Can’t Never Tell Read online

  “Right.” I handed him a cup of Diet Pepsi full of fizz and ice.

  “Aunt Bree.” Emma marched up to us. “Can you play horseshoes with me? Grandpa says he won’t play me anymore.”

  “What’d you do? Lay a leaner up against his shin with a horseshoe?”

  “I beat him.” She stared up at me, matter-of-fact.

  “I—uh, really need to finish helping your mom.” I hated to let her down, even though I knew I would go quickly down in defeat. I’d just noticed she was the only kid at the picnic.

  “Can I play?” offered Spence.

  Emma turned an appraising eye on him, from his slipper-soft loafers and sand-colored slacks all the way up his long, brightly flowered Hawaiian shirt to his smiling hazel eyes.

  I knew what she was thinking as clearly as if she’d said it out loud. Dumb shirt. Dumb shoes. Out loud, she said, “Sure,” and led him away with an expression that said she expected this to be quick and merciless.

  Spence smiled at me over his shoulder and followed Emma to what I knew was certain humiliation. Emma’s grandpa—my dad—hadn’t let her win. He’d been beaten. Beating the ringer queen at her own game would be the only way Spence could redeem himself and his wardrobe choices in her eyes. I didn’t hold out much hope. I went back to get orders from Lydia.

  “Who is that?” Aunt Vinnia joined us, carrying a bowl of her famous potato salad.

  “A friend of Frank’s,” Lydia said. “He and Avery have been seeing each other.” The teasing in her voice was faint but embarrassing nonetheless.

  “We had dinner last night,” I said, the defensiveness in my voice hard to miss. Do we ever outgrow our childhoods?

  “You two spent a lot of time together at Bow Falls on Friday, too,” Lydia said.

  Before someone was swept off the falls, which changed the tone of the day. Neither of us mentioned that.

  Aunt Letha joined us with a loud harrumph. “I always had gumption enough to pick out my own beaux. None of this nonsense getting fixed up with somebody.” She set down a crock of baked beans. I bent over to let the brown sugar smell fill my nose so they couldn’t see my face coloring red.

  Growing up, Lydia and I—and sometimes Mom and Dad—had speculated about Aunt Letha’s beaux. She’d never married, we knew, and we couldn’t imagine the man who could have withstood her gale-force personality. Maybe in her younger years, she’d been sweet and gentle. Doubtful, but reality hadn’t stopped us from making up outrageous pairings and laughing ourselves silly.

  Vinnia, the short, soft, plump youngest sister, had married. She’d raised five children—none of whom had stayed in Dacus—and buried a husband before I’d been born. Hattie, rangy, slab-sided, and shorter than her older sister Aletha, had also stayed single and taught high school biology, while Aletha force-fed generations of pupils the value of knowing and thereby choosing what parts of history to repeat. In their late seventies and early eighties now, my great-aunts offered constant lessons in how to live a life, some by example, some by scathing, outspoken indictment of stupid choices, the latter mostly from Aunt Letha.

  When I stopped to consider their contemporaries, the avant-garde quality of their lives was evident. Even among my own contemporaries, few had the “gumption” to live single by choice. Hattie’s boyfriend had been killed in the Second World War. She’d never dated again, as far as my mom knew. All three sisters lived in the rambling white clapboard house on Main Street that my grandfather—their brother—had bought. He’d married late in life, and his much-loved wife had died soon after she’d given birth to my mother.

  Granddad, oldest of the siblings by more than a decade and the only male, had been a lawyer, a judge, and my idol. He’d died while I was in law school, and I still missed his wisdom, his dry humor, and the sweet dusty smell of his pipe tobacco.

  In my reverie, I missed a shift in the conversation away from critiquing my dating choices to the telling of family stories. The great-aunts had all three taken seats in the padded chairs around the long patio table.

  “Lordy day, I was ready to tan everyone of you that day,” said Vinnia, laughing, her face pink as a cherub’s.

  “Right up until the moment Old Man MacEntyre stomped over there threatening us,” said Lydia, “then you turned into an overprotective banty hen ready to peck his eyes out.”

