sure there’ll be cameras there.”
“Well, that’s one reason he wants to be there today,” T.J. said. “He’s got a funeral down here tomorrow.”
Aaron Twitchell got to the Catfish Shack in Cathay at lunchtime. He thought he could fry better catfish himself, but the hushpuppies were first rate, with plenty of onions, and mainly he was there for the talk.
Ike Morey and his wife Lena owned the Catfish Shack and the Shape-Up Shack, which weren’t shacks at all, but were side by side in Cathay’s one strip mall. Ike, who was a short man, but all muscle, ran the Shape-Up Shack, which was a gym with an emphasis on body building, while Lena, who was short and plump, ran the far more successful catfish restaurant.
Marlin Hicks, who always had a conspiracy theory, was of the opinion that the shootings on the Foxtail Creek bridge had been done by the federal government.
“They’re taking over,” he said. “This is just the start.”
“Oh, hush, Marlin. You spend too much time on the internet.”
That was Marlin’s wife, Willarene, who zoomed in on Aaron.
“I heard you found ’em,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “It was awful.”
They all waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. He didn’t like talking about it, but more to the point, he was there to listen.
“I think it was just some crazy nut, probably somebody got off I-75 just to shoot people and then got back on,” Willarene said. “Wasn’t any reason to kill those particular folks. They were all good people.”
“You say that,” Tina Morey said, coming up closer and lowering her voice, “But that Ricky Richards ain’t no saint. Coulda been somebody after him. You know they musta meant to kill him, too.”
“That ain’t nice. What you. got against Ricky?” Herbert asked Lena, “Except him being competition for Ike?”
“Ike’s fixing the place up,” she said with her hands on her ample hips. “We’ll see who’s competition for who, but I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about him – you know, thinkin’ he’s God’s gift to the ladies.”
“He’s a flirt, I’ll tell you that,” the waitress, Dolly, said, backing her boss up as she poured more sweet tea. “Thinks he’s the George Clooney of Magnolia County. That Sasha has to keep a close eye on him.”
“Well, not now she doesn’t,” Willarene said. “I heard he ’bout got his leg shot off. How bad was it, Aaron? You were there.”
“It was bad, but I hear he’s gonna be okay,” Aaron said, reaching for another hushpuppy and wishing Willarene would just let Dolly and Lena keep talking about Ricky.
In the big house on Clearview Circle, Andy Chapman was pacing around, feeling anxious. He was worried about the house and the will, but he was more worried about his computer. He wished that he hadn’t yelled at the Sheriff and at Jeremy Hays because they were the people who knew where it was and how to get it back to him.
He was used to writing on the weekends. He wondered if he could write on his mother’s computer, figure out her e-mail, and send it to his computer when he got it back. He went downstairs to her den and turned her computer on.
The chair was too small, though, and the screen was filled with all kinds of folders and documents, and things to click on. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He flung himself on her sofa and considered driving to work. He had a computer there. They might not mind if he used it on the weekend. Or, he thought, he could buy one of those laptops.
The front doorbell rang, and he started to ignore it, but then he heard a loud male voice calling, “Mr. Chapman!”
It was two of the men from the Sheriff’s office, and they had his computer.
Andy led them to his room upstairs, and they worked with him to get it hooked up and plugged in. The one named Skeet insisted that he turn it on and make sure everything was there.
Andy said, “I will, but stop looking over my shoulder.”
Relief flowed over him
“Well, that’s one reason he wants to be there today,” T.J. said. “He’s got a funeral down here tomorrow.”
Aaron Twitchell got to the Catfish Shack in Cathay at lunchtime. He thought he could fry better catfish himself, but the hushpuppies were first rate, with plenty of onions, and mainly he was there for the talk.
Ike Morey and his wife Lena owned the Catfish Shack and the Shape-Up Shack, which weren’t shacks at all, but were side by side in Cathay’s one strip mall. Ike, who was a short man, but all muscle, ran the Shape-Up Shack, which was a gym with an emphasis on body building, while Lena, who was short and plump, ran the far more successful catfish restaurant.
Marlin Hicks, who always had a conspiracy theory, was of the opinion that the shootings on the Foxtail Creek bridge had been done by the federal government.
“They’re taking over,” he said. “This is just the start.”
“Oh, hush, Marlin. You spend too much time on the internet.”
That was Marlin’s wife, Willarene, who zoomed in on Aaron.
“I heard you found ’em,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “It was awful.”
They all waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. He didn’t like talking about it, but more to the point, he was there to listen.
“I think it was just some crazy nut, probably somebody got off I-75 just to shoot people and then got back on,” Willarene said. “Wasn’t any reason to kill those particular folks. They were all good people.”
“You say that,” Tina Morey said, coming up closer and lowering her voice, “But that Ricky Richards ain’t no saint. Coulda been somebody after him. You know they musta meant to kill him, too.”
“That ain’t nice. What you. got against Ricky?” Herbert asked Lena, “Except him being competition for Ike?”
“Ike’s fixing the place up,” she said with her hands on her ample hips. “We’ll see who’s competition for who, but I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about him – you know, thinkin’ he’s God’s gift to the ladies.”
“He’s a flirt, I’ll tell you that,” the waitress, Dolly, said, backing her boss up as she poured more sweet tea. “Thinks he’s the George Clooney of Magnolia County. That Sasha has to keep a close eye on him.”
“Well, not now she doesn’t,” Willarene said. “I heard he ’bout got his leg shot off. How bad was it, Aaron? You were there.”
“It was bad, but I hear he’s gonna be okay,” Aaron said, reaching for another hushpuppy and wishing Willarene would just let Dolly and Lena keep talking about Ricky.
In the big house on Clearview Circle, Andy Chapman was pacing around, feeling anxious. He was worried about the house and the will, but he was more worried about his computer. He wished that he hadn’t yelled at the Sheriff and at Jeremy Hays because they were the people who knew where it was and how to get it back to him.
He was used to writing on the weekends. He wondered if he could write on his mother’s computer, figure out her e-mail, and send it to his computer when he got it back. He went downstairs to her den and turned her computer on.
The chair was too small, though, and the screen was filled with all kinds of folders and documents, and things to click on. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He flung himself on her sofa and considered driving to work. He had a computer there. They might not mind if he used it on the weekend. Or, he thought, he could buy one of those laptops.
The front doorbell rang, and he started to ignore it, but then he heard a loud male voice calling, “Mr. Chapman!”
It was two of the men from the Sheriff’s office, and they had his computer.
Andy led them to his room upstairs, and they worked with him to get it hooked up and plugged in. The one named Skeet insisted that he turn it on and make sure everything was there.
Andy said, “I will, but stop looking over my shoulder.”
Relief flowed over him
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