I punched in Ike’s private cell-phone number. “I doubt you’re conducting the investigation into DeWayne’s death,” I began.
“What investigation? Chief Muggins says it was a clear case of suicide.”
“Maybe so, but I found DeWayne, remember? And as far as I can recall, he was a mighty long way from the sinks or toilets, so what did he stand on to jump from?”
I heard silence while Ike thought that over. “He left a note, I understand.”
“Well, it might bear some thinking about.”
Ike gave a disapproving grunt. “Mac, haven’t you had enough murders in this town for one year? We don’t need to be looking for murder every time somebody dies.”
“I’m not looking for murder, Ike. I am merely asking whether there was, in fact, any way for DeWayne Evans to do what he seems to have done.”
“I’ll tell you what. I have to go by the high school to pick up my little brother, who’s helping one of his teachers set up. How about if I wander back to the locker room and have a look?”
“How about if you do? Thanks, Ike.”
“Anytime, Mac. You just save me a front-row seat at your own funeral if Joe Riddley or Ridd learn I’m doing this.” Speaking of Joe Riddley, it was about time I headed back to the store to see if he and Cricket were ready to knock off for the day. I felt pretty proud of myself right then. Everything was under control.
That’s because I had plumb forgotten something real important.
17
As soon as I walked into the office, Joe Riddley said, “Call Clarinda. She called wanting something, but I forgot what. You know how bad my memory is since I got shot.”
“Your memory is fine until you don’t want to remember something.” I dropped my pocketbook near the desk and reached for the phone.
As soon as she recognized my voice, Clarinda started right in on me. “Is this the person who couldn’t be bothered to call and tell me what she and Ridd found? Of course, it’s not as if DeWayne Evans was important to me or anything, although I reckon he was one of my grandson’s favorite people, all the time over at our place. Maybe that doesn’t count. No reason to put yourself out to give me a call so I would know what Ronnie and that poor little thing were going through and what everybody else in town already knew. No reason at all. No reason for you to call and explain so I’d know why Ronnie sent one of his buddies over to drive me and my wash home, either. No siree—no reason—”
I hoped that wherever DeWayne was, he knew that his death had moved Yasheika up in Clarinda’s roster from “that girl” to “that poor little thing.” But I needed to stop Clarinda’s horse at full gallop or she was capable of going on through the night and well into morning.
“I forgot,” I admitted. “Flat-out forgot. After we found DeWayne, it was all I could do to get back here and sit down without passing out. Then I saw Bethany—”
“You spent the afternoon down at Stantons’.” Her tone implied we’d been carousing around a piano. I’d be hearing about this for weeks. Clarinda is a champion grudge bearer.
“I went to tell Hollis what happened,” I explained.
“You coulda swung by here. Not that it matters—”
“I thought Ronnie would tell you.” At least, that’s what I would have thought if I’d given Clarinda any thought at all. “I reckon he did, since you called.”
“Oh, Ronnie finally told me when he called a little while ago to say why he was so late. The reason I called was to find out when you want him to bring Yasheika down.”
Southern hospitality can get you in bubbling hot water sometimes. Like when you invite a person to spend the night, then forget and give away your house. I doubted that Yasheika wanted to join the Honeybees for their grief-a-thon.
While I was still trying to figure out whether I could ask her to sleep up in Bethany’s room with the bathroom all the way down the stairs, Clarinda took another lap around the track.
“I’d love to have her over here, of course, but you know I haven’t got but the two bedrooms and one bathroom, and—”
“—and she and Ronnie might throttle each other if you turned your back.”
“Oh, they’ve called truce while we’re dealing with DeWayne’s passing. Right now, Ronnie’s taken her down to the po-lice station to pick up his things.”
She paused—probably to give me time to adjust to that amazing development. Instead, I found myself wondering why Clarinda and a lot of older black Americans pronounce “police” with an accent on the first syllable. Could it be because, in their experience, the “po-lice” were so painfully connected with “po’ folks”?
