“For you, maybe. For me, naw. But if you have some old brandy lying about … that would be good in the coffee.”
Two hours later we were still sitting at the kitchen table. The light over the sink was on but nothing else. We didn’t want too much light making its way up the stairs to Laurel’s small room. Starnes had found a bottle of bourbon and had put a drop or so into her coffee. She was still quite sober. Sleepy but sober.
There was no brandy in the house, so I was resigned to drink my brew as it was. It sufficed but still it could not take away the sting. Sometimes the hard liquors of the world are not sufficient to handle the meanness and evil that runs amuck wherever human beings linger.
“You hungry?” Starnes said.
“Too early for me to eat.”
“It’s close to five. Think we should begin fixing something?”
“Will she want to eat after we talk?”
“Maybe we should eat first and then talk,” Starnes said.
“Naw, I don’t like that. I think she needs to know first thing.”
“Know what?” Laurel said as she slowly edged her way into the kitchen and entered the dim aura of the sink light. We were both surprised she was up so early.
“Sorry. We didn’t want to wake you,” I said.
“You didn’t. At least I don’t think you did. I had a bad night.”
“Dreams?” I said.
“I think reality is worse than dreams, although some of my dreams can be horrible, like nightmares, you know.”
I sighed, and Starnes headed for the coffee pot. We hadn’t decided who would be the bearer of the horrible news.
“It’s about my mother, isn’t it?” Laurel said after waiting a short interval for one of us to speak.
Starnes stopped pouring the coffee and turned around.
“Is she dead?” Laurel asked.
“Yes,” Starnes said. “She’s dead.”
I waited for her to begin crying once more. Nothing happened. I wanted to say something, but I wasn’t sure I knew what to say in such a moment. I waited. Perhaps something would come to me.
She sat there motionless for several minutes.
“I think I should be crying, but I’ve cried a lot in the last day or so. This is all bad, and it makes me … sad, and I didn’t want this to happen to her. She’s made some really bad decisions. I know that. I am sorry that she is dead. But I have no tears at the moment. Does that make me a bad person?”
Laurel first looked at me and then at Starnes.
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
“She killed herself, right?” Laurel said.
“Yes,” Starnes answered.
“Sometimes they leave a note … at least I’ve heard that before.”
“Apparently there wasn’t a note,” Starnes said.
“I’ll miss her, at least I’ll miss the good memories I have of her.”
“You can still forgive her, you know,” I said.
“What’s the point?” Laurel said.
“It’s for you. Holding grudges won’t do you any good,” I said.
“But she won’t ever know,” Laurel said.
“You will. Maybe that’s the most important thing.”
“Funny thing about all this crap,” Laurel said, “is that I am not angry with her. I guess I should be.”
Laurel was sitting at the table across from me.
“No one can tell you how to feel about this,” I said.
“I imagine a lot of folks will tell me how I should feel,” she said.
“It’s none of their business. And, the truth is, you feel what you feel. It’s not up to others to impose their ideas on you.”
“I feel empty.”
I looked at Starnes and she shrugged. I didn’t know what to say to that. I had some understanding of her feelings, but nothing of a complete comprehension. She was experiencing something I had never experienced.
We were all silent for a few moments. Starnes finished filling her coffee cup, poured a cup for Laurel, placed it in front of her, and then sat down. After she was seated, she pointed to my cup and I shook my head.
The silence continued.
“You know the only good thing that has happened is meeting Homer Gosnell. He saved my life, more than once.”
“Right place, right time,” I said.
“Not everyone would have risked their lives for a stranger.”
“Sounds like a good person,” I said.
“I believe he’s a good man,” Laurel said. “I believe he has been hurt a lot in his life. I think his family hurt him.”
“Don’t know about that,” I said, “but you could be right. He’s likely the kind of person who was bullied a lot when he was a child.”
“Because he talks funny?” Laurel said.
“Partly,” I said.
“And the other part?” she said.
“People probably think he is …,” I hesitated, searching for the word.
“Dumb? Is that the word you were thinking?” Laurel said.
“I am sure that some folks think that about him. Not sure it’s accurate,” I said.
“He knows a lot,” she said.
“That he does,” I said.
“Have you heard any news about him?” she said.
“Not yet. My friend will let us know. He’ll call when there’s something to report,” Starnes said.
“In the meantime, we need to drive over to Madison and see the sheriff. We have some arrangements to make,” I said.
“Regarding my mother,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’ve never … done anything like that before.”
“We’ll help you,” Starnes said before I could answer.
While we waited on Laurel to shower and get dressed for our dismal outing to the sheriff’s office, Rogers called with some more info.
“You like bitter irony?” she said to me.
“Not sure I like irony at all. Never thought about liking or not liking it. Whattaya got?”
“Went back to the Weaverville Fidelity Credit Union Trust Fund that William Shelton set up for his daughter. Found something that classifies as bitter irony from Beth Call’s point of view.”
