Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery

by Fanning, Diane

  I attended the funeral loaded with Xanax. I was numbed, tearful and surrounded by blue uniforms. Each blue chest bore a badge with a stripe of black electrical tape. Black tape for Charlie. The same black tape that wrapped around my heart, holding the pieces together. All was black and blue.

  I yearned to crawl into the coffin and snuggle up next to my Charlie. I wanted to hear the lid shut over my head, the latches lock in place, binding us together for eternity.

  On the drive home from the cemetery, I stopped at HEB. My cupboard was bare, my refrigerator an empty shell. I roamed up and down one aisle after the other like an automaton. I grabbed what appealed to me: bags of potato chips, half gallons of ice cream, chocolate chip cookies, four bright red bags of dark roast Community Coffee. I thought I was ready for checkout until I looked into my basket. I had to buy real food.

  I rolled through produce and picked up nothing. I pushed my cart through the meat department but the sight of the bloody packages invoked a swell of nausea. I ended up in the frozen foods aisle where I grabbed a few TV dinners. I picked the same ones that Charlie stocked in the freezer at his apartment before we were married. I teased him about those dinners once. Now, I piled them in with my junk food.

  The checker had to have thought my assortment of groceries was odd. But if she said a word, I did not hear it. She even had to ask me twice for payment before it registered that she had spoken.

  I unloaded my car and withdrew into my home. I did nothing but eat and sleep. I tried to read but every time I reached the end of a page, I realized my mind had only seen a clutter of words and had not formulated them into a sentence or a thought. I might as well have picked up a book filled with the Cyrillic alphabet or Japanese characters.

  I ignored the telephone when it rang and never checked my messages. Soon it was full and no more could be recorded. I did not respond to the ringing of the doorbell. Mail piled up in my mailbox.

  About four days into my hermit state, the front bell rang and rang and rang. I peered through the bathroom window and saw the mail delivery truck parked in front of my house. When it pulled away, I eased open the front door and snatched up rubber-banded bundles of mail. I dropped them on the dining-room table, grabbed a bag of potato chips and climbed back in bed.

  I wanted to be dead. Gone. Deceased. With Charlie. I wasn’t suicidal in the active sense. I didn’t dwell on the means I could use to dispose of myself. I’m not sure why I didn’t travel down that road. There were means all over the house. A gun in the bedroom closet. Pills in the medicine cabinet. Knives in the kitchen. I did not go there. But I did wish I were dead and prayed for release as if I could will my heart to stop its beat.

  A few days later, another persistent visitor arrived. First the bell rang—again and again. Then, a fist pounded on the front door. I slid down in the bed until my head was covered. I heard a mumbled voice but I had no desire to investigate. Silence. Yes. Another well-wisher foiled. I lowered the blankets off my face.

  Two seconds later, I exploded out of my bed. It was just rapping on the glass of my bedroom, window but it might as well have been machine gun fire the way adrenaline was now coursing through my bloodstream. I sat on the bed wanting to hold my breath but panting instead.

  “Molly. Molly Mullet. I know you’re in there. Molly. Let me in this house now.”

  It was Franny. Francine Albert—the woman I normally considered my best friend. Right now, she was the bane of my existence.

  “Molly. I am not leaving until I see you.”

  I knew she wouldn’t. I pulled back the curtain and gave her a flash of my face.

  “Molly, don’t be a smart-ass. Open the front door.”

  I did not move. I did not speak.

  “Molly. If you do not open that door in the next thirty seconds, I am calling the police. And don’t tell me they won’t come. I’ll tell them you attempted suicide. I swear I will.”

  I recognized the futility of my resistance, rose to my feet and plodded to the front door. I swung it open and retreated to my bed before Franny could get up on the porch.

  “Molly Mullet,” she exclaimed as she walked into my room and ripped the covers off my body. She grabbed both my hands and pulled me to my feet. “Look at you. Charlie would be ashamed.”

  “Not fair,” I hissed at her.

  I stood there in my unwashed hair, one of Charlie’s ratty old Tshirts and his pair of jalapeno-pepper-adorned flannel pants. I looked down. There were chocolate stains on the shirt. I forced myself to stand in the shower every day but I never had the energy to open the bottle of shampoo or pull fresh clothes out of the closet.

