“She loved him, okay? He was good to us, never hit her, never hit me. He acted nice.” He wiped burgeoning tears away with his sleeve.
I guided him to a chair and made him sit. I went back to the screen door. “Candace, could you do me a favor? Could you get a glass of milk and a piece of that pecan pie for Scott?” She hollered back her assent and I went and sat down again with Scott.
“I don’t want no pie.” He sniffed.
“It’ll do you good. Unless you’re diabetic. Eula Mae’s pies require an insulin chaser.”
He managed a vague smile.
“Where are y’all staying at, Scott?” I couldn’t imagine they were still staying at Nola’s uncle’s house, with its pervading air of death.
“Well, last night we stayed at this neighbor lady’s place. But she’s got a ton of cats and it makes Mom sneeze. So we’re moving this afternoon out to Mr. Quadlander’s farm. Soon as the police let him, Uncle Dwight’s moving back to the house. He said he don’t care ’bout no one getting shot, it’s his house. Mom and I’ll probably head back to Beaumont.” Scott glanced through the window at Hart Quadlander, deep in conversation with Clo. “Mom likes Mr. Quadlander. He’s a nice man.”
“Yes, he is. You know, Trey and I used to ride horses out at that farm when we were about your age. Trey taught me to ride.”
He looked at me grieving. “He was gonna teach me. When it got warmer. He never explained how he was gonna do that from a wheelchair, though.”
“I’m sure he would have found a way.”
Candace brought out a generous slice of pecan pie and a tall glass of milk and set it on the end table by Scott. I introduced them and Candace shook hands with Scott rather gravely. She sat down, giving me a cautious glance.
Scott ate his pie in steady bites without talking. I filled the silence with nervous chatter, explaining to Scott that Candace owned the Sit-a-Spell Cafe and telling Candace that Scott was staying at Hart’s farm.
“That’s good,” Scott said around a final mouthful of sugar, crust, and sticky, nutty filling. “My mom isn’t much for baking stuff like pie. ’Less it comes out of the freezer.”
“Nothing like homemade pie. We’ll give you some to take home, Scott.” Candace patted his leg.
Scott’s hazel eyes widened. “Oh, no, Mom doesn’t know I’m here. She’d kill me.”
“That was a nice gesture, bringing us those pictures.” I glanced at Candace. “I’m sure your mom won’t be mad at you.”
He ignored the napkin Candace had brought with the pie and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. The crumbs on his plate seemed to hold undue fascination for him. I glanced again at Candace. She touched his shoulder gently. “Hon, is there anything else you want to tell us?”
Men have always responded to Candace. Beauty can drive men to distraction, but real kindness will snare them every time, especially if life hasn’t always been kind. Combine them like Candace does and the mixture is potent. There’s a quality in her voice, a commanding trust, that you can’t help but answer. Unless you’re just plain stubborn.
Scott wasn’t a mulish kid. He looked up at her like his heart was breaking. “My mom…”
“You don’t think your mom had anything to do with Trey’s murder?” I blurted, and Candace shot me a look that ricocheted from between my eyes. I shut my mouth. God, how could I have suggested that to a kid?
“Oh, no. Mom wouldn’t hurt anyone. And she loved Trey.”
I wanted to point out that love and hurt were not mutually exclusive states, but another pointed glance from Candace stilled my tongue.
“It’s just that… Mom’s real sure that your sister killed Trey. And if she thinks I’m suggesting different, she’d be pissed at me.”
“Scott, I’m sure your mama wants the killer brought to justice, regardless of who it is,” Candace said softly. “I’m sure she wouldn’t want Arlene to be charged if she was innocent.”
“I guess.” Scott didn’t sound very convinced. He seemed to be holding something barely in check, his eyes flickering between Candace and me, gauging us on a scale of trust.
I kept my mouth shut. Silence seemed to compel Scott to speak.
“It’s just that, what with that other fellow dying, and he came over to the house not long after we got to town-”
“Clevey? Clevey was at y’all’s house?” I interrupted. A sharp pinch on my knee (not from Scott) silenced me again.
“Let Scott tell his story, Jordan, please,” Candace said.
“We got in Thursday morning. Trey made a couple of phone calls. And this other guy, Clevey Shivers, comes over to the house. Red-haired, loud, funny. He smelled like beer, though. Even in the morning.
“He and Trey went into the bedroom to talk, and Mom and Uncle Dwight went to go run errands. I was watching TV, but Uncle Dwight’s got crappy reception. So I went back to my room to read comic books and I could hear them arguing.”
“Arguing?” I leaned closer.
I could see Scott steeling himself. “I heard Mr. Shivers-Clevey-telling Trey he was years late. Laughing at Trey, saying he’d”-Scott wrinkled his brow in memory-“missed the gravy train. Trey told him to shut up. Clevey laughed some more. Trey said they weren’t going to talk about what they’d seen. Trey told him what was past was past, he wasn’t interested no more. And Clevey said-Clevey said that Trey better keep out of his way. Said the gravy train might go slow on the bend and he could climb on.” He paused and rubbed his eyes. “Isn’t Gravy Train like a dog food?”
Candace and I exchanged looks above the boy’s head.
Once the story started, Scott didn’t seem to need further prompting. “I got scared. Clevey kind of said the last part real mean like. But Trey yelled back at him, saying that Clevey was nothin’ but a cheap con artist and a crook. Trey told him to get out and Clevey told him to think about it some more, once Trey got some more of them medical bills he’d be begging Clevey for help.” Scott licked his lips, his voice deepening in imitation. “Then Clevey said, ‘You do anything to fuck this up, Slocum, and you’ll be in worse shape than you are now. Revenge is sweet if you give it half a chance.’ Trey didn’t say anything and Clevey left. The house shook when he slammed the door.
“I just lay on my bed. I’d figured they thought I’d gone to the store with Mom and Uncle Dwight, so I didn’t even move. I heard Trey wheeling himself around in the bedroom, talking to himself. It sounds stupid, but I crawled out the window and made a lot of noise coming back in the house. I didn’t want him to know I’d heard.”
“Why?” Candace asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t like the way that Clevey fellow talked to him, it was scary. One minute sounding mean, like he’d just as soon spit in your face, the next minute sounding like he was your best friend ever.
“If someone had told me Trey’d be murdered in a couple of days, I’d have said for sure that Clevey would have been the one to do it. But he couldn’t have. He was already dead himself.” Scott shook his head. “I don’t like this place. I don’t know why Trey wanted to come back here.”
10
“This is an unholy mess.” Hart Quadlander shook his head at me. Candace had taken Scott in, finally plying him with an offer of a more substantial lunch, and Hart had lit a cigarette. I saw his fingers tremble slightly, the smoke swirling around his hand.
“Trey’s death has you unsettled, doesn’t it?” I asked him.
“More than you’ll know,” Hart answered. I liked him; he was one of the last remaining icons of Southern gentility to be found in Mirabeau. He was tall, striking, dark, gray-streaked haired, gray-eyed, with a textured deep drawl that should have done public readings of the works of Padgett Powell or Larry McMurtry. Being the last of the Quadlanders counted for a lot in Mirabeau, and Hart wore his position like a mantle.
“It was hard on me,” Hart said, halfway to himself, “when Trey left town. I’d grown real fond of him over the
