Southern Hospitality originates from the Bible. One hopeful bookstore manager aside, people of the South pride themselves on being Good Samaritans. While the expression has been around since the 1800s, Southern Hospitality is alive and well (most of the time). On any given morning, a train of casserole-toting do-gooders races to this shut-in or that mourner or to that friend goin’ through a bad spell. This morning, I was doing the same (minus the casserole; I brought her a book), and I wasn’t alone.
As I pulled myself from the Jeep, two houses down, Raina was toting a canvas bag of dishes out of her car. We cast each other odd expressions.
“What’re you doin’ here?” she asked first.
I pointed to Sadie’s house. “Checking up on a friend of mine. Broken ankle.”
Raina chuckled, and pointed to the house she was about to go into. “Visitin’ Molly Tubbs. She got beat up durin’ a home invasion.”
“Holy cow! I thought Sadie falling off the stripper pole at Via’s was a compelling story,” I grinned, “but yours beats mine.” I glanced at the Thirty-One picnic basket she lugged, and then at the paperback copy of Eat, Pray, Love I brought, and shrugged. Raina had me completely beat with the whole Southern hospitality thing, but, of course, she’d been doing it longer.
“Well, least we know this is one excitin’ neighborhood,” Raina smiled.
“Exciting, that’s one word for it,” I grimaced. “Enjoy your visit.”
“You, too.”
We parted ways to deliver our goods and cheer up our friends. As I walked up Sadie’s porch, I remembered that Molly Tubbs’ table had been empty yesterday at the Cotton Exchange, and this new crime hadn’t been the only trouble she’d faced the last few weeks. I recalled the story of Backwoods Buddy and his lost load, her telling us her boxes of Nikes had been “pinched,” and now a home invasion. Seemed like too many coincidences for one person.
“Come in!” I heard Sadie’s voice boom from the living room. Sadie occupied the couch by the window, with her booted leg propped up on pillows. On the coffee table, she had her array of remotes, phones, a pair of binoculars, and crossword puzzles all laid out, as well as a smorgasbord of snacks and drinks – all within arm’s reach. Her long blond hair (blond this week, anyway) was pulled up into a tight ponytail. She wore casual shorts and a t-shirt, but still donned enormous earrings and sequins on her shirt. But, unlike during her work-life, she wore little makeup and looked much prettier that way, in my opinion.
“Oh, Delilah, get a load ‘a me!” she laughed. “Can you believe it? A stripper on her back! I’m fittin’ all the stereotypes these days!”
I chuckled, set the book on her coffee table, and sat across from her. I asked her how she was feeling, and all the regular chitchat that goes along with one of these visits, and she went on to explain her accident.
“Good news is Benny’s been waitin’ on me hand and foot,” she reported, pointing to her foot and laughing. “Bad news is I hate sittin’ ‘round. Bored outta my gourd.”
“Did you know there’s about a hundred different expressions related to boredom?” I asked. “Bored to death, bore the socks or pants off of, bored to tears, bored out of your mind. I like bored out of your gourd because while the others use hyperbole, that expression uses both hyperbole and metaphor, the gourd being a metaphor for head.”
Sadie gave me a raised eyebrow and said, “Yeah, and you ain’t helpin’. Tell me all ‘bout what’s been goin’ on with you.” I wasn’t sure which parts she wanted, so I started talking about Beach Read, but Sadie steered the conversation quickly.
“Sadie is my name, and gossip is my game,” she admitted with a laugh. “You gotta tell me all about that party. Ain’t everyday that normal folks get to go to the Peacock, unless they workin’ there.”
Describing the Peacock party was easy, and Sadie enjoyed hearing all about the exotic dishes, the open bar, the chandeliers and the orchestra. I highlighted the good parts, leaving out anything regarding the ghost woman.
“Ya know, I ain’t never liked those Kaynes too much,” Sadie told me distastefully, “especially the daddy.”
“Me, neither,” I returned, thinking of the way Lucius Kayne spoke to Hugh Huntley. “There was a man at the party who definitely shared your opinion. David Love.”
Sadie nodded. “I know Dave. He comes to Via’s all the time these days. Gotta lonely problem and a drinkin’ problem.”
“That might explain why he caused such a scene.”
“Well, Lucius Kayne screwed him over,” Sadie decided. “No doubt ‘about it. Get ‘em drunk enough he’ll tell you all about it.”
We were interrupted by footsteps on Sadie’s porch. Sadie waved her hands in the air excitedly. “That’s the mail!” she told me. “Grab it, Delilah! I’m s’pecting somethin’.”
