The Soprano Wore Falsettos (5 page)

“She just nicked me,” he muttered as the bullet popped free.

“Yeah, I can see that,” I said. “You want any help?”

“Nah. I don’t know what she’s always on about. I married her, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Little Bubba, you did.”

“I ain’t hit her much.”

“That’s good.”

“She’s always on me about my girlfriend. Walleena don’t even live in this town.”

“It’s good to keep your wife and your girlfriend separated if you can,” I agreed.

“There just ain’t no pleasing that woman.”

“Well, if you’re okay and she’s okay, I’ll be on my way,” I said. “Just let me say hello.” I knocked on the door. Ruthie came up to the screen, but didn’t invite me in.

“You all right?” I asked. She nodded.

“Do me a favor, will you? Stop trying to shoot him.” She nodded.

The third time I had been called out, Ruthie was washing her face and hair in the kitchen sink. There was a lot of blood. Little Bubba was nowhere to be seen, and his truck was gone as well.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked.

“He cut me,” she said, still washing up. “Not bad, I don’t think. Look at it and tell me, will you?”

I looked. “It’s not bad, but you’re going to need some stitches. You want me to take you to the hospital?”

“Nah. I can do it myself.”

“What about Little Bubba? Did you shoot him?” I asked.

“Missed him. I hit the truck, though.”

“You know, I can arrest him if you’ll press charges.”

“How long will you keep him locked up?” she asked.

I had to answer honestly. “Probably a couple of weeks if we’re lucky. Then I can get a judge’s order to keep him away from you.”

“You think that’ll work out here?”

“No, not really.”

“Don’t do it then. It’d just make him madder,” she said.

That was a couple of weeks ago. I had heard from Ardine that he’d come back and that they were getting along. But now, apparently, she’d killed him. I hoped it was justifiable. I liked Ruthie.

Chapter 5

I was about three minutes behind Nancy when I left the station, but her lead had increased to about ten minutes by the time I drove up to the Haggarty trailer. I would have beaten her in the winter; my ’62 Chevy pickup truck making pretty good time on these mountain roads. In the winter, Nancy drove a little Nissan whose four-cylinder engine could barely make it up her driveway. When the snow was off the roads, though, Nancy took to her motorcycle, a Harley-Davidson Dyna Super Glide. She was the fastest thing in Watauga County on these mountain roads.

Nancy was already inside. I could see her through the screen door with her pad out, taking notes. I walked up to the door and pulled it open, surveying the inside of the small living room. There was an old couch, a lamp, and a big-screen TV that served as a display for all kinds of religious
objets d’art
— everything from a Virgin Mary TV antenna to a prayer cloth blessed by Reverend Ike himself. But it was Little Bubba, as the designers say, that was the focal point of the décor. He was sitting in a blue recliner, the footstool flipped out, the chair pushed slightly back. He had half a cookie in one hand and a remote control in the other. There were scraps of paper scattered around the chair. His eyes were open and so was his mouth. I had seen dead folks before, and this was one of them.

“He’s dead, ain’t he?” said Ruthie, asking for confirmation. “Nancy said he was.”

“I believe so,” I said. “Did you tell Nancy what happened?”

“Sort of,” Ruthie answered.

“Well, if you don’t mind, could you tell it again so I can hear it?”

Ruthie nodded and took a long breath.

“Little Bubba hadn’t been back here for a few days. I guess he was staying with his girlfriend up in Sugar Grove. So anyway, he comes back, and I’m in the kitchen making Easter cookies for church.”

“Easter cookies?” Nancy asked.

“You know. Shaped like bunnies and eggs and such. So anyway, I had this idea to make one shaped like Jesus on the cross. It turned out pretty well, so I made enough for the whole Sunday School class. I thought we’d decorate them at our party this Sunday. Look here. I’ve got red-hots for the blood and all colors of sparkles.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“Then I wrote up all these devotions to wrap around the cookies. I thought we could keep these by our beds and read the devotions while we nibbled on the cookies. I get very hungry while I’m talking to Jesus.”

