Yew to a Kill

by Kim Smith

  She gave me the once over, totally unconvinced. “I ain’t seen that guy in days.”

  “Oh really? Maybe he’s out of town. Well, thanks anyway,” I said, turning to leave.

  “You wanna gimme your name or something in case he comes home?” she asked.

  I stopped. I most assuredly did not want him to know of my visit since he hadn’t been home for me to bump into on my own. Stealth had advantages.

  Turning back, I grinned. “Oh, no. He told me if he wasn’t home, to just, you know, let myself in and leave his vitamins on the table. We’ll have to reschedule.”

  She shrugged, fussed at Booger aka Yippy to move and shut the door. I hurried away, praying she wasn’t lying. On the heels of that prayer, I added that I hoped she wasn’t whispering to Rafe on the phone right now about some broad next door at his place.

  Strolling back to his trailer, I mentally kicked myself. Once again I had put my foot in my mouth. Now I couldn’t use a common screwdriver to break into the door in case I was still being watched. I needed a way in.

  Once on his doorstep, I looked around for a place he might hide a key in case he locked himself out. I tried to look inconspicuous as I lifted the welcome mat, although if anyone put two and two together they would know I was not invited to enter this domicile.

  Under a thick coating of dirt and mold under that rug, I found a key. The act of his putting a key in the most obvious place made me shake my head. He should have at least left it under a garden stone, or a fake dog turd. That’s the best way to throw off a possible burglar.

  Using as little of my nail as possible, I dug the key out, placed it in the lock, and turned. The door opened with a loud thump from where it stuck in the aluminum frame. I hurried inside and shut the door behind me. Out of sight might mean the neighbor would forget about me.

  My breathing rattled around in my chest. Nerves made me heave and puff. I was, in effect, breaking and entering someone’s private residence. I was, in effect, being a criminal in the eyes of the law. I was, in effect, breaking every heart who loved and cared about me.

  So I tried not to think about what would happen if discovered and tried to remember Dwayne’s mournful look as he relayed the message about Bubba’s death, and how he thought Rafe might be involved.

  Rafe deserved my snooping.

  Justified, I wandered around, not really sure what I sought. No food in the fridge and no wet towels in the bathroom gave proof the neighbor lady was right. He hadn’t been home for a few days at least.

  I went to his bedroom and found he used his dresser for a desk. His last bank statement sat atop a pile of paperwork. I checked his deposits. He worked for Bird’s Tweeters and Woofers, a car stereo installation place, and he didn’t make squat on a regular basis. But his last several deposits were for over five grand apiece. How did a stereo installer make that kind of money?

  I recalled a case on America’s Most Wanted where the guy worked for the mob and they got his bank account information to prove he had banked his take. Did Rafe work for the mob? Sal would be interested in this news.

  I memorized his last deposit amount and date just in case, and placed the statement back where I’d found it. His box of unused checks sat neatly inside a shoebox in a desk drawer.

  After tearing off one of the forms for check reorder, I folded it and shoved it into my back pocket. Printed on them were his account number, his address, his telephone number, and his driver’s license number. This surprised me, since most personal checks didn’t have this information any more.

  Smart people began having their license number taken off them to stay off the government’s grid. The FBI pointed out the ignorance of allowing your personal numbers to be out there for the world to see. Gave criminals easier ways to be criminals, not to mention telemarketers. So everyone changed their checks.

  Everyone except the same clever man who left his door key under his front mat. Why not have his driver’s license number plastered where everyone could take advantage of him?

  Sheesh.

  At least finding out a bit more about him would be easy to do.

  I checked under his bed and found his stash of pornography. Flipping through a copy of a raunchy man-flesh magazine, I wondered how the male models got into such odd positions. My pulse quickened in the wrong way, and I tossed it back under the bed. Seeing males in all their glory disturbed me.

  I’d been sexually deprived way too long. Tucked in his nightstand, along with his copy of the latest lottery numbers, sat an address book. I chose the Ns randomly and pulled it open by the tab. There were a ton of N names. I let my fingers do the walking and discovered enough male names and numbers to make the armed forces jealous.

