The Consequence of Murder

by Nene Adams

  The town’s newspaper occupied a prime piece of downtown real estate, a building on the corner of Main Street and Washington Avenue, almost within a stone’s throw of her office. She parked the car on Main in her usual spot and walked the rest of the way, stopping at Mighty Jo Young’s coffee shop to pick up two cappuccinos to go.

  Mackenzie swung into the Antioch Bee’s lobby and up to the antique mahogany counter that had stood in the same place more than a hundred years, ever since the newspaper’s founding. The scarred, stained counter looked organic, as if it had grown there.

  The newsroom stretched behind it, a haphazard collection of mismatched desks and chairs, but only three of the desks held computers.

  A handsome, dark-skinned man wearing a short-sleeved green polo shirt tucked into khaki pants sat in front of one of the computers, using two fingers to rapidly peck on the keyboard. Mackenzie thought his buzzcut was recent. When she’d seen him a couple of weeks ago, he’d been sporting the same short, tidy afro he had worn for years.

  “Hey, Little Jack,” she called. “You the only one working today?”

  James “Little Jack” Larkin, Jr., glanced at her and smiled. “Everybody else had the sense to go to lunch. I wanted to finish the front page story for tomorrow’s edition.”

  “What’s with the haircut?”

  “My hairline’s in retreat. The buzzcut makes it less obvious.”

  “You look sharp, my man. I brought you an offering.” Mackenzie put both coffee cups on the counter. They’d been friends since high school, though he’d been a year ahead of her.

  “Bless you, bless you, bless you,” Larkin said, rising and crossing to the counter. He pulled the lid off a cup, inhaled the steam and took a sip, closing his brown eyes in bliss. Despite his nickname, Larkin stood well over six feet tall, a fact that always amused Mackenzie considering his father, “Big Jack” Larkin, barely came to his son’s shoulder.

  “How’s Esme?” she asked, referring to his wife, Esmeralda. “She ready to pop yet?”

  He drank more coffee before answering. “Any day now. This baby’s a real procrastinator. Two weeks late already and Esme’s about ready to explode, but I guess you didn’t come here to make small talk. What’s up, Kenzie?”

  “I have a favor to ask you,” she said, cracking open her own cappuccino. “You know anything about Emorysville? A whole family was killed back in the seventies.”

  Larkin shook his head. “Emorysville? Way before my time. I can check the archives and get back to you unless you want to do it yourself. What’s this about, anyway?” he added, shooting her a keen glance over the rim of his raised cup.

  “Something my mother told me,” Mackenzie said hastily, wary of rousing his reporter’s lust for a story. “I guess the murder happened around nineteen seventy-five or maybe early ’seventy-six.” She drank her coffee while waiting for his response.

  “Mmm-hmm.” He finished his coffee, pursed his lips and tossed the empty cup into a wastebasket. “Tell you what…I’ll do this favor for you and in return, you’ll tell me the real reason why you’re digging into a murder that happened so long ago. Deal?”

  Mackenzie didn’t need to think about it. “Deal.”

  “Then get out of here and let me finish my work. I’ll call you later. And thanks for the coffee!” he said over his shoulder as he returned to his desk.

  “Wouldn’t have to ask if George Wyatt wasn’t such a cheapskate and just digitized the archives already,” Mackenzie muttered.

  Nevertheless, Larkin heard her and laughed. “From your mouth to God’s ears, girl, but don’t hold your breath.”

  Mackenzie grinned and made her goodbyes. She’d honor their bargain later, but she had no intention of speaking about Annabel Coffin’s restless spirit. She’d keep her information generic, her true purpose concealed.

  When she walked away from the counter, she saw a glimmer of silver-gray hovering on the edge of her vision. Speak of the Devil…

  She stopped and carefully turned her head, but the ghost wasn’t there.

  Chapter Twelve

  What did Annabel Coffin want from the newspaper? Mackenzie wondered. Was she after Little Jack? Christ, I hope not.

  So far, the ghost had seemed satisfied to haunt her, not transfer that spectral animosity to other people. The thought of Annabel wreaking havoc on her mother or any of her friends made her swallow hard in mingled anger and fear.

