The Consequence of Murder

by Nene Adams

  Veronica continued before Mackenzie had a chance to voice her surprise. “I mean, Annabel’s sort of an aunt, I think, or something like that. My mother’s got Coffin relations, but as far as I can tell, Annabel’s people pretty much stuck around Mitford County. My mother’s folks are all over the place. Last night I got hold of Mémé Faillard in Louisiana, who used to be a Coffin before she married Great-Uncle Oscar. She told me I’m related to Annabel through my father’s second cousin, though I’m not quite sure how. It’s complicated.”

  “Relatives usually are,” Mackenzie said, recalling the near- impenetrable Gordian knots of relationships on her own family tree. Go back far enough, she thought, and almost everybody you meet is related to you somehow.

  The cabinet door opened and banged shut, a reminder of Annabel’s presence.

  “Do you see her?” Veronica asked.

  “Yes and no. If I look straight at her, I don’t see anything. But when I sort of focus sideways, or above her head, I see her sometimes. Not always. Sometimes, I feel a chill or catch flashes of silver and gray light when she’s around.”

  “Like a black-and-white movie?”

  “Not exactly.” Trying to describe the indescribable was frustrating. Mackenzie picked up the empty bowls and went to the sink, where she turned on the tap, retrieved a plastic washbasin from the cabinet below and added dishwashing liquid. “The few times I’ve actually had a good look at her, she’s black, silver and gray, but sharper than an old film,” she said over the sound of water gushing from the faucet. “And foggier, too. Blurry, but sharp. Damn it, I know I’m not making sense—”

  Veronica stopped her with a gesture. “That’s okay, Mac. I understand what you’re getting at. You know, what’s interesting is how our experiences are so different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I see Annabel in color.”

  Mackenzie’s jaw dropped. “No shit! How’d that happen?”

  “Beats me. It’s always been that way.” Veronica rose from the table and joined her at the sink. “You wash, I’ll dry,” she said, grabbing a dishtowel from the rack.

  Up to her wrists in hot soapy water, Mackenzie didn’t argue, although her mother would have been horrified by the idea of a guest doing the dishes. “Thanks.”

  They worked in comfortable silence. The cutlery had been washed, dried and put away when Veronica said, “According to Doc Hightower’s report, Annabel died from a cerebral hemorrhage caused by a single blow to the back of her head with an object consistent with a pipe. The angle of the blow suggests the killer wasn’t much taller than her. The working theory is that she was killed on or about the same time she disappeared in nineteen fifty-seven, but we don’t know who did it or why.”

  The cabinet door banged twice.

  “We’ll do everything we can,” Veronica went on, “but we have no witnesses, no evidence and no forensics apart from the body itself.”

  Mackenzie wasn’t sure if Veronica was talking to the ghost or her. “What about the charm bracelet? Maynard told me that’s how y’all identified her.”

  Billy, Annabel said, startling her.

  Veronica used a towel to dry the cooking pot Mackenzie had just washed. “Did Billy give you the bracelet, Annabel?”

  Yes.

  “All the charms, too?”

  Silence.

  Mackenzie frowned. “Can I see the bracelet?” she asked Veronica.

  “You’ll have to ask Detective Maynard for permission. If I show it to you without his say-so, I’m breaking chain of custody.” Veronica neatly folded the damp towel, replaced it on the rack and then did something strange. She reached into the sink, into the dirty, lukewarm water and took hold of Mackenzie’s hands. “Now I want to talk to you about Debbie Lou Erskine,” she went on, her expression almost bleak.

  Mackenzie’s heart began to gallop. Suddenly fearful, she tried to pull free.

  Veronica let go, but only long enough for Mackenzie to take her hands out of the water before they were claimed again. “Let me talk.” She took a deep breath, never shifting her gaze from Mackenzie’s face. “I’m not dating Debbie Lou.”

  “Sure, sure, you broke up with her,” Mackenzie replied, laughing nervously. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, as Meemaw used to say.”

  “I didn’t mean to kiss Debbie Lou. She surprised me.”

  “I could tell.” Mackenzie’s insides quaked. She wished Veronica would release her, or at least stop staring at her that way, as if willing her to understand. “Debbie Lou is trash. You can do a lot better. Uh, if you’re still, you know, wanting to experiment and all that.”

