“Hurricane party?” asked Lashanda. The bluebird barrettes on her braids brushed her cheeks as she uncurled a bit from Ralph’s protective arms. “What’s that?”
“That’s where we have like a pajama party and while the wind’s blowing and the rain’s coming down, we’re snug inside with candles and lanterns. We’ll sit up half the night, make popcorn and sing and tell stories—”
The Reverend Gaithers cleared his throat.
“—but mostly we’ll just laugh at any old storm that tries to scare us,” I finished hastily. “And Stan can take notes for his science project and tell us what’s happening.”
“Can we, Daddy?”
For the first time since we’d come back, the little girl seemed animated instead of tired and apprehensive. Even Stan looked interested.
“Please?” I appealed to Ralph. “You’ve been out to the farm. It’s not all that far from Cotton Grove so you could easily swing by if you should go home tomorrow morning.”
“We-ell,” said Ralph. “You sure it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” I assured him. “There’s plenty of room for you, too, Reverend Gaithers, if you’d care to come,” I added.
“Thank you,” he said gravely, “but I will keep the vigil for my daughter here.”
The brightness faded from Stan’s face. “I guess I better stay, too.”
“No,” said the older man, showing more compassion than I’d credited him with. “You go and look after your sister, Stanley. Your father and I will do the praying tonight.”
“You’ll come, too, Miss Cyl?” Stan asked as Lashanda slid off Ralph’s lap and took Cyl’s hand.
Confused, Cyl started to murmur about not having the right clothes, but I quickly scotched that. “I have everything you need, even an extra toothbrush. Come on. It’ll be fun.”
She might have hesitated longer, but one of Bo Poole’s deputies, Mayleen Richards, entered the waiting room and we both knew that she’d probably come to question Ralph about Rosa Edwards’s death. The children didn’t seem to know about it yet and Cyl and I were in instant silent agreement that this was no time to hit them with another shock.
“Sure,” said Cyl. “Let’s go.”
Downstairs, we agreed to split up. Cyl would drive Stan and Lashanda to Cotton Grove for their overnight things while I stopped by Jimmy White’s to see what he could do about my trunk lock, then we’d meet at the homeplace. Maidie was active in the same church as Cyl’s grandmother, so Cyl would see at least one familiar face if they got there before I did.
Even though it wasn’t yet three o’clock, the road home was busier than usual. A lot of places must have let their employees go home early. Rain was falling quite heavily now and wind gusts buffeted my car, giving me pleasant little bursts of adrenaline each time I had to correct the steering. It was both scary and exhilarating. Like riding a horse you’re not too sure of.
When I reached Jimmy’s garage and pulled into his drive, the county’s crime scene van blocked the entrance to the garage itself and Dwight’s car was there, too.
They had pushed Clara Freeman’s Civic inside and found what we hadn’t noticed the night before: a small dent in her left rear fender and a smear of black paint ground into that dent. It might just be enough.
“
“This one here?”
“You got it,” he said glumly. “Rosa Edwards might still be alive if we’d talked to her.”
“Or not,” I said, patting his shoulder as if he were Reese or A.K. “If she was the talking kind, she had four days to come to you.”
It would have been interesting to bat around theories, but we all were getting antsy. Jimmy promised to get to my trunk lock by the first of the week, but right now he wanted to close down the garage. Dwight had a few loose ends of his own to see to before the storm got worse. The crime scene van was already on its way back to Dobbs.
I hurried on home to change clothes and pick up some overnight things for Cyl and me. As I was hunting for the extra toothbrushes I’d stashed in my linen closet, Robert stopped by with a kerosene lantern, Lashanda’s doll and Clara Freeman’s purse, which were still soggy and starting to mildew after such a hot day in the airless cab of his tractor. I gave him a hug for the lantern and thanks for remembering the doll and purse.
“I’m real glad you and Reese’re going to Daddy’s,” he said, hugging me back. “It’s not gonna be anything like Hazel, but it don’t pay to take risks.”
I tried to stick up for my house’s steel framing, but he just laughed and drove on off toward his own place.
I took the things inside and put them on my kitchen counter. The mildew wiped right off Lashanda’s rubber doll and Clara’s brown plastic purse. I rinsed out the doll’s dress and underpants and threw them in the dryer. Next, I unloaded the purse and propped it open, then spread the contents across the countertop so they’d dry and air out —keys, lipstick, comb, nail file, a damp notepad with a list of items crossed off, a couple of envelopes. One was plain and sealed with Scotch tape. The other looked like a bill from Carolina Power and Light. I threw away a couple of sodden tissues and a half-melted roll of breath mints.
Along with the usual cards and paper money in the wallet, there were pictures of Stan and Lashanda and a studio picture of Clara and Ralph with the two kids. I looked at that one long and hard. In her neat blue dress with a chaste white collar, she was no-where near as beautiful as Cyl, but there was something wistful in her eyes and I wondered if Ralph had been unfaithful to her before or was Cyl an aberration waiting to happen? I tried to imagine Cyl into this picture if Clara didn’t make it. Cyl as a preacher’s wife? As stepmother to these two children? Cyl
