Daphne grabbed an oversized plastic baggie and a small green net from beside the tank. One at a time, she scooped the fish from the water. “Bye, guys. See ya’—wouldn’t wanna be ya’.” She ladled water into the bag.
“Oh, they’re going to have fun with Mr. B. Why don’t you stop by the party after you pick Stevie Ray up from school? Mr. B loves kids.”
“This is Stevie we’re talking about, not a normal ten-year-old kid,” Daphne reminded her.
“Trust me. Mr. B will enjoy the company. Besides, Stevie can explain to him how to operate his new DVD player. Ten-year-olds are whizzes at that kind of thing.”
Daphne rang up the fish and a shaker of food then gave Charis the total. “Don’t forget to add the aquarium on, I haven’t paid for it yet,” Charis reminded her.
“I know what I’m doing,” Daphne snapped, handing her the fish.
Charis shook her head and sighed. “I’ll be sure and tell Mr. B the aquarium is a gift from you.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Besides, I’m bringing him a different gift.” She bent down then slapped a pinup calendar onto the countertop.
“Daph!”
“Oh, stop. He’ll love it,” Daphne said, opening it up to the month of September. A pretty brunette with a pageboy haircut smiled from the wing of an airplane. Charis’s eyes widened when she noticed the year. Nineteen forty-five.
“Found it on e-bay. Mr. B would’ve been around Stevie’s age when it came out.”
“It’s perfect.” Charis nodded. “And you’re right. He’ll love it.”
Daphne slid the calendar back under the counter. “See you around three thirty,” she said.
“Great. Bye Maxine.”
Daphne’s mother raised her hand in a limp wave then resumed leaning on her broom.
Charis walked out the door then held the fish up in the sunlight, admiring their bright colors. She set them gently in the seat beside her then made the drive to Mr. B’s house.
“Good morning, Charis.” Wendell greeted her at the door, moving aside only slightly as she brushed past him into the kitchen, hiding the fish behind her back.
“Where is he?” she whispered, flicking her gaze around the room.
“In the living room. He found the DVDs.”
“Oh, no. I hid them best I could in the corner beside the sofa. I even put an afghan over them.”
“It’s okay. I picked one out for him to watch, and he’s really enjoying it. Thanks for hooking up the player, by the way.”
“You can thank Daphne for that. She and Stevie will be here later.”
A flash of what looked like irritation lit his eyes then disappeared. “The more the merrier,” he said, a weak smile on his lips. “Listen, Charis. I want to apologize for carrying on like a little girl on the phone the other night. Finding out about Vic—I was just so shocked. All I could think of was the argument we’d had, how angry I’d been. How bloodthirsty I must’ve looked…”
A smile tickled Charis’s lips at the thought of soft handed, thick-lensed Wendell looking “bloodthirsty.” “It’s perfectly all right. Believe me, I understand.” She patted his arm. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sneak off for a while.” Charis held up the baggie of fish for Wendell to see. “Try to keep your dad out of the bedrooms, please.”
“No problem.”
Charis tiptoed down the hallway, into Mr. B’s room. Careful not to scratch the hardwood floor, she scooted the steel footlocker to the east wall, next to the window, and covered it with a thin blanket. Satisfied Mr. B would have a good view of his new friends from the bed, she moved the aquarium from the spare room and settled it on top of the trunk. She stepped quietly through the house, into the yard, and snaked the garden hose through the window.
****
“All done?” Wendell asked, drying his hands as she stepped back into the kitchen.
“Yes, finally,” she said, opening the cabinet below the sink, throwing away the plastic baggie. Eying the trashcan, she pulled the full bag of garbage out and tied off the top.
“I’ll get that,” Wendell offered.
“Nah, I’ve got it. You just washed your hands.” Charis hauled the sack through the kitchen and out the door. She dropped it onto the empty DVD player box inside the trash bin and crushed it down.
“Go take a peek at the aquarium,” she said, stepping back inside, closing the screen door behind her. She washed her hands at the sink as Wendell lined the trashcan with a fresh bag. “I’m going to visit with your dad for a minute before I bake the cake.” She walked to the living room.
