The Opium Equation

by Lisa Wysocky

  11

  TEN MINUTES LATER I WAS SITTING on the front steps of Fairbanks, my head pressed against my knees, waiting for the police. The rain had slowed to a fine mist, but at the time, I couldn’t have told you that.

  I lifted my head at the sound of an engine. I looked up, expecting the police, but was dismayed instead to see Adam’s bottle-green Jaguar turn into the drive. He pulled up in front of the steps and got out.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said with a warm smile. “Aunt Glenda got the best of you.”

  She sure did, I thought. Glenda brought me down to size real good this time.

  Adam walked lazily toward me, carrying his black leather briefcase. I noticed dully that he still wore the same unkempt clothes as he had on yesterday. He must have pulled an all night writing session at the office. Hope it was worth it and that he wrote a big hit. If he took any notice of my disheveled state, he made no mention of it.

  “I take it you had your talk?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Then let me get Aunt Glenda for you,” he said as he slid past me and started up the steps.

  “Adam,” I croaked. “Adam, don’t … don’t go in there.”

  He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

  “But this is my home, Cat. I live here.”

  “I know. But don’t go in.”

  I could tell he was becoming irritated with me.

  “And just why not?”

  I took a deep breath. “Because Glenda’s dead. I’m sorry, Adam. She’s in the living room and she’s dead. I’ve called the police. They’ll be here soon. I think we should wait out here.”

  Air left his body with a big whooshing sound, as if he had been punched in the stomach. Color drained from his face and he plopped down on the step beside me.

  “Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

  “Very.”

  “I can’t believe you … ah, I mean … I know you were upset, but––”

  “I didn’t kill her, Adam,” I cried, outraged at the idea. I was surprised that I could speak so vehemently, that I could feel any emotion. Maybe the numbness that had enveloped my entire being the moment I saw the body wasn’t going to stay with me forever. I hoped not. Then again, considering the horror of it all, permanent emotional numbness might not be all that bad.

  “No. Of course not, Cat. I’m sorry. I’m a bit stunned. Then it was you who found her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my God. Just now?”

  “Yes.”

  Neither of us noticed the police had arrived until the patrol car came to a halt behind Adam’s car. A weary-looking Deputy Giles eased out of the car, pulled on a rain slicker, and shut the door with a thud.

  “Hello again, Miz Enright. Sir.” He nodded slowly at Adam. “The lady’s inside?”

  “Yes.” The reality of it all began coming back in vivid waves, like the nausea. My heart began thudding and my body began to shake. Yes, the blissful unfeeling state was definitely leaving. I tried to grasp on to it, to hold it close to me like a protective shield, but it slipped away and I began to cry, my tears mingling with the rain.

  The deputy nodded at me as if in approval, but here, on the steps of Glenda Dupree’s mansion, his eyes looked far older than his years.

  “I’d better take a look,” he said finally.

  I stood on legs that didn’t seem to want to support me, feeling more queasy than I ever had. Deputy Giles noticed and shook his head.

  “Let me go in alone, Miz Enright. You sit yourself right back down here and let your friend help you.”

  I thought introductions should be made and did so in a small voice that I didn’t recognize as mine.

  “You’re her nephew, Mr. Dupree?” asked the deputy.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been living here with my aunt since last summer.”

  The deputy sighed and glanced up River Road. “A swarm of folks are fixing to be here in a few minutes. I need to get this over with.”

  He went in and came out, grim-faced, in less than a minute.

  “There don’t seem to be signs of a struggle,” he commented.

  “No,” I agreed.

  “’Cept of course for that mess on the floor. By the steps.” He looked inquiringly at me and then it was my turn to nod. He patted my shoulder awkwardly. “Don’t worry. I’ve done it myself. More than once. But, Miz Enright,” he continued more harshly, “did it occur to you while you were so gleefully breaking and entering, that whoever did this to the lady might still be in the house?”

  “Cat.”

  “Cat? You trying to get me to believe a cat did this?”

  “No. My name. It’s Cat. And no, I didn’t think of it.”

