by Catie Rhodes
Memaw understood I knew her secret. Maybe she’d even told Dr. Longstreet to break the news to me. She motioned at Dr. Longstreet to leave. He closed the door behind him.
“Because I knew you’d baby me. Because I knew you’d be sad. And because I don’t know what you’re going to do with yourself without me to push you.”
I pulled the visitor’s chair next to her bed and took her bony, liver spotted hand in mine. For the first time ever, I noticed her hand and mine were about the same size. Our fingernails were the same shape. Tears stung my eyes, and my throat tightened. The tide of sorrow rushed up in my chest. I held it back, just the way Memaw always taught me. I didn’t know what I was going to do, either.
***
Memaw fell asleep not long after she admitted her illness to me. I left the hospital. The parking lot gravel crunched under my heels, grinding together just like my emotions. Loneliness washed over me, devastating all other emotions, growing until I actually choked. It reminded me of getting lost in the Houston Museum of Natural Science at nine years old on Memaw’s and my annual vacation.
Wandering among the endless sea of taller people whose legs all looked the same after a while made me aware of something frightening: I was too small to get myself unlost. Finally, a museum employee took mercy on me and gently helped me find Memaw. I never forgot the helpless feeling; the feeling of being too young, too inexperienced, too little to help myself. Now, that feeling had come back with a vengeance.
At three o’clock in the morning, I pulled up in front of Memaw’s house. Lights blazed from every window. On the way inside, I muttered about the electric bill, careless Sheriff’s Deputies named Brittany Watson, and all sorts of other things. It gave me something to do other than feel scared of how Memaw’s last months on earth—and spending the rest of my life without her—would feel. Inside the living room, the smell of men’s cologne jolted me out of my funk.
My senses on high alert, I took out my pepper spray and made a circuit of the house, which every safety video in the world warns against doing. I didn’t care. Even after Veronica’s beating, I thought a fight would feel good. Let out some emotion. Sure I was alone, I did another circuit through the house, this time to check for anything missing. Everything seemed to be in its place.
I smelled the odor of men’s cologne only in the living room. It triggered a foggy memory, one I couldn’t quite latch onto. That bothered me enough to make another circuit through the house, this time locking all the doors and windows. Even the ones in Memaw’s room.
Declaring sleep impossible, I started a pot of coffee. Memaw’s cancer roosted at the forefront of my brain, and I sat down at the kitchen table in her chair. I ran my fingers over the worn cover of her Bible as sorrow thrummed in my chest. My eyes stung. When I reached up to rub them, my face was already wet with tears. Deep down, where it really counted, I didn’t believe I could survive losing her.
Self-pitying sobs built in my throat. I tried to hold them back as if denying the release of crying would make a bit of difference. In the end, I gave in to the sobs. I moaned. I wailed. I beat my fists on the table. None of it changed anything.
***
I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I knew, daylight flooded the kitchen, and the smell of burned coffee hung in the air. I got up to turn off the coffee pot and rinse the rancid brew out of the carafe.
As I filled the coffee pot with vinegar to remove the stains, I remembered the picture I found of Memaw the day Benny came by to pick up the trailer.
I always thought Memaw an orphan. I tried to remember why. Perhaps because I never met anybody from her side of the family. I had some distant Mace cousins scattered over the US, but I never met anybody directly related to Memaw.
That picture of Memaw hadn’t looked like an orphan. It looked like a well-off young lady. If it hadn’t been for Memaw’s cancer, I probably wouldn’t have given that picture a second thought. But, now that I knew, I realized how little I knew about Memaw. I didn’t want her to take all these stories—stories of my heritage—to the grave with her.
I called the hospital and had them connect me to Memaw’s room. Between complaining about the horrible breakfast and the sadistic nursing staff, Memaw managed to tell me she didn’t want me to pick her up. She didn’t know when she’d be released, and Pastor Gage had offered to give her a ride home.
