wouldn’t have to talk to her in person?

I’d balanced my crackers on top of my Coke can and reached for the door when a loud voice behind me boomed in the hollow room. I almost dropped my lunch.

“A’vry. Why the hell didn’t you stay the hell in Columbia?” Rudy Mellin strode toward me and pulled open the door. “Since you been back, what? Two, three weeks now? We’ve been puttin’ in overtime like nobody’s ever seen. And incidentally, the county doesn’t pay overtime. She-ut, A’vry. Give us a break, why don’cha? Just get the hell outta town.”

During his speech, Rudy ushered me down the hall and out the back door.

“Rudy, I’m waiting to sign—”

“No, you’re not. You’re comin’ with me. We just got a nine-one-one dispatch. There’s a crisis intervention needed. Up at the water tower near the tennis courts. And I b’lieve you’re just the one to help.”

He didn’t walk a found the patrol car to open die door for me, so I swung open the door and plopped inside, tearing open my crackers as he cranked the car.

Then he just sat, staring at me.

“You want one?” I mumbled through orange crumbs.

“Your seat belt, A’vry. Cops have to set an example.”

“Pfft.” I blew crumbs all over my lap, snorting. “Guess that’s why you never see a cop driving the speed limit,” I mumbled.

He heard me. He spun out so fast, my head snapped back and I almost spilled my Coke all over the weaponry on the seat between us.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I told you. The fucking water tower. A’vry, I want this over with, once and for all. If you don’t get something worked out with that fat idiot, I personally am going to pull my pistol and shoot him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Shit, A’vry. What else? Donlee damn-his-ass Griggs.”

My stomach lurched as he took the turn onto Main Street at a screech. I decided I wouldn’t ask Rudy any more questions—at least not while he was swerving around slow drivers and bumping into the recreation center parking lot. I could only guess that Donlee had not been found at the foot of the waterfall.

A small crowd had gathered. And they were all staring up. I had a momentary vision of what the Second Coming would be like, although I hoped I wouldn’t be one of the ones left standing around staring up.

But this was no Second Coming. This was Donlee Griggs, up on the water tower catwalk.

Rudy slammed his door and stood with his hands on his hips. “A’vry, dammit. This itn’t funny anymore. You gotta get him reined in before he hurts hisself.”

“Rudy—”

“A’vry, he ain’t bright. Hey!” Rudy called to a group of cops and firemen who clustered around one of the picnic tables. “Who’s got a bullhorn around here?”

From somewhere, a guy in a jumpsuit produced a battery-boosted megaphone. Rudy thrust it at me.

“What?”

“Talk to him, A’vry.”

“About what?”

“How the hell should I know? He’s the one wanted to see you. Haven’t you noticed what he’s been working on up there?”

I squinted up at the water tower. An amateurish scrawl arced behind Donlee—at least he looked big enough to be Donlee, but he was really too far away to make out his features. The letters, painted in brilliant purple across the belly of the pale blue tank, were easy to make out after I studied them a minute.

Donlee Luvs Avry
.

“The dumbshit even misspelled your name,” Rudy said, shaking his head.

“Rudy, I need a little help here. What the heck am I supposed to say?”

“Nice work, Donlee? I want to have your children? How the hell should I know? You’re the one’s got him whipped into such a frenzy. You tell me.”

“Rudy, I represented him in a court hearing a
couple of weeks ago, on a disorderly conduct charge. That’s it. End of story.”

“Not for Donlee. Apparently he survived his fatally false leap off the waterfall. Now he’s threatening to jump off the tower unless he gets to speak to you.”

“Why the hell doesn’t he just call me on the phone?” I muttered.

Rudy shot me a sharp look. “Just tell him you’re here.”

I fumbled with the button that activated the speaker. The thing was hard to hold.

“Donlee?” My voice echoing out the other end startled me—and the rest of the crowd. And Donlee. He swayed woodenly, his tall, awkward frame leaning dangerously over the catwalk railing.

The crowd gasped.

“Donlee, it’s Avery Andrews.”

Donlee waved, both arms gyrating wildly over his head. He gave a little rabbit hop of excitement.

“Donlee? Donlee, don’t—”

My warning didn’t make it out the other end of the speaker.

Donlee looked for a moment like an energized rap dancer as his arms windmilled and his body torqued, trying to regain his balance. Then he toppled headfirst over the railing.

The gasps from the crowd turned into disbelieving shouts. And moans. Several people shrieked. I might have been one of them. Those crowded closest to the tower ducked as a shower of purple paint splattered over them and a paint can clattered to the ground.

After a split second of distraction, I looked back up. Donlee swung in space. Back and forth, a few feet beneath the catwalk. With his arms crossed tightly over his chest, he looked like a Christmas ornament suspended from the belly of an alien space craft.

