Swamp Cabbage (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles Book 6) Read online

  THE RACHAEL O’BRIEN CHRONICLES

  SOUTHERN SUMMER: SWAMP CABBAGE

  A Novel

  by

  PAISLEY RAY

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, compiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Copyright 2014 by Paisley Ray

  Cover Art by Chantal deFelice

  Formatting by Lucinda Campbell

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 1503268764

  ISBN-13: 9781503268760 (Ebook)

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Marcel Bradley, and Cynthia Slocum. Also thanks to the Wikipedia community for their invaluable information on various subjects.

  The Rachael O’Brien Chronicles

  by

  Paisley Ray

  Freshman: Deep Fried and Pickled (No.1)

  Freshmore: Summer Flambé (No.2)

  Sophomore: Shelled and Shucked (No.3)

  Euro Summer: Toad in the Hole (No.4)

  Junior: Johnny Cakes (No.5)

  Southern Summer: Swamp Cabbage (No. 6)

  Senior: Praise the Lard – Coming Soon

  Table of Contents

  June 1989

  CHAPTER 1

  In a Month of Sundays

  CHAPTER 2

  In the Briar Patch

  CHAPTER 3

  Dontcha Know

  CHAPTER 4

  Can’t Rightly Say

  CHAPTER 5

  Kumbayah – Come By Here

  CHAPTER 6

  Shut My Mouth

  CHAPTER 7

  A Mind To

  CHAPTER 8

  What the Sam Hill

  July 1989

  CHAPTER 9

  Sho’ ’Nuff

  CHAPTER 10

  Going to See a Man about a Horse

  CHAPTER 11

  Hoodoo– Bad Luck

  CHAPTER 12

  Laying Down a Trick

  July 1989

  CHAPTER 13

  Stealing Sugar

  CHAPTER 14

  A Faint Heart Never Stole a Watermelon

  CHAPTER 15

  Don’t What Me, I Ain’t a Light Bulb

  An invitation from Paisley Ray

  For The Record

  COMING SOON

  Praise The Lard

  “It takes two to get one in trouble.”

  ~Mae West

  June 1989

  CHAPTER 1

  In a Month of Sundays

  “SWAMP CABBAGE sounds like bayou bullshit. You really expect me to believe that some plant growing near the marsh is edible?” I asked as I trekked next to Francine through high grass toward the garden shed.

  “Fine then, you don’t have to have any of my homemade Sunday supper fritters.”

  I hated when she used food as a weapon. It always gave her the upper hand. If I didn’t figure out a way to break my roommate of bossing me around this summer, living in the same house on Lady’s Island outside of Beaufort, South Carolina, could quickly spiral into the unbearable realm of friendship ruination.

  Humidity clung to my neck and chest while mosquitos feasted on the tender bits behind my knees. A series of warnings rumbled as fast-moving clouds cast bleakness on the reeds that butted off the waterfront property of an inlet on Brickyard Creek. I smacked the back of my leg too late. A quarter-size red bump had already swelled. “Do you even know how to use a chainsaw?”

  After stepping around a rusted wheelbarrow, Francine wiggled an unfastened padlock out from the door hinge. “Rachael O’Brien, stop being such a stick in the mud. Ever since you arrived, you’ve been grumbly.”

  I swatted at something winged that pricked my neck. “My mood was upbeat until you dragged me out here. It’s not a good idea. Whacking down vegetables on property that isn’t ours. Are you even sure that what you saw was cabbage? And why do we need a chainsaw to cut it? Wouldn’t kitchen scissors or pruners work?”

  With one hand gripping the padlock, she used her free hand to point at me. “Why you always giving me such a hard time? Making me explain myself?”

  I took offense to her snarkism and considered hightailing my ass to the main house, but we had coordinated internship locales, and for three months we’d be carpooling into the same small town. Summer had barely begun, and picking a rift with Francine wasn’t worth it.

  “Swamp cabbage is no head of lettuce you pluck outta some farm field. It’s a tree, and the inside is a melt-in-your-mouth delicacy, as long as it’s cooked by someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  I’d spent three years away at college and had some experiences under my belt. Cutting down some tree that likely involved a swamp didn’t have appeal. I’d developed a well-earned aversion to bodies of still water. “Can’t we buy cabbage in a can at the Piggly Wiggly?”

  “Sauerkraut is what them Germans gobble down at Oktoberfest, and it’s the only tinned cabbage in the store. It ain’t the same. Besides, fresh anything is always best. While you were staring at paintings in the hallway, I saw it in a clearing.” Her voice trailed off. “No more than seven feet tall. Even a scrawny thing like you oughta be able to handle pulling the cord on a chain saw and maneuvering a small ax. Think you’d be more grateful that I go to the trouble to put some meat on your Yankee bones.”

  “I am an Art History major. Taking note of paintings is what I do.”

  “There you go again, trying to make your major sound more interesting than we both know it is.”

  “There are some nice pieces in Mr. Larkin’s house.”

  “Are any of them any good?”

