Читать книгу Carolina Crimes - Karen Pullen - Страница 7

WITCH HUNT, by Tamara Ward

The day after fire gutted The Pleasure Chest, the regulars at John’s Pub & Grill stopped by the bar for a witch hunt, though if John asked them they’d deny it and say they came for a celebration. But he knew it was a witch hunt, even though his patrons downed drinks and spread smiles and slapped each other’s backs like the time three years ago when the town’s high school football team beat the boys from the big city.

Breaking a sweat as he filled glasses from behind the bar, John knew he ought to feel grateful for the boost in revenue; spring business typically dragged. Instead of allowing his customers’ mood to buoy him, instead of soaking in the smell of draft beer and used dollar bills, he concentrated on maintaining his mask of benign indifference, on playing his role of aloof bartender. His jaw ached from clenching.

“So what do you think about the arson?” Nattie asked for the third time, still poking at him, trying to get the perfect opening quote for her article in the South Wake Herald, the local newspaper, which came out every Tuesday afternoon and consisted of exactly one section—usually eight pages, but on special occasions up to twelve. “What alerted you to the fire?” She pushed an incompliant curl behind her ear with a stubby finger. Everything about Nattie seemed stubby today—her double chin, her pale powdered nose, her muffin-top belly insufficiently contained by her skirt’s elastic waistband. “It’s my understanding the fire began at about 3:30 a.m.,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s miraculous Darrel wasn’t hurt?”

John stifled a groan. Nattie’s questions mirrored those repeated by everyone in the pub—“When did the fire start?” “How did you notice it?” “Who do you think started it?” Even the town’s one police detective dropped by John’s Pub & Grill, asking John more of the same questions, before ordering a diet coke and hunkering in a back corner. The detective was getting an earful, liquor loosening tongues as the townsfolk mined each other for information to determine who set the fire while pretending to celebrate the demolition of The Pleasure Chest. No one knew anything helpful, or if they did they kept it quiet. But somehow, they all knew it was arson and they all knew John had been the one to call in the fire.

Even though John’s customers claimed to disapprove of Darrel’s carnal merchandise, quite a few had shopped there. But admitting their patronage would ignite their own social lives and livelihoods. The Pleasure Chest was like a Venus fly trap. In a town where so much depended on image, no one could afford to be caught inside Darrel’s store, even as so many found it irresistible.

The Pleasure Chest had opened half a year ago, causing immediate uproar throughout the community, and not just because Darrel was the first man of color to open a business in the downtown strip. A sex shop in the historic downtown? How could the board of commissioners allow it to happen? And the store’s merchandise—was it even legal to sell?

It was, and the commissioners scrambled to add language to zoning ordinances effectively banning any further such blights inside town borders. But Darrel’s shop, grandfathered in, remained open despite the clamor.

“Did you see anything?” Nattie asked. Again.

“I’m charging you for every one of those you order.” John jabbed his finger at the half drunk rum and coke, one of a steady stream she’d been gulping since she arrived. Nattie had been working the room, returning sporadically to John for more drinks and questions, but she’d finally settled herself at the bar and seemed to have turned her focus on John, her grand finale to the interviews, he supposed.

“Don’t tell me you’re sad Darrel’s shop went up in flames,” Nattie said.

“It’s the third time you’ve asked me the same questions in as many hours,” he said. And the first time she’d been in the pub since they’d broken off their relationship several months ago. John had given Natalie her nickname, for the way she constantly buzzed around people, not quite irritating enough for bug repellent, too springy to be swatted. But that was back when he hadn’t wanted to squash her like the pest she was. Back when he’d known no better than to assume Nattie’s loving was the best he’d get. Before he’d met Darrel.

“You want a different question?” Nattie asked. John shook his head, but she pressed on. “Because I’m not stopping until I have something to print.”

“I’ll give you something to print,” said Miss CeeCee, pushing her saggy-skinned elbow against Nattie, two drinks over her usual order and no lipstick left to smudge the rims of her Bloody Marys. “You can quote me: the blight is burned to cinders! Peace downtown is restored.”

