Only Good Yankee

CHAPTER FIVE

Even after a morning of getting out of the hospital, an afternoon of Miss Twyla and Nina berating me, and an evening of concern about Lorna, I couldn’t rightly say I’d had the worse day in Mirabeau. That distinction rested with poor Greg Callahan. I sat sipping a Dr Pepper in the small waiting area of the Mirabeau police station. Lorna sat next to me, holding my hand. Her own hand felt clammy. One of the officers came in, the door pinging as he opened it, and I could smell the faint grittiness of rubber and gravel from the parking lot. The summer-night air was warm, but I still had goose pimples from what I’d seen. While the police began their investigation of the murder scene and the ambulance arrived to trundle off Greg’s body, I got Lorna down to Chefs kitchen. She had been silent as I seated her at the kitchen table and I wondered whether to get her whiskey or coffee. Suddenly she had screamed, burying her face in her hands. “My God, he’s dead, he’s really dead!” She sobbed uncontrollably then, and I just held her, whispering into her dark hair that she was okay. Finally she believed me and stopped crying. I held her and thought about what I’d seen in the few moments I’d had in Greg’s room. I had carefully knelt by Greg. I saw the ends of the wire had been fashioned into loops, probably for a better grip for the killer. I swallowed; death by barbed-wire garrote was a sickening thought. I forced myself to look at Greg’s savaged throat. The wire had cut into his neck deeply, and the barbs had left little tears in his flesh. God, like simultaneously being strangled and having your throat cut. I could only hope it had happened quickly. One of his hands lay open, and I could see small wounds on his palm, like stigmata. I shuddered. It must have been agony for him, having that torturous noose tightening on his gullet and, when he tried to pull the choking cord off, getting metal thorns in his hands. He was still in his suit and the dribble of blood from his neck stained his starched collar. His blue eyes bulged, the lids half-closed. I gingerly touched his wrist and felt the silence. I stood, wanting to get back to Lorna. I glanced around the room. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood between two used glasses. On the desk was a scattering of loose change, a receipt from the Sit-a-Spell Cafe, a closed laptop computer with some small disks stacked like playing cards next to it, a sheet with the Mirabeau B. Lamar stationery near the phone. Writing scrawled across it, with doodles surrounding the text: NINA HERNANDEZ=EARTH BITCH. Below that, a telephone number: 555-3489. That was a Mirabeau number, I thought. But whose? I didn’t recognize it, but then I’d hardly memorized the phone book in my copious spare time.

“Goddamn it! Get the hell out of there!” I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to face a very, very irritated Junebug. “Junebug-” He rumbled forward, grabbed my sore arm (mind you, my sore arm), and hustled me out into the hallway. Chet looked shamefaced and sick. I pulled my sling free from Junebug’s grip with what little dignity I could muster. “What do you think you’re doing, Jordy, tainting a crime scene?” “Tainting? I was just looking-” “What you were doing, clueless, was leaving hair and fibers and probably fingerprints that are now going to have to be weeded out in my scene-of-crime work.”

Junebug shook his head. I opened my mouth to retort, then shut it. He was right. I’d had no business in there. My own curiosity and shock at seeing Greg dead, who I’d only talked with a few hours before, got the better of me. I took a deep breath and fought down a spasm of nausea.

“You’re right. I apologize. I didn’t think.” I glanced down the hall.

“Can I go see Lorna?” “In a minute.” Junebug whirled his sirens on Chet. “You stand guard here till Franklin tapes off this room. No one gets in, Chet. Do you understand?” “Yes, Junebug,” Chet said miserably. Fortunately Franklin Bedloe, one of Junebug’s deputies, galloped up the steps that moment and took over. Chet looked vastly relieved. I stood in the hall waiting while listening to Junebug chew out the officer sitting with Lorna for not securing the crime scene.

The rookie tried to tell his chief that he’d just been concerned about Ms. Wirechinski (he nearly had the name down), but Junebug wasn’t having any of that. I heard him speak in low, kinder tones to Lorna and she sniffled an answer. We three civilians were relegated to the kitchen while the authorities took over. Lorna refused Chet’s offer of whiskey, but coughed out that she would like a glass of brandy. One of the policemen sat stonily in our midst-I guess making sure none of us headed for the border. He gave Lorna first aid for her injured finger while I watched. After thirty minutes Junebug came back in and said, “Jesus Christ. Jesus H. Christ” Chet, ever the professional host, offered Junebug a drink. He refused and watched Lorna carefully. “Ms.

