by Jeff Abbott
“Good.” She eased against me in a hug. I hugged back, thinking that Christmas would be approaching and perhaps tomorrow I should start my shopping early. After all, Mama always was a big Elvis fan.
The next morning I called the hospital; Junebug was continuing to improve. Sister had spent the night there but came home around six to collapse onto the couch. I sternly lectured her that she’d make herself sick if she didn’t get some rest, and then would be of no help to Junebug, but she was too busy softly snoring to pay me any heed. I carried her up to bed, put a quilt over her, and told Clo that I didn’t want her disturbed for any reason.
The dawn brought rain again, leaving Mirabeau dank, gray, and muggy. Clouds veiled the entire sky, not offering a glimmer of blue. The sun’s outline barely glowed through the haze, offering scant warmth. It was a day to crawl into bed with a good book or a ready lover and while away the hours.
After getting Sister settled, I drove a rather quiet Mark to his counseling appointment over at Steven Teague’s medical office. I felt uneasy about Mark seeing Steven, but I really had no reason to put the brakes on Mark’s therapy. Plus, I thought I could deal with Steven with one well-placed sentence to show him Jordan Poteet was no fool.
Mark surprised me as we drove. “Do you think I’m a shit, Uncle Jordy?”
“Good Lord,” I said as I turned into the small parking lot where Steven’s office was. He and a dentist had converted an older Victorian house into office space, with Steven occupying the first floor. “Why on earth do you say that?”
“I don’t seem to want to be around folks much. Bradley keeps calling, wanting to come over, and I just think he’d be awful tiresome to deal with.” Mark ran his finger along the condensation of the car window. “I’m tired. My stomach hurts, and I can’t sleep good. But Bradley, it’s like dealing with a baby sometimes. He doesn’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. Tell him you’re not up to company. If he doesn’t understand, Davis or Cayla will explain to him,”
Mark stared out the window. “Then there’s Scott. He’s always trying to be nice to me, but it’s like he’s trying to be too nice. It makes me feel weird. He’s always wanting to go off on long hikes in the woods, even in this crappy weather. And he keeps wanting to tell me about these terrible nightmares he has about Dad. I really don’t want to talk about Dad much with Scott.”
“Look.” I made him turn his face toward mine. “Scott’s a good kid. But he’s been through a lot, like you have. I think he tries to deal with it by hanging around people. You seem to want to be alone more. It’s just different ways of dealing with grief, Mark. Neither one is right or wrong.”
“My last session, I told Steven that I felt jealous of Scott. He got all that time with Dad that I didn’t. I ought to hate his guts, but I don’t.” He looked earnestly at me. “I sometimes think maybe Scott’s jealous of me. I don’t get it, when he had Dad in his life and I didn’t.”
“Oh, Mark.” I drummed fingers against the steering wheel, wondering how to respond. “It may be hard for you to see how lucky you are if you put it in those terms. Yes, Scott had time and more with your father. But Scott couldn’t ever be Trey’s son. And he doesn’t have the most stable life. He’s been moved all around and he’s got Nola for a mother. I know Hart says she’s just grieving, but I think she’s a little erratic, to say the least. You’ve got a family, and roots, and while your mother and I may be driven nuts sometimes, we’re not likely to create scenes at funerals.” I nearly amended that; Sister had created a doozy of a scene at Clevey’s wake. Oh, well, maybe Nola wasn’t so nuts after all.
“Scott’s nice to Bradley, too,” Mark mused. “One way to decide if I like a kid is how he treats Bradley. Some people aren’t so nice to Bradley, y’know.”
I thought of the particular viciousness children display to one who is different and I squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “Well, then, I’m glad to know Scott likes Bradley. Speaking of Bradley, you don’t know why he reacted the way he did at the funeral, do you?”
Mark shrugged. “I guess Nola upset him. He doesn’t like violence. Kind of makes him jumpy.”
“I agree with him. Listen, I have an errand to run, so I’m not going to sit in the waiting room while you have your session with Steven. That okay?”
“Yeah. But you’ll be there when I’m done, won’t you?”
“Absolutely. Let’s go in or we’ll be late. I want a word with Steven before you talk to him.”