  “You young’uns had no business shooting BBs off the sleeping porch anyway,” Aunt Letha said, her glare alternately pinning me and Lydia as intensely as if it had happened yesterday afternoon instead of twenty years ago.

  “We weren’t shooting at Mr. MacEntyre’s house,” Lydia said, laughing but still needing to explain, no matter how many times the story had been rehashed.

  “I don’t remember you shooting anything,” I said.

  “Don’t go trying to blame your cousin Aaron,” said Vinnia, smiling. “That was your BB gun, Avery Andrews.”

  “She’s not the one who decided to shoot at the squirrels in the tree.” Lydia came to my defense.

  “No, but she was always the first one to climb out on the sleeping porch roof, no matter how many times I threatened to tan your hides.”

  “My feats of derring-do can’t change the fact that your grandson Aaron was the big-game hunter who wanted to see if he could hit a squirrel.” Later that summer, when he finally killed a squirrel, he’d cried like a girl. I’d reverently scooped it up and carried it to our nanny, who’d taken it to her house and made stew.

  I could still hear the dry rustle of the BBs snapping through the oak leaves and the sharp claws of the squirrels—who were never in any danger from our marksmanship—as they scratched for purchase on the rough bark. And I could hear Mr. MacEntyre’s high-pitched screech as he danced across the side street, calling a halt to the barrage of pellets pinging dents in his second-floor siding and nicking holes in his window screens.

  “Just lucky you kids didn’t slide off that roof and kill yourselves,” said Mom, shaking her head in mock dismay.

  Everybody laughed, enjoying the tale’s reprise, funnier with distance and repetition than it had been at the time, removed now from the real risk of the slippery slope of the roof.

  “Avery.” Eden Rand floated over to take my elbow, breaking the family circle as she drew me away from the table. “I want you to talk to Rog.”

  I waited for her to explain her wait-till-your-father-gets-home tone. With her face close to mine in a conspiratorial huddle, I could see that the orange frizz had been aided by a bottle to cover some gray now shining at the roots. Her mascara clumped thick to bring depth to pale, stubby lashes, and her lipstick migrated into the tiny cracks of late middle age ringing her mouth.

  “He’s just not tending to business,” she said. “I know he’s probably in shock, but that’s no reason to let that sheriff push him around, and it’s no reason to let his own financial interests just fall by the wayside. He doesn’t seem to understand he’ll have expenses.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not—”

  “He won’t even talk about contacting the insurance company to notify them of her death. I’m sure processing a claim takes time. Shouldn’t he get started with that?”

  I managed not to let my mouth hang open in disbelief, but I couldn’t manage to find the words to respond.

  “Spence.” Eden waved him over to our huddle. I couldn’t tell from Spencer Munn’s expression whether he’d been successful at horseshoes, but seeing him here and Emma still over at the pit starting a game with her dad gave me a hint.

  “We were just talking about helping Rog out. I’ve been trying to tell him what you’re always preaching, Spence, that there’s a time value of money. That he doesn’t need to let the insurance company keep his money a minute longer than necessary, that he’ll have expenses. Funerals aren’t cheap, these days.”

  The look on Spence’s face probably mirrored mine, shock covered quickly with a polite veneer. “Um—”

  “He needs to get that money invested. Get it busy working for
him instead of for those greedy corporate shills. Right?”

  Something in Spence’s expression changed. “Ye-es. That’s a good idea.” He glanced at me. For support? To see whether I agreed with her or whether we agreed in our shock? “I doubt he wants to rush too fast. He doesn’t want to look disrespectful.”

  Spence turned to me, but this really wasn’t any of my business. At the same time, it didn’t take reading many accounts of spousal homicide to realize how closely cops watch those left behind, to see how desperate they are to get their hands on the insurance proceeds. Setting his grief aside too quickly, before he’d held a funeral service, even before an autopsy had been completed, might make Rinda’s death look more convenient than sad.

  “Rog will be the best judge of that,” I said. “After all, he’s just learned she died. He needs some time to grieve.”