Wiercinski,” he finally said, “I’d like you to come down to the station with us and answer a few questions. If you feel up to that”

“Of course, Mr. Moncrief.” She rose unsteadily, then as if suddenly remembering that I was there, took my hand. “Can Jordan come, too?”

“Of course,” Junebug answered. “I’m not quite sure why he’s here.”

“I’m an old friend of Lorna’s. We knew each other in Boston.” I didn’t want to go into more detail while Chet was there. He’s a rotten gossip. “He’s a good old friend to have.” Junebug nodded, and so we had ended up here. Junebug had asked us to wait in the lobby for a few minutes and had disappeared into his office. I was dying to know what had happened but thought it wouldn’t look too cool to be grilling Lorna when Junebug came back. Her fingers laced with mine and I didn’t pull back. My arm felt stiff and sore and I tried to keep the sling still and close to my body. “Y’all come on back,” Junebug returned, and escorted us into the station’s one interrogation room. I felt distinctly unwell; I presumed we’d get questioned in the less accusatory surroundings of Junebug’s office. Lorna and I sat on one side of the table, Junebug across from us. He scratched his crew cut and blinked at our entwined hands. He didn’t comment, but he was doubtless wondering what my relationship was with Lorna. “Now, Jordy, maybe you can tell me what you’re doing in the middle of this,”

Junebug said. Lorna glanced at me. “Jordy? I’ve never heard you called that before.” “Please, Lorna, not now.” I took a deep breath and recounted Chet’s phone call. Junebug listened without comment. “Now, Ms. Wiercinski, maybe you can tell me what happened.” Lorna ran a thin fingernail across her bottom lip. She briefly explained her and Greg’s presence in Mirabeau. “Okay. About eight-fifteen we went to the library because Greg was upset-” “Wait a second, ma’am. Who’s we?”

“Me, Greg, and a local real-estate agent, Freddy Jacksill. I had dinner with Jordan”-one Junebug eyebrow went up, then settled back where it belonged-“and then I’d come back to the bed-and-breakfast.

Greg had already heard about the meeting and he was upset. He abhors Nina Hernandez; says she’s an extremist who always gets in his way.”

“Wait another second!” Junebug exploded. “What’s this all about?”

Lorna told him about the ongoing animosity between Nina Hernandez and Greg’s company. Junebug made notes. “Okay,” he said, “so he wanted to bust up this meeting.” “Not exactly. He just wanted to let people know that Nina is dead wrong about Intraglobal and clarify what we want to do here. He wanted to announce his own meeting-which would have been tonight.” “How had he heard about the library meeting?” “I don’t know, Mr. Moncrief. I guess Freddy Jacksill told him.” She went on to describe Greg’s arrival during Nina’s speech and the ensuing charges and countercharges. I helpfully filled in what had happened before Greg and Lorna’s arrival. “And after you left the library?” Junebug prodded. “Greg was very confident that he’d win, but I could see that he was seething. He really hates Nina Hernandez. I mean, he really hated-” Her voice broke off as she corrected her tense. Junebug offered a tissue and she waved it away. “I’m okay. “Anyhow, after we left, Greg, Freddy, and I came back to the Mirabeau B. I was tired and a little upset”-a glance at me spoke volumes-“and I wanted to go to bed. This is my first deal working with Intraglobal and I’m not accustomed to all this confrontational crap. Greg had calmed and seemed ready to celebrate. He said that Nina would mess up her campaign to stop us and we’d be able to get the land for the river resort. He wanted to have drinks with Freddy and me, but I begged off.

So he and Freddy went into Greg’s room. Around nine-thirty I went to bed-” She broke off, sounding uncertain. “Is that all, ma’am?” Junebug seemed to sense she was holding something back and his tone was pressing. “I dozed off, but then I woke up. I heard Greg’s voice yelling at someone. Whoever it was wasn’t yelling back.” “Did he sound afraid?” I asked, ignoring Junebug’s scowl at my intervention. “No, more mad than afraid.” “You didn’t hear Mr. Jacksill talking with him?” Junebug asked. “No, not that I remember.” “What happened then?”