“Happy Birthday, Mr. B,” she chirped, sliding next to him on the couch. “How’s your day going so far?”
He looked at her, his faded eyes shimmering. “I miss her.”
Charis slipped an arm around his hunched shoulders. “I know.” She kissed his cheek then turned her gaze to the television. Marjorie placed a layered cake with chocolate frosting in front of a teenage Wendell and Mr. Barnaby lit the candles.
“Wendell’s sixteenth birthday,” Mr. B said. “He used to be a good boy.”
“He still loves you,” Charis said.
Mr. B cut his gaze to her, letting her know he disagreed. Reminding her again, silently, of how his own son sold his store out from under him to the town drunk.
“He shouldn’t have done it, even though that scumbag deserved it. They’re going to catch him, you know,” Mr. B said, his voice rising as he spoke.
Charis creased her brow. He wasn’t talking about the store. “What do you mean, Mr. B?”
“Wendell killed Vic Locke on the lawn. Those squealing tires woke me up—I heard the whole thing. Vic was threatening to sue.”
Charis thought back to the altercation Wendell had with Vic last Wednesday. Mr. B had been napping when Vic squealed to a stop out front. Had their angry voices been loud enough for Mr. B to hear…all the way from the living room sofa? She looked into his lucid eyes. Maybe so. He must have dreamed the rest.
“I was here that day too, remember? Wendell had gone outside to get the DVD player from his car. He didn’t kill Vic, Mr. B. He just told him to leave the property then threatened to call the police. I saw the whole thing through the screen door.”
Mr. B lowered his eyes and smoothed a trembling hand over his head. “Was it dark?” he asked.
“No. It was daylight. Around nine-thirty in the morning.”
He raised his eyes to hers. “I wish Marjorie was here. She’d remember.”
“I wish she was here too. But I remember what happened.” Charis took his hand, stroking the crepe skin. “Mr. B, Wendell didn’t kill Vic. You mustn’t say that.”
“Mustn’t say what?” Wendell stood in the doorway to the living room, frowning.
Charis froze.
“None of your dang business. If Charis tells me not to say you look like hell on TV, that’s none of your concern.”
Wendell shot his gaze to the television where a close up of his acne pocked face was munching birthday cake. He strode to the TV and pressed the power button. “Time for your nap,” he said, his voice stern.
“Let me get his meds first.” Charis walked to the kitchen, counted out the necessary pills and filled a glass with water. “Here you go,” she said, returning, stooping beside Mr. B.
He took the medication from her hand. “Thank you,” he said, lying back onto his pillow.
She covered him with an afghan. “Sweet dreams,” she whispered close to his ear.
Wendell sank into the recliner across from the sofa as Charis stepped to the kitchen to prepare Mr. Barnaby’s birthday cake.
****
“Knock-knock,” a young voice called through the screen door.
“Come in,” Charis answered, drying her hands.
Stevie Ray rushed in, the door banging shut behind him.
“Thanks a lot, kid,” Daphne barked, reopening the door, wrapped gift in one hand.
“Bet I know what that is,” Charis teased. Daphne bum
ped her with an ample hip.
“Cake looks fabulous,” Daphne noted, setting Mr. B’s gift on the table then turning the cake platter, smiling. Stevie sneaked up beside her, poked a finger into the glaze, and then ran.
“You little sh—” Daphne stopped, glancing at Wendell’s disapproving scowl. “Hey, Wendell. How’s it going?”
Wendell brushed coolly past her, stirring an almost palpable chill into the humid air. “I’m going to pick up the bucket of chicken Father requested,” he said to Charis as he stepped through the kitchen door to the porch.
Daphne snorted. “What crawled up his—”
Charis narrowed her eyes, warning.
By the time Wendell pulled up with the chicken, Mr. B had awakened from his nap. Charis helped him change his shirt and comb his hair then walked him into the kitchen.
“What smells like pineapples?” he asked, eying Daphne then lowering into his favorite chair across from her.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Charis answered. “You remember Daphne, don’t you?”
He turned his gaze to Daphne, looking her over, eyes void of recognition.
“You’d better remember who I am, mister. After that week in Aruba we spent together.”
