Page 26 of Broken Bayou

I weave my way toward the electronics, past two ladies who stare at me as if I’m an alien. The navy wrap dress with large bright geometrical shapes and the tall heels don’t really say local. I smile. They smile. They look suspicious. So much for this store being empty.

The one with wild, frizzy hair says, “You a reporter?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Your people here?”

“No. I’m visiting Broken Bayou.”

She scrunches her face into an exasperated look. “Why?”

“Long story.” I’m trying to keep my answers short and my gaze down. All the cues she should need to see I’m not up for a chat. But this womanisup for a chat.

“You know what’s going on here, right?”

“I do.”

“It’s just awful. But I’m not surprised. There are some real lowlifes ’round these parts.”

I nod, start for the electronics section.

“Y’all know they found another barrel,” the frizzy-haired lady says to her companion and me, assuming I’m the other half of they’all.

Her friend pops her arm, mouth agape. “Get out.”

I stop walking.

“Yep. That makes three.” The woman ticks off her fingers. “The old one from 2002 that’s been unsolved. The runaway druggie they ID’d, and then this latest one. Saw it on the television.”

“It’s a serial killer,” the other woman says. “I knew it. God only knows how many they’ll find.”

Another barrel. Cold air prickles the back of my neck. “Did the news say anything else about what was found over there?” So much for not chatting.

The other woman leans in, her eyebrows raised. “I heard that old car they pulled out has been put in impound over at the sheriff’s station and that the investigator over there had ’em all diggin’ around in it for something.”

I stumble back on my heels, work to keep my composure. “What?”

“Well, my cousin—” the woman starts.

“She’s the local beautician,” the frizzy-haired lady clarifies to me.

“Anyway,” the other woman says, giving her friend a quick glare. “My cousin heard it’s good and tore up.” She pauses, glances at us to make sure we’re listening. She lowers her chin and her voice. “I may go by and take a look.”

“Why in the world would you do that?” her friend says.

“Why not? It’d probably be easy.Raymond’swatching the impound.”

“Oh Lord.” The frizzy-haired woman rolls her eyes. “No wonder. My two-year-old grandson could watch it better.”

A woman wearing a flowing dress that looks like a thousand scarves sewn together and sporting long gray hair that hangs loose to her waist appears next to me like a vapor. “Can I help you?” The smell of patchouli surrounds her.

I stutter over my words. “Um . . . I was . . .”

“Wait, you were outside the other day,” she says. “Looking for the VCR.”

The two ladies next to me pretend to shop, but I see them exchange a look. I nod.

“I’m Dolly,” she says.