I was listening without comment.
“You still there?” Rogers said.
“All ears.”
“I expected you to interrupt with some commentary.”
“It’s been a long night and tough morning.”
“Something I need to know.”
“Beth Call committed suicide last night. We’re getting ready to drive over to the jail with Laurel. Arrangements to make.”
“Bad stuff,” she said. “I’ll be succinct. William had a fail-safe system to protect the money if something should befall his daughter. He apparently did not want his wife to receive too much of that fund. Whenever Laurel died, ninety-nine percent of what remained was to be given to the Weaverville Catholic Church. Any surviving relative would receive one percent.”
“And you missed it on your first read-through of the document?” I said.
“Not exactly. It was an addendum added after the original had been on file for a while. It seems that whoever had filed that addendum to the original did not place it with the original document. I simply decided to be thorough and go back to the credit union once again and double check what I had discovered. Being quite thorough, you know, I accidentally came upon a little tag someone had placed on the original file. It referenced a second file.”
“Accidentally came upon … hmm … interesting way of phrasing your discovery,” I said.
“It was color-coded. The files of that institution were of multi-colors, so when I first examined the files, I saw that little colored tag but didn’t think anything of it since it was a shade of the same family of colors, only a little lighter.”
“But the second time through?”
“Well, something told me to click on that little colored tag. So,
I did.”
“Bingo,” I said.
“Bingo,” she said.
“Imagine that.”
“Yeah, imagine that.”
Chapter 50
It was early afternoon, and we were back from our difficult visit with Sheriff Murdock. I could tell that he was not comfortable asking the questions he had to ask Laurel Shelton, the much-too-young, soon-to-be fifteen-year-old girl, going through this horror. Sometimes we are forced to grow up too quickly. If anyone could identify with what she was suffering, it would be me. However, no one in my family ever took out a contract on my life, and I still had my mother around after my father was gunned down just after I turned twelve. Despite my ability to empathize with Laurel, I had only a smattering of an idea of what she was feeling.
I had no idea what she was thinking.
Starnes and I were on the front porch, watching the dogs sleep in the sunshine. It was beginning to be hot even in the shade of the porch. A slight breeze wandered past us now and then.
While we were rocking and thinking and wishing for situations other than the present one, Starnes’ minister friend called to say that Homer Gosnell was improving and that he would likely be moved from the ICU to a regular room later that afternoon.
“Strong guy,” Starnes said after she relayed the message from the minister.
“I’d say. And he likely has at least nine lives.”
“Something’s shining on him,” Starnes said. “Should I go tell Laurel the good news?”
“Yeah. She’s been waiting for some good news for a while.”
Starnes left me alone with the sleeping dogs for several minutes. I felt restless so I left the porch shade and meandered around her front yard in the warm sunshine. Despite the heat, the sun made me feel a little better. No clouds, blue sky, and not even a hint of rain around. One of those days that make you feel good simply by being alive. At least it was one of those days that have lots of potential to make a body feel good. Trouble was, I wasn’t feeling so good. However, the sunshine helped a bit.
We had stopped by the funeral home just outside of Madison to discuss the arrangements with Leroy Peek, the Funeral Director. He recommended a closed casket. Starnes and I thought that was a good idea. Then Laurel surprised us by asking about cremation. The director explained it to her, and after a few minutes of discussing the idea with us, Laurel decided to go with cremation.
On the way back to Starnes’ place, Laurel simply said that there wouldn’t be very many folks coming out to a service for a woman who tried to kill her daughter and who ultimately committed suicide to escape the shame of it all. Her comment surprised both of us. Starnes’ raised eyebrows clued me on that one. Neither one of us knew what to say to her. She was likely correct in her thinking.
I noticed that Starnes had returned to the porch. I was out in the yard leaning against one of the large oak trees that was decades older than I. It was just across the road from where we park our vehicles.
I was musing. I suppose that’s what I was doing. My mind was skipping around from one bad memory to another. It was like watching an internal butterfly dance from empty flower to empty flower, looking for some nectar.
I walked back to the porch without any solace.
“She okay?” I said.
“Seemed pleased to hear about Homer.”
“We missing anything?” I said.
“Whattaya mean?”
“Feels like I’m missing something.”
“I have no idea what you might be missing,” Starnes said. “Your needs are manifold.”
I grunted my response without saying a word. Sounds are sometimes sufficient.
I punched the number one on my phone. Rogers answered.
“Did you ever find anything on Homer Gosnell … his history?”
“A little.”
“You never informed me.”
“With all that took place over there, I figured that the information I uncovered was of little value to you now. I was going to fill you in later.”
“Go ahead and give me the little value that you uncovered,” I said.
