“Oh,” Amanda said, “I don’t want you to go to any trouble. I’ll just drive back and forth. It’s only about an hour.”
“It’s no trouble,” Irene said. “You do what you need to do, but you’re always welcome at our house.” She sounded disappointed.
“Well, I could come down a couple of days before the funeral.” Amanda groaned inwardly when she heard the words come out of her mouth. Lying to this woman about her son’s wishes was one thing, but agreeing to spend time with Charley’s family was not a good idea. “If I can,” she added, then began searching her mind for reasons she couldn’t while a part of her didn’t want to find those reasons. A part of her wanted to run away to the comfort of a mother-in-law who baked cookies for her, a town where she wouldn’t flinch every time someone walked through the door, expecting to find Detective Daggett standing there with an arrest warrant. If she was in another jurisdiction, at least he’d have to go through her attorney to get to her.
Not surprisingly, Charley went ballistic when she told him her plans.
“You can’t go down there! You’re going into the lion’s den! Kimball won’t even have to leave town to kill you. I forbid you to go to Silver Creek.”
Charley’s reaction cinched it. “You forbid me? Excuse me? You didn’t have the right to order me around when you were alive! You sure don’t now that you’re dead!”
Amanda was going to Silver Creek.
Later that day she met with her parents to discuss the funeral.
The three of them sat in their formal living room, her mother erect and dignified in a white, high-backed chair, her father relaxed but in control in a burgundy leather chair, and Amanda between them on the plush white sofa with burgundy pillows. That sofa was generation four, having succumbed on three previous occasions to Amanda’s youthful escapades. Jenny, of course, had obeyed the rules and never destroyed furniture.
Amanda sat on the edge of the sofa, unable to banish a childish fear of somehow soiling the venerated sofa again. Why did people buy furniture if they didn’t want it to be used? At the appearance of number three, she’d suggested her mother take a picture of the sofa, hang it on the wall, and let people sit on the floor beneath it. That hadn’t gone over well.
“I’m going to let Charley’s mom take him home to Silver Creek for the funeral. They’ve got a family plot where they can bury him.”
Her mother folded her hands primly. “I think that’s a good idea, dear. He should be back with his family.”
“I’m going to go down a couple of days before the funeral to stay with the Randolphs so I can help.”
Her mother and father exchanged shocked glances.
Her father leaned toward Amanda. “If you want Charley buried in his home town, we’ll do whatever we can to help. I’ll arrange to have the body shipped to his family and pay for all expenses at whatever funeral home they choose. You don’t need to upset yourself by going down there and getting involved in all that. You shouldn’t have to worry about anything except getting on with your life.”
“Thanks, Dad. I appreciate your offer, but I need to go down there and help his family with the arrangements.” She couldn’t do something so impersonal to a woman who’d made cookies for her.
“If you insist on doing this,” her mother said, “you’re on your own. Your father and I will not participate in this mockery of a funeral.”
Thank goodness for small favors.
Her father tented his fingers. He was getting ready to pronounce a verdict. Amanda sat straighter, ready to rebel. “You don’t need to do that.” His voice was soft, but she wasn’t fooled. This was an order. “You’ve been through enough. We’ll see that Charley and his family are taken care of. You can put all that behind you and move on.”
Amanda rose, went over to her father and hugged him. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll be fine. But if I get arrested for Charley’s murder, I’m counting on you to bail me out in time for dinner.”
The worried look on her father’s face made her wonder if he knew something she didn’t about the progress of the murder investigation.
The next day, over Charley’s continued protests, Amanda packed her saddlebags and prepared her ten-year old Harley Softail for the journey. The burgundy red bike wasn’t as fast as the one she’d wrecked, but it would be a lot more comfortable.
The hour ride gave her plenty of time to mull over her parents’ concerns about the trip as well as a growing trepidation about how she’d get through the next two days with strangers and a funeral. Irene had made all the arrangements. Tomorrow would be the “viewing and visitation,” then the next day there’d be traditional funeral services at the Methodist Church, followed by a graveside service at the Silver Creek Cemetery.
The good part, the one that kept her going, was that she’d left Charley back in Dallas, running after her as she roared out of the parking lot, demanding she stay.
The Randolphs’ big old farm house was a couple of miles outside of town, down a tree-lined, rutted dirt road that made Amanda glad she was on the softer-riding bike. Several pick-up trucks and a couple of older model sedans were scattered around the front yard among the trees that shaded the house.
She eased over the dirt and clumps of grass into a spot between the two cars, put down her kickstand and pulled off her helmet.
The screen door of the house burst open and two identical blond girls in cut-offs and pony tails rushed across the porch. Irene appeared behind them, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling.
The girls rushed up, surrounding her even though there were only two of them. “What a cool bike! I’m Paula!”
“I’m Penny. Can we ride?”
“You can’t ride a motorcycle!”
“I gotta learn sometime!”
“We made pies!”
“Girls, girls! Let your sister get settled before you talk her to death.” Irene walked up and hugged Amanda. “Come on in and meet the family. Paula, Penny, take Amanda’s bags to her room.” She indicated the saddlebags.
“I can do that,” Amanda protested.