Miss CeeCee was right, John supposed. With Darrel’s shop gone, downtown would again be virtually indistinguishable from any other old small-town downtown in North Carolina, dotted with quiet brick storefronts selling the same quaint souvenirs and necessary wares, cars parallel parked on the gray, cracking pavement.

Miss CeeCee, head of the women’s club and leader of historical preservation initiatives, had a past crammed full of contention, way back to her bra-burning days. She was always rallying against something. When Darrel’s store opened, she organized a letter-writing campaign to the state legislators and newspaper. But John had seen her sneak into Darrel’s store at least twice, furtively emerging with new bulges in her handbag.

“Do you think it can be salvaged?” Nattie asked Miss CeeCee. “The building, not the business.”

“Why would anyone want to?” Miss CeeCee waved her age-spotted fingers so close to Nattie’s face the reporter leaned back. “Didn’t match the rest of the storefronts, and just look at it now.”

John glanced out his big front window, across Main Street to the soot-stained cinderblocks of the squat building. A hole in the roof gaped as wide as the storefront’s bay window—now shattered, revealing a blackened interior that used to be filled with intriguing merchandise. John, like Darrel and a few other downtown shop owners, lived in the same building as his business. Except John’s living quarters were above his pub, and Darrel’s, a room behind his store.

“We’re finally free of that pustule!” Miss CeeCee said. “The eyesore building is now utterly impossible to save.”

“With Christ, anything is possible,” Pastor Clyde said, rearranging his lanky body on a stool on Nattie’s other side. His gangly limbs elongated in the striped shirt and black slacks, Pastor Clyde reminded John of a heron—awkward curves and unexpected bends.

Pastor Clyde had entered the pub earlier with a “Hallelujah!” that echoed off the aged brick walls. His church was within view just up the street, the white steeple scraping the boundless blue sky. After The Pleasure Chest opened, Pastor Clyde frequented John’s pub, scouting for souls drifting into temptation. He’d even organized picketers on Sunday afternoons to march in front of the store. A protest without teeth, since the downtown stores all closed on Sundays.

“Christ,” Miss CeeCee said. “Christ wouldn’t be interested in resurrecting that store. He’d have it burn in hell, along with its owner.”

John shook his head, but only Nattie noticed the gesture. Her eyes sparked—she’d found what she sought, a weakness to probe.

“Any comments, John?” she asked, too sweetly.

John hadn’t been the focus of Nattie’s professional buzzing before, and he didn’t like it now, but he knew any response would only fuel her interrogation. That was Nattie. If she smelled the slightest hint of scandal, she seized it and twisted. And when she published her article, she made sure the controversy mushroomed into such an uproar the entire town couldn’t talk about anything else for another week, until the next edition.

Pastor Clyde clasped his hands and looked up, as if seeing beyond the plaster ceiling to heaven’s gates. “I pray a wholesome store is built upon a solid rock in its place.”

John knew Pastor Clyde’s picketers. Most carried sins more damning than any they protested. But their sins—theft, physical abuse, substance addiction—were more easily hidden than Darrel’s wares. What Pastor Clyde claimed to be wicked indulgences invented by the devil himself, Darrel displayed before all the town. But John didn’t understand how sexual stimulants were immoral, especially if shared between husband and wife. The Bible didn’t forbid handcuffs or edible lingerie.

“Do I hear an Amen?” Pastor Clyde asked.

“Amen,” said Jennifer, swigging from her beer bottle. She climbed onto a bar stool next to Pastor Clyde, strands of her loose long brown hair swinging forward and sticking to moisture on the bar counter.

Jennifer owned Sweet Scoops, the ice cream store next door to The Pleasure Chest. For her, John knew, the timing of this fire was ideal. This time last spring customers had crowded Jennifer’s shop, overflowing to the sidewalk benches outside. But families hadn’t been visiting as much since Darrel’s shop opened. Jennifer set her bottle down with force, her hair still caught on the countertop. “Maybe my customers will return, now they don’t have to take their kids past a window with a light-up doo-hicky writhing around like a finger without a hand. Cheers.” She grabbed her beer again and clinked it against Pastor Clyde’s bottle of old-fashioned orange soda.

