my Saturday night unpacking.”
“Mae, he’s there, you were right.” There was a pause. “Welcome back, sugar,” Rosabelle said. “I wondered if you’d make it to work today.”
“And miss feeding the Sunday Christians? Are you kidding me? It’s the highlight of my week.”
“Mae and I just drove by a half hour ago. The parking lot was full. I couldn’t tell if that snazzy sports car of yours was there or not,” Rosabelle said.
“I parked behind the restaurant. And yes, we are wall-to-wall up in here.”
“So did you have a nice time in South Beach?”
“Of course! Are you kidding? In fact, I figured I’d stop by this week and give you the scoop. Do you want to do dinner one night?
“Things are crazy with the holidays ramping up, but let me talk to Mae. Maybe we can all go to the Executive Inn one evening in the next couple of weeks. Wednesday is prime rib night. Otherwise, I’ll be at the market every day this week. Stop by sometime.”
“Perfect. Hey, I almost forgot . . . did you know Daryl Stone has moved back to town? He was in here earlier with his wife and kids. Can you believe he has a wife and kids?”
“I heard he was coming back,” Rosabelle said. “I bet his daddy’s happy, him takin’ a preachin’ job at the Baptist church. That kind of prestige is right up Farmer Stone’s alley.”
“How’d he ever get the nickname Farmer Stone?” I asked. Having known Farmer Stone for most my life, I had never heard how he’d earned the name.
“Lord, folks around here’ve been calling him that since Jesus was in diapers. It’s said that when he was a boy working his daddy’s melon fields south of town, he’d come to a dead stop, whatever he was doing, and begin searching for old river stones. Apparently he had one hell of a collection. His daddy would tell anyone who’d listen that the only kind of farmin’ his boy did was for stones. Ain’t nobody made a living selling stones, he’d say. I guess since his last name was Stone, it all just kind of stuck. Farmer Stone did prove his daddy wrong, though. Ain’t nobody around these parts made the kind of living Farmer Stone has. Of course, his trucking and shipping business has made him a pretty penny too. It’s paid for everything Daryl and his older brother ever wanted, even though, Lord knows, he’s a hard man. Set in his ways.”
“See, that’s where I thought they made their money. I always thought farming was sideline.”
“It’s hard to tell. Farmer Stone’s daddy told everything he knew. Whereas Farmer Stone wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful. I suspect Daryl’s the same way.”
“I don’t know. Daryl used to talk. I remember he told me back in high school that his dad always hated the nickname. Daryl kind of implied that his dad and grandpa didn’t get along. Anyway, I just wonder who Daryl thinks he’s fooling coming back here. It sure isn’t me. He said he expects to see my face in the pew next Sunday. I suppose Liberty University made him a straight, born-again Christian, and now he’s going to do the same for me,” I said.
“Honey, we all know that dog won’t hunt.”
“I am going at Christmas, though. Trace is real excited about Daryl taking on the youth choir. Says Daryl is making all kinds of changes, and rehearsals have never been better.” Just then, I saw the Wabash Valley Baptist Church’s ancient organist, Myrna Boil, shuffling her way across the dining room, her plate heaped high with fried chicken. Enough fried chicken for an entire football team.
“Myrna’s got her plate full, and I mean that in every sense of the word,” I told Rosabelle. “You should see her coming off the buffet line.”
“You’re terrible,” Rosabelle said.
“She wobbles around town giving everybody orders like she’s some sort of bacon-eating, Bible-thumping Baptist star or something. Anyway, I have to say I was shocked to see Daryl. I don’t think I’ve seen him since high school, since after the grand jury investigation into Robbie’s murder.”
“Wasn’t Daryl a part of that?” Rosabelle asked. “I remember someone coming to the orchard and saying Daryl had been called to testify, that he was one of the guys at the party when Robbie disappeared.”
“Those were the rumors, but I don’t think so. He and Robbie didn’t really have anything to do with one another, unless it had something to do with Harrison’s golf team. Daryl was always nice to him, kind of like I was. But Daryl being the jock and all, well, he had to keep some distance from Robbie.”
“I don’t know. I seem to remember some scuttlebutt about Daryl and Robbie at that party. I recall someone saying that’s why Farmer Stone got Daryl the hell out of town. He called in a favor with some buddy of his, the golf coach at Liberty University,” Rosabelle said. “I just can’t shake the idea that Daryl is a lot like his mamma: self-serving and manipulative. Oh, the trials and tribulations she put upon her husband! Yep, when it comes to Daryl, I bet dollars to donuts that apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “But I don’t remember Daryl and Robbie ever hanging out—at least not in public. Daryl wouldn’t have risked it. Anyway, it sure is going to be interesting to see Daryl about town. I gotta tell you, he looks pretty damn good.”
“Forbidden fruit always does, sugar.”
I laughed. “You said fruit.”
Rosabelle giggled.
“I should probably get back out on the floor.” I said. “I’ll pop by this week. Let me know about dinner.”
“Okay, sugar. I’m glad you’re back, and I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
“Only the PG stuff,” I said.
We hung up, and I sat a moment thinking about what Rosabelle had said, about Daryl and that party. About Robbie. I began to wonder: In high school, had Daryl ever shown up at Robbie’s bedroom window like he had at mine? Had they fooled around too? Nah. I would’ve known about it. I knew Daryl too well; he’d come back to Fort Sackville to prove something. He had reinvented himself as a man of God, and now, I suppose, he had to convince people.
Grand jury to probe Palmer murder
By Foster Lawrence
Fort Sackville Sentinel staff writer
FORT SACKVILLE, Ind. — A grand jury will convene next week in an attempt to shed light on the death of Robbie Palmer.
Prosecutor Dallas Ellerman has been focusing his attention on the death of Palmer, which occurred at a party in Fort Sackville on the morning of May 3.
Fort Sackville Police interviewed party attendees, but no charges in Palmer’s death have resulted.
A grand jury is an opportunity for the prosecutor to gather information. Grand jury investigations are considered private.
Ellerman said if all goes smoothly, the grand jury inquiry should take no more than a week.
Palmer’s mother, Ruth Palmer, has pressed
