No Daughter of the South by Cynthia Webb

the top of my head. I felt weak and I was seeing spots dancing over my field of vision. I understood what sun stroke was all about.
    I forced myself up the steps to the restaurant and opened the front glass door. A wave of cold air hit me; the shock of it on my wet body made me shiver. I stood still for a moment, trying to regain my equilibrium.
    Bobby himself came from behind the cash register. “Chief Berry’s waiting for you over here, Laurie Marie,” he said. He was clearly anxious. I’d kept the chief of police waiting right there in Bobby’s place.
    He led me to a booth next to a window overlooking Main Street. Johnny was sitting across from another man in uniform who I didn’t recognize. When they saw me, they finished their conversation quickly, and then the young officer slid out of his booth. He put on his hat, touched the brim, said “Ma’am,” in my direction, and left.
    Johnny looked at me. He didn’t stand up. I slid in across from him.
    “Have a good morning?” Johnny inquired in an even tone.
    I shrugged, looking through the menu. The waitress arrived. I ordered chicken-fried steak, and mashed potatoes, and gravy, and biscuits, and fried okra, and black-eyed peas. If I had to be here, I figured, I might as well enjoy myself. I also ordered a large iced tea.
    Then I turned my attention to Johnny. I looked at him a minute, trying to decide. Sometimes you have to do business with the devil, I decided. He wasn’t saying anything, and I wanted to show him that I’d been busy. I pulled my copy of the newspaper article out of my backpack and pushed it across the table in Johnny’s direction.
    The waitress arrived just then with my tea. I nearly gagged at the sight of what she put down in front of me. A gigantic, fake mason jar with a handle, full of ice and tea and lemon. “Shit,” I said. “What the hell has happened to Bobby? What did he do with all the normal iced tea glasses?”
    Johnny didn’t answer. He was looking at the copy of the newspaper clipping in his hand. When he finished, he handed it back to me and took a sip of his coffee. He looked preoccupied. “Okay,” he said. “I see what you mean.”
    “Great,” I said. “I’m glad you’re seeing things my way for once.” I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
    Johnny looked at me funny. Then he said, “Ever been out to Deadman’s Bridge?”
    “I don’t know,” I answered. “Probably. I don’t recall it in particular.”
    “I’m taking you there as soon as you finish eating,” he said.
    There he went again, trying to take charge. Big man in control. “Well, I have some things I want to do this afternoon. Maybe we can get together later in the week.” The waitress put down a big platter with my chicken-fried steak, and then littered the table around it with little dishes. One for the potatoes, one for the gravy, a separate one for each side dish.
    “The fiesta starts this weekend, Laurie. I don’t have the time to be sitting here with you right now. I’ve got a lot to do to get ready. This town is going to be flooded with thousands of tourists. Keeping the order around here is my responsibility.”
    “Well, excuse me, Mr. Policeman, Sir. Don’t let little ole’ Laurie Marie get in your way.”
    Johnny’s face turned red. He brought his fist down on the table just hard enough to jiggle his coffee cup. I watched a little slop over the edge. “Dammit, Laurie, don’t you see a problem with the story? That he drowned in Deadman’s Creek, under the bridge?”
    I was surprised. “How come?”
    “That’s what I’m going to show you. Hurry up.”
    I was torn between the desire to drive Johnny nuts by eating as slowly as possible, and my intense curiosity.
    The food didn’t taste the way I’d remembered it at Bobby D’s. The potatoes were instant. The gravy was floury and too salty. The black-eyed peas were oily, but tasteless. And the fried okra consisted of uniform puffed-up balls of batter, with