Who Invited the Dead Man?

by Sprinkle, Patricia

  One of the officers stepped forward. “Just a minute. We’re going to have to cite you . . .”

  I turned and motioned him back toward the gate. “Would you say this woman is competent to stand trial, officer?” I asked softly.

  “Well, no, Judge, but—”

  “Would you say she ought to be sent to an institution?”

  Pooh used to stand on her front porch steps with warm home-baked cookies when he walked home from elementary school. Maybe he remembered those cookies, or maybe he thought of his own grandmother, who had never been the same since his Uncle Jack was killed in Vietnam. When you live in a small town, you know so many things about each other. “She can’t be trusted with firearms in the house, Judge.”

  “We’ll get the guns out of the house this afternoon. All of them. I’ll see to that myself.”

  “Yes, ma’am. May I put that in my report?”

  “Sure. Say that Judge Yarbrough personally oversaw the removal of all firearms from the premises.”

  As soon as the officers left, I followed Otis inside and we collected all the DuBose hunting rifles, shotguns, and ammunition. “I hate to take ’em without her knowin’,” Otis worried out loud, “but we have to for her own safety.”

  “If she asks, say I took them away to clean them. You’re sure there aren’t any more?”

  He furrowed his brow above his grizzled eyebrows. “Used to be a little bitty twenty-two pistol, but I think she gave it to Miss Augusta after we had all those robberies a good many years back. Miss Winifred never had much use for little guns.”

  “I’ll ask Gusta. Meanwhile, you search for it. If you find it, bring it to me right away. I gave my word that I’d oversee the removal of all firearms from these premises.”

  That promise would come back to haunt me.

  4

  When I called Gusta to ask about Pooh’s gun, she said Meriwether put it somewhere and she’d ask about it. Since it wasn’t at Pooh’s, I forgot about it. I pretty much forgot about Gusta and Meriwether, too, for two weeks. Then, on Saturday, I went to Phyllis’s Beauty Parlor for a long-overdue perm. Phyllis was almost finished rolling me when somebody came in and demanded, “Is it true Meriwether’s painting her house red, white, and blue?”

  “Sounds real tacky, if you ask me,” said a customer at a station I couldn’t see.

  Phyllis held the last hank of my hair straight up in curling paper and turned to whoever spoke. “Buck says it’s gonna be gorgeous. The actual colors are creamy magnolia, slate blue and old burgundy, with just a tad of forest green up at that point near the roof. He’s head contractor on the project, you know.” Phyllis—who was Buck’s wife—picked up the last pink roller while the biddies cackled on.

  “Wonder what she has against plain white paint?”

  “Same thing she has against those gorgeous kitchen cabinets. Is she really gonna rip them out and put in plain old wood?”

  Phyllis set that one straight. “They aren’t plain old wood. They’re solid oak, Buck says, with oak and white ceramic handles. She’s taking the kitchen floor down to wood, too.”

  “Doesn’t she know you can’t mop wood?”

  “Probably never mopped a floor in her life.”

  “You can mop anything if you put enough polyurethane on it.”

  “When’s it gonna be ready for her to move in?”

  Phyllis tied a net around my lumpy curlers. “Buck says she’s gonna move in as soon as Miss Gusta’s new help arrives, even if it’s not done. Says she wants to be on hand to supervise. Buck wishes she’d stay where she is and let him get on with his work. Okay, MacLaren. Let’s put you under the drier a few minutes.”

  They kept talking as I slid down from the high chair and headed to the driers.

  “She can’t cook, can she, until the kitchen floor’s done?”

  “Can’t cook, anyway. She’ll be going back for Florine’s meals the rest of her life, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Must be nice to have that much money plus a cook to go back to.”

  “When’s the new girl coming?”

  The last thing I heard before the drier roared in my ears was, “Late Monday, I believe.”

  I wasn’t thinking about Alice Fulton, though, on Monday afternoon when I left the store. I was going to see the florist to discuss centerpieces for Joe Riddley’s party so Clarinda would stop nagging me about it. To my surprise, we agreed on what I needed so quickly that I decided I had time for a piece of pie and a cup of coffee.

  The place for pie in Hopemore is Myrtle’s Cafe, a local restaurant that still advertises “Food as Good as Mama Used to Make.” That hasn’t been true since her husband had his bypass and Myrtle stopped frying her chicken and fish or putting a slice of fatback in her vegetables. Nowadays she only cooks as good as Mama did if your mama was a Yankee. But Myrtle’s is still the best place in town for dessert. Her meringue stands two inches thick with sweet sugar beads on the top. Just like Mama’s.

  Myrtle and I visited a little and I said what I always said: “You have simply got to replace this floor. You’ve got so many holes in the tile, somebody’s going to trip one day and sue you for all you’ve got.”

  Myrtle said what she always said, too: “I don’t have much to sue for, what with Jack being so sick and all. I’m saving for a floor, though. I just haven’t gotten around to it.” Which would have made me a lot sorrier for her if I didn’t know she drove a new gold Chrysler, took a long vacation to Branson last year, and paid her kitchen help dirt. You don’t have many secrets when you live in a small town.

