Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  I nodded. He lowered the blade again, and his voice was brutal, striking me word by word as he punctuated the short sentences with the shrieks of metal against abrasive.

  “I had a wife. And a little girl. For ten years. Until my wife got hooked on crack. Moved in with her dealer.” He held up the machete and examined the edge, then pressed metal to belt again. Again shrieks filled the air.

  When it looked like he was going to leave the story hanging there forever, I went close enough to yell, “Where is the child?”

  He lifted the blade and spoke into the lull. “With her mother. When I told Janeen I wanted Latoya, she informed me Latoya isn’t mine.” Was it heat from the fire or his fury that made the air so thick and stifling?

  He cut off the wheel, and all sound was sucked into silence.

  The rain quickened overhead. He lifted the machete and swung it around his head again and again, filling the air with the whoosh of the blade.

  “She knew the whole stinkin’ time”—whoosh—“who that baby’s daddy was”—whoosh—“but he wouldn’t marry her”—whoosh—“and support the two of them”—whoosh.

  I stepped away, having no desire to die even an accidental death in that shed.

  Then he dropped his arm, and the machete fell with a thud to the table. “It was my own fault. I was too stupid and ashamed to take time for a paternity test before I said ‘I do.’ ” He spoke toward the window and the deepening darkness.

  “You were pretty young, too,” I reminded him, wishing I had more in the way of comfort to offer.

  He went on like I hadn’t spoken. “Gave up a college scholarship, worked my tail off for ten years fixing cars to put bread on the table, and for what? Can you tell me that? For what?” He turned, picked up his hammer, and hit the anvil a blow that made my ears ring.

  Tears stung behind my eyelids. No wonder he had changed. Who was it about whom someone wrote, “The iron entered his soul”? Knowing you have wasted years of your life, thrown away your best chances on somebody else’s lie, can do that to a person.

  Henry was talking to the fire now, spitting words into the flames. “I spoke to a lawyer. Thought maybe I could get custody. Janeen was an unfit mother, for sure. But the judge gave custody to Janeen’s mother, on the grounds that Latoya wasn’t mine. Wasn’t mine?” He swung around and accidentally jerked the light cord. The shed went dark, except for the hellish fire. All I could see in its dim light were the whites of his eyes and his teeth—a mask of despair hanging in darkness. “Who was it changed her diapers, rocked her to sleep, fed her bottles, read her stories, helped with her homework, and covered for her mother all those nights she was out partying and didn’t come home? If that didn’t make her mine, what would?” He jerked the light cord so hard it broke off in his hand. He flung it into the fire.

  I blinked, adjusting to the sudden light. “Where are they now? We might—”

  He turned his back, and tears clogged his voice. “I don’t have a clue. They left the place where we’d been staying, and Janeen told me not to try to find her, she wouldn’t have me hanging around Latoya anymore. I did anyway, asked everybody she knew—even asked her bitch of a mother, and I’m not saying that lightly, Miss Mac. That woman raised Janeen, and I heard she gave Latoya back to Janeen as soon as the court stopped watching. But nobody would tell me anything. I’ve spent two years looking for my child. By now she’s twelve. She’s probably forgotten me. And I don’t have any earthly idea where she is.” The last sentence was wrung out from the whole cloth of grief.

  He picked up the machete again and sliced the air, but it was a halfhearted effort. When it was over, he hung the blade back on its hook with a precision the act didn’t warrant. The set of his shoulders warded off sympathy.

  “So that’s why you came home.” I made my voice as matter-of-fact as I could.

  “No. I came home because Daddy called, all upset. He said there was something I needed to know and he wanted to tell me in person. I arranged with my boss to come the next weekend and stay a week, but before I got here Daddy died. Now Mama doesn’t want to be alone, the damn crop needs harvesting, and at the rate it’s raining I’ll be here until kingdom come.”

  He picked up his hammer again, struck the anvil so hard that sparks fell in a shower around his feet. Hitting anvils was better than pounding people, I supposed, if you were that full of barbed wire and hate.

  I wanted so desperately to say something that might help. “I’m sure Latoya will never forget you. No good we do to a child is ever forgotten.”

