Southern Fried Read Free

truck underwater ’fore it pulls that car out.”
    Pudd got the truck stopped and several of the Ghouly Boys gathered around to hatch another plan.
    Mr. Earnest nodded. “Don’t use the cabin much anymore,” he said. “Might not keep it. With so many Yankees coming in, I can probably get a good price for it.”
    I nodded. Mr. Earnest, his hands jammed into the pockets of his L.L. Bean jacket and his bald head shining in the weak sunlight, could’ve been mistaken for one of those retired Yankees. Until he opened his mouth.
    “I hear tell you’ve moved into your granddad’s cabin up here.” He squinted at me. “That a good idea?”
    “Well, it’ll do until I decide on something more permanent. Mom and Dad tried to get me to stay with them. But the cabin needed some work. It’s a nice change, after living in Columbia.”
    “You sure it’s safe?” Mr. Earnest asked bluntly. “Not too many folks up here this time of year.”
    “I’ll be fine.” I didn’t elaborate. Years ago, my grandfather had not only taught me to shoot, he’d bought me a nice little S&W .38 and educated me on the advantages of hollow points.
    Mr. Earnest leaned against the hood of a county cop car, settling in to watch the lake. “You setting up practice in Dacus?”
    “No. I’m just working out of Carlton Earner’s office temporarily.” To keep busy, I picked up court appointments and guardian ad litem cases that the county’s other attorneys avoided like plague-ridden rats. I’d left Columbia a few weeks ago without a clear plan in mind, but with no reason to start a real job search until after the holidays.
    He nodded, staring at the lake. The winch whined weakly, straining to dislodge the car from its mud bed. Mr. Earnest didn’t seem in any hurry to get about his business.
    “Funny, you and Melvin Bertram coming home at the same time.”
    “Who?” I settled back against the car hood next to him.
    “Melvin Bertram. You too young to remember him?” He sighed, his round belly shifting beneath his crossed arms. “He’s been gone, law, I guess tenor fifteen years now. Time sure has a way of getting away from you.”
    I nodded. The pace of conversation and most else in Dacus now struck me as odd. I’d been away almost ten years, to attend law school and then to practice law. In that time, I’d forgotten the circadian rhythms of my growing up, the paced conversations with deep currents. The pauses, in some cases, spoke more than words. He was saying something important. I waited, hoping I could hear it in the pauses.
    He continued. “Yep, probably closer to fifteen years. Were you gone by then?”
    “In high school,” I said. But Melvin Bertram’s name rang only a faint bell with me.
    I studied the trees that rimmed the small lake—scarcely more than a shirttail full of water, in my Aunt Letha’s words. The leafless hardwoods sketched stark patterns against the watered blue sky. A half dozen docks jutted around the lake’s rim, though the only boat visible was the rescue boat.
    “Peculiar he’d come to mind,” Mr. Earnest said, then sloughed off the topic like a too-warm overcoat. “How’s your momma and daddy doing? Can’t believe he decided to buy that old newspaper.”
    I smiled, mostly to myself. “Yep. He’s been getting a lot of ribbing about that.” My father had surprised the Rotary Club one day by announcing that he’d bought the Clarion , after a working life as a mechanical engineer. “He says the paper’s only assets are a bunch of old machinery, and he can keep that running as well as anybody.”
    Mr. Earnest chuckled, his belly heaving. “That’s ’bout true.”
    The rumbling arrival from Todd’s Wrecker Service interrupted our slow conversation. Whoever had radioed into Dacus for a wrecker without giving Pudd’s winch a chance to prove itself had been wise. But, before the wrecker could maneuver into place, Pudd petulantly had to rewind his cable and back his truck out of the way, the