Lilac Avenue

by Pamela Grandstaff

  “Well, you’ve certainly given me a lot to think about,” Scott said as he stood up.

  “You haven’t asked me about Courtenay yet,” Amy said.

  Scott sat back down.

  “Go on.”

  “She’s living with Pip Deacon up in Glencora in some big house he’s renovating. She’s telling everyone they’re going to get married.”

  “So I guess she’s done with Knox now that he’s down on his luck.”

  “Not necessarily,” Amy said. “Her car has been seen in his driveway a few times this week, and more importantly, in Mamie’s driveway.”

  “When was that?”

  “The afternoon of the day she died.”

  “Who saw her?”

  “Gail,” she said, naming the woman who cleaned for many of the wealthy people in Rose Hill, as well as the bank.

  “Anything else I need to know?”

  “I’ll let you know when I know,” Amy said.

  Scott stood up and held out his hand to shake hers.

  “Now, don’t be silly,” Amy said, and hugged him.

  “Thank you,” Scott said. “You just saved me a lot of time and trouble.”

  “Pay me back with an invitation to your wedding,” Amy said.

  “Count on it,” he said. “As soon as I can convince Maggie to do it.”

  Scott checked his watch and wondered if Gail was up yet. She started work at noon and worked until four in the morning, so that meant she slept from four to noon. Although it was only nine o’clock, he decided it couldn’t wait.

  Gail lived up on Lilac Avenue, in a modest white frame house just two doors down from his mother’s. She was up, wearing a pink breast cancer awareness walkathon T-shirt, blue jeans, and puffy white tennis shoes.

  “Come in, come in,” she said. “I just made some coffee and there’s pie.”

  Scott sat down at her kitchen table, reveling in the maternal attentions with which so many of his constituents blessed him. It helped him feel better even as it made him miss his own mother.

  “I just came from the bank,” he said, as he cut into a generous helping of blueberry pie covered in a mound of vanilla ice cream.

  “That Amy’s quite the talker.” Gail said. “Telephone, telegraph, tell-Amy-at-the-bank.”

  “What do you know about what went on at Mamie’s house yesterday?”

  “Well, that’s my day at Gwyneth’s,” she said. “I was down in the laundry room pressing all the drapes, which takes hours, so I was looking out the window, which faces Mamie’s front porch.”

  Scott took a sip of the scalding hot coffee and just waited, listening. It was best to let Gail tell it in her own way, even if it took her way longer than he’d like, and included multiple details that were not pertinent to the line of questioning.

  “Now, you know how particular Gwyneth is about everything,” she said. “I had to press those draperies with a pillow case over them on account of they’re made of silk, and will scorch otherwise. It takes, as I said, hours.”

  Scott just nodded.

  “I saw Mamie come back home about noon,” she said. “Toting all those shabby bags of hers, and dressed like it’s winter time when the weather right now is just perfect. It doesn’t last but while it’s here you won’t catch me wearing so much as a long sleeve. But not Mamie, poor old skinny thing. I wasn’t sure she was going to make it up her own front stairs. She was slower than usual, and not real steady on her feet. I kept waiting for her to fall; I was going to run up there, of course, and help her. Not that she would have appreciated it. Not our Mamie, God rest her soul and bless her heart.”

  Gail topped off his coffee, sat down, and put her feet up on another chair.

  “About fifteen minutes later here comes the bus boy from the Mountain Laurel. The slow one, you know him? I don’t know what’s wrong with the poor little fella but he just doesn’t look all there, if you know what I mean. He’s sweet as he can be, but simple. His poor mother drives the school bus now that Ian’s retired. Poor man. I don’t know how Delia does it, but I guess she has Claire to help her, bless her heart. Anyway, he’s one of about a dozen children in that family; they all live out Possum Holler next door to Frieda Deacon. Now there’s a character. Bless her heart, she’s had her cross to bear with that Pip.”

  Scott resisted the urge to redirect her or interrupt in any way. He knew from experience she’d just start over, and then he’d never get out of here.

