CHAPTER FOURTEEN

How Shelby came to be a psychologist was panic. Her own. Before she entered therapy herself, she was an English major with dual phobias—heights and bridges—fairly typical things. She had elaborate rituals of avoidance for her fears, either these or others. Since then, increasingly, she tried to challenge them head on. She knew that to challenge was in some part why she moved to Quarry County by herself, and it was why, alone, barely forty minutes after Chere had gone, she started back to Cheval Ranch another time to get more information.

When Chere finished her appointment, somewhat to Wallace’s surprise, she agreed to come again. Chere said nothing more on Darley or her Father. About her Mother, though, she cried and moaned, “She always lived in Daddy’s shadow.” As in her first appointment, Chere Blanton’s tears about her Mother seemed genuine and honest. This time, she talked about her ‘Mama’s’ life and wept again, then smoothed her hair, reapplied her lipstick, and walked to the outer office.

Wil questioned Wallace with her eyes at the time the psychologist came out the door and asked, “You all right?”

“Yes.” Shelby nodded. “How were things out here with you? What did Darley do?”

“You must have really spooked him.” Wil looked excited like a school girl tattling to her teacher. “He came out and stood and stared at me for what seemed like forever. I asked if I could help him. But the poor ol’ boy just didn’t say a word. He boogied out the door. What did y’all do in there?”

“Well, very little really. For certain, nothing that I hoped for.” Shelby walked over to Wil’s desk and leaned against it. “I think from now on I’ll be doing therapy with Chere. I’ll put the rest of it behind me.”

“Then you won’t want my suggestion.” Wil batted eyes at Shelby, looking almost coy.

“Wil, don’t toy with me. I’m just not in the mood.” Shelby tried to smile to soften her delivery.

With her ornate crystal earrings bobbing, Wil offered earnestly, “Why don’t you go out to Cheval and talk to Robert Gaines. He’s worked out there for years.” Wil went on to describe him as a man who, with both his grown-up sons, worked for Claude Collette. “Now works for Chere, I s’pose. If anyone has seen things, he surely has.”

Before Shelby could respond, Bub Moats came through the outer door. Clad in clean blue jeans, not faded yet from use, and an ivory western shirt, he still was glancing after Chere. Then he turned his eyes on Shelby. “Hey, there,” he called, “how ya doin’?”

Before she could convene her thoughts and fix on how she’d like to greet him, Bub zipped across the floor and stopped in front of Wil. “I come in to see my niece,” the rancher stated, grinning at Willowdean. He shot another quick glance toward the street and asked of Wallace, “How’s your investigation comin’?”

“Hello, Mr. Moats. How are you?” Shelby answered.

Moats made a cynical face. “Unh, good enough, for a guy in my condition.” He pointed to the door. “See you had ‘Miss trouble’ in here.”

Wil spoke up in a conciliatory tone, “Uncle Bub, we can’t get into that. Glad to see ya, though.”

“How’s that?” He frowned and shifted feet.

Shelby held her tongue and let Wil run interference.

“Well, it’s like your doctor’s office, Uncle Bub. We can’t talk about the folks who come here.” Wil was exceptionally southern and syrupy in her cadence.

“Uh, okay. If you say so.” He stopped for just a moment before continuing to Shelby, “I thought a something you might like to know to put into your diggin’. Somethin’ I forgot.” The rancher dropped his voice. “I told you C.C came to see me the day before he died. He talked ‘bout his money. He talked ‘bout his family—‘bout little Claudie dyin’. Then, and here’s the part I wanted ta tell ya, he told me that he had ‘his eyes on someone.’ His words exactly, ‘his eyes on someone’ he was watchin.’ Whaddya make a that?” Moats strutted just a bit before the desk and dipped his head at Wil. He said, “Take my word on it, there’s somethin’ ain’t right in this.”
Shelby asked, “Do you know who he meant? Collette?”

“Had to be that girl,” Moats pointed toward the door. “Or her husband. Claudie was dead by then. And it weren’t Irene. Never would a said that ‘bout her.” He sighed. “ ‘Less it was someone at the quarry.”

“Did he ever speak of that? What went on at SOUTHERN ROCK?”

