When Lizzy learned that Senator Long’s Wednesday afternoon speech had been moved from the courthouse square to the Boll Weevils’ baseball field, she had decided she wouldn’t go. The day promised to be cloudless and hotter than blazes, the field offered no shade, and she wasn’t that interested in the senator’s message. In fact, she had the distinct impression that Long was more of a sideshow than a serious candidate, and probably not worth listening to.
Mr. Moseley (who had just gotten back from a few days in Montgomery) had a different idea. When he heard that Huey Long would be making a campaign speech in Darling that afternoon, he insisted that they go—not because he thought the senator was worth hearing, but because he felt obliged to hear what Long had to say.
“I hope Roosevelt is taking that man seriously,” Mr. Moseley said in an ominous tone. “Long is as corrupt as a dead skunk crawling with maggots. But where voters are concerned, those catchy slogans of his have a strong populist appeal—strong enough to fire up a third-party challenge and knock FDR out of the White House in ’36. If Huey does that, he can put himself into the presidency in ’40, and then it’s Katy bar the door.” His face was dark. “I’d hate to think what would happen with Long in the Oval Office and Hitler and Mussolini threatening to gobble up Europe and Africa.”
Lizzy shivered. “You don’t really think that’s going to happen, do you? Long in the Oval Office, I mean.”
She wasn’t sure about the “gobble” part, either. Hitler was frightening, and the Nuremberg rallies she had seen in the newsreels made her anxious. It certainly looked like a storm was brewing. Surely the Nazis couldn’t wield enough power to threaten all of Europe, though. Could they?
But Mr. Moseley was still talking about Senator Long. “I don’t think he’s likely to get elected in ’36. But he has a lot of support out there, especially across the South and the Midwest. That’s why we ought to listen to what the man has to say. Hear what he’s promising people.”
When she was still slow to say yes, he added, “Well, I’m going, Liz, and I wish you’d go with me. We can hear Long out, then drive over to Monroeville and sample that new Cajun-Creole eatery. The Jambalaya Shack, it’s called.” He gave her an appreciative glance. “You look pretty in that yellow dress, like you’re ready for an evening out with an old friend. And I’m told that the Shack gets three or four sacks of oysters every Wednesday afternoon, fresh from Mobile Bay. If we leave right after Long’s talk, we might get a dozen before they’re gone.”
Lizzy had the feeling that there was something behind this invitation. Had Mr. Moseley somehow heard about Ryan Nichols and wanted to make sure she didn’t mope around, feeling sorry for herself? But that didn’t seem likely. He had come back from Montgomery late the night before and appeared in the office by nine that morning. She hadn’t mentioned it, of course. Who else might have told him? Verna? Ophelia? Mr. Duffy?
There wasn’t any answer to that question, of course. It wouldn’t matter, anyway—he would find out sooner or later. That’s just how Darling was. No matter how hard you might try to keep a secret, it was bound to get out. Mr. Moseley made it a point to know everything that happened in town. He would certainly hear that Ryan had lied about being single, probably from Alvin Duffy himself.
“Well, I can’t say no to fresh oysters.” She managed a laugh and handed him the stack of invoices she had typed the day before. He always reviewed them, in case he wanted to make adjustments for deserving people who couldn’t pay their bills. That was one of the things she had always admired about Bent Moseley. He cared about his clients’ welfare.
“That’s terrific,” Mr. Moseley said with satisfaction, taking the invoices. “It’ll be something to look forward to, while we bake our brains in the sun and listen to Long firing up the crowd.” He grinned. “Inside of fifteen minutes, he’ll have them all convinced that he’s the only one who can fix what ails America. Unless they vote for him, they’ll be chewing on their old boots for beef jerky and begging the Red Cross for a sack of cornmeal and a bushel of sweet potatoes. That’s one of his favorite lines, you know. It shows up in every speech. We’ll probably hear it this afternoon.”