“No, let us!”
Amanda smiled and allowed Irene to lead her into the house. In that moment she knew she’d made the right decision in coming.
The old house was filled with food and relatives. Both continued to stream in until Amanda thought the house would burst from all the people, and the big wooden table would collapse from all the food. Irene had killed “a mean old rooster who’s just been begging to get hisself into the pot” and made dumplings. That rooster might have been mean, but he certainly tasted good.
Herbert, Charley’s father, a tall, quiet man who looked a little like Charley but acted nothing like him, contributed a platter of his specialty, venison sausage. “Killed that deer myself. That meat doesn’t have any of those hormones and stuff you find at the grocery store.”
The menu had no structure. Fried chicken sat next to pork chops. Pinto beans, baked beans and lima beans were all among the offerings. The food was served on platters, in bowls and in pans. Irene’s china was comprised of at least five different patterns, some of it chipped. People heaped food onto their plates in delightful chaos and wandered around, eating and talking. It was totally wonderful. Her mother would have fainted had she been there.
Paula—or maybe it was Penny—had made a thick apple pie with lots of cinnamon and butter, and the other twin had created a buttermilk chess pie. The two animated blond girls watched and giggled as Amanda ate a piece of each pie then proclaimed that both were so good, she couldn’t possibly say which was better.
Early on in the evening Amanda gave up trying to keep track of names and relationships. She smiled and ate, accepted condolences and well wishes, listened to general conversation about Charley, admired pictures of kids and grandkids, smiled when she was introduced as “Aunt Amanda,” and let herself pretend for the evening that she was part of this sprawling, boisterous family.
At the end of the evening, after
everyone, including Amanda, pitched in to clean up, all the visitors finally left. Irene and the twins led Amanda upstairs to the third bedroom on the left. Charley’s old room.
“There’s a fan on the dresser if you get hot and a quilt in the closet if you get cold. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”
“We’re right next door if you need anything,” Paula assured her.
“And we won’t be asleep for a long time.” Penny giggled at her mother’s stern glance.
After hugs from everybody, Amanda closed the door and looked around Charley’s old room. It was the most comfortable room she’d ever seen, the complete opposite of the horrible stories Charley had told.
The iron bedframe, painted brown, was more ornate than the one she owned and had probably been in the family for generations rather than purchased at garage sale. The flowered bedspread had likely been added after Charley left. She couldn’t see him choosing such a pattern. A small, scarred wooden desk and chair sat by the window. A place for Charley to do his school work. As Irene had said, a fan rested on the antique dresser, its cord dangling to the wooden floor.
She turned off the light and changed into her nightshirt then settled into Charley’s old bed. The summer breeze coming through the open window brought the clean smells of trees and the sounds of crickets and night birds. This was the most relaxed she’d felt since Charley died. No fear of cops with arrest warrants, no drunks taking a leak on her property, no Charley freaking out about Kimball.
“Amanda, you shouldn’t be here.”
No! Charley couldn’t be here.
Amanda squeezed her eyes tightly shut and pulled the sheet over her head.
“Stop doing that,” he ordered. “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. Get up and talk to me.”
Amanda rolled onto her back and threw the sheet away from her face. “What are you doing here? How did you get here?”
“On the back of your bike. You ride like a maniac. No wonder you get so many speeding tickets.”
“You hitched a ride on the back of my bike and now you’re complaining about the way I ride? Is there nowhere I can go to get away from you?”
“I don’t think so. You need my help, so I’m going to be with you. We have to leave.”
“It’s too late. I already know about the lies you told me. A sofa in the living room while your mother turned tricks and took drugs in the only bedroom? Shame on you, Charley Randolph! You had a wonderful home life. Your family’s wonderful. How could you make up all those lies about them?”
Charley, glowing luminescent and faintly transparent in the moonlight, flinched. “Okay, maybe I embellished a little.”
Amanda sat upright in bed. “Embellished a little? You slandered these nice people who loved you and raised you. You lied. You said horrible things about them. Why did you do that? That served no purpose, even in your scams. Certainly it served no purpose in our relationship.”
Charley looked out the window. “If you’d known about my family, you’d have wanted to meet them. You’d have wanted to come here.”
“Duh!”
He shook his head. “You can’t be here.”
“What does it hurt if I’m with your family?”
An odd expression flashed across Charley’s face, one she hadn’t seen there before. It was gone so fast she couldn’t be certain, but it looked suspiciously like guilt and remorse.
Amanda groaned and fell back onto the bed. “Are you going to start on the Kimball thing again?”
Charley regarded her intently, and she thought for a moment he was going to say something important. But he only nodded. “Yes, you’re in danger from Kimball. He killed that woman and he killed me. What’s one more body when you’re on a roll? At least in Dallas he had to make an effort to get to you, but now you’ve walked right into his hands. And by coming down here, it’s like you’re throwing it in his face that you know about him. You’re in danger. He tried to kill you once. You want to end up like me? Dead?”
“No, I do not want to end up like you.” If she died, would she have to travel around with Charley? Did they have divorce where Charley was? Would she be stuck with him through eternity? That was a far worse vision of hell than Dante’s Inferno. “Go away, Charley.”
