by Vickie Fee
Mama insists they are nothing more than friends, and I suppose I believe her. But I can’t help thinking Earl smiles an awful lot.
Chapter 14
After I dropped Mama off at her house, I drove around for I didn’t know how long. Bits and pieces of all that had happened over the past few days darted around in my head like a Pac-Man game, running through an endless maze of dead ends.
Larry Joe pulled in the driveway just ahead of me. I threw together a quick supper of canned chili and a tossed salad. After dinner, we retired to the den and pulled up a movie to watch on Netflix. It was some goofy comedy, but it was good to see my husband laughing like his old self, enjoying some downtime after an intense few days.
Unfortunately, it didn’t last long. About thirty minutes into the movie, Larry Joe answered a phone call from a driver who had been in an accident on I-40. Thank God no one was hurt. But Larry Joe spent the next couple of hours making calls to get the wrecked truck taken care of and the freight transferred and delivered on time. Mentally exhausted, we called it an early night. I drifted off to sleep, thinking about the next day’s main event—the Farrell brothers’ funeral.
Tuesday afternoon I changed into a short-sleeved navy-blue dress and helped Larry Joe pick out an appropriately somber tie.
“We better get moving,” I said. “I always hate walking in late for a funeral.”
To me, it seems even tackier to come into the church after the casket than to trail in after the bride at a wedding.
“Will your mama be at the funeral?” Larry Joe asked as he was backing out of the driveway.
“She didn’t say, but do you really think she’d miss the spectacle of a double funeral?”
“Silly question.”
We pulled into the parking lot of the First Methodist Church with plenty of time to spare before the one o’clock funeral for Duane and Darrell Farrell. We squeezed into a pew near the back, next to Larry Joe’s parents. The church, which probably seated more than two hundred people, was packed.
The organ played a mournful tune, striking more than a few sour notes, as two gray coffins were rolled on gurneys up the main aisle. Six pallbearers, all wearing Confederate uniforms, flanked each casket. The officers wore long frock coats and brimmed hats, while the enlisted men sported short jackets and visor-fronted caps. It was a surreal sight. After escorting the coffins to the front of the church, the reenactors took off their hats and placed them over their hearts before taking their seats on the front pews to either side of the center aisle.
Ray Franklin was among the men in gray. Tonya Farrell was seated on the second row. I spotted Ralph Harvey and some other people I recognized from McKay Trucking sitting a couple of rows ahead of us on the opposite side of the church. I caught a glimpse of Mama sitting near the front. I recognized her favorite funeral hat.
Reverend Goodwin, the pastor at First Methodist, is relatively new to Dixie, having been assigned to the church here less than a year ago. After the organist had struck the final painful, off-key chords of “In the Garden,” the congregation exhaled a collective sigh of relief. The slender, thirty-something-year-old minister nervously approached the pulpit, a visible perspiration mustache above his lips. My guess was this was the reverend’s first double funeral—and likely his first standing-room-only service.
Following the funeral, Larry Joe and his dad offered their condolences to Tonya Farrell and chatted briefly with Ralph Harvey and the other guys from work. We decided to skip the graveside service, since it looked like a respectable number of folks had pulled their cars into the lineup for the procession to the cemetery. Larry Joe kept tugging at his collar, as if to let steam escape. And honestly, Daddy Wayne looked like he needed to lie down.
We talked my father-in-law into going home, and Larry Joe headed back to the office for a few hours. I briefly considered crashing the funeral luncheon to see if I could pick up any helpful bits of information, but decided it would be tacky. Besides, I needed to go to the office and make some phone calls before my appointment at the country club.
I had a date with the head bartender at the Dixie Country Club to sample some different versions of the mint julep. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it. Mrs. Erdman had originally been scheduled to go with me to the tasting. I always like to involve my clients in some fun aspect of the planning process, and with Mrs. Erdman, I figured drinking liquor while we were at it would make it more enjoyable, at least for me. She wanted to be sure we served the ultimate mint julep at her Moonshine and Magnolias Anniversary Party. But at the last minute she called to cancel, saying she had a sick headache. My best guess: her headache’s name was Walter Erdman.
