Racing the Devil by Jaden Terrell Page A

’ M AFRAID MOST of the neighbors wouldn’t be able to tell you anything, even if they wanted to.” Mrs. Drafon poured fresh-squeezed lemonade into a pair of frosted glasses. “It’s not like the old days when everybody knew everybody and we all got together after church on Sundays. Back in those days, anybody could have told you almost anything about anyone. Nowadays . . .” She pursed her lips. “A person could be dead a week and nobody would know until the stench reached the street. I hope you like a twist of lemon. Henry always liked a twist of lemon in his drink.”
    She gestured toward the picture of her late husband, Henry Drafon, whom I had already learned more about than most folks know about their daddies.
    “A lemon twist is fine,” I said.
    She set our drinks on coasters on the coffee table and sat primly on the edge of her chair. “I always say, there’s nothing like an ice cold lemonade on a hot day.”
    “Yes, Ma’am.”
    “Of course, Henry always preferred beer. Still, he did like his lemonade.”
    “Yes, Ma’am.” I suppressed a smile. “So, tell me. Did you know Mrs. Hartwell very well?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” She lifted her bony shoulders. “I’m not sure anyone knew her very well. But I think you could say we were friends. Yes, you could say that.”
    “When you say ‘friends’ . . .”
    She wrapped her simian fingers around the frosted glass and sipped at her lemonade. When she had swallowed, she said, “Not the kind of friends who go out shopping or to restaurants together. But the kind of friends who share a cup of coffee and a bit of gossip. She was very unhappy, and I think she needed someone to confide in. You know how it is. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe men don’t need that sort of thing.”
    “When you say ‘unhappy’ . . .”
    “Her doctor called it depression. Personally, I think it was a simple case of marrying the wrong man.”
    “You don’t think much of Mr. Hartwell?”
    “Calvin. If you ask me, that’s a case of a man whose head is too big for his britches.”
    I smiled at the mixed metaphor. “Mrs. Drafon . . .”
    “Please, call me Birdie.”
    “All right. Birdie. Do you think he might have been the one who . . . ?” I stopped, mid-question. There was no way to mention what had happened without reminding her that she’d just lost a friend—and that I was the one who was supposed to have killed her.
    “No,” she said. “I shouldn’t think so. But I wouldn’t put my marker on it. He’s a cold man, at the core.”
    “And that’s what made her so unhappy?”
    “That, and other things.” She paused, tracing patterns in the frost that was rapidly melting on her glass. “She didn’t talk about her childhood much, but I had the feeling it wasn’t a very happy one. And then there was the church. Do you know anything about the Church of the Reclamation?”
    I frowned, trying to recall. Then I remembered the minister I’d seen back at the jail. “Reverend Avery, right? He’s their pastor?”
    “That’s the one. Those folks make the Southern Baptists look like hedonists. Amy didn’t mind most of the rules—she didn’t smoke or drink or dance—though what, exactly, is the matter with a little dancing, may I ask? Why, Henry and I could cut quite a rug, and I don’t think that made us bad or sinful.”
    “Dancing is a sexually stimulating activity,” I explained. “At least, that’s what they told us Nazarenes.”
    “Son,” she said, stifling a chuckle, “breathing is a sexually stimulating activity, if you’re with the right person.”
    I lifted my glass in a toast. “Amen to that, Sister Birdie.”
    She returned my toast. “Now, what was I saying? About Amy?”
    “The Church of the Reclamation. The depression.”
    “Oh. Yes. Well, I think they were related. You see, Amy was a lovely girl. Not beautiful, in the traditional sense, and a bit full in the hips, but lovely nonetheless. And bright. But she was only seventeen when