“Was your store damaged?” Nattie asked.

“Nope.”

“That’s a blessing,” Pastor Clyde said. He looked at John. “I’ll have one more, as it’s a special day.”

John popped open another orange soda and slid it across the countertop.

“Me, too,” Nattie said. “And give me a quote. Tell me what you first saw when you looked out your window at the fire.”

“Flames,” John said, though he remembered something—someone—else, a silhouette moving in the shadows beside the building.

“The question is,” Miss CeeCee said, “who had the balls to do it?” She looked around the pub. “They say an arsonist returns to the scene of the crime to admire his handiwork. I bet the arsonist is here among us.”

John agreed with Miss CeeCee. The arsonist probably sat here in his pub, drinking and smiling and proclaiming satisfaction. No more blow-up dolls mocking the town, no more mannequins in lace tatters causing fender benders, no more “What’s that, mommy?” from children as parents hurried past the window display. John felt a sudden, sharp pang above his ear—the beginnings of a migraine.

“Jo-ohn,” Nattie said, singsong. “Hel-lo-oh.”

John frowned. He wanted to tell Nattie to beat it, go somewhere else for her interviews. But he didn’t want attention, not when the town wanted someone to blame. He didn’t want to be the next target of their hatred, their hypocrisy. A good bartender listened, didn’t talk. Never be the story; be the paper soaking up the ink. Once he and Nattie shared that. But it was also where they differed, as he swallowed secrets, and she spilled them.

“You’re not answering my questions,” Nattie said. “So far I’ve just asked the easy ones.”

“I don’t want to be quoted in the paper,” John said.

“But you’re a vital part of the story.”

Vitality. The one ware Darrel offered that John could find nowhere else in this town.

John first met Darrel when he came in the pub for a drink. Olive-brown skin beneath bushy black eyebrows. Black eyes that had mesmerized John, captivated him, magnet-like, Darrel’s presence awakening him like the electric charge he felt swimming in cold saltwater. John’s other patrons pretended to be offended by Darrel’s presence and deserted the pub. Darrel said he was sorry for spooking them, and John refused the apology. He gave Darrel a drink on the house, a first. From there a relationship had grown: a relationship overflowing with firsts, unfamiliar feelings, new experiences for John. Darrel had prompted him to do all sorts of things—wondrous things—he’d never done before, never knew could be done, with acceptance, without judgment.

They’d seen each other by an unspoken code. Darrel understood their relationship had to be clandestine. If the townspeople detested Darrel for his business, and ostracized him for his skin color, how much more would they damn him for his sexuality? And what would they do to John if they knew? Pastor Clyde’s protests would expand and Miss CeeCee’s prolific pen would scribble across the street.

“You don’t think Darrel will reopen, do you?” Jennifer pushed her hair behind her back. “It looks like he lost everything in the fire.”

“What do you think, John?” Nattie asked. “Will Darrel reopen?”

“How would I know?” John bit his tongue, instantly sorry for his outburst.

“You sure you want me to answer that?” Nattie let half of her upper lip curl into something that would have resembled a smile, if only the other half of her mouth matched it.

She knows. The thought struck John with such force he gripped his bar counter to steady himself. “You want to tell me why you think it’s arson?”

Nattie glanced at the detective in the corner. “Someone told me off the record. A brick was thrown through the window. Inside the store were a couple shattered glass bottles. Molotov cocktails.”

The front door clanged open, and Commissioner Buckers—up for reelection—entered like an actor on a stage, swinging an arm upward, embracing a captive audience.

“Evening, all! I’ve an important announcement.” Buckers waited for the room to hush. “Regarding the building across the street, I’ve talked to the owner in Atlanta. It’s still unofficial, but the town is in negotiations to buy the property. We’re going to level the ruins and sell the land—for a profit—to the highest bidder.” He paused for applause. “A round of drinks for everyone, on me!” Applause kicked up again as Buckers sauntered to the bar and ordered a scotch.

