The drive out to Ace Watkins’s farm took a few minutes, and as we rode, I tried to let the beauty of the fields along the drive capture me. The mountains out this way were wizened and curving, like an old woman’s body, and I found myself wondering how much they knew, how much they could tell if they could talk.
The Watkins farm lay alongside a shallow, wide river that got its start in the mountains above, and with the water and the mountains along two sides of the property, it was about as beautiful a spot as I could imagine.
Today, though, I wasn’t able to let myself get swept up in the beauty. I was too nervous about why we were out there in the first place. I knew there was more to this invitation than some old farm equipment, but what the more was, I couldn’t say. And that had my pulse sprinting.
Santiago parked beside the large barn that sat just in front of the old stone farmhouse, and I stepped out and took a deep breath. The air was filled with the smell of cut hay and the slightest hint of manure, which for a country girl like me smelled just about perfect. The farm was immaculate with tidy beds for flowers by the house and black painted fences, some with hot wire behind them, for the goats and pigs in the pens. Chickens wandered freely while an old hound dog snoozed on the porch. It was the perfect painting of a farm if I’d ever seen one, and I felt some of my anxiety slide out my feet. Nothing that terrible could happen in a place this beautiful. At least I hoped not.
As we walked toward the house, Mr. Watkins came onto his porch and waved. “Glad you could make it. The equipment is back here in the run-in shed. Come on.” He slung an arm over his head and turned beside the house, expecting us to follow. So we did.
When we got to the gray shed, I smiled. It was an antique pole barn with big, rough-hewn beams buried deep in the soil, and square-top nails driven through the boards. “This building is at least a hundred and fifty years old,” I said.
“Two hundred twenty, actually,” Mr. Watkins said. “It was built by the Pennsylvania Germans who came down. Just goes to show that when you take care of things, they last a long time.” He patted his belly and gave me a wink.
I laughed. “So true,” I said, trying to relax further now that we were talking about things I understood. Santiago smiled, too.
Mr. Watkins led us behind some huge stacks of hay and around the boxes of stuff that old farms simply seemed to accumulate. I was surprised how deep the building was until I realized it was built right into the hillside, a natural earth berm to keep the animals warm and cut down on material costs when building. It was genius.
There, at the back, I saw an old plow, but I was more distracted by the three folding chairs that were tucked into a corner. The old farmer pointed toward the chairs and then sat down in one himself. “When you leave, take that plow with you. We’ll just say the thresher was too far gone to be saved.”
I stared at him and then looked over at Santiago, who didn’t look nearly as puzzled as I felt. “You need to tell us something, Ace?” he said.
My head pivoted from Santiago to Mr. Watkins. “You do?”
“I needed to be sure no one would hear.” He swept his arm over his head. “We’re secure here.”
I glanced over at Santiago and saw a hint of a smile flash across his lips. He was enjoying the subterfuge, even if it was a little over the top. “Understood. What do you need us to know?”
Mr. Watkins leaned forward on his knees and folded his fingers together. “Melvin Smith killed Leo Farrow.” His voice was clear as day, and the sound almost echoed in the small space. “I saw him do it.”
I stifled a gasp and looked at Santiago who was nodding as if someone had just told him the special of the day was meatloaf. “Tell me what happened.”
“Melvin was piping mad at Farrow and the other men who avoided going into that war. Said they were cowards, and they put people like his nephew in danger because they didn’t do their duty.” Mr. Watkins sat back and sighed. “He needed to take it out on someone, I guess.”
I clenched my jaw and waited.
“That morning, he picked us all up—”
Santiago interrupted. “I’m sorry. Picked who up?”
“Oh, right. Me, Jimmy Salis, and Stephen Davis. He picked us up and said that he needed some help slinging hay. Given the season, a couple weeks later in the year than now, that made sense, so none of us asked any questions.”
Santiago took the notebook out of his pocket and said, “Go on.”
“We drove up past his daddy’s fields, on up into the hollow, and the whole time I had a bad feeling. But I didn’t say anything. Talk about a coward.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “When we pulled up to the Farrow place, Jimmy and I tried to stop Melvin. We jumped out of the back of his truck and tried to talk some sense into him, but he wasn’t hearing anything we was saying.”
I looked up at the metal roof of the shed and let out a long slow breath.
“Stephen and Jimmy refused to go in, and I wanted to stay with them. But I thought maybe I could stop whatever Melvin wanted to do if I went with him. So I ran ahead and tried to warn Leo, but his wife said he was sleeping and wouldn’t let me by.” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to push a woman, so I stopped. Stupid manners,” he whispered.
