Swamp Cabbage (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles Book 6) Page 2

  “Just wanted to let y’all know I’m back. The power’s out, but I see you found a flashlight,” he shouted.

  “Ha-ha. Hodge?”

  His shoulders twitched. “Yes, miss.”

  Outside, rain pounded the sandy earth. Francine rushed to unlock the door, and I hobbled forward.

  “Thank the Lord,” Francine said.

  He shone the flashlight on her face. “And you are?”

  “Francine Battle. Unavailable. We’ve got ourselves a situation.”

  Even in crisis mode, she believed all mankind was hot for her.

  A crevasse between the front porch roof and the house released a patter of fat drops onto his head. He peered up, stepped aside, and then focused on the sheets of rain that swept across the landscape. In thick southern, he asked, “Da roof holding, miss?”

  “Not a leaky situation, a dead body situation,” I said.

  “I don’t understand,” he stammered.

  “I’m Rachael O’Brien.”

  His hazy brown eyes, wide and round like gumballs, stared beyond me, and he seemed confused.

  “I’m the gal Mr. Larkin hired to run his gallery and house-sit while he’s in Scotland this summer.”

  “Yes, miss, he say you was coming.”

  “We needed to borrow a, um, tool, and found an upside-down stiff in the garden shed.”

  Francine pushed me aside. “We’ve tried dialing the operator, but with the storm, the phone’s dead.”

  “Stiff?” He scratched beneath his hat.

  “Don’t know, don’t want to know. Want it gone,” Francine said.

  “A body? Y’all ladies sure?”

  “Sure we’re sure. Go see for yourself,” I said.

  “Fire station’s down the road. Let me fetch my keys. Then I’ll head over and get some assistance.”

  “We can take my car. It’s by the side of the house.”

  “Sorry, miss. You have a flat tire.”

  “We’re coming with you,” Francine said.

  “We are?”

  “I’m not staying in Satan’s playground, waiting for some crazed hatchet-man.”

  “Y’all wait here. I’ll bring my car round.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Surely there is a reasonable explanation. Old wax museum Halloween prop?

  CHAPTER 2

  In the Briar Patch

  Lady’s Island in Beaufort County, South Carolina, was thirty-three square miles. But with all the water inlets and with only one unpaved road on and off the island, Halbert Larkin’s property seemed like no-man’s-land. A quick exit to Highway 21 was impossible, and Hodge’s slow-moving white ’80 Chevy Cavalier’s exterior took a lashing from the mud puddles. He drove as fast as I walked, mindful of not losing a wheel in the water-filled potholes that decorated the sparsely graveled lane.

  “It took awhile for you to fetch us. We was scared you weren’t coming,” Francine said.

  “Sorry ’bout that. Couldn’t locate no keys in the dark.” He sighed. “They’s in the ignition the whole time.”

  The rain hadn’t let up, and the short sprint from the front porch to Hodge’s car had soaked my clothes and tennis shoes. In the backseat, I rocked my hips from side to side, trying to unsuction the skin beneath my wet shorts from the plastic upholstery.

  Mewing noises gurgled next to me, and I glanced at Francine. With closed eyes she pressed a dishrag to her forehead. While we waited for Hodge, she had claimed a migraine was coming on and had wrapped ice cubes she popped out of the plastic freezer tray into a kitchen towel. We’d lived in close quarters for three years, and I’d never known her to be susceptible to headaches. Despite the throb in her temples, she had managed to drag her tushie along for the car ride. Nothing would convince either of us to stay behind in the house, and even with my delicate ankle, I was anxious to vacate.

  Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on the seat back. I took a deep breath and asked, “Did you look in the garden shed?”

  Francine moaned as she readjusted the cold compress over her eyes.

  “No, miss. I may not be smart, but I’m not stupid. Whatever’s in there ain’t my business.”

  “But you’re the grounds keeper. The shed is your workshop. Right?”