  “Didn’t think so,” he said quite sternly for someone so young. “But next time you go poking around in someone else’s house and find things out of order, you get right on out of there. Better yet, don’t go in in the first place. Just call me.” He consulted a little notebook. “If I’m right, this is the second time in less than twenty-four hours that you’ve nosed around in one of your neighbor’s houses. Plan to make a habit of it?”

  “No. No, I––”

  “’Cause if you do, you need to let me know, preferably ahead of time.” He paused. “Miz Enright, you ever hear the story ’bout the three farmers?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, my Uncle Estes once told me there are three kinds of farmers. There’s those that learn by reading ’bout farming. Then there’s those who learn by watching others farm. Then there’s the rest of ’em that have to pee on the electric fence for themselves. My point is, ma’am, if you keep this up, sooner or later you’ll end up in the same shape the lady is in and I’d rather not be around for that if you don’t mind.”

  I was learning rather quickly that even though Deputy Giles moved slowly, his mind worked at warp speed.

  Someone hung a blanket over my shoulders, and I pulled it close to my body. I hadn’t noticed that the deputy’s “swarm of folks” had started to arrive. The sheriff showed up in due course and said rather imperiously that I’d have to make an official statement. I said, yes, that I would. He added that I’d have to be truthful in said statement. I said yes, I would be. He then said that over the course of the next few days I’d have to answer a lot of questions and I said yes, that I would.

  After a few minutes of this I could see why Sheriff “Big Jim” Burns was not well liked in Cheatham County. A former state prosecutor, he had defeated former Sheriff Rollo Crowell in the last election. Old Sheriff Rollo had been sheriff here for eighteen years. But apparently, over those eighteen years, Sheriff Rollo got in the habit of bending the rules a bit, for certain folk. Okay, to be honest, he was as crooked as a barrel of snakes. Newcomers to the area, hearing how the land lay, didn’t like Sheriff Rollo’s system at all, and recruited Burns for the job. Burns won by a very small margin, putting Sheriff Rollo back on his tractor seat.

  When Big Jim Burns took office he cleaned house, hired new deputies, new secretaries, and a new jail warden. He cracked down on crime, did no favors for anyone, and followed the letter of the law. With Sheriff Burns there was no bedside manner, so to speak. The Times was even bold enough to call him “slicker than a greased hog and tougher than a one-eared alley cat.”

  That was all fine and dandy, except that wasn’t what the people who helped put Sheriff Big Jim in office expected. Turns out they didn’t want a straight arrow sheriff. Turns out all they wanted was a sheriff who would cater to their own causes. A new blood sheriff who wouldn’t obliterate the good old boy system practiced for so many years, but who would create a new system, with them smack in the middle of it. So now Sheriff Burns had the old guard against him, the new blood mad at him and an election coming up in August.

  Eventually, the coroner came and asked a lot of questions, as did Deputy Giles, the sheriff again, and the inevitable reporters. Buffy Thorndyke showed up, Harry Giles represented the South Cheatham paper
. Reporters from the Nashville Ledger and The Tennessean were close on their heels. I was sure WSM radio would show up, but they were on the other side of town, out by the Opryland Hotel, and it would take them a little longer to make the drive. Thank God there weren’t any television cameras out yet. Maybe they were busy with Al Gore, who had a home in Nashville. Local reporters followed him around a lot.

  To get it over with more quickly, I said I’d answer all the reporters’ questions at once. If someone showed up late, too bad. I was only going to do this one time. I huddled inside my blanket and tediously told them yes, I had found her. No, I didn’t know who killed her. And no, I didn’t kill her. No, I continued, I could not comment on the condition of the body. And no, I didn’t know how long she’d been dead but she’d been very much alive in my riding class at ten-thirty yesterday morning.

  I knew right that away letting go of this last bit of information was a mistake and I mentally gave myself a swift kick in the shins. The small group of reporters jumped on my blunder and bullied me for information on the riding class. Rightly so, they sensed a scoop with local color that would add to this story. It wasn’t often that our area had something of national interest.