  “You just leave them alone,” she whispered fiercely. “I’m doing the best I can, so you leave everybody else be, or so help me God—” She left the threat unuttered.

  Annabel gave no overt acknowledgment, but Mackenzie felt a chill pass through her. She’d have to be satisfied with that, she supposed.

  Leaving the building, she made a last-minute decision to appease her growling stomach and went to Miss Laverne’s Luncheonette.

  “A bit late for lunch, dear,” Miss Laverne Crawford remarked above the tinkling of the bell on the door when Mackenzie entered. “Or early for dinner.” The elderly woman’s makeup was as bold as the bright Hawaiian print muumuu hanging loosely on her plump frame—heavily clumped mascara, violet eye shadow, and blusher the color of tangerines slashed over both wrinkled cheeks. A wrapped purple turban concealed her hair.

  “I had a busy morning, ma’am,” Mackenzie replied.

  “You should eat three good meals a day. You’re not on one of those fad diets, are you?” Miss Laverne’s orange-painted lips thinned. She pointed a bony finger, the knuckle swollen from arthritis. “You’re a scrawny little thing, Mackenzie Cross, skinny as a poor man’s wallet. If you want to attract a husband, you need to eat.”

  “No diets, just not enough time,” Mackenzie said politely, minding her manners though she somewhat resented the “scrawny” comment. She was almost certain Miss Laverne knew she was a lesbian—she’d never tried to hide it and dated other women openly—but Miss Laverne probably chose to think she’d get over it if she found the right man. She wasn’t really offended. The woman was older than dirt and meant well.

  “Well, your mama always hoped you’d blossom, bless her heart, but it wasn’t to be,” Miss Laverne said. “That’s no reason to neglect your health, young lady.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Laverne’s smile showed unnaturally smooth false teeth.

  The luncheonette was tiny, just big enough to hold two small tables with two chairs each, a shelf crammed with potted ferns, a framed picture of the Sermon on the Mount and a long, glass-fronted refrigerator case and counter that rivaled the one at the Antioch Bee in terms of age and wear.

  Old-fashioned black and white marble tiles covered the floor. The white tiles continued halfway up the walls where they gave way to pale lavender paint and glossy white trim. Years ago, the shop had been an ice cream parlor, the Thirty-Two Flavors store her mother had mentioned earlier—Antioch’s homegrown answer to Baskin-Robbins.

  “What can I do for you, dear? It’s almost closing time, but don’t worry, I’ll rustle you up something tasty that’ll put meat on your bones,” Miss Laverne said, donning a pair of thick-lensed glasses and leaning over the counter to peer at her.

  The refrigerator case held blue-and-white china dishes of homemade pickles: crunchy dills, pearl onions, bread-and-butter, yellow squash and sweet baby cukes. Jars of chow-chow, green tomato relish and preserved peaches stood next to pocket Bibles with red covers stacked to one side. Mackenzie knew Miss Laverne gave the Bibles away to anyone who came into the luncheonette needing spiritual guidance.

  She studied the handwritten chalkboard menu hanging on the wall and ordered a bacon and egg salad sandwich on whole wheat flaxseed bread with chow-chow, lettuce and tomato, plus a side order of preserved peaches.

  “Bread’s fresh from the Mennonite bakery this morning,” Miss Laverne said while she worked, using a knife to shave paper-thin strips from a head of iceberg lettuce.

  A thought struck Mackenzie. Miss Laverne was a town fixture who might know more
than her mother. “Do you know a boy from ’fifty-seven, Billy Wakefield? Or a girl named Annabel Coffin? Maybe she was your student when you were teaching at the high school.”

  Miss Laverne put a generous scoop of egg salad on the sandwich. “Oh, that’s a lifetime ago, dear. I only taught English for a year before I married and had to quit. Let me see…no more Coffins around here, I’m afraid. That whole family’s gone to Jesus. The Wakefield boy does sound familiar. I do believe he had people in Emorysville.”

