Given the flurry of media attention, everyone in Plumpton is definitely listening to the stupid thing.
I look down at Brewster, wishing I’d come up with an excuse to avoid the whole trip. I should have pointed out to Grandma that my presence at her birthday will likely ruin the whole thing. I’m the relative that you tell everyone about at parties, when you’re comparing fucked-up families. I make for a good story. You don’t invite me to the party.
But my grandmother never asks me for anything, and I haven’t seen her since I left Plumpton nearly five years ago. She’s never been on a plane, and she’s sure as shit not starting now, to use her words. She’s also expressed concern, more than once, about being force-fed kale if she ever visits California.
Texans hate California. It’s one of the reasons I made it my home.
Plus, my cousins really are assholes. Grandma is right—she can’t have a party with just the assholes.
If I’m going to go, I might as well go armed with knowledge. I open my podcast app and find Listen for the Lie.
I put on the first episode as I pack.
Listen for the Lie Podcast with Ben Owens
EPISODE ONE—“THE SWEETEST GIRL YOU EVER MET”
I arrive in Austin on a Tuesday, and honestly, I’m disappointed by the lack of cowboy hats.
It’s my first time in Texas, and I had visions of streets lined with nothing but barbecue joints and stores that sold boots and whatever else you need to ride a horse. Saddles? I don’t know. I know nothing about horses. I’ve never even done that touristy L.A. thing up in the hills where you can ride a horse to a Mexican restaurant, load up on margaritas, and then ride back. Always seemed like a bad idea to me.
The Austin airport is extremely Austin. I can tell this immediately, even though it’s my first time in the city. There are signs advertising that it’s the live music capital of the world, and there’s a band playing in one of the food courts, in case you doubted this. There are decorative guitars in baggage claim. There isn’t a single Starbucks or McDonald’s in the whole airport, because you know that saying? Keep Austin Weird? The second part of that saying, the part no one remembers, is support local businesses. There are only local businesses in the Austin airport.
I consider eating barbecue before I leave, but eating dinner at an airport after arriving seems sad. So, I jump in my rental car and head for Plumpton.
And this is where Texas is no longer as expected. It’s very green. I guess I thought it was a desert. And just to really prove that I’m an idiot, it starts raining so hard that I have to pull over onto the shoulder for several minutes because I can’t see the road. It’s raining like the apocalypse is nigh, and I start to wonder whether it’s a sign that this case was a poor choice.
I’m going to be honest with you guys. While I was sitting in that car, watching the apocalypse rain, I seriously considered going back to the airport and flying straight back home.
And honestly, I was still thinking about that barbecue.
When the rain finally lets up, I soldier on, hungry and nervous. About two hours later, I arrive in Plumpton, Texas.
[country music]
Plumpton is a quaint, charming town in the Texas Hill Country. It’s home to about fifteen thousand people, a number that’s growing every year. It’s a tourist town, due to its close proximity to several Hill Country wineries, but it’s also become a popular spot for young couples looking to escape the big cities. The public school system is one of the best in Texas.
The downtown area is bustling with tourists when I arrive, but when I take a stroll around the block, several locals recognize me. One man even yells that he’s looking forward to the podcast. My reputation precedes me.
The town is mostly local businesses, but a few chains have made their way to Plumpton as the town has grown over the past ten years. The first Starbucks opened here a couple of years ago, which at least five people complain to me about within my first two days in town.
But Plumpton’s main claim to fame is Savannah Harper, to the chagrin of nearly everyone who lives here. Most people in this town don’t want any part of the big-city life—they’ve either lived here for generations, like Lucy Chase’s family, or they moved here specifically to get away from the city, like Savannah Harper’s family. They don’t like being known for a grisly murder.
It’s a common sentiment in Plumpton—this wasn’t supposed to happen here. This sort of thing happens in bad places, not in a town where all the locals know each other and attend the same church.
Norma gives me a few Plumpton tips when I check into my hotel. She’s a friendly woman in her fifties, and she works the front desk until six in the evening every weekday.
Norma:??????????And don’t go to the bar on Franklin, that’s where all the tourists go to get sloppy. A bachelorette party was throwing around penis confetti last time I was there, if you can believe that. I was finding penises in my hair for hours.
Ben:???????????????That’s … unfortunate.
Norma:??????????Go to the bar down the road a bit, on Main. Bluebonnet Tavern.
Ben:???????????????I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.
Norma:??????????You’re from California?
Ben:???????????????Yeah, Los Angeles. Well, San Francisco, originally. I live in L.A. now.
Norma:??????????That whole state is going to break off into the ocean after a big earthquake, you know.
Ben:???????????????I’ve heard that.
Norma:??????????You know Lucy Chase lives out there too? Horrible woman. Savannah was an absolute peach. Just the sweetest girl you ever met. I hope you nail Lucy’s murderous ass to the wall.
This, I should note, was a common theme in my first few days in Plumpton.
CHAPTER FIVE
LUCY
The house on Clover Street is the same house I grew up in. I sit in my rental car, parked on the street in front of the house, for several minutes and just stare at it.
They’ve painted it a new color—a subtle shade of peach that’s an odd choice for the exterior of the house—but otherwise it’s the same. There are bushels of purple flowers planted along the porch. A nicely trimmed lawn. A front porch swing that you can’t sit on six months out of the year because it’s too damn hot.
I finally muster the strength to step out of the car. It’s six o’clock in the evening, still light out, and still hot as balls. The heat’s relentless this time of year. It was a real dick move on Grandma’s part to be born in August.
I grab my bag and trudge across the grass to the front door.
Dad opens it before I can knock. His smile is wide, friendly. Dad’s so good at that Texas thing where you act polite to people’s face and then talk shit behind their back.
“Lucy!” He steps forward and embraces me briefly.
“Hi, Dad.”
“I’m so glad you’re home, finally. Come in!” He steps back, sweeping his arm out dramatically.
I step inside. It’s cold and dark inside, as always. The house has never gotten good light downstairs.
He shuts the door behind me. His dark hair is grayer than last time I saw him. Dad’s eyes are deeply set, giving him a soulful appearance that is always more pronounced when he looks at me. There’s disappointment in every line of his face.
“How was your flight?” His gaze is on my suitcase.
“Fine.” Lies. I ate too much chocolate, we hit turbulence, and I almost puked. I spent the last fifteen minutes of the flight clutching the vomit bag.
He nods, briefly meeting my eyes, and then quickly looks away. He still can’t look at me, apparently.