I swivel to face her as Mama’s sedan pulls to the curb outside. “Other folks?”
Rosie picks up Fern. “Miss Willa was always helping people out. There’s this homeless couple with dogs who come through town every month. They wanted to get married back in the summer but had no money, so she had them get their license at the courthouse then brought them back here and married them herself. No charge. We used our props and even the dogs got to be in the ceremony.”
My aunt was a wedding officiant, and she’d performed quite a few weddings over the years. Baptisms, too, and even a funeral here and there.
Tabitha appears at my feet. She makes a disgusted noise in her throat as if she’s hacking up a hairball. She hisses at the Chihuahua before she jumps up with Arthur and Lancelot. Lancelot begins to clean her fur, and she stretches like a queen enjoying a massage.
Rosie squeezes Fern a little tighter. “Your aunt was always doing things like that. She didn’t talk about who she lent money to, but everybody in town knew she did.”
“Did she have any enemies?” Mama is making her way up the stone path. She’s squeezed her generous proportions into a bright blue two-piece suit, the skirt hitting modestly below her knees. She’s on her cell, her empty hand waving in the air as she speaks and marches up the porch steps.
“Enemies?” Rosie echoes. “Not that I know of. Why?”
I tell her about the person who may have been arguing with Aunt Willa at the creek. Her eyes grow wide. Fern struggles against her chest, her tiny feet pawing at Rosie’s face to get her attention.
Rosie kisses her nose and strokes the dog’s tiny face. “Well…”
Mama stops on the porch, still talking on her cell phone, and looks out over the yard. I can hear exasperation in her voice, and the hand waves through the air once more as if emphasizing something.
When Rosie doesn’t finish her sentence, I face her. “Well, what?”
“The police asked me about it.” Rosie’s gaze goes to Mama on the porch, then back to me. “I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, but you know about Priscilla, right?”
I swing the door open for my mother and she jets in, patting me on the face. Still conversing with whoever’s on the other end of the call, she hustles over to Aunt Willa’s desk and plops down. “No, I told you that will not work… Yes, 2 p.m. Not a minute earlier.”
After closing the door, I return to Rosie’s side. “I know about Priscilla’s competitive streak. Was she here that day?”
She shakes her head, her brows drawn in deep thought. “No, but that’s the only enemy I can think of.”
“Logan didn’t come by that day, did he?”
Her nose scrunches, as if annoyed I’m back on that train. “Yes, but…”
“But what?” She looks away. “Rosie, tell me.”
Her gaze comes back to mine. “He did come by, and your aunt went out back with him to discuss something. Guess it was private. He left shortly afterward, seeming a little upset.”
My breath catches inside my sternum. “He didn’t mention that.”
“Logan would never hurt anyone, especially not Willa.”
“Of course not.” My voice comes out strained and quiet. My throat is tight. “Can you think of anyone else I should speak to who might know what was going on with my aunt?”
“There’s Doc.”
I hesitate for a second, remembering how fond he seemed of my aunt when we discussed her. “Dr. Abernathy? He didn’t like Aunt Willa?”
Rosie chuckles, her dog laying her head on Rosie’s collarbone. “Just the opposite, actually. Doc was in love with her.”
Chapter Sixteen
“What did I miss?” Mama hurries to our side of the front room, now done with her call.
I’m still a bit flabbergasted. “Dr. Abernathy was in love with Aunt Willa? I mean, I guessed he liked her after our talk at the clinic, but love?”
Thunder booms outside, the weather deciding to get in on the conversation. The cats scatter, Fern hides, and Mama rolls her eyes. “I need coffee.”
I instinctively point toward the kitchen. “I reheated Donna Sherman’s peach cobbler and some biscuits, too, if you want them.”
As she scuttles away, punching buttons on her phone once more, Rosie tells me, “They’ve been dating all year.”
Another thing she didn’t tell me. I feel a sting of hurt—a lot of hurt, to be honest. Apparently, my aunt was full of secrets.