“I went back to sleep. I woke up later, maybe around midnight-I heard a door slam down the hall. But I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Then-a little before two-I woke up again. I’m not sure what woke me up, I just snapped awake.” A slamming door, I thought. Chet had told me while we waited for the police to finish their preliminary examination of Greg’s room that Lorna and Greg were his only guests at the moment. So it must’ve been Greg’s door that she heard. Junebug listened to her carefully, as though a clue might drop from her unsuspecting lips. “Think again, miss. Did you hear a noise? Someone crying out? Another door slam?” Lorna pursed her lips. I could see the effort of her recollection as she dredged through her shock. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything. I think I woke because I was thirsty.” “Okay,” Junebug said. “You were thirsty.” “I decided to go down to the kitchen for some apple juice. I opened my door and started for the stairs. I passed Greg’s room and I could see that the door was ajar. I…” She stared at her clenched fingers. Junebug didn’t prompt her; neither did I. We both sensed that she had to tell this at her pace. After a long intake of breath she continued: “I knocked at the door, very softly. I thought maybe Greg fell asleep with it open, but that would have been very unlike him. He was a maniac about his privacy. So I pushed at the door. It was ink black inside, what with the curtains down. But my eyes were used to the dark now, and I could see his bed hadn’t been slept in. So I stepped inside the room-I remember my hand went out for the light switch. The lights came on-I was looking at Greg’s bed. I couldn’t see his body from there. I didn’t know he was there. And then these gloves closed around my mouth and my throat…” She took a long, shuddering breath. Junebug leaned forward. “Okay, Ms. Wiercinski. Please describe what happened very carefully. Take as much time as you need.” Lorna, her closed eyes tight lines, nodded. “Okay. One glove went over my mouth because I started to scream. The other went behind my neck”-she pantomimed for us-“holding me at the base of the throat. I just stopped dead, because as they closed around me this voice whispered to me, ‘Make a sound, bitch, and you’re dead.’” “A man’s voice or a woman’s?” I asked.

Junebug didn’t seem to object. Lorna shook her head. “I couldn’t tell-the voice was a ratchety, harsh whisper. A man’s, I think.

Maybe.” “What about the gloves? What kind were they?” “Thick, coarse.

Not like driving or dress gloves, but like heavy work gloves.” “Of course,” I said. “Whoever used that garrote on Greg would have to protect his own hands from the barbs. Pulling it taut could be painful.” “From the way the person was holding you, Ms. Wiercinski, could you tell if they were bigger or smaller than you, or around your own size?” Junebug asked, ignoring my valuable insight. He’d probably already thought of it, anyway. Lorna shook her head. “I couldn’t tell-the way he was holding me, it was at something of a distance from him; I wasn’t pressed up against him. I-I thought of fighting, but I was too scared. I mean, everything I’d heard of what you’re supposed to do-fight, kick, scream-my mind wouldn’t do it. I just froze.” “What happened next?” Lorna swallowed. “He-or she-pushed me facedown on the bed. I remember saying, ‘Please don’t hurt me.’ He didn’t say anything. He blindfolded me with what I later found was one of Greg’s ties. Then he tied my arms together with the bedsheets. He shoved another tie in my mouth as a gag and put a pillowcase over my head.

Then he shoved me into Greg’s closet and said in that hoarse whisper, ‘You just stay right there.’ I could hear the closet door shut and the key turn in the lock.” She sniffed. “I guess that’s when you know you’re staying in a real old house-when you have keys for the closets.

I thought he was gone, but I couldn’t be sure. I heard movements at different times, so I just lay there for a while and I started to get panicky. I was pretty sure he’d left, so I worked my way out of the sheets, got the gag out of my mouth, and took off the blindfold and the pillowcase. I peered out of the keyhole, but I couldn’t see anything. I started screaming and kicking on the door; finally I kicked it loose. I saw Greg’s body and screamed. Chet rushed in and got me out, and he called the police. I-I asked him to call Jordan.”

Junebug said nothing, but tapped his pencil against his pad in an annoying staccato. “How long have you been in Mirabeau, ma’am?” “Only a day or so. Greg’s been here a few days longer.” She frowned. “And you can’t even say whether or not the person who grabbed you was a man or a woman, how tall they were, or nothing?” Junebug demanded. “Not with certainty.” Lorna’s jaw set. “If I could tell you, I would.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t,” Junebug said. “We don’t know you here.” I’d had enough. “Look, Junebug, I’ve known Lorna for years, and she is not a liar.” “I’m not about to take this from someone named after an insect!” Lorna stormed, but Junebug, placid as ever, raised a calming hand. “Let’s not dwell on this at the moment,” Junebug drawled.

“Perhaps you can tell me who might have had it in for Mr. Callahan.”

Lorna propped her elbows on the table and leaned into her open palms.

