by Etta Faire
Over My Dead Husband's Body
Etta Faire
Copyright © 2018 by Etta Faire
All rights reserved.
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Website: http://ettafaire.com/
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
32. After the Suffragette’s Suicide
Chapter 1
Dead Serious
When I left this town, I told everyone I'd rather burn alive in a septic tank fire than return. My good friend Shelby Winehouse walked me out to my car that day, carrying the last box of crap that I didn’t really need but wasn’t about to leave for my ex.
She turned and hugged me. ”Come on, Carly Mae. You're joking. You'll at least come back to visit."
I couldn't get the words out fast enough. "I am dead serious. I would rather suffocate in a blaze of toxic shit fumes than come back here. No offense. We'll still keep in touch. But everyone knows my business. Everyone knows what happened with Jackson. I'm not coming back."
That was four years ago. And we hadn’t kept in touch.
I flipped off the sign I was passing.
Potter Grove, Wisconsin, population 1,500.
No point in searching out flammable port-a-potties now.
My car bumped and swerved, hitting every pothole and crevice along the way. I could hear my ex-husband laughing in his grave somewhere, wherever he was buried. I absolutely refused to look that one up. He was the reason I was back here. The bastard.
When I got the call about three weeks ago, I was down in my mother's basement in Indianapolis. My mother was busy telling me, once again, how I needed to Xerox more resumes to mail out to temp agencies, and I had just finished thanking her for her unsolicited career advice from 1986, when my phone rang. I hadn't known the number and suspected spam, but I answered anyway, just to stop my mother from going on and on about how I needed to buy a navy skirt for job interviews.
"It just presents better than black."
"I have to take this," I said, like it was someone important. After confirming my identity, the man on the other end matter-of-factly told me he was the lawyer representing Jackson Bowman's estate.
"His estate?"
"Yes, ma'am. Your late ex-husband..."
I hadn't even known he'd died, but apparently, it had been months. I pulled the phone away and stared at it, not really hearing what the man was saying anymore. I'd spent a good part of the last four years of my life dreaming about that day. I'd even choreographed a short jig for it, but somehow, I didn't feel like dancing anymore.
I pulled into the coffee shop before I made my way up the long, steep dirt drive to Gate House. Might as well rip this band-aid off as soon as possible. I parked next to the pink Cadillac I knew was Shelby's. She still drove the same beat-up car she pretended she got from selling makeup. We all knew she won it at an auction in Landover and had it painted that color. Makeup companies didn’t give out 60s Cadillacs with dents.
The coffee shop was the same as I'd remembered: Jukebox playing Elvis Presley. The smell of grease and cheese wafting up from the kitchen, Spoony River's specialties.
Mrs. Carmichael stood at the back of the counter, her short puffy blonde hair sticking out in all the wrong directions from her uniform's little pink hat. She was one of the few people I truly missed. My old best friend's mom. She didn't look up when I entered. "Try to find a spot," she laughed, gesturing around at the empty tables and chairs set up to look like a 50s diner.
Old George, the town's barber, sat at the end of the counter, the only other customer in the place besides me. He glanced up from his newspaper and his sunken, ashen face dropped with surprise. "Look what survived the septic tank fire," he said, making me realize I really did tell everyone that. "Carly Mae, I heard you were coming back. But I did not believe it."
"It's just Carly now," I replied, my voice softer than I'd meant.
Mrs. Carmichael squealed herself into a smoker's cough when she saw me. She hacked her way across the restaurant, waving her thick arms around like she couldn't wait to give me one of her famous bear hugs, same as she gives everybody but you always feel special when you're on the receiving end. "I knew you'd come back." She looked me over. "Tina always told me, 'Mom, people don't leave Potter Grove. It snatches you like quicksand.'" She scrunched her eyes when she mentioned Tina, and I searched her face to see if she was mad I hadn't called. I should've called.
Every part of me knew the etiquette now was to ask how Tina was doing. Instead, I dug one of my Nikes into the checkerboard plastic tiled floor. "It also helps to come back if your dead ex-husband gives you a free house."
"And that's why, Carly Mae, you are the luckiest ex-wife I know." It was Shelby peeking her head through the little serving hatch that led to the kitchen. “A dead ex-husband and a free house? That’s better than the Lotto.” Shelby was only saying that because she'd rather have dead exes than dead-beat ones. She had four kids and two divorces. But it did feel a lot like a lottery win for me too.
She hurried out from the kitchen. Her hair was pink now, same shade as her car, and she was pregnant again.
Shelby turned me around, making me self-conscious all of the sudden. It had been a long car ride from Indianapolis and I probably should've checked my hair and makeup before I stopped in, especially since this woman was always on the prowl for a new customer.