  “Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, I can’t remember the little fella’s name. Seems like it’s Neville or Nevin, or Evan.”

  “Kevin.”

  “That’s it, that’s the one,” she said. “It looked like he brought her some food in a bus pan, and sure enough, she let him in, and he wasn’t in there but a minute before he was out like a shot and ran down the hill. You can’t blame him, really. I’m sure Mamie said something mean to him, probably told him he was stupid or something. She just has the sharpest tongue. Did have, I guess I should say now. May she rest in peace.”

  Scott finished his pie and when asked, replied that he did not want another piece.

  “So, it wasn’t much later, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, when a bright red sports car pulls in Mamie’s driveway and I said to myself, ‘I know that car, but whose is it?’ I stood up on a step stool; those windows are high up there in the basement and I wanted to get a good look. Well, it was Courtenay, all right, in her tight little shorts and high heels, looking like a woman of the night, like she always does, bless her heart. I don’t know why girls feel like they’ve got to show all they have; they don’t leave a thing to the imagination and then wonder why no one takes them seriously when they talk. Bless their hearts. I guess they weren’t raised to know any better.”

  Scott sipped his coffee.

  “She was carrying one of those huge pocketbooks like the girls carry nowadays. She fixed her hair before she went in; all that big blond hair, you know, like Mamie could see it in the first place, blind as she is. Now here’s something that will interest you. She took a key out of her purse and used it to open the front door. She didn’t knock, she didn’t ring the bell; she just went right in like she owned the place. I thought that was strange. I don’t remember her and Mamie being the best of friends, so why does she have a key unless Knox gave it to her? Mamie liked to call Courtenay all sorts of rude names, and was of the opinion that she was out to catch Knox, wanted to be wife number three.

  “I’ve been cleaning for Mamie since Arvetta Maynard quit two weeks ago. She pays me cash and I don’t mind her. She’s just old and lonely and doesn’t feel good. She has all sorts of things wrong with her. Well, last week I found out she’d gone off her medicine after Arvetta left; just didn’t refill the prescriptions, and you can’t do that, you know, especially not at her age with all that’s wrong with her. She gave me some cash and I went down to the pharmacy and got her three months’ worth of everything. I stood next to her and made sure she started back on every one of them, too. Every pill and eye drop.”

  “When was this?”

  “Saturday,” Gail said. “If she hadn’t started back on all her prescriptions, she might have died even sooner. Maybe I bought her a few extra days, you never know. Anyway, I knew Mamie well enough to know Courtenay was not a friend of hers, and was not someone Mamie would ever give a key. She must have gotten that key from Knox, and whether he gave it to her or she stole it, you’ll have to find out. I have no way to know that.”

  “How long did she stay?”

  “Not long at all, and here’s an interesting thing. She was in there maybe thirty minutes, and when she came out, she was carrying several of Mamie’s tote bags.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes,” Gail said. “She had that huge purse over her shoulder, and she had to set down the tote bags to fish out the house key, lock the door, and then pick them up and take them to her car. There were maybe six of them, and they looked heavy. She put them in the trunk, got in her car, and drove away.�
�

  “What did you think she was doing?”

  “Well, I thought maybe she was taking them to the library to donate them for Mamie, except I’ve never known Mamie to do anything that nice, for anyone. When we collect for the rummage sale at Sacred Heart, she won’t give a scrap, and I know for a fact she puts a quarter in the collection plate. She’s tight as a tick. Bless her heart.”

  “Have you seen Courtenay since then?”

  “She’s been running the roads between here and Glencora,” Gail said. “I’ve heard she’s been to see Knox a couple times since Mamie died but he won’t let her in the house. They’ve had some screaming fights out on the lawn, apparently.”

  “Did anyone else come to Mamie’s after she left?”

  “Not that I saw. I went back after lunch to finish up at Gwyneth’s, and that’s when I saw Trick and that Phyllis Davis on her porch,” Gail said. “That child’s a disgrace to her parents and her grandmother. She’s ruining their house, having wild parties all the time, and I guess there’s rats and roaches and who knows what all else. It’s a shame. Someone should do something about it, but her parents have always turned a blind eye where she’s concerned.”