  “That’s right,” Mackenzie said. “Do you know anything about a family being murdered in Emorysville in the mid-seventies?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t pay much mind to such things in those days. My boy was just back from the war in Vietnam minus his legs. Land mine, they said. He needed so much help at home, I hardly had time to catch my breath, let alone keep up with the news,” Miss Laverne replied, adding a large spoonful of chow-chow to the top of the egg salad and pressing it down well. She piled on bacon, tomato slices and shredded lettuce while she rambled on, “You know, right after I married and left the school, I worked as a part-time secretary under old Pastor Rush at the First Baptist Church before he retired. After his son went to prison, he was hardly the same man. Just broke his heart. He went off to do missionary work in Africa. I practically had to run the church by myself until we found a new pastor. My husband wasn’t too happy, but what can you do? The Lord gives us no burden we aren’t strong enough to bear.” She cut the finished sandwich in half with a flourish of her knife.

  Mackenzie suddenly saw a flash of silver-gray in the corner of her eye. Annabel was trying to call her attention to something Miss Laverne had said, she believed.

  She thought about the conversation while Miss Laverne secured a Bible verse to the top of the sandwich with a toothpick, added a dill pickle and wrapped the whole package in wax paper before fetching a small plastic tub for the preserved peaches.

  Surely Annabel didn’t care about Miss Laverne’s job as a church secretary, so her interest had to do with Pastor Rush or his son. Mackenzie ventured a guess. “Excuse me, did you say Pastor Rush’s son went to prison? I hadn’t heard about that.”

  Next to Miss Laverne’s left elbow, a silver-gray fog coalesced slowly into the form of Annabel Coffin. Mackenzie fought not to stare, but she watched the ghost sidelong, hoping nothing would happen. If knives or pickles began flying around the place, she doubted she could convince Miss Laverne it was the Holy Spirit at work.

  “Yes, dear, I was smack-dab in the middle of things at church, what with Isaac being arrested and everything coming out at the trial. Who knew a doctor had it in him? But let’s not speak ill of the dead.” Miss Laverne passed her a full paper bag. “That’ll be six dollars, dear.”

  Mackenzie dug out her wallet and handed over a ten-dollar bill, receiving the bag in return. She waved away the four dollars change, which Miss Laverne folded and dropped into a plastic box marked Donations for Lake Minnisauga Bible Camp that sat on the counter.

  “When did this happen?” Mackenzie persisted, horribly aware of Annabel’s cold black eyes focused on her, demanding more. “What was Isaac in jail for?”

  A deep, vertical line bisected Miss Laverne’s creased brow. She removed her glasses and looked disapproving. “Sorry, dear. There’s been a great deal of water under the bridge since then and my memory’s not what it used to be.”

  Disappointed, Mackenzie didn’t press further. She thanked Miss Laverne and walked to the door. When she opened it, the bell sounding irritatingly cheerful, the old woman spoke.

  “Best to let the dead rest in peace, dear,” Miss Laverne said.

  I wish, Mackenzie thought.

  A sudden wind rushed through the luncheonette, rustling the wax paper squares piled behind the counter. Miss Laverne exclaimed and made a grab for a Bible verse that flew into the air and wafted over to Mackenzie to land at her feet.

  “Shut the door, dear, before we blow away to Kingdom Come,” Miss Laverne said.

  Mackenzie bent and picked up the Bible verse, reading the typewritten words: Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; before you were born I sanctified you. Jeremiah 1:5.

  She walked to her apartment and belatedly ate her lunch while contemplating the verse. No doubt Annabel’s handiwork, she thought, grateful the ghost hadn’t thrown a destructive fit and given poor old Miss Laverne a heart attack. What was Annabel trying to tell her? Why drop these hints instead of speaking to her outright?

  Doctor, Annabel whispered in a voice as cold and smooth as a pane of glass.

  Mackenzie paused in the act of lifting a chunk of preserved peach to her mouth. “You mean Pastor Rush’s son, Isaac?”

  Doctor. My doctor.

  “What did he do, kill somebody?” She meant it as a joke, but Annabel let out an ear-splitting wail and appeared in the kitchen looking like a whirling thundercloud shot through with streaks of silver lightning.

  Mackenzie stiffened. Oh, shit.

  The half of the bacon and egg salad sandwich she hadn’t yet eaten flipped off the plate into her lap, and then the plate itself went soaring through the air to smash against a kitchen cabinet. Shattered pieces of china rained down on the clove-scented preserved peaches that had slid off the flying plate to land on the linoleum.

