Promises of Home

by Jeff Abbott

  “This is not Cowboys and Indians, Jordan. This is real life. You could be a target and I won’t just stand here and—”

  “If you ask me,” Miss Ludey interjected, “it was that nutty niece of mine.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “Wanda. The crazy one.” Miss Ludey leaned forward, talking in a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s not quite right in the head. Haven’t you seen her gallivanting around town, dressed like Elvis Presley? It’s downright embarrassing.”

  I didn’t think Miss Ludey should be casting fashion stones, but I declined comment. My mind was on the odd interconnections that sew this town together. Miss Ludey was kin to Wanda and Ivalou? I hadn’t known that.

  “Wanda’s your niece?” Candace asked, her chastisement of me momentarily suspended.

  “Great-niece. I mean that in a genealogical sense. She’s never been that wonderful of a relative.” Miss Ludey picked a fragment of pie crust out from between her teeth.

  “Miss Ludey, did you know Rennie Clifton?” I asked. Candace shot me a look (I was, after all, daring to investigate right in front of her), but she remained quiet.

  “Well, sure I did. I knew her mama, and I met Rennie when she was in school. I used to substitute-teach sometimes.” This was another unknown episode in Miss Ludey’s history, and I tried not to think of her shaping young minds, even on a transient basis. “She was a very pretty girl. She could have had her pick of any of the colored boys. But she was sweet on Glenn Wilson.”

  “And Wanda was dating him?” I prompted.

  “Oh, yes. Wanda wasn’t dressing like Elvis then, but she was still a peculiar girl. She told me that she and Glenn were bound to get married after they graduated from school and they’d go off and work at Disneyland. She wanted to be Snow White and greet people in the park.”

  It was certainly a fascinating career path that Wanda had planned for herself, but it wasn’t what I was interested in. “And Wanda was aware of the attraction between Glenn and Rennie?”

  “Oh, yes. I heard her and her mother talking about it once. Wanda said she wasn’t going to put up with a nigger taking her man away.” Miss Ludey sniffed. “I have always found Wanda to be rather offensive in her choice of language. I should have read to her more when she was little.”

  “And how did Ivalou feel about all this? After all, she was Rennie’s boss. She could have fired her.”

  “Oh, Wanda insisted on her mother firing Rennie. But Ivalou pointed out that if she kept Rennie busy at the flower shop, then Rennie wouldn’t have time to be out sparking with Glenn. And Ivalou told Wanda she needed to learn how to keep Glenn from straying.”

  “Just how’d you know all this, Miss Ludey?” Candace asked, a trace of skepticism coloring her tone.

  “I overheard them at Ivalou’s flower shop, not long before Rennie was killed. Wanda and Ivalou were arguing about it in Ivalou’s office on a day Rennie wasn’t working. I’d come in to order flowers. My mama’s birthday was coming up and I always put flowers on my mama’s grave for her birthday and for Christmas.”

  “Your memory seems rather keen on the details,” Candace said, not unkindly.

  “My dear,” Miss Ludey answered with a dose of asperity, “how many times do you hear two relatives discussing a black girl who is about to steal one’s man? It wasn’t a conversation I was likely to forget.” Candace was quiet, glancing at me.

  “You said this was right before your mother’s birthday, Miss Ludey. How long before Hurricane Althea was that?”

  “Barely a week.” Miss Ludey answered without hesitation. “I found it a trifle disconcerting that Wanda and Ivalou had that discussion about Rennie and then the poor child ended up dead.”

  “You didn’t think one of them—” Candace began.

  “When Ivalou said she wasn’t going to fire Rennie, Wanda stormed out of that office and shoved right past me without even saying hello. She had the fire of hell in her eyes. And when I walked into Ivalou’s office, she looked downright icy. I asked her what Wanda had her panties in a wad about, and Ivalou just said it was business she— meaning Ivalou—would have to take care of for Wanda. Ivalou didn’t know I’d heard as much as I had.”