  He gave a grunt of pure derision. “You want me to make a magic wand for you? Think that can make fairy tales come true?”

  “I don’t believe in magic,” I told him tartly. “Just miracles.”

  “Start working one on that librarian, then,” he told me. “It would take a powerful miracle to make something human out of her.” He bent to extinguish the fire.

  Dismissed, I turned to go, then remembered two things. “What were you arguing with Edie about this morning?”

  He frowned, as if trying to remember. “Oh, she wanted us to see if we could do some work in the grove, and I told her it’s too wet. After tonight it’s gonna be wetter.”

  “You haven’t been playing practical jokes on her, have you? Putting her car seat back, or letting her cat out?”

  “No.” He tossed the word over his shoulder without looking around.

  “Somebody has, and I wondered if it was you, teasing or something.” It sounded pretty lame. I opened the door and let in the dusk, then I turned. “It was good to talk with you, Henry. Don’t be a stranger. Stop by the store one day soon and I’ll give you a green sucker.”

  He blew out an exasperated breath. “You’re looking at an orange one.”

  6

  High above the drive, Josiah had installed a halogen security light that had come on while I was with Henry. With rain falling around it, it seemed a giant shower spraying my car. I hurried toward it, pocketbook over my head, pants legs soaked, and shoes squishing with every step.

  Because I was watching the ground for rocks and puddles, I didn’t notice the approaching car until headlights blinded me. I dashed off the track into slick knee-high grass as a small white two-door swung around my Nissan and parked close to the back steps.

  A black umbrella emerged, then a tall, pale somebody unfolded from the driver’s door and bent to retrieve something from behind the seat. Long bright hair gleamed in the light.

  “Hey,” I called, still trembling from the scare she’d given me. “You must be Valerie.”

  She jerked erect. “Oh! I didn’t know anybody was here.”

  I headed for the shelter of the carport. “That’s my car.” I pointed.

  “Oh.” She looked at the Nissan doubtfully, as if it had materialized. “I didn’t see it.” I didn’t bother to remind her she had just driven around it.

  She was tall, mostly legs encased in tight jeans. She wore a bulky white sweater over them and white running shoes. I couldn’t determine the color of her eyes, but they were large and light, the best feature in a face that was long and strong, with a large nose and wide chin. Odd shadows made one cheek look purple and green. Her hair looked green, too, in the halogen glow, falling from a center part straight to her waist. It was so thick and strong, I had a sudden picture of it swinging in one long braid from a castle window to haul up a prince.

  She heaved a loaded book bag over one shoulder as easily as if it were empty. “If you came to see Edie, I think she’s, like, gone.” She peered around the grove, in case Edie should appear from behind a tree.

  “I was down visiting with Henry,” I explained.

  She gave the shed an incurious look. “Oh. Is he still here?”

  “Working on something.”

  “Oh.” She stood swinging the book bag, not noticeably skilled in the art of conversation.

  “You must be Valerie,” I repeated. “I’m Judge Yarbrough, and I came down to—” At the moment
I couldn’t remember. It seemed like I’d been there a week.

  She waited, patient as a good child. “—see Henry?” she suggested helpfully.

  “Yes,” I agreed, relieved. “And there’s something on the porch for Edie.” I pointed. I didn’t say I had brought it, but then again, I didn’t say I hadn’t.

  She glanced toward the screen. “Oh.” She got more mileage out of that word than anybody I’d ever met. “I’ll take it in. Do you want a cup of coffee or something? You look real wet.”

  I felt wet. And cold. The damp air had a bite now that the sun was down. A hot cup of coffee was the best offer I’d had all day. So what if Joe Riddley went to dinner without me? I would get there in time for dessert.

  If she was surprised by my acceptance, she gave no sign, just turned back to the car. “Oh. I nearly forgot my fabric.” She pulled out a white plastic bag. “I went up near Augusta for it, after class. Won’t it be great when that new store opens and we can just run by for stuff?”

