Nancy Bartholomew - Stand By Your Man

"Are you all right?" he asked. There was no hint of how he felt about me in those words, and at that point, I really wasn't looking for one. His hand reached out, involuntarily, to touch the thin line of blood that ran along my neck. "He do that?" he asked, his jaw muscle twitching.

"Yes."

"Okay." He turned away, studied Carlucci for a moment, and then looked back at me. "I'm gonna have to catch this call, it's mine and it'll take half the night doing the paperwork. Where are you staying?" It was obvious to both of us that I wouldn't be staying at my place.

"I guess with Jack." The jaw muscle twitched again, but I didn't hear him offer to take me back to the sanctuary of the Blessed Saint Wanda. I was out of options, and Jack was the only person I could think to turn to.

"All right, I'll get up with you in the morning then." He looked at the officer in charge. "We have your preliminary statement. I'll probably have a few questions."

Carlucci watched us now, his face still a neutral mask of resignation and indifference. As if he felt Carlucci, Weathers turned and walked toward him, his hand extended.

"Detective Weathers," he said. "Let's go on downtown and sort this out."

Carlucci pushed off the wall and stood looking at Weathers, his legs slightly apart, like a boxer, on his toes, waiting for a thrown punch. He was a good three or four inches taller than Marshall, and probably outweighed him by fifty pounds, but Marshall was all coiled strength and readiness. Neither man looked away. Carlucci's eyes were hooded, black pools that studied Weathers as if he were considering the invitation.

"All right," he said, finally, "let's get this over with."

He turned and walked toward the back door, with Marshall following him. Both men left without turning around, leaving me in a kitchen filled with the coppery scent of death.

They buried Nosmo King in a mausoleum. To Mama's way of thinking, that was all wrong. The way we were raised up, you couldn't get to heaven if you didn't go six feet under ground first. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," Mama said. "That don't mean sticking a body in a closet, like you're coming right back. It just ain't right. Dead," she said, "is dead, and let no man put that asunder by filing a body away in a drawer."

I stood on the edge of the crowd that had gathered and watched the entire proceeding before following the mile-long train of vehicles back to Nosmo King's farm out in Brown Summit.

Mama would've disapproved of the farm, too. It was a rich man's attempt to appear earnest, and Mama didn't like the foolishness of false pride. Nosmo King had crammed a riding ring, a huge barn, and an obviously manmade pond onto five acres of white-fenced property on the edge of a subdivision. His gleaming-new, green John Deere tractor sat parked beside the riding ring. Probably didn't even have gas in the tank.

Cadillacs, Mercedes, and an assortment of other vehicles lined the drive up to the house. Up where I came from, if it'd been a true farmer's funeral, you would've at least seen an old tractor or two, and it would've been pickup trucks lining that driveway, not leather-cushioned luxury cars.

I pulled the bug in behind a BMW and started making my way up the smooth, black asphalt driveway. That's when I began to hear the music. The closer I came to the house, the clearer it was. Fiddle, banjo, guitar, and mandolin. The musician in me started picking out notes, looking for the tune. They were playing Fisher's "Hornpipe," not at all the somber "Crossing Over Jordan" you might've expected. In fact, any music at all was pushing the borders of respectability.

Nosmo's brick two-story colonial had a black wreath on the door, along with an arrow that pointed toward the barn. Up ahead of me, ladies carried covered dishes, and a few of the men toted instrument cases. If I hadn't known this was a funeral reception, I would've figured it for a party.

By the time I reached the barn, I'd given up all pretense of appearing to be a mourner. The place was packed. People were everywhere, and not a sad face among them. I walked inside and looked around. Nosmo King's barn had never known a horse, or hay, or any farm equipment. Nosmo King's barn was an entertainment haven. Gleaming wood floor, wet bar along one side, kitchen along the other. Rows of tables set out here and there, and a sound system that made the Golden Stallion Country and Western Palace seem antiquated and small.

Bess King sat at a round table, surrounded by people who seemed to be expressing condolences. She looked wan and tired. I couldn't see any way to get to talk to her about Vernell, at least not now. I turned away from her and started toward the huge buffet table of food. When in doubt, I find it useful to eat. A person standing around with a plate of food looks harmless and approachable. I figured with a full plate, I could sit down at a table and observe without difficulty. No polite person questions someone when they're chewing. And what better than the homemade brownies I saw in the middle of the table?

Nosmo King's family had put on one hell of a spread. Mama still wouldn't have given it her stamp of approval, though-too many happy faces, and music. At a true southern funeral gathering there would've been just as many people and just as much food, but the voices would be hushed and respectful. If we laughed, it was because of a funny story told about the deceased, not because we were really having a good time. But all around me, people were laughing, and worst of all, they were drinking.

I stood there with my plate, watching, half looking for a place to sit and half amazed that there was a keg of beer sitting right out at a funeral luncheon. I looked over at Bess and saw that her mother had joined her. The two of them seemed to be the only ones in the room not enjoying the party.

"Makes you wonder, don't it?" a soft voice whispered.

I turned. Behind me stood Vernell Spivey, dressed in a cheap gray suit and sporting an even cheaper gray beard and hairpiece.

"Vernell!" I was so relieved to see him that I almost overlooked the getup and forgot the reason for his disappearance.

"Hush!" he commanded. He looked furtively from side to side. "Step over here."

He walked quickly to a deserted spot along the wall, in the shadow of all the activity, and turned his back on the crowd of partyers.

"Vernell, where the hell have you been?" I reached out and touched him, as if maybe he were an apparition.

He took a swig of beer from his cup and squared his shoulders. "Well, if you were thinking I run off and left you hanging, you're wrong. I'm gonna handle this, it's just that-"

"Vernell, put that beer down and talk straight! Do you know how much trouble you're in?"

He stood like a lanky scarecrow in front of me, and he did what he always does when he's dead wrong, he hung his head and looked sheepish. He was a little boy in a bad Abe Lincoln costume. He made it awfully hard to ride herd on him when he seemed so vulnerable.

"Aw now, Maggie," he said, "it ain't as bad as all that."

I hardened my heart, looked right past him, back out at the crowd and over to the big barn door. "Isn't it?" I said. "Then tell me this: If I was to tell you that Detective Marshall Weathers of the Greensboro Police Department had just stepped through that door over yonder, would you stick around to talk to him?"

Vernell's thin, pressed rat face drained of all color and his eyes widened. "You're kidding me, right?"

I looked back at Marshall, standing like a Texas Ranger, dressed in his charcoal-gray suit, and shook my head.

"Nope, I don't kid, Vernell. And as soon as his eyes adjust to the light in here, he's gonna be on you like a fat man at a pigpickin'."

"Catch you later," Vernell said, and started walking toward a side door.