The Cradle Robber

by E. Joan Sims

  I trudged off to my bedroom, shaking my head and wondering how things went so wrong so quickly. Tonight should have been a relieved and happy one for us. Instead, I felt a leaden sadness that weighed down my limbs and pulled at my lower lip.

  What I missed the most when Cassie was gone were the late night chats full of giggles and grins that lasted sometimes until dawn. I had thought tonight would be one of those happy times when we would laugh and share the joys and misfortunes of what had taken place when we were apart. I certainly hadn’t anticipated this turn of events.

  I looked forlornly in the mirror while I brushed my teeth. The reflection of the silly woman who had so mismanaged a delicate situation with her hurt and disappointed child stared back at me.

  “You old fool!” I snapped angrily.

  By the time I put on my pajamas and crawled into bed, I was mad at Cassie again. After all, she was a grown woman. She shouldn’t have placed the blame for Aggie’s demise solely on my shoulders. But then, I thought, that’s exactly where it did belong. I was responsible. I had taken the dog outside. I should have exercised more caution with the poor creature.

  I cried myself to sleep.

  I slept late the next morning. By the time I got up, Cassie was already gone, leaving us stranded once again. It was Mother’s turn to be angry.

  “It certainly appears as though your daughter hasn’t learned anything about consideration in the last four years. I rented that car for myself. Didn’t you tell her that it wasn’t hers to take?”

  “So it’s my fault, now?” I asked, echoing Cassie’s question of the night before. She had to have learned to fight somewhere. Why not at her mother’s knee? The absurdity of it all made me laugh. I laughed until tears filled my eyes and the image of my absolutely enraged mother blurred as she slammed down her linen napkin and left the kitchen in a huff.

  Feeling better, I dressed quickly and hurried outside. Billy was supposed to bring a small front-loader and two men with chain saws out to help us. I wanted to help them.

  I turned out to be as useful as a pyramid roofer. Billy showed up right on time, but the front-loader didn’t come lumbering down the road for another hour. When it finally pulled up out front, the driver gave us the bad news. Things were so awful all over town that he could only spare the time to move the trees out of the driveway. All the rest would have to wait until other more pressing emergencies were taken care of. In five minutes flat, the big oak was hoisted up and away. The driver gave a cheery wave and departed.

  Since there was little else he could do at the moment, Billy made a survey of the damage to the house. He noticed more than a few shingles missing from the roof and a precarious loose brick or two on the older chimneys.

  “I can take care of that myself, Paisley—this week if the weather holds. But all the rest…” He looked sadly at the panorama of limbs and debris piled about. “You’re going to have to wait until I can find some men who have the time to come and cut these trees and carry all this mess away. Every man jack around town is busier than a bucket of red ants right now. There’s hardly a house in the county without some kind’a damage.”

  “Mother isn’t going to like that. She’s already crazy to get things cleaned up.”

  “Take her away somewhere for a month or two. Maybe I’ll have things shipshape by then. Why don’t you all go see Cassie in Atlanta—there’s a good idea,” he added hopefully.

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, Billy, but Cassie came home yesterday afternoon. Anyhow, there’s no way Mother will ever leave things looking like this. She doesn’t care how bad things are anywhere else. This storm was a personal affront to her sense of order and neatness.”

  I sent Billy away after extracting his promise to return later in the week with mortar and shingles to repair the roof and chimneys before it rained again. He admitted that he was too chicken to talk to Mother, so I broke the bad news myself.

  “Two months! I simply won’t stand for it! Surely there is another way. Why can’t we hire some men from…”

  “Look, Mother, Billy has already thought of more possibilities than you or I ever could. You’ll just have to exercise some patience for once and wait your turn. Just think of it this way, we’re lucky we can wait.”

  “Well,” she agreed reluctantly, “I am grateful we have a roof over our heads— and, oh, I forgot to tell you! Our electricity came back on a few minutes ago. Now we can finish the food baskets. The driveway was cleared just in the nick of time!” she declared with a smile. “My, isn’t it nice that everything worked out so well?”

