by Ann B. Ross
“How interesting,” I said, stung that she would refer to my age. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.” More than you know, I thought. “And I’d be delighted to sit down with you and have a long talk. When would be convenient?”
“Well,” she said with a patronizing laugh, “you’re nothing if not eager, aren’t you?” Which flew all over me, but I held my tongue. “But that’s good,” she went on. “I’m sure you need something to fill the time. The days get long with nothing to do, don’t they?”
“Oh, Connie, you wouldn’t believe,” I replied, carefully holding down the sarcasm. “I’d be so grateful to hear your ideas, and, in return, I may have a few for you.”
She laughed outright at that. “Maybe so. But I don’t mind your coming by about four this afternoon since you’re so eager. I am simply swamped till then, unpacking boxes that have just gotten here from Europe, and the front hall is crammed full. I’ll be working in the kitchen, so just park in the drive and come around to the back door.”
After agreeing to that, I put down the phone with a growing sense of unease. How would I ever get through to such a woman? She wouldn’t mind my coming by, but she had no intention of interrupting her work in order to visit with me. If it hadn’t been for Emma Sue’s dire circumstances, I would’ve told Connie what she could do with a visit.
Well, in fact, if not for Emma Sue, it would never have occurred to me to want a visit with Connie, much less to actually ask for a moment of her time.
• • •
As four o’clock approached, I became more and more nervous. I admit it, and kept thinking as I prepared to leave that I should just sit down and stay home. But in the end, I told Lillian I was going to a meeting that would be short and sweet, which was all I could say, not wanting to divulge the pastor’s mission. Though the closer it got to four o’clock, the more I dreaded what could turn out to be a long and bitter meeting.
I wished I could take Mildred with me. She tolerated no nonsense or silliness from anyone, and certainly would not put up with Connie’s brand of self-importance. But I didn’t have her, and furthermore, I couldn’t even have gotten her advice. Pastor Ledbetter had strapped me in tight, and I rued the promise I had made not to confide in anyone.
Not even Sam, not even Lillian, who told me as I went out the door, “If you goin’ out this time of day, you better wrap up good. That wind go right through you.” I’d just nodded, told her I didn’t plan to be out in it long, and left.
But let this be a lesson: don’t ever promise not to tell something without first considering the possibility that you might need to tell someone.
• • •
As I drove the few miles out of town to the gated community known as Grand View Estates—a name more suited to a cemetery, if you ask me—I could feel the blustery wind against the car and hoped, for Coleman’s sake, that this would be a quickly passing cold front. The gray, lowering clouds and the fall time change had turned the afternoon dark earlier than usual—a good excuse to make this a short visit.
I turned in at the gate near the golf course that was surrounded by hills dotted here and there with newly built homes, made mostly of stone and glass with hints of Tudor design. The security guard started to wave me through, then opened the window in the kiosk.
“Ma’am, we’re gettin’ some limbs down on the roads. High winds, you know, so be careful.”
Thanking him, I said I wasn’t going far, then continued on as the winding street gradually rose to the first level of scenic view lots, where the Clayborns’ house was located.
I pulled up the steep drive and parked near the closed garage, set the emergency brake, and got out of the car, pausing a moment to survey the sweeping view as well as the leaf-strewn front yard. Holding my hair as I looked around, I could barely make out the side of another house some distance away through the thick growth of trees that bounded the yard. I realized that if one wished to build in the area, one would have to carve out a lot by cutting trees and removing stumps. A mint would have to be spent before laying a foundation, and from the looks of the place, not many people had been willing to tackle it. I turned to look at Connie’s house, noting the lonely, isolated feel it had, the dearth of neighbors, the lack of cars on the street, the swaying of the treetops in the wind, and the darkness of the late afternoon edging in on it from the woods.
The view would be nice to have, but not at the cost of getting it. Not for me, I decided. If Sam and I built another house, it would be on a level lot with streetlights on the corner.
