Tommy
Baker could have been sleeping.
If
he was the sort that slept with his eyes open. But he wasn’t. He had been a
mouth breather in waking and in sleeping. And Dacie Mae had watched Tommy Baker
sleep through enough classes to know this was not normal for him.
She
crouched down beside Tommy’s body, holding onto the edge of the stainless steel
sink to keep from slipping in the grease, and wondered exactly what she was
going to tell Tommy’s grandmother. Hettie Baker was a relic and many believed
she had been living on the Bakers’ farm since before the beginning of the Civil
War. She had a deep hatred for the modern world and all its conveniences with
the exception of indoor plumbing. She was not an easy woman to talk to.
A
trickle of blood was drying in dark red line between Tommy’s nostril and his
upper lip. A small circle formed a black spot against the red tiles in the
kitchen of Tom’s Diner. Tom, not for Tommy but for his great-granddaddy, Thomas
Robert Baker.
“Dacie
Mae MacIver,” barked a gravelly voice she was well acquainted with. “Get your
fannie away from my crime scene.”
She
stood carefully, wondering when Tommy had last mopped the floors with anything
other than water; if he had even bothered to do that. “Sorry Sheriff.”
“You
weren’t takin’ pictures, were you?”
Dacie
Mae barely bothered to lift her feet as she slid down the line to where the
Sheriff and his deputy were waiting. “No Sheriff. Don’t be gross. Why would I
want pictures of that?”
The
Sheriff, a hulking man with impressive shoulders, shrugged, “To send to the
paper. You’re always trying to get your foot in the door.”
“Sheriff,
please. The Wallace County Tribune is hardly goin’ to be printin’ any photos of
dead bodies.” She looked over at Tommy and for the first time since she had
stumbled across it, she felt the sadness that should have been there from the
beginning. “Especially not one of our own.” And then looking at the frying pan
laying by Tommy’s side, “What a way to go.”
“You
mean the skillet?”
“I
imagine he was hit about the head several times.”
“You
didn’t touch the body did you?”
“No
of course not. There was no need. There’s a big ol’ lump on the back of his
head. The top of his head’s cracked open and he’s got all those bruises around
his face. Hardly takes a medical expert.”
“You
didn’t touch the alleged murder weapon?”
“I
ain’t stupid Sheriff. I didn’t touch nothin’.”
“Drop
the redneck speech, Dacie Mae. You ain’t foolin’ no one.”
“Neither
are you, Sheriff.” A moment passed between them while Dacie wondered whether
the sheriff was just going to gawk at the body all day.
“Get
on outta here, girl. Let us do our work so we can get this poor boy off the
floor.”
Dacie
Mae pushed through the swinging door, backing into the diner. “Yes sir.”
“Dacie
Mae?” He looked at her over his shoulder and she saw then how all of his years
on the force hadn’t made this any easier for him. “You promise no pictures?”
“Of
course, Sheriff,” she held the door back from swinging shut. “Ain’t crazy
enough to want Old Lady Hettie after me.” With a sorrowful grin she turned
toward the diner and saw the crowd beyond the sparkling windows had already
gathered at least half of the able-bodied in the town. ©2012 Gwenn Wright
More tomorrow.....