  “Life’s not fair, Molly Mullet,” she said as she dragged me into the bathroom. There she grabbed the shampoo and a towel and pulled me into the kitchen. She turned on the water, got the right temperature and dunked my head under the faucet. The whole time, she tsked at me.

  I took no independent action, but I cooperated—mostly out of surprise. On a typical day, Franny is a disorganized, unfocused airhead whose conversations hopped from one pad of thought to another like a frog on speed. In the classroom, she was an inspired and inspiring art teacher. Her flakiness branded her as a real artist—an eccentric—to her students. But here was a new Franny—the woman in charge.

  She cleaned me up and dressed me down and planned my future. “Molly, I’ll be by at 7:20 Monday morning to pick you up. It’s time for you to get back to your students.”

  I acquiesced. What else could I do? As soon as her car pulled away, I grabbed a bowl of chocolate chunk ice cream and went back to bed.

  I reported to school that Monday morning, but I still wallowed in my slough of despond. My dull outlook on life drowned any sparks I may have lit with my students earlier in the year. I continued to drug myself with food, and my clothes became formless as I packed on the pounds.

  A small pod of girls surrounded me after my honors chemistry class a few weeks after my return to school. Alison Knieper with her perfect straight blond hair, no-nonsense blue eyes and flawless complexion was the leader of the pack. She always would be. She was centered and focused beyond her years. Her straightforward face and squared shoulders underlined her agility with language and her natural knack for communication.

  She gave me the dead-on look that Clint Eastwood perfected. Her girlfriends shuffled their feet and stared at the floor as intently as if the meaning of life was embedded in the tiles. “Are you pregnant?” she asked.

  Tact was not one of Alison’s virtues. I stared back at her and willed my slack jaw to return to closed position. I stroked my right upper arm. I had expected most anything from Alison, but that never crossed my mind.

  “I know this is blunt, Ms. Mullet. And quite personal. We are well aware of your personal loss and have great empathy for your situation. We’ve stood by and watched you disintegrate. You had warm brown eyes that always seemed to be laughing at the world. Now they look like dead, charred holes to an empty soul. What used to be bouncy brown curls framing an optimistic face are now dirty limp rags bracketing an expression of total despair. If you are the only individual involved in this miasma of misery, then that is your prerogative. However, if you are pregnant you have a responsibility to pull yourself together. And we have a moral obligation to conduct an intervention.”

  I wanted to say, “Leave me alone,” and flee to the teachers’ lounge, where not even Alison would follow. But I could not deny the girls before me. In the timid, eye-darting, creased-brow faces gathered around their leader, I saw genuine concern. And I remembered with clarity my concern for them that I had buried beneath my avalanche of self-pity.

  “Ms. Mullet?” Patience was not one of Alison’s virtues either.

  I pulled in a deep, stalling breath and returned Alison’s intense stare. “Thank you, Alison, girls. You are right to be worried about me. I’ve been wrapped in my misery. I’ve been self-indulgent. But, no, I am not pregnant.”

  A chorus of sighs and a flash of weak smiles punctuated
my statement. “Thank you, Ms. Mullet,” Alison said. “Please let us know if there is anything we can do to help.” She turned on her heel and led her gaggle out of the classroom.

  I stepped into the doorway and watched them disappear down the hall. I shook my head and smiled. It had been so long since the corners of my mouth turned upward, I could hear my cheeks creak with the effort.

  When I got home that afternoon, I took the first step to regaining my life. Grabbing a cardboard box from the garage, I marched to the pantry. I filled the bottom with packages of cookies and bags of chips. Then I hit my squirrel drawer, pulling out seven candy bars, four packs of cheese crackers and a monster bag of Hershey’s kisses. The refrigerator was next. I relieved it of a gallon of ice cream and a box of chocolate-chocolate ice cream sandwiches.

  I delivered it all to my next-door neighbor. With four active boys and a constant parade of other neighborhood kids in and out of her house, the snacks would disappear in dissipated energy without leaving an added ounce in its tracks.