  Without giving the names of the other students (although I was sure the press would come up with them somehow), I said the class was a routine prep for students who were considering show ring competition this summer. Chuck Dauphin, a print and radio journalist from Dickson, Tennessee, had interviewed me before. Now he asked if any member of the class might harbor a grudge against Glenda, and also if any class member was unusual in any way.

  I laughed, which seemed to me like a deranged thing to do, but this whole scene was deranged and I forgave myself. This wasn’t exactly what I had planned to do when I got up this morning.

  I forced my mind back to Chuck’s question. How should I answer it? Each of the class members, in their own way, was unusual and each held a grudge against Glenda. But that didn’t necessarily mean any of them had killed her. Glenda, by far, had been the most unusual of the bunch. As for the grudges, I debated telling them about the blowup Glenda instigated and decided to let the press do its own dirty work.

  As far as I knew, Buffy, the Times reporter, was the only one who had talked with Glenda recently and if she was smart, she’d hold that bit of information and break it herself. Although, come to think of it, Buffy might not be that savvy. Some of those wealthy Belle Meade people she was related to didn’t have both oars in the water and I had no reason to believe Buffy was an exception. Probably all that blue blood floating around in her veins. Couldn’t be healthy.

  I didn’t think there was any member of the riding class who liked Glenda, but again, that was not an indication one of them had committed murder. Thinking back, Glenda threatened me when she promised to tell others in the horse community that she had left my stable because I was incompetent. Darcy had threatened to kill Glenda for the nasty, public way Glenda informed me of her decision, but that was the way Darcy always talked. Robert made it a point to tell me he didn’t want Glenda back under any circumstances. But other than his love of horses, what did I really know about him?

  And then there was Jon. Jon was a loose cannon. Would he take revenge against someone who threatened me––or my livelihood––and by virtue of that indirectly threatened him and his livelihood? I didn’t know. Of them all, I thought Carole was the only benign one in the group. But, appearances can be deceiving.

  I decided not to pass any of this along to the reporters. Instead, I called a close to the impromptu press conference. When the reporters realized I was serious, they quit clamoring and rushed off in search of other leads.

  No longer the center of attention, I turned from my damp place on the steps to find Deputy Giles and Sheriff Burns comparing notes in the much drier entrance hall. The sheriff was clearly instructing the deputy in a task he wanted no part of. The laid-back deputy stood rigidly, with his chin up and his arms held stiffly at his sides. His pudgy face had turned to stone and you could almost see the sparks fly from his eyes. But he didn’t say a word. After a moment he nodded at his superior and disappeared into the back of the house. What, I wondered, had all that been about?

  Sheriff Burns saw me peering in and came over.

  “I believe you’re now free to go about your day, Miss Enright.”

  I looked at him in amazement, for it never occurred to me that I had not been “free to go about my day.”

  “We’ll be in touch, of course,” he said, “but I’d appreciate it if you kept us informed of your whereabouts.”

  My whereabouts! I didn’t know whether to be furious or frightened. Gee, let’s see … I’ll pick furious. It’s more productive.

  I let him have it. “Sheriff, I’m getting the damnedest impression that you are treating me as a suspect. If that’s the case, you let me know right now because I didn’t kill Glenda Dupree and I have no idea who did. So listen up and remember this: I just happened to stumble across her body. Period.”

  Sheriff Big Jim glowered. “Enough information has not been amassed to comment on who may and who may not be a suspect in this case, Miss Enright. But still, we’d like to know where you are.”

  Before I could reply, a reporter caught his eye and he marched over to give a statement.

  “What was he talking about, Cat?” asked Adam as he came out of the house.

  From the movement of the people who came regularly to these things, I got the impression that they were ready to move the body. Ambulance doors were opened and uniformed people scurried about in all directions. We walked down the steps, away from the activity, and propped ourselves against his cold, wet car.