The isolation of the place made me edgy, so I locked the car, dropped the keys in my purse, and stepped up on the stone walkway that led around to the back of the house. Pushing through a gate in the decorative fence that connected the house to the garage, I walked to the back patio—more stone. The house was large, but much wider than deep. The back was lined mostly with full-length windows that looked out over a tightly covered, winterized swimming pool so close to the house that Connie could probably roll right out of bed and into the water if she wanted to. I wouldn’t, if it were me.
I paused to survey the yard, taken aback by all the tile and concrete—the whole area was paved with something. There was not one speck of green—not even one boxwood—until you looked across the long, narrow pool to the retaining wall on the far side, where a hillside thickly covered with laurel bushes, pine trees, and rhododendrons rose above the house. If this was Connie’s idea of a garden, the town park was in bad trouble.
Picking up my pace, I took note of the many full-length windows and sliding-glass doors facing the pool as I tried to determine which door led to the kitchen. Ah, I thought, where the light is, of course, noting also that only the row of short windows—above the sink, I assumed—and a glass door were lit. No other lights were on in the house, nor, I suddenly realized, on the patio or over the back door.
Was Connie not expecting me? Had she forgotten I was coming? Or did she not care if I stumbled around her backyard, fell, and broke my neck?
A gust of wind that bent the trees and raised my skirt hurried me along as I strode toward the lighted glass door. Pressing the doorbell, I looked into the large, white kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, just as every house-hunting couple wanted. A chair with metal legs and leather strips in place of a back and a seat—the kind I always avoided for fear of it folding up on me—was upended by the island counter. Across from that, I saw an empty cardboard box lying on its side on the floor, a dust mop under a table, and a flapping newspaper on the center island.
What in the world, I wondered, then saw the ceiling fan whirling at full speed overhead. Connie must have been working hard to need a fan on this chilly November day, but maybe she had a high metabolism. Or something.
Shivering, I rang the bell again, thinking that Connie might be in the front of the house. Maybe in the bathroom. No one came. Everything was still. Except the wind. And the fan. And the newspaper.
Enough of this, I thought with some indignation, and turned to leave. Then I stopped, a glimpse of something just registering in my mind—a shoe. Pressing my face to the glass in the door, I saw the sole of a clunky shoe sticking out beside a cabinet. Whatever it was attached to was beyond my view.
“Connie!” I called, rapping hard on the glass. Nothing.
“Connie, are you in there?” I called again, raising my voice over the rustle of the trees. “Are you all right?”
I rattled the doorknob, then felt it turn in my hand. I pushed it open and hurried inside.
My Lord! The shoe was attached to Connie. To her foot, I mean. She was lying half on her stomach, stretched out on the floor in front of the dishwasher and the sink cabinet. In a stunned flash, I took in the overturned chair, several pots and pans strewn across the floor, a broken cup, the stench of burned coffee, the expanse of black granite countertops, and the glistening puddle
of blood under Connie’s head.
Chapter 11
Strange how the mind can take in so much at once, while thoughtless impulse focuses on some minor thing. That’s what happened to me as I slung my pocketbook over my shoulder and took action. Stepping over Connie’s outstretched arm that was lying across the pool of blood, I ran to the coffeepot and unplugged it. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. Just didn’t want the bottom to burn out.
Then I turned back to Connie. One arm was under her body, one eye stared at nothing, and one leg was hiked up so that her pink bloomers were showing. Squatting down beside her, I pulled down her skirt, thinking as I did that I would not have thought her the pink bloomer type.
“Connie!” I called, putting my hand on her shoulder. It was soft to my touch, yet as I gently shook her, it felt hard and cold underneath—sort of like a half-thawed roast.
Telephone! Still sitting on my heels, I strained to look around for it. Then called her again. “Connie!” The only sound was the rapid whirling of the fan overhead.
