behind the barn and crouched motionless in the weeds to peer through the rocks that supported the building. The car stopped out of sight, and whoever was driving had cut the motor.
Silence for a long moment; then they heard the car door open and close, and soon a pair of sneakered feet and jean-clad legs came into view. The legs hesitated, then came straight on toward the locked door.
Because they had been waiting subconsciously for the jingle of keys, the next sound, a wrenching of metal from wood, was so unexpected that it took them a moment to comprehend.
Lamarr got it first.
“Shit! The bastard’s a fucking thief!” Tire iron still in hand, he came roaring up out of the weeds. “Hey! You! What the hell you think you’re—”
With Stevie and Eric uncertain whether to follow or try to hold him back, he bulled his way between the van and the shed wall, started to turn the corner, stepped into a mole run, twisted his ankle, and went down so hard the ground around them shook.
By the time the other two got around Lamarr to look, the thief, if that’s what he was, had already jumped back in his car and was halfway down the long dirt drive, kicking up clouds of dust. Between the dust and the glare of the late-afternoon sun in their eyes, the only thing they could be sure of was that the vehicle appeared to be a dark midsize sedan.
Lamarr limped around the corner and pointed in outrage at the lock and hasp that now lay on the ground. A few feet away was a claw hammer the guy had dropped in his flight. The open door was swinging on its hinges.
Lamarr quit cussing and beamed at Stevie like an innocent black angel. “We didn’t do the breaking. All we’re going to do is the entering.”
CHAPTER 10
DEBORAH KNOTT
SUNDAY MORNING
Even though we were almost into October, Sunday lived up to its name—a day of hot sunshine that kept the pond water warm.
I knew that both Stevie and Eric would be going to church this lovely morning, then big dinners with their respective families would occupy them till long past one, so I didn’t expect to see them much before three o’clock.
I probably could have used a session in church myself. Instead, I spent the first part of the morning packing away most of my summer clothes and air fluffing some of my lighter fall clothes in the dryer.
At ten o’clock, I figured Tally would probably be awake so I called to let her know Braz could be buried at the farm.
“I know. I talked to that Mr. Aldcroft last evening. He says your dad’s taken care of all the expenses and he won’t accept our money. That wasn’t necessary. We can take care of our own, okay?”
“Believe me, Tally, it’s necessary for him. Let him do this. Please? And he wants you to know that anyone you want to be there, any of your friends from the carnival, will be welcome.”
“That’s good,” she said stiffly.
The silence grew awkward.
“I guess you haven’t heard from Chapel Hill yet?” I asked.
“No, but Mr. Aldcroft called them and they said either today or tomorrow, so we’re thinking, say ten o’clock Tuesday morning, okay?”
“Tally, you do understand that the rest of the family’s going to have to be told? They’d never forgive us if we don’t. We’ll try to keep them from stampeding you, but—”
“What about Andrew? What’d he say when you told him?”
I took a deep breath, trying to find the words.
“Bad as that, huh?” Cynicism tinged her voice.
“I’m sorry, Tally. But he’ll come around. I know he will.”
“For what? I’m a little old to be looking a daddy, Deborah. But thanks for calling. I guess I’ll see you Tuesday, okay?” she said and hung up.
I gave Andrew a mental smacking and went back to cleaning out my closet and dresser drawers.
At midday I diced green peppers, onions, and mushrooms and made a western omelet with fresh tomatoes on the side. Not much of a Southern Sunday dinner, but probably healthier than some that would be eaten on the farm today.
While sorting clothes, I chatted on the phone with Portland, who told me that our mutual uncle (hers by blood, mine by marriage) had finally decided to retire and why didn’t we throw him a party? I called Aunt Zell to see if she thought Uncle Ash would want one, but only got their answering machine.
I restrained myself from calling April to see if Andrew had talked to her about Tally yet. If he hadn’t, how would I broach it? If he had, surely she’d call me if she wanted to talk? Better to leave it for now.
I checked my e-mail, deleted the three inspirational messages forwarded by Robert’s wife Doris without reading them, chuckled at a bawdy joke from Isabel, answered the most urgent messages, then surfed the Net for a while. Out of curiosity, I went to my favorite search engine and keyed in “carnival.” Most of the results either had to do with Mardi Gras-type carnivals or cruise ships, so I reset the parameters to exclude those. As I followed the links from one site to the next, an interesting picture of carnival life and carnival culture emerged from the electronic