  That night, I took a power walk around the neighborhood. Well, at least it started as a power walk. I returned home panting as if I’d run a marathon. The next day, I signed up at Curves and forced myself to make the circuit of machines three times. I knew if I focused on the physical, my thought process would clear and sharpen. I needed that. I had a lot of thinking to do.

  I loved teaching chemistry. Now, though, it just didn’t seem to be enough. A T-shirt I saw on one of my students summed up my feelings best: “If you’re not living on the edge, you are taking up too much space.” I wanted to find my edge.

  I followed that siren call and did not sign a contract for the coming school year. Instead, I filled out an application for the police department. I passed the tests, went to the academy and joined the force.

  Here I stood, five years older than I was the day Charlie died. Three years older than when I joined the force. Was I any wiser? I hoped so. I thought I had found my life’s path when I embarked on this journey. But now I realized it was just a side trip—a blind stumbling after Charlie. I had lost my way in a blur of misplaced grief and good intentions. It was time to alter course.

  Chapter Nine

  Commander Ed Schultze had an open-door policy but that didn’t make it any easier to cross his threshold. Pity for all the students I’d ever sent to the principal’s office washed over me. Now I knew how it felt.

  I took a timid half step into the room where Schultze sat facing the computer instead of the door. I saw the back of his salt-and-pepper brush cut and watched him pound keys that looked far too small for his broad fingertips. My watery knees caused me to sway as I stood in place. I was thinking about backing out of the doorway when Schultze spun around and spotted me.

  “Mullet! Come on in. Have a seat. I’m armed but I’m not dangerous,” he said with a small chuckle. He’d been using that line for more years than I’d been on the force. You’d think by now it would have ceased to amuse him.

  An involuntary swallowing spasm racked my throat as I took wooden steps across the floor to the chair. I sat down with all the grace of a tumbling two-by-four.

  “Mullet,” he continued. “I’m glad you stopped by my office. If you hadn’t, I would have had to send word.”

  That was not a good sign. Schultze never sent for you to tell you that you did a good job. It always meant trouble.

  “I had a concern expressed to me this morning . . .” he began.

  “Lieutenant Hawkins,” I interrupted. There was a full sentence formed in my head, but only his name could escape my lips.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. It was Lieutenant Hawkins. I imagine it was all just a misunderstanding. Why don’t you explain the situation to me from your point of view?”

  That statement pretty much summed up why Schultze was a commander—diplomatic, savvy, a constant projection of fairness. But would he peddle it this softly if I were a male officer? Maybe. Maybe not. Rumors had it that he had aspirations to be Chief of Police, either here or in a jurisdiction nearby. A reputation for having a good rapport with women and minorities improved his chance for success.

  Schultze donned his fatherly mask that exuded an air of infinite patience. But I could tell his patience was running thin. A tiny tic just below the corner of his right eye gave him away.

  I jumped to my feet and pulled out my badge and my gun. The fear that skittered in his darting eyes told me old Schultze had been out of the field a little too long for comfort. When I laid the badge and the weapon on the desk in front of him, he tried to hide his sigh of relief, but it slipped through under his faked cough.

  “You don’t need an explanation from me, Commander. I’m sure Lieutenant Hawkins gave you an honest appraisal of the situation. What you need from me is a resignation, and you’ve got it.”

  “Thank you, Mullet,” Schultze said. And that was it.

  I spun around and left the room, hot patches burning like coals on my cheeks. I went to his office to quit. And I quit. Not much fuss. Not much bother. It was done. So why did I feel so humiliated? Why did I want him to make at least a lame attempt to change my mind? Stupid pride. Now, damaged pride. Fine, Molly, take that sting and use its energy to do something constructive for Bobby Wiggins.

  When I reached home, I clicked on the Internet and found the phone number for Dale Travis, Bobby’s hotshot Houston attorney. I was not put through to the great man, of course. Instead I left a message with a snotty-voiced woman. I kept it simple, asking him to call me about the Bobby Wiggins case and leaving my home phone number.

