by Catie Rhodes
I remembered our conversation about the Mace Treasure. As I told Turgeau, plenty of people—some in my own family—had died over it. While I doubted the treasure’s existence, I knew people murdered over money all the time. Money as the motive for Rae’s murder didn’t clear Chase as a suspect. He didn’t make much money to begin with. His partying made matters worse.
I searched my memory and compiled a list of people I remembered seeing at Rae’s trailer. Did I think any of them murdered her? Not really. They were just a bunch of adults who acted like teenagers. But if giving Turgeau a list of names got him off Chase’s ass, it would solve one of my worries.
Memaw cracked open the bathroom door as I brushed my teeth. I jumped and threw my toothbrush across the room. It hit the wall and splattered toothpaste all over the wallpaper. Memaw winced. I grabbed a towel to wipe up the mess.
“Don’t bother. I’ll get it later. Come out here to the living room. We’ve got company.” She shut the door and her footsteps receded down the hall.
I slid my feet into flip-flops and slapped down the hallway. The old wood creaked beneath my feet. The pictures on the wall slid past me, so familiar I didn’t need to look at them. Just knowing they were there, seeing them in my periphery, made this place home. Some were of Memaw when she and my grandfather, George, were young. A couple of pictures showed my father and his twin brother Jesse. Closer to the hallway’s end hung shots of my father and uncle with their brides, including pictures of both Rae and me as babies.
Jolene Fischer sat on the love seat picking at a cookie. Tears streaked her face.
The butterflies in my stomach danced the two-step. She was about to say something bad, and After the Murder would get even worse. I didn’t know how I could take much more.
Jolene’s voice shook when she spoke. “Have you seen Chase, baby?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I’ve tried to call him quite a few times. No answer.”
Chase’s father, Darren Fischer, stepped out of the kitchen holding a steaming cup of coffee. He was tall, lanky, and fair skinned like Chase. His skin hadn’t fared any better in the sun than Chase’s. Darren wore a t-shirt advertising his fishing guide service. He gave me a one armed hug and leaned down to kiss the top of my head. “That’s all right, sugar. We hoped, but…”
Memaw insisted Darren and I sit down.
“Those damned sheriffs come out to the house at the ass crack of dawn with a search warrant.” Darren blew on his coffee but didn’t take a drink. His soft brown eyes—so like Chase’s—brimmed with tears. “They found a bloody knife wrapped in a t-shirt under his trailer.”
The news slammed into me, cold and unwelcome. It shocked me enough the racket of my heart pounding drowned out all other sound. I couldn’t speak.
“You don’t know it’s the murder weapon.” Memaw sat with her legs crossed and her foot hooked around her calf. Her foot jittered.
“It’s all right, Leticia.” Darren hung his head. “If Chase has run off, it’s because he’s hiding something.”
“He’s not hiding anything.” I stood and went to the area behind the couch, which was my usual pacing spot. As I walked back and forth, I said, “He didn’t do it.”
Jolene sobbed into a white, linen hanky with a purple flower embroidered into it.
“They said the knife was enough to get an arrest warrant for him.” Darren spoke without inflection, never taking his eyes off the shiny hardwood at his feet.
Jolene stopped crying long enough to choke out a few words. “I can’t get him to answer his cellphone, and he didn’t show up for work this morning.”
“Them sheriffs told Jolene that Chase would get the lethal injection for sure if he tried to flee.” Darren held his coffee mug in a white-knuckled grip, and a muscle worked in his jaw. “Sheriff Holze said if we were helping him, we’d go to jail, too.”
“Sheriff Joey Holze is a nitwit.” I stood on my tiptoes and grabbed the pack of cigarettes I’d stashed on top of the armoire. Oh, well. Two weeks of no smoking was better than no break at all. My hands shook as I tore off the cellophane and popped a cancer stick into my mouth. Darren took his lighter out of his pocket and held it out to me. I lit up and inhaled with gusto.
“Peri!” Memaw’s dark eyes were round. “I thought you quit.”