  It occurred to me these names might be just the break I needed to connect him with someone who might have a reason to be in the cemetery after hours. If necessary, I’d call each and every name and ask their connection.

  I glanced at my cell phone. I’d been snooping long enough. Time to go.

  The address book fell into my purse when I bumped the night stand hard enough. It wasn’t theft if it was accidentally obtained. I locked the door behind me, replaced the key, and roared off. A few quick turns later, I arrived at Dwayne’s trailer, slipped in behind his Mustang, and shut the car off.

  The sun slanted across the sky and shadows dipped between the trailers. No signs of life. Dwayne might have decided to down a few beers and fallen asleep. I didn’t want to disturb his rest. He had taken Bubba’s death pretty hard.

  I cursed Betsy’s creaky hinges when Dwayne appeared in his doorway.

  He left the door open for me. Entering, I nodded to him sitting across the floor on his brown velour couch. “You okay?”

  He tilted his head and squinted at me. “No. I’m not. But thanks for asking.”

  I sat in the ugly green chair nearby. “Can I do anything?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Jus’ need some time is all. Time heals all wounds, they say.”

  I took in the pile of squashed beer cans. Numbing brew. Feel no pain, Dwayne. “You want to talk about what happened?”

  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Talk about it? About what? He’s dead. He was my friend. Ain’t nothin’ to talk about. That’s it.”

  “Okay. Well, guess I’ll head out then, if you’re sure you don’t need anything,” I said.

  He opened his eyes and tilted forward. “Hell, Wall-ass. What can you do? What can any summabitch do? Now I know how you felt when Furniture Dude turned up dead. Really sucks when it’s somebody you know.”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t want to think about Rick Fine. Not today.

  “Here, get a beer for us,” he said, pointing at the kitchen. “Take a load off, stay a while.”

  I nodded and retrieved a can of Bud out of his fridge. His supply stood at two so I decided to leave them for him. He needed them more than me.

  After placing the opened can in front of him, I watched as he slurped some down. “What? Ain’t you having one?”

  “Nope. Got some stuff to do. You know, driving around and all.”

  “Yeah, hell, you can’t drink and drive. You can’t hardly walk and chew gum at the same time.”

  I smiled. He wasn’t being unkind, just honest.

  “Did Sexy Sallie say anything after I left? Anything about Rafe?” he asked.

  “No. Nothing interesting anyway.”

  “Oh. Just stuff you and him would be interested in, huh?”

  I shrugged in answer. Then asked, “You don’t really think Rafe had anything to do with Bubba’s death, do you?”

  “Sure as hell hope not, but who knows? The freakin’ world’s gone nuts,” he answered. Then, quietly added, “That would be like losing two friends. Bubba and Rafe? Hell naw.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “But you beat me there, too, didn’t ya? You lost Rick and whats-his-name?”

  “Joe.” Damn, why did I know he would go there?

  Joe Drury, Rick’s
friend, had been murdered too. The memory still ached like a tender bruise, and I flinched away from the thought of it.

  “Yeah, Joe,” he said, recognition sinking in. He took a long drink before continuing, “Well, Bubba’s sister was not as interesting to talk to as old Sal was I’ll bet. She didn’t do much talkin’ at all, in fact, she was too busy crying her guts out.”

  Ouch. No wonder he downed so much liquid pain-killer.

  “Oh. You went to see her? I can’t imagine what that was like for you, Dee.”

  He nodded. “Yes I did. It wouldn’t be right for Miss Carrie to hear the news from a buncha uniforms.”

  My heart twisted. “I’m really sorry about your loss, Dwayne. And Bubba’s sister’s, too.”

  He slugged more beer. “You’re sorry? I’m the one sorry,” he said, belching. “He was my friend, and I couldn’t even protect him. Damn. I’m a sorry friend. Sorry ass.”

  I walked over to him and sat down, patting his arm. “Don’t. You’re not a sorry friend. You’re a good, caring, decent guy. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened to me last year if you hadn’t been there for me. But, it isn’t our job to keep people from their lives, or their deaths. We’re not God.”