She sucked in a thin lip. "I should give you a makeover," she began. She pulled on one of my brownish blonde curls then watched it spring back into place. “There’s a hair care product line now.” She turned her head to the side like I was a blank canvas.
"She just got here, Shelby," Mrs. Carmichael interrupted. "For goodness sakes, let the poor girl rest her pocket book a second.”
Old George checked his watch then put his hat on. “Shoot. I gotta go. Brock's comin' in for a trim. Boy likes his hair too long if you ask me," he said while grabbing his jacket from off the back of the chair. His barber shop was right next door, and it was a beautiful day in July, but old George walked around like a blizzard might break out at any moment.
"Brock's still single," Shelby sing-songed as old George left. "Mrs. Carmichael calls him the Hunk. You know, instead of the Hulk. Isn't that right, Mrs. Carmichael?"
Mrs. Carmichael looked down at her pink dress, smoothing out the wrinkles along its pleats. Shelby seemed to catch her mistake and quickly went on. "We have a lot of good prospects here. Justin Fortworth's also single and... okay, maybe just the two."
Brock Calhoun was probably the best looking guy in Potter Grove, or at least he used to be back when I worked with him at the Thriftway in college. But he was also Tin
a's ex. And Mrs. Carmichael was Tina’s mom.
Shelby carefully wiggled onto the stool next to me. "But, there used to be three eligible bachelors. One hunk is no longer on the market." She patted her baby bump, and held out her hand to show me her engagement ring, a tiny blue stone that looked like glass. "Bobby Franklin, if you can believe it." I could. Bobby Franklin was the town ne'er-do-well, always leaving town for some sort of life-changing opportunity he'd heard about. Still, I never thought he was the type to give out engagement rings. I hugged her. "Congratulations."
"Another boy," she said.
Mrs. Carmichael untied the straps of her apron, sat down, then retied them again. The apron still looked like it cut off her circulation. "You might not know this, Carly Mae, but we've had some trouble here in Potter Grove. And I don't just mean the fact you've got a lot of people none too happy Jackson left you his house."
I knew exactly who she was talking about. Destiny was one of those people who was none too happy, which made me all too happy. She was Jackson's wife at the time of his death, and the reason we got divorced in the first place, mostly because she was the stripper I caught him with. And Jackson's family was probably none too happy either. The Victorian had been in their family for generations.
I had no idea why my ex left me his creepy old house. Didn’t care much, though, either. A free house was a free house.
"Murder," Mrs. Carmichael said, and I almost fell off my stool, knocked out of my smug daydream.
"What?" Potter Grove didn't have a crime rate. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious," Shelby replied. "Don't trust anyone."
"Stop scaring her." Mrs. Carmichael said. "But, you need to watch yourself, that's all. Lock the doors. Be careful at night. All women around here need to. Two women from Landover went missing a little more than a year ago," Mrs. Carmichael said, shaking her head. "They turned up dead here in Potter Grove."
Shelby took up where Mrs. Carmichael left off. "Two more went missing earlier this year. No trace of them, yet. Police say it's a hate crime against women. So, be careful. Maybe get some mace. And a knife, or a gun. Lots of concealed weapons."
I must've looked as pale as I felt because Mrs. Carmichael shushed Shelby. "I said stop scaring her. You're gonna give the poor girl a heart attack, like Jackson."
I hadn't known how Jackson died until that very moment. I never bothered to look it up. I should’ve guessed that was how the old man went out, though. Jackson had been a heavy drinker who was more than twenty years my senior.
But now, after hearing about the attacks on women, I wasn't sure I wanted a free house in Landover County. I checked my watch. It was after 2:00, the time I was supposed to meet Jackson's lawyer. I hugged Mrs. Carmichael and Shelby good-bye then rushed out the door. Once again, I hadn't asked about Tina. I never managed to get that done.
My shoes sounded extra heavy smacking along the concrete on my way out to my car. The parking lot seemed too empty and quiet. I turned my head in every direction possible, checking the surrounding woods, gasping to myself every time a bird rustled through the branches overhead.
I was about to move into a creepy, weird Victorian that sat at the very top of a deserted hill, with a murderer on the loose. And it was all my ex-husband’s fault. He was getting the last laugh in death too.
Chapter 2
You Get What You Pay For
The drive up to Gate House wasn't easy, but I knew this ahead of time and popped a motion pill a while back. The path, full of twists and turns along a hill-like mountain of dirt, had never been given much of a facelift over the years. There weren't any signs posted to indicate this was Gate Hill, no lights along the way to guide anyone coming or going at night. No wonder the lawyer insisted on meeting in the afternoon. He probably knew he'd end up in a ditch at any other time. And now, all of this creepiness was mine. With a murderer on the loose.