  “But Rennie Clifton died in a hurricane, Miss Ludey,” Candace said. I shook my head at her. Some people are still clinging to outmoded notions in Mirabeau.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Miss Ludey said. “Our whole family had decided to wait out the hurricane together at my brother Ralph’s house, and Ivalou and Wanda both didn’t show up until after the storm was over. Ivalou got there about an hour after the storm had passed, and Wanda showed up about three hours later. Ralph was frantic about them both. But all I know is, Rennie Clifton was dead, and Glenn Wilson broke up with Wanda less than a week later. I sometimes wonder if that poor boy didn’t suspect.”

  I bit my lip thoughtfully. Candace was not so trusting in Miss Ludey’s veracity.

  “And why didn’t you say anything twenty years ago?” she demanded.

  “Well, dear, one doesn’t like to think that one’s relatives could be murderers,” Miss Ludey said. I could well understand her attitude, having been caught in that same moral dilemma in recent days. “And everyone said that Rennie’s death was an accident. I didn’t have any proof. I still don’t.”

  “Yet you’ve decided to speak up now?” Candace pressed. Note I didn’t intervene in her investigating.

  “Well … I don’t want to sound selfish. Ivalou and Wanda are my closest living relatives, and they want to put me in a nursing home. Honestly! Me, and I’m as sharp as the day I was born. They just think I’m nuts ’cause I don’t care if my clothes match and I like to papier-mâché my walls.” Miss Ludey snorted derisively at this lack of perception among her kinfolk. “I figure if those two got skeletons in the closet, now’s the time to air ’em out. I don’t think they could put me in a nursing home from prison, do you?”

  I stuck my face in my hands. How much of this Ludeyesque tale to believe? She’d just frankly admitted to a strong motive to belittle Wanda and Ivalou and claimed detailed memories of conversations that were two decades old.

  “So why don’t you tell this to the police?” Candace demanded.

  Miss Ludey gave my beloved a disapproving look. “The police aren’t investigating Rennie Clifton’s death. Jordan is. Do try to keep up, dear.”

  “Is there anything else you remember, Miss Ludey?” I asked, not looking toward Candace for fear I’d crack a smile.

  She thought. “No, except that Wanda suggested that if Ivalou didn’t fire Rennie, maybe Ivalou could get Hart Quadlander to fire Rennie’s mother to teach ’em a lesson.”

  “What sway did Ivalou think she had over Hart?”

  “My dear. Ivalou has been chasing unsuccessfully after Hart Quadlander for years. Hart is kind to her but doesn’t encourage Ivalou in her pursuit of him.”

  I shuddered. “Yuck. Neither would I.”

  “You haven’t painted a very kind picture of Wanda, Miss Ludey.” Candace crossed her arms. “You must not care for her at all.”

  Miss Ludey stiffened. “I didn’t choose to be related to Wanda. And I don’t mean to shock. But it’s not a lie to say I consider her and her mother most unlikable.”

  The phone rang. I dove for it. A thunder of feet on the stairs told me Mark was coming down. He peered expectantly at me from the staircase.

  I listened to my sister’s voice, holding my breath. I told her I’d be right over.

  “It’s Junebug,” I told the others. “He’s awake.”

  HE LAY IN A TANGLE OF WIRES AND TUBES. Machines bleeped at his bedside, monitoring vital functions. A massive bandage covered one side of his shaved head. I leaned close to his bristly face, peering down into his angry eyes.

  “Shot me,” Junebug whispered at me. “Son of a bitch shot me.”

  “Yes, I know.” I leaned closer. “Who?”

  “Jordan, don’t tire him,” Barbara Moncrief ordered. “He doesn’t know who
it was, and that’s what’s making him mad.”

  I’d gotten to the hospital to learn Junebug had been conscious for nearly an hour, had started speaking coherently in short order, and after being repeatedly fussed over by doctors, had seen his officers, his mother, and my sister and had asked for me. (Sister was of the opinion that he wished to make sure I was not in trouble.)

  I was surprised that the physicians, who tended to hover and speak in acronyms, allowed me to see him. But in a small town, being police chief counts for a great deal. Lord knows it wasn’t me wielding the frightening scepter of being town librarian that got me in among the IVs and glowing screens to see my friend.

  “You,” I said, “have scared the living hell out of me. You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?”

