by Karen Pullen
He didn’t seem to mind. “I talked with Blue,” he said. “Based on what he saw in the barn, and what Gregor McMahon told him, we can close the case. McMahon said Justine Bradley caused his wife’s death? I thought he barely knew Justine.”
“That’s right, he didn’t know her. But his wife, Emma, did. You know, we were looking at Justine’s murder from the wrong angle. We thought someone may have murdered her because she was transsexual, to stop the wedding. But she was murdered because she tried to keep her gender change a secret. So badly, in fact, that she allowed Emma McMahon to die at that picnic six months ago.”
“She allowed her to die?”
“Imagine Justine’s fright when Emma shows up at the picnic. Emma’s a childhood friend, the only person for miles who knew her as John. They even went to a prom together. Justine hasn’t informed her boyfriend Mike of her sex change, though Mike just slipped a giant rock on her finger. Now Emma is Allergy Queen, always has been, and Justine would have been well aware of that. Does she warn her—hey, there’s cashew butter in that chili you’re about to enjoy? She does not. How could she? She’s Justine, not the old pal Johnny who knows what Emma’s allergic to. Five-ten minutes later, as Emma’s gasping for breath, why is Gregor McMahon’s car locked? What happened to Gregor’s keys? He can’t get into the car fast enough and Emma dies. It’s cold-blooded but it ends Justine’s panic that someone would reveal her past, on that day of all days.”
Anselmo half turned on the couch, and pulled my left foot onto his lap. He began to knead the arch of my foot. “Uh, is that appropriate?” I whispered. The sensations were religious. I closed my eyes to concentrate.
“Shut up. They’re just feet.” He began to gently squeeze each toe in turn. “Blue said McMahon looked through the chemicals in the barn and took some of the gopher bait. It’s a reasonable inference that he poisoned Justine. Only . . . why then, right before the wedding?”
“Oh that feels good. Don’t ever stop.” I opened my eyes and uncrossed them. “The previous evening, Justine had given everyone at the dinner a copy of her cookbook. The chili recipe—the same chili she took to the picnic—lists cashew butter as an ingredient. Let’s conjecture that Gregor notices the recipe, as he might have done, because her chili was a big hit at the picnic. Perhaps someone asks specifically about the recipe, and she talks about the unusual ingredients. Gregor hears ‘cashew butter’ and makes the connection—Emma was deathly allergic to it—and he realizes that Justine’s chili might have caused Emma’s reaction. Then, a few hours later, Ingrid delivers the bombshell news to Mike’s parents that Justine is transsexual, and that she, Ingrid, knows this because she went to school with Johnny Bradley, now Justine Bradley. Someone in the inn was standing in the hall, and overheard that conversation. I’m pretty sure that it was Gregor.”
“A recipe? Sex-reassignment surgery? How would he put them together?”
“He has all night to think it through. He knows that Emma, like Justine, was a friend of Ingrid’s through high school. He realizes that Emma knew Justine when she was male. Justine would have recognized Emma at the picnic. He remembers Emma enjoying Justine’s chili, with its fatal ingredient, cashew butter.”
“Pure conjecture.”
“It’s logical.The next day, right before the wedding ceremony, Gregor visits Justine in her room. He brings the bracelet—perhaps to show her the caduceus symbol. Possibly he wants Justine to admit that she knowingly served Emma something that would kill her. Does Justine confess anything? Or not? Either way, he realizes that she will never, ever, be punished for his wife’s death. Justice will not be served. Maybe she says something rash. The guy could bring out the worst in people, I tell you.”
Anselmo slowly pulled the sock off my left foot. He pressed his thumbs into the sole, working from the heel to the toes. His hands were warm, strong, tender, and my foot was happy. “It explains the bracelet being in Justine’s room, gives McMahon a motive for Justine’s murder and the attempt on Blue’s life,” he said. “And going back to the picnic, it explains why Justine allowed Emma to die. But we’ll never know what happened in Justine’s room that morning.”
I imagined Justine in her bridal finery, admitting Gregor into her room. He holds out the bracelet and points to the caduceus symbol. He insists she knew about Emma’s allergies, to insect stings and nuts and too much sun. Justine doesn’t realize the danger she’s in. She’s preoccupied because she’s going to be married in a few minutes. Does she ignore his accusation and turn to the mirror to admire the pearl strands in her beautifully coiled hair? Does the teapot whistle, and he offers to pour the boiling water over the tea bag for her? “Sugar, Justine?” he asks. “A bit of soymilk?” She smiles, admiring her reflection, her perfect nose and chin, her satin-covered curves. She takes the mug from him. “Thank you so much, I am a bit thirsty.” She drinks. He watches for a few minutes, then leaves to join his friend Mike, Evan Ember, and Scoop Scott in front of the gathered guests, who wait patiently. I shivered, thinking of the agony of Justine’s last minutes.