  Veronica seemed puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  Thoroughly unnerved, Mackenzie yanked her hands out of Veronica’s grip. “I figured you were curious about lesbians, which is fine, nothing wrong with pushing the boundaries of your sexuality. You know, trying from Menu B for a change, maybe getting ready to mix it up a little with Menu A and Menu B if that sauces your egg roll—”

  “I’m confused. Are we talking about the Golden Buddha now?”

  “No. We’re talking about you being free to explore your potential bisexuality. And Debbie Lou—who is not, by the way, representative of the majority of lesbians, being a kind of sexual black hole from whence there comes weeping and gnashing of teeth—well, Debbie Lou took advantage of you…of your innocence,” she plowed on, determined to convey to her friend that one bad experience didn’t necessarily mean the experiment was a bust.

  To her dismay, Veronica didn’t respond. Or rather, instead of thanking her for her insight or telling her to go to hell, she burst out laughing.

  For several long minutes, Mackenzie fidgeted uncomfortably in place, wondering if she ought to cure Veronica’s hysteria by slapping her. On the other hand, she didn’t want to appear abusive either, or give Veronica further bad impressions of lesbians in general.

  Finally, Veronica ran down enough to gasp, “My…my…my what?”

  “I know Debbie Lou didn’t treat you right,” Mackenzie said, alarmed by the fiery color of Veronica’s face. “But trust me, I’m sure you can find another woman one day—”

  Veronica cut her off with a loud honking bray. She sat down, clutching her sides. “Stop, please stop, I’m begging you!” she giggled, her cheeks slick with tears.

  While waiting for the giggles, guffaws and gulping belly laughs to die down, Mackenzie emptied the washbasin, rinsed it out, dried it and put it away. She told herself that Veronica wasn’t mocking her or being mean, which helped ease a fraction of her annoyance.

  Her chore done and the laughter behind her finally ceased, she turned around, intending to demand an explanation, only to find Veronica standing inches away, gazing at her with warmth and affection.

  “I think we got our signals crossed, Mac,” Veronica said gently, again taking Mackenzie’s hands. “Where’d you get the idea I was straight?”

  The question sizzled into Mackenzie’s mind with the stunning, illuminating force of a lightning bolt. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

  “Two years, Mac. Two years I thought we were dancing on the verge of something and I’ve been waiting for you to make a move,” Veronica continued, the corners of her mouth quirking. “You gave off such mixed signals! And when I finally work up the courage to ask you out, our first real date’s a disaster.”

  “What date?”

  “Swine Dining. I know, I’d just as soon forget about it, too.”

  Mackenzie wanted to deny that their awful dinner at the barbeque joint had been an actual date, but in recollecting the details, she began to see how she’d misinterpreted Veronica from the start. Or maybe not…

  “What about the blond guy, Ronnie?” she asked.

  Veronica appeared taken aback, but she answered calmly, “What guy?”

  “When I first saw you after you moved to Antioch,” Mackenzie said, working up a full head of indignant steam, “you were hugging a blond man. A very pretty blond man. Wasn’t he yo
ur boyfriend? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being bisexual, but you can’t blame me for thinking you were straight. The way you two made goo-goo eyes at each other—”

  “Him!” Veronica chuckled. “That’s my middle brother, Alex. He helped me move. And he did not make goo-goo eyes at me. He’s farsighted and too vain to wear glasses.”

  Brother. Mackenzie deflated. “Okay, I feel like an idiot. I know you have a couple of brothers, but you’ve never shown me pictures and I had no idea Alex was man candy.”

  “Man candy?”

  “Not important. Point is, I shouldn’t have made assumptions about you.”

  “I thought I’d developed halitosis or really bad body odor. Every time I flirted with you, you pushed me away.”

  “I didn’t realize you were flirting.” The humor of the situation started to sink in. Mackenzie snickered. “I really believed you had no idea what you were doing.”

  “I knew what I was doing, but you made me so nervous! I figured maybe I wasn’t your type, but then you went out with Mary Dean.”

  Mackenzie frowned. “What’s special about Mary Dean?”