I worked outside town that day for one of my regular customers, an elderly shut-in who had me cook a month’s worth of meals to freeze and do light housekeeping. The job took most of my day. Memaw and I had a short conversation via cellphone after she got home from the hospital. She warned me not to baby her. As if I’d have the temerity to try.
On the way home, I received an emergency call from Amanda King, owner of Amanda’s Hair Flair. She said she needed my help pronto and begged me to come right away. H & H Week and all the madness it brought had come to town.
Amanda’s Hair Flair operated out of a portable building a mile from downtown. Cars overflowed the little dirt parking lot and sat on the highway’s shoulder. When I opened the door, the chaotic scene inside almost made me chicken out. A customer sat under every dryer. The waiting area was standing room only.
Felicia Holze smirked when she saw me but motioned me inside. If anything, marrying Sheriff Joey Holze’s only son made her even more of a hater.
“I’ve got one stylist home sick, and both me and Felicia are booked up.” Amanda took some money, made it disappear into the cash register, and thanked her client before speaking to me again. “I need somebody to wash towels and clean up this place. If the Texas State Board of Cosmetology came in here to inspect us right now, my ass would be grass.”
“Just go on back and start the towels.” Felicia snipped some more hair and returned her attention to me. She said, “Please” like she ought not have to.
Sometimes I wondered if Felicia’s nastiness was a symptom of mental illness. She seemed unable to help herself. During high school, she and her minions very effectively passed a rumor I was a closet Satanist. After studying world religions in college, I knew Felicia and her buds didn’t have the first clue of the meaning of Satanism. But their rumors had the desired effect. My pariah status went up to Def-Con One. She married Chase and acted as though that somehow gave her status over me, despite their marriage ending a decade ago. I believed wholeheartedly I could still whup her ass and longed to test my theory.
I wandered around the salon speaking to people I knew and collecting damp towels. At Amanda’s chair, I ran into Benny Longstreet. Amanda’s scissors flew over his head as she trimmed his short, dark hair. He smiled at me.
“How are things with your new acquisition?” I asked Benny.
“Cleaned, and I already have a buyer.” He jammed his hand into his pocket. “I found an item you missed when you cleaned out Rae’s things.”
“Oh?” I shifted the wad of damp towels to my hip.
Amanda stepped away as Benny stood so he could dig in his pocket. He dropped a silver ring into my palm. It was a band perforated in the shape of a spider web with a spider in the middle. A single red ruby adorned the spider’s abdomen. The back of the ring was solid.
Understanding hit me hard, and I nearly dropped the ring. This had to be the one Wade Hill told me about, the one that made those awful marks on Rae’s face. But this one wouldn’t fit a man. Its smaller size would have fit a woman. Was this what Veronica Spinelli wanted out of Rae’s things? And what about the one Low_Ryder wore in the sketch? Every time I got a new piece of the puzzle, it made the ones I already had make even less sense.
Benny or the people he hired must have torn that travel trailer apart to find it. I thought I had done a thorough job on the trailer.
Amanda leaned in close to see the ring. “Oh, I remember this. A jewelry salesman came in one day while we were bleaching Rae’s hair. Rae bought two, a little one for her and a bigger one in a man’s size.”
At least I knew Rae had bought both rings. I slip
ped the ring into my pocket and thanked Benny. My cellphone interrupted his response. The caller ID indicated it was Dara. After she stood me up and ignored my phone calls, my bullshit meter hovered in the red.
“It’s Peri.” I didn’t make an effort to sound nice.
“Girl,” she said, her hick accent in full play, “I am so sorry. I heard you came to The Chameleon, but Lloyd had done told me to get out or he’d call the cops.”
“I tried to call you, and you didn’t answer. I had to drive all the way back to Gaslight City.” I turned away from Benny and Amanda and walked into the back room to dump the towels. I grabbed the broom and came back out, still holding the phone to my ear.
“I know,” Dara said, “but my roommate kicked me out. I had to find somewhere else to live, like, right then.”
I knew Dara’s type. The drama never ended. No wonder she and Rae had been so close.
