knew,” I lied.
“Biggest rattlesnakes in the world on the mountainsaround here.” A voice from a stall. The toilet flushed and a plump, very blond woman stepped out, buttoning her pants. She turned on the water and soaped her hands. “Lots of folks like to play with them. They’re not slimy like you think they’d be.”
Neither of us said anything.
“Y’all have a good evening now.” She dried her hands on a paper towel and left.
“What the hell was Virginia thinking of? A snake handler?” Sister opened her purse, took out a comb, and began to comb her hair, looking at it from several angles. She hadn’t had it colored since before we went to Warsaw and it was turning slightly orange.
“Maybe she was looking for excitement.”
“Sounds like she found it. I wonder if Luke knows.”
“I doubt it.”
Another woman came into the restroom. “How y’all doing?”
“Fine,” we said together.
“We’d better get back,” Sister said. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”
“Married?”
“Widowed. Two years.”
We left the restroom and headed back toward the table.
“Graduate of Annapolis, retired from the navy after twenty years, sheriff for fifteen, three grown children.”
I learned all this between the bathroom and the table. But when had she learned it?
Virgil Stuckey hopped up as we approached.
“I’m sorry,” Mary Alice said, sliding into a chair. “I had no idea that was a snake-handling church.”
Virgil smiled. “I figured as much, the way the milk went flying.”
He motioned for the waitress to bring us some more coffee.
“You okay?” he asked Sister.
“Patricia Anne just startled me.”
Virgil frowned at me. I should be ashamed startling this delicate creature in the purple boots.
“Actually,” he said, “that’s one of the most active snake-handling churches in north Alabama. And Monk Crawford is one of the best known of the snake-handling preachers.”
“Have mercy.” Sister fanned herself with a paper napkin and turned to me. “I don’t remember Virginia liking snakes, do you?” And then to Virgil, “Virginia’s a Lutheran.”
We were quiet while the waitress poured our coffee.
“Her son’s in the House of Representatives and she belongs to the country club, doesn’t she, Patricia Anne? Plays golf.”
I nodded. “Do you know who the dead girl is?” I asked Virgil.
“We have an idea. We should know for sure tomorrow.”
“There was red clay on her boots. The ground around the church is sandy.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, y’all,” Sister said. “Let’s talk about something else. Snake handling and dead people. Lord. Do you like to dance, Virgil?”
Virgil allowed as to how he did.
Sister grinned at me.
I got up.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To see if ‘Unchained Melody’ is on the jukebox.”
It wasn’t, but “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” was. I figured that was apropos.
By the time we drove back to Birmingham the snow had turned into a fine mist. The temperature was probably thirty-three degrees, so close to freezing that the moisture hitting the windshield seemed oily.
Sister was unusually quiet.
“The sheriff seems nice,” I said.
“Hmmm,” was her reply.
“Do you think Virginia was in the church?”
“Don’t know.”
End of conversation. I closed my eyes and listened to Pachelbel’s Canon in D that radio station WBHM was playing. So much had happened and I was so keyed up, I had no idea that I would go to sleep. But I did. In fact, I was shopping in Warsaw with Haley when the car stopped and Sister said, “You’re home, and your mouth’s open.”
True enough. I closed my mouth, told her I would talk to her in the morning, and stepped from the car into a curtain of mist. Fred had left the back light on and the deck off the kitchen looked icy. Typical Birmingham January, I thought. Warm one day, freezing the next.
Fred opened the back door for me, leaned forward and held out his
“Biggest rattlesnakes in the world on the mountainsaround here.” A voice from a stall. The toilet flushed and a plump, very blond woman stepped out, buttoning her pants. She turned on the water and soaped her hands. “Lots of folks like to play with them. They’re not slimy like you think they’d be.”
Neither of us said anything.
“Y’all have a good evening now.” She dried her hands on a paper towel and left.
“What the hell was Virginia thinking of? A snake handler?” Sister opened her purse, took out a comb, and began to comb her hair, looking at it from several angles. She hadn’t had it colored since before we went to Warsaw and it was turning slightly orange.
“Maybe she was looking for excitement.”
“Sounds like she found it. I wonder if Luke knows.”
“I doubt it.”
Another woman came into the restroom. “How y’all doing?”
“Fine,” we said together.
“We’d better get back,” Sister said. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”
“Married?”
“Widowed. Two years.”
We left the restroom and headed back toward the table.
“Graduate of Annapolis, retired from the navy after twenty years, sheriff for fifteen, three grown children.”
I learned all this between the bathroom and the table. But when had she learned it?
Virgil Stuckey hopped up as we approached.
“I’m sorry,” Mary Alice said, sliding into a chair. “I had no idea that was a snake-handling church.”
Virgil smiled. “I figured as much, the way the milk went flying.”
He motioned for the waitress to bring us some more coffee.
“You okay?” he asked Sister.
“Patricia Anne just startled me.”
Virgil frowned at me. I should be ashamed startling this delicate creature in the purple boots.
“Actually,” he said, “that’s one of the most active snake-handling churches in north Alabama. And Monk Crawford is one of the best known of the snake-handling preachers.”
“Have mercy.” Sister fanned herself with a paper napkin and turned to me. “I don’t remember Virginia liking snakes, do you?” And then to Virgil, “Virginia’s a Lutheran.”
We were quiet while the waitress poured our coffee.
“Her son’s in the House of Representatives and she belongs to the country club, doesn’t she, Patricia Anne? Plays golf.”
I nodded. “Do you know who the dead girl is?” I asked Virgil.
“We have an idea. We should know for sure tomorrow.”
“There was red clay on her boots. The ground around the church is sandy.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, y’all,” Sister said. “Let’s talk about something else. Snake handling and dead people. Lord. Do you like to dance, Virgil?”
Virgil allowed as to how he did.
Sister grinned at me.
I got up.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To see if ‘Unchained Melody’ is on the jukebox.”
It wasn’t, but “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” was. I figured that was apropos.
By the time we drove back to Birmingham the snow had turned into a fine mist. The temperature was probably thirty-three degrees, so close to freezing that the moisture hitting the windshield seemed oily.
Sister was unusually quiet.
“The sheriff seems nice,” I said.
“Hmmm,” was her reply.
“Do you think Virginia was in the church?”
“Don’t know.”
End of conversation. I closed my eyes and listened to Pachelbel’s Canon in D that radio station WBHM was playing. So much had happened and I was so keyed up, I had no idea that I would go to sleep. But I did. In fact, I was shopping in Warsaw with Haley when the car stopped and Sister said, “You’re home, and your mouth’s open.”
True enough. I closed my mouth, told her I would talk to her in the morning, and stepped from the car into a curtain of mist. Fred had left the back light on and the deck off the kitchen looked icy. Typical Birmingham January, I thought. Warm one day, freezing the next.
Fred opened the back door for me, leaned forward and held out his
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