  She’d gone to the movies with Mary a couple of times, visited the antiques district in War Woman Springs and taken her to the drive-in fast-food place for hamburgers, tater tots and strawberry milkshakes. Pleasant outings, but nothing earth-shaking. Mary was sweet and sunny, a curvy brunette with green eyes who, come to think of it, reminded her of…

  Oh.

  Now she really felt like an idiot.

  “Mary looks a bit like me,” Veronica said, “and you like being around me. We see each other almost every day. You kept showing up for lunch, inviting me on picnics and drives to the lake. You’re wonderful, you’re my best friend and I want you so much, Mac, and right now…right now, I’m going to kiss you.”

  The last two words penetrated the fog of realization in Mackenzie’s head.

  Something inside her broke, a dam she hadn’t known she’d built cracking under the strain. All this time, she’d forced herself to consider Veronica as a friend. Only a friend. Specifically, a straight female friend for whom she shouldn’t have wicked, lustful thoughts, because a stupid crush wasn’t worth sacrificing their friendship.

  Oh, how wonderful to be told she’d been wrong!

  Giddy, she leaned forward, her lips already parted, because if Veronica meant to kiss her, by God, she intended to enjoy every second of it.

  Veronica came closer and settled a hand on her hip. Mackenzie tingled with anticipation, but before their mouths met, a phone rang.

  Not Nirvana. A business-like ringing tone.

  “That’s me,” Veronica said. “I’m sorry.”

  Coming back to earth with a bump, Mackenzie groaned. “Don’t answer,” she pleaded, but Veronica shook her head.

  “It’s work, I have to take it,” she said, turning away and pressing the phone to her ear.

  Abandoned in the kitchen, Mackenzie huffed and sat at the table, grumbling to herself. Two years of tightrope dancing around Veronica, teetering between desire and disaster, and just when she thought the balancing act was over, another delay reared its ugly head.

  “Damn it all to hell and gone,” she muttered.

  The cabinet door swung open.

  She gave it the stink-eye. “Don’t you start.”

  Slowly, the door creaked closed.

  Mackenzie began to smile in satisfaction. The knife drawer rattled. “Cut it out,” she snarled, unwilling to be intimidated by a dead woman.

  Veronica returned after a few moments, twin carnation pink stripes blooming on her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mac, I’m so sorry—”

  “You have to go?”

  “I don’t want to, believe me, I’d rather stay with you, but there’s been an accident on I-85 close by the Laxahatchee City exit. Overturned semi. Milk all over the road and traffic backed up for miles. I can’t stay.” Veronica kissed her chastely on the mouth, murmuring against her lips, “I’ll come back, Mac. Soon as I can. Promise.”

  Mackenzie forced a smile. “We’ve waited this long. What’s a little while longer?”

  As soon as Veronica left, she went to the bedroom, buried her face in a pillow and screamed curses until she started repeating herself.

  Tantrum over, Mackenzie sat up and blew her nose. Facing the prospect of sitting alone in her apartment with only the idiot box to keep her company, she decided to go for a drive, her go-to panacea for most ills. Maybe head over to Cherry Bomb’s restaurant and pig out on a Cookie Monster Sundae: three scoops of ice cream—cookie dough, cookies and cream and chocolate chip cookie—plus lashings of hot fudge and whipped cream ought to soothe the sting.

  Or maybe not, since the Cookie Monster was best when shared with someone else. Someone who wouldn’t be there on account of spilled milk.

  She put on sneakers and went to the hall for her cell phone and keys.

  The sky had turned to gold, edged at the horizon with copper and brass as the sun touched the mountains. The temperature had dropped to a comfortable seventy-one degrees or so, but the mugginess had increased to a miserable proportion. Mackenzie felt like she’d been brushed all over with a thin film of sorghum molasses, leaving her dirty and sticky.

  She drove with the window down, not set on any particular destination, just going where whim took her. Traffic decreased as asphalt eventually gave way to gravel.

  Really paying attention to her surroundings for the first time, she realized she’d come to Sweetwater Hill. She glanced at her wristwatch—eight o’clock—and decided to pay Reverend Wyland a visit. The way she’d been treated by Kelly Collier and Mr. Dearborn still rankled. Perhaps outside his church, Wyland would be more willing to talk to her.

