Now Auntie Zanne left the kitchen with reluctance, her eyes brimming with tears and her face filled with the same distress as what was etched into Josephine Gail’s.
I wasn’t sure, though, that her leaving was going to help. People who suffered from depression were unmotivated to talk. But I didn’t suppose that Pogue knew that because Auntie’s leave seemed only to empower him. He changed tactics.
“Did you kill that man?” he asked, his voice harsh. Changing his demeanor, he sat up straight and stiffened his jaw. “Is that why he was here, Josephine Gail? Because you did it and put him in that casket?”
I saw sudden alarm wash over Josephine Gail and her face go pale. She seemed to shrink–her shoulders slumped, she wrapped her arms around herself, folded her legs together and began to rock back and forth in her seat.
“You may as well tell me, Josephine Gail.” Pogue leaned in close to her, taunting her. “Tell me how you killed him.”
She slowly shook her head back and forth as if she was trying to keep Pogue’s words out.
“Why did you kill him?” Pogue squinted his eyes. “Did you stab him? Is that what happened? Or did you take that shotgun you keep that belonged to your daddy and do it?”
“Pogue.” I said. “Don’t.”
“She knows something, Romie.” He turned and looked at me. “I know she does. And she is going to tell me what she knows.”
“You’re not asking her that,” I said. “You’re accusing her of doing it. That’s not right. It’s not the right way to go about it.”
He looked up at me as if contemplating my words, then turned back to her with even more determination in his eyes. “Did you do it, Josephine Gail? Did you kill that man and put him here because you thought Babet would help you cover it up?” He shook his head. “She can’t save you, you know.” He seemed to be angered at the thought. “Not if you did it. I’m the only one that can. But only if you tell me the truth.”
Josephine Gail closed her eyes, and I could imagine the black hole that she had disappeared into somewhere deep inside, because we didn’t hear another peep from her.
Chapter Five
Our house on Grand River Road had always been divided, in a real sense and in a figurative one.
There was the “primary” business. Ball Funeral Home & Crematorium. It was settled, impassive, presented by a constant hush and much formality. Alive only with the vibrant woven Axminster carpets, papered walls, alcoves, podiums and rows of gold painted Chiavari chairs that adorned the various Chapel Rooms–all appropriately named.
And then there was the part that was immersed in notoriety and commotion. The living quarters.
Before I moved away, a lot of the hubbub was my life at odds with Auntie. A whirlwind of emotions and passions. I wanted something different. Something more. She felt that what she offered me should somehow be enough.
Then all her auxiliaries and clubs produced clamor and disarray in our daily life comingled with the constant intrusions from her “other” business.
Herbal medicines and potions–the remnants of her Louisiana roots and the only vestige of a heritage she’d given up long ago–were still alive and well in East Texas. Housed in the rear of the house and in Auntie’s backyard botanical garden, she deemed herself a Voodoo herbalist, one in a clan of many, although those words were rarely spoken in anything other than whispers. Her surreptitious, and often scorned, trade hailed boisterous and anxious clientele, but through the years sustained a booming enterprise.
After my departure, I soon found that my Auntie Zanne could be a tempest all on her own and, oddly enough, it was what I admired most in her.
But it was the one thing that others feared.
I didn’t envy Pogue one bit when Auntie came back into the kitchen and discovered Josephine Gail had been warped by his questioning.
“What have you done?” she said and gave Pogue a wallop across his back with a wooden spoon she grabbed off the sink.
“Wait, Babet!” he screeched, his rough exterior cracking in her presence. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Look at her!” Auntie said. “Good Lord!” She grabbed Pogue by the collar and pulled him out of the chair. She got behind him and with her palms in the middle of his back, bent at the knee, legs spread, she started to push. “You are out of here!”
“Babet, stop,” he said, standing his ground. “I’m the sheriff. This is my job.”
“Just cause a chicken’s got wings, don’t mean it can fly!” Auntie Zanne yelled.