  Finally I asked for chocolate pie.

  She jerked her head in the direction of a back booth and said, “Sorry, Mac—I mean Y’r Honor—I didn’t know you were coming, so I gave that girl back there the last piece.” She leaned down and whispered, “I think she must be Miss Gusta’s new help. She had a letter signed by Meriwether on the table when I took her order, and I heard she’d be arriving late this afternoon. Must have got here early, and stopped for pie and coffee to fill up the time.”

  I saw a cloud of dark hair so lively it looked electric. Its owner was a slender girl with her head bent over a paperback book and both hands cupping a mug. She carried it absently to her mouth while she read.

  “Meriwether’s moving out tomorrow,” Myrtle confided. “The poor thing’s got her job cut out for her, wouldn’t you say?”

  I didn’t have time or inclination to gossip. “How fresh is your banana pudding?”

  “Made not half an hour ago, and we broiled the meringue, so the bananas aren’t one speck cooked. You want a big bowl of pudding and black coffee?”

  She wrote down my order without even waiting for my nod. Myrtle knows the vices of her regulars. As she passed the newcomer’s table, the young woman raised one hand. “Miss? I need more coffee.”

  Gusta herself couldn’t have done it better, but Myrtle didn’t take bossing by newcomers. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She headed for the kitchen.

  I settled back in my booth, opened the new Statesman, and was astonished to read that our newspaper editor was fixing to retire to Florida that very week to live near her grandchildren. I knew she had been thinking about retiring, but figured she’d take her time. The article said Slade Rutherford from the Asheville paper was coming to take over as editor.

  “You see this?” I asked Myrtle as she came from the kitchen carrying my banana pudding and coffee.

  The girl at the back called impatiently, “Miss? I need more coffee.”

  “Hold your horses,” Myrtle told her shortly. “I’ll be there soon as I give Mac here her pudding.” She bent over my table and said under her breath, “Miss Gusta’ll soon take her down a peg or two.” She cruised off with the coffeepot and I tucked happily into warm banana pudding.

  When I finished, the young woman was still reading in her booth. On impulse I went back to say hello. She slid the book into her lap and looked up curiously. Her big dark eyes were set in a long thin face framed by t
hat soft black mass of hair that sprang from her scalp with a life of its own.

  “I’m MacLaren Yarbrough. I spoke with you a couple of weeks ago for Mrs. Wainwright.”

  I could tell by the flicker in her eyes that she’d forgotten, but she recovered almost at once and stuck out her hand in a businesslike manner. “Oh—yes. How do you do?”

  When we’d finished the little courtesies, I asked, “Did you take that week’s vacation with your sister before you came? And was it fun?”

  To my amazement, her eyes filled with tears and she regarded me with horror. She pressed her lips together, but they still trembled.

  “Oh, honey, is something wrong?”

  She nodded and blinked to stop the tears. “My sister drowned,” she whispered.

  The starch went out of my knees. Without asking permission, I sank into the booth across from her. “Oh, my goodness! What happened?”

  She dabbed her eyes with her napkin. “We went down to Clearwater to scuba dive. She hadn’t been before, and on our very first dive she caught her fin in a hole in the coral. When she tried to get it out, her foot got wedged. Several of us tried to help her, but we couldn’t free it—” Her voice choked and she pressed her hand to her mouth. That didn’t stop tears from brimming over her eyelids. “It was horrible! She had plenty of oxygen in her tank, but she was terrified. The dive master had gone up with another novice, so one man went to get him while the rest of us stayed down to try and help her, but she got disoriented and panicky, and jerked off her mask.” She closed her eyes and her shoulders shook. “They tried to get it back on her, or to make her breathe with a buddy, but she fought and fought, and gulped water. . . .” She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. She finally added in an anguished whisper, “It was awful!”

  I put out a hand to touch her gently. “I am so very sorry.”

  Breathing heavily, she looked away, her eyes stark. “They made me go up to the boat and wait while they brought her up. Then they worked with her for ages—even radioed the Coast Guard. But she was gone.” She pressed both hands to her cheeks and shook her head as if disagreeing with her sister’s fate. “It happened so fast.” She wiped away the tears and used the tissue I handed her to blow her nose. “We were real close. It’s been hard.” Her voice was muffled by the tissue.

  “It must have been especially hard on you following the death of your employer. You should have taken more time before coming here, Alice.” I’d remembered her name, and thought it might make her feel more welcome if I used it.

  She took a deep breath, then gave me a shy, watery smile. Her voice was softer, too, as she said, “I really need to work right now. It didn’t take long to clear out both our apartments, and there wasn’t any reason to stay there. So I came on.” She looked at her watch. “I’d better be getting over to Miss Wainwright’s. I told her I’d arrive around four.” Fumbling in her purse again, she brought out a black cloth scrunchy and, with one smooth motion, pulled all that lovely hair to the nape of her neck and fastened it back like some old-fashioned schoolmarm. She also brought out a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and set them on her nose, and she went from lively and pert to quiet and drab in three seconds. I thought about telling her Gusta appreciates women who look nice, but decided that was their business.