  Her phone rang.

  “Cross speaking.”

  “I just wanted to let you know the accident isn’t too bad, but the cleanup’s going to take a good long while, so I probably won’t see you again until tomorrow,” Veronica said. In the background, Mackenzie heard a fading ambulance siren.

  “I’m out on Sweetwater Hill fixing to talk to Rev. Wyland. Want to meet for breakfast in the morning at my place?” Mackenzie crossed her fingers, hoping for a positive answer.

  “I’d love to, Mac.” A pause and a groan. “Sorry, I’ve got to go direct traffic.”

  “Okay. Be careful.”

  The call ended. Mackenzie tossed the cell phone on the passenger seat.

  About a half-mile north of the church, she found a somewhat dilapidated house built of weathered wood, capped by a high peaked roof that extended on all sides. The structure resembled a small barn, right down to the square hayloft hatch in the center of the upper story.

  Alafair stood in the side yard, taking laundry off a clothesline hanging between two trees. Encroaching twilight had begun to haze the air, but some daylight remained, allowing Mackenzie to see the hens strutting and pecking in the grass around Alafair’s bare feet.

  Mackenzie pulled off the road onto the dirt shoulder and got out of the car. “Hey, Alafair,” she called politely. “Is your father home?”

  The hens scattered, clucking alarm. Alafair folded a pillowcase and dropped it in a basket on the ground. “No, ma’am. Daddy’s checking rabbit snares over to the church.”

  “Well, I’d better run over there, then,” Mackenzie said.

  “He’ll be home soon. Say, have you found Jesus, ma’am?” Alafair asked after a pause. Even wearing a shapeless cotton shift, with her crystalline eyes and pale blond hair, she possessed a delicate beauty that outshone Kelly Collier. “Have you been saved?”

  “Thanks for your help,” Mackenzie replied, evading the question.

  She’d been raised Episcopalian, but as a teenager about Alafair’s age, she’d left the church. Religion didn’t appeal to her. She refused to debate the matter. Arguing about politics or religion, ain’t no faster way to lose friends and make enemies, her father had said.

  Leaving Alafair behind, she found a place on the road
to make a careful U-turn and drove back to the church.

  From the road, the shack housing the church looked as though it would fall down in a mild breeze, but when she parked the car across the road and walked up to the door, she saw that repairs had been made, the sagging roof shored up and new windows installed.

  Early evening had slipped further into night. She needed to leave soon, Mackenzie thought. She’d rather not have to navigate down the Sweetwater Hill road after dark. With her luck, she’d get a flat tire and lose cell phone reception at the same time.

  A shuffling noise inside the church prompted her to call out, “Rev. Wyland, it’s Kenzie Cross. May I speak with you, sir?”

  She heard a series of dry scuffling sounds, like footsteps on sand. The church’s door was open. She went inside, her hand groping for a light switch and finding nothing.

  “Rev. Wyland, are you here?”

  Her voice echoed slightly in the room. Metal folding chairs were arranged in a row against one wall. Opposite stood a long table holding a stack of hymnals, several wooden boxes with screen tops and two huge glass jars containing at least four or five gallons each of clear liquid. Strychnine, she thought. She’d heard Holiness Pentecostals drank poison during services when the Spirit took them. Survival was considered proof of salvation.

  At the end of the room, a low dais held a pulpit. Behind it, a wooden cross hung on the wall, surrounded by framed, printed slogans declaring, “Jesus Saves!” and “Jesus Never Fails.” An upright piano was wedged in the corner.

  Mackenzie took a few more steps. “Reverend?”

  Weakening light coming from the windows did little to push back the thickening shadows in the corners. Feeling a little chilled, she scrubbed her palms on her thighs, wishing she’d changed from cutoff shorts to jeans before leaving the house.

  Suddenly, the silence in the church was broken by a loud buzzing, rattling sound near her sneaker, immediately followed by a stabbing pain in her calf, and two more thumps that felt like a sharp fingernail scratching her skin.

  Her heart seized in her chest. Her lungs arrested mid-breath.

  Rattlesnake.