“I know,” Grady lamented. “Great package. Godawful flavor.”

“You coulda saved me the trouble,” Roy grumbled.

Grady shrugged.

“Everyone’s got their own tastes,” he replied. “You mighta liked it.”

Roy looked glumly at his remaining barbequed brisket.

“At least give me something good to forget that,” he requested.

Grady rummaged beneath the counter.

“Here’s the best we’ve got. Also new, not as sexy.”

Grady squirted some hot sauce out of a plain plastic bottle. Roy sniffed it warily, then took a bite. He smiled, brisket sticking out between his teeth.

“Now, that’s a hot sauce,” he pronounced happily. “What’s that one? I’ll take some of it to make Helen’s pork chops edible.”

Grady turned the bottle to show him.

“In Foo-ego?” Roy asked.

“En Fuego,” Walton said from over Roy’s shoulder. “It means ‘on fire’ in Spanish.”

Roy was startled by Walton’s sudden closeness. He jerked a little, then pushed his plate away.

“No, thanks. I don’t eat Mexican.”

Grady shrugged.

“Juan from Tortillas gave it to me. It’s good stuff,” Grady said.

Grady said “tortillas” like it rhymed with “vanilla” or “Godzilla.”

“Tor-tee-yas,” Walton corrected. “The two ‘l’s make a ‘y’ sound, and the ‘i’ is pronounced like a long ‘e.’ ”

Both Grady and Roy ignored him. Walton tended to know too much about everything.

Tortillas had opened three months ago, much to the surprise of the Fayeville residents. Some of them were aware that the apartments at the western end of town had seen an influx of Mexicans in recent years, but no one had really tuned in to just how many were now actually calling Fayeville home. Previously, the immigrants’ presence had been temporary. A group of them would arrive to help work the harvest and then leave again. Then, suddenly, they’d stopped leaving. And then more of them had come. There were plenty of jobs for them, that wasn’t the problem. It was just a surprising development for a town that had thought of itself as strictly black and white—and mostly white at that—for its entire history. Mississippi wasn’t Texas; this was the Deep South. And this was brand-new.

“I thought you only bought local stuff,” Walton said.

“It is local,” Grady answered. “I told you, Juan gave it to me. He makes it.”

Roy just shook his head.

The bell over the door announced another patron.

Roy shifted in his seat, hoping to see their old friend Travis Brayer walking in. He knew that Travis was still bedridden—had been bedridden since the month his son announced his race for governor—but Roy hoped nonetheless. He loved Travis, and he planned to visit him soon. They had business to discuss.

It was a young woman. As the door slapped shut behind her, she looked around nervously, like a trapped rabbit. She struck Roy as vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He turned back to his beer.

Jiminy had never been inside Grady’s Grill before. Her eyes watering from the thick cloud of cigarette smoke, she walked over to the table Walton had returned to.

“Is now an okay time?” she asked.

Walton glanced at Roy and Grady, then indicated the empty chair across from him.

“So you’re interested in Fayeville history.”

Jiminy nodded as she settled in opposite him.

“Actually, in a very specific time period,” she answered. “The late sixties. And 1966 in particular. Do you remember that year?”

Walton took a long drag on his cigarette. He nodded slowly, watching Jiminy with an inscrutable expression.

“That was way before you were born,” he said.

“But there was another Jiminy alive then. Jiminy Waters. Did you happen to know her? She was young, only seventeen in 1966. And her father Edward. Did you know them?”

Walton tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. Across the room, Roy shifted his weight on his stool.

“I knew ’em. Edward was a carpenter. Could carve anything outta wood. Anything t’all.”

Jiminy paused. She hadn’t heard this before, hadn’t even thought to ask anyone what Edward had done for a living. She’d thought of him as Lyn’s husband and Jiminy’s father and a murdered man. Just being these things had seemed occupation enough.

“Did he work with my grandpa then?” Jiminy asked.

To help pay for their small farm, Henry Hunt had done carpentry jobs all over Fayeville, according to Willa.

Walton nodded.

“Edward did the woodwork and Henry handled the business side, since he was obviously who folks wanted to deal with.”

This was also news to Jiminy, who had always pictured her grandfather as a master craftsman. She’d imagined that same talent flowed through her veins, hence her fascination with hardware store catalogues and penchant for buying build-it-yourself furniture.

The revelation that Henry hadn’t actually possessed that talent came as a bit of a shock. She thought of a doll she’d once found in her grandpa’s workshop closet—an exquisitely carved wooden boy. She’d gone on imaginary safaris with him, engineered elaborate pillow forts with him, told him her deepest, most precious secrets. She’d imagined her grandpa carving him carefully, lovingly for her, before he even knew she was going to exist. That wooden boy had convinced her she belonged in her family. Had he actually been Edward’s handiwork all along?

“So were my grandpa and Edward friends?” Jiminy asked.

Walton took another long drag on his cigarette, then exhaled slowly. Jiminy coughed into her hand and turned toward the window.

“They were close,” Walton answered. “Henry was the boss, but they were close. Edward and Lyn lived just down the hill at that time, in a house by the river that your grandpa owned. So they were tenants as well.”

Jiminy nodded.

“And Lyn worked with my grandmother,” she said.

“For your grandmother, yes, though Lyn worked the farm alongside Henry and Edward for years before Willa came along. And then Lyn worked for the Brayers for a time, too.”

Jiminy looked up quickly.

“For the Brayers? Really?” she asked.

Grady started coughing from across the room, and Jiminy could see out of the corner of her eye that he wasn’t covering his mouth.

“Uh-huh,” Walton answered.

Jiminy contemplated this for a moment.

“Was Lyn close with the Brayers?” she asked.

Walton took another drag on his cigarette.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Jiminy stared at him expectantly, waiting for more information, but none came.

“Did anyone have a problem with them?” she asked finally.

“With who?”

“With Lyn and Edward and my grandparents. With the way they did things, the way they were. With their closeness.”

Walton regarded her, as sizzling noises escaped from the kitchen.

“Pretty much everyone,” he answered.

Jiminy held his gaze, determined not to blink. She had more questions, but she suddenly felt claustrophobic in this hot, smoky, germy place. She stood abruptly.

“I gotta go,” she said. “Thanks for your time.”

She needed to get away. She needed to breathe uncontaminated air. She’d tackle this again, but right now she needed to flee. She felt old men eyes on her as she hurried toward the door.

“Be sure to come back, ya hear?” jangled in her ears along with the screen door bells. She thought she heard chuckling, too, but she couldn’t be sure.

Chapter 6

Jiminy recognized Bo’s deep laugh along with the distinctive voice of Bea Arthur coming from the trailer. The TV volume was too high for anyone to hear her knocks, so she stuck her head in gingerly, trying not to startle anyone. She didn’t succeed. Bo jumped up from where he’d been sprawled on the couch, and abruptly turned off the TV with an embarrassed look on his face. If Jiminy hadn’t already heard some of the dialogue, she would have assumed from his reaction that he’d been watching porn.