“Sorry, Mr. Moncrief, about the insect remark. I didn’t mean it. I’m extremely upset.” He nodded. “Jesus. I can’t believe anyone would kill Greg.” She looked over her polished fingernails at Junebug. “My first guess would be Nina Hernandez. I mean, there was certainly bad blood between them. And I did hear him arguing with someone, but I didn’t hear another voice. Maybe he was arguing with her on the phone.” I wondered if Nina was big enough to strangle Greg or manhandle Lorna, but I didn’t say anything. “How had he gotten along with folks here?”

Junebug asked. “Fine,” she said. “I mean, some people didn’t seem keen on his development plans for the river, but I can’t imagine someone would kill him over that. He told me when I got here that he’d met with some of the landowners already.” I supplied Junebug with the names of those who owned the land that Greg wanted. He jotted them down carefully and tapped his pencil again. “Look, Lorna’s been through hell. You’ve got the tape of her statement. Can’t you let her get some rest and have her sign it tomorrow?” “I-I can’t go back there.” Lorna’s eyes pleaded with mine. “Of course not. You’ll stay at my house. You’ll be safe there.” “One more question, Ms. Wiercinski, then we’ll be done. I appreciate your effort in telling me all this.”

Junebug looked squarely into her gray eyes. “What kind of man would you say Mr. Callahan was?” Lorna snapped, “Not the kind who deserved to die that way, Mr. Moncrief. He was smart, funny, confident of himself. He enjoyed life, and I can’t believe he got taken this way.”

She dissolved into tears, and her statement was over. It was nearly five in the morning when I got Lorna home. We let ourselves in quietly, trying not to disturb Mama or Sister. That was in vain;

Sister was already up. She practically ran across the living room to me. “Where the hell have you been? I wake up in the middle of the night to check on Mama and your bed’s empty. I call Candace and she doesn’t know where you are.” She looked at Lorna. “You’re not Candace.” Whoops. I made quick introductions, explaining in as few words as possible that Lorna had run into trouble and I’d had to dash out to render aid. At the news of murder, Sister’s eyes widened.

“Well, of course, you can stay here, Lorna. I’ve heard so much about you, but you know Jordy doesn’t talk much about Boston anymore. And I saw the lovely flowers you brought Mama. That was real kind of you.”

She herded her charge into the kitchen, giving me her patented we-will-discuss-this-later-little-brother look. “Jordy, you might want to call Candace. I’m afraid I’ve worried her sick by calling her.”

“It’s still awful early-” I started, but Lorna looked oddly at me.

“Call her, Jordan. She’ll be concerned. Put her mind at ease.” Lorna didn’t usually show solicitude for a rival. Wait a minute, I reminded myself, Candace and Lorna were not rivals. My heart was with Candace, wasn’t it? Of course it was. I went back into the kitchen and tried to ignore the melting, little-girl looks that Lorna was giving me. “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Arlene,” Lorna said, staring down into a mug of decaf coffee. “Don’t you worry about it, Lorna.” Sister glanced up at me. “I’ll just get the guest bedroom ready for you. Clo’s been using it when she stays the night-” “Oh, don’t put Clo out,” Lorna began, but Sister interrupted: “Don’t worry, I’m not. She’s not here tonight. She doesn’t usually work nights anyway. It’s not a problem.” I picked up the phone and dialed Candace’s number. One ring and she answered. She didn’t sound exactly asleep. “Candace, it’s Jordy.” Silence on the other end, broken finally by: “Where are you?” “At home. I had to go over to the Mirabeau B. Lorna-” “I’m not sure I want to hear this, Jordy.”

“Listen. Greg Callahan, Lorna’s boss, got murdered.” I explained what had happened to Lorna. “My God. Do you want me to come over? Are you all right?” “I’m fine. Lorna needs some rest. So do I. Sister’s fixing up the guest room for her.” More silence. “Oh. How long is she planning on staying?” Candace’s voice sounded just a tad arid. “I don’t know. Until the investigation is complete, I suppose. She can’t very well stay where the murder happened, can she?” Maybe Candace couldn’t help herself. “I suppose not, but she seemed tough enough to handle anything.” “She’s not so tough. I don’t think any of us are at a time like this.” I paused. “Greg was only a little older than me, Candace. To be cut down like that-” “Go get some rest, sweetheart.

I’ll open up the library tomorrow and I’ll talk to you later.” The gentle click of her hanging up the phone was her only goodbye. I slept like the dead, and the dead populated my dreams. I woke up around ten, my body slicked in sweat, my arms stretched out painfully in front of me, fending off some dream assassin who carried a twisted length of wire in gloved hands. I swallowed two Tylenol, took a shower, shaved, dressed, and maneuvered my sore arm into its sling. Wondering if I needed to have the doctor look at it again, I stumbled downstairs.