  “But I’m just a bad element, Shan. Just a bad crowd. Sal said so.”

  I regretted telling him what Sal had said and wished with all my heart it was something behind us instead of between us.

  Changing the subject seemed like a good idea. “Look, you’re a little sloppy now. How about I help you get some food down, and I’ll tidy up while you sleep?”

  “Nope. Don’t wanna sleep. Wanna think. Wanna think about life and death and all that jazz. You can go now. I’ll be all right.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so just gave him a quick hug and let myself out. I stood outside, listening to his loud sobbing for a few minutes before heading to my car.

  Chapter Four

  I slid into the seat, pounded the steering wheel, and cussed myself purple for a few moments before cranking Betsy up and pulling out of the trailer park. Once rolling, I slammed a CD into the player, yearning for angry music to drown my discontent. Linkin Park worked just fine.

  The CD player had been a gift from Dwayne for Christmas. He tried to get music out of my old cassette player and battered radio, but they had long since defected from Betsy’s antique zip code.

  “You need some tunes, little Missy,” he’d said, turning dials and pushing buttons. Finally, he added, “But first you need a player.” And he proceeded to move me into a CD player for my car. I wanted all the latest rage, but decided to save my money and maybe get it this Christmas.

  Now as I remembered, I wondered if Dwayne had used Bird’s Tweeters and Woofers and made a mental note to ask him. Could be a door opener to getting to where Rafe spent some of his daylight hours.

  We already knew where he spent some of his nights. The memory of his trotting full-tilt across the cemetery grounds returned. What the hell was he doing out there?

  The sun dipped behind South Lake buildings by the time I turned the car toward my aunt’s eatery, lovingly named Tillie’s Home Cookin’-IT’S GOOOOD, for some of her fabulous dishes. Recently, my aunts began closing around two on Saturday since the clientele after lunch tended to be a bit slim. Still, they often stayed much later cleaning or stocking, and I hoped to find them there. But when I swung by, there were no cars in the lot. Chewing on my lower lip, I decided to head over to their house. The day had been stressful, and I needed comforting, too. Besides, they got all the dirty gossip at the restaurant from customers with nothing better to do than sit and sip coffee and talk. Inadvertently, I might pick up something helpful about Bubba’s death.

  I swung down Greenman, turned onto Crease Road, and wound my way back into their neighborhood. Most of the houses sported aluminum siding. I glanced around, admiring the single-family homes once considered upper-crust in the earlier days of South Lake. Now they were just middle-of-the-road homes, moderately priced in the face of the huge all-brick monsters sprouting up in new neighborhoods across Greenman Road. The new community had a golf course as an additional draw, and I suspected that sort of thing insured the builders got more money.

  I dreaded the day I would have to convince my aunts to move from the area. According to Sal, historically, crime would rear its ugly head in the places closest to commercial property going up all along Greenman. Not a good thing for homeowners to face.

  I parked in the driveway behind Aunt Nan’s big hulk of a Dodge. Someone heard the creak of Betsy’s door and flipped on the driveway light. I mentally made a note to have the thing greased as soon as possible. As I walked from the car, the porch light, set on a motion sensor, beamed on and Aunt Nancy opened the door.

  Her silvered blond hair floated around her face, and she wore sweats and a sweater with pearl buttons. She dressed young for an almost sixty-year-old, but I loved her style. She and Aunt Tillie were roommates for life, as neither ever married. I, the adopted child, became the pinnacle of their existence some days.

  “Shannon?” she asked. “Hey girl. You’re just in time for supper.”

  In the south, mealtimes are a big deal. No matter if you are selling brooms door to door, traditionally, if you arrive at a mealtime, you are more than likely going to be asked to stay. And the fare varied widely. In the waning of winter, it was usually something someone put up in their freezer from their garden of the summer before.

  But this was family, and as such, tradition went even deeper. I used to help shell the peas, shuck the corn, and peel the tomatoes. Foods you helped prepare tasted even better. Since I didn’t live there anymore, I could just be thankful for continued traditions.