  “Did Trick and Phyllis go in the house?”

  “No,” she said. “They looked in the windows, knocked on the door, and rang the bell, but they stayed on the porch until Claire got there.”

  “Claire called me,” Scott said.

  “I know,” Gail said. “I saw her go in with them; Trick used his key. And then she came out and used her cell phone to call you. Well, you and I both know it’s like a party line using a cell phone in this town. Everyone knows she called you. After you two went in the house I saw Phyllis leave around the side, like she went out the back door as you came in the front.”

  “What was she carrying?”

  “The bus pan and a full garbage bag,” Gail said.

  “Did you see anything else that might be helpful?”

  “Well, now that you ask, here’s something else interesting,” she said. “After Trick left Mamie’s house, he sat down on that bench across the street, there in the park, and cried like a baby.”

  “Trick cried?”

  “Like his heart was broken,” Gail said. “I never knew he was that fond of Mamie.”

  “Me neither,” Scott said.

  “Here’s something else that you might be interested to know,” Gail said. “Anne Marie and Meredith are both back in town.”

  “Both of Knox’s ex-wives?”

  “Interesting timing, isn’t it?” Gail said. “Anne Marie arrived with a man; they went to Gwyneth’s house and then she checked them into the inn, herself. The housekeeper at the inn said they have separate rooms but right next to each other. Meredith arrived a little later, in a cab with Maryland license plates. Her room is in the other wing.”

  Gail shared some more town gossip with Scott but nothing else related to Mamie’s death. Before he left he had to refuse more pie, a sandwich, and a thermos full of coffee.

  “What I’d like to know is what in the world Anne Marie and Meredith are doing together at the Inn?” she asked, as they stood on her front porch. “I wish I was cleaning over there this weekend.”

  Scott left her house and walked up to Morning Glory Circle, to Trick’s house. When Sandy answered the door, Scott was taken aback at how much she had aged in just the two days since Mamie had died. The bags under her eyes were shadowed by deep dark circles.

  “He’s drunk but he’s still making sense,” she said. “Since he’s not likely to sober up any time soon, you may as well talk to him now.”

  Scott followed her back to the kitchen. They went out the back door, and before returning to the house, Sandy directed him to go down some steps to the patio behind the house, which overlooked their pool. Down by the pool, it looked as if Trick had been working hard on his afternoon buzz. There were about two dozen empty beer bottles on the concrete by his lawn chair and a half empty one on the table, sweating condensation.

  “Greetings, Kemosabe,” he said, although he didn’t look as though he meant it.

  Trick offered Scott a bottle from a cooler next to his chair. Scott declined.

  “How are you doing, Trick?” Scott asked.

  “She’s gone,” Trick said. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “Were you and Mamie close?”

  Trick snorted.

  “Close to Aunt Mamie? That’s a laugh. No one could get close to that old woman; she was mean as a snake. You know it, I know it, and I’m not telling you anything everyone else in this town doesn’t already know.”

  “Yet you seem to be feeling a great deal of grief over her passing.”

  Trick looked at Scott, and Scott was taken aback at the tortured look in Trick’s eyes. He looked, for lack of a better word, haunted.

  “I don’t want to feel anything,” Trick said. “That’s what these are for.”

  He gestured with his beer to the cooler beside him.

  “What happened?” Scott said. “Do you know something about how she died?”

  “Nothing happened,” Trick said. “She was an old lady, she had a heart problem, she was almost blind, and I tried to help her. I gave her some money; I took her to the doctor when she needed to go; I’m not real handy, but I fixed the odd thing she needed fixed.”

  “But Sandy didn’t like it,” Scott said.

  “No,” Trick said. “Aunt Mamie never thought Sandy was good enough to be a Rodefeffer.”

  “Did Mamie give you any indication that she was feeling worse than usual; that she was sick or in pain?”

