Carolina Crimes. Karen Pullen
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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.