Chapter 20
I kept a cautious eye on the rearview mirror for the red T-bird. If it dropped back too far, I slowed down. Finally I set the cruise control on sixty-five, even though that meant every other car on the interstate, as well as the huge semis, zipped past us in the fast lane. We’d still get to the plantation well before dark. Or so I thought.
A traffic jam appeared over a rise in the roadway. I bumped the brake to disconnect the cruise and slowed, joining the crawl of vehicles, Twila’s rented T-bird right behind me.
“Must be a wreck ahead,” I said. Then I realized neither of my companions were riding with me and felt silly. It had to be a wreck, though. I hadn’t seen any construction signs since we left Tyler. A slight fender-bender can account for a huge backup on a Texas highway, with a gaggle of rubberneckers heading the opposite direction.
I turned the radio down. Why do we do that when we find ourselves lost or in heavy traffic? Instinct, maybe, so we can concentrate? I’d noticed Jack and other men perform the same operation, so it wasn’t just a woman thing. I spontaneously stretched my neck, like the drivers beside and ahead of me, as though we could see around the traffic. Not only were the lanes of traffic bumper to bumper, several semis pulling high trailers blocked the view.
Fingers tapping on the steering wheel, I tried to decide between the right or left lane. Didn’t matter. Neither lane seemed to be making much progress. We spent fifteen minutes in the tie-up before hitting a fairly flat stretch of highway. The sun was setting by now, but the Jefferson turnoff wasn’t that much farther. And I could see far enough to realize where the holdup was. Cars and semis were playing “you’re-next” at a blockade point, each occupant of the fast lane politely allowing a right-lane car or truck to edge over in front of it. Sometimes Texas drivers actually can be polite. Past that point, traffic sped off in a fast flow.
Ahead of me was a pickup, then a semi in front of it. To my left was a black SUV, ahead of it another SUV, pulling a trailer. I waited patiently for my turn at you’re-next as the SUV/trailer courteously allowed the semi in my lane to proceed. The SUV/trailer sped on, and I craned my neck again to see around the pickup in front of me.
OH! MY! GOD!
The SUV beside me allowed the pickup to go. Now nothing inhibited my view of Granny’s red and white Olds, stately motoring down the interstate, her hand flicking out the window to wave gaily at the people who blasted horns as they passed. I could see through the rear window of the Olds. Granny had her white hair pinned up in a bun, her jaunty red and white yachting cap perched on her head. No doubt she wore her red and white peony-flowered pantsuit, which she called her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ outfit, even though she religiously wore it to the grocery store each week.
A horn blared beside me, and the driver of a yellow Corvette angrily waved me to take my turn at passing. I shook my head and motioned him onward. I expected a one-finger salute in return, and he didn’t disappoint me. Behind me, a police siren blared. The driver behind the Corvette slowed his pickup, and I stuck my arm out the window to motion him onward. The raggedy Chevy next in line didn’t even bother to slow. It sped on with a roar of bad mufflers, and the car behind it followed.
Now a flurry of horns from behind Twila’s T-bird joined the noise of the siren. Probably pissed as hell that we’d disturbed the flow of traffic past the impediment to their destinations. I glanced in my rearview mirror to see Twila with her arm out the window, imitating my go-around wave, and decided to ignore the disgruntled drivers in our lane. A good half of them were probably on their way to the gambling boats in Shreveport, and it wouldn’t hurt them at all to keep their rent money in their pockets an extra half an hour. Still, a strong urge to follow them and lose myself in the sound of clanging bells and screaming whistles in my favorite casino jabbed me. I could be there within an hour —
The siren closed in, the cruiser speeding cautiously up the highway shoulder. It slowed when it got to Twila, even more when it came up beside me, the astonished face of a state trooper peering over. He pulled up beside the Olds. The siren died, and Granny motored onward. He gave the siren a couple more experimental blasts, and she turned her head and finger-waved at the trooper.
The trooper indicated for me to let him in the lane. I did. He turned the siren on full bore again, but rather than pull over, Granny stately drove on down the road to the next exit, thankfully, the Jefferson one. Olds, cruiser, Jeep, and T-bird paraded off the highway, and at last Granny pulled to the side of the road. Cruiser, Jeep, and T-bird pulled in behind her and the siren warbled into silence.
I jammed the Jeep in park, leaned on the steering wheel, and rubbed my face. When I looked through my windshield again, nothing had changed. Granny still sat behind the wheel of her Olds, the trooper in his cruiser. Behind me, Twila sat in her T-bird, shoulders shaking with laughter as she wiped at her cheeks.
I suppose the trooper was checking out Granny’s license plate number before he approached the Olds, and I slid out of the Jeep to...well, I wasn’t exactly sure what the hell I was going to do, but I had to be there for Granny. I had better sense, though, than to stalk right up to an armed policeman. He had his window down, so I called, “Officer. Officer?”
