33.

After everybody had gone home for the night, I had a lot of time to think. My headache was better, and they'd given me something for the nausea. I was woozy but wakeful.

At midnight, I got up and got dressed in the clean clothes Edna had brought me. The nurses fussed at me, but I told them I was just going out for a stroll. What could they do?

The motor skills were still not quite up to speed. I hailed a cab and I'm sure the driver thought I was drunk or drugged, because he made me show him my money before he'd pull away from the curb at Butler Street.

He was even more surprised when I gave him Catherine Rhyne's address. Atlanta cabdrivers probably don't take a lot of fares to that part of town at midnight.

Catherine Rhyne lived in Morningside, a cozy neighborhood of close-set homes in one of Atlanta's better in-town neighborhoods. Morningside by moonlight had a quaint, almost Norman Rockwell feeling that night, with the cottages dressed up with autumn decorations of hay bales, cornstalks, scarecrows, and lighted jack-o'-lanterns. Gas lanterns glowed in every doorway, planters brimmed with gold and crimson chrysanthemums.

I wondered if this was how Candler Park would look once the yuppies had gotten a firmer toehold there. Probably none of the nice ladies who lived in Morningside toted loaded thirty-eights in their purses or rode wino patrols at night.

Catherine Rhyne's house looked cared for-lawn mowed, shrubs trimmed. The Saab in the driveway had Pulaski County license tags. I gave the driver a five-buck tip and he gave me his number and promised to come back for me when I was ready.

I leaned hard on the doorbell. I hadn't called ahead for an appointment, and I was another of those tacky Candler Park residents with a gun in my purse-my Smith & Wesson.

Catherine Rhyne was still tying the belt of her bathrobe when she answered the door. It was a low-crime area; she hadn't bothered to arm herself or ask who was at the door before opening it.

At first, she was too astonished at seeing me there to say anything. She gathered her robe tighter, put her hand on the door, and started to close it firmly in my face.

She didn't get the chance. A dog, part beagle, part c.o.c.ker spaniel, brown with white spots and short fat legs, scooted out the front door and onto the stoop. It barked and jumped up on my legs-probably smelled Rufus and Maybelline on my clothes.

I bent down and scooped it up in my arms and held it up for Catherine to see.

"Brownie-isn't it? Great little Frisbee dog. Wuvvy spoiled him outrageously, wouldn't you say?"

Catherine scowled and tried to s.n.a.t.c.h the dog away, but I stepped back.

Brownie wriggled in my arms, stretched out his neck, and licked my chin.

"See? He remembers me from YoYos."

"What do you want?" she said coldly.

"I want to talk about how your mother got Wuvvy's prison sentence commuted," I said. "I want to talk about all those dirty little secrets you people have been keeping all these years."

There was no furniture in the living room or the dining room. We went into the kitchen. I sat on a barstool at the counter, and Catherine put a kettle of water on the stove to boil. She opened a canister, got out a dog biscuit, and flipped it toward the dog.

Brownie did a neat vertical leap-straight up, a canine Michael Jordan-and swallowed the biscuit in one midair gulp.

"Good boy," Catherine said, patting Brownie's head. "Good boy."

Then she turned around and got out heavy pottery mugs and teaspoons and napkins and herbal tea bags. She waited, her back turned away from me, for the water to boil, then she made the tea, fixed the cups just so, and handed one to me.

"Why does any of this matter to you?"

"Three people are dead. Somebody tried to kill me, too, earlier tonight. I know those deaths are connected and I know that you know how they're connected."

"You don't know a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing," she said fiercely.

"I'm a h.e.l.luva guesser," I said. "Jackson Poole had a secret bank account with an extra twenty-five thousand dollars rattling around in it. I think you and your mother gave him that money."

I had another idea. "Where was your mother Halloween night? Up here in Atlanta? You know, you two make a very determined pair. One of your mother's old friends called you all a real dynasty. I'd like to have seen Big Kitty in her day. Man, talk about a family of ballbusters."

Catherine sipped her tea calmly. Me, I was so pumped with adrenaline that I could see my own hand shaking so badly, the tea sloshed all over the side of the cup. Her hand was rock steady.