  I called Thelma Wiggins next. “Hello, Mrs. Wiggins. This is Molly Mullet.” I heard a clunk. “Mrs. Wiggins? Mrs. Wiggins?” Damn. She hung up on me. I disconnected and hit the redial button. “Please don’t hang up, Mrs. Wiggins. I’ve resigned . . .” Clunk.

  Call me tenacious. Or call me pig-headed. Either one will fit. I pressed redial again. This time, the phone rang and rang—ten times, eleven times, twelve. I hung up.

  I clattered around the house like a lone rusty nut in an old coffee tin. I tried to read a book, a magazine article, Dear Abby in the newspaper. But it was no use. I could not concentrate. I attempted to take care of a few household chores. But the desire to do something concrete for Bobby distracted me. I left a dozen projects in a half-started state scattered around the house. I rubbed the skin red around that ugly little cow-pie on my arm. All day I stared at the phone willing Dale Travis to call until I saw double. I fantasized that a cheerful Thelma Wiggins would ring me up and apologize for being rude.

  The phone did ring twice. The first time it was a vinyl-siding salesperson. I was not polite. The next time it rang, I heard, “I’m not trying to sell you anything today . . .” before I hung up. I went to bed that night tired but too agitated to sleep well.

  When I woke the next morning, my mood was as foul as my breath. If I still had a dog, I might have kicked it. That made my train of thought even darker. I had still not gotten over losing Chase so soon after I lost my husband. I should have moved on by now. I should have gotten a new dog. But the pain of losing yet another companion was still stronger than my willingness to risk the joy of it.

  I downed three cups of coffee in quick succession. Then I brushed my teeth. I began to feel human again. I placed another call to the offices of Dale Travis. Once again, I spoke to the snotty-sounding woman and left my cell phone number.

  I called Thelma. “Mrs. Wiggins?” Clunk. Sigh.

  Chapter Ten

  At the other end of the line, Thelma Wiggins sighed, too. She could no longer remember the days when life was a carefree adventure. The dust of old memories sometimes stirred but never coalesced into a solid enough form to offer solace.

  The day that altered her existence rolled over her like thunder. She and Stuart drove up to Austin and met Dale Travis and his wife, Cici, at a second floor bar off of Sixth Street. The original itinerary called for a drink there, followed by dinner at a new restaurant that was all the buzz and
then finished up with some barhopping up and down the street.

  Somehow, they never managed to leave that first stop. They spent the night nibbling on bar food, dancing to the jukebox and laughing hard at easy jokes. Pregnancy had made Thelma fatigued for the last few weeks but tonight was an exception and she took advantage of her unexpected energy—dancing with the carefree abandon of a cheerleader in the wake of victory on the football field.

  She sipped nothing stronger than 7-Up all night, but she felt as giddy as if she had—a contact high from the high spirits of her mildly intoxicated companions. When last call reverberated across the room, the two couples grabbed purses, paid the bar tab and headed out the door.

  At the top of the stairs, Thelma tripped on something—or on nothing—she never knew what. Her arm flew toward Stuart but was too short to even brush his shirt. Her body lurched forward. There was only one person below her on the stairs—Dale Travis. If he had moved in her path to break her fall, her life journey would have taken another course. But he did not. Instinct made him flinch away when he heard the noise. Thelma tumbled past him in a flurry of arms and legs.

  She hit bottom on her face—bits of grit embedding into her cheeks as they rested on the unforgiving concrete. She was afraid to move. The others raced to the bottom of the steps. She heard Stuart call her name again and again. She heard Stuart race back up the stairs to call for an ambulance. And that was all she heard, all she knew, for hours.

  At the hospital, Stuart hovered over her like an angel of mercy bringing sips of water, little pecks on the forehead, little murmurs of love. Cici sat as still as death and held Thelma’s hand. Dale paced back and forth, kneading his hands, muttering apologies and regrets.

  It was touch and go for days, but, at last, Thelma’s condition stabilized—she would not lose the baby. Her doctor, a nurse and Stuart gathered at the side of her bed with the bad news. He was concerned that the fetus was damaged. The baby would survive to full term, he said, but it would not be normal. He wanted to know if she wanted to continue her pregnancy.