I obeyed, opening the front door just as the mailman was about to descend the stairs again. “Oh, hello,” he said softly. He was a mousy, slow-moving man, pale as a ghost against his blue-gray uniform. “How ya doin’ in there, Sadie?” he called out a little louder.
“Fine, Bobby!”
To me, he said, “She finally got her package, though I done told her if she wanted to know about her neighbors, all she’s gotta do is ask. I could tell you anything you want to know about anyone on this street.”
Mailman Bobby’s certainty piqued my interest, but Sadie shut him down with, “Thanks, Bobby. See you later!” And the slight, expressionless man drifted back down the stairs and on to the next house. I brought in the mail and Sadie’s package, which she promptly snatched out of my hands and ripped open to reveal a Listen Up Personal Sound Amplifier.
“Got this off one of those commercials,” she explained. “$14.99 plus shippin’ and handlin’ and now I can listen in on any conversation within a hundred yards.”
“Why on earth would you want to do that?”
Sadie’s eyebrows perked back up on her forehead again. “You kiddin’ me? All that business with that stupid trucker a few weeks back, then Molly Tubbs is robbed and beaten up. Plus I got those shifty fellas living ‘cross the street. I just want to know what’s goin’ on in my neighborhood.”
“What shifty fellows?”
Sadie pointed to a rundown yellow house with a captain’s wheel hanging by the front door. Two junk cars occupied the carport. The grass needed mowing, and there was an overflowing barrel-sized trashcan by the side door, where a squirrel was presently sifting through for scraps.
“I call it the Wheelhouse ‘cause of the captain’s wheel and the fact that there’s a lot of wheelin’ and dealin’ goin’ on there. Ed Wakefield owns the place,” she told me, “and he ain’t a bother considerin’ he don’t talk, but he’s got his nephew and the nephew’s friend stayin’ there and those boys are ‘bout as wholesome as Swiss cheese. People been comin’ and goin’ outta that house at all hours, like it’s a constant party over there.” Sadie grabbed her binoculars from the coffee table, and said, “Speak of the devils.”
The two young men exited the house smoking cigarettes and donning angry expressions, as if they’d gotten up way too early. Sadie fiddled with her new toy, but when she realized she had to install batteries, she gave up trying to listen in on their conversation, this time.
I leaned closer to the window and realized that it was Ricky Wakefield and his friend J.J.
“I wouldn’t be comfortable with those guys across the street, either,” I allowed.
“J.J. Lucas reminds me of that Marilyn Manson character, all dark and evil,” Sadie told me as the two walked toward a blue Oldsmobile parked along the street. They were arguing. Ricky shoved J.J. toward the car, spat a few curses, and soon drove away.
“They’re drug dealers,” I replied.
Sadie shrugged. “Figures. This ain’t ‘xactly Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. Got criminals across the street and a crazy lady behind us. We’re surrounded, which is exactly why I wanted my new toy.”
Sadie sent me on a battery hunt in her tidy kitchen, and once in the semi-quiet of a different room, I remembered Wake grabbing my arm at the lighthouse, how he didn’t speak, how he grunted. At the Peacock party, Wake had loitered like a bad smell, completely out of place, and he’d gotten on the elevator just as the four minutes went missing from the security footage. What would a groundsman be doing on the other floors of the hotel?
Wake. Twice I had conjured up images of monsters when I considered him. Could he be the monster who attacked me? Assault against women was part of his repertoire. And maybe I’d angered him that day when I went hunting for clues about the missing girl on what he probably considered his turf.
“I’m gettin’ used to not havin’ to dance every night. Thinkin’ it might be time for me to retire soon.”
“What would you do?”
“Don’t know. Something else. Least I got time to think about it.”
I returned to the living room carrying a package of batteries, and went about installing them in her spying device. “I think sometimes God lets things like this happen to us for that very reason – to give us time to think.”
“Maybe so,” Sadie returned. “It just ain’t fun anymore, and Via’s been such a dick lately. You know, he’s pretty pissed at you.”
“What? Why?”
“Thanks to you he’s down his best bouncer and his best stripper-”
“That wasn’t my fault,” I argued. “Lenny Jackson’s in jail because he was a criminal. Angel chose to leave town, and I don’t blame her.”
“Plus, he’s got that stupid business club breathing down his neck,” Sadie went on. “They’re makin’ him take down all the pink ladies on his windows.”
I smiled. “Glad to hear I’m not the only one they pick on.”
“He says they tricked ‘em into signin’ the papers, and he was fool ‘nough to do it. He’s goin’ to the meetin’ Tuesday to appeal-”
“Appeal?”
“Yeah, he’s goin’ to appeal their orders or whatever,” Sadie explained.