“He was nuts about her.” Rosie walks in her three-inch heels back to her desk, tucking the dog onto her lap as she resumes her seat. “He was always bringing her gifts, chastising her for working so hard, trying to get her to marry him.”
I nearly choke. “Marry him!”
My uncle Saddler died when I was only six. I barely remember him, but Aunt Willa talked about him all the time. She has pictures of him on the bookshelves and in her room on the nightstand. Through her stories I’ve always felt his presence, and I never imagined her falling for anyone else.
He was a carpenter and built the bookshelves in all the rooms, the rocking chairs on the front porch. He made me a cedar chest that’s at my place in Atlanta. “And how did she feel about Doc?”
Rosie sorts through a stack of files on her desk and checks her calendar. “I think she liked him a whole lot. She definitely enjoyed his company. Beyond that?” She shrugs. “I used to love hearing them laugh on the back porch when he’d stop by unexpectedly to see her and she’d sneak him out there.”
I stand slightly frozen, trying to come to terms with this new information. Another roll of thunder outside is followed by the crack of lightning.
My mind whizzes with possibilities. “Was he here yesterday?”
“Nope. Why?”
I walk toward her desk. “Did they ever argue?”
Rosie gives me a look that would melt iron.
“Sorry. It’s just…a lot to take in.”
“Doc would never hurt anyone, especially your aunt.”
I hope she’s right.
“Ava,” Mama summons from the kitchen. “Where’s my creamer?”
“Coming.” To Rosie I say, “If you think of anyone else…”
She nods, locating the folder she was looking for and booting up her computer, “You’ll be the first to know.”
In the kitchen, Mama sorts through the fridge. “There’s so much food in here I can’t find a blessed thing.”
I reach across her to the door’s top shelf and retrieve what she’s looking for.
“Oh, there it is.” She whisks it from me and loads her mug with the liquid. Plunking down at the table, she places a napkin in her lap. Her face is a little tired but anticipatory as she eyes the bowl of cobbler in front of her. “How did you know I need breakfast?”
Because I’ve been taking care of you ever since Dad left, I think but don’t say out loud. She’s mostly been on her own for the past few years, so in good conscience I can’t hold a grudge. I just give her a weak smile. “I’ve always known what you needed.”
My mother is the undisputed queen of eye rolls. I don’t need to see the award-winning one she shoots my way as I refill my coffee—I feel it. “Always so dramatic, Ava.”
“Wonder who I learned it from?” I take the seat across from her, watching her dive into the food. She issues a sigh as the first spoonful hits her taste buds.
“I want to do an autopsy,” I tell her.
Her chewing stops and she looks at me as if I’ve morphed into an alien right in front of her eyes. “Whatever in heaven’s name for?”
“You heard her arguing with someone before she died. Yesterday, I found her necklace in the creek, broken, and the key pendant missing. Mama, I think it’s possible she didn’t die from a heart attack.”
Mama waves both hands in the air between us as if throwing up a magical wall. “I was mistaken—just…” She shivers visibly. “It was such a shock, Ava. Totally upended everything. I imagined it, that argument. That’s all.”
She
forces a half-hearted smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes, no matter how hard she tries.
“That’s not true.” I reach across the table and pat her arm. “We need answers and peace of mind. If there was foul play surrounding Aunt Willa’s death, an autopsy will reveal it.”
“No, I won’t have it.”
I expected as much. “Did Aunt Willa have any enemies here in town?”
Mama sucks in a sharp breath and pulls away from my hand, glancing at her cobbler with a twinge of longing.
This is my relationship with my mother in a nutshell. I make her face uncomfortable truths and have a knack of ruining the few pleasurable moments she allows herself.
“We all have enemies,” she says under her breath, her palms now resting on the table. Her lips form a thin line as she stares at the food. “There was no foul play. She had a weak heart and she died, Ava. It was just bad luck.”
Was it? The words burn in my throat.
