didn’t have a clue.” Reid shook his head.
“The weird thing was that even though she was out with
“She got that right, didn’t she?” I said cynically.
More than forty years ago, my daddy’s own acquisition of respectability was based on the illegal production and distribution of moonshine. Mother’s people were higher up the social scale and after they fell in love and married, she made him quit bootlegging. Without that early seed money though—the whiskey money that bought good bottom land, decent equipment, and a fair amount of respect—he probably would have stayed too dirt poor to court her in the first place.
“Who would kill her, Reid?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Usually you’d say the husband, but Bullock was on the ball field, right? Millard King, too.”
“She slept with Millard King? When?”
He shrugged. “Before me, after me, during me—I don’t keep tabs. I just remember hearing their names linked.” He paused a moment. “Come to think of it though, not recently. I heard he’s hoping to marry the daughter of one of our Justices.”
He shook his head again. “I really don’t know who was sleeping with her. Not me, though.”
“Any problem walking away?” I asked, trying to get a feel for the murdered woman.
“Not for me,” he said, with that male arrogance that always annoys the hell out of me. Then he gave a sheepish grin. “Cost me a bundle to get the smell of dog dirt out of my car, though. She dumped a whole pile of it all over the front seat.”
CHAPTER | 9
Dejection and despondency succeeded fright.
“Stan? Mama says come to breakfast
Reluctantly, the boy turned off the radio, shelved the notebook and followed his sister down the hall to the kitchen. Yesterday’s breakfast had been so strained that he’d volunteered to help Dad cut the grass around the church tent without being asked, just to get away from the house. Not that Dad hadn’t been quiet and withdrawn himself. But his silences were always more comfortable than Mama’s.
To Stan’s relief, his mother seemed to be in her normal school morning mode. Wearing a pink-and-green- checked cotton dress, she gave him a good-morning smile as she sliced bananas and peaches over their bowls of cold cereal. His father asked the blessing, then she poured Lashanda’s milk and handed the carton on for him to pour his own. Her voice sounded just like always as she passed out lunch money, looked critically at his shirt to see if it was a clean one, and reminded Lashanda that she had piano today, “so don’t forget to take your music. I don’t want to have to come rushing over to the school this morning, you hear?”
“Yes, Mama.” The little girl smiled, too young to worry whether everything really was back to normal. As long as no visible storm clouds hovered over their heads, the semblance was sufficient and she chattered so freely that even Stan felt the tension level go down.
Ralph Freeman finished eating first and went to brush his teeth. When he came back to the kitchen with his backpack hanging from one shoulder, he said, “I have to leave now, Clara, if I want to get to Dobbs on time. You sure you don’t want me to drop the children off on my way?”
“You go on ahead,” she said, from the kitchen sink. “Rosa gets off at seven and she’ll be here in plenty of time. You’ll probably pass her on the way.”
That’s when Stan realized that his mother’s car wasn’t in the drive. Miss Rosa must’ve worked the night shift again. As his father bent to kiss them goodbye, he also realized that Mama still had her back to them. Spoons and dishes rattled against each other beneath the running water and she acted too busy to turn around and lift her face for his usual kiss on her cheek. Dad must not have noticed either, because he didn’t hesitate, just went on out to the van and drove off.
* * *
Rosa Edwards gave a mighty yawn as she drove through morning traffic. Not that she was all that sleepy, merely ready for her own bed after two nights away from it. Sunday night was payback for when Kaneesha covered for her a couple of weeks back, and last night was her own regular night. For people on the housekeeping staff, night duty at the Orchid Motel was mostly a matter of just being there in case a bed suddenly needed changing or fresh towels were required in the middle of the night. Otherwise, there were a couple of lounge chairs in a little room off the main desk where you could put your feet up and doze after you’d tended to all your chores.
The O’Days were good bosses. For white people. They paid better than minimum wage and were real easy to get along with. Of course now, they had their own ideas about how to run a motel and it might not be the way Motel 6 or the Marriott did things, but long as you did your job and did it right, you didn’t have to act extra busy when they were around. And they were fair about dividing up the night work. You didn’t get hired unless you were willing to take your turn. But you could trade off if you needed to, long as you knew it was your responsibility to see that your hours were covered. That was the one thing they were bad about: show up late or don’t show up at all without being covered and, child, the doo-doo don’t get no deeper. They didn’t want to hear about flat tires, dead batteries or how the babysitter bailed at the last minute. You got one second chance and that was it.
