Southern Discomfort

Dwight walked me out to my car and we stood there in the hot thick sunshine talking.

When they widened the streets a few years ago, they cut down most of the huge old oaks that had shaded the old cracked sidewalks. Now stiff little Bradford pears marched up and down in wire support cages. One of these days they would flower and be pretty in the spring, but they'd never provide the shade those oaks had.

Depressing.

Dwight wasn't too happy with himself for embarrassing Ava. He wanted to blame me for not telling him that Bass had walked out on her, but that dog wouldn't fight and he knew it. Still, it did remind me.

'You're all the time saying I don't tell you things, but you were out of the county then, too; so do you remember how Ava got burned?'

Like me, he knew only that there'd been a fire. When I told him about why Herman wanted to take part of the blame for Tink's miswiring of the old house, he looked thoughtful. 'You thinking one of them—'

'No,' I said firmly. 'I don't. But we both know people can brood on things and finally do something weird. I still think O'Connor's going to find a perfectly accidental source, but if the Coffee Pot does turn out to be the only eating place they really crossed, you'll find a way to blame me if you don't have all the facts. Besides, didn't Bass leave last week about the time Herman started feeling bad? Are the two connected? You're the police officer, you tell me.'

'But Bannerman had nothing to do with the fire.'

'No, but he couldn't keep his fly zipped. If he ate at the Coffee Pot three or four times a week, you can bet money he made at least one pass at Ava. Just to be friendly if nothing else. She's not even twenty-five yet, and with men like him, every woman under fifty's an automatic hit. Did it flatter her or make her mad? And what did Bass and Tink think?'

Dwight allowed as how I had a point. So far, he'd had no luck finding out who'd used the hammer on Bannerman.

'Maybe I'll go question Rochelle Bannerman again. I have to tell her about the arsenic. Maybe she knows something.'

I resisted the temptation to be catty and opened my car door. At the last minute, I remembered what Reese had told me. 'Did either of your deputies tell you she wasn't home when Reese and A.K. got out to the trailer park Tuesday?'

'Yeah. She was over at a girlfriend's place.'

'The whole evening?'

He shrugged. 'You know what the trouble with air-conditioning is? Everybody stays inside with their doors and windows closed and watches television.'

'Too bad you didn't have Mayleen Richards go through the Bannerman hamper for his wife's dirty clothes.'

'Huh?'

'Think how hot it was Tuesday night. Rainy and muggy. Yet when Mrs. Bannerman arrived at the WomenAid house, her hair and clothes were clean and fresh. Opal Grimes was a mess, but Rochelle Bannerman looked like she'd just stepped out of a shower. The question is, when? Not after Reese and A.K. got there, that's for sure.'

Suddenly, just talking about a shower made me long for one myself and as Dwight drove off to question Mrs. Bannerman, I headed home with my air-conditioning pushed as high as it'd go.

CHAPTER 16

EXTERIOR WALL INSULATION

'Insulation also serves a valuable purpose in moisture control, which prevents rot and fungus growth... The fireproofing and vermin-proofing qualities of insulation should also be considered.'

Much as I wanted to spend the weekend with K.C. Massengill at her lakefront cottage, I didn't see how I could get out from under all my obligations.

'You're gonna do what?' she asked when I called to tell her so Friday night.

'Don't make it worse,' I implored. I didn't want to hear about cool swims and shady walks and handsome guys on screened porches, as steaks grilled on the cooker and moons rose romantically over the water.

Not when I was going to be laboring again at the WomenAid house. I had visions of sweat-damp work clothes and itchy pink fiberglass particles sticking to my skin.

Actually, Saturday turned out not to be all that bad. A high pressure system came through early in the morning and left behind crystal clear dry air. The previous Saturday had seen temperature and humidity both in the nineties. This weekend, it never got out of the low eighties and humidity was way, way down.

Nor did I have to put on a mask and coveralls or wrestle with rolls of fiberglass. Must be part of the covered- dish-dinner syndrome. Tell a bunch of women to bring a vegetable, a meat or a dessert to a community meal and you'll always—not once in a while, but always—get a balanced selection. Volunteering for specific jobs seems to work the same way. There were women who actually wanted to tack six-inch-thick insulation batts between all the exterior studs and joists, and I certainly wasn't going to get in their way. Another crew swarmed onto the roof and had all the shingles on before lunch. I myself got to help set the two exterior doors and nine windows, which was sort of fun.

In and around cries for more nails. 'Head's up!' and 'Nail it 'fore it grows,' Carver Bannerman's death was the big topic of conversation. Of equal interest were the doses of arsenic he and Herman had ingested. Had it only been Herman, human nature being what it is, Annie Sue and I might have worked all morning surrounded by a cocoon of speculative silence. Enough Tar Heel wives have laced their husband's food that you couldn't blame even good friends for wondering if Nadine had suddenly decided to exchange wedded bliss for widowhood. Luckily for Nadine, young Carver Bannerman's quasi-victimship kept Herman's firmly in the realm of accidental.

Yes, poison was a woman's weapon of choice; yes, most women—most convicted