“I will. Just not today.” I held the pack out to Memaw who had quit with me. She shook her head and waved me away. That surprised me. Memaw had smoked all my life, and it had been my idea to quit.
“That Dean Turgeau told us Chase used the ATM to draw all the money out of his account.” Darren Fischer took a sip of his coffee and grimaced.
“They said Chase’s running makes him look even more guilty.” Jolene put her face in her hands and sobbed. “They said if we talk to him to tell him to come in and confess. That’ll be the only way to avoid the death penalty.”
I paced back and forth. The knife found at Chase’s was undoubtedly the murder weapon. It didn’t matter if he ran or not. If Chase was caught, he’d likely be tried and convicted of Rae’s murder. But he didn’t do it, and I’d fight until I could fight no more to find out who did it and make them pay.
The Fischers went home, both crying. I smoked several more cigarettes and dressed for work. The nicotine high slammed into me, more intense than I remembered. One of the reasons I loved quitting for a while. I grabbed the backpack where I kept a few dollars in small bills, a receipt book, and my checkbook and went into the living room.
I found Memaw sitting in front of the silent TV, her brow wrinkled. In her lap, she folded and unfolded a paper napkin.
“I’m out of here,” I said. “Got a full day. I won’t be home until after dark.”
“Be careful. Nothing feels right about this whole thing.” She re-folded the napkin. “I have the feeling this isn’t over.”
I nodded because I had the same feeling. “I’ll be careful. Call me if you need anything.” That really meant for her call if she got worried about me. She waved me out the door.
I called Chase’s cellphone seven times that day and got no answer.
***
My Mondays always ended with cleaning Dr. Longstreet’s offices at the hospital. We had an agreement I would clean his offices in exchange for medical care. Because the hospital employed a full-time janitorial staff, the job never took more than an hour. I suspected I came out on the winning end of our deal.
I whipped into a back parking lot at the hospital and snuck in using a side door hidden where the old part of the hospital met the new section. Gaslight City’s rumor mill had the speed and tenacity of a jaguar chasing down prey. It could turn my weekly cleaning appointment into a nervous breakdown resulting in a return to the loony bin before bedtime. The fewer people I encountered, the better. I kept my head down and hurried.
“Peri Jean Mace? Girl, are you all right?”
I turned to see Mrs. Watson, grandmother of Deputy Brittany Watson, dressed in her Sunday best. Her outfit included an old-fashioned hat, which I loved. Mrs. Watson spent her days wandering the hospital and Gaslight City’s nursing homes visiting people, whether they wanted her company or not.
“Yes, ma’am.” I accepted her hug and held my breath against the odor of mothballs. That hat must have dated back quite a few years.
“I sure am sorry to hear about that cousin of yours. You look pale. Why don’t you get Dr. Longstreet to check you into the hospital for a rest? I’ll come visit you.”
The rest of the conversation followed a similar vein. I escaped with an excuse about my appointment with Dr. Longstreet. That satisfied Mrs. Watson. I hurried away from her, walking as fast as my short legs would go. Intent on my destination, I almost ran into a person who stepped into my path. I looked up and groaned. I couldn’t help myself.
Felicia Brent Fischer Holze stood in front of me, smirking. Chase’s ex-wife wore her mousy brown hair in a highlighted bob. She had attractive, angular features, but her glittery, mean eyes and downturned mouth ruined the eff
ect. Her athletic high school figure had degenerated to pudge after having three kids. Her unfortunate habit of wearing fashions suited to a much thinner figure accentuated the change.
“You look terrible.” Her predatory smile hadn’t changed in the twelve years since high school. “Too skinny. And you need a haircut.”
I ground my teeth and bit back a sharp response. “Thanks for your concern. I’m on my way to the doctor’s office.”
She snorted. “If you see my ex, give him a message for me: I’m not bringing my son to prison to see him.”
My body tensed, and I imagined my fist connecting with her face. I dropped my eyes. If I kept looking at her, I’d hit her. “Fine, Felicia. I’ll tell him if I see him.”