  As we slid out of the booth to pay our bills, she left half a cup of the coffee she’d been so insistent about getting.

  At the curb she started toward a little white Acura with a Georgia vanity plate: TERRI. When she saw me reading it, she explained, “It was my sister’s. Her name was Teresa. I didn’t have a car, so—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I need to transfer it into my name and get a new tag as soon as I can.”

  Just then a man from our church ambled down the sidewalk. “Afternoon, Judge Yarbrough.”

  I couldn’t help laughing at how upset Alice looked. She’d plumb forgotten what I was. “I won’t have them lock you up today. Just get that tag as soon as you can.”

  “I will. I sure will!” She slid easily into the driver’s seat and drove away.

  I stared after her, thinking how fragile life is, how it can shatter in one afternoon—or one evening when your husband goes out for a routine walk. I felt like shouting to everybody passing me on the street, “This day is precious. Do you know that? Enjoy it while you can. Your whole life may be different tomorrow.”

  As I walked back to my office, I winged a short prayer that Alice Fulton would find peace and comfort in Hopemore. Whichever angel was supposed to carry that prayer must have been on its cell phone, though, because in another few weeks Hiram Blaine would come home and Hopemore’s peace would be shattered.

  5

  Slade Rutherford came to town first, and caused his own kind of ripples.

  I heard he’d come, but before I could get down to the Statesman to introduce myself and ask tactfully whether he planned to keep my garden column, I bumped into him as I was coming out of the bank. Literally. I was saying “good morning” over my shoulder to Vern, the security guard, and wasn’t looking where I was going. I didn’t know a soul was there until my nose hit a dark green tie with gold fleurs-de-lis. Mortified, I turned my head and got my new perm tangled on his tie tack. We stood on most intimate terms until he could disentangle me. After that it seemed odd to introduce ourselves.

  My son Walker could have told within a few dollars how much he’d paid for that light camel jacket, matching slacks, soft creamy shirt, and tasseled loafers, but all I knew was they’d cost a lot. He looked to be around Walker’s age, too—thirty-five or so—and had a high forehead, dark, fuzzy black eyebrows, and eyes so brown they looked black. They burrowed into my own without giving away any secrets.

  I could see myself reflected in his pupils—a short plumpish woman wearing a cotton knit sweater with a coordinated print skirt. Joe Riddley used to say, “Honey, you aren’t plump, you’re just voluptuous.” How I missed having somebody who thought I was the most special person in the world. The man I’d run into seemed to be deciding whether I was worth another second of his time.

  “I beg your pardon.” I knew I was pinker than a sunburned flamingo. “I don’t generally make a habit of running into people. I am MacLaren Yarbrough.”

  “You all own the big nursery business?” As soon as I nodded, his eyes crinkled in delight. “I’m Slade Rutherford, new editor of the Hopemore Statesman, and you’re one of our best advertisers.”

  “I’m also very embarrassed. I should have been looking where I was going.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. I stumble over my own feet so often, I make a habit of forgiving folks who stumble over them, too.” After that, I couldn’t help looking down at his shoes. He must have worn fourteens.

  I was wondering whether it was the time to tell him I wrote the paper’s monthly gardening column, and delicately inquire whether he would continue to run it, when Vern hobbled out the door shouting, “You can’t park there! You know you can’t park there!”

  Slade raised eyebrows like dark brown caterpillars. “Come see the fun,” I suggested.

  Immaculate in a blue linen suit, Gusta climbed from her elderly black Cadillac and brandished her silver-headed cane at poor Vern. Vern had a bum leg, but he could still hop in rage. “You can’t park there! You know that!” He waved fists in the air. Gusta brandished her cane again.

  Sensing that Slade might be about to go to somebody’s aid, I held him back. “Don’t worry, this goes on all the time. It’s a perennial battle over whether Mrs. Augusta Wainwright can park in the handicapped zone in front of the bank without a sticker.”

  “Marvelous car.” His eyes roved admiringly over the polished black paint and shiny chrome.

  On the sidewalk, Vern was wringing his hands. “You know that place is for people who’s got a sticker, Mrs. Wainwright. All you gotta do is get a sticker from your doctor. Or park ’round the corner and come in the side door. Or park just down the block.”

  “I am not handicapped, m
erely old,” Gusta informed him, stomping across the sidewalk with the help of her cane, “and I have no intention of walking extra steps or skulking into the bank by a side door. You never had a handicapped zone there when my husband was alive. He’d never have permitted it. Wait in the car,” she called over her shoulder, “and by no means move that car. I will be out soon.” That’s when I noticed Alice at the wheel in Meriwether’s place.

  Gusta paused in the doorway. “Good afternoon, Judge Yarbrough.” She gave my companion a significant look, waiting to be introduced.

  His own eyebrows rose. “You should have told me I was in the presence of the law.”

  “I’m one of three magistrates in the county. Let me present you to Mrs. Augusta Wainwright. Augusta, this is Slade—uh—” I bogged down in the morass of bad memory.