Her cancellation caused me a moment of panic. I didn’t know if we’d be able to schedule another time for the sampling before the party, and we really needed to place the bar order right away. She said she didn’t want to leave something “so important” to chance—meaning leaving the decision up to the bartender, which made perfect sense to me. She reluctantly said she’d trust my judgment, but trying to figure out what would please Mrs. Erdman was not a responsibility I wanted on my shoulders.
Then I thought of Holly. Mrs. Erdman had shown an obvious admiration for Holly’s pedigree—from one of Dixie’s most prominent families, world traveler, elegant manners. I suggested taking Holly along for the tasting, an idea that elicited enthusiastic approval from Mrs. Erdman. Fortunately, Holly was available on such short notice. I’d rightly reckoned that the prospect of sipping mint juleps wouldn’t be disagreeable to her.
I drove up the winding drive to Holly’s stately Tudor-style home, vintage 1920s. She had inherited the house from her mother, who had died just a couple of months after Holly’s husband had passed away. It had obviously been a difficult time for her emotionally. But Holly said that when she returned to Dixie to sort out her mother’s estate, it felt like being wrapped in a warm, welcoming blanket. She knew instantly that moving back into her childhood home was just what she needed.
Holly came out the front door, dressed in a sleeveless turquoise turtleneck, matching eyeglasses, and wide-legged pants, her hair pulled back in a Karl Lagerfeld ponytail. Not a look everyone could pull off, but it worked for her.
On the ride to the country club, Holly filled me in on her morning meeting with Meemaw Carter. Rummaging through our client’s costume jewelry had turned up some pieces Holly thought would add a nice bit of sparkle and whimsy to the table for the bridesmaids’ tea, and it had also been a pleasing trip down memory lane for Meemaw. I’ve learned never to underestimate the value of personalizing parties with items belonging to the clients, as well as of making the process of planning the party an enjoyable one for them.
Hunky head bartender Mark DeAngelo treated us to a tasty variety of mint julep recipes. Like any bartender worth the salt on his glass rims, he flirted with us as he mixed drinks. Holly was laughing loudly and was flirting back, which I found a little surprising for my usually decorous assistant. It started to make sense when I learned she had already had a two-martini lunch with an old friend. By the third mint julep sample, I was catching up to her. Mark’s biceps flexed when he muddled, and I was feeling turned on as I watched him bruise mint sprigs.
The amount of bourbon in the mint juleps ranged from one and a half to three ounces per serving. They all tasted good to me, but in the end Holly and I settled on the recipe with the most liquor and a slightly expensive brand of bourbon, believing that after having a few of these, even Mrs. Erdman would be too mellow to complain.
Mark reached over and rubbed Holly’s bare upper arm and remarked that she had goose bumps. If she didn’t before, she did after he touched her. He told us they always kept the air-conditioning on a little too cool for the ladies, and said he’d be right back with a fresh pot of coffee to warm us up. It was a smooth way of saying we needed to sober up a little before operating an automobile on public roads, but we weren’t drunk enough to take offense. The two of us sat at the bar, enjoying the s
team rising from our cups and off of Mark’s body as he cleaned up the glassware and took the bar order for the Erdmans’ party.
After I dropped Holly off at her house, I picked up two chef’s salads from the diner for supper. When I arrived home, a fly came in through the back door with me. I chased it around the kitchen for ten minutes like a woman possessed before I finally silenced its buzz with the splat of a flyswatter against the windowpane. Larry Joe came in from the garage just as I collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table.
“You look tuckered out,” he said, bending down to plant a kiss on the top of my head. “You been doing one of those dancercise videos?”
“No. I’ve been managing pest control.”
Larry Joe grabbed a beer for himself and the pitcher of iced tea for me from the fridge while I plated up our salads and mixed a simple vinaigrette dressing.
“I’m worried about your dad. He was looking kind of green around the gills today.”