Mr. B broke into a broad smile then chuckled, a gleam in his eye. “How could I forget?” He moved his sparse eyebrows up and down.
Daphne shrieked with laughter.
“Mom! Bring me the saltshaker. I found a slug.” Stevie slammed through the screen door then tracked his dirty sneakers across the kitchen tile.
Daphne rolled her eyes at Mr. B. “Stevie Ray, come here and meet Mr. Barnaby. This is his house and all creatures surrounding it belong to him. No slugs will be salted without his expressed written permission.”
“Nice to meet you, Stevie.” Mr. B extended his trembling hand. Stevie wiped his palm on his jeans then shook hands.
Wendell pushed through the door holding a bucket of fried chicken in the crook of each arm.
“Wash your hands,” Daphne scolded Stevie as he reached into the bucket the second Wendell set it down.
Everyone scooted around the table and ate with the exception of Stevie, who Daphne sent to the living room with his plate to watch cartoons. Following the meal, Daphne collected the plates and Charis brought the cake to the table. Pineapple-upside-down. Mr. B’s favorite. His eyes brightened as she arranged the numeral-shaped candles on top.
Daphne pulled a lighter from her pocket and lit the candles. Stevie entered the room and stood beside Mr. B and then led everyone in the off-key singing of the happy birthday song.
“Here.” Stevie pushed the gift his mother brought into Mr. B’s hands.
Mr. B opened it, whistling loudly at the cover model in the modest one-piece bathing suit. “Hubba-hubba,” he exclaimed. “Thank you, young man. This really takes me back.”
“You’re welcome,” Stevie said, taking full credit for the gift.
“My Marjorie could pose for a calendar like this. You oughta see her.” He craned his neck, gazing around Stevie. “Marjorie. Come in here. I want you to meet my friends.”
“Who’s Marj—” Daphne’s hand clamped tightly around Stevie’s mouth.
“Father, Charis has something for you, too,” Wendell said, helping Mr. B from his chair. “It’s in your bedroom, I’ll get your cane.”
“I told you I don’t need that blasted cane.” Mr. Barnaby shook his arm free of Wendell’s grip.
Charis followed the men down the hallway. Inside the dim room, the aquarium bubbled, the small light illuminating the perky fish. Mr. B let go of Wendell’s arm and stepped closer, then stooped, his nose close to the glass. Curiosity played across his features and he chuckled, tapping a finger gently against the tank. “Look at that little fella go.”
“That’s Curly,” Charis said, stepping beside him. “He’s a fantail. The one over there is Moe and that one is Larry. Both of them are common goldfish.”
“What about the redder one?”
“She’s Lucille. A pretty little veil-tail.”
Mr. B backed up to the bed and sat, watching the fish swim, a smile on his face. “Thank you, sweetheart. It’s just what I’ve always wanted. I just didn’t know it yet.” He gave Charis a wink then returned his gaze to the aquarium.
****
“I’ll let you dump the next one.” Jagger waggled his eyebrows as he climbed into the passenger side of the dinosaur.
Deason chugged to the curb in front of Mr. Barnaby’s house, shoved the truck in neutral and set the park brake. Wendell’s was the only car in the drive.
Deason jumped to the street and rounded the truck. This was it. His last week on the job. He would never see Charis Locke again. He bumped the overfilled trash bin into the street then hoisted it to the back of the truck, dumping the contents. “Ouch,” he muttered, a crack in the plastic bin scraping his knuckle. He’d forgotten to put on his work gloves.
He pulled the cart back onto the curb and picked up a DVD player box from the lawn. It rattled when he shook it—probably the remote. People were always forgetting remotes and adapters in discarded boxes.
Already in stride to Mr. Barnaby’s front door, he fished around in the box. His gait slowed. He stopped walking and looked down. In his hand he held not a remote control, but a worn leather wallet. His fingers trembled, a sense of dread overtaking him as he opened the billfold. His lungs sucked in too much air then tied themselves off like balloons. Victor B. Locke leered at him from the driver’s license picture inside.