“So, what happened?” Nancy asked.

“Little Bubba came in and took the whole platter while I was in the bathroom. He plopped down in his chair and started eating. He just threw the devotions on the floor. Look there,” she said, pointing at the half-eaten cookie in his hand. “That’s the last one left.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“I yelled at him and told him to get out. He said he wasn’t going anywhere and to shut up before he shut me up for good. So I hit him.”

“You hit him?”

“Yep. I hit him with the skillet. Two hands.”

I walked over behind the chair and looked at the back of Little Bubba’s head. I heard the ambulance drive up outside.

“You certainly did hit him,” I agreed. “And maybe more than once.”

“Maybe,” said Ruthie. “Do I have to go with you?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said.

“He shouldn’t have eaten those cookies. I get very hungry while I’m talking to Jesus.”

• • •

“Well, that’s as much excitement as we’ve had for a few months,” said Pete.

“And thanks to brilliant police work, the culprit has been apprehended and is safely in the Watauga County penal system,” I added.

“Yes. Brilliant indeed. It’s a shame that all the criminals in our fair city don’t call the police department to report their crime and wait in their homes to be arrested.”

I chose to ignore him. “Where’s Noylene? I need to get something to eat.”

“Over at her shop. She’s opening up in about a month. I think she’s going to call it
Noylene’s,
even though I tried to talk her out of it.”

Noylene Fabergé was Pete’s head waitress, albeit “head waitress” was strictly an honorary post. He had given her the title so he wouldn’t have to give her a raise, but Noylene had finally graduated from Beauty Correspondence School and was ready to open her own shop. She was now a licensed beautician.

“Anyway,” said Pete, “Collette’s in the kitchen. She’ll be out shortly. I thought you’d taken to eating lunch over at The Ginger Cat.”

“I can’t do it anymore. The soup is good on Thursdays, but there are only so many watercress and blueberry duck finger sandwiches you can eat.”

Collette came strolling up. “What’ll it be, Chief?”

“Reuben sandwich,” I said, my mouth beginning to water. “Fries and coleslaw. And don’t skimp on the corned beef.”

“You’ll find the fixings in the walk-in,” said Pete. “The recipe’s hanging on the salad fridge.”

“I’ve made them before,” said Collette. “I remember.”

A Reuben sandwich wasn’t on the menu, but Pete kept the corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese and Russian dressing on hand for special orders.

“There should be a couple of beers in the walk-in as well,” Pete called after her. “Bring those out, too, will you?”

“Are you allowed to serve beer?” I asked.

“If the cops don’t catch me.”

“You should be okay. I’m pretty busy today,” I said. “Hey, did you hear about Kenny Frasier?”

“Nope,” said Pete.

“He’d been given a prescription for medical marijuana by some quack doctor back in 1985. So last month, he calls the FBI and asks them if he can get another one. He tells them that his prescription expires in a few months, and he’d like to keep growing his crop. He says that the doctor told him that the prescription was good for twenty years.”

“I always wondered how Kenny could afford a new truck every November. I figured he was stealing tobacco out of the barns,” said Pete, as our beers arrived. “What did the feds do?”

“Well, they got his phone number and his address, and they told him that they’d bring his prescription right over.”

“I’ll bet they did. Was medical marijuana
ever
legal in North Carolina?”

“From ’79 to ’87,” I said. “I had to look it up. Anyway, the feds showed up at Kenny’s farm, and guess what? He had a whole field of the stuff growing behind his barn. You believe that?” I laughed. “He’d been raising and selling about a thousand pounds a year for the past twenty years. He told the feds that he only used what he needed and sold the rest to other medicinal users.”

“How did he distribute it?”

“He used to sell it mail order through some group of medical users in California. Now he sells it over the Internet. He’s got a guy on the west coast that packages it up for him and ships it from out there.”

