Liar's Bench Read Free Page B

knew that in less than an hour, he’d have told everyone about the something horrible going on out at the Whitlock place. By nightfall, the town would be buzzing with gossip and speculation. I worried about my boyfriend, Bobby Marshall. Well, not exactly my boyfriend . . . but getting close. Still, I wished I could reach him before Joey found him first.
    I drew in a weary breath. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered except Mama.
    Jingles leaned over to Herb and flipped through the pages of his preliminary report. The trooper pointed. “See this? The coroner said if that damn living room rafter would’ve been drywalled over instead of partially exposed, this wouldn’t have happened. But, then again, she went out to Whitlock’s truck and got his rope to throw over the beam. So if she was that determined, who knows? Her keys were found in the cab of the truck. . . .”
    Rope . . . the rafter? I turned to her truck. Oh, dear God, had Mama gone and done that.... A protest lay strangled in my throat. No. It couldn’t be.
    Mr. Harper from Harper’s Filling Station pulled up behind it. He backed his wrecker up to the rear of Mama’s truck, then climbed out and unwound the metal cable from the winch, drowning out everyone’s conversation. After he had Mama’s vehicle hooked up to his, Mr. Harper smoothed back his oily brown hair and grabbed my mama’s pocketbook from inside her truck. I’d bought it for her this past Mother’s Day. Now, old man Harper was soiling it with his dirty paws, speckling the white leather with dollops of black oil grease and tobacco juice. I lurched forward to snatch it from his fat hand, but Daddy latched on to my arm and cut me a warning look. Mr. Harper startled and pinched his catfish mouth shut.
    He strolled past, clutching the purse to his smelly union suit. Jingles took the purse and thanked him for retrieving it; then he asked Mr. Harper to tow the truck on down to the jail lot. “We’ll have it searched later for possible evidence,” Jingles told the state trooper.
    My half sister screamed yet again, chilling the air, wounding like a knife. I pulled to the cry, but Daddy sidestepped me. “No, Muddy. That’s a crime scene they’re working. The baby will be fine.”
    My insides knotted.
    Jingles adjusted the brim of his uniform hat. “Poor lil baby Genevieve.” He sighed heavily. “That sorry piece of pig shit Whitlock always whopping up on Ella. The missus and I tried to talk her into going to Louisville or Nashville to get some counseling help.... Damn, I’d hoped when I gave her that dispatching job down at the station, it would help some.” He turned to the side, spat out a wad of tobacco.
    â€œHell’s bells. It’s all a coin toss,” Jingles went on. “I still think Whitlock’s too much of a coward for the likes of that in there. A crazy dopehead, a drunkard, and always good for a petty slap or sucker punch, but I have my doubts about him bein’ a murderer.”
    I took a step closer to Jingles.
    Jingles dug into his back pocket, pulled out his Boker knife, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his Warren County Twist. He slowly cut himself a generous fresh plug and stuffed his jaw. Wagging the knife at the state trooper, he said, “Doc Lawrence examined her body and it shows Ella’s bruises are fresh. All I can do is wait ’til the bastard sobers up, question him, and hope I can make some sense out of it all before he lawyers up. Meantime, I’m bookin’ him for abuse of a corpse and illegal possession of drugs. Most I can do right now.” He tucked the Boker back into his pocket and pulled a handkerchief from another, wiped his mouth, then brought it up to his nose and gave a loud honk.
    Jingles looked our way and took a few steps toward us, stopping to curl his fingers under the large flab of flesh overhanging his utility belt. With