Here, old-fashioned manners were everything. We still called people ma’am and sir, even if they didn’t want us to. So I knew just what Mr. Watkins meant. That home training runs deep.
“Melvin was hell-bent, though. He pushed past her and charged into their bedroom. I ran behind him after helping Mrs. Farrow to her feet, but by the time I got there, it was too late. Farrow was dead on the rug, and Melvin was standing over him with the knife.” Mr. Watkins’ face had gone pale, and he seemed a little out of breath.
Out of that same impulse of politeness, I leaned forward and put my hand on his knee. “You okay?”
He looked down at me and nodded. “Better, now that I’ve said it.” He patted my hand.
Santiago sat forward and said, “What happened next?”
“Melvin rolled Farrow up in the rug, and I helped him carry him out the door.” Mr. Watkins shook his hands. “I didn’t know what to do, but I didn’t want Mrs. Farrow to have to deal with his body.”
I tried to imagine what I would have done in that situation, and while I hoped I wouldn’t have gone that far, I decided not to judge Mr. Watkins. Clearly, he had lived with the guilt of that day for a long time, and I knew that he would have to face the legal consequences now. I imagined he knew that, too, and had wanted Santiago here for that very reason.
“So then what?” Santiago prompted.
“Then we put him in the truck and drove him back a ways to the old barn. We’d all played there as boys, and we knew about the privy hole. Knew, too, that no one much went out there.”
“You dumped him and the knife there?” Santiago asked.
“Yes, sir. We did,” Mr. Watkins said and then let out a long breath. His story was done.
I really didn’t want to prolong this man’s discomfort, but I still had a question, a very personal one. “How did my dad and Homer end up there?”
Mr. Watkins looked at me. “Did I not say that?” he asked. “They were there the whole time.”
This time, I couldn’t resist my gasp, and I turned frantically to Santiago, who was looking at me with sadness. He knew, just like I did, that my dad hadn’t told us the whole truth. I felt like crying, but I forced myself to look at Mr. Watkins again and nod. “Thank you for telling us.”
Mr. Watkins stood and turned his back to Santiago. “You can take me in now,” he said as he forced his hands together behind his hips.
Santiago put a hand on his shoulder and turned him around. “That won’t be necessary. You will have to be charged, but I don’t have to arrest you. Just come down to the station tomorrow to make a statement, and we’ll take care of things then. I don’t think you’re a flight risk, are you?”
Mr. Watkins actually smiled. “Not likely. Those pigs get mighty feisty if they aren’t fed. We don’t need them running wild.”
I actually laughed at the idea of those giant, fat pink pigs running loose in the mountains, and I felt a little of the unease in my belly loosen. “That would be a sight,” I said.
“Would be, indeed,” Mr. Watkins said with a chuckle. “Speaking of which, those baby goats are wily, and if they see a car in by their pen, they can be pretty crafty about getting out to jump on the hood. We better go check on them.”
My boyfriend was a fast man when he needed to be, and as I watched him sprint ahead to be sure his cruiser hood wasn’t dented by bouncing goat feet, I took the chance to talk with Mr. Watkins alone. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Watkins?”
“Of course, but only if you call me Ace. Mr. Watkins was my dad.” He smiled at me. “You want to know what your dad knew, I expect.”
I stared at him and then nodded once.
“Nothing, girl. Not a thing. He was just a little tyke, he and Homer both. They trusted their daddies, as boys should, and to their credit, Jimmy did everything he could to keep them from knowing what was going on.”
“Everything but keep them from being there in the first place,” I spat.
Ace put his arm on my shoulder and turned me toward him. “I know you’re upset. And I understand why. But times were different then, and to be honest, Jimmy was doing more than most men did. His wife was busy with the little ones, and on Saturdays, when he wasn’t working, he tried to give her a bit of a break by taking Homer with him everywhere. Lots of times your dad tagged along while we men went fishing. With his daddy away, we tried to help your granny out by including him.”
Tears swam in my eyes as I thought about these men taking care of my dad. No wonder my dad was so quick to take care of Sawyer when I needed help. “I see,” I said. The story didn’t help me understand why my dad hadn’t told us the whole truth, but at least it gave a reason why he was exposed to such a horrible thing. Not a good reason, mind you, but a reason.
I sighed and on impulse hugged Ace. He gave me a quick pat on the back and then pulled away. I was pretty sure I saw tears in his eyes before he hustled on up the hill toward the house ahead of me.
On the ride back to my house, Santiago stayed quiet, and while I had about a thousand questions, most pressing of which was what this information meant for my dad, I didn’t say a word either. He clearly needed to gather his thoughts, and I knew that pressing him now would only frustrate both of us.