  The car lurched off the road, and we bounced as the rear end of the car scraped dirt. Hodge maneuvered a sudden left jolt on the steering wheel to straighten the vehicle. “Yes, miss. Ten years I been working for Mr. Larkin. Doesn’t pay so good, but the rent is free. There’s good huntin’ and fishin’ on the island.”

  “Have you noticed anything unusual lately? Anybody around that shouldn’t be?”

  “Just because you know someone in the FBI, doesn’t make you qualified to investigate.”

  It was amazing how Francine’s mouth worked even though her head was impaired. “Don’t you have a migraine?”

  “Being with you makes my head ache.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Not far now,” Hodge said.

  “You think you’re some kind of southern knighted Nancy Drew.”

  Fumbling in my jacket pocket, I removed a cigarette and lighter. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No, miss.”

  “Yes, he does. He’s being too polite to say so. Aren’t you, Hodge?”

  “Rain seems to be letting up,” he said.

  “You know what your problem is?”

  “Um-hmm. I have an idea.”

  “You force your opinion on people in a threatening manner. No one dares to speak their real thoughts ’cause they’re afraid Francine Battle will unleash her wrath.”

  The wet washcloth snapped my knee, and her lawyer voice took over. “Rachael O’Brien, you’re in denial.”

  Hodge peered in the rearview mirror.

  “Denial?”I had no idea where her mouth was headed.

  “It’s the company you keep. Katie Lee and that ragtag bunch from New Bern.”

  “None of this has to do with any of them.”

  “It’s all twisted together.”

  Hodge cleared his throat. “Help’s around the corner.”

  “The kind of help Rachael needs involves a sofa and a professional therapist. For now, you got me to sort your lame brain free of charge.”

  I knew exactly what Francine was implying, and I didn’t like it. My life had been uneventful and, in all honesty, dull until freshman year when I moved to North Carolina. Living in the South had opened a can of crazy, and now I didn’t know what normal was.

  The trunk of the car clunked on a street curb as Hodge exited Highway 21. After he cut the engine, he twisted around and pointed to a one-story brick building surrounded by a parking lot. The gold lettering read “Lady’s Island St. Helena Fire District.”

  My elbow nudged Francine’s arm.

  Delicately peeling the dishtowel from her eyes, she stared at me indignantly as though I’d woken her up.

  “We’re here. I don’t think I should put weight on my ankle.”

  Francine barely scanned the floor mat. “It doesn’t look bad. You need to stretch it out.”

  Reaching over her, I unlatched the door handle. “Tell the chief what you saw. Hodge and I will wait here.”

  “Me?”

  An entrance door next to three double-story-sized red garage doors rested open, and I noticed a buff guy dressed in blue watching us.

  I clunked my knee into hers and tried to forcefully knock my hip against her so she’d start moving. “Go on. Tell ’em.”

  Francine closed her door. “I’m the guest, remember.”

  Both Francine and Hodge turned their attention on me. I thought that if someone else told this tale, it would somehow make me seem less crazy, but I was outvoted.

  SPEAKING FROM EXPERIENCE, I’D CHOOSE riding in the front seat of a fire truck versus the back of an ambulance any day. When I limped inside to tell them what Francine and I’d seen in the shed, the fellows at the station didn’t call me crazy or ask, “Are you sure?
” A half dozen of them who had been milling about watching the storm blow through began to hustle into action. One asked me to sit on a bench. Removing my tennis shoe, he took a look at my ankle and was nice enough to wrap an ace bandage around it. Four of them began slipping on heavy-duty fireman suits with the reflective stripes around the ankles and wrists. I felt reassured when I heard someone in the office radio the police. I didn’t know who hung in the shed or how long the body had been there. To tell the truth, I didn’t have the need for details. I wanted the culprit caught and the body gone so I could work on forgetting the unsettling fright that started this southern summer.

  With a helmet tucked under his arm, one of the fireman said, “Meet you at Larkin’s.”