“I have to do my job,” he said.
“No, you don’t! Not here,” Auntie said then looked at me. “Don’t just stand there. Come and help me.”
“Auntie!” I said.
“Babet!” Pogue said.
“I thought you were going to watch him,” Auntie said to me. “He is going to send her off the edge.”
“I think she’s already there,” I said.
“My heavens!” Auntie said. “What kind of doctor are you? Is that how you let people treat your patients?”
“My patients are usually dead,” I said.
“Well, it wouldn’t have been long before he killed Josephine Gail.” She gave Pogue a kick in the back of his knee. “Get going,” she said. “You are out of here.”
“I’m not finished,” he said.
“Probably best if you don’t ask her anymore questions,” I said. “You were kind of rough with her, Pogue. That isn’t even like you.”
“I was nervous,” he said and glanced at Josephine Gail. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to get answers.”
“You were trying to kill her,” Auntie said.
Pogue looked at me and I nodded.
“Alright,” he said and wriggled his shoulders, tugging on his shirt to straighten it out. “I was a little harsh.”
“A little?” Auntie screeched.
“I was wrong, okay?” he said remorsefully. “But at some point, Babet, I’ll have to come back. I have to bring Doc Westin and I still have more people to talk to.”
“Out!” Auntie said, teeth clenched and out of breath. She threw her wooden spoon at him.
“Bye Romie,” Pogue said, then left.
“And I think I might just have to call the medical board on you!” Auntie Zanne said to me. She went over to Josephine Gail and sat in the chair in front of her. I had my fingers crossed that there weren’t any objects close by for her to hurl at me.
Instead she took her friend’s hand and rubbed it. Then Auntie leaned in to meet her forehead with Josephine Gail’s. “You’re gonna be okay, sweetie. I got you.”
“You want me to put some water on?” I asked.
“That’ll be nice of Romaine, huh?” She talked to Josephine Gail instead of me. “I think that’ll be good for you, some more of my tea.”
I filled up the teapot and put it on the stove.
“Before I turn you in to the board,” she said, sitting back in her chair without looking at me, “I’ma need you to check her out. Her mind and body are fragile enough and she was in all that rain.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I’m going to keep her with us. Put her in one of those rooms.” She nodded toward the back hallway off the kitchen where she usually saw her clients. “I’m going to make up the bed for her.” She stroked Josephine Gail’s hair. “And don’t ask her any questions, either.” Auntie put up a finger to warn me. “Check her out without a word.”
“Okay,” I said again.
I went over to Josephine Gail and sat in the seat that Auntie Zanne had just vacated and I took her hand. Holding it, I looked at her. I tried to let my face show all the compassion I had and the pain that I felt for her.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “I’m just going to get my medical bag and take a look at you.”
I stood up and as I started to
leave, she tugged on the hem of my top and pulled me down. “I didn’t do it,” she whispered to me. “It wasn’t me.”
Chapter Six
Everyone who’d been at the funeral home was a suspect according to Pogue.
In my guesstimation, that could be anyone in Roble.
All nine hundred and eighty-four of them.
And with Auntie’s social reach, it could encompass all of East Texas.
But I believed Josephine Gail. I didn’t think she had anything to do with it, other than finding the body. Auntie’s house was always filled with people, traipsing through for one of her businesses or the other.
I played doctor to Josephine Gail without asking her anything that pertained to the murder, only questions that could have been found on any medical records form. I prescribed her something to help her sleep and was about to head to the drugstore to get it when Auntie dismissed it with the familiar wave of her hand and cooked her up another cup of brew instead. We ate dinner in silence, and even though Auntie seemed not to be speaking to me and never needed any help cleaning, I started on the dishes while she put up the leftover food.
My hands in soapy water, I heard a knock on the back door before it swung open.
“Babet,” Rhett said stepping inside. “The guys just wanted to say goodnight.”