  “At least this time I have shoes on,” Mackenzie said grimly, trying and failing to shovel egg salad off her capri pants without making more mess. “That plate belonged to my grandmother, damn it.”

  Annabel whispered, My boy. My boy.

  “I’m trying to find out what happened to Billy Wakefield, but it’s hard when you act like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum.”

  My boy.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, quit repeating yourself!” Mackenzie shouted, her limited patience at an end. She hadn’t asked to be involved in this supernatural melodrama and she certainly didn’t appreciate the destruction of a treasured family keepsake. “Now if you’re done terrorizing the only person who’s helping you, get the hell out of here. Go on, git!”

  A drawer jerked open. A butcher knife, the well-honed blade glinting in the light, rose to balance on its tip. Mackenzie’s breath caught. The knife fell back in the drawer.

  The implied threat served to fuel her fury.

  “Fuck you,” she choked, rising to her feet. Unheeded, egg salad plopped on the floor and smeared her shoes. “Fuck you sideways and goddamn you for being an ungrateful bitch.”

  As if in answer, the butcher knife rose a second time, accompanied by the rest of the utensils in the drawer.

  A bitter laugh escaped from Mackenzie’s anger-tightened throat. “Go ahead. Go ahead and kill me, and I swear when I get to the other side, I will kick your ass from here to Hell.”

  Annabel’s form reshaped itself, becoming less cloud-like and more human. She appeared angry, but a gleam of thoughtfulness shone in her black eyes.

  The utensils cascaded to the floor in a glittering, stainless steel stream.

  Unappeased, Mackenzie turned her back on the ghost. “You have no reason to bust my things or threaten to hurt me. I am doing my best, my very best to figure this situation out for you, but it’s been less than a day. If you’re so impatient, find somebody else to talk to.”

  She waited in vain for a reply. Annabel remained visible in the corner of the kitchen, but said and did nothing, simply continued to give her a thoughtful look.

  Breaking the silence, the central air-conditioning’s hum kicked in.

  Mackenzie spun around, her movements jerky. “Fine. Be that way,” she said. “I don’t care anymore. I’m done with you and your—”

  The utensils jumbled together on the floor seemed to leap of their own accord into the drawer, which slammed shut as Annabel disappeared.

  “What about my grandmother’s plate and the rest of this mess?” Mackenzie called.

  No answer. Of course not. That would be too easy.

  Fetching a roll of paper towel, she managed to get the egg salad
off the linoleum and into the trash. Her shoes required more care. She swept up the shattered plate, added the pieces to the garbage can and spent ten minutes cleaning mayonnaise and eggs off her shoes, grateful they were leather and hadn’t cost the earth. What else could be done to get rid of the funky smell, she didn’t know. She made a mental note to ask her mother, who used to religiously clip the Hints from Heloise column from the newspaper.

  When she finished cleaning and taking the trash downstairs—the sulphurous stench of eggs had begun to trigger nausea—she fetched her laptop from the bedroom and set it up on the coffee table in the living room, piggybacking off the bakery’s Internet connection.

  The comforting smell of baking bread surrounded her as she checked her email, finding a reply from Martin in Las Vegas offering the autographed Greg Page boxing gloves at the price she wanted. She sent him a confirmation and made a phone call to her client to deliver the good news. She also put out a feeler to her contact at a prestigious London auction house, inquiring about the current owner of the ’31 Bugatti Kellner.

  Realizing a faint eggy odor still hung around the apartment, Mackenzie turned off the air-conditioner, opened the windows and left to pay a visit to Jacob Dearborn.

  The United Methodist Church on Apple Street was a long walk or a short drive away. She considered her options. The temperature had cooled slightly, a nice breeze was blowing, and she was in no mood to wrangle for a parking spot near the church. Her choice seemed obvious. She donned sneakers, took a reusable water bottle from the refrigerator, grabbed her keys and cell phone, and headed downstairs and out the door.

  Mackenzie had gone a third of the distance when she happened to spot Veronica across the street, standing half-hidden off the sidewalk where the side of an empty house for sale was shaded by a magnolia tree, creating a spot not easily overseen by passing cars and most pedestrians. She smiled and waved, but Veronica didn’t acknowledge her, apparently absorbed in a conversation with someone.