“Yeah. When he gave in to going home after the funeral, I knew he must be feeling poorly,” Larry Joe said. “If he won’t go to the doctor, I think I’ll see if Dr. Chase can drop by the house and have a look at him.”
“I think you should, honey. Your mom’s going to make herself sick worrying over him.”
After we finished eating, Larry Joe insisted he needed to mow the lawn before the neighbors started to complain.
“Honey, are you sure you’re up to it? You’ve been working yourself to death. I can call that kid down the street tomorrow and get him to come over and cut the grass.”
“Aw, you know I don’t like the way he cuts it. Anyway, I’ll probably just run over the front yard and save the back for another day.”
“Take a bottled water out with you,” I hollered as he headed upstairs.
After Larry Joe had changed clothes and had gone outside to tend to yard work, I curled up on the sofa in the den. I stared at a game show on TV but didn’t manage to fill in any of the letters before Vanna made them appear. I thought to myself that I should do some laundry or paint some more in the living room. Instead, I lay on the sofa with the TV remote in my hand, clicking from channel to channel with the energy of a three-toed sloth.
Unfortunately, my mind wouldn’t give in to the laziness my body so readily embraced. I couldn’t help wondering who had put Darrell and Duane in that garage. Couldn’t help wishing the killer had stashed the bodies somewhere else. Couldn’t help thinking Winette was right and I needed to get that diary back into Ray’s trailer.
Problem was, even if I could work up the energy to drive over to Ray’s trailer, I couldn’t do it tonight. Di plays bunco one night a month with a group of other mail carriers, all women except for one retired guy. And this month was Di’s turn to host. It sounds pretty cutthroat: they play for money, although Di insists it’s just chump change. And the parties are BYOB, with the host or hostess providing light snacks. Di says it helps her keep up with post office politics and gossip. And the gossip gets even more cutthroat than the bunco. There was no way I’d risk one of those tongue waggers spotting my car driving past Di’s on the way to Ray Franklin’s place.
After channel surfing for a long while, I hit the OFF button, wondering why we paid for cable. At some point, my mind finally stopped racing, and I dozed off to the drone of the lawn mower.
I was awakened with a jolt by the sound of Larry Joe’s panicked voice.
“Liv, put your shoes on. We’ve got to go.”
Chapter 15
I sprang up to a seated position and could see my husband through the doorway kicking off his shoes and hurriedly peeling off his sweat-soaked T-shirt. He was obviously shaken up.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
He suddenly stood very still and looked at me with misty eyes. “Mama just called me on the cell. Daddy’s had a heart attack.”
We both looked at each other helplessly for a moment, before Larry Joe resumed his frenzied activity.
“Grab your purse,” he said. “We’re heading out just as soon as I wash my face and put on a clean shirt.”
I pulled on my shoes and, even though it was the middle of August in Tennessee, instinctively grabbed a sweater from the entry closet. I thought it might be chilly at the hospital. After a moment, I heard Larry Joe’s feet thundering down the stairs. I offered to drive, but he said he was fine.
Neither of us was fine.
I was actually relieved when he said he’d drive, though. I felt a little unsteady and slightly nauseated.
We pulled onto his parents’ street just in time to see an ambulance racing away, lights flashing, sirens blaring. One of the firefighters, who apparently had been among the first responders, walked to the curb when Larry Joe stopped in front of the house and rolled down his window. I recognized him as Jeff Kovacs, who had played high school football with Larry Joe.
“Where’s my mama, Jeff?”
“She’s in the ambulance with your dad. You go on and follow ’em to the hospital. They’re taking him to County General.”
“How’s Daddy?”
“He’s a feisty old cuss—hanging on with both hands,” Jeff said before slapping the car door twice, signaling for Larry Joe to drive on.
We rode in silence to the hospital, holding tightly to the nugget of hope Jeff had given us.
We parked the car outside the emergency room, and I struggled to keep up with Larry Joe, who was walking faster than I could run. We entered through the automatic doors and spotted Larry Joe’s mom at the check-in desk, talking to a nurse. She seemed to be steadying herself against the counter just to remain upright.