  My eyes squinted at her. Francine Battle’s claim-to-fame resided on her bloodline. Her great-memaw, Clementine Hunter, had become a famous artist, and my roommate wasn’t shy about using that factoid to fluff her feathers.

  “From what I glimpsed, mostly Confederate scene reproductions. But you’d have to be knowledgeable to know the difference. The two landscapes in the dining room are interesting. I can’t quite decipher the signatures.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Curious minds like mine have a need to know.”

  Francine was masterful at sending me messages in the form of a stare. This one said, “Cut the crap, girl.” Having been the recipient of her cockeyed gaze many a time before, I’d become seasoned in deflecting her telepathic weaponry and feigned interest in a V-formation of pelicans whose noisy wings flapped above. Fat raindrops began pelting my head, and I used the paper grocery bags I’d brought with us to shield me from the split-second downpour that in an instant turned the sky black. “Just open the door.”

  She aimed her hip at the weatherworn door and humphed a not-so-silent sigh. A warm waft of motor oil and cut wood besieged the air. In the far corner I noticed an overgrown ivy plant that crept through cracks around the window frame. The light that filtered between the leaves cast menacing early-evening shad
ows on the shed’s floor.

  “Why don’t you wait until Monday and ask Hodge to do this? I’m sure if you offered him some of your fritters, he’d gladly cut the cabbage.”

  She began scanning the wall for a light switch. “I haven’t met this handyman, and neither have you. If I offer him my fritters, he may assume it’s an in and want me to explore his tools.”

  “That’s mental.”

  “Listen, I got me an animal magnetism, and I’ve learned that I have to be careful who I unleash it on.”

  My feet locked in place.

  “You giving me the stink eye behind my back?”

  “Do you hear that?” I asked.

  “Hear what?”

  “Dripping.”

  “You deaf? It’s raining.”

  “Not outside raindrops. Inside plops.”

  “You’re making excuses to get out of harvesting the cabbage.”

  “It’s probably not safe to handle a chainsaw in wet weather.”

  “Since when did you turn into the safety police?”

  I moved farther into the dingy room. “It’s coming from the far corner, behind those metal shelves.”

  A lone bulb in the room flicked on with a zip, zip noise, and the filament hummed as it threw muted yellow on the vise mounted to an eight-foot-long work table. A chaotic mess of paint tins and an assortment of gardening implements, saws, shears, a hoe, and other wood-handled tools littered the surface.

  “Hear it now?” I asked, and we both stood still.

  “You’re trying to give me the heebie-jeebies so I abort my fritter ingredient foraging.”

  “When the rain lets up, I’ll help you cut the cabbage.”

  Francine stepped toward me. “Now you’re being more agreeable. Channel the right attitude, and this summer is going to be something to remember. With you running the gallery and me at the law office, we can put Beaufort through its paces.”

  “We aren’t twenty-one, and neither of us has fake IDs.” My nose crinkled. “Kind of smells rotten in here.”

  “Don’t be sending negativity my way. Dressed up, neither of us will be asked to show ID. Business types don’t get carded for happy hour, hence the name, happy—for an hour.”

  Careful to step around stacks of weathered terra cotta pots and an old-fashioned push reel mower, I pressed forward.

  “Do you see a chainsaw?” Francine asked.

  With some luck there wouldn’t be one.

  “No.”

  “A machete could work, but it’ll take longer.”

  Lightning cracked somewhere nearby, and the rain began to thud on top of the metal roof again. A blast of wind raced behind the shed door, slamming it shut.

  “I hear the big dripping now. There’s a leak in this building. You better let Handyman Hodge know when he gets back.”

  Having driven down from Greensboro, North Carolina, I’d only arrived this afternoon, and Francine started giving me lip when I picked her up curbside at the Savannah airport. Her mouth slowed down somewhat when we cruised the grocery aisles, but started running again as she watched me unpack in the kitchen.

  “Why do I have to be the one to let him know? You live here too.”

  “Does Mr. Larkin know you have a house guest?”

  “I may have mentioned having guests possibly visit.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Hey. I’m the one who arranged for us to have the cool living arrangements on a private estate, rent free, for the entire summer.”

  “We’re staying in the backwoods, on some remote island, in a crumbling plantation house without air-conditionin’.”

  “There are ceiling fans in practically every room. He told me to make myself at home, and having a guest makes me feel comfortable—that is when that guest isn’t complaining about the free accommodations and barking orders about harvesting obscure ingredients.”

  She gave my forearm a squeeze. “You’re losing focus. Listen, the rain’s letting up. Let’s be quick and get back to the kitchen before it starts up again.”

  The rain on the roof relented to sprinkles. “It’s still coming down steady.” Silently I made a request to Mother Nature. Let the floodgates open and rain all week. Or at least long enough for Francine to forget about her lumberjack aspirations.

  I felt a shove on my lower back. “Check around the corner.”