Her gaze lifts to me, as if she heard my thought. “The police looked into it and found nothing. I spoke to Detective Jones this morning. I was the only witness to hear anything, and you know what your father always said about witnesses…”
My father, the former cop, pontificated a great deal about the law. I bet he and Logan would have had some interesting conversations if Daddy were still in town. “Witness testimony can be helpful but is often unreliable.”
A nod. “That’s what Detective Jones reiterated to me, and I’m sure he’s right.” Another forced smile. “I was under a lot of stress that day and whatever I heard, I was wrong about it.”
Mama’s always under stress; life as mayor of a small town made her successful but also slightly crazy. The anxiety should be enough to trigger her own heart attack. “Are you taking your blood pressure meds?”
Her eyes flit away and back. “Of course. I’m fit as a fiddle. And I believed Willa was, too, but, as I said, she had a weak heart.”
There is a double meaning behind my mother’s tone—not only Willa’s physical heart was weak, but Mama saw her generosity as a weakness as well.
I fortify myself with a big sip of coffee and play with the cup. “I’m ordering an autopsy. I’m sorry that upsets you, but I have to.”
She rears back and dramatically places a hand on her head. “Lord, give me patience.” She casts her eyes heavenward before glaring at me. “To what end, Ava?”
I tug the letter from under the cobbler pie dish on the table. I tucked it there earlier, preparing to share it with her once she’d had coffee and sugar. “Something was going on. She sold this house to Logan Cross, and she sent me this note right before she died.”
A pfft noise vibrates her lips. “She would never sell this house. It’s been in our family since the founding of the town.”
“Apparently she did.”
She shakes her head, dismissing my argument, and opens the letter. Her eyes skim it, her face tightening with every line.
“There’s foul play surrounding her death,” I insist, “and I’m not going to rest until I figure it out.” I down more coffee, giving me strength. “If you have an explanation for any of this, I’m listening. If not, I’m ordering that autopsy today.”
As if the paper has caught fire, she drops it on top of her bowl and scoots her chair back. “Come on. We’re gonna be late to meet Mr. Shackleford.”
“Why did she need money, Mama?”
She shoots to her feet. “Who told you she did?”
“Mama, she sold the house to Logan in order to raise funds. Yes, I asked if he knew why, and he claims she wouldn’t tell him.”
“Ridiculous.” She starts to flee the kitchen she’s so upset, but then stops in the doorway. “If she needed money, she would have come to me. She probably just wanted to have more to give away, silly sister of mine.”
The dismissive attitude raises my hackles. “She was a generous person, but I can’t see her getting herself into so much debt she’d have to sell this house.”
“I have no idea what she was thinking. She didn’t exactly confide in me.” She takes a step back into the room and lowers her voice. “All I know is that the voices in her head were getting louder and more persistent.” Snark fills her next words. “Maybe one of them told her to sell the house. Maybe that’s who she was arguing with at the creek. An invisible ghost!”
I hear the phone on Rosie’s desk ring and she picks it up, repeating the business slogan, “‘The Wedding Chapel, from flowers and food to the happy I dos.’ How may I help you?”
The snarl on my mother’s face is to hide her fear. I try to ease it as best I can while still honoring my aunt. “Aunt Willa had a gift, Mama. I have it, too. Are we both nuts? Possibly, but you and I owe it to her to prove one way or the other if she died of natural causes.”
With another intake of breath and an angry huff, Mama resumes her march to the front door. “I’ll meet you at the funeral parlor.”
“I assure you everything’s right on schedule,” Rosie says into the phone. “Ava and I are handling it. I’ll check on it now and call you as soon as I can, Miranda. Yes, I promise.”
Trailing after Mama, I try to stop her. “Just let me grab my purse and we can ride together.”
Always an enigma with her emotions, Mama turns and throws her arms around me. “I know you want to do right by your aunt, but there’s no mystery to any of this, Ava. Just drop it. You’re not responsible for our family or the town. Or any of that other baloney she’s filled your head with. After the funeral, you can go back to your life in Atlanta and enjoy it.”
She releases me so abruptly I nearly lose my balance, and then she’s out the door.