The entry hall on the bottom floor served as a common area, but the waiting room for Steven’s patients was thoughtfully private; it was the former dining room of the old house. Oversized chairs and coffee tables covered with scattered back issues of national magazines and the Mirabeau and Bavary newspapers provided a sense of coziness. I told the receptionist that Mark Slocum was here for his appointment. She said that Steven was not yet in, but she expected him any moment. Mark slumped in a seat while I paced nervously.
“See. No crazy people here but us,” Mark said, his voice sounding scratchy.
“You’re not crazy at all,” I said forcefully. “After what you’ve been through, you’d be crazy not to see a therapist,”
“You haven’t,” he noted.
“Well, I am crazy. Haven’t you ever noticed?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”
He was quiet for a moment, looking into my face for traces of insanity.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He paused, embarrassment coloring his face. “Well—I don’t want to make you feel like a goob.”
“Tell me.”
“I heard you—the other night. When you were talking to Candace. About Dad.”
I didn’t answer for a moment. “Well, Mark, I was upset. You know that your father’s friendship meant a great deal to me.”
“Yeah.” He looked at me with eyes that were twins of Trey’s. I ruffled his hair affectionately and he ducked away from the attention, embarrassed at his stupidly sentimental uncle.
He picked up a tattered Sports Illustrated, shifted his gum to the other side of his mouth, and flipped the pages. The picture of a perfectly normal kid. Except he was a kid that might have a hurt so deep, so penetrating, that he’d never be whole again.
Impatiently, I paced the room. (This is a habit that Candace finds particularly grating. As if I do it to annoy her.) I wandered near the window and saw a harried Steven Teague parking his rain-spotted black Volvo. Finally. I didn’t want to keep Mark waiting.
Teague stepped out, testing the air with his hand to see if the drizzle demanded an umbrella. He decided not and slammed his car door.
Suddenly Nola Kinnard was there, pressing herself against him, speaking to him with undeniable insistence. She had hold of his coat, her head shaking, her eyes wild in her face.
He put her a step back, holding her shoulders, talking to her, shaking his head. She shook hers in answer, and the tight, painful frown on her face suggested she was near tears. I moved closer to the window, Mark ignoring me completely.
Steven shook his head again; this only agitated her further. Her hands clawed on his shoulder and she broke, her head hanging, rain or tears wetting her face.
I couldn’t see his face, only hers, but he leaned close to her, speaking—I could see the outline of his jaw moving. I hoped he was telling Nola not to make such a spectacle of herself.
Those apparently weren’t his words. She leaned in closely, quickly, and drew him into a kiss.
He either savored her lips against his for the first moments, or was so surprised that he couldn’t move. His face was away from mine. The kiss broke when he pushed her, gently but decisively, away. He said a few more words, then turned and headed toward the front door. Nola stood there in the windblown mist, staring after him. Her eyes were dark hollows in her weathered face, pensive and wanting. She was still standing there when I quickly resumed my seat.
Steven came in smiling broadly, a
ttired in raincoat and tweed and looking every inch the polished counselor. He mopped at his lips with a handkerchief and I saw a smear of red. He ran a hand through his gray-shot hair. “Good morning, Mark. Why, hello, Jordan, it’s nice to see you as well.”
“I’m Mark’s ride today.” I smiled. “But I wonder if I might speak privately with you for a moment.”
“Certainly. Mark, why don’t you go on into my office and I’ll join you in a moment.”
“See you,” Mark said to me, and went into Steven’s office, shutting the door behind him.
“How’s Mark doing?” I asked.
Steven spread his fingers expansively. He was one of those people who talked as much with his hands as with his voice. “He hasn’t wept yet in therapy. He still has a lot of anger, a lot of denial to work through.”
“He doesn’t want to be around people much. He says so himself.”
“Mark’s doing his best to live up to what you and your family expect from him: strength, resilience, dealing with his own emotions.”
“He says he wants to be alone; being around other people, even boys his own age, seems to make him uncomfortable.”
“Mark’s feeling as though he’s different from everyone he knows. He’s been through a terrible experience that he feels others don’t share. I’m concerned about how this may isolate him. If he doesn’t express his grief, his shock, it can turn in on him. Painfully.”
