Billy Ray Bummel, the assistant D.A., wouldn’t have stopped anyhow. He dashed into the library. Some indeterminate time later, Junebug, the coroner, and Billy Ray Bummel emerged. The paramedics followed, trundling a blanketed form. Gasps and other expressions of surprise and curiosity arose from the crowd. They sounded like a freakshow audience ogling a particularly ugly mutant. Junebug fixed the group with a stern eye. “Y’all get! Get going about your business and let us do ours.” A few spectators moved away, but most acted like their feet were mired in mud. “Who is it?” a voice croaked from the crowd.
Junebug leveled his eyes at the offender. “You can read about it in the paper. Now get moving along.” He’d put on his reflective sunglasses for the proper authority image and stuck a Stetson back on his brown crewcut. He was bigger and taller than me, with a solidly broad face. I’m sure he’d already thought it’d look good next year on a sheriff’s poster. He looked much the same as in high school, except for the slightest of beer guts and a few worry lines creasing his brow. A second warning sufficed and the crowd ambled apart as the ambulance was loaded and roared off toward the hospital. The lights didn’t flare and the siren stayed silent. I felt sick and sad; Beta might’ve been crazy, but she didn’t deserve this. Junebug took me by the arm. “C’mon, Jordy.” His deep voice was raspy from tobacco. “Let’s talk inside.” Let me explain about me and Junebug. We’d known each other since first grade. In a small town, when you spend twelve years of school and summers with the same kids, you develop what those TV shrinks call love/hate relationships. It’s inevitable. You play with these kids day after day and you can’t imagine life without their company. But you’re also guaranteed to get plenty mad at each other.
Junebug and I got along fine until high school, when we got all competitive. We competed for sports honors (he usually won), academic honors (I usually won, but Junebug beat me in math), and the same pretty girls, of which we had a finite supply in Mirabeau. Our friendship didn’t pick up when I returned to town. I’d been beyond Mirabeau and he’d stuck close. We didn’t hang out together, but neither were we sworn enemies. He came to my daddy’s funeral and three weeks ago I’d gone to his daddy’s funeral. You do that here, even if comforting words to someone you’ve drifted far away from taste odd in your mouth. Junebug of course isn’t his given name. He’s Hewett Moncrief, Junior, and everyone knows that a Junior is sometimes saddled as a toddler with being a Junebug. Well, that saddle stuck.
His daddy was mean that way. We sat in the periodical section, the day’s Houston and Austin papers still wrapped in their plastic covers, dotted with drops of water from the wet grass. “You want us to get y’all some coffee?” Junebug offered. “I can’t let you go back there to make any, but I’ll call over to the diner and get you and Miss Tully some.” I shook my head. I suddenly realized that Candace was not there. Junebug saw my face. “She’s outside. I’ll talk to her in a minute.” Junebug’s voice is always slow and languorous, like he just woke up. I couldn’t imagine him yelling at an arrestee; he’d probably thank them once he locked the handcuffs. “I need to ask you some questions.” “Okay,” I said blankly, but I stared at the pack in his pocket. “I’d really, really like a cigarette.” “Here. I’m quittin’.”
He tossed his pack on the table between us and I retrieved an ashtray from my office. It was an ugly misshapen glazed-clay expression of thirteen-year-old angst that Mark had made in an arts class. So much for quitting smoking. I lit and dragged hard, telling myself what a filthy habit it was. Just one. I’d have just one. Junebug eyed me. “I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in here.” “I’m not. But I don’t care and you probably don’t either right now,” I answered. He let it go and began taking my statement. His first question was simple: what had happened that morning? He wrote down my story in a battered notepad he’d produced from his pocket. I made my answers short and distinct. I was still in shock over my grisly discovery. Just try finding a corpse in your workplace and see how you handle it. Have the body be someone you know. My hands weren’t shaking and I was glad of that. My voice shook a little and if Junebug hadn’t known me he might not have noticed. “I suppose that Miz Harcher had a key to the library?” Junebug asked. “No. She used to have a key, because she was on the library board up until February. She tried to ban some books-real bits of trash like The Color Purple, Huckleberry Finn, and The Scarlet Letter -and the board got fed up with her. They booted her out. She turned in her key and I had the locks changed.” “Y’all always do that when a member leaves the library board?” Junebug raised an eyebrow at me. “No, of course not. But I felt that, considering the… uh, extremity of her views regarding certain books here, it would be appropriate to limit her access to business hours.” God, I sounded like an official report. “That’s interesting. We found a key in her pocket, separate from her key ring.” He pulled a plastic bag from a large paper bag next to his feet. “Is this a library key, Jordy?”
“Yeah, looks just like mine.” I produced my key from my pocket. “I wonder how she got this,” Junebug said, thinking aloud. He did that back in school and used to drive our teachers nuts. “I don’t know,” I answered. “Not from me.” Junebug gnawed at the end of his pen. “I understand you had a little run-in with her yesterday.” My gut churned, as if I’d just narrowly avoided stepping into an elevator shaft. Before I knew it I was sliding my palms down my jeans, drying them of sweat. “Miz Harcher threw herself a hissy fit in the library over what she considered porn and whacked me upside the head with a book. She left, or rather was shown the door.” “Made some comments, didn’t she? About shutting down the library?” “Look, Junebug, you already seem to know the answer to that question. You’ve already heard the gossips’ version. Yeah, she did just that. How’d you know and what’s your point?” “I have my sources,” he said loftily. “And my point is I got a dead woman here. You argued with her just yesterday, Jordy. I have to ask these questions.” My temper decided to make an appearance. It’s one of the finer Poteet family traits. “You can’t seriously think I killed her, can you? For God’s sake!” My voice sounded alien to me, still deep and drawly, but saying words I never thought I’d say. “Jordy, I have to ask. Would you like an attorney present?” I swallowed. “You can’t think I killed her, Junebug. That’s crazy.” “Do you want an attorney now, or will you answer further questions?” I bristled. My Uncle Bid was an attorney, but summoning him might be more unpleasant than being hauled off to jail. I made myself calm down. “Go ahead. I have nothing to conceal and I want to cooperate, Junebug.” Junebug sat and stared at me for a full minute.
It was unnerving, but I resolved not to let it bother me. I pulled my blanket of outraged innocence closer about me. He pulled a loose page from his notepad. It was light blue stationery. “This list mean anything to you?” He handed me the paper, and I saw his eyes dart to see if my hands were steady. I willed them to stillness. The list was written in Beta’s spidery handwriting; I recognized it from the notes she used to send the library when she was on the board. I tried not to drop the paper as I reached the end of the list: Tamma Hufnagel-Num.
32:23
Hally Schneider-Prov. 14:9
Jordan Poteet-Isaiah 5:20
Eula Mae Quiff-Job 31:35
Matt Blalock-Matt. 26:21
Ruth Wills-2 Kings 4:40
Bob Don Goertz-Judges 5:30 Anne Poteet-Gen. 3:16 Mama? What the hell was she doing on a list written by some religious zealot who’d been murdered? Names with Bible quotes next to them. What was this list even for? Invitees to a revival meeting? I didn’t think so. I took a long draw on my now-stubby cigarette and committed the names and quote numbers to memory as best I could. I used to do that with sales figures on my books at the textbook publishers’ before I had to confer with my jerk of a boss, so I had a quick memory. “The list doesn’t mean anything to me,” I said. “But I know all these folks. Miz Quiff, Miz Wills, and Mrs. Hufnagel were here yesterday when Beta made her scene. Hally Schneider’s family is distant kin to me and they live on my street.