Deep down, I realized from her ungainly position and the glazed look in the one eye I could see that she wouldn’t answer, couldn’t answer, and never would. Besides the blood under her head, there were spatters of it on the sink cabinet and dotting the kitchen floor. Be careful where you step, I told myself.
But I wasn’t able to step anywhere. Squatting there, stunned and shocked, I was as stiff and frozen in place as Connie was. I had a great urge to straighten her into a more comfortable position, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch her again. I wanted to leave, but couldn’t just walk off and leave her. That wasn’t much of an option anyway because I couldn’t get up.
Then the power went out—lights and all.
I stiffened in my squat, listening as the fan softly decelerated. That was the only sound until . . . Good Lord! Is somebody in the house?
Trying to rise, my stiff knees failed me. Ten years ago, even five, I could’ve sprung to my feet and been out the door without a second thought. As it was, though, I was stuck in a squat and might’ve stayed that way if I hadn’t been scared to death. Stretching up over Connie—without touching her—I reached with one hand for the edge of the counter over the dishwasher and used the other hand to push off the floor. Between the ungainly pull and push of both hands, I finally struggled to my feet.
Almost tripping over Connie’s shoe, I ran for the door. Get out! Get help! Get out, get out!
It was all I could think of as I ran across the stone patio and along the stone path, humming with each breath.
When I reached the car, I stopped running, but not humming, and began rummaging in my purse for the car keys.
It was lighter outside than inside the house, but not by much. The wind, filled now with flecks of rain, swirled through my hair, but I didn’t care. I kept feeling for the keys in the bottom of my bag, but when I finally brought them out, I nearly dropped them. The palm of my hand was smeared with blood—Connie’s blood—and so was my purse.
Without thinking, I wiped my hand on the front of my coat, then unlocked the car and fell inside. Quickly relocking the door, I jabbed the key into the ignition, my hand shaking so badly that I could hardly turn the thing.
Let me say at this point that I don’t drive very well in reverse. Which means that I zigzagged the car down the steep driveway and would’ve backed into the ditch across the street if I hadn’t left the emergency brake on.
Get help! That’s all I could think of as I released the brake and drove toward the gate at the entrance, hoping to see lights from a house or from an oncoming car or even from a flashlight. But there were no other cars on the street, no lights in the few houses I passed, and no one on the golf course.
I didn’t even try to avoid the small branches blown into the street by the wind—just went right through and over them.
Screeching to a stop at the gatehouse, still humming with each breath, I rammed the car into park, jumped out, and banged on the window. The security guard threw down his newspaper and came to open the window.
“Ma’am?”
“Call the sheriff! Call an ambulance! She’s on the floor and she can’t get up! Hurry, hurry!” I had to lean against the gatehouse, so drained that I could hardly stand.
“What?” the guard asked, frowning. “Ma’am, are you all right?” He opened the door and stepped out.
“No! I’m not all right. And she’s not, either. Mrs. Clayborn! She needs help. Call somebody. Call somebody now!”
“Yes, ma’am, right away.” He turned to pick up a phone in the gatehouse. “The Clayborn house, you say?”
“Yes! Straight up this road, on the left. Glass and stone, you can’t miss it. But the lights are out so be careful. Somebody might be inside. Besides her, I mean.”
He spoke quickly on the phone, then came outside, locking the door behind him. “They’re on the way, but I’ll go on up and check it out.” Then he stopped and gave me a close look. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”
I glanced down at a smear of blood on my coat and the dried remains of it on my hand. “I just needed help getting up. I was beside her, see, and, well, it’s her blood, not mine.”
“Huh,” he said. “Guess I better hurry, then.” He hustled over to the golf cart parked behind the gatehouse, jumped in it, and puttered away toward the Clayborn house, leaving me standing alone with my coat and hair blowing in the wind.
I didn’t know what to do next. One thing was for sure, though, I was not going back to Connie’s house. He could check it out by his lonesome. Yet I couldn’t stand around in the growing dark outside a locked gatehouse, either, so I got in my car and went home.