“You still cold?”
“Thank you. My feet are much warmer now.”
He took the sock off my right foot and started that thing he did with his thumbs on the sole of my foot. I closed my eyes as his hands tenderly kneaded the arch, just firmly enough not to tickle. They’re just feet. I was finally warm, suffused with an unusual feeling of relaxed contentment I decided must be happiness. I sank into it, as the fire snapped and crackled. Outside, gusts of wind blew spatters of rain against the windows.
CHAPTER 24
* * *
A Saturday Many Months Later, Mid-Afternoon
Fern’s farmhouse looks its very best in May, when, like well-applied makeup, Nature camouflages the property’s many flaws. The ramshackle woods encircling her field are dotted with dogwoods, their floating white-petaled flowers distracting the eye from the rampant kudzu. In the field, lush grasses disguise the gopher holes and mole tunnels. Carolina jasmine winds around the crumbling wood of the trellis over the front door.
Fern had planted white impatiens among the blue iris clumping along the cinder-block foundation of the house, and the flowers almost succeeded in diverting any visitor’s gaze from peeling paint and missing porch rail balusters. Earlier in the week, Mike Olmert had replaced a dozen rotted floorboards, so the porch was safe for the brides to stand on while they spoke their vows.
Perhaps others didn’t notice the falling-down aspects of her house as much as I did. I guess it looked historic and charming, ideal for a small wedding. Er, commitment ceremony. Gay marriage is unconstitutional in North Carolina, so although family and friends would witness Ingrid and Kate’s ceremonial vows, there would be no marriage license.
“You’re in charge of flowers,” Fern said. She slid another bobby pin into my hair to capture an errant curl that threatened to spoil the “do” she’d copied from a picture in a magazine.
I didn’t mind; I was glad to be able to help out. I’d worked one summer for a florist and knew my way around foam, wire, aquapics, and tape. “There’s two hours left. Where am I going to get flowers?” I asked, turning my head to catch her eye. “And more importantly, how come you don’t have a tummy?”
“Good posture and sit-ups, darling. And I don’t eat ice cream every night like you do. Kate went up to the farmer’s market in Carrboro real early and bought buckets of flowers. Hold still.” She aimed the spray can at my head and I closed my eyes while she misted me. “There. Go take a look.”
I went into the bathroom. My hair was pulled up into a complicated twist that any mild breeze could dismantle. Fern peered over my shoulder, tucking in strands here and there. “Turn around,” she said. “You should wear dresses more often. Shows off your—”
“My hot bod. I know. Point me to the flowers and tell me what’s needed.”
“They’re in the kitchen. Here.” She handed me a list.
I headed for the kitchen, where I had to look twice before I re
cognized Tricia Scott, counting silverware. Her hair had reverted to its natural silver, cut short and spiky, and her skin was a light golden tan. I told her she looked great.
She laughed. “My hair? Rinse and run. Half my life is on the beach, the rest is snorkeling.”
“The tours for couples?”
“Yup. Going great. We go to resorts in Belize and Cancun. My speakers like it so much they work just for expenses. You should join us. Do you have a boyfriend?”
Did I? Hogan’s relationship with Candy had foundered over her refusal to appear in public with him, but he’d wasted not a day in finding a replacement, a nice woman who read books for the blind. Even Fredricks had a girlfriend, a veterinarian’s assistant he’d met when he took his boys’ new puppy in for shots. The only other man in my life was the state trooper who flew me around in a helicopter to look for indoor pot farms with a thermal imager. Yesterday he’d put his moist and meaty hand on my thigh. Did that count?
“Not at the moment,” I said. “Maybe if you had one for singles.”
She looked at me searchingly. “I just might do that. In fact, it’s a brilliant idea. I’m single myself, did you hear? My ex is in jail. All I can say is—thank the Lord Scoop didn’t let me own any part of his quote unquote church or I’d have been an accessory.”
The kitchen counters were covered with plastic-covered serving dishes—collard greens, Brunswick stew, cornbread, fried chicken, deviled eggs, succotash, pickles of every variety. On the stove, a big pan of barbeque was warming. “Smells good in here,” I said.
“I can’t take the credit,” Trish said. “Most of it’s catered off a Sunday-after-church menu.”
Bemused by the old-timey meal and Tricia’s transformation into a hip divorcée, I pulled the bucket of flowers over to the table. I scanned Fern’s list and mentally matched it with the contents of the bucket—tulips, peonies, iris, forsythia and larkspur, with plenty of astilbe and ferns for filler. I clipped three pieces of larkspur, added a fern leaf, and taped them to a white tulip. Corsage number one, check. I started on the second one. “This is a good day for you, then?” I asked.
She nodded. “Kate’s so happy. She really loves Ingrid. I’m almost jealous—I don’t think I’ve ever had that in my whole life.”