“Well, yeah, we’d talk.” He looked at Shelby, then at Wil, and stroked his chin. “Regular stuff, I always thought. Had for years. You know, old Claude was good at business, so I didn’t give that much attention. I knew he’d handle it.”
“What about the brother? Frenchy?” Shelby asked.

“Look into him. I told ya that.” Bub answered. “I know they’d had a falling out, and C.C. never said how that came out.”

“What, specifically, makes you think Claude’s death needs looking into, Mr. Moats? Is it this thing Claude said about observing someone?” Shelby moved a few feet from the desk to head back to her office.

“Yes, ma’am, that, too. But, mostly, it’s his way of telling it. He was not the kind of man who ever worried. Like I said, he’d just deal with it.” Moats’ eyebrows raised. “This time was different. He told it like there was somethin’ fixin’ ta happen.”

Wallace started through her door and turned. “Then he could have been depressed? Could he have thought of doing something to himself?”

“No, no!” Bub’s face reddened. “Like I told you, he was fine. Mood was fine. It’s just ... I’m trying to tell ya ... he had the kind of problem that concerned him more than most. Something had t’of happened or he’d a handled it.”

“Mr. Moats,” Shelby paused and said. “I thank you very much for all your input. I’ll give some thought to this.” She made an instantaneous decision. “Wil, I think I’ll leave the office for a while. You can hold the fort, I’m sure. I’ll be back by four.” Wil and her uncle stared as she walked back to her office and prepared to leave.

Shelby drove out to Cheval to speak with Mr. Gaines. She thought he must be the Robert that Mrs. Hamer mentioned. Her anxiety had returned. She was chasing smoke trails that could turn out to be mist. And, if there was any basis for her intuition, she wondered what she was getting into. Dr. Vij had suggested she involve police, but what could she say to them. She had no evidence at all—and evidence of what—just a supposition based on little actual substance except for knowing several individuals would benefit from Collette’s death, and for her own pervasive feelings. Shelby also mused on how she would explain her coming there to Chere, if she encountered her. She’d simply tie it to permission Chere had given her already.

She drove south on 301 through the tiny settlement of St. Cecelia, across a corner of Hernando County onto Highway 50 turning east. The countryside now was brown from lack of rain. Water conservation warnings had been issued everywhere. When she’d first moved to Florida from Illinois, she naively thought the raging Florida thunderstorms with their wicked bolts of lightning were a serious nuisance. They came most summer afternoons and filled the streets with run-off, flooding culverts, stalling cars. But she’d learned relentless drought was worse. It had the feel of death and desiccation. She longed for the refreshment of a vigorous Florida storm.

Back into Quarry County, Shelby drove onto the ranch and up the lane. She felt relief to see no cars in view. Driving around the circle, she saw Cora Hamer standing in her back yard near the fence. She was eyeing something on the ground. Shelby drove behind the house toward the barn and parked beside the waning driveway. She walked toward the Collette neighbor until the woman saw her. In the shaded yard, tufts of sunless grass decayed in patches on the sandy mole-torn ground. As Shelby stepped, porous earth gave way beneath her feet. She called to the tiny woman, “Hello, Mrs. Hamer.” Cora was dressed the same—beige slacks, blue sweater—as she was the time before. “How are you? I’m Shelby Wallace. I was here the other day.”

“See that?” Cora said, her bird-like body hovering over something flailing in the dirt. “Satan.” She pointed her scrawny hand toward a mammoth yellow cat who was torturing a gecko. The little lizard’s head was torn, and its tail was falling off. Satan threw it, pounced, bit, and commenced the game again.

Not finding much to say, Wallace answered lamely, “He’s very strong. Your cat.”

Cora turned to look at her and said in fragile voice, “He gets what he needs.”

Shelby was facing Mrs. Hamer’s back yard. Though the woman’s yellow house was small, Shelby saw up close that it was kempt and with a brace of well-trimmed bushes on each side of the door. Her grass was mowed and watered and seemed to flourish where there was sun.

