Mama made coffee and carried the server into the parlor and set it on Honey Bee’s cellarette he’d built from poplar and yellow pine. The trooper stood, admiring the old wooden case, helping Mama lower the tray, careful not to nick or scratch the liquor cabinet.
The cellarette had been one of Honey Bee’s finest projects, a handsome piece of furniture bathed in warm, golden tones, simple but elegant, its only ornament a brass skeleton-key lock, the chest perched regally atop a matching base with tall, tapering square legs. It no longer served as a liquor case; instead, Mama’d stuffed all of Honey Bee’s old recipes inside and had given it to Flannery. But Flannery had never gotten around to hauling it back to her apartment.
The three settled onto the green velvet chairs. Trooper Green leaned forward. After a long pause, he said, “Ma’am, uh, Mrs. Butler, I wondered if you can tell me anything about the bullet we found in the car. Might you have any ideas why there would be gunshot on Mr. Henry’s body?”
Mama dropped her sugar spoon onto the floor. It tumbled and bounced off the trooper’s glossy black uniform shoe.
The trooper grabbed it and set the silverware on the coffee table.
Flannery placed a hand on Mama’s shoulder, not sure whether she was steadying herself or Mama.
“What, whatever do you mean?” Mama croaked. “Whatever does he mean?” She looked to Flannery for explanation.
Flannery squeezed Mama’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” Flannery said.
Trooper’s face reddened. “I’m sorry,” he said to Mama. “I thought you knew. It’s been on the news. I thought Mr. Flagg would’ve told you.”
Flannery grimaced.
“No one told me,” Mama said, puzzled. “Poor Danny, shot—”
“Appears that way, Mrs. Butler,” the trooper said.
“Patsy. Was she hurt? Shot?” Mama swelled up with tears. “Those poor babies hurting like that. Like before. Oh, I feel light-headed.”
“Mama.” Flannery touched her arm. “What do you mean?”
Mama brushed Flannery’s hand off. “I can’t think.” She rubbed her forehead.
Trooper looked lost, uncomfortable.
Mama took a breath. “What did they do to my girl? Did someone shoot—”
Flannery hugged her. “No, Mama, he’s saying it was the Henry boy. Right, Trooper?”
Trooper said, “That’s correct.”
“Danny Henry was a good boy,” Mama said. “Why would anybody shoot such a good boy?”
“We’re trying to find out,” Trooper said.
“Trooper, I need to lie down.” Mama stood.
“Mama, let me help you upstairs.” To the trooper, “Excuse me while I take her up to her room. I’ll be right back.”
“Yes, help me to my room. I’m sorry, Trooper Green. I’ve not been myself lately. Flannery will see to you,” Mama said, fatigued.
Trooper nodded sympathetically, though Flannery could tell he wanted Mama to stay, to ask her more.
Flannery put Mama into bed with a sedative the doctor had left last week.
She came back into the parlor and found Trooper Green still seated, fiddling with his hat, sneaking looks to the mantel where Mama had lined up a long train of framed photographs of Patsy.
Flannery sat across from him. “Trooper Green, are you sure Danny was murdered?”
“We only know he was shot. The state examiner confirmed it. Did Patsy and Danny have any problems? Anyone who would want to harm them?”
“Not that I know of. We didn’t talk much then. We’d been growing apart ever since my daddy died. But I don’t think there was anyone who would hurt her. Or him.”
“Did Patsy act upset that night? Anything unusual?”
“She was excited about going to the prom, that’s all.”
“And when was the last time you saw her?”
“Uh, well, right here before she left.” Flannery hadn’t told a soul about her last argument with Patsy on Ebenezer. It would break her mama’s heart to know they had behaved badly toward each other, fought like the heathens their old teacher had always accused them of being. Flannery didn’t need to share that. She didn’t need anyone else knowing their business and casting a shaming eye her way.
“Here with the Henry boys,” Flannery added.
“Danny and Sheriff Henry?”
“Yes. Patsy and Danny didn’t have their licenses yet. When their double date canceled, Danny’s daddy had the older brother, uh, Hollis, drive the two to the dance.”
“And you say the Henry boys came over and picked up Patsy? You last saw them here?”
“I . . . Well, I had to go to work that night. I left as soon as they got here. Mama had canasta club and left before the boys arrived.”
“Okay.” He scribbled notes. “So the last time you saw them was here at your house?”
“Yeah, and we all took off about the same time. I walked to Chubby Ray’s, and they drove off to the prom.”
The trooper made more notes in his pad and then piped, “Did Patsy own a gun?”
“Gun? Patsy? You don’t think Patsy—?”
“Ma’am, we’re just trying to locate the gun. Did Patsy have a. 38? Your family own one? Ever have one?”
“She did inherit an old pistol from my daddy, but she never bothered with it.” Flannery went over to the secretary, opened it, and found the old Robin Hood No. 2. “Loaded, Trooper.” She pointed to the gun, and he stood and took a minute to study it. “Just a .32. Supposedly, that and some old bone dice were given to the Butler family by Jesse James in the 1800s.” “Sharp five-shooter,” the trooper said, picking it up, inspecting the walnut handle, the name on the barrel, before putting it back. “Any other guns?”
“A shotgun in the hall closet, same as most families have. These are the only ones I can recall,” Flannery lied, dropping her gaze to her daddy’s old wristwatch, tugging at the leather band sweating her skin.
“Other than James’s pistol, any others—a .38?”
Hollis had one, and so did Honey Bee, but she reckoned now was not the time to talk about that to a lawman.
“Mrs. Hamilton?” The trooper cocked his head at her. “Ma’am, if there’s anything else you can remember, anything you might want to—?”
“No, Trooper, just the old Robin Hood,” Flannery said, knowing her own paddle would be just as hard for all her lies.
Her daddy had given his .38 to old Sheriff Jack Henry that fall day in ’47 after the run-in with the moonshiners. Sheriff was waiting at the dock when they’d pulled the ferryboat in. Waiting with an outreached hand and his own knowing. “Honey Bee,” he’d called out to her daddy.
“Skip the trial, Jack, and let’s go straight to the execution,” Honey Bee’d said.
“I better keep that fine snub nose for your and everyone else’s safety,” the sheriff said, and nothing more.
As far as Flannery knew, no one, other than her, Honey Bee, and the old sheriff, ever learned about the pirating fishermen. Well, maybe Uncle Mary knew. He knew mostly everything and had the eyes of an eagle.
“Did Patsy or Danny ever drink alcohol?” the trooper asked, taking his seat again.
Flannery hoped he was through with his questioning. Reluctantly, she sat back down and said, “Mama doesn’t allow liquor in the house.”
“Ma’am”—the trooper tapped his pen on the notebook—“do you know where those two might have gotten a gun? Anybody else who owns a gun like that? We heard Danny only owned a. 22. Any ideas?”
She knew a .38 and .22 were worlds apart. Honey Bee’d taught her, same as every Kentucky daddy taught his small sons about guns and bullets, and even skilled the sons they didn’t have: their tree-climbing daughters. And, Honey Bee’d even gone after his prissy Patsy, too, demanding she learn to shoot so she could defend her property and her honor from the “dangerous hill men, even madwomen,” he’d claimed, who were lurking in these parts, ready to strip her of either. Or both.
Flannery rubbed her sweating palms against her jeans. “I can’t be positive about all that back then. It was so long ago.” She looked up at the ceiling as if trying to recall. “No, I can’t think of anyone who has a gun like that.”
“Any friends who might’ve been mad at both of them? Or maybe one of them?” the trooper pried.