“Good!” She turns the corner, two plates of goodness in her hands.
“And three?”
“There was a three?”
She hands me the plate with a still-warm scone. I can’t wait to slip that soft lemony pastry into my mouth.
“Fight them from a place of love.”
I can’t imagine facing Dwayne with love in my heart but I kinda get where she’s coming from. Military generals might disagree but I think Martin Luther King, Jr. found the right answer, moving social mountains without ever pointing a finger of hatred toward his enemies. And he had plenty.
While I enjoy the most delicious scone I’ve ever tasted and Maribelle pours us both more tea, I glance at the desk full of photos and notice the smiling older couple, the man in uniform and the woman dressed in a tea-length dress carrying a bouquet of flowers. I lean closer to get a better look.
“My parents,” Maribelle says, returning to her ottoman. “On their wedding day.”
“They look so happy.”
“They were.”
The comment’s stated so assuredly I can’t help wondering about their strange deaths, what made them so unhappy.
“What happened to them?” I ask in a whisper.
Maribelle appears in a trance gazing at the photo and I doubt she will discuss the horrific event, not to mention her involvement. But, then she begins to speak.
“The maid came over in the morning as she always did, expecting to find my parents drinking coffee at the breakfast table, reading the newspaper. She called out their names as she entered the house. When she had no response, she started searching.”
“How horrible.”
“Police found the furnace exhaust pipe wasn’t attached and had been spewing carbon monoxide into the basement. That’s what caused their deaths.”
Maribelle pauses in her telling and neither of us says a word. I listen to the wind moaning through the trees and around the building, hear rain falling outside in large noisy drops. I wait for an appropriate amount of time, then decide to spill the beans. I feel horrible initiating this accusatory conversation but I must know.
“Clayton said you inherited their estate,” I say softly. “He suspects you might have killed them for the money.”
Maribelle turns her eyes to me, tears pooling. “I know. I didn’t.”
“I know you dislike him, but you must admit, the money gives you reason to kill Jack.”
Maribelle smiles grimly, looking down at the cup in her lap. “Not to mention my parents.”
Despite my doubts, I reach over and take my friend’s hand. She squeezes back and the tears cascade down her cheeks.
“I’m not a fan of Clayton, as you know,” she tells me, wiping the moisture away. “He’s not the FBI’s sharpest cowboy on the ranch. But I do understand why he thinks the way he does.”
“You don’t think your parents committed suicide?”
Her eyes enlarge and she shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”
The wind howls again and I shiver. “Who would want to kill your parents?”
For the first time, I sense fear in Maribelle, as if an evil presence has entered the room, threatening to absorb us both. The fear in her eyes sends goosebumps up my back, that ole skunk running over my grave.
She looks past me to the desk full of photos, to the one I spotted that day in February, the first time I entered Maribelle’s apartment. It’s a photo of Maribelle’s mother standing next to two children. One of them resembles Maribelle as a scrawny teenager, looking at her feet awkwardly, arms crossed against her chest. An older boy stands more confidently on the side showing a full set of teeth in a creepy scowl, reminding me of Jack Nicolson’s character in The Shining when he pushes his face through a door and says, “Here’s Johnny.”
I shiver again. “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to the man.
Maribelle’s countenance doesn’t change. If anything, it turns darker. I don’t know how I put the pieces together or if there’s someone on the other side forcing the words from my lips.
“Gunner Bronagh?” I ask.
We lock gazes and the fear I sense emanating from Maribelle seeps into my soul.
“Yes,” she whispers. “He’s my brother.”
Chapter 13
The rain’s slowed down so I slip back inside my houseboat, wave to Agent Sheridan as I pass by. TB’s waiting at the door, looking as frazzled as I feel.
“Where have you been?” he yells.
Now it’s his turn to inspect me up and down.
“I’m fine. I was just talking to Maribelle.”
Sebastian rushes in from the kitchen. “She’s back?”
“Sheesh, guys, I just went next door.”
The minute the words come out of my mouth I regret them. I should have told them where I was going. Of course, they have reason to be worried.
“I’m sorry, should have left you a note. But the FBI’s right outside.”
TB looks at Sebastian, his frantic worried expression never faltering. “We should get Sheridan.”
“Or call Clayton back.”
I shake my head. “Just because I went next door?”
Sebastian walks closer and holds out his hand. Inside his palm lies a brick with a string tied around the middle. There’s a note attached.
“Someone threw this onto the deck.”
I reach for the note but fear stills my hand.
“Sheridan would have seen anyone coming this close. He saw me walking in the woods.”
“You were the woods?” both men yell at me at the same time.
“I took Stinky with me.”
I didn’t think Sebastian could appear more agitated and TB begins pacing the floor.
“I’m sorry, but Jack appeared and I really needed to speak to him.”
They’re still looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind, Sebastian holding the brick in front of him as if it’s about to detonate. My back’s killing me so I plop into the chair.
“If you hadn’t been so rude and listened to what Clayton told me, you’d have understood why I needed to speak to Jack. But the two of you had to crawfish into your rooms….”
