Chapter 20
Acouple of days later, I’d finished my mushroom harvest. The crop had been more successful than I could have imagined. I needed to keep busy, to keep my mind off Mags as much as I could. And it was time to get serious about expanding my business. I had to find some more customers.
The first farm-to-table restaurant I decided to visit that day was on the outskirts of Knoxville, far enough from Green Valley that the name Baxter wouldn’t automatically get the door slammed in my face...I hoped.
I parked my rusty old pickup truck between a shiny Tesla and an even shinier Corvette in the parking lot. The restaurant was an upscale place, with a hand-painted chalkboard advertising the dinner special: duck egg carbonara with truffles. I’d timed my visit for midmorning hoping there’d be no diners, but a few of the tables were filled with people having either a late breakfast or an early lunch.
All the diners were smartly dressed, while I was in jeans and a polo shirt, carrying a tub of mushrooms, with my nails still a little dirty from the harvest. But when a young hostess in a short dress and heels appeared from the kitchen, she gave me a friendly smile.
“Table for one?” she asked.
“Thanks, but I’m here to speak to your chef.”
She vanished back into the kitchen, and a lanky woman in chef’s whites emerged, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “Help you?”
Setting the mushroom tub on the nearest table, I pried off the lid. “You interested in golden oyster and enoki mushrooms?”
She came closer, eyebrows lifted as she gazed down at my crop. Plucking one of the golden oysters out of the tub, she brought it to her nose. “Beautiful color.” She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in, then flicked them back open. “You’re a local grower?”
“That’s right. My name’s Cy Baxter.” I spoke slowly and clearly, giving her time to react to my last name.
“Nice to meet you, Cy.” She gave no flicker of recognition. “I’m Lucy. Can you give me a price list for your mushrooms?”
My muscles relaxed. “Sure. And I can leave these samples so you can see if they work for your menu. If you want to go ahead, I’ll do a regular delivery.”
“You’ll leave these ones for free?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She gave me a smile. “Then I’ll try out some recipes and see how our diners like them.”
I left the restaurant feeling encouraged. There were nine more mushroom tubs in my pickup, and I’d planned my route around the restaurants I thought were most likely to be interested. Hopefully they’d all go as well as that one.
It wasn’t until the fourth restaurant that I ran into trouble.
The restaurant was called the Crooked Creek Inn, and it was a rustic place, with rough wood floors, creamy linen tablecloths, and fresh wildflowers on each table.
Its owner was an older man with darkly burnished skin, salt-and-pepper hair, and an impressively large, silver mustache. He introduced himself as Mr. Johnson and seemed friendly enough at first. But when I told him my name, he pursed his lips, drawing back and setting his fists on his hips.
“Cy Baxter,” he repeated slowly. “You’re Ike Baxter’s son.”
“That’s right,” I said, keeping both my gaze and my tone level. “But my daddy’s dead now, and good riddance.”
“I knew your momma from church. Used to see you and your sister there, too.”
I nodded. Momma had taken us to church every week, but after she died, Ruth and I hadn’t gone back. We’d assumed the congregation wouldn’t welcome us.
His eyes narrowed. “When your momma died, folks said she’d been beat to death.”
Though it had happened many years ago, his matter-of-fact declaration landed deep into the center of my chest. For a second or two the pain felt fresh and raw all over again, before it settled back into its regular ache.
I forced a breath out of lungs that had momentarily stopped working.
“That’s exactly what happened,” I said, admitting it out loud for the first time. Finally, I could be honest. It was a relief.
“Your daddy should have gone to jail for it.”
“Yes, sir, he should have. You’ll get no argument from me.”
“But you and your sister were the reason he didn’t.”
I folded my arms, reflecting his hard gaze back at him. “My sister was only sixteen. She was scared to death of my daddy’s friends, and if you’re fixing to blame her for anything, we’ll be done here, and I won’t bother you again.”
Ruth was blameless, and anyone who said otherwise could kiss my grits.
Or, as Mags would say, they could fuck right off.
Incredibly, the thought of Mags cursing made me want to laugh. That was a first. Usually when one of the townsfolk was treating me or my sister with suspicion, laughing was the last thing I felt like doing.
“Hmm.” Mr. Johnson’s frown eased. “I’d forgotten how young she was. But if I remember rightly, weren’t you grown up?”
“I was seventeen.”
“Just seventeen?” He gave his head a little shake, but his accusatory tone softened. “You’ve been gone a long time. What are you doing in your daddy’s rundown old house?”
“Growing mushrooms.” I gestured to the tub I’d put on the table between us. “I’ve started with enoki and golden oysters, but I’ll be adding other varieties. Might not be as profitable as my daddy’s marijuana crop, but I figure it’s better to grow mushrooms than ask for trouble.”
He gave a little snort of amusement. “Never a truer word.” Picking up the tub of mushrooms, he brought it to his nose to smell it, something that every chef I’d offered them to so far had done. “And I suppose your daddy finally got served some kind of justice, seeing as he died before his time.”
I shrugged. “If the devil likes to barbecue, he has my daddy on his fork.”
“Huh. Maybe he does.” Mr. Johnson’s lips quirked up. Putting down the mushrooms, he stroked one hand over his giant mustache. “Well, Cy Baxter, you and I might be able to do business after all.”
Despite my resolution not to care about the folks of Green Valley thinking the worst of me, I felt a rush of relief that made it hard not to smile back at him. Instead I gave him a serious nod. “Then let’s talk business.”
By the time I walked out of there, I was on such a high, I decided there was something more pressing I needed to do than visiting the other restaurants on my list.
The fact I’d lied to the sheriff about my momma’s death had always nagged at me. I couldn’t change what had happened, but I could apologize.