For a second, he didn’t respond. Then he opened his door and stood, six-plus feet in a starched, brown uniform and gleaming black boots. Even this late in the evening, he wore his wraparound sunshades, and a tan Stetson perched on his head. He slowly turned to face me.
“Sir, I...she’s...she does have a driver’s license, sir." I couldn’t think of a damned thing else to say.
The trooper stared at me. Turned and looked at the Olds. Then snickered. I swear I heard it, even though he was several feet away. And he confirmed it when he followed the snicker with a roar of laughter.
Another deluge of choking laughter assaulted my ears from behind. Twila walked towards me, sopping at her streaming eyes with a wad of tissue.
“This isn’t funny,” I said in a harsh whisper. “That’s Granny.”
“I know!” she screamed gleefully. “I know Granny’s car!" She grabbed her stomach and bent over. Straightening, she choked, “Isn’t it hilarious? I hope I’m just like her at eighty!”
I bit my lip and whirled to check on Granny again. She sat serenely in the driver’s seat, her purse propped on the steering wheel as she dug into it.
“Hush,” I ordered Twila. Not that it did a damn bit of good, especially when the trooper lost it completely and sat down with a plop on his driver’s seat, burying his face in his hands and bending over his knees. His hat tumbled from his head, but he ignored it. Twila, however, walked on around me and picked it up for him.
Still snickering, she nudged his shoulder with the hat, and he looked at her. He took the Stetson and tossed it in the car, accepting a wad of tissues she held out to mop his eyes. “Thanks,” he finally said. “I assume you ladies are with the Olds?”
“We are indeed,” Twila told him. “Now, anyway. We don’t have that much farther to go, Officer. Only —" She turned toward me. “How much further is Esprit d’Chene, Alice?”
“About ten miles.”
The officer stood, shaking his head. “I’ll get out of y’all’s way if you promise me that one of you will lead, the other one follow the Olds. But first I better go pay my respects to Miz Chisholm. Mama’d have my hide if I didn’t do that.”
“You know Granny?” I asked, finally with courage enough to approach the cruiser.
“Everybody knows Miz Chisholm,” he said. “But did I hear right? You ladies are headed to Esprit d’Chene?”
“It’s all right, sir,” I assured him. “I’m Katy Gueydan’s cousin, and this is my aunt, Twila Brown. We’re expected.”
“You might wanna sneak in the back gate,” he told us. “Last I heard on my radio, there’s a flock of media nuts at the front.”
“Shit,” I muttered before I could stop myself.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “That’s what this is turning into
. You ladies drive careful, hear?" He strolled over to the Olds, and we followed.
Granny stuck her arm out the window, a handful of papers in her hand. “I’m not sure what all you want, Officer. Got my driver’s license, insurance, and reg’stration here.”
“That’s not necessary, Miz Chisholm,” he said.
Her face creased in a foreboding frown. “Then why’d ya pull me over?”
“Uh...I...well, ma’am — ”
Granny’s frown turned into a mischievous, toothless grin. “Why, Chuckie Dawson. How’s your mama’s coon dogs doin’?”
“Just fine, Miz Chisholm,” he said. “Fact is, we was talkin’ about you last week. Mama said next time I go huntin’, I should get an extra coon. Skin it and drop it by your place.”
“I’d sure ’preciate that, Chuckie. Been a while since I had baked coon with apple’n bell pepper stuffin’. Now, you be sure’n get all them glands outta it, iffen it be a boar.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Trooper Chuckie assured her. “Uh...these ladies seem to know you, Miz Chisholm.”
Granny appeared to notice us for the first time. “Why, hello, Alice. Twila. What were you two doin’ to break the law and make Chuckie pull you over?”
I rubbed my hands down my face and let Twila handle that one. She’d quit laughing.
“Nothing, Granny,” Twila told her. “We recognized your car and assumed you were probably heading to Katy’s, too. We can all drive along together.”
“That’d be nice,” Granny said. “You want me to go first?”
“I better go first, Granny,” I managed. “Chuckie...uh...the officer says news media’s staked out at the front gate, and we’ll go in the rear. Katy’s housekeeper had that gate secured with a log chain, but I can call ahead on my cell phone and have it unlocked.”
Granny nodded agreeably, and Trooper Chuckie said his goodbyes in a respectful voice as Twila and I returned to our vehicles. “Now, don’t you forget that coon,” Granny called.
“I won’t, Miz Chisholm.”
He pulled out around the Olds, giving Granny a wave. I followed slowly, allowing Granny plenty of time to pull in behind me ahead of Twila. At the stop sign at the intersection, Trooper Chuckie sat in a vacant lot on the other side of the road. I don’t think he was watching us. He was too busy leaning on his steering wheel, laughing.