• • •
That was why Lizzy found herself sitting on the fourth (and next to the top) row of the bleachers under her yellow umbrella, watching Mr. Moseley make his way across the field to talk with Sheriff Norris and Deputy Springer at the gate. Tall, lean, and athletic, he wasn’t especially good-looking. But he had an air of confident command and personal authority that inspired respect in most people—and in Lizzy, admiration.
Around her, the bleachers were filling up. In the rows below, Lizzy could see quite a few Dahlias. There was Bessie Bloodworth, sitting between Aunt Hetty Little and Miss Rogers, Darling’s librarian. Miss Rogers was wearing that funny little feathered hat that she always wore to revival meetings, while Aunt Hetty wore a wide-brimmed purple straw hat and Bessie was bareheaded. Farther down, on the front row, she could see Earlynne Biddle and Mildred Kilgore, with Violet Sims and her little girl, Cupcake, and Uncle Hiram Bond and his big accordion, part of the entertainment for today’s event. Beulah Trivette and Bettina Higgens sat right behind them, chatting with Alice Ann Walker. Verna wasn’t far away, with Mr. Duffy. And just behind them sat Charlie Dickens, with a man Lizzy had never seen before. He was probably Charlie’s newspaper-reporter friend, the one Lizzy had heard about—Virgil somebody, who covered Senator Long for one of the wire services. Doc Roberts, Darling’s family doctor, was sitting with them, eating a hot dog.
Everybody in the bleachers seemed to be keeping an eye on the gate beyond left field, where the senator was expected to drive in. Lizzy wondered whether they were all fervent Long supporters. Or maybe they had come (as she had) because somebody else insisted. Or because Long was always making the news and they wanted to see for themselves. Or because they didn’t have anything better to do and were looking for entertainment.
On the speaker’s platform, Benny Biddle was crouching behind the podium, fiddling with a microphone and some wires—the hookup to WDAR, Lizzy guessed. Behind him, on the field, the band was now playing the opening bars of “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” her favorite Sousa march. It was upbeat and stirring and as she listened, she smiled—and then found herself smiling because . . . well, because she was smiling.
She had gone to bed the night before feeling disillusioned and deceived. Angry, too, and not just at Ryan. Almost as much as he had used her, she had allowed herself to be used. She would never let that happen again, she vowed.
But when she got up this morning and looked at herself in her dressing table mirror, she promised her reflection that she wasn’t going to let bitterness poison her life. She had put Ryan Nichols behind her. She had been foolish, but luckily, her heart wasn’t broken, only a little dented. She had escaped his deceit and her mistake without serious damage to her sense of self-worth or her personal integrity. She would go on with her work for Mr. Moseley. She would spend more time on her new book. There might be something missing in her life, but it was full enough.
So while Daffy watched from the foot of her bed, Lizzy had brushed her hair until it shone, put on some bright lipstick and a little rouge, and buttoned herself into a sunny yellow cotton dress with a white portrait collar, white-cuffed short sleeves, and a white belt. Today, she would make herself smile.
But now she realized that smiling didn’t take any real effort. She had lots to smile about, even if she had to sit through an hour of Huey Long’s political bombast. She and her friend Bent—not Mr. Moseley, since they were out of the office—were going to enjoy a plate of fresh oysters and some different and tasty food at the new restaurant in Monroeville. And when Verna put up a hand and waved at her, she waved back with a big smile.
A few moments later, Bent had finished his conversation with the sheriff and was climbing the bleachers to resume his seat beside her. He had stopped at Mr. Turnbuckle’s refreshment stand and was carrying a white paper bag full of hot buttered popcorn and a couple of bottles of cold Dr Pepper. He sat down beside her and handed her one of the bottles.
“Since we’ve come to watch the circus,” he said, “I thought we should have some popcorn and soda pop.”
The two of them munched in silent appreciation for a while, listening to the band, now playing the Alabama state song that had been adopted a few years ago. Everybody stood up and some tried to sing along. But since the song had seven verses and almost nobody knew the words, all but a few had to stop singing. Most people managed to join the last line of the verses, though: Alabama, Alabama, we will aye be true to thee . . .