When we got to my house, I went upstairs to change my clothes, and I heard Santiago making tea in the kitchen. As I came down the stairs, he handed me a mug and pointed toward the front door. I led the way to the swing on the front porch, and when he sat down next to me, he said, “You okay?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. How about you?”
“I am, but this isn’t about my dad. What do you want me to do?” he asked quietly while he looked out over the field below us.
I stared at him for a moment. “You need to do what you need to do as the sheriff,” I said firmly. “My dad is a big boy. He made his choices.”
Santiago reached over and took my hand. “You know it’s not that simple, Pais.” He put my fingers to his lips. “Your dad is in a tough situation, one he didn’t create for himself.”
I sighed and then inhaled deeply. “I know. But he has always told me to tell the whole truth.”
“And nothing but the truth?” Santiago said with a small smile.
“He did always like Perry Mason,” I said. “I just don’t understand why he didn’t tell us everything.”
“Maybe it’s time we asked him that,” Santiago said just as I heard tires crunch on the driveway.
I stood and leaned around the side of the house to see my dad and Lucille parking. “You asked them to come over?”
“I hope that was okay. I needed to talk to him, and I figured you did, too. Thought maybe it was better if we both got it over with.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek before walking down the steps to meet my dad with an outstretched hand. “Thanks for coming.”
Dad and Lucille followed him back up on to the porch, where each of them took a rocker as Santiago sat back down next to me. “I heard you talked with Ace,” Dad said as soon as he’d turned his rocker to face us.
“We did,” I said. “And we learned that you know more than you’ve shared.” I didn’t even try to keep the knife out of my tone.
Dad furrowed his brow and looked at me. “What did he say?”
“He said you were there at the Farrow place when Leo Farrow was killed,” Santiago said. “Is that true?”
Dad sat back and pushed his rocker back and forth for a few moments before he said, “I don’t know.”
I stared at my father. “What do you mean you don’t know? Either you were there when a man was murdered or you weren’t. How can you not know that?” My voice was getting louder, and I only kept from shouting because Santiago rubbed a hand over my knuckles.
“I mean I don’t know. I can’t remember everything from that day. Just bits and pieces.” Dad sighed and massaged the back of his neck. “I’ve tried, but I really can’t remember.”
Lucille looked at me and said, “You know, Paisley, that sometimes traumatic events make us forget.” She studied my face. “I expect you’ve had that experience.”
I took a deep breath and thought back to the last few months of my marriage, when my husband’s behavior had gotten erratic as his drinking had gotten heavier. I had a few very specific memories from those days, but I also had lots of blanks, lots of places where the memories felt fuzzy or like snapshots instead of films. I inhaled deeply again and nodded.
“Your dad” – Lucille looked at my father and then continued – “has lots of memories like that from his childhood.”
I could tell there was a lot more to that sentence than my stepmother was saying, but I also knew she would let my dad say what he wanted, now that she’d helped bridge the communication gap between us.
“Really, Dad? Was your childhood bad?” Dad didn’t talk about his early years much except to tell funny stories about life on the farm or the time a wild boar chased him through the woods, but since we had regularly seen my grandparents – his parents – when I was a kid, I had assumed everything was okay with them; not perfect maybe, but good generally. Like it was with my dad and me.
“I wouldn’t say it was bad,” my dad said, “but some things were hard.” He looked at Lucille. “Your papa wasn’t an easy man to please, and your granny, she was too sweet for her own good sometimes.” Dad swallowed. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that.”
I looked from him to Lucille, and she sighed. Clearly, there was a lot more here, but for now, we had to deal with the situation at hand. “Okay, so you don’t remember that day completely?”
Dad shook his head. “I don’t. I have a very clear picture of us in that barn and the rug, and I remember knowing something really bad was happening. But I really don’t know if I knew what had happened or even if I was at the Farrow place.” He looked at me. “But if Ace says I was, then, I suspect he’s right.”
“Okay,” Santiago said. “But if you can’t remember, do you think Homer can?”
Dad sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve always been afraid to ask. But maybe.” Dad took out his phone. “Mind if I invite him over?”
“Seems like it might be a good idea,” I said. “I’ll order in some barbecue, slaw, and hushpuppies.” We had this new barbecue place just up the road, and I’d been dying to try it out. Now seemed like as good a time as any, especially since they delivered. “Dr Pepper okay for everyone?”
The three other people on my porch nodded, and I went inside to place our order, and to gather my thoughts. It was a big thing to absorb that my dad hadn’t experienced the great childhood I had, but I also realized that the fact he had worked so hard to give me a good one meant even more now.