“You will, Tricia. Just get that singles retreat going.”
After I finished the flower arrangements, I went outside to find Kate and Mike.
Mike and his fellow fireman had recently completed the chicken house, a favor Fern had returned by painting a portrait of their retiring chief. The coop still smelled new, like pine boards and clean straw. A dozen bantam chickens—little red birds with feathery feet—cackled softly and hustled themselves out of the way when I stepped into their domain. In the outside run under a vine arbor, Kate twirled slowly in a white ruffled dress, an off-shoulder muumuu style. She beamed when I handed her the bouquet of pink tulips and white peonies. “Gorgeous,” she said, “thank you.”
Mike looked different—his head was shaved and he wore wire-rim glasses. I pinned his boutonnière, a white tulip, to his blue-flowered Hawaiian shirt, and he opened his arms for a hug. I obliged with trepidation—it was like cuddling with a refrigerator.
“Thank you,” he said. “For too much. You almost lost your life. That was very brave.”
“Firefighters are brave,” I said. “I acted without thinking.”
He looked grim. “Gregor wasn’t who I thought he was.”
“Obviously.” Kate shuddered. “You chose him to be your best man.”
“The boy who saw him in the barn—Blue? Said Gregor claimed it was an accident,” I said. “If that helps.”
“Maybe. Sorry I brought it up.” He looked at his watch. “Five minutes to go.You ready, sis?”
Kate pumped her arms up in a victory salute, like she’d just trounced one of the Williams sisters in straight sets.
We sat in a semicircle of borrowed lawn chairs, cooled by the green shade of the big maple trees. Next to me, Bebe held her baby on her lap. A chunky drooling fellow, he cooed at me like the big flirt he already was as he chewed on a string of plastic beads. He and Oliver wore matching outfits—white shirts, navy blue pants, and red-and-white striped vests, unmistakably hand-knit. Fern had found a new outlet for her knitting needles.
Bebe had gained some weight and lost that haggard look. She smiled, and I saw that her teeth had been repaired—they were straight, white, and all present-and-accounted-for. “Your grandma took me to this dentist friend of hers and I got veneers, nearly free. Though I have to cut his hair for, like, five years.” She barked a laugh. “I’m getting my license again, did she tell you?”
“Good for you,” I said, just as the musicians began to play a haunting jig tapped out on a hammered dulcimer and guitar. From the chicken house, Kate and Mike emerged arm-in-arm, and walked to stand in the center of the half-circle. The only hint of Kate’s usual tension was a flexing of her fingers and a half-manic grin on her face as she waited.
We all waited. Minutes passed. I felt a small pang of apprehension, completely irrational, just a smidge of déjà vu all over again. Finally, the front door opened and Ingrid appeared between her parents. She was no longer rectangular. Her cheeks were plump and her breasts swelled up from her dress, a ruffled white muumuu like Kate’s. The folds of the dress only partly disguised her curving belly.
“Baby’s due in three months,” Fern whispered to me.
Ingrid took Kate’s hand and began to speak her vow of simple love, partnership, shared dreams of family. Then it was Kate’s turn to speak, her voice strong and clear. Ingrid’s mother sniffled; Tricia sighed. Mike blinked and swallowed. The two women kissed gently, and then it was over. The dulcimer and guitar duo began winkling happy chords in a major key.
Fern was smiling mysteriously.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
Her sea-blue eyes scanned my face. “What I am thinking is . . . I think they look happy.” A strand of my hair had escaped from the up-do and dangled over my nose. She tucked it back into place and patted my cheek. “There. Now you’re perfect.”
JUSTINE BRADLEY’S CHILI RECIPE FROM ENCHANTED FOOD
* * *
1/4 c. olive oil
1 med. onion, chopped
1–2 cloves garlic, minced
2–3 large carrots, chopped
1 6-oz can tomato paste
1 red or green bell pepper diced (optional)
2 c. veggie stock or water
1 15-oz can black beans
1 15-oz can garbanzo beans
2 15-oz cans dark red kidney beans
2 T. red curry paste
1/4 cup cashew butter
2 T. bourbon
1 1/2 oz. dark chocolate bar
1/2 tsp each: ground cumin, chili powder, cayenne pepper, black pepper, salt, dried ground basil, garlic powder.
Sauté onions in olive oil five minutes, add garlic and cook another minute. Add remaining ingredients and stir until mixed. Cook 30–45 minutes over low heat. Serves 6.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
Karen Pullen’s short stories have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Spinetingler, Crime Scene Scotland, and the anthology Fish Tales. She earned an MFA in Popular Fiction from Stonecoast at the University of Southern Maine. She lives in Pittsboro, North Carolina, where she teaches memoir writing and fiction workshops. Cold Feet is her first novel. Updates on Karen and her writing may be seen at www.karenpullen.com.
e