  “But he’s also got to pay for the funeral. I know for a fact those funeral homes want their money up front, so they don’t get stiffed.” She registered no recognition that her last comment made an awkward pun. “Spence, you could invest the proceeds for him, couldn’t you? What’s left over?”

  Spence again glanced at me, perhaps looking to form an alliance but not sure how far he could push his crazy colleague.

  “Sure I could invest it, but there’ll be time enough for all that. We need to get Rog through the funeral first.”

  The corners of her mouth crinkled in frustration at failing to find allies among the business-minded members of Rog’s circle.

  “He’s in shock. Somebody’s going to have to take him by the hand,” she said. “You’re a lawyer, Avery. Will you at least talk to him?”

  “If he has attorney questions, he can call tomorrow for an appointment.”

  I’m sure my careful emphasis that he needed to call was lost on her. She heard something that was close enough to what she wanted to hear that it satisfied her.

  “Good.” She spun around, the loose ends of her scarf and skirt sailing behind her.

  Spence Munn and I shared a resigned look and a shrug, but neither of us offered a comment. We had heard in each other’s words what Eden had chosen to ignore.

  We turned to the picnic tables. The food was great. The July heat, even under the canopy cover of trees in the shaded backyard, put a damper on some of the games, but the horseshoe pit stayed busy with a changing array of challengers and champs. Emma’s dogs—two black Labs and a miniature Schnauzer who ruled the pack with an officious toss of its salt-and-pepper head—didn’t mind the heat. After most of the guests had left and Emma finally persuaded her mom to let the dogs out of the house, they happily chased the Frisbee and each other as Emma and I played keep-away with them.

  When we finally collapsed in the grass from full bellies and too much activity, I knew this afternoon should merit one of those entries in the social columns of the Dacus Clarion. A good time was had by all—at least so far today.

  Sunday Evening

  On Sunday evening, I decided to wander over to the festival grounds to check in with the Plinys. Nothing wrong with a corn dog for supper, since the picnic food had had plenty of time to settle. After all, the carnival wouldn’t be in town after this week. Might as well take advantage of it.

  The festival grounds weren’t crowded. Too many Baptists attending Sunday evening church activities, though I’d hoped more tourists would be out enjoying their Fourth of July vacations.

  The entrance to the House of Horrors was quiet, the lights over the banner line hung dark.

  A matronly woman in a faded orange T-shirt and wavy hair gone gray years ago hunched behind the plywood podium that served as the ticket stand, sweeping with a bent–bristled broom.

  “Miz Pliny?”

  She eyed me, studying a moment before she gave a curt nod.

  “I’m Avery Andrews.”

  That loosened up what might have been a smile, but her eyes kept reviewing me, as she seemed to study everything in her vicinity.

  “We gave your girl a check,” she said, her husky voice full of old cigarette smoke.

  “Yes’m, I know. I need to return part of that to you. Getting things sorted out didn’t take that much time. Wanted you to know I’d bring it by tomorrow.” I didn’t mention that I planned to make sure their check cleared before I delivered any refunds. I may at times have trouble charging people for what seems a simple task, but I’m not a complete business idiot.

  She pursed her lips and kept studying me.

  “Have you heard anything more from the sheriff yet?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “They should get the autopsy results by tomorrow.”

  “Good.” Her lips disappeared, as if she were mulling a deep puzzle. “You got a minute?”

  “Sure,” I said, with a wry thought about whether I should deduct that minute from her refund.

  After she stowed the broom under the battered ticket stand, she signaled to someone across the lot behind me. A boy, maybe twelve years old, appeared as if by magic.

  “I’ll be back in a bit to open up. You keep an eye on things.”

  He settled on the top step, worn smooth by years of shoe soles, happy with the stature he gained from his new task, eying the passersby who were waiting for the fright house to spring to life.

  Pinner Pliny was even shorter than I was, and she stretched her turquoise polyester slacks and T-shirt to their limits. She also moved at an agile, quick pace.