“You all finished?” Auntie asked as two more people stepped through the door.
“Yep. For the night,” he said.
“Hi Romaine,” one of the men said, his face lighting up. “I didn’t know Babet was bringing you back with her.”
“She’s here to stay,” Auntie said.
“No, I’m not,” I said and then smiled. “Good to see you, Spoon.”
“You remember him, Romaine?” Auntie asked in spite of me just calling him by name. “He’s Flannery’s husband.”
Dexter “Spoon” Poole was thin with a large, oblong head earning him his nickname. His skin was tanned and leathery-looking, he had strawberry blond hair and a scraggly beard. His wife, Flannery, was the closest thing that we had to a beauty queen in Roble. She had black hair and emerald green eyes. Even now in her late fifties, her beauty had endured as she aged and still gleaned envy and admiration. One of the women in Auntie’s many clubs, Flannery, other than marrying Spoon, hadn’t done much else.
I had always looked at her with wonderment. Why would someone so beautiful not want to leave to see what the world could offer her? Her not wanting to venture out and share what she had with more than her neighbors had fortified in me a desire to go.
“Is that my only claim to fame?” Spoon looked at Auntie Zanne. He had a scratchy voice and spoke in low tones. “That I married Flannery.”
“That, I’d say, is a feat, Spoon,” Auntie Zanne said. “She was the prettiest girl in East Texas. How you managed to snatch her up, I don’t know. You sure I never fixed you a love potion?”
“Never did. It was all me. And my charm,” he said with a grin.
“Of course I remember Spoon,” I said. “And not just because he’s Flannery’s husband.”
I said it, but I didn’t mean it. Those were the only memories I could conjure of him, him being with her.
“So, what are you guys finished with?” I asked.
“We were rehearsing,” Rhett said.
“Rehearsing?” I repeated.
“I’m Gus.” A burly guy spoke up and stuck out his hand. “No one’s going to introduce me to this pretty lady?” He had long hair, a round fat face, rosy cheeks and two chins.
“She’s not just a pretty lady,” Auntie said. “She’s my niece. Don’t you see the resemblance?” She came and put her five-foot three frame next to my five-foot eight one and produced a big grin. “Smile.”
So I did.
“Spitting image,” Rhett offered with a chuckle.
“Gus lives out on Josephine Gail’s property,” Auntie said. “He plays the Cajun fiddle, Romaine.” I could see the little mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “He’s pretty good,” she said.
“Thanks, Babet. I try,” Gus said.
“He made his fiddle,” Rhett said. “I think that’s pretty impressive.”
“You did?” Auntie said. “I didn’t know that. Might have to hire you to do some carpentry around here.”
“Hey, what can I say,” Gus said. “I’m good at working with my hands. Just give me a call.”
“You playing your fiddle at the festival?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said. “I save her just for me. Got a store-bought one for when I play gigs.”
“Maybe you could make another one,” Auntie said. “I might want to give one as a Christmas present come December.”
“Auntie,” I said, warning her. I could tell she was ready to spill the beans.
“So, what do you play, Spoon?” I asked.
“He’s our drummer,” Rhett offered.
“Oh. Okay,” I said.
“You guys want something to eat?” Auntie said. “I was just putting it up. We’ve got plenty left. Romaine eats like a bird.”
“If you don’t mind,” Gus said.
I could tell by his size he liked to eat.
“I’m always in for some of your cooking,” Spoon added.
“Well, I’m going to head upstairs,” I said. “Get out of your way.”
“You’re not in our way,” Gus said. “We don’t want to put you out.”
“You’re not,” I said. “It’s just been a long day.”
“A very long day,” Auntie agreed.
J.R. followed me up to my childhood bedroom. It had been a long week and I was dead tired. No pun intended. Throwing parties, moving, riding for nearly a whole day on a train, and coming to Roble to find a dead squatter in one of the viewing rooms that I ended up partially examining was enough to make me sleep through the next few days.