“Okay, dearie. He was the youngest child of Victor Blaine Gosnell and his third wife, Patty-Cake Ramsey, a nineteen-year-old who gave birth to Homer. Victor and Patty-Cake had two other children together. The oldest was a son named Roscoe, born when Patty-Cake was fifteen. Four years later they had Homer. Old Victor, he was 57 when he married Patty-Cake and 61 whenever Homer came along, had seven other children by his previous two wives. The first two wives both died early and all the children lived with Victor and Patty-Cake.”
“You’re not making any of this up.”
“No, ma’am. All researched and established by hospital and court records.”
“You said that Victor and Patty-Cake had two other children besides Homer, but you only mentioned Roscoe. Who was the other one?”
“A little girl, named Maybelle Darlene Gosnell. Born between Roscoe and Homer. Lived a year and then died of pneumonia.”
“You said court records? What type of court records did you find?”
“It seems that Victor and Patty-Cake had a lot of domestic disputes in which the sheriff’s department was called out to investigate. They disagreed a lot.”
“What’s a lot?”
“Twenty-seven incidents of record.”
“That’s for five years of marriage, if my math serves me.”
“Only four. First child, Roscoe, born the day after they married.”
“Okay. Did you find out when Homer left home?”
“Homer was sent away when he was sixteen. That’s as close an estimate as I can get because the details were not established by any official documentation.”
“That puts Victor Gosnell as a very old man now,” I said.
“Victor Gosnell is no longer with us. He died ten years ago. Patty-Cake is 49 years old now.”
“She live in McAdams County?”
“She does.”
“So, Homer was sent away when he was sixteen. Does that mean he has been on his own since that age?”
“As far as my research says, that would be the case.”
“So, he’s thirty now.”
“He is.”
“Any information on why he was sent away?”
“I came across a social worker’s report on the family when Homer was a few years shy of sixteen. That report had some entries, some quotations by the parents regarding Homer. They referred to him as stupid and slow and not fit for this world.”
“And the system never tried to help Homer?”
“Yes, the system did try. The parents refused the help. They said it was no use, that he was the way he was and that was that. Sound like wonderful people, right?”
“Probably a good thing he left,” I said.
Three days after Laurel Shelton decided to have her mother’s body cremated, the funeral home called to say that all was finished. They talked with Starnes who told me that we could pick up the remains anytime. Laurel never did plan any kind of memorial service. I figured that the three of us, along with the dogs, would either bury the ashes somewhere on Starnes’ property or find another suitable spot somewhere in the mountains. If Laurel was okay with it, we could bury the ashes on the small parcel of land that Beth Call owned in the Hickory Fork Creek area. We would probably have some kind of private service. I had no idea what kind of private service we might have. I attended funerals. I didn’t plan them.
It was close to lunch time when Starnes and I returned from walking the dogs and enjoying the continued sunshine of the week.
“I’ll get Laurel,” Starnes said, “and we can go somewhere for lunch. She might like to get out of the house.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
I waited outside while Starnes retrieved Laurel. I was throwing sticks for the dogs who were reluctantly retrieving them when Starnes came out the front door a bit hurriedly.
“She’s not here,” she said.
“Not her
e.”
“She’s gone. Suitcase gone as well.”
“No note?”
“Nothing.”
“Where would she go without telling us?” I said.
“Haven’t the foggiest. Let’s drive over to her place and check there.”
We packed the dogs in Starnes’ truck and drove across the county to Laurel’s home on Road 1310 near Hickory Fork Creek. After only a few minutes of searching and calling her name, it was evident that she was not there.
“Where to now?” Starnes said.
“You think she went to see Homer?”
“With her suitcase?”
“I don’t have a clue to this,” I said.
“Maybe … if she headed into Asheville, she still might be on 19/23.”
“You’re thinking hitchhiking,” I said.
“How else would she get there?”
“Reasonable. But then, Laurel Storm Shelton is a resourceful young girl. Let’s go see if we can find her.”
The four of us headed towards Asheville. We drove slowly along the Future I-26/19/23 corridor into Asheville. No sign of Laurel Shelton along the way. Resourceful indeed. But, she did have a head start on us. Not sure how much of a head start.
Once we arrived at the hospital, I stayed in the truck with the dogs while Starnes went inside to check on Homer and look for Laurel. Less than twenty minutes later, Starnes returned and looked exasperated.
“Homer’s gone.”
“Homer and his guard both gone?”
“No, the guard was snoozing by the door. He was as surprised as anyone that Homer was gone.”
“Maybe more so.”
“It’ll hit hard soon enough.”
“How’d a man that size get by the deputy?”
“Seriously? You’re asking how someone could get by Rocky Ramsey?” Starnes said.
“You’re right. Never mind. So, Homer just walked out?”
“He left without the knowledge of the medical community.”
“How’d he do that? They’re generally more alert that Rocky Ramsey.”
“I think he got out of bed, got dressed, and took the elevators to the exit.”
“No one saw anything?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“Amazing. And we have no clue as to a rendezvous between Homer and Laurel?” I said.
The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon Page 24