  She turned on her heels and headed for the kitchen. She had apparently dismissed the storm-ravaged yard from her mind. I stared at her retreating back and wondered how much time would pass before she placed the first phone call to Billy, nagging him to hurry things up.

  That’s when I remembered that Watson was still trapped in the garage.

  “Damn!”

  I had to lean against the corner of the house to keep from falling when the bottom fell out of my chest. My heart fluttered like the wings of a butterfly as I tried to get my breath. I sat down hard in the grass and bent over from the waist until my vision cleared. It was a moment or two before I could inhale freely once again. I had to get the Jeep out! Like it or not, a visit to the medicine man was in order.

  Chapter Seven

  Cassie returned some time around four. By then, Mother had several Thermos bottles full of hot cream of potato soup and my picnic basket full of homemade cornmeal muffins ready to go. I didn’t have the heart to turn her down when she asked me to drive her to the homes of her elderly friends. Some of them still had no electricity, and it was almost dinnertime.

  Cassie went straight to her room without speaking to either of us. I figured she had at least one more day of silence in her, maybe two. I carried the goodies to the rental car and put them in the trunk. When I climbed into the driver’s seat I noticed some papers tucked under the front seat. I pulled one out and read it with amusement bordering on fury.

  Cassie had been busy. She had printed up some flyers offering a reward of far too much filthy lucre for her lost puppy. Aggie was described as “loving and sweet, with a friendly disposition.” She had even managed to find a photograph of the dog that seemed to meet that erroneous description.

  I wondered vaguely if tornado insurance would cover “lost dog rewards.” Maybe Cassie had five hundred big ones to throw around like that, but I certainly didn’t.

  My daughter had also used up all the gas in the rental car. I grumbled about her lack of consideration all the way to the filling station. As usual, Mother defended her actions even though she herself had fussed about Cassie’s lack of thoughtfulness earlier. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  It was even worse than I imagined. Every street we turned down was full of fallen trees. Crews were busy clearing the main street from the highway into town, but it was obvious it would be a while before they got to the side streets. We had to walk to almost every house on Mother’s list. By the time we were down to the last Thermos, we were both pooped.

  “Looks like Miss Lolly’s street isn’t too bad,” I observed gratefully. “With a little maneuvering, I can drive you right to her front door.”

  “Thank goodness! I was wondering where I was going to hide you. Now you can wait in the car. You don’t mind, do you, dear?”

  “I’m getting pretty damn tired of paying for childhood sins at this late date,” I admitted with a sneer.

  “Spray painting her cat was more than a simple peccadillo, Paisley. And you know how old people are. They remember more of the past than the present. In Miss Lolly’s mind, the incident with her cat happened just yesterday and not over thirty years ago.”

  “Well,” I sighed, “I don’t like her either. She smells like stale talcum powder and her hair looks like a used Brillo pad. You need any help with the basket?”

  I parked the car in the driveway under the spreading limbs of a big oak tree that had
been spared by the storm. The Parsons sisters had lived in this big old house all of their lives. Their papa built the house with the spoils of his thriving lumberyard back at the turn of the century. For years it was the largest, most beautiful house in Lakeland County. When Papa Parsons passed away, the house started to die, too. It was rumored that the sisters were difficult to please, and painters, roofers, and yardmen often failed to answer their calls for help. Gradually, the green expanse of lawn died while moss grew in thick green patches on the roof. The white paint on the intricate gingerbread trim began to peel and flake off. The grass that no longer flourished in the front yard poked up healthy and vigorous between gaping cracks in the driveway. In short, the Parsons’ Mansion had turned into a big decaying grey elephant that nothing short of a deep pocketful of money and lots of love could revive. The sisters might still have the money, but they were both dried up little spinsters and definitely bankrupt in the love department.

  Mother’s head and torso vanished behind the green leaves of the big oak as she climbed the steps to the front door. I lay back in the seat and watched her feet as I idly eavesdropped on her conversation.