“Chere isn’t here,” Mrs. Hamer offered. “Left a couple hours ago. Don’t know where she is.” Cora had turned her thoughts to Shelby as the triumphant tawny cat jogged off with the remnants of the gecko.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hamer. Actually, I’m looking for Robert Gaines.” Shelby wondered if she should elaborate, but decided to leave her statement there.

Cora looked confused, yet answered, “Well, Robert’s here. So are the boys. Cassius and Marcellus.” She pointed. “Back over there. Behind the barn. But not for long. ‘Bout time for them to go.”

Mrs. Hamer’s gaze drifted off into the distance. She didn’t inquire what Shelby wanted. When Shelby said goodbye, Mrs. Hamer didn’t answer. It appeared as though her mind had gone to something else. She moved away toward her house, and Shelby started toward the barn.

Looking out beneath the oak trees, toward the distant fields, a sense of peace washed over her. It seemed that in this pastoral setting with its sunlit vistas, its horses grazing calmly, nothing harmful ever happened. Daughters did not hate their fathers, wives and husbands didn’t quarrel, and violence never happens. Of course, there were tomcats with their predatory nature.... Shelby shook her head in disbelief. Shelby, now who is talking violence?

She walked the subtle rise into the barn, a white wood structure, showing just the early signs of disrepair.
The center double doors were open, and she saw, as she approached, the back doors were also open on the other side. She heard a repetitive and slamming noise like items falling and, through the opening, the arms and shoulders of two individuals performing manual labor at a pickup truck.

Proceeding through the center of the barn, she smelled the acrid, warming smell that took her to her Grandpa’s barn when she was very young. She remembered hiding with her cousins in the hay while rain rattled on the metal roof. Here at Cheval, tack was hung on hooks along the wall. Horse stalls lined both sides. A large, black, short-haired dog, bearing traces of a hound, lay in the sunlight by the opposite door. He indolently raised his head to gaze at her and fell back into dreams. Since the barn was average size, she surmised the Collette horses must be owned for pleasure, not so much for commerce. As she left the barn, a momentary surge of caution nearly stopped her in her tracks. Moving to the open space beyond seemed to represent moving to a more committed level of investigation. In the conflict between her concern and her persistence, persistence won.

Outside, she saw three African-American men, one sitting on a waist-high pile of wood, an immense young man with impressive girth and ponderous shoulders. The other two—both of nearly equal size, five feet eleven or so, she’d say, one of whom was younger and an older one with leathery skin—were stacking lengths of wood onto the truck. As she approached the older man, they all looked at her. No one spoke. It seemed apparent now that this man must be the father. She smiled and said. “I’m looking for Robert Gaines.”

Still not uttering a word, he watched her with expressionless eyes. After considerable time, the young man, who had been sitting, stood and, gesturing to the older man, said, “He’s Robert Gaines. This is Cash. I’m Mercy. What you want?”

Shelby thought his height was most impressive. He must be six feet three or four at least, still, something non-threatening in his demeanor prompted her to ask him, “Mercy?” Her ease came naturally. “That’s quite a name.”

The other brother warmed and offered, “That’s cause he don’t show none. When he’s playin’. Football.”

“Oh, I see.” Shelby laughed.

The father interjected. His voice was far more serious. “Y’all have work to do.” He looked around at Cassius and Marcellus, growling, “Get to it.” Still, the brothers stood and watched.

“Mr. Gaines,” she said, “I know I’m interrupting. But I wonder if I might speak to you for just a moment. Perhaps your sons could do the job. I need to talk to you about Mr. Collette.” She wondered if she was too abrupt. She thought he might say, “No.”

Gaines wore an ancient cap of navy blue that read “USS Valley Forge, CVA 45,” inscribed in fading gold. What hair she saw was gray. His skin had begun to change from burnished walnut like his sons to a drab bluish-brown. His voice was low and dull. He looked directly at her though his eyes gave no acknowledgment. “You from the law?”

“No, Mr. Gaines. I’m not. My name is Shelby Wallace. I’m a psychologist in Brunell, and I’m doing research of my own. I’m trying to find out what Claude Collette was like before he died—his mood, his feelings, you might say.”

