Where the Crawdads Sing

“Can you confirm that you traveled to Greenville, North Carolina, on October 28, 1969, and that you had meetings with Miss Clark on both the twenty-ninth and the thirtieth?”

“That is correct. I was attending a small conference there, and knew I would have some extra time while in town but wouldn’t have enough time to travel to her place, so I invited Miss Clark to Greenville so we could meet.”

“Can you tell us the exact time that you drove her back to her motel on the night of October 29, last year?”

“After our meetings, we dined at the hotel and then I drove Kya back to her motel at 9:55 P.M.”

Kya recalled standing on the threshold of the dining room, filled with candlelit tables under soft chandeliers. Tall wineglasses on white tablecloths. Stylishly dressed diners conversed in quiet voices, while she wore the plain skirt and blouse. She and Robert dined on almond-crusted North Carolina trout, wild rice, creamed spinach, and yeast rolls. Kya felt comfortable as he kept the conversation going with easy grace, sticking to subjects about nature familiar to her.

Remembering it now, she was astonished how she had carried it off. But in fact, the restaurant, with all its glitter, wasn’t nearly as grand as her favorite picnic. When she was fifteen, Tate had boated to her shack one dawn, and, after he’d wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, they cruised inland through a maze of waterways to a forest she’d never seen. They hiked a mile to the edge of a waterlogged meadow where fresh grass sprouted through mud, and there he laid the blanket under ferns as large as umbrellas.

“Now we wait,” he’d said, as he poured hot tea from a thermos and offered her “coon balls,” a baked mixture of biscuit dough, hot sausage, and sharp cheddar cheese he had cooked for the occasion. Even now in this cold courtroom setting, she remembered the warmth of his shoulders touching hers under the blanket, as they nibbled and sipped the breakfast picnic.

They didn’t have to wait long. Moments later, a ruckus as loud as cannons sounded from the north. “Here they come,” Tate had said.

A thin, black cloud appeared on the horizon and, as it moved toward them, it soared skyward. The shrieking rose in intensity and volume as the cloud rapidly filled the sky until not one spot of blue remained. Hundreds of thousands of snow geese, flapping, honking, and gliding, covered the world. Swirling masses wheeled and banked for landing. Perhaps a half million white wings flared in unison, as pink-orange feet dangled down, and a blizzard of birds came in to land. A true whiteout as everything on Earth, near and far, disappeared. One at a time, then ten at a time, then hundreds of geese landed only yards from where Kya and Tate had sat under the ferns. The sky emptied as the wet meadow filled until it was covered in downy snow.

No fancy dining room could compare to that, and the coon balls offered more spice and flare than almond-crusted trout.

“You saw Miss Clark go into her room?”

“Of course. I opened her door and saw her safely inside before I drove away.”

“Did you see Miss Clark the next day?”

“We had arranged to meet for breakfast, so I picked her up at 7:30 A.M. We ate at the Stack ’Em High pancake place. I took her back to her motel at 9:00. And that was the last I saw of her until today.” He glanced at Kya, but she looked down at the table.

“Thank you, Mr. Foster. I have no further questions.”

Eric stood and asked, “Mr. Foster, I was wondering why you stayed at the Piedmont Hotel, which is the best hotel in the area, while your publishing company only paid for Miss Clark—such a talented author, one of the favorites, as you put it—to stay in a very basic motel, the Three Mountains?”

“Well, of course, we offered, even recommended that Miss Clark stay at the Piedmont, but she insisted on staying at the motel.”

“Is that so? Did she know the motel’s name? Did she specifically request to stay at the Three Mountains?”

“Yes, she wrote a note saying she preferred to stay at the Three Mountains.”

“Did she say why?”

“No, I don’t know why.”

“Well, I have an idea. Here’s a tourist map of Greenville.” Eric waved the map around as he approached the witness stand. “You can see here, Mr. Foster, that the Piedmont Hotel—the four-star hotel that you offered to Miss Clark—is located in the downtown area. The Three Mountains Motel, on the other hand, is on Highway 258, near the Trailways bus station. In fact, if you study the map as I have, you will see that the Three Mountains is the closest motel to the bus station . . .”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Tom called out. “Mr. Foster is not an authority on the layout of Greenville.”

“No, but the map is. I see where you’re going, Eric, and I’ll allow it. Proceed.”