"I didn't kill Jackson Poole," she said. "You can drag my family's name in the mud and I can't stop you. But it doesn't change the facts. I didn't kill him."

"You would have," I said. "Jackson threatened you both. I wonder why he waited all these years to make you pay?"

She set the cup down. "He wanted us to suffer," Catherine said. "The money was secondary. Mother thought we could just pay him off. That's how things were always done in Hawkinsville. But I knew he wouldn't be happy until he'd degraded and utterly ruined us all."

"Especially Wuvvy," I said.

"Oh yes," she said sadly. "Poor Wuvvy."

I drank four cups of tea while she told her story. She stood by the stove, very straight-backed and matter-of-fact. I sat on that d.a.m.ned barstool and drank tea and listened until my a.s.s ached and my bladder screamed for relief.

"Broward Poole was a horrible person," Catherine said. "And he raised a son who turned out to be just like him. Everybody in Hawkinsville always said how wonderful he was, but I always, always knew there was something evil about those two.

"Virginia Lee was so naive. She had a job at the pecan warehouse, writing tickets for the brokers, I think. That's where they met. Broward had a big shiny car and he took her on a weekend trip down to Fort Lauderdale. She said he treated her like a princess. It didn't occur to her until the morning they got married that they didn't know anything about each other, and that she didn't particularly love him.

"By then it was too late. She really did care about Jackson. But he was so distant all the time. Off playing in the woods or reading a book by himself.

"Broward wouldn't let Virginia keep her old job. Wouldn't let her listen to her music, or have her young friends over. He bought her a car, a black Trans Am, as a wedding present, but she wasn't allowed to take it to Atlanta or Macon or anywhere. And he knew everybody in town, had everybody spying on her for him.

"He was a mean old man, that's all. And the meaner he got, the wilder she got."

"Did he really beat Wuvvy?" I asked. "Or was all that just made up for the trial?"

"The first time he slapped her was after he found out she was smoking marijuana out in that tenant farmer's shack."

Catherine smiled ruefully. "You know who told on her? My mother. Little Kitty found some rolling papers in my purse, after that time I'd gone with Virginia to that concert in Macon. Mother just knew Virginia Lee was turning me into a raving dope fiend. She marched herself right over to Broward's office and threatened to call the sheriff and have Virginia Lee Poole arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

"But Broward didn't confront her right then. No. He sniffed around and figured out why Virginia Lee spent so much time out in that shack. She had her little stereo out there, and some candles, and she'd party with her friends out there. It was her own little hidey-hole.

"Broward waited and watched, and then he went out there and caught her. It was just one little joint. But he carried on like he'd caught her with a needleful of heroin stuck in her arm. He called her a junkie wh.o.r.e and slapped her so hard it dislocated her jaw."

"Were you there when he hit her?" I asked.

"No, ma'am," Catherine said. "Little Kitty Rhyne saw to that. She threatened to put me in juvenile detention hall if I so much as turned in the Pooles' driveway. That was in the summer. I went off to Duke that fall.

"Virginia called me in Durham and told me Broward had put her in the emergency room. Of course, they said she'd fallen off a horse or some lie like that.

"Afterwards, I think Broward felt guilty for hurting her so bad. Or he was still afraid she'd tell people he was a wife beater. He was sweet to her for a while after that. Even let her drive the Trans-Am up to see me in Durham and gave her money for a hotel room."

Catherine started straightening the canisters on the counter, lining them up, big to small. She frowned, changed them around small to big, but still wasn't happy with the results.

"I am not a h.o.m.os.e.xual," she said adamantly. "I lost my virginity at a rush party at the SAE house the weekend of the Wake Forest football game. And I was engaged my third year of law school, but my fiancee wanted me to move with him to Chicago and I wouldn't do that."

"Tell me what happened with Wuvvy," I said. "When she came up to see you in Durham."

"Not what you think," Catherine said. "We did smoke some marijuana. And I fixed Virginia up with my boyfriend's roommate, and we, um, we all used Virginia's hotel room to have s.e.x, because I was living in the dorm, and we weren't allowed to have men in the room after midnight."

