Poppy Done to Death

was looking forward to seeing her family, and I wished her a happy day before leaving to put in my hours at the library.

It was absolutely dead at work. A few patrons dashed in to return books, and one or two checked out audiobooks for the long drives to holiday destinations. But no one was browsing, and precious few were even using the computers. I had no compunction at all about leaving a little early for my appointment with Bryan Pascoe.

Bryan drove a Cadillac, which surprised me. He was wearing a very nice suit, and he looked as though he’d gotten a haircut. When he held the car door open for me, I smelled his cologne. It was something classic and masculine, like Old Spice-another surprise. I would have predicted a Mustang convertible, a Calvin Klein cologne, and bikini underwear. I couldn’t ask him about that, but I amused myself on our ride to the service station named on the receipt by trying to imagine a conversation in which that question would occur naturally.

“I understand that Cartland Sewell has a cast-iron alibi,” he said out of the blue. Bryan sounded as if that were a bad thing, and since he was representing John David, I guess it was. The more viable suspects, the better, particularly for my brother-in-law.

“I’m glad for Lizanne’s sake,” I said. I know this was dumb of me, but I hadn’t realized I ought to tell Bryan what had happened with Lizanne the day of Poppy’s murder. Now I told him in as few words as possible. After questioning me closely about the probable time of all the events Lizanne had described, the lawyer lapsed back into a silence that I chose to characterize as thoughtful.

The Cadillac was so comfortable and the heat so effective, I was nearly drowsy by the time we reached the Grabbit Kwik. Bryan came around the car to open my door just as I was about to open it myself, so I held still and let him. This world is so devoid of courtesy, I never mind receiving a little, even if it’s misplaced.

He offered me his hand, and I took that, too. I was wearing off-white pants, a fuzzy blue sweater, and blue suede moccasins, so I didn’t have to worry about getting out of the car modestly. He gave a little pull, and up I popped, just like a cork.

The outside of the Grabbit Kwik was like any other convenience store/gas station along any highway. Grabbits are all painted a bright green, and this one had all its tawdry Christmas regalia in place. It had probably been up since the Halloween ghosts and pumpkins had come down. The concrete outside the door was dirty, but the glass doors were gleaming. We were the only customers at the moment, which I chose to regard as a good sign.

Inside, everything was as you’d expect, too-the racks of junk food and the refrigerated cases of drinks, the raised counter, the woman in the red smock behind the cash register. Her hair was a construction of elaborate and rigid ringlets, and she was generously round. Her heavily lined eyes looked like raisins sunk in gingerbread dough.

“Can I help you folks?” she asked cheerfully. On a tiny television behind her, a talk show was in progress.

Bryan produced a card immediately and introduced himself. She told him her name was Emma McKibbon and that she’d worked there two years. Her eyes flicked over to me curiously, but Bryan didn’t include me in this dialogue. He’d been so absolutely correct and polite up to now; it made me as curious as Emma apparently was. But there must be a reason, so I kept quiet.

The woman’s face looked really familiar, though, and I kept examining her, hoping I’d make the connection.

Bryan was asking her if there was any way she could remember a particular customer who’d come by two days before, and Emma confirmed that she’d been right there behind the counter on Monday. But Emma was wary of Bryan, for whatever reason-maybe just because he was an affluent white male. Watching her face seal itself off, I had a sinking feeling that any information we could have gathered was being chucked down a well inside the clerk.

“We were pretty busy that morning, same as always on Monday,” she said grudgingly. “Let me see the receipt, but I ain’t holding out much hope.”

I pulled the receipt out of my pocket and handed it to her. As our eyes met, a little click sounded in my ears. “Emma!” I said. “You were three years behind me in high school, right?”

“I sure was,” she said, relieved to track down her own elusive memory. “I’m Jane’s sister-Jane Pocket she was then.”

“Oh, sure. How is Jane?”

“Well, she’s gotten married twice now, and she has four kids in school and another one on the way. I have two myself. I married Dante McKibbon right after we graduated. My girls;- one’s in high school, and the other’s in junior high.”

“Oh, how nice,” I said, smiling as brightly as I could.

“Now, you still live in town, don’t you? I’m sure I saw you at the store last month.”

“I do. I have a house over on McBride.”

“You married?”

A black pit opened abruptly, right in front of me, and I took a deep breath, gathered my composure, and stepped right over it. “I’m a widow,” I said, maintaining my smile.

“Oh, too bad! You got any babies?”

“No, I’m all on my lonesome,” I said.

Emma obviously regarded this as the worst of all possible situations and cast around in her brain desperately for something upbeat to say to me. “Well, you look great,” she told me. “You don’t look a day older than you did when you graduated. Those kids’ll put the years on you, for sure.”

Bryan opened his mouth, but I got in there first. I knew what I was doing now. “You remember my mom?” I asked. Emma nodded. No one forgot my mother. “She married John Queensland, John David’s dad? I know you remember John David.” He would be a little younger than Emma, but he’d had a lot of success on the football field, and that would have made his name more familiar.

“Oh, sure,” Emma said, relieved to be on a different topic. “That John David, he speaks every time he comes in here.”

“Oh, he gets his gas here?” I leaned on the counter, as if I had all the time in the world.

“Sometimes,” she said. “He was in here the other morning, the morning you were asking about, unless I’m real confused. But I think it was early, not at the time on this receipt. This says ten-twenty-two, and he always comes in before eight, on his way to Atlanta.”

“You remember Bubba?”

“Which one?” she said with a big laugh, and I had to laugh right along with her. “You mean the big black Bubba who played center on the football team, or the Chinese Bubba who was so smart, or that Bubba who’s a lawyer in town?”

“Lawyer Bubba.”

“He comes in here, too, but not so often,” she said, thinking back. “He’s always in a hurry, don’t talk to me.”

“You remember Poppy?”

“Yeah, I hear she’s dead.”

“Yeah. She married John David.”

“Yeah, after they fought all through high school. Were you in the cafeteria that day she slapped him upside the head?”

“I had already graduated, but I heard about it.”

“She didn’t hold back none, either. She let him have it. Maybe that’s why somebody killed her, she mighta whomped on them like that.”

“Her mom and dad are here,” I said.

“Yeah, her dad is that preacher,” Emma said. “My mama used to clean house for them. I was over to see Mama the other day when the radio said that about Poppy. My mama said, ‘Like father, like daughter, I guess.’ ”

“Oh my gosh,” I said, “did he make pass at your mother?” I am sure I looked as disgusted as I felt. Somehow, you’re always a child when you hear about the peccadilloes of those who represented authority to you when you were young.

Emma looked sardonic. “He don’t like my skin tone,” she said, as if adding another mark against Marvin Wynn’s tally of bad taste. “But all those woman who came to him for counseling, you can bet a bunch of them got more