Cash and Mercy continued piling wood, but only very slowly, as she and Robert continued talking. They each stopped from time to time to eye their dad and her. Then, their father glowered at them and indicated they should get to work again. Both muscular, though of differing size, piece by piece they lifted what looked to be rails from the shrinking heap of wood and piled them on the truck.

The old man said. “Don’ know what I c’n tell you.” It was apparent he was disinclined to be forthcoming.

Shelby weighed her words. “Well, I suppose you saw him on the several days before he died. Did he seem depressed, ah, down, at all?”

Gaines’s tone relented just a little as he answered, “Mr. Claude did not go down. He’s not the kind o’ man for that.”

“Mr. Gaines, how strong a person was Collette? How healthy would you say?”

“He’s mos’ strong. Goin’ every day.”

Gaines no longer seemed to make her quite the enemy. She began to feel they could accomplish talking friend to friend. She asked, “You mean that he was pretty vigorous. Active?”

“Yes, ma’am. Indeed he was.”

Robert Gaines continued in his less defensive stance so she decided she would push him just a little further. “Were you surprised he died like that? So suddenly and all?”

At this, he stepped back several steps before he answered, “I don’t like to say.” He shook his head.

“Mr. Gaines, this will stay with you and me. I won’t quote you anywhere. You have my word on it.”

He looked at her a long time. Then he answered, “Well, he wan’t down just like I says. And he wan’t the kind of man to lose his balance. Get what I mean.” Robert eyed her sharply, then turned away and rearranged his cap. He muttered, “Now I got to finish up. ‘Cause I’m fixin’ to go home.”

“Before you go, Mr. Gaines, I want to tell you how much I appreciate your time. And your position.” Shelby twisted so as to free her eyes from glaring sun. She lowered her voice to a confidential tone. “Is there anything further you could tell me? Anything at all?”

Gaines glanced over at his sons. They glanced down very quickly. He dug his right work shoe into the dirt below his feet and dragged it back and forth. He pursed his lips in thought. Then, Gaines said and nodded, emphatically, “Oh, Mr. Claude went fishin.’ That’s for Gospel.” He stopped for emphasis before he spoke again. “But Mr. Claude was settlin’ somethin’.” He ended with a knowing glance and began to move away.

“Mr. Gaines,” Shelby nearly pled, “please don’t leave me there.”

As Robert Gaines turned to walk toward his sons, he called over his shoulder, “‘N’ there was more to settle than that gent’man know.”

Though Shelby wished that Gaines would stay and talk to her, she knew he’d reached the limit of his openness. “Mercy, Cash,” she called to them and waved. “Thank you.”

They nodded.

She walked back through the barn considering what Gaines had said. He saw Claude Collette as not depressed, not infirm, not taking foolish risks. Of course, there was the final revelation that Claude was “settling” something. What that meant, she had no idea. It gave considerable fuel for thought.

As she re-emerged, she saw Mrs. Hamer was still working in her yard. The woman bent, picking items from the earth. Though in a hurry now to go, Shelby moved close enough to call a last “Goodbye” and ask a question that had come to her, “Mrs. Hamer, do you have any idea why Mrs. Collette, why Irene, didn’t phone police the night her husband drowned?”

“Oh, yes,” the little lady answered, “Rene fell asleep and didn’t notice till the morning. That’s why she felt so bad. She talked about it nearly every day until she died.”

Shelby thought to ask her to enlarge upon the family situation, and, as she did, she heard a car approaching down the drive. She sighed. She presumed it would be Chere. She’d have to formulate her story. Just as she reached the fence and Cora’s property, a pickup sped around the corner. The vehicle looked familiar—a dirt-covered Silverado. Shelby was surprised. The sharp-faced man with dark blonde hair she had seen at SOUTHERN ROCK was at the wheel. He raced up to the barn, screeched to a halt, and hurried from the truck. She saw his skinny backside racing through the door and out of sight. Mrs. Hamer straightened slightly, watching.

“Ma’am, who is that?” Shelby called.

“Oh, that’s my boy,” the old woman said. Her face gave up a tiny smile of recognition. “That’s Lyle.”

Coming Friday, August 27: Installment 15: Turkey, Tacking, and Trysting