Sister was working an afternoon shift, so she was sitting in the kitchen sipping late-morning coffee with Clo. Mama sat in her chair, staring at dust motes in the air. Perhaps they sang to her, or danced for her, in the closed theater of her mind. Lorna, I was informed by Clo, was still asleep. Clo and Sister demanded more details. I told them everything I knew. They jumped on the case, using deductive abilities garnered from watching too many bad mystery movies on TV.

“Strangled with barbed wire. Sounds like something an Eye-talian would do,” Clo theorized. “Well, all those Yankee businessmen probably have mob connections,” Sister opined. “Wait, though, he was from Boston and had an Irish surname. Maybe it was a union hit, like Jimmy Hoffa. If they’d had enough time with the body, they would’ve dumped him in the river.” Clo made a noise of sad agreement. “I don’t think someone would follow him all the way down to Texas for a hit,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “Clo, a death by garotting, that would be quick, wouldn’t it?” “I would think so. Cut the blood and air off real fast. But I don’t know.” Clo sipped at her coffee. “You better hope it’s not no mobsters, Arlene. They might want to hit that Yankee gal next.” Sister’s eyes widened in horror. “Good Lord. I never thought of that!” “This was not a mob hit!” I insisted. “You two are just trying to scare each other. And please, do not refer to her as that Yankee gal. Her name is Lorna. L-O-R-N-A.” “Did you make sure that Candace knows how to spell it, too?” Sister snapped back. She’s never been one to skirt an issue, although I might wish she’d show a little interest in shyness now and then. “What does that have to do with anything?” I sputtered. “Plenty! That Yankee gal comes to town, sets up her hoops, and you just start jumpin’ through them like Clyda Tepper’s poodle.

I’m real sorry her friend got killed, but it does seem that she’s leaning on you awful hard. Why didn’t she move to another room at Chet’s or to another motel? I just wonder what Candace thinks of you being so sweet to Miss L-O-R-N-A.” “She’s fine with it,” I said in a low voice. “She understands that Lorna needs me.” “Jordy, you’re as stupid as you are tall. No woman understands an ex-girlfriend needing her man.” Sister sat back in her chair with grim satisfaction. “You know, lots of men sure would like to date Candace. She got chased plenty before you moved back to town, and I bet if you wander out of the picture, that race’d be back on in no time. Some men appreciate her, even if you don’t.” Sister was spared the sizzling reply I was busily working on by the doorbell. She leaped up to answer it. “Clo, talk some sense into that boy.” “No way. I’m staying free and clear.”

I heard Sister’s muffled voice at the front door, and she walked back into the kitchen frowning. “Your father is here,” she said coldly. I couldn’t blame Sister for not particularly warming up to Bob Don Goertz; after all, our mother had had an affair with Bob Don. And her adjustment to Bob Don’s presence in my life had not been smooth.