Lizzy and Bent sat down again. The band finished “Alabama” and the players began shuffling through their music, looking for the next song. Bent ate another handful of popcorn. And then, his eyes on the field, he spoke into the silence.
“I’ve closed the Montgomery office, Liz.”
“Closed—” Startled, Lizzy turned to stare at him. “But . . . but why?” She handled the billing, so she knew the office hadn’t been losing money.
He ate another kernel of popcorn, then another. “Judge McHenry and the Cypress County commissioners have decided to make the county attorney’s position full time and elective. They’ve asked me to serve until the next election. I’ve agreed.”
Lizzy blinked, still trying to process this unexpected news. “But that question has come up before and you’ve said no. Why are you saying yes now?”
“Because I don’t like what I’m doing in Montgomery,” he said finally. “I don’t like what everybody has to do, when they work in a city where every single decision is fueled by political ambition.” Another kernel. “I don’t like the way I feel when I’m working on a case that isn’t as . . . as clean as I wish it were. There’s nothing I can do to change things. So I’ve decided to get out.”
As clean as I wish it were? Lizzy couldn’t see his face, but she knew him well enough to know that there was more here, and she needed to know what it was. She took a deep breath. “Does Mr. Jackman’s indictment have anything to do with this?”
Surprised, he slid a sidelong look at her. “You know about that?”
“I read about it,” she said. “In the newspaper.” A few weeks before, she had picked up a copy of the Montgomery Advertiser from Mr. Moseley’s desk. On the front page, below a black banner headline, was a story about a power company executive and two attorneys who had been indicted on criminal charges of mail fraud, wire fraud, and bribery. The charges related to land that the Tennessee Valley Authority was acquiring for a dam on the Tennessee River in northern Alabama. If the three men went to trial and were found guilty, they would face heavy fines and lengthy prison terms. One of the attorneys was Jeremy Jackman, a close friend from Mr. Moseley’s law-school days and an associate in the Montgomery office.
And of course Lizzy knew Mr. Jackman. He was the attorney for whom she had worked immediately after Grady’s marriage to Sandra. He had been kind enough to hire her for a few months so she could escape from Darling and its inevitable gossip. And it was Mrs. Jackman who had introduced her to Nadine Fleming, now her literary agent. Whether Mr. Jackman was found guilty or innocent, the scandal was likely to end his legal career. Lizzy knew it must be difficult for both of them.
Bent leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, eyes on the field. “I’ve agreed to help with Jeremy’s defense, of course. But I’ve been considering this decision for nearly a year. I stopped taking new clients a couple of months ago and the ones who are left are being transferred to another lawyer.” He turned toward her. “I’m coming back to Darling, Liz. I’m going to practice the kind of law I really want to practice, in a place where I can be who I am. Who I want to be. It’s as simple as that, really.”
He spoke with controlled passion, and Lizzy didn’t doubt him. He had often spoken about his unhappiness with what he called “big-city law,” which was heavily influenced by the cut-and-slash politicking that went on in the state’s capital—as opposed to “country law,” which was what he practiced in rural Cypress County.
But there was something in Bent’s voice that made her suspect that perhaps this wasn’t the whole truth, or the only truth. Was there something about the Jackman indictment—about the bribery scandal itself—that had made Bent decide to pull out of Montgomery? Was he implicated? He had business dealings across the state, and it wouldn’t be a surprise if the sale of land to the TVA was one of them. Was he involved in the scandal in some way or another? He held out the bag of popcorn and she took a few kernels. If he was, she didn’t think she wanted to know about it.
Or maybe his decision had something to do with Moira Skelton, who (from everything that Liz had heard about her) was an adroit political animal. Perhaps Moira had decided to end their relationship, and Bent had chosen this way to deal with his disappointment. Perhaps he had asked her to marry him and move to Darling and she had laughed and said that was ridiculous.
