The Mother Tongue

Monday Alby Truitt didn't relish the idea of eating dinner at Ella Alden's house at the east end of Statlers Cross. For starters, the place was too full of dead things -- dead fish, dead crows, dead snakes -- all God's smaller creatures caught and made arty to fill in the white spaces of the Alden clan's peculiar enclave. It was also, Alby knew, too full of more ambiguous deaths, both of others and himself, but that was a thought he pushed to the back of his mind as he trundled his truck over the railroad tracks and up Ella's gravel drive. No, it was neither taxidermy nor memories that pissed him off: Ella Alden's house disturbed him because it was too damn full of Ella Alden. The truck's headlights settled on a stretch of barbed wire fence as he pulled to a stop. As he stepped into the cool evening air, a pecan branch, overladen and much too long for health, slapped his face, and the bitter smell of pecan grime filled his nostrils. He wiped his face and came away with a smear of blood on his knuckle. Crap. The only reason he had agreed to come tonight was because Ella's granddaughter, Gale, had issued the invitation, and he owed her. He started for the entrance, down a row of worn stepping-stones barely visible in the faint glow of the front-door light. "Alby?" The voice came from the rear of the house. "Alby Truitt? We're around here." He left the stones and waded through calf-high weeds to the back porch. It was late October, and the first crispness of fall had finally come to the Georgia night; nevertheless, the overhead back porch light was on and the fan spun slowly. Behind the mesh screens he could make out the figures of two men seated in rocking chairs. The man on the left rose and unlatched the screen door. "I took a chance you were Alby." The accent was British. "Don't tell me I'm wrong." "No, sir, you're not wrong." The handshake was firm, welcoming, as Truitt mounted the porch steps. Alby lifted his head to look the Englishman in the eye. "You must be Daniel. An honor to meet you in person. We talked once over the phone ... awhile back...." "I remember. It's good to have a face with the voice. Gale speaks highly of you." She rarely talks of you, Truitt thought, although, interestingly enough, this English visitor was exactly as he had imagined him -- soft-voiced, dark, with a hint of humor behind his eyes. So while Gale might have spoken of him infrequently, she must have done so vividly. He shook his head. "Gale never mentioned you were so tall. You didn't sound tall over the phone." Daniel Halford's laugh was deep. "You don't exactly fit my idea of a Georgia sheriff, either. No sunglasses and no paunch. A business suit, no less, but there you are." "Better keep an eye on the movies you watch. They'll give you all sorts of bad impressions." Truitt let the door swing closed behind him. "Seriously, it's good to finally meet you, Daniel. Hope the trip over was a good one." Alby Truitt pushed aside the questions he wanted to ask, the questions that had pestered him since he first heard that Chief Inspector Daniel Halford, a respected homicide detective with New Scotland Yard, was visiting Gale Grayson in the U.S. He liked Gale, but she came bundled with troubles, not the least of which was her own complicated past with New Scotland Yard. What claim did Truitt have to ask any questions? Besides, the evening promised to be long and if he wanted to wear thin his stay, he could always bring them out. He turned his attention to the second man, slightly built, blond-headed, still seated in his rocker. "Dr. Goddard, I presume?" Goddard rose, his full height a good six inches shorter than Halford's and a few inches shy of Truitt's own. "I'd rather you call me Ron." This man's accent, too, was BTeri Holbrook is the author of 'The Mother Tongue', published 2001 under ISBN 9780553577198 and ISBN 0553577190.