  “Thinks he wants to run away and be a carnie,” she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder as we ducked past a canvas banner and picked our way through snakes of electric cables. “He’s filled in for us some since we got here. Nice kid, nicer than most.”

  “He’s from Dacus?” I hoped the concern didn’t sound in my voice. Surely she had road sense enough to avoid a kidnapping charge.

  “Reckon his momma or daddy will stir out of a drunken stupor before long and come drag him back home by his collar. Or what passes for home. Tried to talk those stars out of his eyes, but I seen ’em before. Shoot, I had ’em myself.”

  Pinner Pliny used the handle mounted beside a travel trailer door to pull herself up the foldout steps. I don’t know much about motor homes, but this one was nice. Longer than most of the others gathered tightly out of sight behind the midway, it nestled beyond the bright glare but not far enough away from the rumble of the rides, the pumping rock music, the pings and calls from the games.

  “E.Z.! You decent?” she yelled in the door. “That lawyer lady, Avery Andrews, is here.” To me, she said, “Why the heck they want to lay around in their undershorts is beyond me.”

  Fortunately for us all, E. Z. Pliny appeared to be fully clothed, sitting in the tiniest sport wheelchair I’d ever seen. He didn’t act as though he recognized me, though he was the same man who’d been taking tickets the night I’d called Rudy to report finding Prune Man. E. Z. Pliny hadn’t been in a wheelchair that evening, and I wondered what the story was.

  E.Z. himself, like his wife, wasn’t very tall. He sat in the center of a remarkably well-ordered living space, with plenty of maneuvering room for his chair on the polished oak floor.

  Hanging in the galley kitchen to the right of the entry and on built-in cabinets over the banquette were lines of photos in black frames, screwed into the cabinet doors in orderly rows.

  “The good ol’ days,” said Pinner as she followed my gaze.

  I took that as an invitation to step closer. “This is you?”

  “And friends.” E.Z.’s voice was raspy, Mickey Rooney on a bad day. He also sported Mickey’s haircut, a stiff, short halo of ginger fuzz all over his large skull.

  “That’s me,” Pinner said, “when somebody’d still pay to see me balance on knives.”

  Pinner pointed to a photo where a young blond with curls swirled down her back stood on a stepladder, her legs shown to good advantage in a short cheerleader skirt. On closer inspection, I saw the ladder’s rungs were upturned saber blades.

  “Simpl
e weight distribution,” she said. “And less weight to distribute.” She patted the belly of her tight T-shirt.

  “They’d still line up to see you, punkin.” The way E.Z. looked at his wife said, to his eyes, his wife was still the girl in the picture. “You just don’t need to work like that no more.”

  “That’s E.Z.” In another photo, he stood on a stage surrounded by upturned heads, all watching him slide a sword down his throat. In the first of two separate shots, the sword looked impossibly long.

  “How do you do that?” I asked, then wondered if I’d violated some unwritten code of silence.

  He shrugged. “Teach yourself not to gag. About anybody can do it.”

  I tried not to gag thinking about it.

  “Not the way you could,” said Pinner. “E.Z. could build a tip better’n anybody. He’d call ’em in, tease ’em with a couple of stunts, and promise better inside. They couldn’t hand over their money fast enough.”

  “Ancient history,” E.Z. said, a sharp edge in his rasp. “Gotta be so danged politically correct now, it’s no fun.”

  “What’s this?” I pointed to a photo of a trailer topped with a string of giant banners, the images too small to make out what each said.

  “Our ten-in-one,” said Pinner.

  One look at my puzzled expression and she continued. “A series of attractions for one admission price. You know, a three-legged chicken or a snake charmer. Most were gaffs—something made up to look like a freak, like the living half-lady.”

  E.Z laughed. “The banners were better’n the show.”

  “Now, not always. Gorilla girl was good.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a grin full of memory.

  “A beautiful girl would transform into a raving gorilla right before your eyes,” she said. “Before anybody could study on the gorilla too long, though, he’d go berserk, shaking the cage until the bars broke open.”

  “Which sent the crowd screaming for the exit,” said E.Z. with a snort. “They knew they’d gotten their money’s worth.”