In the years Liz had worked in the law office, she had learned that decisions could be a lot like onions: made up of tightly wrapped layers, some so deeply hidden that they were impossible to reach and even more impossible to fully understand. She had the feeling that there was more to closing the Montgomery office than Bent wanted her to know just now. More, perhaps, than he knew. And certainly more than she wanted to know.
So she asked a different question—an easier one, on the face of it, but one that also had to be answered. It was a worrisome question, since it concerned her paycheck. But she made her voice as casual as she could.
“If you close the Montgomery office, can we afford to keep the Darling office open?”
While Mr. Moseley’s Montgomery clients generally paid their legal bills on time and in real dollars, the Darling clients were more likely to pay late and in kind. A client might bring a half-dozen laying hens to the office, for instance, or a fat pig. They had received a bushel of peaches in June, sweet corn and watermelons in July, potatoes and pumpkins at Thanksgiving, a half-cord of firewood at Christmas. The Montgomery office had always brought in more money—and in lean times, it had actually kept the Darling office afloat.
Bent gave a careless shrug, as if this was the last thing on his mind. “The county attorney’s job will be a paid position. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, Liz. We make more money in the capital city, it’s true. But money isn’t what I need. What I need most is to get out of the political rat race, not get dragged deeper into it.” His voice was gruff. “And out of Montgomery. There, it’s hard to say no, especially to . . . certain people.”
He fell silent, and Lizzy understood that, while he wanted her to think that money wasn’t important, the question was simply one he wasn’t prepared to answer right now. And saying no to certain people . . . was he thinking of Moira Skelton? She had met the woman only a few times, but she had the feeling that absence might make Miss Skelton’s heart grow fonder—and then what? Would she make an effort to reclaim the man who got away? Lizzy thought briefly of what Edna Fay had said about Miss Skelton’s “duplicity” being a hazard for Bent but then pushed the thought away. She was never one to invent trouble where trouble didn’t exist. Moira Skelton—past, present, or future—was Bent’s business, not hers.
He cleared his throat. “I made the announcement at the end of last week. There’s the Jackman case and one or two others that I’ll be handling from here. There’ll be a few court appearances in the city, but aside from those, I’ll be in Darling full time.” His chuckle was slightly rueful. “There’ll be two of us in the office, five days a week, from now on. Are you ready for that, Liz?”
Lizzy didn’t have to give her answer any thought at all. The words came easily, quickly. “You know I’m with you, whatever you choose to do.”
His eyes met and held hers. “Yes,” he said. “I know that. I’ve even been hoping that we might—”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. There was a stir in the crowd around them. A man shouted “Hey, here comes Huey!”
Somebody else cried, “Lookee over there, folks—it’s the Kingfish! He’s here!”
Everyone turned to look out past left field, toward the gate. Cheering and whistling, people began to wave the little American and rebel flags they had brought. Signs went up: DARLING FOR HUEY. WE LOVE SENATOR LONG! TAKE THE LONG WAY TO THE WHITE HOUSE! The band struck up a bouncy, energetic “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here” as a gleaming blue Cadillac sedan with white sidewall tires and a US flag fluttering from its hood ornament drove through the gate, closely flanked by two sleek black Chevys.
There was more cheering as the entourage sped across the field and stopped beside the speaker’s platform. The Chevrolets’ doors popped open and six very large men in dark suits and fedora hats jumped out, forming a protective pod around the Cadillac. Several wore their jackets conspicuously open to reveal guns on their hips. One was holding a large paper bag, which looked to Lizzy as if it might conceal a weapon. All of them kept their eyes on the crowd, which had begun a rhythmic foot-stamping, accompanied by a loud chant, “Huey, Huey, Huey!”
Lizzy felt a chill. “Those men,” she said, under the noise. “They’re his bodyguards?”
“That’s right,” Bent replied tersely. “Long has at least six around him at all times—the bigger the better, all of them armed. The man may be paranoid, but he has reason to be.” He glanced at the crowd in the bleachers. “Yes, plenty of people love him. But just as many hate him. And for all anybody knows, there could be a hater right here.”
