I went downstairs, still uneasy over Mark and Sister. People-mostly older women-had started arriving, bringing food and sympathy. Truda Shivers and Eula Mae Quiff had been among the first folks I’d called, and they’d resummoned the cavalry. Some of the callers still wore the looks of solicitude I’d seen at Truda’s house last night. It seemed unreal to have them here, lamenting a man who hadn’t set foot in this house for six years. But regardless of what had happened between him and Sister, he was still Mark’s father, and to these fine, bighearted women, this was still a house of mourning in need of support in the form of tender hugs, plum cakes, buttermilk pies, and broccoli-cheese-rice casseroles. There were seven ladies lingering, dithering over Mama (who didn’t seem too confused by the presence of these friends she used to know) and nodding remorsefully at Clo as she talked, “Oh, honey.” Dorcas Witherspoon came to me and hugged me. She’s one of Mama’s oldest and dearest pals. “I’m so sorry. How are Mark and Arlene? Are they upstairs?”
I don’t like lying. If I confessed Sister had gone missing, they’d panic. I could hardly announce that she was here; they’d demand to see her, and courtesy would require her to make an appearance, even if Trey’s death had left her prostrate with grief.
“Mark’s coping. And I think my sister’s going to be okay. It’s surely a shock to everyone.” That was neutral enough to toe the line between truth and fiction.
“Jordy.” Truda Shivers came forward and pressed my hands, having abandoned one house of loss for another. “I’m so sorry.”
“Truda, thank you for coming, but you shouldn’t have. I know how hard it is for you right now, what with Clevey and-”
And that’s when Sister chose to make her appearance. Hie front door flew open, the hinges squealing in violated dismay, and Sister, followed by a somber Junebug, stormed in. Her face wore the same mask of shock that Mark seemed to find so comfortable. Except for her blackened eye.
Her countenance shushed the gathered women to silence, not to mention the foreboding presence of our police chief. “Where’s my boy?” Sister demanded of me without preamble.
“He’s upstairs. What happened to your-”
“I’ll deal with you later, Jordan Michael Poteet. I understand that because of you, my child saw his father die. I hope you’re goddamned happy with yourself, you bastard.” She shoved past me and sprinted up the stairs two at a time.
Since etiquette didn’t require a response to her attack, I stood there with mouth open, staring at her. And staring at the batik pattern underneath the muddy smears on her trousers. I covered my face with my palms. It’s hard to know that even for one instant, your sister hates your guts.
I glanced over at Junebug, who nodded toward the back porch. The assemblage of mourners discovered several reasons to either leave or retire to the kitchen, where Clo had prepared coffee. I followed my old Mend out to the back porch, a miserable look on my face.
The rain had returned, playing an arpeggio of pitters on the roof. The wide, emptying branches of the live oaks swayed in the mounting coldness that promised a hard winter, and the leaves from the trees had begun their wet descent to the ground. The sky was leaden with clouds that looted like ashy bolls of cotton. I suppose if thunder had ominously rumbled, it would have only completed the scene.
“Where was she? Is she okay?” I asked Junebug.
“She’s fine. I found her down on Mears Creek, where it divides off the river. She was just sitting in her car.”
“Where the hell had she been?”
“She says she needed time alone.” His lips thinned.
“Who gave her that shiner?”
“She claims she stumbled against a tree while taking a walk, but I don’t believe her.”
“Oh, God. This isn’t happening.” I turned to him with pleading eyes. “Junebug, you have to get to the bottom of this. Two of-two people we’ve known forever get murdered and my sister goes missing and turns up with a battered face. You got to do something!”
“I am, Jordy. I’m taking myself off this case.”
“Why?” I felt like hollering my throat raw, but I kept my voice under steely control. “We need you, Junebug.”
“I can’t, Jordy, I got to turn it over to my deputy. I can’t investigate when Arlene’s… involved. It’s a conflict of interest.”
“Do you think she did this? You know she couldn’t have!” Hypocrite, my conscience piped up in my head. Why don’t you go get him that scrap? I’m waiting.
“Of course she didn’t do it,” Junebug said. He stared off into the rain, coming down harder, driving the remaining leaves down to sodden grass. “I don’t believe for an instant that she killed Trey.” He heaved a long sigh. “When I told her he was dead, it was as if all the life went out of her. I hadn’t expected that, not after what happened between them.” He turned back to me, his face miserable. “She still loves him, Jordy. I could see it in her face.”
“You’re dreaming. You didn’t see the cold hate in her eyes last night. You didn’t see how she hit him.” I nearly bit my tongue off; I’d spoken recklessly, too stunned by recent events for much coherency. Perhaps I could write down the list of reasons Sister had to kill Trey? It would surely make questioning her more convenient for all concerned.
“What’s the old saying? It’s a fine line between love and hate?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Once it had set in, I wasn’t foolin’ her, she screamed like a wounded wildcat. She broke into tears and just kept saying no. Cut me to the bone.” He shook his head. “I don’t think Arlene loves me. I think, even after all these years, all her yellin all her warnings to Trey to stay away, that she loved him still. Arlene’s not the type to hate, you know.”
“She’s not happy with me right now, is she?” I asked, half to myself.
He doffed his Stetson, tossed it on the chair, and ran a callused hand through his damp brown hair. “Sorry about that. Of course she asked if you and Mark knew. I had to tell her about y’all finding him. She got a lot quieter then.”
“She’ll get over being upset at me,” I said. “I hope.” Junebug didn’t look too concerned about my placement on Sister’s Top 40 chart.
Thunder rumbled above me. He kept watching the curtain of rain.
I chose my words carefully. “Of course, the most compelling reason to know that my sister had nothing to do with Trey’s death is that ‘two down’ that was on the wall. Sister might have had reason to kill Trey, but she sure didn’t have reason to kill anyone else.” I watched Junebug’s broad back tense. “There’s no other explanation, Junebug. The same person got rid of both him and Clevey. So there’s no reason to suspect my sister.”
“I know tonight’s going to be rough for you, Jordy, but I’d like you and the other boys to come over to my house.”
“I assume by the other boys you mean Davis and Ed.”
He nodded. “Because of the papers about Rennie Clifton we found in Clevey’s house. The papers mention the six boys specifically. Now two are dead. The remaining four of us need to have a little chat.”
“But you said you were taking yourself off the case-”
“Off Trey’s case. I’m still investigating Clevey’s murder. Be there at eight o’clock. And tell Arlene I’ll call her later.” He spun on his heel and left, the murmur of feminine voices the only sound as he went back into the house.
I felt cold, as though Rennie Clifton’s long-dead hand had risen from the ground and closed around my ankle. Did 2 DOWN signal a finale to bloodshed? Or was it the first note in an even more gruesome coda?
“Jordy?”
I turned. Candace. I should have run into her arms. Instead I froze.
“Baby, for God’s sake!” She hurled herself at me, nearly crushing me in her embrace. And I’m a foot taller than she is. I held her, running my hands up the firmness of her back. Her lake-blue eyes, wide with shock, looked up into mine.