However, she was at least grateful to him for saving us all during that last bit of unpleasantness in town and for helping with Mama’s care. Bob Don paid Clo’s salary. I went out into the living room and found Bob Don talking gently with Mama. He knelt by her, a big blond man with a small-town haircut. He was dressed in his usual uniform of short-sleeved shirt, tie, khaki slacks, and brown, weathered cowboy boots. He was holding Mama’s hand and using a soft voice he didn’t use out on his car lot: “How you doin’ this morning, Annie? Sure is a nice morning and you look real pretty today. Clo must be taking good care of you.” “She is, Bob Don,” I said so he’d know I was there. He stood up, absently patting Mama’s hand. She’d hardly looked at him. She doesn’t always register presences. “How you feeling today?” “Fine, son, fine.” He calls me son every now and then, but I’m still not used to it. “I understand you had a helluva night.” I shrugged and indicated my arm. “Between the semimad bomber, an ex-girlfriend coming back to town, and a murder, I don’t know why people say they get bored in small towns.” Bob Don shook his head and sat on the couch. I offered coffee, but he declined. I could hear that the chatter in the kitchen screeched to a halt; no doubt Clo and Sister were more interested in other folks’ conversations. We won’t have to send Sister to old-biddy school to get her ready for her golden years. “You heard about all this?” I asked. “Yep. Got a phone call early this morning from Junebug. Wanted to know if I’d heard from this Greg Callahan fellow about selling him my land.” “Had you?” “Hell, yes, he came by the other day, offering good money for my stretch of riverfront property. I figured he’d come see you, too. I was gonna call you about it, but then you got hurt and I didn’t want to mention it to you while you were in the hospital.” I shrugged again. “He sent in reinforcements.” I told him about Lorna’s visit and last night’s events. I had discussed Lorna with him a few weeks back, during our first attempted father-son dinner at the Sit-a-Spell. “Were you going to sell to Callahan?” “I wanted to, but Gretchen thought we should hold out for more money,” Bob Don said. Let me digress for a moment about Gretchen Goertz. Gretchen is Bob Don’s wife and they’ve had about as happy a marriage as the Royals. Gretchen used to drink pretty heavy, but after it came out that Bob Don was my daddy I guess she decided to clean up her act so Bob Don wouldn’t leave her. She’d checked herself into a clinic in Austin, dried out, and had been sober for the past several weeks. She’d also been cloyingly sweet to me. I didn’t believe for a second it was because she’d been dying for a stepson and was just showing her appreciation for my debut in her life. I couldn’t tell, though, if her kindness was because she was finally sober for the first time in years or because she wanted to stay on Bob Don’s good side. Either way, I avoided her as much as I could. “Well, it doesn’t look like Gretchen will get any money now,” I said. “Who even knows if Intraglobal will still be interested in building here after this mess?” “Good morning,” a voice came from the stairs. It was Lorna, her hair a bit disheveled, dressed in some old pajamas and a robe of mine. God, I hoped Candace didn’t see her in that. Bob Don leaped to his feet. “Hello, there, darlin’, you must be Lorna. I’m Bob Don Goertz, Jordy’s daddy. It sure is nice to meet you, but I’m just sick that it’s under these here unfortunate circumstances.” Lorna wasn’t quite awake yet and in full command of her etiquette. She stared, I mean stared, at Bob Don. From the helmet of carefully coiffed hair to the scuffed tips of his well-worn cowboy boots. “You’re-you’re Jordan’s father?” “Yes, ma’am, proud to say I am. He’s just the best boy a man could hope for, you know, he is as smart as a whip and got his mama’s good looks and of course he’s all educated-” I didn’t want Bob Don quoting my resume for the remainder of the day, and he will do so given the opportunity. “Bob Don, I bet you Lorna could use some coffee. Lorna, that sound good?” “Wonderful.”

She wiped sleep from her eyes, regarded Bob Don anew, and offered her hand. “Forgive my rudeness, I’m not quite myself this morning. I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Goertz. Jordan told me all about you last night and it’s obvious he thinks you’re a remarkable man.” Bob Don’s eyes lit up like he’d won the lottery and his mouth worked as he smiled at me. All right, so I’m not the most affectionate soul around.

He knew I cared, didn’t he? I frowned and fled, going to get Lorna her coffee. Sister crossed her arms and grimaced at me as I came in.

“Well, those two ought to get together like a house afire. They’re both into trying to bust up relationships.” Clo quickly excused herself to go use the rest room. I poured a fresh cup for Lorna and turned around. “Let’s get this straight, Sister, right here, right now. I don’t care if you like Lorna. I don’t care if you hate Lorna.

But she is a guest in this house, and I think Mama would be ashamed of you for talking trash like you are.” Sister opened her cavernous mouth to respond, but I didn’t give her a chance to spew further venom. “And as for the other side of that little crack, I will remind you-once and just once-that you are talking about my father. Now his presence in my life may not set well with you, but this is my house, too, and I will not have him bad-mouthed in it.” She shut her mouth and I paused for breath. I’m not really used to giving my big sister that much sass and I waited for the imminent explosion. I’d miscalculated. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she sounded it. “I’m mad at him, and I don’t know how not to be mad at him. I appreciate what he’s done for us. I do. But when I see him, I don’t think about the good things he’s done, I think about all those years ago when he must’ve tried to steal away Mama from Daddy-” “Daddy is dead. Mama is dead in nearly every way. You have me, you have Mark. We aren’t going anywhere, okay? And enough craziness is going on without you and me bickering.” She nodded, unable to look at me for a moment. I could’ve hugged her and had a real Kodak moment. It got spoiled, though, by another ring of the doorbell. I patted Sister’s hand, went through the kitchen, and out to the front door. It was Junebug, which wasn’t a surprise. The surprise was that he was accompanied by a dark-haired woman I didn’t know, a smiling Gretchen Goertz, and a frowning Billy Ray Bummel, Mirabeau’s pride and joy of the legal system.