His gaze darted to the vacant kitchen window of Mr. Barnaby’s house then he turned, stumbling over his feet as he scrambled back to the truck.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Jagger asked, smoke rolling from his lips and out of the truck window.
“Trade me spots, I don’t think I can drive.” The words hitched from Deason, each syllable a punch in the gut.
Jagger jumped from the cab, jogging to the driver side while Deason pulled himself into the passenger seat with limbs of rubber.
“You have to drive me to Charis’s house.”
“All right, man. I’ll get you there. That addition east of town, right?” Jagger revved the old truck’s engine then popped the clutch, lurching down the road, skipping the other trash carts lining the curb. An old woman shook her finger at them.
Deason stared at the dead man’s wallet, struggling to maintain his sanity.
“What you got there, bro?”
He looked up, his gaze swimming over Jagger.
“You look like you’re gonna puke.”
“It’s Vic’s wallet.” Deason’s head spun as he spoke the words aloud. He snatched an empty Wal-Mart sack from the floorboard, retching into it.
“Bullshit!” Jagger yelled. “It just can’t be.” His voice softened. “Should we take it to the police station?”
“No. Not yet. Not until I find out what’s going on.” Deason knotted the plastic bag. He took a swig of warm Mountain Dew from a bottle on the seat, swished, and spit from the truck’s window. “Pull over for a second.”
“Here?” Jagger asked, rolling into the empty parking lot of an abandoned building. He stopped the truck and looked at Deason.
“Jagger,” Deason said, his eyes serious. “I’m asking you as a friend, not to breathe a word of this to anyone. I don’t think Charis is involved, but if she is—”
Jagger placed a hand on Deason’s shoulder. “Look. The cops might’ve scared the piss outa me once, but you have my word it won’t happen again. The last time I spilled my guts, I could barely look you in the eye. To me, that was worse than a jail cell. Your discovery’s safe with me, man.”
Deason let out a breath. “Means a lot to me. Thank you.”
Jagger slammed the truck into gear and pulled from the parking lot.
****
Charis clicked off the blow dryer and listened, thinking she’d heard knocking. With a shrug, she slid her finger to the power button then paused, hearing the s
ound again. She set the dryer on the counter and stepped through the house, tightening the belt on her robe. She couldn’t imagine who would knock on her door at seven-fifteen in the morning. She hoped nothing had happened to Mr. B. The possibility accelerated her pulse and footsteps.
She peeked through the small window in the front door, gazing at the back of a man’s head. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the lay of the dark hair. Deason turned to face her, the golden flecks in his eyes bright as the morning sun. She smiled through the glass but his expression remained sober. She ran her fingers through her damp hair then opened the door.
“Good morning,” she said, hand at her neckline, holding the robe in place.
“I need to talk to you. It’s important. Can I come in?”
Charis realized she should be leery of letting a man she barely knew into her home. Regardless of how broad his shoulders were, how heart-meltingly his eyes smoldered, or how strongly the crease across his brow tugged at her heartstrings. Even if he was the hero-type, she must use common sense.
“Please,” he said, the urgency in his voice appealing to every sense she had, except the common one.
Lita was sleeping in the guest room, she reasoned. If he tried anything stupid, she would scream and wake her up. “Sure, come in,” she said, stepping aside. Who was she kidding? Lita could sleep through an air raid.
He waved to the garbage truck idling beside the curb. Then, to her surprise, kicked off his boots, shucked his coveralls and walked through the door wearing a pair of faded jeans and a clean white t-shirt. In his right hand, he gripped something so tightly the knuckles turned white.
The truck chugged away as Charis shut the front door. “I’m surprised to see you,” she said. “I thought you’d be in Montana by now.”
“Yeah. I thought so, too. I’ve encountered several…pitfalls. And I’ve just stumbled into the biggest one yet. As far as I can tell, this one’s bottomless.”
“Aw, surely it’s not that bad—” Charis caught sight of the object clutched in Deason’s fist. Vic’s wallet. She’d had it custom made for him their first Christmas together.
Dread and horror collided, rendering her thoughts surreal, like a fever-induced dream. Light exploded behind her eyes followed by darkness. Her knees buckled.
Another Man's Treasure Page 7