“I still wanna meet you. I got a picture of Rae with this boyfriend of hers.”
“You have a picture of Rae and BJ together?” I said the words louder than I’d intended, and both Amanda and Benny looked my way.
“I sure do, and I found this envelope she must have left at my old apartment. It’s addressed to you. Let me give you my new address.” Dara rattled off numbers and a street. I leaned the broom against a well and begged a sheet of paper and a pen from Amanda. I scribbled the directions to Dara’s digs there at Amanda’s workstation. Dara named the time, and I wrote that on the top of the page and circled it.
“Now, listen,” I said, “if you stand me up, don’t bother calling back.”
“No, no, no. Tomorrow morning at ten sharp. I’ll be there.”
I hung up and raced through my duties at Amanda’s. Anticipation at having another piece of the puzzle kept my mind only half on my tasks. Felicia loved that.
NINETEEN
ON the way out of Amanda’s parking lot, I called Dean. He answered his cellphone but sounded distracted. I told him about the ring, and he asked me to meet him at the corner of Houston and Crockett Streets.
I drove over there in the deepening twilight, not knowing what to expect. Dean’s and my relationship—if you could call it that—had two speeds, full-blown hate and the barest of tolerance.
Once I reached Gaslight City’s small downtown area, people celebrating H & H Week filled every available parking space. I drove around the block three times before I caught someone pulling out and whipped into their spot. Horns blasted and a few entitlement minded tourists shouted at me.
A small crowd gathered at the corner of Houston and Crockett Streets. The solid wall of bodies obscured my view. I elbowed my way into the crowd and found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with Dean Turgeau. On the ground lay Mrs. Watson, bellowing like a hyena being castrated. Dean looked sick. A few tourists videoed the spectacle on their fancy cellphones.
“She won’t get up,” whispered Dean. “I called for the ambulance, but they’re on another call and can’t come right now.”
“Mrs. Watson?” I spoke in a loud, clear voice. Mrs. Watson’s couldn’t hear so well anymore. “I just saw Mr. Benoit go into Lulu’s Espresso Meltdown. He asked me about you.”
Mrs. Watson sat up. “Is he still in there?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to go see for yourself.”
Mrs. Watson stood, brushed the dust off her clothes, adjusted her wig, and headed in the direction of Lulu’s. I could tell the locals from the non-locals by which ones had their mouths hanging open and which ones didn’t.
Dean rallied. “Show’s over, folks. Go spend some money.”
The crowd left, albeit reluctantly. Several headed in the direction of Lulu’s Espresso Meltdown.
“What’s wrong with her?” Dean asked.
“She’s lonely and feels like nobody needs her. She does stuff like this all the time.”
“You said you had something for me? A piece of evidence?”
I pulled the spider ring out of my pocket. I had wrapped it in a piece of plastic wrap I found at Amanda’s. Dean grinned when he saw my attempt at preserving evidence.
“I think this is a match to the ring the guy in the sketch is wearing. It might match the wounds on Rae’s face.”
Dean nodded and motioned me to follow him to his cruiser. There, he placed the plastic wrapped ring into an evidence bag. While he put the bag away I told him where and how I’d come by the ring. Things went great until I mentioned Dara’s phone call and our appointment to talk.
“I’m the one who should talk to her.” Dean stuck out his jaw.
“But she’s willing to talk to me. I bet she’ll tell me more than she’d ever tell you.”
Dean closed his eyes and exhaled through his teeth. “Tell you what. For the sake of us not having another pointless argument, let’s pretend you didn’t tell me about Dara. But, after you meet her, tell me what she says.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
“This town is crazy. It’s like another universe.”
I laughed.
“I feel like I’m learning how to do this job all over again.” Dean started to get inside his cruiser but stopped and turned back to me. “Want to eat an early supper with me? I’ve got to make it fast. We are all on overtime because of H & H Week.”
I accepted. Dean insisted on buying Frito pies from Dottie’s. We agreed to meet at Longstreet Park in fifteen minutes.
