Margaret Maron: Bootlegger’s Daughter

“Oh? And what about your daddy?” I cooed sweetly. “Doesn’t he mind about you supporting Democrats?”

He shrugged indifferently. “I’m sure you know my daddy doesn’t give a damn what I do long as it doesn’t make the six o’clock news.” He spotted Morgan Slavin’s long blonde hair and ambled off to make her acquaintance.

I wasn’t sure which rankled more: that he’d written that letter to the editor to ingratiate himself with my father or that he’d opted to flirt with Morgan instead of me.

Soon Minnie sent one of her children to locate me and bring me up to the side porch where Daddy waited with Barry Blackman and my brothers and sisters-in-law. Minnie made a graceful speech of welcome, acknowledged the notables, spoke of Democratic unity, then introduced Daddy, who welcomed everybody again and said he hoped they’d forgive him for being partial to one particular candidate.

Laughter.

“Now some of y’all’ve seen her hold her own against all the menfolk in this family, so you know she can handle anything they throw at her. The only thing against her is that she’s my daughter, and there ain’t much she can do about that. I just hope y’all’ll vote for her anyhow.”

Laughter and applause.

Next, Minnie introduced Porter Creech, the most colorful official in the Department of Agriculture and one of Daddy’s old hunting buddies. He began with a couple of sly remarks about how much it pleasured him to speak on behalf of the daughter of a farmer who’d done so much for agriculture: “A man, ladies and gentleman, who single-handedly increased the production of corn in this county by twenty-seven percent all during the thirties and forties. And when he quit raising corn-least he says he’s quit?”

(“Just enough for the cows,” Daddy said amid more laughter from the crowd.)

“When he quit raising cain, he started turning out a bumper crop of fine upstanding citizens, including this young lady here, who brings it back full circle. I’ve known her since she was nothing but a twinkle in Kezzie Knott’s eye and a blush on Susan Knott’s cheeks. I’ve watched her grow. I know what kind of intelligence and integrity she will bring to the bench if she’s elected.”

My three b’s of public speaking are be bright, be brainy, be brief; and since the first two would only undercut Porter Creech’s remarks, I limited myself to a few words of welcome, thanked them for their support, and concluded by turning to Barry as I said, “Preacher Barry Blackman has kindly agreed to ask the Lord’s blessing on us all.”

Barry delivered an eloquent prayer of thanksgiving for food and fellowship, then folks headed for the cookers, where the three master cooks had sliced the meat from the bone, deftly mixed some of the dry meat from the hams with the juicier shoulders, chopped it together a little, and were now prepared to start serving. Good servers can eyeball a crowd and tell whether to load the plates or stretch the meat out a little further to make sure everybody gets some.

At the head of the double-sided table were bowls of additional sauce labeled Hot, Hotter and The Devil Made Me Do It. There were huge platters of deep-fried onion-flavored hush puppies, bowls of cole slaw, and more bowls of Brunswick stew. A dozen or more round tables, each with ten chairs, dotted the grass, but many people either sat in lawn chairs they’d thought to bring or perched on a low stonewall that had defined Mother’s iris border.

I stood with my brothers and sisters-in-law for another thirty minutes or so, shaking hands with late arrivals, accepting their words of encouragement, and telling them, “Now y’all be sure and get you some of that pig before it’s all gone.”

We’d already used a host’s privilege and fixed ourselves a sandwich a couple of hours earlier when the pigs were turned, so we were in no hurry to fill a plate.

I was surprised to see Faith Vickery near the end of the line.

“So pleased y’all could come,” Minnie said, clasping her hand warmly.

“Well, Mama thought it would be good to get out of the house,” Faith said. She’d lived in California so long that there was no Southern accent left. Only the “Mama” betrayed her. She looked a little worried though as she said, “I just hope she isn’t overdoing. I haven’t seen her in the last half-hour.”

“Maybe down by the shelter?” said Will’s wife, Amy. “I thought I saw her going that way a little while ago.”

“Thanks,” said Faith and set out to find her.

“Is Dr. Vickery here, too?” I asked, not having noticed either of them.

“Faith and Mrs. Vickery are the only ones I’ve seen,” said Seth, and Haywood’s wife added, “If he’s here, he came by himself because he wasn’t in the car with them that I saw.”

Our reception line disintegrated as the others drifted off to eat or socialize. I lingered a moment to savor the relative quiet.

Stars were coming out and bats were graceful silhouettes as they swooped and darted overhead for night-flying insects.

Lights had been strung through the trees, and as twilight deepened, the fiddlers started tuning up down at the potato house, a warehouse-sized structure where hundreds of crates of sweet potatoes were cured out each fall. Tonight, the big space had been cleared except for a makeshift musicians’ platform at the far end. The sliding metal doors had been shoved up onto their overhead tracks, and strings of small clear lights turned the place into an open-air dance hall.

Uncle Ash was back from South America, and he and Aunt Zell were already following the teenagers down the slope for some serious square dancing.

I was surprised to see that people were still arriving and hoped it omened something for the runoff. The side pasture was lined three deep in cars, but the snaggle-toothed child who’d been helping her brother direct traffic had wandered down to the shelter. I saw her talking to Gayle Whitehead and pointing back through the crowd.

I hadn’t had much opportunity to talk to Gayle since Denn’s death and indeed, I’d almost tried to avoid her because she kept wanting to talk about the SBI’s failure to find Denn and Michael’s killer, and I couldn’t really comment on the drug-connection theory making the rounds because Terry Wilson had sworn me to silence.

On the other hand, there was still such a ragged and unfinished feeling that I couldn’t quite put it behind me either. Usually when I hear a murder case unraveled in front of a jury, I’m left with a satisfied sense of understanding how and why. This time, some of Michael’s actions still weren’t clear, and I knew Gayle had begun to pick up on my frustration.

Stevie came past. “Neat party, huh?” he said. “I’m ready to boogie. You seen Gayle?”

“Right over-” I started to point, then realized Gayle was no longer there. “Well, she was right over there.”

As he headed off to look for her in the growing darkness, I had one quick surge of envy that there wasn’t somebody special here for me, too. Before the night was over I’d probably dance with Jed Whitehed, Terry Wilson, Dwight Bryant, maybe even Gray Talbert, but none of them would quicken my pulse the way Gayle quickened Stevie’s.

More people were drifting down toward the music and dancing now, though there were animated huddles around several tables with brisk political discussions and bursts of raucous laughter here, some quiet lapel-pulling there. I saw the tobacco lobbyists in earnest conversation with one of our state assemblymen. There was such a shortfall in revenues that for the first time in years there was serious talk that the state assembly might actually consider raising the three-cents-a-pack cigarette tax.

Bo Poole was in earnest conversation with the vice president of the Democratic Women as I passed.