“Amazing,” said Pete. “A real entrepreneur.”

“Well, not any more,” I said. “Ah, here comes lunch.” I picked up the corner of the rye bread to peer inside. The ingredients were all there and looked to be in correct proportion. All was right with the world.

“Hey,” said Pete, “what kind of pants are those?”

“Regular pants,” I said. “Nonexpanding.”

“You’ll come around. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Is Bud working today?” I asked, through a mouthful of fries. “I need a recommendation for a nice, reasonably-priced Chablis.”

“Yeah,” said Pete, getting up. “I’ll get him. This soldier’s dead anyway.” He picked up his empty beer bottle and headed back to the kitchen.

I was two bites into the sandwich when Bud came out. Bud McCollough was Ardine’s oldest son. He was fifteen years old and had gotten a job at The Slab washing dishes and doing odd jobs, but his passion was wine. He’d been studying it for years. Ardine had two other kids as well as Bud. Her husband, PeeDee, in his paternal wisdom, had named them all after beers. In addition to Bud, there was his thirteen-year-old sister, Pauli Girl, and the youngest boy, Moose-Head, who was seven. We all did him a favor and called him “Moosey.”

“Hi, Bud,” I said, when he walked up to the table. “Listen, I need something good for Saturday night. I was thinking of a Chablis.”

“What’s on the menu?” asked Bud.

“Grilled salmon with capers, couscous, spinach salad, maybe cheesecake for dessert.”

“Appetizers?” asked Bud.

“I think so, but I don’t know what. Meg is bringing them, and I think I heard talk of mushrooms.”

“Okay,” said Bud. “Here’s what you need to do. Got a pencil?” He waited while I dug one out of my pocket and grabbed a napkin to write on.

“For the main course, I think you’ll want a Las Brisas Rueda. It’s a Spanish white from the central region of Spain. Las Brisas has a wide-open array of flowery and grassy aromas that almost attack the nose at first sniff. The taste is bright, fruity and filled with white peach, apricot, Granny Smith apples, grapefruit and just a hint of lime, but it’s got a touch of acidity that lets it really complement the salmon, especially if it’s grilled. I’d also recommend that you grill some yellow bell peppers, by the way. They’d set the Las Brisas off nicely. Got that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “How do you spell ‘Brisas’?”

He ignored me. “For dessert, you’ll want a tawny port. Graham’s 20 Year Old is a good choice with cheesecake. But just a small glass —

don’t overdo it — and serve it with coffee. It’s a true port; you know, from Portugal.” Bud got a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s wonderful: mixed aromas of cola, pecans, brown sugar, citrus peel and crème brûlée. It’s a bit shy at first, but then quite daring: spirited and charming, with an elegant nose.”

“Got it.”

Collette had wandered over to the table and was looking at Bud as though there were lobsters crawling out of his ears.

“The appetizers are tricky, since we don’t know exactly what Miss Farthing is planning, but I’m going to go out on a limb and steer you toward a Luis Felipe Edwards Carmenere. Very earthy. We’re talking wet leaves, dirt, and maybe just a hint of tobacco.”

“Sounds…lovely,” I said, probably sounding a little leery.

“No, really,” Bud replied, full of sincerity. “It’s one of the new Chileans. Old wood and earth, blackberries, pepper. It reminds me of a dirty Merlot. A bit scouring on the back end, but with enough fruit and balance to pull it off. It’s great with mushrooms. I think you’ll like it a lot. Plus, it’s pretty cheap.”

Got it,” I said again, finishing my notes. “Speaking of cheap, how much is this going to cost me?”

“The port is the most expensive at eighteen bucks a bottle, but you’ll only need one. The other two are under ten, but depending on how many people you have, you may have to get several bottles.”

“Great!” I said. “Now, where do I get it?”

“You can call the Wine Market in Asheville. I think they’ll ship it up. You can have it tomorrow.”