  “Just off the top of my head,” I said in a carefully controlled voice, “I’d say he’s talking about the coming election.” I took a deep breath and slowly released it. “I think he wants to make a quick wrap to this case and use it in his campaign. I only hope he finds the right person to arrest.”

  “Don’t worry,” Adam said, “you didn’t do it, and hey, whoever did is probably miles from here by now.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “It’s just an idea. I’m not sure.” He massaged his temples as we leaned against the side of his car. “Remember that murder in Dickson just after Christmas? Then there was one in Springfield a few weeks ago, and now this.”

  I’d heard of the Society Lady murders, of course. It had been hard not to as every news station in town had carried some angle of the murders as a lead story for days. In each case a wealthy, middle-aged or elderly woman had been found clubbed to death in her home. Bashed several times in the head, just as it looked like Glenda had been. Nothing had been taken; homes had not been trashed. No notes had been left and no cult or group had claimed responsibility for the crimes. The police had not released much on the alleged murderer and I could only suspect they had little to go on.

  “My best guess,” Adam continued, “is that this is some weirdo striking at random.”

  “With nothing stolen, nothing disturbed? Glenda was wearing diamond earrings and a Rolex––”

  “The other women were also well-to-do and were wearing expensive jewelry. Okay, maybe not in the same category as Aunt Glenda, but worth something all the same.”

  “Adam, I agree that whoever the Society Lady murderer is, he or she is after the thrill of the kill, or maybe it’s some wacko who is afraid of these women for some reason. But I’m not so sure that this murder ties in with the others.”

  “Well, that’s for our esteemed sheriff to find out isn’t it? And speaking of the gentleman, if I may call him that, it looks like he is headed our way. Since he has already spoken to you, I can only assume that I am his intended target.” And with that Adam went to join Sheriff Burns.

  I felt lost. Obviously, I was supposed to go on with my day. Just pick up where I’d left off and go about my business. But I couldn’t do that. My mind was spinning and I knew if I set foot in the barn I’d transmit my extrem
e unease to every horse in the stable. Horses are sensitive to the moods of the people around them. A single session with a trusted person who was upset could undo weeks of careful work, and could also possibly cause digestive problems in the more delicately stomached equines. Gigi and Sally both came to mind.

  Suddenly I wanted to get as far from Fairbanks as possible. I pulled the blanket tighter around me and ran back across the field and down toward the river. Let them add blanket theft to the murder charge I already knew Sheriff Big Jim wanted to hang on me. I didn’t care.

  Water had always soothed me. My property sat high above the Cumberland, but there was a steep, narrow path that led down about ten feet to a huge maple tree that hung diagonally over the river. I could sit on the base of the trunk, totally hidden from view, and watch the river traffic and think. It was a place I’d come to many times before.

  Today the rhythmic quality of the river was broken here and there only by the occasional barge or adventurous fishing boat from the marina up the road. The cold and dampness that surrounded me were the least of my worries as I tried to order the chaotic mess of my mind.

  First Bubba and now Glenda. Not friends––certainly not friends––but daily acquaintances. Neighbors. I didn’t know how to deal with it, how to absorb it all and move on. Or even if I could.

  I wasn’t used to people being murdered practically in my back yard. I came from a small town where everyone knew each other. And while we didn’t always like our neighbors, no one ever got killed. Bucksnort, Tennessee (population eighteen), got its name back in the 1880s from a man named Buck Pamplin. Before the Civil War, Buck owned and lived on the site that later became the town. The story is that Buck loved whiskey. He would frequently get soused, and when he did, he’d snort louder than a sow in heat. His neighbors would shake their heads and say, “Listen to Buck snort.” After a while people began running the two words together, and the place where Buck lived became Bucksnort.

  When I left home after graduating from high school it was to pursue my dream of studying horses at Middle Tennessee State University in Murfreesboro, not to become part of a murder investigation. I’d graduated from MTSU seven years ago, about the same time my grandma died. It surprised everyone––including me––when her estate brought enough for me to buy the farm and start a training stable. Grandma always was a frugal one, but who knew she had saved more than eighty grand and stashed it under her mattress?