I tuned back in as she said, “. . . back here for supper, but I doubt she’ll eat a bite. She’s real cut up, poor little thing. After supper, he’s driving her to Atlanta to pick up her mother and her auntie. They’re flying in. The real reason I called was to ask if you can put them up, too.”
I caught my breath in a quick hiss. Clarinda caught it at once. “Of course, if you think it’s too much trouble, they can always go to a motel or something.”
She knew as well as I did that the only motel anywhere around was up on I-20, miles away. We had four bed-and-breakfast places in town, but they tended to be pricey, or so I had heard. (With five bedrooms, I’d never needed to use them.) I was also having one of those real uneasy moments white southerners sometimes still get, wondering how welcome a local bed-and-breakfast might make black guests.
“It’s not that they’d be any trouble,” I assured Clarinda. “It’s that we aren’t staying at our place. Martha and Ridd are taking the Honeybees down there tonight, and we’re keeping Cricket at their place. Yasheika can have Bethany’s room, but you know they don’t have any spare beds.”
“Oh, well, if your house is full of a teenagers’ slumber party—”
“It’s not a slumber party. It’s DeWayne’s team. They’re real upset, and Martha feels they ought to be together to grieve. Her house isn’t big enough, so I said they could use ours.”
“Where’s DeWayne’s family gonna grieve, then? You gonna make them poor women stay in a motel? They can’t go back to his house, not with nasty words written all over it.”
“You saw it?”
“Sure, I saw it. Told Ronnie’s pal to swing by there on our way home. It’s real scary.”
I was ashamed of myself. I’d been so focused on DeWayne’s death, I had forgotten that somebody was still loose in town with a can of spray paint and a hate-ridden heart, rousing fear in every black friend I had.
“It is scary, but the police are gonna find out who’s doing that and stop it,” I said firmly. “They’ve already arrested Tyrone Noland as one of the perpetrators down at the school. If they can persuade him to talk, maybe we’ll get them all pretty quick.”
“Tyrone Noland? That little fat boy who used to sweep up for you? The one you brought down here one day for dinner and he ate up most of a whole chicken? That sweet little boy ain’t painting hate words all over town.” As far as Clarinda is concerned, anybody who likes her cooking is too nice to commit a crime.
“I’m afraid he is. At least, he’s admitted he painted the picture on the school. I don’t know about the words. And I don’t know if he painted DeWayne’s house, but I intend to find out.”
Clarinda heaved a sigh that nearly took down the telephone lines. “I sure hate for DeWayne’s mama to see all that nastiness. Ronnie wanted to go paint over it before she got here, but the po-lice said leave it until they get through.”
“You’re right that his mother can’t stay there. That’s for sure. Let me think a minute and call you back.”
“Okay. And one more thing. Tell Martha not to let the girls use your dryer. When Ronnie’s friend came to get me, I went off and left my underwear still in it.”
I had no more than hung up when Joe Riddley swung his chair around. “What about Walker’s place? They’ve got scads of room. And since you’re already watering their plants, taking in their mail and f
eeding their menagerie, what difference will it make if we use their beds for a couple of nights? They aren’t coming back all month, are they?”
I gave him a look that would have withered him if Joe Riddley hadn’t developed thick skin over the years. “If you had that figured out, why didn’t you fix that up with Clarinda? You could have saved me a lot of grief.”
He had the gall to laugh. “I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.”
Bo added a cackle straight from hell.
I spent a little time letting them both know they were in my black book, but Joe Riddley was right. Walker, his wife, Cindy, and the bank—with the bank as major partner—own a huge house in the wealthy part of town. Worry about how they could afford the mortgage, decorators’ fees, bills for new furnishings to augment Cindy’s family heirlooms, two new cars, private school, and frequent weeks at Hilton Head would have put gray in my hair if I hadn’t had a great beautician.
“I hate to use the house without asking,” I said slowly. “Maybe I ought to call them.”
“I figured you would. It’s as good an excuse as any. Give the kids my love.”
