The reverend cleared his throat. “Yes. I called to tell you that I have information about the whereabouts of Idgie Threadgoode and George Pullman Peavey on the night of December thirteenth, nineteen thirty.”
“Were she and her colored man not over at her mother’s house that evening, as has been suggested here earlier in the trial?”
“No, they were not.”
Oh, shit, thought Idgie.
Her lawyer persisted. “Are you saying, Reverend Scroggins, that she was lying as to her whereabouts on that evening?”
The reverend pursed his lips. “Well, sir, as a Christian, I couldn’t say for sure if she was lying or not. I think it is a question of being mixed up about the dates.” He then opened the Bible he had and turned to the back and began looking at a particular page. “It has been my habit through the years to write down all the dates of the activities of the church in my Bible, and while going through it the other evening, I show that the night of December thirteenth was the start of our church’s yearly tent revival, down at the Baptist campgrounds. And Sister Threadgoode was there, along with her hired man, George Peavey, who was in charge of refreshments—just as he has been every year for the past twenty years.”
The prosecuting attorney jumped up. “I object! This doesn’t mean anything. The murder could have taken place anytime during the next couple of days.”
Reverend Scroggins looked fiercely at him, then turned to the judge. “That’s just it, Your Honor: Our revival always lasts for three days and three nights.”
The lawyer said, “And you’re sure Miss Threadgoode was there?”
Reverend Scroggins seemed offended that anyone would doubt his word. “Of course she was.” He addressed the jury. “Sister Threadgoode holds a perfect attendance record at all our church activities and is the lead singer in our church choir.”
For the first time in her life, Idgie was speechless, dumb, mute, without a comeback. All these years the Dill Pickle Club had spent lying and telling tall tales, thinking they were so good at it, and in five minutes Scroggins had put them all to shame. He was so convincing, she almost believed him, herself.
“In fact, we think so much of Sister Threadgoode at our church, the entire congregation has come over in a bus to testify on her behalf.” With which the doors of the courtroom opened and in filed the oddest lot that God had ever put together on this earth: Smokey Lonesome, Jimmy Knot-Head Harris, Splinter-Belly Al, Crackshot Sackett, Inky Pardue, BoWeevil Jake, Elmo Williams, Warthog Willy, and so on … all with fresh haircuts from Opal’s Beauty Shop and wearing borrowed clothes … just a few of the many hoboes Idgie and Ruth had fed throughout the years and Smokey had been able to round up in time.
One by one, they took the stand and testified solidly, remembering in great detail the river revival that December, back in 1930. And last, but not least, came Sister Eva Bates, wearing a flowered hat and carrying a purse. She took the stand and almost broke the jury’s heart as she recalled how Sister Threadgoode had leaned over to her during the first night of the revival meeting and had remarked how God had touched her heart that night, due to Reverend Scroggins’s inspired preaching on the evils of whiskey and the lusts of the flesh.
The skinny little judge, with a neck like an arm, didn’t even bother to ask the jury for a verdict. He banged his gavel and said to the prosecuting attorney, “Percy, it don’t look to me like you’ve got a case at all. First of all, there ain’t no body been found. Second, we’ve got sworn witnesses ain’t nobody gonna dispute. What we got is a whole lot of nothing. I say this Frank Bennett got himself drunk and drove himself into the river and has long been ate up. We’re gonna call this thing, here, accidental death. That’s what we’ve got ourselves a case of.”
He banged his gavel once more, saying, “Case dismissed.”
Sipsey did a dance in the balcony, Grady let out a sigh of relief.
The judge, the Honorable Curtis Smoote, knew damn well that there had not been any three-day tent revival in the middle of December. And from where he was sitting, he had also seen that the preacher did not have a Bible between the covers of the book he had sworn on. He had seldom seen such a scrubbed-up lot of down and dirty characters. And besides, the judge’s daughter had just died a couple of weeks ago, old before her time and living a dog’s life on the outskirts of town, because of Frank Bennett; so he really didn’t care who had killed the son of a bitch.
After it was all over, Reverend Scroggins came over and shook Idgie’s hand. “I’ll see you in church Sunday, Sister Threadgoode.” He winked at her and left.
His son, Bobby, had heard about the trial and had called and told him about that time Idgie had gotten him out of jail. So Scroggins, the one she had bedeviled all these years, had come through for her.
Idgie was floored by the whole thing for quite a time. But, driving home, she did manage to say, “You know, I’ve been thinking. I don’t know what’s worse—going to jail or having to be nice to the preacher for the rest of my life.”
OCTOBER 9, 1986
Evelyn had been in a hurry to get to the nursing home today. She had badgered Ed to drive faster all the way there. She stopped, as she always did, in Big Momma’s room and offered her a honey-bun, but as usual, Big Momma declined, saying, “If I ate that I’d be sick as a dog. How you can eat that sticky, gooey stuff is beyond me.”
Evelyn excused herself and rushed down the hall to the visitors’ lounge.
Mrs. Threadgoode, who had on her bright green flowered dress today, greeted Evelyn with a cheery “Happy New Year!”
Evelyn sat down, concerned. “Honey, that’s not till three months from now. We haven’t had Christmas yet.”
Mrs. Threadgoode laughed. “I know that, I just thought I’d move it up a bit. Have some fun. All these old people out here are so gloomy, moping around the place something awful.”
Evelyn handed Mrs. Threadgoode her treat.
“Oh Evelyn, are these honey-buns?”
“They sure are. Remember I told you about them?”
“Well, don’t they look good?” She held one up. “Why, they’re just like a Dixie Cream Donut. Thank you, honey … have you ever had a Dixie Cream Donut? They’re as light as a feather. I used to say to Cleo, I’d say, ‘Cleo, if you’re going anywhere near the Dixie Cream Donut place, bring me and Albert home a dozen. Bring me six glazed and six jelly ones.’ I like the ones that are twisted, too. You know, like a French braid. I forget what they’re called …”
Evelyn couldn’t wait any longer.
“Mrs. Threadgoode, tell me what happened at the trial.”
“You mean Idgie and Big George’s trial?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, that was something, all right. We were all worried to death. We thought they never were coming home, but they finally got a not-guilty verdict. Cleo said that they proved beyond the shadow of a doubt where they had been at the time the murder was to have taken place, so they couldn’t possibly have done it. He said the only reason that Idgie would have stood trial like that was to protect someone else.”
Evelyn thought for a minute. “Who else would want to kill him?”
“Well, honey, it isn’t a matter of who wanted to, but who would have. That’s the question. Some say it could have been Smokey Lonesome. Some say it could have been Eva Bates and that gang out at the river—Lord knows it was a rough enough bunch, and those folks in the Dill Pickle Club stuck together … it’s hard to say. And then, of course”—Mrs. Threadgoode paused—“there’s Ruth, herself.”