"Did she suggest something kinky, or was that your idea?" I asked.

"For G.o.d's sake!" Catherine said, blushing. "It was Virginia's date's idea. I thought he meant he wanted to have s.e.x with me, and I said no, right away, because he was repulsive. But he said he wanted to watch. I mean, watch Virginia and me. And my boyfriend got really, really mad and disgusted. So we-my boyfriend and I-we left right then and there."

"But the subject came up again, didn't it?"

"When I came home at Thanksgiving break," Catherine said. "I saw Virginia while I was at the IGA picking up some sweet potatoes for Mama. Virginia said she'd bought some good marijuana down in Savannah, and I should meet her at the shack."

Catherine's eyes were closed as she described the scene.

"I could hear that music playing as soon as I turned my car down that path. Santana. She always played that same spooky alb.u.m when she got high. I've forgotten what it was called."

"Abraxis," I said. "'Black Magic Woman.' Music to get loaded. Or laid."

Catherine winced and swallowed hard.

"That marijuana she'd gotten down in Savannah was stronger than anything you could get in Hawkinsville. She was so stoned. And so was I. She hadn't forgotten what that boy wanted us to do in Durham. She said she'd had s.e.x with girls before. It was a hoot. Didn't mean a d.a.m.n thing. Didn't turn you into a queer. Just try it, she said. And I wanted to. I was curious."

Catherine took her mug and rinsed it out in the sink. She dried it and put it in the cupboard, folded the dish towel a couple of times, and put it away. When she ran out of things to do with her hands and places to hide from me, she finished the story.

"The music was so loud, we didn't hear Broward drive up. We were naked, dancing around, giggling. And then he was in the doorway. He had a shotgun.

"He called us s.l.u.ts. d.y.k.es. Awful words. He held that shotgun on me. Made me get dressed while he stood there and watched and called me filthy names. And I noticed he had an erection. He did. He was enjoying the whole show. Then he told me to get out. He said he was going to deal with his s.l.u.t wife and then go up to my house and tell Little Kitty Rhyne and Big Kitty what kind of degenerate perverted wh.o.r.e they'd raised. And he slapped me so hard he knocked me down.

"Then Virginia jumped on him, and was scratching him and hitting him and telling him to leave me alone. He dropped the shotgun and went to hit her.

"I picked up the shotgun. My grandmother taught me to shoot. Did you know that? Big Kitty shot a snake out of a tree one time. I saw her do it. With my granddaddy's deer rifle.

"I shot Broward Poole.

"Virginia Lee hugged me around the neck. And then we got scared. We dragged him out into the middle of the pecan grove. Virginia got the idea that we would make it look like a hunting accident. She went and got the record and put it on, and I shot a couple crows with Broward's gun. And we thought we were really smart."

"What record?" I asked. And then I remembered the forty-five I'd found. "'Crow-Go'?" I asked. "What was it for?"

"Horrible, excruciating," Catherine said. Now she was shaking, her hands trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face.

"Sweet Lord. I'll never forget that sound. When I have nightmares, it's never about Broward. It's that record. Those crows." She held her hand up to her ears, as though she could shut out the memory of the sound.

"I don't understand," I said.

"Pecan growers despise crows, almost as much as squirrels," she said. "Crows travel in these huge flocks. Their beaks are so strong, they just peck open the nuts on the ground. They can strip a grove in no time. The growers tried all kinds of things. Poison, cannons. They'd shoot off these big carbine guns to scare the crows away. But crows are smart. They'd get used to the cannons and come right back. So Broward sent off for this record. It was a recording of an owl attacking a crow. The crow caws and calls, and the owl makes this screech, and they make a terrible racket and when the other crows hear it, they swarm into the area to help the one being attacked, and that's when you get out the shotguns. An ambush. You kill as many as you can. And then the other crows won't come back to that part of the grove again."

Catherine sat down on the kitchen floor. She gathered Brownie up in her arms and buried her face in his fur and sobbed and sobbed until he squirmed out of her reach and sat on his haunches and whimpered right along with her.