I didn’t feel reassured by his prognosis. “What can I do to help him?”
“Make him understand it’s okay to have these feelings—the grief and the rage.” He straightened his eyeglasses. “I think Mark is very much like you in some ways, Jordan. Strong, determined to be independent. He doesn’t want to need anyone right now. Let him know that you’re there for him.”
“I will.” Yes, I could do that for Mark. Steven cleared his throat, obviously ready to go treat his patient. I thought about asking him why Nola was all over him like a cheap suit, but decided against it. Perhaps her campaign to win Ed was withering, and Steven was a backup. If not Nola as a topic—
“This house is very nice. I like it better than your old office in Mirabeau.”
Pallor crept across his face. “Excuse me?”
“You used to work at that Mirabeau Free Clinic, didn’t you? I remember it from when I was a boy. I was sure I’d seen you somewhere before.”
I saw the fight for control on his face; and then the mask of vague distance that I’m sure he wore with his patients fell into place. “You have an excellent memory, Jordan. I spent so little time in Mirabeau before, I didn’t expect that anyone would remember me.”
“Long memories in little towns, Steven.” I smiled. “It’s nice that you chose to come back.”
“Well, I was, er, sorry that the clinic didn’t work out. I, um, always thought I’d try to come back to Mirabeau to live. It’s a delightful town.” He seemed rather anxious to return to his office.
“I won’t keep you from your session with Mark. I’ll be back shortly to pick him up.”
“Excellent, yes, very good,” Steven sputtered, forcing a smile. He retreated into his office.
For a moment I worried about leaving Mark there. I chided myself for overprotectiveness. Steven Teague had lived in Mirabeau before, very briefly, and failed to mention it. That wasn’t a crime. When I’d mentioned it, he hadn’t denied it, just expressed surprise that I knew. He might just be a very private person about his past. There was, after all, nothing to tie him to Rennie Clifton or to Trey. Nola was probably an idle flirtation—and instigated by her. He’d been Clevey’s counselor, but that vague connection was his only one to the nightmare of recent days.
Nola had vanished from the parking lot when I stepped out into the rainy morning. I left, feeling better but not entirely at ease. Time to visit Elvis.
THE INSTITUTE OF ELVISOLOGY WAS OPEN AND ready for business when I parked in front of its garish neon sign that offered all that made the king special. Flocks of adorers, though, hadn’t materialized to beat the institute’s doors down.
I ventured inside, the door chiming the first strains of “Love Me Tender” instead of jingling bells. I didn’t see anyone gyrating forward to take my business, so I wandered for a moment, surveying the offered wares.
Elvis videos, from his earliest movies to later performances, ranged one wall. Albums—in vinyl, cassette, and CD formats—filled bins decorated with a montage of Elvis record covers. A bookshelf, filled with biographies of the King, stood against a wall that was decorated with tabloid headlines that suggested that Mr. Presley still walked among us. A beautifully framed family photo reproduction of Elvis, Priscilla, and the baby Lisa Marie hung centered over the cash register. Easels displayed an assortment of de rigueur black velvet paintings of Elvis in various settings (my favorite was Elvis as Mona Lisa), and a middle display area contained a variety of merchandise: Elvis key chains, Elvis cigarette lighters, Elvis bumper stickers, Elvis refrigerator magnets, Elvis clocks (one with his hips swaying on alternate seconds), Elvis calendars, and the all-important Elvis glassware.
Clothing racks held jackets, T-shirts, leggings, sweats, all adorned with the Presley icon. And on a far wall, a rack of metal shelves held the greatest oddities of all: a fingernail clipping floating in some jelled preservative, carefully catalogued locks of hair, an unchewed stick of gum mounted on a board like a captive butterfly and labeled with the date and the hotel room Elvis had allegedly left it behind in. Apparently this was Elvis DNA central—I’d have to alert the cloning researchers they could start here.
“Hello?” a voice trying to be deeper than it actually was bellowed from the back. I stepped away from the holy relics.
Wanda Dickensheets appeared from the back storeroom, apparently dressed like Elvis had in one of his early films: hip-hugging pants, silk shirt, cut jacket. Her hair was plastered close to her head and she was carrying her Elvis wig in one hand.
