“Food’s cold, just like I said. But does she listen? Never did, never will.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“Reheated chicken’s always tough. I got the mashed potatoes, because reheated French fries, forget it.”
They started toward the house. Claude stopped at the foot of the porch steps.
“Did you guys have a good talk with my ma?”
“We did,” Ralph said, wondering exactly how to handle this. As it turned out, Claude handled it for him.
“Don’t tell me. That guy might be able to read my mind.”
“So you believe in him?” Ralph was honestly curious.
“I believe that gal believes. That Holly. And I believe there might have been someone around last night. So whatever you talked about, I don’t want to hear.”
“Maybe that’s for the best. But Claude? I think one of us should stay here with you and your mother tonight. I was thinking Lieutenant Sablo could do that.”
“You expecting trouble? Because I don’t feel anything just now except hungry.”
“Not trouble, exactly,” Ralph said. “I was just thinking that if something bad happened around here, and if there happened to be a witness who said the person who did it looked a lot like Claude Bolton, you might like to have a cop handy who could testify that you never left your momma’s house.”
Claude considered. “That might not be such a bad idea. Only we don’t have a guest room, or anything. The couch makes into a bed, but sometimes Ma gets up when she can’t get back to sleep and goes out to the living room to watch TV. She likes those worthless preachers that are always yelling for love-offerins.” He brightened. “But there’s a spare mattress out in the back entry, and it’s gonna be a warm night. I guess he could camp out.”
“In the gaze-bo?”
Claude grinned. “Right! I built that sucker myself.”
12
Holly put the chicken under the broiler for five minutes, and it crisped up nicely. The seven of them ate in the gazebo—there was a ramp for Lovie’s wheelchair—and the conversation was both pleasant and lively. Claude turned out to be quite the raconteur, telling tales about his colorful career as a “security official” at Gentlemen, Please. The stories were funny, but neither mean nor off-color, and no one laughed harder at them than Claude’s mother. She laughed herself into another coughing fit when Howie told the story of how one of his clients, in an effort to prove he was mentally unfit to stand trial, had taken his pants off in court and waved them at the judge.
The reason for their trip to Marysville was never touched upon.
Lovie’s lie-down before dinner had been a short one, and when the meal was done, she announced that she was going back to bed. “Not many dishes with takeout,” she said, “and what there is I can warsh in the morning. I can do it right from my chair, you know, although I have to be careful of the goddam oxygen tank.” She turned to Yune. “You sure you’re gonna be all right out here, Officer Sablo? What if someone comes stirrin around, like last night?”
“I’m fully armed, ma’am,” Yune said, “and this is a very nice place out here.”
“Well . . . you come on in anytime. Wind might kick up strong after midnight. Back door’ll be locked, but the key’s under that olla de barro.” She pointed at the old clay pot, then crossed her hands above her admirable bosom and did a little bow. “You are fine folks, and I thank you for coming here and trying to do right by my boy.” With that, she rolled away. The six of them sat a little longer.
“That’s a good woman,” Alec said.
“Yes,” Holly said. “She is.”
Claude lit a Tiparillo. “Cops on my side,” he said. “That’s a new experience. I like it.”
Holly said, “Is there a Walmart in Plainville, Mr. Bolton? I need to do some shopping, and I love Walmarts.”
“Nope, and a good thing, because Ma does, too, and I’d never get her out of it. Closest thing to it we got in these parts is the Home Depot in Tippit.”
“That should do,” she said, and stood up. “We’ll clean those dishes so Lovie doesn’t have to in the morning, and then we’ll be on our way. We’ll be back tomorrow to pick up Lieutenant Sablo, then leave for home. I think we’ve done all we can do here. Do you agree, Ralph?”
Her eyes told him what to say, and he said it. “Sure.”
“Mr. Gold? Mr. Pelley?”