  “Hello, Miss Lolly,” Mother greeted the old woman brightly. “How did you and Miss Hannah weather the storm?”

  “Hummpf!”

  Never at a loss for words, Mother continued, “Looks like your street was lucky. Not too much damage here.”

  “I suppose,” the old woman admitted reluctantly. Her voice was high and thin and full of decades of sour disapproval.

  “I brought you all some hot soup and corn muffins.” Mother waited politely for a response, and getting none, pressed on. “I hope Miss Hannah is well?”

  Suddenly Lolly Parsons turned on her talking machine.

  “Yes, yes, but of course she’s fine. Fit as a fiddle she is! Why do you ask?” she inquired nervously.

  “Why, er, the storm,” stammered Mother. “It sometimes puts people out of sorts. Even Paisley was…”

  “Paisley Sterling! That young rascal! Is she with you!”

  “She’s, ah, waiting in the car,” admitted Mother reluctantly.

  “Well, she’d better not put a foot on my lawn! That’s all I have to say! You and John really failed to do your duty with that child. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Your Paisley is a perfect example of that.”

  “Miss Lolly, I’ll have you know that Paisley is quite a successful novelist!”

  “Not in my book! Did she help you make these corn muffins?”

  “Well, no.”

  “The soup?”

  “She peeled the potatoes.”

  “Keep it!”

  A dry, withered, old arm snaked out the door, grabbed the picnic basket off the stoop, and quickly pulled it into the house. I heard the front door slam, and saw Mother’s right foot stomp once with vexation. By the time she got to the car, I was laughing out loud.

  “Stop it, Paisley!” she ordered as she blotted her damp upper lip with a dainty linen handkerchief. “My, it’s gotten hot!”

  “You just got a mite agitated, that’s all. By the way Mother, thanks for the ‘successful novelist’ bit.”

  “Why in the world did you ever have to mess with that old hag’s cat?” she asked crossly as she checked her makeup in the mirror.

  “Because it was there!” I answered with an evil grin.

  We decided to take the leftover Thermos of soup to Andy Joiner. Mother was quite fond of our Chief of Police, and I knew he would be working overtime because of the storm. His wife, Connie, had probably sent him lunch, but it was already dinnertime.

  This time, I left Mother resting in the car while I ran into the police station. It was absolute bedlam—with phones ringing off the hook and people scurrying in every direction shouting clipped orders to each other.

  I hugged the Thermos to my chest and backed into a corner out of the way, I finally spotted Andy standing in the middle of a group of firemen and policemen. They were crowded in front of a large wall map of Lakeland County. Andy was obviously giving out work assignments. I knew he wouldn’t welcome an interruption now if I were bearing champagne and lobster tails.

  I turned to leave and ran smack dab into Horatio Raleigh, knocking a large brown envelope out of his hand. We both stared down at the floor where glossy photographs of an obviously very dead gentleman were scattered.

  “Oh, my!” stated Horatio.

  I bent down hurriedly and picked up the pictures before Horatio could get to them. “My indeed,” I observed wryly. “Since when does a tornado victim have his throat slit from ear to ear?”

  “Please, Paisley! Keep your voice down.”

  I put my head closer to his but didn’t soften my voice.

  “Relax. There’s so much going on in here nobody would notice if we both stood here stark naked.”

  Horatio raised an elegant eyebrow and looked around the room.

  “I suppose you’re right, my dear,” he laughed.

  “And Andy doesn’t have time right now for anything. Why don’t you come out in the car and share these photos with ghoulish little old me. You know how I love tidbits like this for my books.”

  “I shouldn’t,” he protested. “This is strictly a matter for the police.”

  “You look tired, Horatio. How does some of Mother’s delicious cream of potato soup sound to you?”

  Chapter Eight

  Mother sat with Horatio on the concrete bench in front of the courthouse while he enjoyed her superlative soup and she enjoyed watching the passers-by. It was the cool of the evening—that lovely time in a summer’s day just before nightfall, when the breeze picks up and the first stars begin to twinkle above a golden sunset.