I shoved around her and fumed the rest of the way to Dr. Longstreet’s office. What had Chase ever seen in that mean-spirited bitch? I wished I had dragged her into a restroom and held her head in the toilet. She deserved no better. I slipped into Dr. Longstreet’s office and closed my eyes, willing away the anger. It served no purpose.
The glass separating the waiting room from the receptionist’s area was dark. Good. That meant one more well-meaning person I wouldn’t have to talk to.
“Peri? That you?” Dr. Longstreet’s voice floated from his personal office.
“It’s me.” I locked the door and retrieved my cleaning supplies from the closet next to the tiny restroom. I cleaned the examining rooms first. The hospital’s janitorial staff, used to me doing half the work, did a slap-dash job but were, at least, consistent. The windows and the baseboards belonged to me. I lost myself in scrubbing and buffing as the angle of the sun changed. The hospital grew quiet with the day workers gone home and the evening’s visitors yet to arrive.
Other than a quick wave as I passed Dr. Longstreet’s office, we didn’t interact. He spent the evenings catching up on paperwork and didn’t want me cleaning his office anyway. He claimed I hid things.
I clicked on the lights to the reception area. The receptionist had left the surfaces clear for me to wipe down. I pulled her chair away from the long counter, and the appointment book fell off its seat and hit the floor, fanning open.
I crouched to pick up the book and flipped pages to find the correct date. The book opened to the Thursday before Rae died. Rae Mace was listed for an appointment at 3:00 p.m. In the column for reason was scrawled “pregnancy test” in Rae’s childish penmanship.
The appointment book slipped from my fingers and fell to the scarred linoleum with a dull slap. My lunch sat in my stomach like a poisonous rock as I picked up the book again and reread the appointment. Pregnant? I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.
Had the pregnancy been at the heart of her request for a favor? I raced through the possibilities, reminding myself that none of it mattered now. Chase drifted into my thoughts again. Had he known? Too bad the jerk wouldn’t answer his phone so I could ask him.
Dr. Longstreet coughed in his office. Though I couldn’t ask Chase about Rae’s possible pregnancy, I could ask Dr. Longstreet. I took a few steps toward his office and stopped. He might not tell me. What about doctor-patient confidentiality? It might be against the law for him to talk about Rae’s health. Then, I remembered promising Memaw I’d see him about my nosebleed.
I walked down the short hall and knocked on the doorframe of his office. Dr. Longstreet glanced up from his paperwork and set down his pen. I wiped my hands on my pants and forced myself to cross the threshold.
“I promised Memaw I’d see you about—“
“That’s right.” He nodded. “Leticia called me earlier today. Said not to let you leave without talking to you. So you had a headache along with a nosebleed last night?”
Dr. Longstreet approached me and tilted my head back. He shined his penlight into my eyes without waiting for an answer.
“It’s not a big deal,” I told him. “It’s just stress.”
“Headache along with a nosebleed can be a symptom of some pretty serious things. Especially when you’ve been hit in the head recently.” Dr. Longstreet stared me down, concern evident in his bottle-green eyes.
“Last night was first time I ever had a nosebleed without getting into a fight.” I squirmed, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Have you been…seeing things? At all?” Dr. Longstreet mashed his lips together and cocked his head to one side while he studied me.
I said nothing. Talking about seeing ghosts landed me in the loony bin once upon a time. Never again.
Evidently understanding my reluctance to speak, Dr. Longstreet tried a different tactic. “Have you had headaches? Ones that won’t go away?”
“No.” I desperately wanted this part of my talk with the doctor to end. “But I can call you if I do.”
“Do you promise? Your grandmother needs you right now, more than ever.”
“I know.”
A worry line appeared on Dr. Longstreet’s brow, and he took a breath to speak but stopped. His eyes, usually so calm and comforting, swam with something I couldn’t identify.
It was now or never if I wanted to ask about Rae. I screwed up my courage. “Was Rae pregnant?”
“I can’t tell you.” Dr. Longstreet dropped his gaze and studied my dusty work boots.
“She’s dead. Why not?” I doubted this was a sound argument, but it was all I had.
Dr. Longstreet stopped and turned back to me.
“Well,” I said, “was she?”