Larry Joe walked up beside his mother, wrapped his arm around her waist, and guided her over to a chair in the waiting area. I sat down with Miss Betty, while Larry Joe went back to the desk to take care of paperwork. I gave my mother-in-law a hug. Her arms were ice cold, so I draped the sweater I’d brought with me around her shoulders.
“They wouldn’t let me go back with him.”
“Well, we’d just be in the way right now.”
“He was breathing, though. I could see he was breathing.”
I felt tears welling up in my eyes and a lump in my throat getting so big, I could barely swallow. Unable to speak, I just reached over and grabbed her hand.
Larry Joe came over, took the seat on the other side of his mom, and put his arm around her. She placed her head on his shoulder and started to sob.
“That old goat better not die on me,” she said.
“Now, we both know Daddy’s too stubborn to die. He’s just had a lot on him lately. He’s gonna have to slow down some, that’s all.”
After what seemed like hours but registered only as thirty-two minutes by the clock on the wall, a nurse came through the swinging doors and called out, “McKay family?”
We jumped to our feet in unison and rushed toward her.
“Come on back,” she said.
We followed her until she stopped in the hallway, in front of some chairs like the ones in the waiting room, and told us to have a seat.
“The doctor will be out to talk to you in a minute.”
We were all relieved to see that the man in the white coat was Evan Chase, doctor and longtime golf partner to Larry Joe’s dad. He came and knelt in front of my mother-in-law.
Before he could speak, she said, “Don’t sugarcoat anything for me, Evan. Give it to us straight.”
“He’s had a major heart attack. We’ve started a clot-buster medicine in his IV, and we’re moving him up to the ICU. Our biggest concern at the moment is an arrhythmia, which could cause him to have another heart attack in the next twenty-four hours. We’ll keep him hooked up to an EKG to monitor for that.”
“Can we see him?” Larry Joe said, rising out of his chair as the doctor stood up.
“After we get him settled upstairs. The last visiting period in the ICU is ten p.m. After that, I suggest y’all go home and try to get some sleep. The next visiting period won’t be until eight o’clo
ck in the morning.”
Larry Joe shook hands with Dr. Chase, and we walked to the elevators to make our way up to the intensive care waiting room. We sat in the ICU waiting room, listening to Larry Joe’s mom fret over whether to call Daddy Wayne’s brother and sister. We all agreed there was no point in calling and worrying Aunt Nora, who was the oldest sibling and was in frail health. As the clock ticked toward ten, we finally decided it was too late to call Uncle Ed, especially since none of us could remember if he was in the central or eastern time zone.
At straight up 10:00 p.m., the desk nurse announced visiting time. We were among eight or nine people who lined up for a brief visit with loved ones.
Daddy Wayne looked pale but seemed to be steadily breathing oxygen through a tube affixed to his nose. The nurse told us not to worry if he didn’t wake up, since he had just been given a sedative.
I slipped out of the crowded, curtained-off corner that housed Daddy Wayne’s hospital bed and monitoring equipment, where Miss Betty was holding my father-in-law’s hand and Larry Joe was holding his mom’s hand. The clock in the waiting room showed it was almost 10:15 p.m., so I texted Di on my cell phone.
Is bunco over? I’m @ hospital.
In less than a minute Di texted back, Call me.
The sign on the wall said cell phone use was prohibited in the waiting room or the ICU, so I stepped into the hall and stood next to the elevators.
I dialed, and Di picked up without bothering to say hello. “What happened? Who’s in the hospital?”
I brought her up to speed on what had transpired thus far and what little we knew about Daddy Wayne’s condition. She insisted on coming to the hospital, even though I told her she didn’t need to. I reminded her she could enter the hospital only through the emergency room entrance after 10:00 p.m.
Larry Joe and his mom walked back into the waiting room at the same time that I did. The large room began to clear out a bit as family members of some of the patients said their good-byes for the night. Others started staking out the sofas and recliners scattered around the room for a place to sleep. Miss Betty had stopped to chat with an acquaintance, and I told Larry Joe he’d better grab a recliner for his mom before they were all taken.