  As I hop-shuffled my way to the open front door, I noticed the hood of Hodge’s Chevy propped open. Beneath the relentless weather, I shuffled to the car, putting weight on my good foot while attempting to shield my hair with my hands. “What’s going on?”

  “Starter’s not turning. Something shorted in them puddles.”

  Francine wound her window down. “Can you get a jump from one of these guys?”

  Hodge shook his head and slammed the hood. “She’ll have to dry out.”

  One of the men overheard our conversation and said, “Y’all can ride in the fire truck. Show us exactly where the hanging corpse is.”

  Without an excuse to decline, Francine and I accepted the offer, while Hodge opted to stay with his vehicle.

  A strong, guiding arm lifted my elbow, and I climbed in the front seat of the fire engine. With some effort Francine clambered up behind me.

  “Rachael, is it?” the driver asked.

  Francine rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, um, yeah. Rachael O’Brien. I didn’t catch your name.”

  He turned the siren on. “Forrest.”

  Dropping her head back, Francine pointed her index finger at her mouth and made a fake gag gesture.

  I batted my elbow into her side. “And this is my roommate, Francine Battle.”

  Manhandling the steering wheel, Forrest’s shoulders rocked right and left as he navigated across the highway and back down the island road where unmarked lane entrances lay hidden by the thick vegetation. Occasionally we passed a clearing, and if it had been daylight, you could’ve glimpsed the Intracoastal Waterway off the Port Royal Sound.

  “So how long have you been living on Lady’s Island?”

  “A day. I’m staying at the Larkin property for the summer.”

  “You’re not from these parts?”

  “No she isn’t. And if you’re going to ask her out, quit lollygagging and get it over with.”

  There were chuckles from the guys in the backseat.

  Francine’s face appeared drawn, and under the glow of the dashboard, I saw that her sodden fuzzy slippers had seen better days. “Turn’s coming. The Larkin place is around the next bend,” Forrest advised us.

  As we navigated a tight right, I could hear branches making contact with the side of the fire engine. “Hold on, ladies.”

  Parked in front of the house, a police car’s blue roof lights flashed. Forrest cut the engine. The reflection from the swirling lights streaked across the vacant house’s windows. Doors began slamming, and I studied Francine, who sat motionless.

  “I’m not going back in there.”

  “Neither am I. The authorities can take care of what we saw.”

  “I mean the big house.”

  “What?”

  “This place has bad juju. It’s not safe.”

  Her warning rendered me momentarily speechless. Francine wasn’t exactly easygoing, and I started to worry that she was going to bail on me for the summer, which would blow. Given a choice between hightailing my behind back to Canton, Ohio, to stay with Dad and work at his shop for minimum wage, which included subjecting myself to large doses of his aerobic-instructor girlfriend, or live in close proximity to the spot where someone had met an untimely end, by a slim margin I’d choose staying here. The setting on the sparsely inhabited island was killer, so to speak, and the internship would provide some extra pocket money as well as fulfilling the “work study” requirement for my scholarship.

  There was a rap on the passenger door, and a sheriff’s deputy, dressed in a black waterproof cape and plastic-covered baseball cap, squeezed the outside handle, letting rain splash the interior of the truck.

  “What exactly’s going on here?”

  I leaned over Francine. “We were looking for a tool in the garden shed, and there was a body strung up from the rafters.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “We’re staying at the Larkin property for the summer while Halbert Larkin is abroad.”

  “And who’s this?”

  “I’m Francine Battle. Summer intern at Hickley, Smith and Brisby law firm.”

  “You studying the law so you can turn poachers into gamekeepers?”

  “Err…innocent until proven guilty,” she managed to say without too much sarcasm.

  “If y’all say so. Do you have a number where Mr. Larkin can be reached?”

  “He said he’d leave an itinerary at his gallery in Beaufort. I’ve only arrived this afternoon, and I haven’t been there yet.”

  With an ax in hand, Forrest said, “Wilkes, ready when you are.”

  “You two best stay put. Where is this shed?” the deputy asked.