The trees that surrounded the road seemed to get closer at every turn, like throat muscles closing in to swallow prey. The afternoon sun was barely visible through the overhanging branches. I checked the speedometer and pushed the gas pedal up to to 20 miles per hour, causing my car to bounce over every rock and hole like it was having one major accident after another. I took a deep breath. I could do this, again and again. Every day for the rest of my life.
The entire seven years I was married to Jackson, I begged him to get an apartment in the city. We both worked at the university in Landover, the "big city" by Potter Grove, and it was bad enough coming home from a long day's work without having to inch my way up Spooky Mountain just to relax.
"What?" he would yell like getting an apartment was the dumbest thing I could've said. "We have the chance to live in a beautiful, historical Victorian designed by my great grandfather, and you want to get an apartment?"
He used the word "beautiful" loosely a lot when describing this place. It was a crazy house designed by a crazy person, who everyone politely labeled "eccentric" because, apparently, you shouldn't call rich people crazy. Gate House had been in the Bowman family for forever, named Gate House because, aside from the massive hill you had to drive up, there were also two security gates to pass through before you even spotted a turret. The old man was paranoid about something. Eccentric all right. Eccentric out of his flipping mind.
I moved forward, past the first gate, a rusty, pocked iron one straight out of a horror movie.
As soon as I could afford it, I was going to change some things around my "new" house. I pictured my ex rolling over in his grave as he watched me messing with his stuff.
Good. I didn't know why he left me everything anyway. We hadn't even spoken since he called to tell me he was marrying Destiny, which was an odd conversation, to say the least.
"Carly doll, I have wonderful news. I'm getting married again, to Destiny the stripper." I could hear Destiny cackling in the background. They were both drunk.
I hung up without even offering a "Congratulations." Apparently, eccentricity runs in some families, and I was just happy we hadn't had any children.
Gate House came into view, exactly as I remembered it. It was not the traditional Victorian, probably because it was designed by a madman who never took an architectural course in his life. There was one main turret that actually looked like two turrets plopped one on top of the other, and three little ones just for show that didn't hold much. Each had its own entrance, detached from the main house. The guy had a thing for turrets.
Ronald, Jackson's lawyer, was a wax-mustached twig with slightly more twitches than he had pens in his shirt pocket, but then, I really didn't count either. Waiting for me outside, he paced the dark green veranda back and forth, making a circular motion in the air with one of his fingers when he saw me pull up, probably in an effort to get me to hurry up.
"You're half an hour late," he snapped, like he expected me to pay him, or apologize. Neither was going to happen. I agreed to two-o'clock-ish, and only because he'd insisted. I'd just driven seven hours straight from Indianapolis to Potter Grove. I had a car full of my entire belongings and I think I may have smelled a little like Dr. Pepper from a soda explosion somewhere around Chicago. He never even asked how my trip went. Did I hit much traffic? Did I make good time? As soon as my foot hit the first step of the porch, he thrust a stack of papers at me and a pen.
"I was on my way out, actually. I thought you'd forgotten. Like I said before I have to fly out of here at 3:30 and we have a lot to discuss," he said. "First and foremost..."
I heard a familiar sound and Ronald lost my attention again.
Rex, our Labrador and the only thing I missed about my marriage to Jackson, sprinted across the front lawn over to me. I swear the dog was smiling.
I hugged him hard, running my hands through his short golden fur. "I missed you too," I said, over and over again.
Ronald continued talking like I was listening. "There's a stipend of two thousand dollars a month while you take care of Rex."
"A stipend," I said, actu
ally listening now. "Did you say two thousand?" That was more than I'd ever made freelance writing horrible articles from my mother's basement. Hot damn! Maybe I'd be able to tackle my novel after all.
Ronald continued in his monotone voice. "We've gone over this before, Ms. Taylor, please try to keep up. That's to cover utilities and expenses for Rex."
I remembered how much expenses were for a house of this size, and a couple thousand dollars was pretty bare-boned. I would have to get a side job while I wrote my book after all.
"Rex's schedule is outlined on page two. Please initial at the bottom that you agree to all terms..."
I flipped over to page two and scribbled my initials without bothering to look over anything. Ronald had to fly out of here at 3:30 and I had to keep up, after all.
Rex eagerly pushed his head into my hand as I made a mostly for-show attempt at reading whatever it was Ronald was pointing out to me. The dog's large dark eyes looked up at me in the same playful way as the day I met him, even though he had to be old, very old. His little scarred nose shot through my hand again and again. I definitely got the feeling he was trying to tell me something.
I always told Jackson that Rex was the smartest dog in the world. He dropped something hard and smooth into my hand then stood back and panted, waiting for me to pay attention to him. I missed him, too, from his lopsided ears to the little V-shaped scar on the tip of his nose. "In a minute, big guy. I promise we'll catch up or play fetch or whatever you want." I mindlessly shoved the thing he gave me into my pocket and tried to keep up with the fast-talking lawyer.
