Lulu snorted. "She's not about to go far."

Caroline smiled. "No, I'm not."

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Just how many of these lunatics you figure'll drop from heat stroke before two o'clock?" Cousin Lulu posed the question from the comfort of her personalized director's chair. A red, white, and blue umbrella was hooked to the back and tilted to a jaunty angle, while a thermos of mint juleps snuggled between her feet.

"We never have more than five or six faint on us," Delia said placidly from the web chair beside her. She didn't think she could outdo Lulu's pants, but she'd stuck a miniature American flag in her bushy hair in an attempt. "Most of them are young."

As a marching band strutted by blaring Sousa, Lulu played along on a plastic zither. She enjoyed the wall of sound, the glint of brass in bright sun, but she couldn't help but think that a couple of swooning piccolo players would add some zip.

"That tuba blower there, the husky one with the pimples? He looks a bit glassy-eyed to me. Ten bucks says he drops in the next block."

Delia's natural competitive instinct had her studying the boy. He was sweating freely, and she imagined his natty uniform was going to smell like wet goat before the day was up. But he looked hardy enough. "You're on."

"I dearly love a parade." Lulu tucked her zither behind her ear like a pencil so she could pour another drink. "Next to weddings, funerals, and poker games, I can't think of anything more entertaining."

Delia snorted and cooled her face with a palm-sized battery-operated fan. "You can have yourself a funeral tomorrow if you want. We've been having us a regular plague of funerals lately." Sighing, Delia helped herself to some of the contents of Lulu's thermos. "I reckon this is the first time in fifteen years that Happy hasn't marched on by with the Ladies Garden Club."

"Why ain't she marching?"

"Her daughter's going in the ground tomorrow."

Lulu watched the pom-pom division of Jefferson Davis High shake by to the tune of "It's a Grand Old Flag."

"A good, whopping funeral'll set her to rights," Lulu predicted. "What're you making for after the burying?"

"My coconut ambrosia." Delia shaded her eyes and grinned. "Why, look there, Cousin Lulu. Look at Carl Johnson's baby twirl that baton. She's a regular whirling dervish."

"She's a pistol, all right." Lulu enjoyed a cackle and another sip of julep. "You know, Delia, life's like one of them batons. You can spin it around your fingers if you've got the talent for it. You can toss it right up in the air and snatch it back if you're quick. Or you can let it fly and conk somebody on the head." She smiled and plucked the zither from behind her ear. "I do dearly love a parade."

From behind Lulu, Caroline thought over the analogy and shook her head. It made a spooky kind of sense. She wasn't sure if she'd ever conked anyone on the head with the baton of life, but she'd certainly dropped it a few times. Right now she was doing her best to make it spin.

"That there's the Cotton Princess and her court," Cy told Caroline. "The whole high school votes on her every year. She was supposed to ride in back of Mr. Tucker's car, but since it got banged up, they rented that convertible from Avis in Greenville."

"She's lovely." Caroline smiled at the girl in her puffy-sleeved white dress and sweat-sheened face.

"She's Kerry Sue Hardesty." Watching her made Cy think of Kerry's younger sister, LeeAnne. She of the soft, fascinating breasts. As the car cruised by, Cy scanned the crowd, hoping for a glimpse. He didn't spot LeeAnne, but he did spot Jim, and waved desperately.

"Why don't you go over and see your friend, Cy? You can meet us at the car when the parade's finished."

He yearned, but shook his head and stood firm. Mr. Tucker was counting on him to stay close to Miss Caroline. They'd had a real man-to-man talk about it. "No, ma'am. I'm fine right here. There's Miss Josie and that FBI doctor. He's got one of those lapel flowers that squirts water in your face. He sure is a caution."

"He certainly is." Caroline was scanning the crowd herself. "I wonder what's keeping Tucker."

"Nothing." From behind, Tucker slipped his arms around her waist. "You didn't think I'd miss watching a parade with a pretty woman, did you?"

Content, she leaned back against him. "No."

"You want me to fetch you and Miss Caroline cold drinks, Mr. Tucker? I got pocket money."

"That's all right, Cy. I think Cousin Lulu's got what the doctor ordered in that jug down there."

Cy jumped forward to take the cup Lulu poured and pass it back. "That FBI man's watching from in front of the sheriffs office."

"So I see." Tucker sipped, savored, and handed the cup to Caroline.

Caroline took her first taste of mint julep and let it slide sweet down her throat. "He doesn't look as though he thinks much of the parade."

"Looks more like he smells dead skunk," Cy commented.

"He just doesn't understand." Tucker kept one arm around Caroline's waist, set his other hand on Cy's shoulder. "Here comes Jed Larsson and his boys."

When the fife and drum corps led by Larsson marched by playing "Dixie," the crowd roared. Those seated rose to their feet and cheered.

Caroline smiled and laid her head on Tucker's shoulder. She understood.

The Fourth of July meant fried chicken, potato salad, and smoking barbecues. It was a day for flag waving and pie eating and drinking cold beer in the shade. There were those gathered close in mourning, and the law continued its grinding quest, but on this bright summer day, Innocence tossed a cloak of red, white, and blue over murder and celebrated.

After the parade there were contests along Market Street and over in the town square. Pie eating, target shooting, foot racing, egg tossing, and-always a favorite-watermelon-seed spitting.

In silent amazement Caroline gawked at the junior division pie-eating contest, where seven- to fourteen-year-olds buried their faces in blueberry, slurping and swallowing to the cheers of the crowd. Pie after pie was consumed, and more glistening tins shoved under purple-stained faces. Encouragement and gastronomic advice were shouted out as one by one the young entrants fell by the wayside. Groaning.

"Look at Cy." Caroline pressed a hand to her own stomach in sympathy. "He must have eaten a dozen by now."

"Nine and a half," Tucker corrected her. "But he's leading. Come on, boy, don't chew. Just let it slide on down."

"I don't see how he can breathe," she murmured as Cy buried his face in number ten. "He's going to be sick."

" 'Course he is. That's the way, Cy! Don't hold back now. He's got himself a nice rhythm," Tucker said to Caroline. "He doesn't just smash his face into it and hope for the best, he works in a nice steady circle from the outside in."

She didn't know how Tucker could tell. All she saw was a boy buried to the neck in blueberries while the crowd cheered and stomped. She told herself it was a silly game, messy and certainly undignified. But she was rocking back and forth from toes to heels, pulled in to the simple excitement.

"Come on, Cy! Swallow it whole. Leave them in the dust. Look! He's going for twelve. Oh, Jesus, he's got it sewed up now. Just-" She glanced up at Tucker and found him grinning at her. "What?"

"I'm crazy about you." He kissed her hard and long as Cy, a little green beneath the purple splotches, was declared champion. "Plum crazy."

"Good." She brushed her fingers over his cheeks and into his hair. "That's good. Now maybe I should help the winner scrub blueberry juice off his face."

"Let him get his own girl," Tucker decided, and pulled her along to the next event.