Dr. Longstreet dropped his head, but nodded an affirmative.
“Did she act upset?” I remembered Rae sounded sober Sunday morning and saying she was going to quit smoking.
“Quite the opposite,” Dr. Longstreet touched his throat and grimaced as though he drank a shot of vinegar. “She knew she was pregnant. Those drugstore tests are as accurate as anything I can do here. She wanted confirmation so she could hit the father up for money. She had a lot of questions about proving paternity and what courts do in these situations.”
Pure Rae. Always looking for an angle to dupe people. I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Thank you for telling me.”
“You call me if the nosebleeds persist, hear me?” He said.
“Yes, sir. I will.”
My mind swarmed with speculation as I walked to my car. Chase Fischer was already liable for child support on his son, and he had trouble paying that. Jolene donated a portion of it more months than not to keep Chase out of legal trouble. No, Chase’s child support money wouldn’t have made much difference in Rae’s life.
Rae’s interest in paternity proceedings and her interest in the treasure both came back to money. My cousin spent her final days alive looking for a way to get her hands on some cash. Maybe she had wanted to leave town, start over somewhere else. But nobody would have killed her over that. Her owing someone money made more sense.
I thought about Rae’s partying. Had she gotten into debt with a local drug dealer? Possible. But all drug trade in Burns County traced back to Tubby Tubman. He didn’t kill women over drug debt. He forced them into prostitution. They didn’t last long after that.
That left one possibility. Rae had someone in mind to blame her pregnancy on. Someone she thought had money. Had he killed her for it?
***
Mulling over Rae’s pregnancy, I pointed my car toward Memaw’s house and drove fast. My 1971 Nova was the only thing I had left of my father Paul, who died—more accurately, was murdered—when I was seven years old. Paul was a big mystery to me. Not much more than a blur in my memory. Now older than he ever got to be, I was haunted by Paul’s memory, but not his ghost. I knew my daddy drove his Nova like a hotrod. But that was about it.
Halfway down Farm Road 4077 to Memaw’s house, the speedometer read ninety miles an hour. Lined with pine trees, the two-lane blacktop stretched out in front of me for what seemed like eternity. The tension drained out of my body as I drove. Times like this, I
fantasized about driving away from everything and everybody. I’d never do it because of Memaw. It would hurt her too much. But the fantasy gave me a much-needed break from reality.
A set of headlights appeared in my rearview and bore down on me in seconds. I eased off the accelerator so Mr. or Ms. I’m in a Big Hurry could pass. The approaching vehicle slowed down and tailgated me. My face stretched into a smile.
The white pickup truck belonged to Chase. Relief made me lightheaded. Chase was okay. He flashed his headlights and honked three times.
I swerved off the road and bolted out of my Nova as soon as I had it in park. Chase slid out of his truck and ambled toward me. He held out his arms as I ran at him. I slammed into him, wrapping my arms around his waist. We hugged hard and stepped back to look at each other. Chase touched the cheek where the camo man’s fist had made contact.
“That looks like a sunset.” Chase squinted at the bruise. I pushed his hand away.
“It’s not all that bad.” It was, though. My jaw still hurt when I chewed food. But I had more important things to discuss with Chase. “What the blue hell are you doing here? The cops are after you. They’ll arrest you if they catch you.”
“I know.” The evening wind blew Chase’s shaggy, sun bleached hair back from his face. The dusk made shadows on his face, creating the momentary illusion of extreme age. His hand shook as he lit a cigarette. “Tubby told me.”
Tommy Tubman would know. His main income came from selling drugs, but he bought and sold information, too. And prostituted women. And ran an illegal gambling operation.
“How much do you know?” I asked.
“I know you found Rae’s body.” He squeezed my arm, maybe to comfort me or maybe to tell me he was glad I wasn’t dead, too. “And I know some man wearing a camouflage mask beat you up. Did you catch him killing Rae?”
“No.” I shook my head, my body tensing as I remembered what happened. “I found Rae’s body. I barfed. Then, he was just there. I think he killed her and took off but realized he forgot something and came back. I was in the way.”