• • •
I don’t know how I got there. Images of what I’d seen, the fear I’d felt at the thought of another person lurking in the house, and the revulsion of having Connie’s blood on my hand washed through me in waves. At the sound of approaching sirens, I slowed and pulled over to the side of the road, waiting for the convoy of emergency vehicles to pass. Briefly thinking that perhaps I should return to the scene of the crime, I decided I’d only be in the way.
So I stayed the course, still humming, breathing in gasps, and hurrying home, where there were lights and safety.
• • •
“Lillian! Lillian!” I started calling her before I was halfway out of the car.
Running across the yard, I banged through the kitchen door and met her on her way to me.
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” Lillian grabbed me, stopping my headlong rush. “Lord help us, what happen to you? Lemme close this door.” She leaned away and slammed the door. “Set down, Miss Julia. Lemme see what’s wrong.”
I collapsed toward a chair and would’ve missed it if she hadn’t guided me down. “Oh, Lillian, it was awful. And I think somebody was in there with me, and Connie . . . It was awful, and all I could think to do was unplug the coffeepot.” I think I began to cry. “Sam, where’s Sam?”
“He on his way. He jus’ call an’ tell me.” Lillian squatted beside my chair, crooning, “What happened, Miss Julia? You have a accident? You get hurt?”
“No, no, I’m all right,” I said, trying for a deep breath. “Just scared to death. Oh, Lillian, it was awful, she was just lying there, and when the lights went out, well, I thought I’d be next.”
“Be next for what? What kinda meetin’ you go to, anyway?”
“Well, I was only doing what I was asked to do, but I’m not supposed to tell that. Oh, Lillian,” I moaned as a shudder went through me, “she was dead. I couldn’t believe it, but she was. Is, I mean.”
“Dead? Oh, my Jesus, Miss Julia, how she get that way?” Lillian clasped my hand, then quickly unhanded it. “What you got on you?”
“Blood, Lillian. Her blood.” I jumped to my feet and headed for the sink. “Got to get it off. Get it off. Brush, Lillian, a
Brillo pad or something. I can’t stand this.”
Lillian grabbed me by the wrist, held my hand over the sink, and doused it with a blue liquid. “This here Dawn’ll do the trick. Least it do with ducks.” Turning the water on full blast, she went on. “Rub both them hands together, then wrench ’em off. An’ gimme that coat while you at it.”
I slid out of my stained coat, then proceeded to rub and scrub my hands under running water. I didn’t remember putting my hand in Connie’s blood, but the evidence was certainly there that I had. Getting it off even with a scrub brush wasn’t easy, especially around my thumbnail, where it had soaked in.
“Oh, Lillian,” I moaned, “this is making me ill. I can’t get it off. I’ll be scrubbing forever, just like Lady Macbeth, but with far less reason.”
“Lady who?”
Chapter 12
“They’ll need to talk to you, Julia,” Sam said. He had just come in and we were sitting close together at the kitchen table. Sam’s arm was around me as I recounted, in between full body shivers, the day’s events. “So the sooner you call, the better.”
“I know, and I’m going to,” I said, nodding unhappily at the thought of going over it all again to someone in a uniform. “I’m just trying to get myself together. Of course, the sheriff already knows, so I don’t know what I can tell them. I just found her like that.”
“I know, but you were the first to . . .”
“We don’t know that,” I interrupted. “No telling how long she’d been there or who else had dropped in.”
“True,” Sam agreed, pulling me closer. “But you have to let them know. They’ll get around to you eventually anyway.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Who even knew I was going to visit Connie? I hadn’t told anybody, not even Sam or Lillian. Well, the pastor knew, but he didn’t know when I was going. And the security guard at the gatehouse didn’t know who I was. He might be able to pick me out of a lineup, but only if my hair was in the wild state it had been, and, believe me, I would have it combed and properly arranged if it came to that.