I felt exotic picking up the phone to call Hawaii. What a let-down to find it was no more complicated than calling Atlanta.
The kids and Walker were at the beach, but Cindy didn’t even hesitate. “Of course you should all stay there. Use anything you find in the refrigerator, pantry, or freezer. I’m so sorry about DeWayne, and we’re delighted to help.” Her kindness touched me. I’d just begun getting to know Cindy the previous winter, and I regretted wasting fourteen years holding this daughter-in-law at arm’s length because her elegance intimidated me. Even if she wasn’t as comfortable to be around as Martha was, she was an equal treasure in our family.
Cricket bounded in while we were talking. I covered the mouthpiece. “Do you want to talk to Aunt Cindy in Hawaii?”
He grabbed the receiver. “How are ye in How-are-ye?” He burst into giggles.
He wasn’t so enchanted with us when he heard our new plan for the evening. “I want to go to your house. I want to swim.” His lower lip slid out like a drawer.
“You can swim another day,” I promised.
“I don’t want to swim another day. I want to swim today. You never let me swim. You always say ‘another day.’ I never get to play with Lulu, or swing on the swing—”
Joe Riddley bent down and lifted him up. “There’s swings over at Uncle Walker’s. Come on. Let’s go get your things while Me-mama calls Clarinda.”
After I explained the plan, Clarinda had to think a minute before she admitted, “That’ll work. When my cookies come out of the oven, I’ll bring them over to Walker’s and make beds.”
“I can make beds,” I assured her, “but you can come help if you want to.” We’ve been together so long, I knew she didn’t want to be left out of the program. Clarinda has a big heart. She also thrives on being in the inner circle whenever there’s a tragedy.
However, I was more than a little miffed when she arrived at Walker’s, set warm cookies on the counter, and announced, “I’ll come over early and get breakfast.”
“I fix breakfast every morning,” I reminded her.
“Not for comp’ny. Burnt eggs and dry toast don’t cut it for guests.”
Granted, I perpetuate the myth that I cannot cook. It ensures that we eat out on Sundays and nobody expects me to come home from work and stand over a hot stove. When we have guests, we usually ask Clarinda to come fix a special meal so I can enjoy the party, or we take them to a restaurant. Still, Clarinda knows I am perfectly capable of putting a full meal on the table if I need to, and my breakfasts are as good as hers. Almost.
“I have never in my life served anybody burned eggs,” I said. “Besides, Cindy’s bound to have a few Sara Lee coffee cakes in the freezer. I can put them in the microwave, make coffee and pour juice as well as you can.”
“Don’t you be using stuff from Cindy’s freezer. I’ll bring what I need. I wish I could have them all at my place. I know exactly what his mama is going through.” She turned away, but I saw her brush away a tear.
My eyes blurred as I remembered the day her Janey died. Maybe that’s why I relented. “I’ll cook, but you come eat breakfast with us.”
She turned back, all business again. “No, you feed them breakfast and I’ll send Ronnie to get them right afterwards. I want them at my house the rest of the day. Okay?”
“Fine. But if they want a nap in the afternoon, you bring them back here.”
Two generals who had completed a battle plan to our mutual satisfaction, we marched upstairs to make the beds.
Fireflies were dancing in the dusk before Ronnie’s car pulled into Walker’s drive. Ronnie looked worn out as he ushered three heartbroken women in through the den, and it occurred to me he hadn’t had time to grieve privately, either. From the way he and Yasheika edged away from each other and Ronnie hurried back out to bring in their cases, I also deduced their day together hadn’t been all sweetness and light.
Yasheika looked like she’d been running marathons for several days. Her mother looked like all her stuffing had been removed. The aunt, whose name I didn’t catch the first time around, looked at the elegant rooms full of Cindy’s grand-mothers’ furniture, rugs, and silver, and demanded, “Who did Ronnie say you put out on our account?”