  Trick writhed in his chair as if he were the one in pain, and then tipped his bottle up in the air and drained it. It fell over as he attempted to set it with the others, and rolled off the patio into the grass.

  “Nothing in particular,” Trick said. “Just the usual aches and pains.”

  Trick opened another bottle and took a swig.

  “When was the last time you took her to the doctor?”

  Once more Trick writhed in his chair, and it was all Scott could do not to knock the beer out of his hand as he tipped it up and gulped half of it down. He would soon be so drunk he would pass out, and Scott was tired of waiting for Trick to sober up.

  “Man, I couldn’t tell you,” Trick finally said. “Maybe the eye doctor, maybe last month.”

  “Had anything changed about her eyesight?” Scott asked.

  Trick finished the bottle and flung it into the grass near the last one. He reached for his next, and had trouble opening the cooler.

  “Why don’t you slow down?” Scott said. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

  “I am sick, man,” Trick said, and glanced at Scott, making brief eye contact. “I am one sick son of a bitch.”

  “What did you do?” Scott asked. “What did you do to your Aunt Mamie?”

  “Nothing,” he said, and opened the next beer. “I didn’t do anything. And I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

  “What do you mean, Trick?”

  Trick tipped the bottle up and chugged the whole thing. Scott saw what was about to happen a split second before it did. Trick projectile vomited a massive amount of beer across the patio and into the pool. Then he rolled forward out of his chair into the mess. Scott jumped up and rolled him over onto his back, whereupon Trick pissed himself, a large puddle forming under his vomit-covered body.

  “Sandy!” Scott called out.

  He turned Trick’s head to the side so he wouldn’t choke. The smell was nauseating. Sandy came out the sliding glass doors from the lower level, and calmly dragged a garden hose out of the shrubbery. Scott watched, aghast, as she blasted Trick with it, and then scoured the patio. Trick came to, sputtering and gagging.

  “Dammit, Sandra,” he said. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “I wish I could,” Sandy said, as she reached for the pool skimmer. “I wish to God I could.”

  Early Wedn
esday morning, Claire waited for Ed to catch up so they could walk the last mile. Lucida, the young female of the pair of black labs he kept, the one that ran with Claire, was happily sniffing the bushes, looking for rabbits. When Ed finally arrived, jogging and out of breath, he had Hank, the older black Labrador, running alongside him, his tongue hanging out. They both seemed glad to slow it down to a walk.

  “You’re getting better,” Claire said.

  “You’re not cutting me any slack,” he said.

  Lucida tried to engage Hank in a game of tag, but he ignored her. Hank stayed next to Ed while Lucida ran off in loping loops, disappearing over the hill and reappearing further on, only to double back before disappearing again.

  “Your dad was quiet this morning,” Ed said.

  “He thinks Doc Machalvie is having an affair with my mother.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, sir,” Claire said. “His dementia has reached a new level, apparently. He thinks Delia is fooling around with Doc.”

  “You want me to talk to him?”

  “It won’t help,” Claire said. “Doc already tried. If he won’t believe Doc, he’s not going to believe anybody.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ed said. “What’s Doc say?”

  “That he’ll continue to treat him as long as Dad lets him,” Claire said. “But we may have to get a different doctor if it agitates him too much.”

  “It’s so sad,” Ed said. “It must be frustrating for your mother.”

  “She’s patient with him,” Claire said. “But I know it hurts her feelings. Doc says not to take anything Dad says personally, but you try that; it’s not easy. He bites my head off because he thinks I’m helping Mom cover up her affair with Doc.”

  “He’s like a totally different person, isn’t he?” Ed said. “Nothing like the Ian we used to know.”

  “Nothing,” Claire said. “As far as I’m concerned, my dad’s already gone. This guy’s just taken his place.”

  “It’s a horrible situation,” Ed said. “Do you have enough help?”

  “More than enough,” Claire said. “I stayed here to help, but every time I turn around there’s Melissa, doing all the things I’m supposed to be doing.”