I found my room just as I had left it eighteen years ago. I hadn’t minded it looking like it did when I was only visiting because I knew I wouldn’t have to tolerate it long before I’d be back in my own grown up apartment. But with this visit having no definite end in sight, the room made me queasy. Posters of the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, and Prince–places and people I’d hankered for then–now represented a long ago fulfilled reality. I glanced around the room.
It was a large bedroom, big windows, and a nice-sized sitting room attached. Everything in both rooms was some shade of purple, fluffy, and cheap. I had over the years become decidedly more upscale and, I’d like to think, classy. I didn’t want to start backsliding.
I hoped to God it wasn’t that I was looking down my nose at Auntie, her friends or her way of life. But it just wasn’t for me. Not anymore.
That wasn’t bad to say, was it?
The room had been dusted, my desk was neat, and the bed had fresh linens. It looked as if I had left this morning.
“Has Auntie been washing my clothes again?” I asked J.R. He tilted his head and let out a bark. “Figures,” I said. “I haven’t been here in two years, and for some reason she thinks she needs to keep everything clean and ready for me.”
My auntie rewashed my clothes, folded them, put them in the dresser drawers, and then changed the bed sheets at least once a month. Every time I’d come home to visit, I would take some of my clothes and give them to Goodwill. Somehow, she’d still found enough of them to keep my drawers full.
I opened the dresser drawer and I could smell the Downy scent as it wafted out. I reached in and pulled out a pair of underwear I didn’t recognize.
“J.R.,” I turned to my dog, the black lacey thongs dangling from my finger, “does she go out and buy things to keep in here?”
He tilted his head the other way, his tongue hanging out.
He didn’t have a clue what she was up to either.
I pushed the lacey bottoms back down in t
he drawer and plopped down on the bed. I pushed my bags that Rhett had brought up earlier out of the way.
Glancing around the room, I knew I couldn’t stay. I wasn’t this person anymore and I didn’t want any semblance of that old life seeping into me while I slept.
“C’mon, J.R.,” I said and sprang off the bed. “We’re going to find somewhere else to sleep.” I plucked a pair of pajamas out of the top drawer and pulled the comforter off the bed, causing my luggage to topple over. I balled the comforter up in my arms, snatched a pillow up and headed downstairs.
I was going to sleep on the main floor. Yes, there were dead bodies everywhere, but I didn’t care. Unlike with Auntie Zanne, they kept quiet around me. Right now, I needed something that didn’t scream out reminders of how badly my life was falling apart.
Yep, I’d feel more comfortable among the dearly departed. After all, the dead were my life–I grew up in a funeral home, I studied thanatology in school, had trained as a medical examiner to investigate it, and I had been christened by the Holy Roman Catholic Church in death by virtue of my name.
The actual translation of Romaine Gabriela Sadie Heloise Wilder, the moniker given to me by my dear parents was in fact, “Dead Family Name – Dead Aunt – Dead Grandma – Dead Grandma – Wilder.”
Death was my legacy.
Chapter Seven
No morning sun came streaming through the thick velvet burgundy drapes that hung on the windows of the funeral parlor. It didn’t matter though. I couldn’t sleep any longer.
I glanced at the time on my cell phone. Six thirty. A guttural groan gurgled out as I pulled one leg off the back of the couch where I must have thrown it in my night of fitful sleep. Untangling myself from the cover, I tried to sit up but fell right back down.
“Ugh!”
No. I didn’t mind sleeping with dead people, but my body rebelled against sleeping on a sofa. Especially one that was shorter than I was. My body too spoiled for anything but my Tempur-Pedic Cloud Supreme memory foam mattress. I got up, supporting my aching back with my hand. I grabbed my cell phone and, stepping over J.R., moseyed into the kitchen. I could hear the water running and my auntie scrubbing away at something even at this early hour.
Secrets, Lies, and Crawfish Pies Page 4