“It’s my uncle Walker’s,” Cricket bragged. “He’s gone to How-are-ye, so we can sleep at his house and play with the LEGO if we feed Tad’s guinea pig and newts, Jessica’s fish, and Aunt Cindy’s dog and her cats.”
My face grew hot. We had so very much, and right this minute they had so little. Then Cricket added, “Uncle Walker doesn’t have any pets, but he plays with theirs. You can, too.” And he handed Yasheika the golden kitten he’d been holding. When it purred and started climbing up her blouse, it brought smiles to all our sad faces.
As Yasheika cuddled it to her neck, Joe Riddley and Ronnie took the bags upstairs and I led the women toward the living room. I could tell they were doing their best not to impose their grief on the rest of us, but when I told Elda, “You cry if you want to. I’m a mama, too,” she turned and broke down in my arms. That made me cry; then Yasheika and her auntie started sobbing. Between us, we created a new tributary for the Savannah River.
“Pop, come down here!” Cricket roared at the bottom of the stairs. “These wimmen is crying and crying and Yasheika’s ’bout to drown Aunt Cindy’s kitten.”
18
Everybody went to bed early, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay there until one-thirty, then sighed, sat up, and fumbled for my slippers beside the unfamiliar bed.
“Where you going?” Joe Riddley mumbled.
I felt around for my robe. “Down to get some warm milk and see if they’ve got some graham crackers.” Walker loves them almost as much as I do, so it was likely he’d have a box.
Joe Riddley turned his back and pulled the sheet over his ears. “Just like a baby. Need a full stomach to sleep.”
“If it works, don’t knock it.” I padded downstairs in the dark.
I turned on the den light and startled Yasheika, who was standing by the window in a red silk robe trimmed in gold. Tears glistened on her cheeks and her nails were scritch-scritching against the soft silk as she clenched and unclenched her fists.
“Oh, honey!” I flipped the light back off and went to stand beside her in the dim glow of a streetlight. “Having trouble sleeping?”
She was trembling. Even her voice shook, but it was low and furious. “I’m having trouble believing this has happened. I keep thinking it’s a mistake, a bad joke. He had no call to kill himself. He didn’t! I loved him so much. Why wasn’t it enough?”
Surely those are the saddest words in the world.
I didn’t know what to say, but I knew it’s not words that comfort people who are grieving, it’s touch—just having somebody there. I started rubbing gentle circles on her back. She edged closer and I slipped my arm aro
und her waist. She was a good six inches taller than me, but she bent her head to my shoulder and sobbed.
“Why didn’t he tell me what he was thinking?” she raged. “He talked all week about other things—how much he used to love this place, things he used to do, people he knew. But not a word about this. He should have told me.” Her voice trailed so low I almost couldn’t hear. “Maybe he tried and I didn’t listen.”
I gave her a squeeze of reproof. “Don’t talk like that. It won’t change what’s done, just make you feel worse. From what I hear, people who are determined to take their own lives are going to do it, no matter what others do.”
She stepped back and sniffed. “But he wasn’t determined to do it. After practice last night, he was real excited about the new team. Said he was sure we could win the district and go to state. And he went to school to get his room ready for summer school. Does that sound like he was planning on killing himself?” She sniffed again.
“No,” I admitted. I found a clean tissue in my pocket and handed it to her.
She blew her nose before asking, “So what changed?”
“I don’t know.” I hesitated. Joe Riddley and Ridd would call me nosy, but I preferred the word “interested.” I’d been interested all day in that piece of paper DeWayne left on his desk with Yasheika’s name on it. “I don’t guess he left a note?” That wasn’t a lie, exactly. You don’t have to guess about something you already know.
“He did, but it didn’t say a thing.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Read it.” She thrust it at me. It was rumpled and damp, like she’d read it and cried over it many times since somebody first handed it to her.
I groped my way through the dimness to a lamp by the couch, and blinked in the sudden light. I sat down on the couch and held the page at arm’s length, but I didn’t need my reading glasses. There was only one word, written in careful black block letters: SORRY.
Who Let That Killer in the House? Page 14