I presumed that I, too, would revisit old girlfriends if Candace started dressing like a man most of the time. If Wanda was worried about Nola, I could assure her that Nola seemed to have shifted her sights off Ed.
“Well, hello, Jordy,” she greeted me, her voice not particularly welcoming. “You don’t mind me not being entirely in costume here, do you? I peeked out and saw it was you. I know you ain’t exactly a big Elvis fan, so I didn’t think you’d care.”
I like Elvis Presley’s music as much as the next red-blooded American, but it was true I wasn’t a devotee of the magnitude of Wanda Dickensheets. Possibly Elvis himself wasn’t. “You look great, Wanda. Quite a setup you’ve got here.”
“Well, thanks. I’m right proud of it.” She gestured expansively. “I do like to think that Elvis himself would feel at home here.”
I didn’t know the likelihood of that—being in a store where your face grinned back at you from every item of merchandise would be disconcerting. “It’s very nice,” I said politely. “Is Ed around?”
Her face darkened. “No, Ed’ll be in later. He’s tired. He had a late night.”
I wondered if Ed’s late night was due to the Mirabeau police. I’d nearly hoped Ed would be absent. I wanted to talk to Wanda alone.
It was not to be. “Good morning, Jordan,” a frosty voice greeted me, also from the back. Ivalou Purcell came forward, her improbably tinted hair stacked high and her dark lips set in a frown. Her face was a carefully sculpted homage to makeup. A cloud of cheap, citrusy perfume wafted about her and I tried to keep from stepping back as she approached.
“How’s your mother doing?” Ivalou asked, obliquely to be polite. I always find the question well-meaning but bordering on tiresome. What answer do people expect? That she’s getting better? Ivalou’s reedy voice didn’t better my mood. I forced a mannered smile to my face.
“She’s fine, thank you,” I answered. I wondered how I might get Wanda alone to talk without her battle-ready mother.
“I’m glad to hear that, although I think that you shou
ld really spend more time taking care of the poor woman and less time gossiping with the mentally deranged,” Ivalou pronounced in a half sneer.
“Excuse me?”
Ivalou smirked. Not a pretty sight. “I had a fascinating conversation with Franklin Bedloe today. My aunt Ludey has been circulating the most ridiculous stories, and when I confronted her on it, she confessed. She said she’d told you her fabrications concerning my daughter and me and Rennie Clifton.”
So much for subtle inquiry. Miss Ludey’s failure to keep her mouth shut had eliminated any chance of gently worming information out of these two. I determined, however, not to go on the defensive. “Miss Ludey simply shared her opinions with me.”
“And you promptly shared them with Franklin Bedloe. I suppose you would; it might shift suspicion off that temperamental sister of yours.” Ivalou folded her twiggy arms, like a schoolteacher daring a misbehaving pupil to contradict her.
I wasn’t intimidated. “My sister isn’t a suspect in Junebug’s shooting. Ed is, unfortunately.”
“Maybe Arlene should be a suspect. On the police shows, they always look to the victim’s lover.” Ivalou sneered the word lover like it was a synonym for venereal-disease carrier.
If she wanted to play snotty, fine by me. “Maybe that’s why they should have looked hard at Glenn Wilson when Rennie Clifton died.”
It scored the hit I wanted, but I felt a pang of regret for the dismayed look on Wanda’s face. Ivalou glared fiercely at me and one of her long-nailed fingers jabbed at my face.
“Get out of here,” Ivalou snapped.
“Mother! I’ll thank you not to be barking orders out in my store.” Wanda, ridiculous in her attire, managed a quiet dignity as she faced her mother’s taunting glare. She turned back to me. “I don’t know what silly ideas you’re nursing, Jordan Poteet, but I can tell you that Glenn Wilson had nothing to do with that girl’s death. Her death was an accident.”
“Did you know she was pregnant when she died?” I asked.
Wanda actually reeled. She took three sudden steps back against the counter, as though my words had shoved her with physical force. She found her voice. “No, I didn’t. But it don’t matter. Glenn couldn’t have killed her. He—he was with me during that storm.”