“Good Gawd a’mighty.” Rudy whistled in disbelief.

The crowd chattered, nervously relieved. And pleased that the show had taken an interesting turn.

“Harv!” Rudy called to a group of firemen clustered near one of Dacus’s two red fire engines. “What you got that can get him down?”

The man named Harv just stared up at Donlee, then said, “Short of shootin’ him down, damned if I know.”

“No ladder? Anything that’ll—”

Harv gave Rudy an idiot look. “Rudy, why would we need a crane that’d reach a water tower? We ain’t got a building in this town over three stories high. They prob’ly ain’t got shit that’d go that high in New York City.”

A conclave gathered around Rudy to hatch a rescue plan. Someone came and took the megaphone away from me. He called up to Donlee and told him not to worry, to just hang tight.

Donlee gave a feeble wave, then crossed his arms again.

“What’s he hanging from, anyway?” somebody asked.

Somebody else—a man with a pair of binoculars trained on Donlee—said, “Looks like he’s got him
self a safety harness. It’s hooked to the railing up there. Must be around his chest.”

“Big as he is, that must hurt like hell, hanging like that.”

Somebody snickered. “Yep, ever’body figgered a guy Donlee’s size must really be hung.” Nobody else laughed.

I kept my eyes on Donlee. I’d been going to tell him that if he didn’t come down off that tower, I would come up and kick him off. In that way my mama always said she’d skin me alive. In that loving way. Thank goodness I hadn’t had an opportunity to broadcast my message before he fell.

I went back and sat in Rudy’s car, watching the rescue efforts from that haven. Out of respect for the near-tragedy, I refrained from eating the rest of my crackers.

A couple of guys climbed the tower ladder, which must be like the StairMaster from hell. But apparently they couldn’t pull him up. So two more guys climbed the stairs.

I couldn’t bear to watch as they struggled to hoist Donlee, the giant Christmas ornament, to safety. For one thing, I feared something other than a can of purple paint might hit the ground. For another, craning to look up through the windshield was giving me a headache.

When everybody returned safely to earth, Donlee got hustled off to another patrol car, still clutching his chest and looking around over the crowd.

Rudy eventually came back to join me. Most of the crowd had broken up by that time. I had finally
broken my voluntary fast and eaten the rest of my crackers. Now I really needed something to drink.

Rudy drove me to the station without saying much, except that Donlee would be held at the Law Enforcement Center at least overnight. “And you better get in there and have a word of prayer with that boy before he does something really stupid. Shit, what am I saying? What could be more stupid than faking a drowning, pretending to jump off a waterfall, and hanging yourself from a water tower?”

I couldn’t answer that. “I’ll talk to him, Rudy. But he needs some professional help.”

“I’ll say.” He jammed the gearshift into “park” and stomped into the building.

Which left me with several choices. Should I go in and sign my statement about Sylvie Garnet’s confession? Did I try to see Donlee now, before they finished processing him? Should I call Geneva Gadsden and apologize for missing her appointment? Or did I just sit and wait for all this to filter through the gossip network back to Aunt Letha?

I opted to sign my statement, but postponed everything else. I somehow hoped time would work it all out.

When I drove to my parents’ house, I found I had the house to myself. I got a glass of milk and some graham crackers and stretched out on the sofa.

I hadn’t even finished my grahams when the phone rang.

“Avery? Melvin Bertram.” He didn’t need to introduce himself. “I heard about Sylvie Garnet” He didn’t need to say anything else.

“Yeah,” I said. After a pause, I added, “I guess that settles things with L.J—the arson and—everything.”

“I hope so.”

Another long silence lay between us.

“Avery, I wanted to apologize. About the other night.”

Before I could say
Oh, what for?
he continued. “I’m afraid I got a bit—maudlin.”

“I’d say you were entitled. After what you’d been through.”

“I don’t know about that. But thanks anyway.”

I didn’t try to fill the silence. I sensed he had something more to say. Finally, he said, “Avery, I’ve been thinking. About a lot of things. This—well, this may sound crazy.”

Probably not, I thought, not after what I’ve seen the last couple of days.

“But I’d—well, I’m not at all sure it would work out. For me personally, that is. And I certainly don’t know what kind of plans you’ve made for your future. But, if they should include staying in Dacus, I wondered—well, how you’d feel about sharing office space?”

“Office space?”

“Sure. You know the old Baldwin and Bates Funeral Parlor? That huge Victorian on Main, not too far from the courthouse? My brother and I own that. He wants to sell it, and I’ve been thinking about buying him out. It’s actually our grandparents’ old house—my dad grew up there.

“The family rented it to Baldwin and Bates, I guess for so long that nobody remembers it as the
Bertram house. Which,” he gave a wry chuckle, “considering how that name’s been bandied about lately, is probably for the best.”