When I went back out to the porch after placing an order for two dozen hushpuppies, a pound of pork barbecue, a pound of brisket, and a pound of coleslaw, the mood was much lighter. Dad was telling Santiago the infamous wild boar and the shortcut story, and Santiago was laughing at the image of my dad being chased by a pig through the woods.
Lucille stood as I approached and said, “Show me your garden?”
I slipped my hand through hers and led her around the house. As we wandered through the gate into the garden, Lucille slipped her hand over mine on her arm. “He’s never told you.”
Without looking at her, I shook my head. “Not even enough for me to know what you’re talking about.”
She sighed. “Your grandfather’s idea of discipline sometimes involved a beating with an axe handle.”
I gasped and dropped my arm. “What?! He beat Daddy?” Tears were already on my cheeks.
“Your father doesn’t call it beating. He calls it ‘spanking.’” She made air quotes with her fingers. “But yes, he was beaten. Often, it seems.”
I put my hands over my mouth. “I can’t . . .” All I could think was that I was glad my grandfather was dead because there was no way I could face him after learning that.
“Apparently, it was a very dark house, but your dad doesn’t like to dwell there, doesn’t like to think it affected him much or at all. He believes it’s all in the past, not something that he needs to deal with now.” From the tone of Lucille’s voice, I could tell she didn’t agree with my father, but she knew as well as I did that my father was the most stubborn of men when it came to something he didn’t want to do, especially if it involved his health.
I nodded. “That’s why he doesn’t remember,” I said matter-of-factly, but I didn’t add that this was also probably part of the reason that Ace and the other fathers had taken Daddy with them so much. They just wanted to give my dad a break from all the darkness at his house.
“Right. He can’t remember, and he doesn’t really want to, I think.” Lucille plucked a Roma tomato from the vine. “At our age, I can’t really blame him.”
I pulled out the front of my T-shirt and began filling it with tomatoes. “I guess, but in this case . . .” I was torn between wanting to help Santiago solve this murder and wanting to protect my dad, at least from his memories.
“In this case, your father is trying, Paisley. He keeps running through that day, and I expect he may uncover more. But maybe not.” She dropped a handful of cherry tomatoes into my shirt and then headed toward the okra.
“Right. And maybe Santiago doesn’t need more. If Dad thinks it was possible he was there, then maybe that’s enough to corroborate Ace’s story.” I was hoping, anyway.
“I’m actually hoping that maybe Homer will return your father’s kindness and fill in some of the gaps for all of us.” She placed a huge handful of way-too-big okra into my shirt. “Here he is now, in fact.”
I looked over at the drive and saw Homer’s truck pull in, and behind it another car was coming up the driveway. At first, I thought it was the barbecue delivery, but then I recognized Mika’s face and saw Saul in the passenger’s seat. I hoped I’d ordered enough food.
“Sorry to just drop by,” Mika said as she jogged over. “I didn’t realize other people would be here, but Saul and I were curious about what Ace Watkins had to say.”
I gave her a hug. “Happy to have you. One sec.” I stepped around her and hugged Homer Salis. “Thanks for coming, Uncle Homer.”
“I figured it was time we talk all this through.” He smiled at me. “Plus, I heard there was barbecue.”
Just then, a fancy car came down the lane, and it took me a minute to realize that this was our delivery driver. When the man stepped out, I did a double take. He was about my dad’s age, with a perfect cut to his silver hair and cuff links on his collared shirt. This was not a typical delivery person.
“Got a delivery for Paisley Sutton,” he said as he handed me two bags of food. “Threw in an extra pound of barbecue on the house.”
I studied his face and then his car. This was the Tesla that had followed me the day before, but I didn’t know the driver. “Well, thank you,” I said, “but please let me pay for the extra food.” I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I didn’t trust the gift.
“Melvin!” my dad said as he came across the yard. “You take a demotion at the restaurant?” He shook the man’s hand.
“Nope, just saw who the delivery was for and wanted to make your daughter’s acquaintance. Melvin Smith,” he said as he stuck his hand out to me. “I’ve known your dad since we were in T-ball.”
I stared at my dad, and he made the slightest nod with his head before saying, “Best runner on the team, as I recall,” he said with a laugh that I knew was forced but probably sounded genuine to everyone else. “Join us for dinner?”
“Well, if I wouldn’t be imposing, I’d like that.” He stepped over to Homer and shook his hand, too. “Good to see you, Homer. Got quite a reunion here.” The men headed across the yard to the porch.
Dad turned back and said, “Paisley, if you and Lucille want to get us set up, I’ll send Santiago and Mika in to help.” He met my gaze and held it. Dad was already thinking I needed to give them a heads-up.
“Sounds good,” Lucille said before grabbing my arm and tugging me toward the side door. “Well, this definitely just got a whole lot more interesting.”