“I’ve been left behind to take care of you. I’m sure of that now.”
“You’re nuts. You were nuts when you were alive, and dying hasn’t improved your sanity. If you want to take care of me, disappear forever. Leave me alone. Let me enjoy your family, put your lying, cheating body in the ground and go back home.”
“I can’t disappear. You need me.”
“Fine. Don’t disappear. Go sit in the corner. Just shut up so I can sleep. And don’t go downstairs and turn on the television. If you’re bored, well, that’s just too bad. It’s your punishment for all the terrible things you did during your life. Karma.”
She pulled the sheet over her head again.
Charley was quiet for a long moment. “Promise me you’ll stay with my family the whole time you’re here and go home immediately after the funeral.”
“That’s exactly what I plan to do, but I’m not promising you anything. Look what happened to the last promise—love, honor and cherish.”
Charley gave a big sigh but remained silent. Amanda didn’t look, didn’t want to see if he was still there.
However, the peaceful night she’d anticipated was ruined. She couldn’t relax with Charley there.
And even though she thought he was probably lying about Kimball and the potential danger to her, she couldn’t dismiss a niggling worry. Her motorcycle had been sabotaged, and she almost died. Somebody had tried to kill her. Was she now in close proximity to her would-be killer?
Chapter Ten
Wrong, just wrong, Amanda thought as she squirmed uncomfortably on the first pew of the Methodist Church. Her mother-in-law sat beside her while her deceased husband lay in the coffin at the front of the church as well as stood beside it, peering in, criticizing what the undertaker had done with his body.
“Look at my hair. It’s awful! I never wore my hair like that. And make-up? They put make-up on me? I hope you didn’t pay these people to make me look like this, Amanda.”
She glared at him, wishing she’d had him cremated. That would have solved the hair and make-up problems.
Things didn’t improve as the pastor delivered the eulogy.
“Why’d he have to tell that schmaltzy story from when I was a kid? Makes it sound like pulling that cat out of that pond was the only good thing I ever did.”
Probably was. Amanda made a note to tell Charley her thoughts later, including the cremation regret. For the time being, all she could do was scowl at him while Irene sobbed softly into a tissue. Herbert slipped a consoling arm about his wife’s shoulder, his own eyes moist.
Finally the service ended. Amanda started out of the church with the family while Charley entertained himself by telling her all the “secrets” of the people around them.
“Big bald guy over there, Hayden Marshall, drinks a couple of beers every Sunday morning before he goes to the First Baptist Church with his wife. Can’t blame him. Look at his wife. She never shuts up. That tall blond over there? She’s not a natural blond. Want to know how I know?”
“Charley!” Amanda gasped involuntarily.
Irene slipped an arm around her waist. “I know, Amanda. I can’t help calling to him myself sometimes. I keep expecting him to come around the corner, smiling, telling us it was all one of his practical jokes.”
Amanda clenched her teeth and glowered at Charley.
“Hey, I was just going to tell you I dated her hairdresser. What did you think I was going to say, Amanda?” Charley’s laughter died abruptly. “It’s Kimball. He’s here.”
In spite of her certainty that all this Kimball stuff was nonsense, Amanda tensed at the genuine fear in Charley’s voice.
A tall, dark man approached. “Herbert, Irene, I wanted to come by and pay my respects
. I’m so sorry about your loss.” He grasped each of their hands in turn.
“Thank you,” Herbert mumbled.
The man was good-looking in a smooth, movie-star way, a way that would compel the attention of others from across the room. But up close, there was something disturbing in his eyes. They were large and brown and should have called up images of puppy dogs. Instead they sent a shiver down Amanda’s spine. This man’s gaze was not a warm brown. His eyes were cold and hard like a frozen pool in an underground cave where sunlight never had and never would touch.
The owner of those cold eyes reached for Amanda’s hand. “And this must be Charley’s widow. I’m Roland Kimball, mayor of our little town.” She reflexively drew back. Not that she really believed this small town official had murdered Charley or was a threat to her. It was those eyes. If she touched him, she might be sucked into their frigid depths and never return.
“Yes.” She forced a smile and tried to act as if she weren’t deliberately ignoring his outstretched hand. “I’m Charley’s widow.”
“Be careful,” Charley whispered.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Randolph. How long will you be staying in our little town?” His voice and his smile were warm and compelling. Only his eyes gave him away, turning his words into a veiled threat.
“Tell him you’re leaving tomorrow!” Charley ordered.
She wanted to leave right then, that very minute. Push through the crowd, get to her motorcycle and ride away from the man as fast as she could. “I’m not sure,” she said defiantly. “I may stay several days with my…my husband’s family. Get to know everybody.” She emphasized the last word, returning his veiled threat—if, indeed, such a threat existed.
“She’s going to be staying as long as we can keep her,” Irene confirmed, smiling at Amanda.
“No!” Charley protested, waving his arms frantically. “You gotta get out of here! Go home! Buy a gun! Move in with the judge!”
“I hope to see you again while I’m here,” Amanda said sweetly.
The Ex Who Wouldn't Die (Charley's Ghost Book 1) Page 9