The Academy band marched around the right end of the platform and sat down in the folding chairs lined up on the field. Darling Mayor Jed Snow, Share Our Wealth Club president Earlynne Biddle, Reverend Peters, little Cupcake, and Uncle Hiram Bond (carrying his accordion) got up from their front-row bleacher seats and filed up the platform steps to take chairs behind the speaker’s podium. Benny Biddle handed Cupcake a microphone and—Shirley Temple style—she performed a spirited song-and-tap-dance version of the senator’s campaign song, with Uncle Hiram accompanying her on his accordion. She was cute as a button, Lizzy thought, in a perky red and white pinafore over a blue dress, and her tap dancing was flawless.
When Cupcake had finished her song and while everybody was applauding, the Cadillac’s door burst open and the senator popped out like a genie out of a bottle. He was of average height, but because he was inches shorter than his oversized bodyguards around him, he looked like a dwarf. His white suit was rumpled, his red bow tie was crooked, and his bulbous nose made him look like a W. C. Fields cartoon. As the crowd roared, he grinned toothily and flung both hands high over his head, fingers in the classic V-for-victory sign. He stood for a moment, grinning and gesturing, then dashed up the platform stairs while the crowd rose to its collective feet and began to stamp and shout.
The six men in dark suits who had jumped out of the two black Chevys now stationed themselves at attention at either end of the speaker’s platform, alertly scanning the crowd. Senator Long took the only empty seat on the platform as Jed Snow got up to introduce Reverend Peters. The reverend offered a lengthy seven-paragraph prayer, calling down blessings on those on the platform and in the bleachers, as well as on shut-ins who couldn’t come out today, and especially on their good brother Huey P. Long, may the Lord continue to smile on him. Then Earlynne Biddle got up and said that the Darling Share Our Wealth Club was astonishingly proud to welcome the amazing Senator Long to their humble little town, and without further ado, here was Senator Long!
And then Huey Long went up to the microphone and told them that he wasn’t going to make a speech. He had just dropped in to say hello to all the fine Darlin’ friends who had gone to the trouble of gatherin’ in the blazin’ sunshine to hear him today. No speech, just a few words off the top of his head and from the bottom—indeed, the very bottom—of his heart. With great earnestness, he clasped both hands over the left side of his chest, to show where his heart was.
But he was afraid his few words weren’t very happy words, and for that, he sincerely apologized in advance. What had to be said had to be said, howsomever, and he was a-goin’ to say it.
And then, in a twangy, slangy, folksy, booming voice that could be heard in the top row of the bleachers and beyond, the senator began his speech—the same speech-that-wasn’t-a-speech that he had given in Birmingham and Atlanta and St. Louis and points west.
“Now I know you folks have heard it said many a time that the saddest words of tongue or pen are these, ‘It might have been.’ But I have to tell you Darlin’ people that the saddest words I have for you are ‘I told you so,’ which I say and have said and will go on sayin’ as long as the good Lord gives me breath.” He chuckled, and as a kind of aside, said, “I used to get things done by addin’ please when I asked folks to do something. Now, I don’t bother with that. I just dynamite the naysayers outta my path and get on with the bidness.”
He paused for the laughter, then pulled himself up on his tiptoes, leaned forward, and whispered into the microphone. “Yes, you heard me right a minute ago, folks. I told you so. I told you—’”
He straightened up and slapped the podium hard with the flat of his hand. It sounded like a gunshot and everybody jumped. “I told you folks that the government of the US of A was out to take ever’ penny of what little you’ve got and give it to the rich folks and the bankers and the big corporations on Wall Street. And I told you that if we’re a-gonna make America great again, we have got to put a stop to the dastardly, low-down, double-dealing that comes out of the White House and the halls of Congress and gets parroted and praised in the newspapers, which are full of nothin’ but fake news.” Another pause, this time for a murmur of agreement. “And today I aim to tell you just how we’re a-gonna do this—how we are a-gonna make every man a king, and all you wimmin and childern too!”