John disliked the commissioner’s arrogance, but the distraction may have spared him from Nattie’s questions. Maybe, after John had served drinks to everyone, Nattie would disappear and forget about crucifying him for his relationship with Darrel. John bustled into action, going from table to table, freshening beverages. By the time he reached the back of the room to refill the detective’s diet coke, the commissioner had joined the detective.

“Arson is a serious crime,” Commissioner Buckers was saying, “but a shop of that nature was a crime against family values and our citizens’ quality of life.”

The detective shifted in his seat.

Buckers slapped the detective’s shoulder. “No one was hurt, and I’m sure Darrel has insurance. So Darrel gets reimbursed, the town gets a new property, and everyone is happy.”

The detective didn’t look happy.

“I understand you’re not going to be able to put much effort into the investigation,” Buckers said. “You’ll be busy tying up loose ends with your eligibility for retirement coming up so soon—what is it, in a year and a half, two?”

“Four months,” the detective said.

“That soon!” Buckers said. “Why, you’re almost there. The town has an outstanding pension and healthcare program for retirees, don’t you think?”

John set the detective’s refill on the table and returned to the bar where, unfortunately, Nattie still perched.

“My police scanner lit up like stage lights at a rock concert,” she said. “I sleep with it on so I don’t miss anything. I got some great photographs of the smoke.” An elated flush covered her face. John’s stomach turned.

“It’s a wonder Darrel wasn’t burned with the store,” Jennifer said.

“He wasn’t there last night,” Nattie said.

“How do you know?” Miss CeeCee asked.

“Where was he?” Pastor Clyde asked.

“John?” Nattie asked. “Surely you know.”

And then Miss CeeCee’s eyes widened. Did she finally understand what Nattie threatened to drop on John? “Do you know where Darrel was last night, John?”

John knew. Darrel had slept beside him, until they heard the crash of the store window and then the whomp as the fire caught hold. Darrel raced outside half-dressed and kicked open his door. Smoke gushed out; Darrel couldn’t even crawl inside to save any merchandise. John dialed 911, knowing it was too late, knowing it was over.

“John?” Pastor Clyde said. “Where was Darrel last night? A man like that probably visited your pub, drunk himself silly, and let personal details slip.”

John thought about what he could say without condemning himself. “I don’t turn down a customer.”

Nattie snorted. “I don’t suppose he’d turn one down, either.”

John clenched his teeth again, tried to swallow the anger back down. “I wasn’t his customer.”

“Then tell us.” Nattie flipped a page on her notepad and poised her too-sharp pen above the virgin sheet. “What are you to him? What is Darrel to you?”

Partner sounded cold. Soul-mate, cliché. Darrel was straightforward and quirky. Quiet but full of life: Darrel was life! Utterly unlike Nattie who sucked life out of others then regurgitated a bastardized form of it for the town to devour in newsprint.

“So where was Darrel last night, John?” Nattie asked.

“I don’t know,” John lied.

“Come,” Miss CeeCee said. “You admit he was your customer.”

“I don’t know,” John repeated. His heart pounded. It was none of their business. “I don’t really know Darrel,” who then stepped into the pub, witnessing John’s most shameful denial, rending John’s heart in two.

Every conversation died; every head turned; every eye fixated on Darrel. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing tufts of coarse chest hair and smooth, tan skin. He held his lean, muscled body stiffer than usual, but still he reminded John of a superhero in plainclothes—his beauty and strength, his worth unrealized by most everyone in John’s Pub & Grill. Darrel carried a tote bag, probably all he’d salvaged from the blaze. John had forgotten to turn on the pub’s background music. In the silence, Darrel stood, with a proud tilt to his head as always, but his eyes held something—tears?

“I wanted to tell you all,” he said, “I’m leaving. Unless anyone has something they’d like to say before I go.” His gaze landed on John.