“You can do that?” I insisted, my breath catching in my throat. Sadie shrugged and nodded. If there was a way to fight back against TIBA, I needed to pursue it.
Noise from the backyard halted our conversation – a loud clanging like someone was banging on a gong. Sadie huffed and rolled her eyes. “Damn it. I swear she waits ‘till I got company to make as much noise as possible. She’s angry at me for callin’ her cats rats with claws.”
“Who?”
“Delores Kenning,” Sadie spat out. “She’s whacking her pots and pans back there. Does it everyday ‘cause she says it keeps the demons away.”
This, I had to see. I left Sadie and went to the back kitchen window. Sure enough, across Sadie’s yard and over the rusty chain-linked fence, I spied Delores Kenning – pot in one hand and a stainless steel ladle in the other, marching across her congested yard as if putting on a parade. Her odd property was perpendicular to Sadie’s and her neighbors’, her unkempt lawn stretching out well beyond where I could see.
“Delilah, would you please go tell that crazy woman to shut up?” Sadie called out to me. “She’s givin’ me a headache!”
I left Sadie’s kitchen through the backdoor, crossed the yard and stood at the fence until I got Delores’ attention. She wore a floppy green housecoat, slippers, and a porch-peevers’ expression.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Kenning,” I greeted when she stopped her banging.
“Get The Treehouse Massacre, yet?” she asked hopefully.
“Um, no. It’s out of print.”
She sighed. “Just as well. That one’ll give me nightmares.”
“Mrs. Kenning, do you remember the night of the Peacock party?” I asked slowly.
“Wore my grandmother’s mink,” she replied with a smile.
“Right, it looked lovely,” I returned. “Remember how you said you saw demons stuff a body in the trunk?”
“Oh, yes,” she cooed. “I see the demons runnin’ ‘round here all the time. They scare my cats and knock over my gnomes. Look!” She rushed over to a fallen garden gnome. Its belly was cracked open and there was a large chunk of ceramic missing. “They come up that there path.” She pointed to a tree-lined area beside Sadie’s house. I walked over to the corner of her lot. In between the two houses, hidden by a thin line of trees and thickets, there was a narrow pathway that began at the street and met up with the end of Delores Kenning’s chain-linked fence. It opened up to her exposed yard, where her gnome had been taken out. It was littered with neon pellets.
“So, the demons take this path,” I tried to understand, “and cut through your yard?”
“Yes, they torment my gnomes and cats, and then take off for the woods,” she returned, pointing to the forest – the property belonging to the Peacock. Clearly, this is the path that Ricky and J.J. use to go on their air-soft hunts.
I took a shot in the dark and asked, “Ever see a redheaded woman around here?”
“No, can’t say that I have.”
“But, you did say you saw a body being stuffed in a trunk?” I prodded.
“I saw a man’s body,” she replied, shaking her head at me like I should’ve known. “That angry fellow from the party, the one who caused all that hubbub, he’s the one who got stuffed in the trunk. No redheads. The Irish gnomes protect the redheads.”
It didn’t make any sense that she saw David Love being stuffed in a trunk. David Love was fine, and hadn’t pressed any assault charges. Of course, David Love had been sporting a few bruises.
“The demons are after the one who lives over yonder,” Delores Kenning told me, pointing to Molly Tubbs’ house.
“Were they the ones who beat her up?”
She nodded. “This time. They’ve been there before, too.” She started banging the pot again, and over the noise yelled, “Can’t talk about ‘em or else they’ll know.” Delores Kenning went about her marching, and I returned to Sadie’s living room.
“I still hear bangin’,” Sadie scoffed.
“Sorry, she is scaring the demons away,” I explained, “and with neighbors like your wheelhouse friends, I don’t blame her.”
Sadie and I talked for only a few more minutes. I told her that if she ever needed a job, I’d be happy to have her at Beach Read – a gesture that widened her smile.
Amazingly, Raina and I left at the same time, but despite the plethora of goodies she delivered, she didn’t have the post-do-gooder afterglow I expected.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Raina huffed out, close to tears, and said, “Who knows! Everythin’ was goin’ along just fine and we were havin’ a nice chat and then I mentioned those shoes. Ya know? Like how weird it was that her stock of shoes got stolen at the Cotton Exchange and then she was robbed here at the house, too-”
“I also thought that was an odd coincidence,” I returned.
“Well, Molly didn’t appreciate the observation,” Raina returned. “She practically chewed my head off, and then she asked me to leave. I’m sure it was the pain pills talkin’, but it wasn’t very nice.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Good Southern hospitality often took a backseat to the more powerful reality – good Southern dramatics – and like Sadie said, ‘This ain’t Mr. Roger’s neighborhood.’