“AMEN, brother!” a man shouted from the bleachers. “We’re a-gonna be kings! Hear that, folks? We are all a-gonna be KINGS! Praise the Lord!”
And with that, the crowd jumped to its feet, erupting into another roar, and kept on roaring until Huey raised his arms and made them sit down again. When they were almost quiet, he swung into a rambling story about a poor Alabama dirt farmer who was trying his gol-darndest best to grow cotton on his measly little fifty-some acres.
“Which he farms,” Huey said, “with the help of his five strappin’ boys and his faithful mule, Petunia. Yes, that was her name, Petunia, and she was a beauty, she was. One hundred percent mule and stubborn as God made her.
“But come last year, Mr. Roosevelt’s New Deal gov’ment wouldn’t let that farmer plant but a third of his usual crop—and how is he goin’ to make any money a-doin’ that?” (Another loud slap on the podium.) “I ask you now, people, how in the sweet name of Jesus is our poor farmer a-gonna earn enough to feed his family over the winter and buy seed for the next spring’s plantin’? You know the answer, yes, you do. You know down deep in your heart that by the end of the year this poor fella and his five fine boys and his sweet little wife will be chewin’ their old leather boots for beef jerky and beggin’ the Red Cross for—”
The senator was interrupted by several loud shouts and the slam of a car door at the left-field gate. He broke off and turned apprehensively, his attention caught by the unexpected clamor. Lizzy, who had been totally mesmerized by his speech, followed his glance. She saw a man sprinting across the outfield in the direction of the speaker’s stand, the sheriff and his deputy in hot pursuit. The sheriff was shouting “Police! Stop! Stop where you are, or we’ll fire!”
But the man didn’t stop. The deputy raised the gun in his hand and fired a couple of warning shots into the air, the sounds crashing like clenched fists against the people in the bleachers. The man was still running, zigzagging now. In the stands, boys shouted. Dogs barked. Women screamed. Men yelled. Somebody cried, “He’s a-comin’ for Huey! Look out, Huey! Duck!”
Bent put his arm out and yanked Lizzy close against him, shielding her. “Stay down, Liz,” he commanded roughly. But she pulled away from him and sat up straight to see what was happening.
“Stop!” the sheriff shouted again. “Stop!”
But the man only ran harder. Now, they could see that he had something in his hand. Lizzy gasped. “He’s got a gun, Bent! Isn’t that a gun?”
Was it a gun? Was it? Yes, she was sure it was a gun, or a knife or something, and the man was running toward the platform, clearly intent on reaching Long and—
And then, from the left end of the speaker’s platform came the brutal blast of a shotgun punctuated by a volley of loud, fast pop-pop-pops. The man staggered, stumbled, and fell face down on the field, arms flung wide. The sheriff ran up and dropped to his knees beside the motionless figure. In the stands where he was sitting with Charlie Dickens, Doc Roberts scrambled to his feet, snatched up the medical bag he always had with him, and charged down the bleachers on his way to the field.
Bent got up too. “You stay here,” he commanded Lizzy, and followed the doctor. This time, she obeyed.
At the same moment, one of Long’s burly bodyguards rushed to the senator, wrapped his arms around him, and bundled him off the platform, down the steps, and into the blue Cadillac. The guard dove into the car behind the senator and slammed the door. The motor started with a backfire that sounded like another gunshot, then the car spun its wheels and took off in the direction of the gate. The other bodyguards piled into their two Chevys and raced after the Cadillac. A few moments later, the entire entourage was speeding across the outfield, through the gate, and down the road, throwing up a cloud of dust behind them.
In the stands, there was a stunned silence. Then: “Where’s he a-goin’?” somebody cried. “Where is Huey a-goin’?”
“To the devil,” came the wry answer. “Where he come from.”
“Oh, he’ll come back,” another man said, but he didn’t seem very certain. “You wait. You’ll see. He’ll turn around and come back.”