  He grunted at me. “Have to be—keep you out of trouble.”

  “Don’t tire him, Jordy,” Barbara repeated. “He’s so weak.”

  “Bullshit, Mama,” Junebug murmured, but he closed his eyes.

  I felt a vast flood of relief. He would be okay now, surely. Barbara certainly seemed to be optimistic. I wanted to find a doctor and get a definitive report. Or find Sister, I thought. No doubt she had wrested an opinion from every medical practitioner in Bonaparte County.

  “Arlene—” Junebug whispered.

  “She’s just outside, dear,” Barbara assured him. “Dr. Meyer doesn’t want you having too many visitors at once. But I want you to tell her to go home and get some rest. She’s been by your side nonstop.” She smiled at me. “Arlene’s a good woman.”

  “Told you so,” Junebug said, a faint smile on his face. “Mama, go get some coffee. I want to talk to Jordy alone for a minute.”

  Barbara dithered at this request, but finally acceded. I leaned down close to him.

  “You want me to bring you in some books on tape when you’re feeling better? Or shall I have Miss Ludey come in and read to you?”

  He managed another smile. “Oh, that hurts. No. Want to talk to you.” The smile faded. “Trey and Clevey—the funeral—I’m sorry I missed it. Should have been there—”

  “Gee, coma’s about the worst excuse I ever heard.” I tried joking. “Please, don’t worry about that, of all things!”

  “Arlene. Needed—to be there for Arlene. I know now— she couldn’t have hurt Trey. She would never have hurt me. Tell her—”

  I put my mouth near his ear and quietly told him what had happened between Sister and Trey. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I should have left it to her; but I wanted him to know he was right. And telling him about the scrap of fabric from her pants made me feel immensely better.

  “You still got that fabric?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Throw it away. It’s just litter.” He closed his eyes again. “Listen, before my mother comes back—”

  “Yes?”

  “Shot me—know who shot me. Don’t want to talk about it—in front of Mama. Told Franklin.”

  I held my breath. “Who?”

  He grimaced with the effort of speech; his voice sounded like a boy’s whisper. “Ed. I think it was Ed.”

  I left the hospital in a state of shock. I’d walked out of Junebug’s room to find Barbara Moncrief and Sister lingering near the door, consumed with joy over his awakening and his chances for full recovery. I tried to extract a promise from Sister that she wouldn’t stay all night, that she’d come home and get some rest.

  “He needs me,” Sister answered. “That’s all that matters. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be here every minute if Candace was here,”

  Since Candace seemed prepared to put me in the hospital if I continued my sleuthing, I hoped she’d camp out in the waiting room while I recovered. I kept my thoughts to myself, wished Barbara well, kissed Sister on her forehead, and headed home.

  I didn’t go straight there, though. I swung by the Dickensheets house. It was now nearly ten at night, but the porch light was still on and a police cruiser sat in the driveway. Franklin Bedloe was following up on Junebug’s theory. I slowed but didn’t stop, and took the next turn to head home.

  Ed shooting Junebug seemed highly improbable. But Junebug had heard a voice call to him as he opened his door, he’d paused, and the gunfire cut him down. The voice had sounded like Ed’s nasal whine, and he’d seen a short, shadowy form in the bushes. (I thought immediately that a killer was likely to squat in the bushes, looking shorter, but I kept my mouth shut.) He said he remembered nothing else until he came around in the hospital, his mama squeezing his hand till he thought the bones would grind together.

  It seemed little to go on to me, but Junebug was a trained, experienced policeman. I couldn’t question his hypothesis much, especially in light of what Miss Ludey had told us. Frighteningly, a scenario unfolded before my eyes: Ivalou or Wanda having a direct hand in Rennie Clifton’s death, Clevey uncovering evidence to back the claim, and Ed taking action to silence Clevey. And then Trey must have somehow learned about it. But then why the attack on Junebug? He claimed he’d discovered no new information of value in his investigation.