The county sheriff’s station wasn’t a place I’d willingly been to before. To my daddy and brothers, it had been the enemy base camp, to be avoided at all costs. I’d had to go in for questioning after my momma died, but had never been back.
By the time I arrived and went inside, the back of my neck was damp, and my heart was beating too quickly. Still, I asked at the front desk if I could see Sheriff Jeffrey James and was eventually taken to his office where he was sitting behind his big desk.
“Cy Baxter.” He stood to greet me. “It’s been a while, but I heard you were back in town.”
The sheriff looked older and grayer than the last time I’d seen him, and was probably pushing sixty. He was still a distinguished man, and his uniform fit him well. He motioned me into the chair on the other side of his desk before he sat back down.
“I thought it was about time we spoke about what happened all those years ago,” I said, cutting right to it.
His eyebrows twitched up, and the spark of interest in his eyes told me he knew what I was talking about, with no clarification needed. “I’d like to hear what you have to say, son.”
He’d called me son back then, too. I’d liked that about him. And on his desk, angled so I could just see it, was a photo of his family. The sheriff was standing next to his wife, and in front of him were Jackson and Jessica, his son and daughter. They were all smiling at the camera. The perfect family.
“You were right,” I said in a rush. “My daddy killed my momma and I lied about it. If you decide to charge me for lying, or for giving a false statement, I won’t fight it. But I want you to know the truth.”
I sat back in my chair, feeling better about the confession than I’d expected. Being honest now was too late to do any good, but it still took some weight off.
“I knew what happened,” the sheriff said in his calm, thoughtful way. “I’ve always regretted we couldn’t do more.” I’d never seen Sheriff James get riled up or upset, which was another thing I liked about him.
“My momma deserved better. And my daddy should have been punished.”
He nodded. “Your sister hasn’t come back to town with you, has she?”
“Ruth is in Nashville.” I frowned, worried as to why he’d asked. “She was being threatened by my daddy’s friends and was too afraid to tell the truth. You can charge me with lying but please leave her out of it.”
He held up a hand, his eyes kind. “Now, don’t get upset. I’m not thinking about charging her.”
“Okay.” I blew out a breath. “Good.”
“Your daddy grew marijuana, didn’t he? And he was the middleman for other drugs?”
“Yes, sir. He had a contact he used to meet in Huntsville. He’d collect the product and pass it on to the Iron Wraiths. He was real tight with Razor Dennings.”
Razor was the head of the Wraiths, one of the local motorcycle gangs. Our daddy had described how Razor had earned his name by cutting people with a razor blade, carving into their skin. Ruth and I were terrified of him, and when he came around, we’d hide near the river.
“My daddy made it crystal clear what Razor would do to Ruth if we told the truth about momma’s death,” I said.
The sheriff rubbed his hand over his chin, his thoughtful gaze dropping to the photo of his family. Maybe he was comparing his family to mine.
“You know Razor went to prison a while ago, and he’ll be behind bars for the rest of his life?” the sheriff asked.
I nodded. “It’s finally safe to speak up.”
“I could tell back then that y’all were afraid to tell the truth.” He let out a sigh, meeting my gaze. “As much as I wanted to arrest your daddy, I could see you were in a tough place, needing to protect your sister. Thank you for telling me now.”
“You’re not going to charge me?” I held my breath, waiting for his answer.
“You were as much a victim of Ike Baxter as your momma was.” He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be right to hold you responsible for his crimes.”
I let my breath out slowly. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Your momma was well-liked, and after she died, there was a lot of talk. I understand why you decided to take your sister someplace else. But at your age, it can’t have been easy.”
The way he looked at me, it almost seemed like he could see everything I’d experienced, as though it was right there on my face. There was no hiding from Sheriff James.
“It wasn’t easy,” I admitted. “But we couldn’t stay here. I took Ruth to Boston and we managed to get by.”
“What were you doing in Boston?”
“Risk analysis for a venture capital company. But now I’m here, I’ve decided to grow mushrooms and sell them to local restaurants.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty big change.”
“Yes, sir. I worked behind a desk for a long time, but it always felt like there was something missing, and now I’m here, I’m finding there’s something healing about getting my hands dirty and growing something real, instead of being online all the time.” I glanced down at my fingernails. Sure enough, they needed a good scrub to get the last traces of this morning’s harvest out.
“Well, I wish you success with your business.”
Instead of getting up to leave, I hesitated. He was a good man. Though I hadn’t intended to tell him about the trouble Mags was in, what could it hurt to have someone else looking out for her?
“Sheriff, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Have you met Magdalena Solis? She works at the Donner Bakery?”
“I don’t believe I have.”
“Well, she’s new in town and she came here to escape someone who’s been threatening her. A man called Spike. He’s a drug dealer from New York, and he told her he was going to travel all the way here to hurt her unless she paid him a lot of money.”
He leaned forward, steepling his hands on his desk. “Has she come in to report the threat?”
I shook my head. “She’s too afraid of him. And she doesn’t know I’m talking to you about it.” I could only hope she wouldn’t be angry that I hadn’t spoken to her first.
His brow furrowed. “What exactly are you hoping I’ll be able to do for her, son?”
“Just keep an eye and ear out, in case you hear about any strangers coming to town who might be here to cause trouble.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he promised. “And you should encourage her to come in and see me. With an official complaint, we’ll be able to do more.”
“I will.” Giving him a nod, I stood up. “Thank you for your time.”
He stood too. Stepping around his desk toward me, he offered me his hand. I hadn’t expected the gesture, so it took me a moment to accept.
As I shook his hand, he said, “Your momma would be proud of you, son.”
My heart gave an extra beat, tripping over itself and hitting against my ribs. At the same time, a lump formed in my throat. I had to swallow to be able to answer him. “Thank you for saying that, sir. I appreciate it.”