Page 69 of Open Season

She put the bacon in the flying pan, covered it with a screen so the grease wouldn’t splatter all over her new stove, then got out the flour, oil, and milk and began mixing up the biscuit dough. Jack watched in amazement. “I thought you would use the canned kind.”

“I don’t have any.”

“You actually know how to make homemade biscuits?”

“Of course I do.” She stopped to take out her new biscuit pan and coat it with nonstick cooking spray. She didn’t roll out the dough, but did it the way her mother had taught her: she pinched off a certain amount of dough, rolled it into a ball, flattened the ball with a quick pat, and placed it in the pan.

“Aunt Bessie did it that way,” he said, fascinated. “She called them choke biscuits, because she choked off the dough instead of using a biscuit cutter.”

“Biscuit cutters are for sissies.” She had made as many biscuits as she, her mother, and Aunt Jo usually ate, but she figured Jack would eat as much as two of them put together. The oven was still heating, so she checked on the bacon and turned it.

Jack got up and poured himself another cup of coffee, grabbed the Huntsville morning paper off the counter, and went back to the table. Daisy hadn’t had time to even glance at the paper the day before, because of Midas, but she could always read it at the library.

The oven beeped as it reached the pre-set temperature. Daisy put the biscuits in to bake and turned to get the eggs out of the refrigerator. As she did, a picture on the front page caught her eye. The man looked familiar, though she couldn’t quite place him.

“Who’s that?” she said, frowning a little as she pointed.

Jack read the caption. “His name was Chad Mitchell. A hunter found his body Sunday morning.”

“I know him,” she said.

He put down the paper, his gray-green eyes suddenly sharp. “How?”

“I don’t know. I can’t quite remember.” She got out the eggs. “How do you want them, scrambled or fried?”

“Scrambled.”

She cracked four eggs into a bowl, added a little milk, and beat them with a fork. “Set the table, please.”

He got up and began opening cabinet doors and drawers until he found the plates and silverware. Daisy stared absently at the bacon as she turned it one last time.

“Oh, I know!” she said suddenly.

“He was a library patron?”

“No, he was at the Buffalo Club. He tried to dance with me, that first night, and wanted to buy me a Coke, but the fight started before he could get back.”

Jack set the plates down and gave her his full attention. “That was the only time you saw him?”

She cocked her head as if studying a scene in her memory. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean? It either was or wasn’t.”

“I’m not certain,” she said slowly, “but I think I saw him in the parking lot of the club on Saturday night, before I went inside. He was with two other men; then a third one got out of a car and joined them. He didn’t seem all that drunk when he came out of the club, but then he passed out and they put him in the bed of a pickup.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck in an almost angry gesture. “Jesus,” he muttered.

She stared at him, her cheeks a little pale. “Do you think I was the last person to see him alive?”

“I think you saw him get killed,” he said harshly.

“But—but there wasn’t a shot or anything. . . .”

Her voice trailed off, and she sagged against the cabinet.

Jack looked at the article, checking his facts. “He was stabbed.”

She swallowed and turned even whiter. Jack started to reach for her, but she suddenly gathered herself and did what women have done for centuries when they were upset: they busied themselves doing normal stuff. She tore off a paper towel and lined a plate with it, then took up the bacon, placing it on the paper towel to drain.

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