“Like heck he will,” a woman replied, sounding disgusted. “He’s up’n left for good. He didn’t even finish his sentence.”
“Well, this a fine how-do-you-do,” groused a gray-haired farmer in bib overalls and a blue work shirt. “I come all the way here from Piney Grove and missed a good day’s plowin’ just to hear the Kingfish, and now he’s jumped in his Caddy and drove off.”
“You’d run off, too, I reckon,” somebody remarked defensively, “if’n a feller came at you with a gun.”
“Was that a gun?” a woman asked. “It looked to me like a soda pop bottle he was wavin’ around.”
“Is he dead?” a boy cried excitedly. “The deputy shot that man dead, didn’t he?”
“Not the deputy,” his mother corrected him. “Them others, son. Huey’s guards.”
“Way I saw it,” a young man ventured helpfully, “that feller was runnin’ away from the sheriff, not runnin’ at Huey. But the guards, from where they was, they couldn’t tell the diff’rence. They was just doin’ their job.”
“Coulda told if they’d bothered to look,” someone put in grimly. “And that warn’t no gun in that feller’s hand, it was a soda pop bottle. Saw it myself. He couldn’t of done much harm with a soda pop bottle.”
“They sure poured a bucketful of lead into him,” a man said somberly. “If he ain’t dead, he will be soon. They didn’t need to of done it.” This prompted a chorus of disgruntled agreement.
“Them guards’ud druther shoot than anything else.”
“Trigger happy, is whut they are.”
“Who is that guy on the ground? Anybody know is he really dead?”
“Cain’t see who he is, but he looks dead to me. Deader’n a door nail.”
“Well, maybe he ain’t, after all. Lookee there. Doc’s got him movin’ around a bit.”
The crowd peered resentfully at the little clutch of men gathered around the figure sprawled on the field—who was indeed, Lizzy saw, beginning to stir. Doc Roberts, who had been kneeling beside the sheriff, now stood and said something to the deputy, who turned and ran for the sheriff’s squad car. In a few moments, the man on the ground had been transferred to the back seat of the automobile and the deputy and the doctor were driving off, fast.
“Well, at least he ain’t entirely dead,” somebody said. “Doc’s prob’ly takin’ him to the hospital over in Monroeville.” Lizzy couldn’t be sure whether he was relieved or disappointed.
The man who had left his plowing, however, was clearly irritated. “No reason why Huey couldn’t just of gone on with his speech, ’stead of leaving us lookin’ at one another like idjuts. I’ll be gol-darned if I vote for him now.”
The crowd in the bleachers, feeling deeply discontented, continued to mutter. But out on the field, the Academy band’s director sprang out of his chair, waved his baton smartly, and the band swung into a jaunty rendition of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” On the platform, the Darling dignitaries were leaving. Benny Biddle unplugged the microphone and gathered up the wires he had laid. In the stands, people began to pick up their things and head for their vehicles, still muttering.
Lizzy joined Bent and Sheriff Norris on the field. “Afraid we’ll have to take a rain check on those oysters, Liz,” Bent told her regretfully. “The sheriff and I are headed for the hospital. Doc says Foster will probably make it, so Buddy’s going to try to get a statement from him as soon as he’s in any shape to talk. I want to be there.”
“A statement from . . . Foster?” Lizzy repeated. “You’re saying that was Teddy Foster who got shot? The owner of the cotton gin?”
“Yeah,” the deputy said, sounding satisfied. “The arsonist got doused with a shower of lead. Huey’s boys put out his fire for sure.”
Lizzy could scarcely believe her ears. “Ted Foster set fire to his own family’s business? But why in the world—” And then she understood. “For the insurance, I suppose. And he set the other fires to—”
“Confuse us,” the sheriff said.
“Cover his tracks,” Bent said. “I’ll fill in the details after I’ve heard Foster’s story.” He put a hand on her arm. “Over crawdads, if those oysters are already gone.” His fingers tightened. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Lizzy said.
And it was.