***
Longstreet Park, a few blocks from the Mace House on Alamo Street, had some new playground equipment and a few picnic tables. A statue of the Longstreet who started the family’s lumber empire stood in the middle of the park, covered in bird droppings. I walked around the park and fidgeted as I waited for Dean, feeling more anticipation than the night I lost my virginity.
Dean’s cruiser rolled into the parking lot and eased in next to my car. He got out holding a brown Dottie’s bag. He led the way to a concrete picnic table. I helped him unpack containers of chili and two bags of Fritos. I poured my chips in my chili and stirred. Dean handed me a bottle of water.
“This investigation is getting crazy.” Dean wolfed down fast bites of his Frito pie. “Every time I think I’ve got it figured out, something new shows up. Things might be looking up for Chase, but they’re looking down for me.”
“You sound like you wish you could just prove Chase did it and be done with it.” My Frito pie sat untouched. Dean’s comfort with tearing Chase’s life asunder bothered me. I knew he had a job to do, but couldn’t he show some empathy?
“It would certainly make my life easier.” Dean watched me through narrowed eyes, his good mood fading away.
“So it doesn’t matter who really killed Rae or how many lives your investigation ruins.” I put “investigation” in air quotes just to be catty. “All that matters is that your life is easy.”
Dean watched me in silence, that closed up wariness clouding eyes. He clasped his hands in front of him. The darkening sky deepened the lines on his face, and it reminded me of the last time I saw Chase. Sadness throbbed within me. I missed him so much. How could I be loyal to Chase while sitting here with Dean? His investigation threw my best friend’s life into a tailspin, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. I needed to blame someone, so I blamed Dean.
“I gotta go,” I mumbled and started for my car.
Leaves crunched behind me. I pretended I didn’t hear. Dean grabbed my arm and spun me around.
“Don’t you touch me.” I doubled up my fist. If I blew things up, left in a rage, I could condemn Dean. It didn’t matter that I knew Chase destroyed his own life. When his dreams failed, he refused to get up and try again the way grownups do. He just gave up.
“You can go to jail for assaulting a law officer.” Dean, to his credit, did take his hand off me. I searched his eyes for anger so I could feed off it. Instead of anger, I saw confusion and hurt.
“Last time we did that, you ended up looking like a jackass.” My words, including the nasty tone of voice, repl
ayed in my mind. Stupid, stupid. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. When I opened them, Dean still stood in front of me, biting his lip. I prepared to eat humble pie.
“Dean, I’m sorry.” I exhaled as I said the words, trying to organize all the things I’d done wrong in my mind. “Chase and I go back a long way. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to believe he killed Rae.”
“I can’t talk to you about the case’s details,” Dean said. “But I can say it is more complicated than I ever imagined. And I didn’t expect to meet somebody like you. That part keeps throwing me for a loop.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Part of me wanted to hate Dean. The other part of me burned with attraction to him, curiosity about him. His kindness, even though buried under a mountain of surliness, showed through. Most of all, I wanted to know if his lips tasted as good as they looked, if his skin burned against mine, and if I could make his heart beat faster.
“Will you come back and sit with me?” Dean tried to smile, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “Your chili’s gonna get cold.”
I cut off my dirty fantasies and trudged back to the picnic table, determined to act like a grownup. I managed to choke down the rest of my cold chili.
“What I said before—the thing about you and Chase murdering Rae, the stuff about the crystal ball—was uncalled for.” He took a bite of his cold chili and grimaced. “I want to explain.”
“There’s no need.” I hated stuff like this. It complicated things, opened wounds, scared me. I sipped my water and desperately hoped I didn’t spew used Frito pie all over the table. Dean held out his hands, palms up. I nodded that I’d listen.
“Before I came here, I worked for East Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff’s Homicide Division. I told you a little about how I came here. About making a mistake and getting somebody killed.”
“You don’t have to do this.” If he told me, things between us could never go back to simple. Some women want this kind of openness. Not me. The idea of laying all my guts on the table instilled a breathless horror in me.