  Mother wasn’t the only one glad to be out and about. Lots of folks had been unable to leave their homes after the storm. Now with some trees cleared from streets and driveways, they were free to stroll around town and exchange their storm experiences with friends and neighbors.

  I had lingered for a moment by Mother’s side and chatted with Horatio before I crossed the street again and climbed into the car to examine the photographs of the dead man who had been found on our farm.

  Horatio hadn’t given me permission, but he had deliberately left the envelope in the front seat of the car when he helped Mother out. I slipped the pictures from the envelope and held my breath when I saw the full horror of the gaping wounds. I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t eaten any of Mother’s soup as I choked back the sour taste in my mouth. The photographs were in living color, and Horatio had made certain from every angle that not a single gruesome detail was left out.

  The dead man appeared to be a foreigner, although it was difficult to tell. His facial features were distorted, flattened almost. He had dark hair and eyes and a thin mustache over full lips. He could have been Asian, or Hispanic, or anything in between. It was hard to imagine what he had looked like when he was alive. What was easy to deduce was the cause of death. He couldn’t have lived very long with his throat cut wide enough to expose his cervical vertebra.

  I didn’t know much about forensic science, but as I flipped from one picture to another in the waning light it seemed to me that the dead man was oddly deformed. His joints were hyperextended and his limbs—even his feet—were at odd angles.

  I banged my head painfully on the steering wheel when Horatio startled me by opening the car door.

  “Ouch! You scared me.”

  “Sorry, my dear,” he said as he slipped in beside me.

  “Where’s Mother?”

  “Mavis Madden.”

  “Oh.”

  Mavis was an erstwhile friend of Mother’s who talked a mile a minute about absolutely nothing but everybody else’s business. Mother tolerated her out of good manners and as an investment against becoming a target for her considerable venom.

  “I’m afraid we should stem your morbid appetite, my dear,” Horatio observed. “A pretty young woman like you should…”

  “Thanks for the
‘pretty’ and the ‘young,’ Horatio, but I’m a mystery writer. I need to keep things authentic. For some time now I’ve been meaning to ask you to let me view some of your, ah, clients, especially ones who have come to a violent end. Leonard’s always coming across dead bodies and sometimes I’m at a loss to describe them.”

  “Oh, dear, why couldn’t you have found your muse in pastoral verse? That’s such a lovely occupation for a Southern lady.”

  “For God’s sake, Horatio! You don’t really mean that, do you?”

  Even in the deepening twilight I caught a glimpse of the amused twinkle in his eyes. We both shared a companionable chuckle as he tucked the photographs of the dead man back in the envelope.

  “By the way, what was wrong with his arms and legs? Did he have some kind of congenital defect?”

  “Velocity and gravity, my dear,” answered Horatio dryly.

  “What?”

  “I think this unlucky gentleman was the object you saw falling from that airplane the other afternoon.”

  Horatio bade us “goodnight,” and went to make another attempt to see Andy Joiner. I was more than ready to head for home, but Mother reminded me that we had never made our trip to the grocery. I mumbled and grumbled as I lobbied against it, but she won. We tore her long grocery list in half and each set off with a basket to fill.

  Ordinarily, I loved going to the grocery. There was something so wonderfully American about the bright and shiny display of good food in such abundance. In San Romero, even those who could afford the vastly inflated prices for imported, or even domestic foods, suffered the seasonal shortages of the most basic items. My friends and I had often complained that we were reduced to the level of primitive man. We were the Cro-Magnon females, the hunter-gatherers for the tribe, running from store to store in search of toilet paper and mayonnaise.

  The colorful packages and attractive displays held no interest for me tonight. I was bone tired. I rounded the aisle of the bread section where a slovenly woman with three dirty-faced children blocked my way. I stood aside and waited while they manhandled every package of Twinkies and sweet rolls on the shelf. When the woman started moving again, I tried to go around her, but she stopped in front of the honey buns.