TB pauses, hands on his hips, gazing at me with eyes the size of saucers. “Are you kidding me? You could have been killed.”
Sebastian sits on the couch, still holding the vandalizing instrument. “Vi, you need to read this.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I lean forward as best I can and turn over the note. It reads, “We had a deal. Transition Jack Greene.”
I jump back in my seat as if the note burned my hands.
“Bastard.”
Now, TB’s raccoon eyes are in my face. “Never leave this place without us.”
I think back on Maribelle’s “lessons” and understand how bad people win when good people let fear rule their thinking. But then, I failed the first lesson, not staying out of the path of evil to begin with.
“We can’t give up our lives,” I tell them both. “They’re trying to intimidate us.”
“And it’s working,” Sebastian says.
TB begins pacing again. “You’re getting on the first bus out of here heading to New Orleans. I already called your mom and she’s making up the guest bedroom.”
I stand up so fast I surprise myself, considering my girth. “No way.”
“You can’t be here,” Sebastian adds.
“I’m not leaving.” I glance from one to the other. “No way.”
TB grabs my shoulders. “Vi, he wants you. Dwayne’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants. The best thing to do is put you someplace safe.”
“New Orleans?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
I take my husband’s hands and place them on top of my belly. “Sweetheart, I’m not leaving you.”
TB’s shoulders drop. “I’m coming with you.”
“What?”
“I can finish at LSU.”
My mouth hangs open and I loo
k at Sebastian for support but he appears defeated as well. “You too?”
“It’s better this way,” Sebastian says.
“And Maribelle?”
Sebastian avoids my eyes. “You heard what Clayton said. She’s not who we think she is.”
So, Sebastian listened at the door, heard Clayton’s theory of why Maribelle killed her parents, then Jack.
“Innocent until proven, Sebastian.”
“Just until this blows over,” TB inserts.
“And leave her here to fight off the allegations alone, to deal with a major corporation breathing down her neck with Dwayne and her crazy brother adding to the mix?”
Sebastian leans forward. “Brother?”
“Yeah, there’s more to this story and maybe if y’all hadn’t hidden inside your caves when Clayton was here or listened to Maribelle’s side of the story, you wouldn’t be advocating running home with our tails between our legs.”
Sebastian studies the lint on his jeans, no doubt wondering if he was quick to judge.
“I thought you loved her,” I ask him.
He leans back on the couch and looks out over the water, the surface so still now that the storm has passed. “I do, but we hardly know each other. A brother?”
I fall back into the chair, this time without thinking and the force makes a plumping noise that startles us all. “Maribelle wants to talk to us. She said to meet her at the restaurant at seven and bring food.”
No one says a word.
“I’d cook but I’d rather you would,” I tell Sebastian.
He nods. “I’ll heat up the leftover pasta.”
Just the thought of that creamy pesto-infused fettuccini with heirloom petite peas from the farmer’s market makes my heart swell. Why can’t I stop dreaming of food?
I now have Sebastian on my side. I look up at my husband who’s still shaking his head.
“I’m not losing my family,” he says with a catch in his throat. “Not again, Vi. We’re going home.”
Don’t make me stand up again, I think, gazing at my pain-stricken husband. But I so need to hold him close right now. I reach for his hand but he moves away, still shaking his head.
“Nothing you say or do is going to change my mind.”
Just then, a startling knock comes at the door, making us all jump.
“What the hell?” Sebastian says.
Before I have time to turn my enormous middle around, a voice comes through loud and clear.
“Open up, you idiots.”
Sebastian sends me a furrowed look. “Who told Portia?”
I attempt to rise but TB beats me to the door, opening to my sister standing there with three — yes three — oversized pieces of luggage. The designer kind, of course. She’s dressed in jeans, a striped pullover and a Tommy Hilfiger jacket, looking like she’s about to set sail on a yacht in the Hampton’s.
Portia looks from one of us to the other. “You’re going to make me stand out here all night?”
We all bolt into action, TB grabbing her suitcases, Sebastian rising and giving her a hug. I’m last to address my stalwart sister, mainly because it takes me forever to rise from my seat.
“Sheesh, you’re huge,” Portia tells me when it’s my turn to hug. “You’re as big as a barn.”
For years, her comments unnerved me so much I would spend days chewing on the insults, wishing I had countered with some snappy comeback. Nowadays, I laugh them off.
“I’d say the same for you but that would be rude.”
Sebastian laughs but Portia sends me the evil eye. She’s always struggled with her weight.
“You know I’m kidding.” I pull her farther inside the living room. “I’m so glad to see you. I need you on my side right now against these two.”
Her evil glance turns to the men. “What did you two do now?” We all stand staring at each other, no one speaking, until Portia huffs. “Well, someone speak up.”
“We’re going home,” TB says firmly.
My husband’s usually so easy-going that he doesn’t stand for much. If we head to dinner, he’s up for any meal. “Whatever you want,” is his typical refrain. When asked about a weekend getaway. “You’re the travel writer, you pick the place.” But right now, he’s not wavering.
