Ordinarily the acre or so of land before Squatterville was barren, but now it looked more like a fairground. Savory smoke drifted off of open-pit fires over which abundant meats were being cooked. Squatter women busied themselves at fold-down tables, serving up plates heaped with steaming meals. Lines of people, Squatters and townsfolk alike, trailed around the table, chatting amiably. As the sun faded, the scene appeared almost surreaclass="underline" faces seemed diced into wedges of firelight. Chatter warbled in and out, and laughter rose up.
“There’s pitchers of ald over there.” Ernie pointed to another table. “Too bad there’s no booze.”
“Hush,” Judy whispered. “Just ’cos Squatters don’t drink don’t mean we can’t.” And then Patricia and Ernie saw her lower a silver flask into a pocket.
“This is some feast,” Patricia said, marveling over the various dishes set out. Ernie appeared behind her with a loaded plate. “Try some duck. The Squatters do it up great. It’s slow-roasted.”
Patricia took the plate. It smelled delicious, the skin dark and crisp.
“And you must have some of this, big sister,” Judy insisted, thrusting a pewter mug toward her. “Squatter ald.”
“I had that the other day. It tastes like swamp water!”
“Shh! The Squatters’ll be offended, dear. You can’t decline their hospitality,” Judy whispered lower. “And don’t worry; I tuned it up with a drop of vodka.”
“Oh, teirific . . .”
“Come on,” Ernie coaxed her further. “When in Squatterville, do as the Squatters do.”
When Patricia took a sip, her brow shot up. Oh, yeah, just a drop of vodka . . . “You’re just trying to get me drunk,” she joked to him.
“Why?” he said, deadpan. Then he cracked a smile and laughed.
Oh, that’s right. She’d never forget what almost happened in the woods. I’m just a tease. The roasted duck came apart fork-tender beneath crunchy skin. “My God, this is probably the best duck I’ve ever had.”
“Glad ya like it,” Ernie said. “It’s not really duck. It’s seagull.”
“You’re so funny. . . .”
Her eyes roved the other offerings on the table: stout sausages, steaming kettles of stew, homemade biscuits and seasoned flatbreads. The aromas were almost erotic. Byron would go to town here, she thought. Another table sat heavy with various crab dishes. Something like a Newburg cooked in empty shells, crab-stuffed wild peppers, crabmeat po’boys. She helped herself to several fried crab fritters and found them delectably crunchy inside. “These are fantastic!” she exclaimed, cheeks stuffed.
On her third one, Judy tugged her arm. “Not too many a’ the fritters, hon. It’s the Squatter crabcake recipe wrapped around a fried cicada.”
Not those things again!
Ernie laughed.
Next Patricia scanned around in general. The quiet revelry buzzed around her; it all seemed so hearty and honest. But again she thought it strange to have such a feastlike cookout so soon after four Squatters had been killed. The positivity of their religion, she remembered. Almost like evangelists. Even death is a joyous occasion, because death is just another step toward eternal life in heaven.
Patricia hoped that was true.
She sampled more food, finding the cuisine complex and fascinating. Judy wandered off, tipsy already, while Patricia and Ernie stood aside to eat and people-watch. I must be getting tipsy, too, she suspected, or maybe it was just fatigue compounded by the perplexities of the day . . . especially her experience at the morgue. She pushed the morbid images from her mind and instead just tried to relax, melting into the lazy, darkening atmosphere. Squatters greeted her happily, offering her more of their wares. Music—a quavering violin, it sounded like—echoed around the grounds, yet she couldn’t pinpoint the source. As the sun died completely, faces seemed brighter and more focused somehow, in spite of the seeping darkness.
“There’s the money man,” Ernie commented. At the last table she spotted Gordon Felps sampling a cobblerlike dessert. He seemed to sense her notice, looked up and nodded to her, then returned his attention to the person talking to him: Judy. She doesn’t really have a crush on him, does she? Patricia asked herself. She could tell by Ernie’s sedate expression that he found it amusing. But at least her sister was getting over Dwayne; perhaps it took his death to make her realize what an awful person he truly had been, not even worth mourning. Chief Sutter and Trey cruised another table full of plank-roasted bluefish and large soft-shell clams whose necks stood out straight from steaming. Sutter actually manipulated two plates of food, which wasn’t surprising. Eventually he wended his way over to Patricia and Ernie.
“Some spread, huh, Patricia?”
“It’s incredible,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d like much of this type of cuisine, but so far every single thing I’ve had is delicious.”
“Even the crab-and-cicada fritters?” Ernie joked.
“Even the crab-and-cicada fritters, Ernie,” she admitted.
“Oh”—Sutter changed the subject—“the county coroner told me you’d been in today.”
Damn. She hoped this wouldn’t open a can of worms. “I just wanted some details on Dwayne’s death.”
“Pretty off-the-wall. So you also know about Junior Caudill, then.”
It wasn’t a question; Patricia sensed he was fishing for something. “Yes, she did mention it.”
“Even stranger than Dwayne.” Sutter shook his head.
“Damn near everyone in town’s heard that news,” Ernie piped up. “Some contagious disease that dissolved all his insides.”
Sutter smirked. “There ain’t no contagious disease, Ernie, and don’t’cha be tellin’ folks anything of the sort. The rumors’re bad enough around here.”
Ernie shrugged. “Just tellin’ ya what I heard, Chief.”
“I don’t think it was anything contagious, Ernie,” Patricia added. “But I don’t guess we’ll know anything until more tests are done on the body.”
“The kick in the tail is there ain’t no evidence a’ foul play, yet everyone thinks that’s exactly what it was,” Ernie said.
Patricia kept her mouth shut and her ears open.
“And it don’t help for Junior’s brother to be accusin’ Everd Stanherd of being involved and then for Everd to disappear,” Sutter stepped up the gossip. “I don’t believe nothin’ that comes outta Ricky Caudill’s yap, but that don’t change the fact that I got no choice but to drag Everd ‘n’ his wife in for questioning.”
Interesting, Patricia thought. “I hadn’t even noticed. Neither Everd nor Marthe is here.”
“Probably never see ’em again,” Ernie said.
“Maybe they ain’t disappeared at all,” Sutter offered, stuffing his face. “Maybe they’re dead.”
“How would they come to be dead?” Patricia had to challenge.
“Well, it was something Trey was kickin’ about, and now that I think of it, it makes sense. Already had a couple a’ turf killings over dope. Maybe Everd ‘n’ his wife were part a’ the same dope ring that David Eald and the Hilds were in.”
Both Patricia and Ernie frowned at that one.
Sutter looked like he regretted the suggestion a moment later. “Well, I guess that is stretchin’ things a bit.” Suddenly he was looking around. “Speakin’ of Trey . . .”
“He was just here a minute ago,” Ernie said.
Patricia looked around herself, straining her vision in the fire-diced dark. Sergeant Trey was nowhere to be seen.