“After the funerals,” she told them, “he only stuck around for a few days.”
“Funerals?”
“His wife and son died three weeks ago of suffocation. Remember when we had that freak ice storm? Before Mrs. Burke lay down to take a nap, she turned on the furnace for the first time of the season. It wasn’t ventilating properly, so they died in their sleep. Mr. Burke found them when he got ho
me.”
“You don’t know where he is?”
“I haven’t seen him for more than a week. I assumed he went back to work.”
The officers got a search warrant and went into the house. As far as they could tell, nothing had been disturbed since the day of the fatal accident. There was a bouquet of dead flowers standing in a vase of smelly, stagnant water on the dining table. Beside it was the remains of a chocolate cake that ants had gotten to.
No one at the construction site in Mississippi had seen Mr. Burke since the Thursday night he left for home. His co-workers expressed sorrow over the deaths of his family. “He was crazy about that kid,” one said. “Talked about him all the time.”
“How’d he feel about his wife?”
“Her picture’s still here in the trailer where he left it. He didn’t screw around on her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Assault charges were never filed for the attack on Haskell Scanlan. The only viable suspect had vanished. It seemed as though he had simply walked away from everything.
Chapter Sixteen
Palmetto, South Carolina, 1987
“A freaking faggot! Can you believe it?” Neal Patchett shook his head in disbelief and took another sip of his bourbon and water.
Hutch Jolly was as shocked as Neal by the news about Lamar. Hutch just wasn’t as outspoken. “I hadn’t been around Lamar very much for the last few years,” he remarked. “Not near as much as you.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Neal asked defensively.
“Hell. It’s not supposed to mean a damn thing except that I hadn’t been around him much. Did you notice any changes in him over the years?”
“No, and that can only mean one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He was queer all along,” Neal said. “All those years he stuck to us like glue, he was a fairy. It gives me the willies to think about it. I lived with the guy! Jesus!”
Until now Donna Dee had refrained from entering the conversation. “The way y’all are bad-mouthing somebody who just died is pitiful. I don’t care if Lamar was gay, he was still a human being. He was our friend. I feel sorry for him.”
Neal snickered. “You ought to have a talk with your old lady, Hutch. Set her straight on a few things. Feeling sorry for queers the way she does, maybe she should have moved out to San Francisco like Lamar did.
“You know,” he continued, “that should have been my first clue. First he moves out of the house we shared, then he got all fired up about going to California as soon as we graduated. Who in their right mind would want to live among all those freaks unless you were one of them? I should have known then he was a faggot.”
Donna Dee opened her mouth to speak, but Hutch shot her a warning glance and asked, “Is there any of that clam dip left, honey?”
Resentfully she flounced from the room and went into the kitchen. She was frequently short-tempered. Lately she’d been on a tear about moving to a larger house. They had bought this one after returning from Hutch’s stint in Hawaii. It wasn’t much better than the one they’d had on base, but it was all they could afford.
Besides, Donna Dee only used the house—among a number of other things—as an excuse for her bad moods. Hutch ignored the racket of clattering dishes and banging cabinet doors coming from the kitchen and freshened his guest’s drink.
Neal was still on the subject of Lamar Griffith’s recent demise. “You know that disease he died of—what’s it called?”
“AIDS,” Donna Dee said as she rejoined them, bearing a tray of dip and chips.
“My daddy says that only queers can get it. It comes from fucking each other in the ass. How’s that for a way to go?”
Hutch dug into the dip. Most of his football muscle had turned to flab and collected around his middle, but he continued to feed his athlete’s appetite. “The paper said he died of pneumonia,” he mumbled around a mouthful.