But then, my sister’s no match for anyone. An hour in a courtroom and the opposition runs home crying.
“No one’s going anywhere,” she bellows. “The lawyer’s here to save the day.”
Sebastian remains skeptical, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, and TB’s not saying a word but Portia and I begin discussing dinner and for now, we’re headed to the restaurant for seven.
By the time we leave, however, that old paranoia returns as Sebastian, TB and Portia begin discussing me. I’m in the bathroom for the ten thousandth time today and I can hear them tattling about how I waltzed off into the woods, visited Maribelle — a suspected killer (did Sebastian say that?) — and that I’m not taking the dangers of Dwayne seriously. Then TB mentions Lillye and my inability to let her go and a flush burns up my neck and my head starts to pound. How dare them?
When we gather the food together and head toward the restaurant, I realize I’ve been feeling this way a lot lately. One minute I’m waking up happy about the world and the next I’m ready to take someone’s head off. Is it my blood pressure wreaking havoc with my emotions? Possibly. The pregnancy and those temperamental hormones raging through my body? Most likely.
And yet….
I follow my husband and siblings inside and note the progress made since my last visit. The brick walls now sparkle, the wooden floors have been restored but await a final coating, and light fixtures installed. TB’s expert carpentry skills transformed a rough space into something magical. Even the back wall’s elegant bar with its subdued lighting and intricate bookshelves for the alcohol inventory looks like something out of Food & Wine magazine.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, reaching up to right one of the chandeliers hanging haphazardly above a table.
“Be careful,” Sebastian calls out, moving me away as I return to earth from my toes.
I feel TB’s hand at my elbow. “Watch out for the loose nails on the floor. We haven’t finished installing the walls and the nails are everywhere.”
I pull free of their grip. “Y’all stop manhandling me.”
“I’m not manhandling you.” TB appears hurt. “I’m worried about your safety.”
“You mean you want me to go home, quit working, and be a good little mother.”
Where on earth did that come from?
“I’m sorry,” I begin but the apology fades when the anger returns, “but you men….”
“What do you mean, you men?” Sebastian asks, clearly unhappy with me.
“Always telling us what to do. Always grabbing us like we’re a piece of meat you want to manipulate.”
Sebastian appears as if he’s been stung. He shakes his head and heads toward the back while TB stares at me with those sorrowful black eyes.
“Geez Viola,” Portia says.
“What did I do?”
But I know what I did. Sebastian’s not the enemy. TB either. And yet, there’s this anger filling up my soul that I can’t release. I know I should apologize again but the emotion’s there, simmering, and my head’s about to blow apart. And I can’t shake TB’s last words in the houseboat.
“Why should I let my precious angel go?” I tell my husband. “She’s my daughter and it’s perfectly normal that I would want to see her. Especially since that bitch of a storm made me see all these other dead people.”
Now, I’m shouting. And it’s scaring me. My body’s vibrating with the rush of adrenaline but I can’t seem to come down from this.
TB reaches for my arm. “I know sweetheart, we’re just worried.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, but it comes out hollow and insincere. “I really don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I do,” comes a voice from behi
nd.
We all turn to find Maribelle entering the building, two bottles of wine and several glasses in her arms. She reaches my side, gazes into my eyes, and studies me.
“Not you, too,” I say. “I guess you’re also suggesting I head to New Orleans and spend the rest of my life in a closet.”
“Maybe a broom closet.”
Maribelle offers a warm smile and I feel the blood drain from my face. As the anger subsides, Maribelle calls out to TB and the two of them lead me to a chair, each one holding an elbow. I’m starting to see birds tweeting around my head but the world becomes clearer once I sit down. TB examines me again like a mom and Maribelle’s checking my pulse.
“We need to get you back to Dr. Mahoney,” she says. “Your pulse is racing.”
Portia, on the other hand, is more concerned with my attitude.
“What the hell, Vi. Where did all that animosity come from?”
While everyone’s huddled over me — except Sebastian, who from the sound of things is futzing in the kitchen — two women appear at the front door, knocking loudly and startling us all. It’s Patrice from the diner and that unfriendly librarian.
Maribelle heads to the front and lets them in, but they’re as pissed off as I was moments before. They march in, holding up a piece of paper as if it’s the devil himself.
“Seriously, Maribelle?” Patrice asks. “First, you let these Louisiana people bring the FBI to town and now you’ve got Lightning Bug on our ass.”
“What are you talking about?” Maribelle asks, and I’m surprised at how calm she is because Patrice is practically in her face.
The librarian extends an outstretched arm with the offensive paper in her hand, close enough to Maribelle’s face that she likely can read it.
“The city says you’re breaking all kinds of rules building this restaurant and your precious herb shop, and now they want to inspect the diner and library, claiming we’re at fault too.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Maribelle takes the paper and begins reading it, but not before Portia reaches her side.
“Did you get all the necessary permits?” my sister asks.
Maribelle doesn’t look up, still reading. “Of course.”
Give Up the Ghost Page 19