  “How’s it going?” I asked, following her through the old two-story into the kitchen and dining room. The Mamas—my name for my two aunts—only rarely used the rest of the house for anything, content to move from kitchen and dining room, to living room and bed. The whole upstairs had probably not had a soul in it since I moved away some years back. My room was just as I left it, complete with bookcases filled with high school annuals, college textbooks, and memories.

  “Not too bad, if you mean the business, and just awful if you mean supper. Tillie burned something, I smell it,” she answered, wrinkling her nose. “I hope she didn’t get the Wonder bread bag too close to the toaster again. The last time, she melted it plumb onto the toaster and we had to go buy a new one.”

  I lifted my nose and sniffed. Not burnt plastic, but definitely something to do with bread. As we reached the kitchen, the smell got stronger.

  “Hey, Shannon!” Aunt Tillie exclaimed, hurrying to kiss me. She stood five feet even in her stocking feet, and spouted a head full of premature silver hair without a speck of blond in it like her sister’s.

  “Hey, Tills. What have you done? I see smoke.” I waved at the cloudy air. “Should I open the back door?”

  “Oh dang it!” She turned back to the stove and waved. “Oh, I forgot about the rolls. I’ve got a ton more, though. If you would, Sugar, just prop open the screen a little. That’s good. Now you just go on over to the table and have a seat. It’s all going to be out in a minute. Nancy, get Shannon some tea.”

  Obediently, we gathered our eating accoutrements; flatware, dishes, glasses of sweet tea, and made ourselves comfy. Then Nancy blessed the food, and we three dug in.

  “What brings you by?” Aunt Tillie asked, passing the gravy. “You gotta try this milk gravy, Sugar, it is just the best ever.”

  “I had a rough day and wanted some good food and good company before heading home.”

  “Oh? What happened?” Nancy asked. “And please tell me it won’t keep you from seeing Sister and I at church. You know we’re singing in the choir this week.” I ladled gravy on my sliced turkey. “I remember, Aunt Nan, but Dwayne’s friend, Bubba Thames, got killed, and Dwayne’s taking the situation pretty hard. I’m afraid it might keep me after all.”

  “Oh no!” Aunt
Tillie said, shocked. “Not Bradley Thames? Mr. Thames, the florist over on the highway?”

  I nodded. Dwayne had said his real name was Bradley. “Yeah, why? Did you know him?”

  “Well, good grief, Shannon, Brad just brought me a whole bunch of carnations and lilies and fancy flowers to put in vases on the tables at the restaurant. We had a sort of arrangement going on. A fair trade deal, you know? Now you say he’s dead?”

  I nodded again, pausing to scoop green peas onto my fork. “Yeah, and not a good thing either. Suspicious death. Now when exactly did he come by your place?”

  “Oh, probably Thursday afternoon. He was trying to drum up business for his place by getting involved in some sort of contest for florists in the area with a great big entry fee. I promised to try to help him out. My goodness, he was such a sweet man.”

  “Well, you know, the cops won’t say anything yet, and Dwayne was too upset to think about discussing it, but apparently he was killed. Homicide.”

  The room got quiet. My aunts watched Channel Three news faithfully every night at six and knew crime was a daily concern in Memphis, but they always freaked a little when it came home to roost in South Lake. I marveled that they ever recovered when Rick Fine had been murdered.

  While we ate, I considered what Bubba might have been involved in to make someone kill him. I tried to remember if Dwayne had mentioned the contest to me. It was hard to imagine a florist being anyone’s target.

  After a respectable pause, Nancy shook salt onto her potatoes and gave me a level glare. “Wonder who would want to do such a thing? I declare, evil is slithering around this world in such a way as the end may come any moment.”

  “Ain’t it the truth? But still, Brad was so sweet. Now who would want to kill him?” Aunt Tillie added sorrowfully. “I hope he was saved. Shannon, was Bradley saved?”

  “Now, Aunt Tillie, I don’t have any notion about that. In fact, I don’t know anything about any of this stuff, so don’t y’all get to poking me for information. It’s bad enough how Dwayne is prostrate with grief.”