  Fortunately, she didn’t expect a reply. She strode along the covered walkway and onto the porch, fumbling in her book bag for her keys. I trotted behind like a Lilliputian following Gulliver. “I know they’re in here,” she lamented. “They have to be. I had them at lunch.” Her hair fell in a shawl around her shoulders.

  I wished I had hair long enough to warm my neck. “You drove home,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, yeah. So they must be here.” She rummaged some more, while I stood there wishing I’d had the sense to wear my trench coat or at least bring an umbrella.

  She pulled up the keys like a magician removing her first rabbit from a hat. “Oh! Here they are!” She dropped the book bag with a clunk and unlocked the dead bolt above the ancient knob. Her hands were large and strong, with long fingers.

  “You play the keyboard, don’t you?” I wanted to divert her from my chattering teeth.

  She turned and looked down at me, obviously pleased. “Have you heard the band?”

  “No, somebody told me. But you’ve got good hands for a keyboard.”

  She stretched her hands into two stars and considered them like she hadn’t really noticed them before. “I guess. Come on in. I’ll get some lights on.”

  She flipped a switch beside the door. The kitchen hadn’t changed much in thirty years. Same brown cabinets with yellow countertops. Same cinnamon-toned appliances. Same table with a wood-toned Formica top and four country kitchen chairs. Same sunflower curtains framing the double window behind the sink.

  Valerie locked the dead bolt behind us, then cruised the downstairs turning on enough lights to delight the power company. I took the keys she’d left on the table and retrieved Alex’s files. Valerie and I returned at the same time. “Oh. I forgot all about those. Put them there.” She pointed at the kitchen table toward which I was heading. “That way, Edie will see them as soon as she comes in. Be sure to lock the door, though. We’re real careful about that.”

  Locking up seemed silly for the length of time it would take me to drink a cup of coffee, but I honored the request.

  It wasn’t until I turned back to hand her the keys and we stood face-to-face under the bright light, that I saw that the left side of her face still showed purple and green. She saw me staring and put up one hand to cover it. “I’m sorry. It looks awful, I know. I ran into a door.”

  Denial runs deep.

  “That’s what everybody says, honey, but you and I both know somebody did that to you, and whoever he is, he’s not likely to quit.”

  “Oh, no, I ran into a door. Honest. I’m very clumsy.” As a demonstration, she walked toward the cabinets and ran straight into the corner of the countertop. With Olive’s accusations rattling around in my head, I remained skeptical.

  I watched, puzzled, while Valerie took down two glasses, filled them with ice, and poured in iced tea. She handed me one. “Here you are.”

  I stood there shivering so hard the ice clinked in its glass, wondering what happened to that cup of hot coffee she’d offered.

  She handed me the other glass. “Hold this and I’ll turn up the thermostat. We turn it way back all day while we’re not here.” I had already figured that out. As soon as she left, I set the glasses on the table to prevent frostbite.

  The heat came on with a click and a dull roar, but it would never be able to heat those high ceilings and big square rooms before I finished my glass of tea and left. Chilly wisps of air trailed down my neck and swirled around my ankles, reminding me that when the house was built, Georgians were more concerned about attracting breezes than keeping warm.

  I started to pull out a kitchen chair. Valerie asked from the door, “Wouldn’t you like me to make a fire in the living room? It’s all laid and everything.”

  “That would be wonderful.” I followed her through the dining room, carrying both glasses and wishing I had grabbed a dish towel to put around them.

  The dining room was filled with file-sized cartons stacked shoulder-high and neatly labeled with the names of Edie’s various clubs. Papers covered the table and spilled onto the floor. Valerie looked around and explained, “Edie works in here, and she says you should never throw papers out. You never know when you might need them.”

  Across the hall I saw a big room empty except for several card tables and chairs. “That’s where Edie’s bridge club meets,” my tour guide explained.

  She led me to the living room, which was as cold as the others. With a wave of one arm, she asked, “Don’t you love her bears?”

  Edie’s brocade couch, chairs, and grand piano were mixed in with Josiah’s elderly recliner. On and around all of them were teddy bears. They sat on chairs, lined the mantelpiece, and nestled into the corners of the couch. An enormous bear wearing black tails, white shirt, and Wick’s famous paisley bow tie sat on the bench of the old baby grand.