Swiveling to retrieve my coat and purse, I set my jaw. Rosie’s done with her call. “Who do I contact about ordering an autopsy?” I ask her.
“Got the number for the county coroner right here.” She holds up a sticky note.
This is one of the many reasons Aunt Willa adored her—she’s efficient and loyal.
I take the yellow piece of paper and shrug on my trench coat, shoving the number in a pocket. “Thanks. Do we have appointments today?”
Rosie’s eyes light up with the realization that I’m helping, at least for now. “Penny Calhoun at three for a consult. Otherwise everything is pretty clear.”
“I’ll be here.”
“I have to run to the country club to check on the ballroom for the Burnett/Durham wedding. Miranda said they’re having electrical issues or something, which could be a big problem for the reception.”
I open the front door, feeling the cool air and smelling damp leaves. “Good. Keep me posted.”
She nods, rising and sticking Fern in the tote. “Also, you have parade practice at four-thirty. The chamber respectfully requests you take Willa’s place to lead it.”
I bite the inside of my bottom lip. “Can’t someone else do it?”
Rosie winks at me. “I think Willa would want you to. Plus, if there is a killer roaming around here, he’ll most likely be there.”
She’s right. “You’re brilliant.”
A modest shrug lifts her shoulders. “Hey, I read Nancy Drew, too.”
We share a smile and I hightail it to the funeral parlor.
Chapter Seventeen
The smell of ripe fruit and embalming fluid hits my nose as I enter Resting Hollow. For some reason, Mr. Shackleford and his wife must think the scent of mango and pineapple covers the odor of death.
Outside the harsh thunderstorm has trailed away, leaving only a light rain and humidity behind. A soft, subtle bing-bong chimes overhead, announcing my presence as I push through the double glass doors. They are heavy and slow, making a swishing noise as I enter.
The hallway is wide with neat rows of hangers on each wall, lined up like soldiers ready for the coats of mourners. Light gospel music filters through unseen speakers overhead, and I pass a vignette with a small table and two chairs in an alcove that leads down another corridor to the bathrooms.
As
I cruise past a viewing room on the quiet, plush carpeting, I see a man on a stepladder hanging a large painting on the paneled wall. His head is shaved on both sides with a thick carpet of bleached hair running from his forehead to neck. With his tawny skin and assorted tattoos on his neck, I have the brief impression of a skunk.
His head swivels, dark eyes meeting mine. Muscled arms bulge from the weight of the framed painting.
My brain supplies his name—Timmy Shackleford. Younger than me by several years, I try to recall what I know about him. “Good morning.”
A flash of something crosses his face, almost like surprise. “Morning. Sorry about Miss Willa.”
Football player, my brain supplies. He went somewhere not too far away. Alabama? He was scholarship material, if I recall, but hurt himself and ended up back home, his dreams of going pro dashed.
“Thank you.” He’s still holding up the painting. “Do you need help with that?”
The former football star doesn’t seem fazed by my offer, even though his muscled arms are twice the size of mine. He slowly shakes his head. “They’re waiting for you.”
On cue, I hear Mama’s voice, “Ava? We’re back here.”
Steeling my resolve, I nod to Timmy and move on. I wonder if he’s happy here. Does he find it peaceful in this place or depressing?
A backward glance makes me stop in my tracks. Timmy is going through the same motions as when I walked in—hanging the painting—but as I watch, the gilt-framed picture returns to its place propped against the wall, him at the bottom of the ladder. He climbs the rungs, bends down and heaves it up. Prepares to hang it. In a blink, the scene repeats. This time, from the bottom of the ladder, he glances at me, sensing I’m still there. A sadness fills his eyes before he gives a slight shrug and once more repeats the actions.
Timmy is a…ghost.
“Ava!” Another clear summons.
“Coming,” I call, wondering how in the heck to help Mordecai’s dead son who’s caught in some kind of spiritual loop. How did I not know he was dead?
Pumpkins & Poltergeists, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 1 Page 7