  I pointed and said, “That way,” but I spoke to his backside. He knew his way. I guess he’d been here before?

  Francine and I darted to the porch where a swing on a rusted chain link cable swung in the wind. A thin cushion covered the varnished slats. Already soaked through, I didn’t care where I sat. “Officer Wilkes is a real peach. I feel criminal for calling him out of his office in the rain.”

  Settling into a rocker, Francine rested her slipper feet on the joints near the curved legs. “Um-hmm.”

  The rain formed rivulets as it streamed off the porch cover, making a trough around the perimeter of where we sat. As the weather pounded, the ground released its heat, and the pungent air carried the heavy, earthy aroma of wet soil.

  “You’re quiet.”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t let the deputy unsettle you. His shift is probably over and he’s grumpy.”

  Her lips pressed together, and she patted moisture on her forehead with her sleeve. “I’m feeling a jittery unbalance.”

  “Well yeah.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. You’re a great cook. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t up for cutting down some tree for cabbage. I’m susceptible to bug bites. Had a bad run-in with chiggers in—”

  “Rachael.”

  “What?”

  “This conversation is not about cooking cabbage, it’s about being here. In this house. There’s a bad presence, I sense it.”

  She always overexaggerated. The situation did look grim, but I didn’t want to make a judgment before I had the facts.

  Wind pushed the rain sideways, further drenching my left side. “You’re a Baptist. Since when do you believe in woo-woo?”

  “Be careful what you saying, or you’ll summon up more than you bargained for. We need to find other accommodations.”

  My head clunked on the back of the bench, and I stared at the shadows on the baby-blue beadboard porch ceiling. “I’d stay somewhere else. But face it, this place is free, and the minimum wage that we’re both making wouldn’t be enough to afford rent, utilities, and food.”

  “What if whoever did that is sending one of us a warning.”

  I bolted upright. “One of us? You think this is about me.”

  Finding her fingernails engrossing, Francine couldn’t take her eyes off them. “You have a history of attracting trouble.”

  “That’s all behind me,” I stammered. “I have nothing to do with this. Jack Ray is in a jail cell somewhere, and Billy Ray’s swamp goo.”

  “What you mean?”

  Crap, t
here I go spilling the secret. “Trust me. He’s not in any position to cause anyone harm.”

  Francine waggled her finger. “I’m not riding your delusionary vibe, thinking that your stalker nemesis isn’t going to bother you. My bet is that nutso knows exactly where you are, and I for one am not available for his kind of terror.”

  Like I was?

  “I got me a great internship. Hundreds of students were lined up, and they chose me. Nothing, I repeat, nothing is gonna ruin it. If I have to find other lodging, so be it.”

  “Believe me, that body is not Billy Ray’s handiwork.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  The rain let up, and the water on the tin roof subsided into taps instead of thunks. I’d only told Travis, my best gay friend, about what happened spring break, sophomore year. Now, if I wanted Francine to stay here for the summer, I’d have to tell her too. “What I am about to say falls under lawyer-client confidentiality.”

  “I’m not a lawyer yet.”

  “But you will be.”

  Tilting her chin upward, Francine closed her eyes. “Lord have mercy, what have you done?”

  “Promise me.”

  She stared beyond me, and I twisted my head. Across the property, in the direction of the garden shed, we both saw flashlight beams scouring the property.

  “I promise.”

  “Spring break when we were at the Lowcountry boil behind Shucks, I went inside to use the little girl’s room.”

  Francine crimped her eyebrows. “Go on?”

  “Bill Ray cornered me inside the oyster warehouse.”

  Her hand flew to her heart, and she gasped with a questioning gaze before she whispered, “Did he?”

  I shook my head. “I wrangled out of his hold, ran outside and into the wooded lot across the street until I became trapped on a swamp’s edge.”

  Her feet slipped off the rocker legs and anchored on the porch. “I remember, your shoes were all muddy. I knew you were hiding something.”

  “He aimed a pistol at me.”