  “Enough with the prodding,” I said as I passed floor-to-ceiling shelves piled high with a mishmash of pipes and piles of jumbled spare fix-it parts. I ducked then sidestepped a web of block and tackle dangling overhead. As the storm continued, the last rays of daylight dimmed, and in the shadowy stillness, an arm’s length from my face, an upside-down body that hung from the rafter with a rope tied around the ankles turned and swayed over a painter’s tarp. Thick red syrup from the slashed neck plopped into the Home Depot bucket that engulfed the head. The metallic scent of the congealing liquid flared my nostrils, and my legs trembled. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. My vision blurred. Forgetting to breathe, I rose on the balls of my feet and spun around where I smacked my chest into the heaving shelf behind me, toppling it and me to the ground in a noisy clatter.

  Choking a round of “Ah, ah, ah,” bile rose in my throat, silencing my scream.

  Hopping over a rolling can of ant spray, Francine asked, “What’s wrong, girl? You look like you seen a ghost.”

  A thunderous boom rattled the window frames, and lightning flashes fully illuminated the scene for Francine. From behind my back, her blood-curdling holler merged into mine, rendering me momentarily deaf. As I rose to my feet, I watched her pivot on her heel and race out of the shed. My feet flew behind hers in a beeline to the house. In the dark I tripped over the root of an oak and jacked my ankle. My knees buckled, and my palms caught my fall on the bottom of a low-lying holly bush. Ignoring the scrapes on my arms and hands, I pressed myself upright and speed-shuffled in the direction of the back porch at the house.

  Slamming the door behind me, Francine bolted it shut. The ornate molding and oversized oil portraits, hanging from the walls, that stared at me inside the plantation-style home’s entry were no longer charming. I knew all about Freddy Krueger and scrambled across the threadbare throw rugs that preserved the weathered pecan floorboards. Ignoring the creaks and groans under my wet tennis shoes, I made sure the doors were locked and then began to switch every kitchen light on that I could find.

  Out of breath, Francine turned on the sink faucet and dunked her face under the water. After dabbing her face with a dishtowel, she turned around and locked her eyes with mine.

  “What the hell was that?” I asked.

  “Plaid shirt, blue jeans, boots. That was no deer hanging from the ceiling.”

  A lightning crack struck nearby, the lights blinked, and the house pitched into darkness. Without hesitating, I hobbled to the kitchen wall phone and pressed zero. Silence greeted me on the receiver. Attempting to steady my trembling fingers on the touch-tone pad, I willed it to connect me with a dial tone. “It’s dead.”

  “Of course it is. Give me that,” Francine said, ripping the phone from my grasp. “Hello, hello,” she beckoned.

  Pulling kitchen drawers open, I removed an extra-large butcher knife and found a serrated one for Francine. She pushed it aside, opting for a metal meat tenderizer utensil. “I’m not going back to no shed to investigate.”

  “That’d be stupid. We need to check the house. Make sure we’re alone.”

  Crumpling her eyebrows, she raised a stiff index finger and aimed for my face. “We’re not checking anything. We’re staying put. This is your doing. You’re the trouble magnet. Next thing you’ll be suggesting we separate and search.”

  My tongue pressed against my crooked eyetooth. Raising the tip of the knife in the air, I stuttered, “I’ve been down here for a few hours at most. I don’t know anyone besides you. How could this be my doing?”

  Standing next to the kitchen window, she peered outside. “Too damn dark to see
anybody.”

  Digging through more kitchen drawers, I found a flashlight that had operating batteries. I motioned to Francine to follow me.

  “How many Rays are there? Is Billy or his cousin still chasing you?”

  I’d never told her that Billy Ray, my freshman-year stalker, had been shot in front of me before his final fate as a gator Scooby Snack. And last I’d heard, his cousin Jack was behind bars awaiting trial for kidnapping and tax evasion, among other charges. No way was that creep lurking around. I shone the light on the dining room wall where a mosaic of slave-era portraits, Civil War battle scenes, and a southern expressionist landscape hung. “It’s not the Rays.”

  “What you staring at.”

  “The paintings.”

  “They’re creepy.”

  “They’re a mix of memories and imagination brought to life with paint on canvas.”

  “This is no time to be analyzing the inner meaning behind some pictures. We got to get somebody of authority over here. We need to find an operating phone so you can call your FBI weatherman boyfriend.”

  We crept past the staircase, and I flashed the light in the formal living room. “I only call Agent Cauldwell in emergencies, and he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Earth to Rachael. There’s a human hanging like a slab of meat in a garden shed. If this ain’t an emergency, what is?”

  A rap on the front door startled us both, and we leapt into each other’s arms.

  “Who’s that?” Francine whispered.

  “How should I know?”

  “Don’t answer it.”

  Light from a flashlight swept our feet then traveled to our faces and stopped.

  From behind the glass that framed the front door, a crouched figure, face hidden beneath his raised collar, said “Ladies,” in a drawl.

  Night hadn’t completely set in, and I could make out a white painter hat, like a cake decoration, on top of the stranger’s sculpted Huggy Bear afro. A black man neither of us knew stared at us through the glass on the front door, and we were frozen to the spot, silent in our fear.