  Perhaps no information he realized was of value. But if the killer believed that Junebug was closing in on him— three down. I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror as I parked in my driveway. What if Candace was right? I could be setting myself up as the next target if I kept poking into shadowy holes. I felt a gentle smile come on my face as I thought of her concern. She was furious with me, I knew, but it was because she cared. Because, despite the difficulties involved in putting up with me on an ongoing basis, she loved me. I didn’t know if I kept up with my investigations whether she’d lose patience and affection for me. But if she didn’t know me, know that I wouldn’t abandon my friends or stand idly by while they were killed, she didn’t truly know me at all.

  Candace’s Mercedes was still parked in front of my house. Despite her anger at me, she’d kindly offered to stay with Mama and Mark. I’d dropped Miss Ludey off on the way to the hospital. I had a feeling that Candace had been overdosed with Miss Ludey this evening and I was glad to take the lady home. She’d wished me well when I left her, promising to gargle with salt water to take care of her throat so she’d be set for the cycle of Hans Christian Andersen tales she planned to read as Christmas approached.

  Candace was watching the local news out of Austin. Mark, exhausted, had retired early; Mama had taken her medication and, fortunately, was fast asleep.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “I think he’s going to be okay. He’s coherent, and he seems strong.”

  “Could he say anything about what happened?”

  I debated telling her. I knew Candace wouldn’t repeat anything I said. Knowledge, to paraphrase a wise person, is about the most dangerous commodity around. I didn’t want her to be in peril. But she ought to know.

  “Yeah, but obviously don’t repeat this. He thinks Ed shot him.”

  Candace’s eyes widened. “Ed Dickensheets? Oh, that’s ridiculous. Ed’s a little goofball and wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Unless maybe his family was threatened. Kind of puts an interesting spin on what Miss Ludey told us.”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it with a click of her teeth. An angry flash filled her eyes and she crossed her arms. I prepared myself for the lecture.

  “About Miss Ludey. Don’t you think she manufactured that whole tale to get back at Ivalou and Wanda for dying to ship her off to the nursing home?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe so. In fact, if it hadn’t been for what Junebug said about Ed, I don’t know if I’d have taken what Miss Ludey said very seriously. Not turning up at someone’s house during a storm is hardly evidence you committed a murder. And she could have manufactured the whole story about the heated discussion between Ivalou and Wanda that she claims to have overheard. I think, though, that I ought to tell Franklin Bedloe about it.”

  Candace agreed, and I called and left a message for Franklin at the police station. He called me back fifteen minute
s later, sounding tired and ragged. I relayed Miss Ludey’s story to him.

  “My God, if that ain’t a corker.” Franklin sighed.

  “So what’s the deal? Did you question Ed?”

  “Yeah, and he claims he was with Wanda when Junebug was shot. As for the times when Clevey and Trey were killed—he claims he was alone at that Elvis store of his, taking stock in the back.” I could nearly see Franklin shrug. “I haven’t arrested him yet ’cause I don’t have sufficient cause. Junebug can’t say with certainty that it was Ed Dickensheets that shot him. Ed don’t even own a gun.”

  “I think you and I both know if you want to get hold of a gun in this country, it’s not that hard. And both guns used to kill Clevey and Trey are missing.”

  Franklin cleared his throat. “True enough. But I’m not convinced that the attack on Junebug’s connected to the other two murders.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Think about it, Jordan. Junebug’s arrested a lot of fellows in his life. Men that have beaten their wives, or gotten drunk, or vandalized property. It’d be easy to see one of ’em holding a grudge against him. I tend to think that’s where we’ll find our culprit—out of Junebug’s background in law enforcement.”

  “Odd that some old enemy would rear his head now,” I commented. “Right after two friends of Junebug’s are killed.”

  “Coincidence,” Franklin said. “Listen, Jordan, I’m in sore need of some coffee. Thanks for the information that Miss Murchison gave you. I’ll be sure and follow up on it.”

  I thanked Franklin for his time and hung up. I felt dismissed and uneasy. I wasn’t quite so ready to accept Franklin’s theory about Junebug’s shooting; a vague tickle of apprehension nagged at me.

  “What’d he say?” Candace wanted to know.

  I smiled thinly. “He’s got it all under control, Candace. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll make an arrest soon and this’ll all be over. You can quit worrying about me.”