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How’s that for diplomacy? I gave up and walked away. “Dave, where you going?” I heard Clete say.
I was so irritated with Clete that I kept walking toward the Caddy and didn’t turn around. I heard somebody walking fast behind me.
“Mr. Robicheaux,” said a woman’s voice.
She was a tank in her late forties, dressed in a frilly blouse and a suit with big buttons, her hair piled on her head, her face flushed and as round as a muskmelon. She had a notebook in one hand and a ballpoint in the other. For whatever reason, she seemed to be wearing amounts of perfume that could knock down a rhino. “Talk to me, please,” she said.
I tried to smile. “What can I help you with?”
“I’m doing an article on the Indians and the spread of fundamentalist religion. Also on the death of that young girl,” she said.
She told me her name was Bertha Phelps. She seemed agitated and breathless and out of her element. She started to write something on her notepad, then realized her pen was out of ink. “I hate these. Do you mind?” she said, looking at the Uni-ball in my shirt pocket.
“No, not at all,” I replied, handing it to her.
“Was that the mother of Angel Deer Heart I saw sitting in the back row?”
“That’s correct. How did you know my name?”
“I saw you in the grocery with Albert Hollister and asked someone who you were.”
Though that didn’t quite come together for me, I didn’t pursue it. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, Ms. Phelps. What’s up?”
“It’s terrible what happened to that young girl. I don’t understand why her mother is here listening to that man.”
“Wyatt Dixon?”
“A sheriff’s detective told me Dixon was the last person to see her alive.”
“I’d say he’s not a viable suspect.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“I’m not qualified to comment, Ms. Phelps. It was nice meeting you.” I turned to go.
“It was just a question,” she said at my back.
The Caddy was locked. I looked back at the pavilion and saw Clete talking to Felicity Louviere. I also saw Wyatt Dixon carrying a paper plate stacked with fried chicken to a picnic table. One more try, I told myself.
I made my way through the crowd and, without being invited, sat down next to him. He never looked up from his food. “You weren’t truthful about your testimony,” I said.
“I’m done talking with you,” he said.
“You indicated you had no memory of it. That was a lie, wasn’t it?”
His forearms rested on the edge of the table, his hands empty and poised above his plate. He kept his eyes straight ahead, the late sun catching in them like reflected firelight. “I’d be careful what I said to the wrong man.”
“You’re an honest-to-God believer, Wyatt. You see things out there in the world that other people don’t. Does the name Asa Surrette mean anything to you?”
“Never heard of him.”
“You’re sure?”
“You got a hearing disorder?” he asked.
“The man who left that message in the cave was no ordinary man, was he?”
“You got it wrong.”