"Hundreds of crows came," she whispered, looking up at me. "The sky was black with them. Cawing and screeching."

"And Jackson saw the whole thing," I said. "From his favorite climbing tree."

"He never said a word to anybody," Catherine said. "We didn't know."

She was shaking like a leaf. I went to the stove and put another pot of water on to boil. This time I found some tea bags with caffeine. It looked like we'd be here a while.

There was a soft click out in the hallway, and then the sound of a door closing. Brownie's ears quivered and he trotted into the hallway to investigate. We heard water running. A toilet flushing. Water again. And a door opening.

"Catherine? It's late. I heard voices. Is someone here?"

Kitty Rhyne wore a navy blue satin robe piped in white, with matching blue slippers. Even the ugly snub-nosed revolver in her hand was blue steel.

"Mother," Catherine started.

"You shut up," Kitty said, her voice hoa.r.s.e. "Not another word out of you. Is that clear?"

"h.e.l.lo, Kitty," I said, my own voice cracking. The teakettle had started to whistle. I turned the burner off and moved the kettle to keep it quiet.

"It's Ms. Rhyne to you," Kitty said. Her lips compressed in a tight white line, and under the kitchen's fluorescent lights, her golden tan looked unnaturally dark, the skin cracked and dried like old leather. Her hair was thin as cornsilk and clung to her scalp, and she squinted without her eyegla.s.ses.

"I've been listening to you talking out here, and I finally had to go in the bathroom and be sick to my stomach," Kitty said, glaring at Catherine. "None of this ever would have happened if you had listened to me in the first place. If you'd stayed away from Wuvvy, like I told you."

"But it did happen," I said. "Catherine killed Broward Poole and you covered it up for her. Years later, Jackson came back and threatened to spill the whole nasty story unless you paid him off." I was feeling unreasonably brave. Too many pills, too much caffeine. I wished I hadn't sat my purse on the counter near where Catherine stood. Wished I was the one pointing a gun at Little Kitty Rhyne.

"What are you going to do? Shoot me?" I asked. "This isn't Hawkinsville, Kitty. You can't just kill somebody in Atlanta and get away with it."

"Watch me," she snapped. "I'm a very competent woman. All the Rhyne women are competent. Except her," she said, motioning with the gun toward her daughter. "All her education-and she's got no more common sense than a flea."

"This isn't going to work, Mother," Catherine said patiently, as though she and her mother were discussing a new chicken ca.s.serole instead of my life. "Put the gun away. I'm not going to let you keep up this insanity."

"I told you to shut up!" Kitty screamed as Catherine reached for the pistol. She slammed the snout of the gun down hard on the back of her daughter's neck. Catherine screamed, then fell to the floor in a heap, banging her head on the edge of the counter.

"I warned her," Kitty said matter-of-factly. Brownie began to bark. Short, unhappy yaps dissolving to loud mournful howls. "You shut up, too," Kitty muttered to the dog. She aimed a swift vicious kick at the pooch, but he skittered out of the way, backed himself up to the door and took his stand. He was full-out baying now. Blood was pooling on the white tile floor around Catherine's neck. Kitty bent down and touched her daughter's cheek. "Catherine?" she said, alarmed. "Come on, honey. It's Mama. Sit up and talk to Mama."

I took the heavy pottery tea mug in both hands, ready to defend my life for the second time in two days.

Kitty cradled her daughter's head in her lap, caressed the pale cheek. "Itty-Bitty," she crooned. "Pretty Itty-Bitty." She picked up the little pistol. I felt myself tense, tried to concentrate on aiming the mug.

She tucked the little blue pistol snug against her right ear and fired.

Not such a loud sound, really. Brownie howled for a long, long time.

I would have given anything right then for my own bed and some peace and quiet. But I was the one who had insisted on having all the answers. I had them all now, probably, but two more people were dead.

I used the telephone in Catherine's bedroom. It was so late, I decided to give Deavers a break. Somebody else could call him, in the morning, I hoped. After all, Kitty and Catherine weren't going anywhere. After I called 911 I sat down on the living room floor and held Brownie in my arms and waited for the questions to begin again.