  A family of Pilgrim bears sat in child-sized chairs at a small table before the fireplace. The table was covered by a pale orange cloth, decorated with short orange candles and dried flowers, and set with miniature china. When on earth did Edie find time to dress bears and decorate small tables, with everything else she had to do?

  But a little girl lives and breathes in every grown woman. When I bent closer and saw that the tea set had two serving platters, a lidded serving bowl, and a gravy boat, I itched to pull up a chair and join them.

  Valerie straightened Papa Bear’s black construction-paper hat. “I helped make their clothes.” Her voice was shy and proud. “Edie’s teaching me to sew. The material I got today is for their Christmas outfits.” She added, as if it were an afterthought, “I made Mama Bear’s apron all by myself.” She stepped back so I could admire it.

  The orange apron was gathered onto a bib and tied at neck and waist. Its stitches were almost straight, the gathers nearly even. “You did a great job,” I congratulated her. “I’d never have guessed you were a beginner.”

  “I am, though. I never made anything by myself before.” She stroked Mama Bear’s shoulder as if to assure herself the apron was real.

  The chill had reached my bones by then, and my hands and feet were beyond feeling. I set each glass on a coaster on the coffee table and rubbed my palms together. “Were you going to light a fire?” I’d have sat on the couch, but even the furniture looked cold, so I walked around, hoping to warm up. My perambulations took me over to the loveliest piece of furniture in the room—a rosewood curio cabinet with glass doors. It used to grace Edie’s foyer.

  “That’s got a light,” Valerie called from across the room. “Down on the right side.”

  I pushed a button and illuminated Wick’s mother’s prized set of American snuffboxes, so tiny and brightly colored they looked like jewels. “Those are Edie’s boxes,” Valerie informed me. “Folks used to carry chewing tobacco in them, or something.”

  Her voice was muffled. I turned to see her kneeling beside the fireplace, which was laid with wood, but no kindling and no paper. She had her head right down near the logs, pe
ering at them as if waiting for them to reveal their secrets. “I guess I need a match—”

  A blind man could have seen she had no idea how to light a fire. “Do you have any newspaper?”

  She looked around. “I don’t know if Edie got one today.”

  Next to the fireplace, an old copper bath held newspapers. A coal scuttle held kindling, and a china vase held long matches. I headed that way, but before I could reach them, Valerie grabbed a match. She struck it and tossed it into the fireplace. When nothing happened, she tried another. The third time she grabbed a fistful, lit them all, and flung them toward the logs. Several missed their target and bounced on the floor. Wisps of smoke curled from the carpet.

  Valerie was still bent over peering at the cold logs. “It’s not burning,” she lamented.

  I dashed across the room, shoved her aside, and stamped out embers, so busy looking for every wisp that I heard a motorcycle in the drive only to register that Henry must be going home.

  Finally I reached for the lone match left in the vase. “Let me do it.” I wadded paper under the logs, set kindling on top of the paper, and lit the fire.

  “Ohhh.” Valerie nodded as she watched flames catch the kindling. “I see.”

  I put the screen in front and pressed my hands against it, wondering if we’d need to amputate all my fingers or only a few. It took me a while to realize that the crinkly sound I heard was not the fire in front of me.

  I looked around to see Mama Bear and her tablecloth blazing as merrily as the logs, with flames already slithering along the fabric to lick the back of the chair and the table legs.

  I gasped. Valerie turned. “Oh, no!” She stood, mesmerized and useless.

  I grabbed an afghan from the sofa and started to beat out the flames.

  “Valerie?” a gruff voice demanded from the door. “What have you done now?”

  A life-sized teddy bear, all black and gold, strode into the room, hoisted the blazing chair with one hand and the table with the other, and headed to the kitchen like a waiter bearing a flaming dessert. His heavy black boots squished as he walked. Mama Bear wobbled so in her chair, I followed to be sure she didn’t fall. I reached the kitchen in time to see him tip her into the sink. A second later, the porch’s screen door slammed shut.