If John asked Darrel to stay, if he spoke the truth, his bar might be boycotted, even set afire. His reputation, his life, ruined. He’d lose his business, his investment, his livelihood. Customers, friends. Everything he knew and built his life around, almost. But if he didn’t speak he’d be dead inside; Darrel would be lost to him forever. The joy—the energy and quickening—he’d experienced these past few months would be gone—a memory gathering dust. Fear trapped the words in his throat.

“We’ll pray for you,” Pastor Clyde said, finally, breaking the silence.

“Pray for me?” Darrel set his bag down, folded his arms, and studied their faces, one by one. John realized it wasn’t tears he’d seen in Darrel’s eyes. It was something fierce, indomitable. Darrel, like a destroying angel, possessed the power to shred their façades and reveal their secrets.

John knew what Darrel could say. Darrel could tell Miss CeeCee, now The Pleasure Chest was closed, how to order her special lubricant online. Could tell Nattie that new batteries for her personal gadget were sold at the watch counter. Could tell Commissioner Buckers if he tired of his current films, a certain website offered a good selection. Could tell Jennifer, who loved to read the kind of books they didn’t carry in the library, where to find more.

Would Darrel reveal their relationship? John was the worst pretender of them all, Darrel’s disciple in love, now too pragmatic—no, too cowardly—to admit the truth.

But when Darrel spoke, instead of anger and judgment, his quiet voice held disappointment: “If you want to pray, pray for yourselves.”

And he left.

Pastor Clyde hummed “Victory in Jesus,” until murmurs buried the solo.

“Darrel sure stared at you like you might have something to say,” Nattie said to John.

John unfroze himself, wiped an invisible smudge from the counter. “He was staring at you.”

Nattie’s mouth popped open. John wanted to cram his rag down it.

“Why would Darrel stare at me?” Nattie asked, her voice elevated. “Why me when it’s you he–”

“Nattie, I could have sworn,” John said, following instinct, “I saw you outside his store last night.”

“I was there for the story,” Nattie said.

“Before then. Hiding in the darkness.” John’s vague recollections of what he’d glimpsed in the shadows outside Darrel’s congealed into solid recognition. “You made the story.”

Miss CeeCee and Pastor Clyde glanced at each other and then back at him and Nattie. Jennifer set down her empty bottle, nearly missing the counter.

“I will not be disgraced,” Nattie said. She clutched her fist against her chest. “Darrel was polluting this town. If you’re going to make accusations, make them against him. You knew him intimately. Do you deny it?”

John’s ears burned. Somehow Nattie knew all about him and Darrel. But John knew this town. And he knew enough about Nattie. As much as the townsfolk liked to bemoan The Pleasure Chest, as loud as they’d howl about John and Darrel’s relationship, they would recognize that an arsonist posed a much greater threat.

“Darrel deserved what he got,” Nattie said.

No. But Nattie should get what she deserved. John put down the bar rag. “The detective,” he said, “will be interested in what I saw last night.”

“John. Nattie,” Pastor Clyde said. “Cool down.” He held his hands up as if in surrender. “Whoever set the fire committed a crime. But they also prevented further damage from that man’s temptations into an eternity in hell. Surely you both understand.” He looked at the detective, immersed in conversation with the commissioner. “I think, in this particular situation, we should agree he—or she—who is without sin should cast the first stone.” He glanced at Miss CeeCee, who pursed her lips.

Nattie stared at John, as if daring him to speak. A minute passed, and the moment to condemn, too, and John felt those unspoken revelations settle like dark stones in the pit of his stomach. He’d made a covenant with Nattie stretching forward, an unvoiced pact—if you ever tell, so will I.

She chugged the rest of her drink. “I’ll take my bill,” she said, and left with the same wiggle to her gait John had observed from his upstairs window as the arsonist retreated into darkness and The Pleasure Chest exploded into flames.

So the witch hunt ended. Not with a burning at the stake, but with a drowning—Nattie in her rum and cokes, Miss CeeCee in her Bloody Marys, Pastor Clyde in his righteousness, and John in his silence.