“You can tell me about it if you like.” Augusta stroked Noodles’s pied back until I could have sworn that silly cat smiled.
“About what?”
“Whatever’s poisoning your heart.”
“You mean other than the fact that my sister and father lie buried out there in the graveyard, Mom’s now living in Savannah, and Uncle Faris has taken off for parts unknown?”
She didn’t miss a stroke. “Yes. Other than that. It has something to do with a man, doesn’t it?”
“My life doesn’t revolve around a man. Why would you say that?”
“Look in the mirror,” she said. “What do you see?”
I glanced at my reflection in the gilded oval behind her and made a face. “I see somebody who needs a haircut.” My hair, although light like my father’s and not a bad color, was long, thick, and curly, and if not controlled properly, took on a life of its own.
“I see someone young and attractive—although one’s physical attributes aren’t at all important in the overall scheme of things, mind you . . .” Augusta turned to sneak a glimpse at her own reflection and looked rather smug I thought. “It’s only natural you would be keeping company with someone you care about, someone you might hope to spend your life with.”
I didn’t answer. Again I saw Rob’s face, heard his voice. Come to London with me, Prentice. It’s lonely over there without you. I want us to be together.
I swallowed, looked away, but there was no way to hide my tears. “Rob McCullough,” I said. “His name is Rob McCullough.”
I had met him in Atlanta a couple of years before when he did a story on Martha’s Journal for the local newspaper. A few weeks later, he invited me to a party with some of his friends, and I think if he had proposed that very first night, I would have said, “Say when!” He was rangy and tall with a nose broken from high school football, a chin he could use as a weapon, and brown hair, wiry as beach grass. His eyes were blue, blue, blue. I fell for him right away.
It must have been obvious. “Tread lightly,” a friend told me a few days later. “Rob’s wife Felicia died of leukemia a couple of years ago, and he’s still working through his grief.” And from observations I made from time to time, I wondered if he ever would. The two had been married only seven years when Felicia died.
But I could deal with that. I thought.
Augusta leaned forward slightly. “I’d like to hear about him,” she said over Noodles’s purring.
“Not much to tell,” I lied. “We saw each other for about two years, and I thought . . . well, I thought this was it. And then last summer he was offered a job with CNN’s London news bureau, and off he went. He called, of course, and we kept in touch on the Internet, but he never said anything about joining him there.”
“That must have been disheartening.” Augusta’s eyes clouded in sympathy.
“I was going to break it off with him, and then Dad died. Rob came back for the funeral, and he really was a help. I don’t know what Mom and I would’ve done without him.” I accepted a fresh hankie from Augusta. It smelled of sweet grass. “That’s when he asked me to go back with him.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see the problem.” Augusta spoke softly.
“Don’t you see? It was for the wrong reasons. He was lonely, he felt sorry for me. Besides, England’s a long way away, and I couldn’t leave my mother just then. Dad’s death took us by surprise and she wasn’t up to handling it alone. And Maggie—well, we didn’t even know where Maggie was.”
“But surely your young man would understand this. He wouldn’t expect to whisk you off and marry you right away.” Her sea-green eyes met mine. “Would he?”
“Well . . . no. That’s just it, you see . . .”
She frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“The problem,” I said, “is that he’s never mentioned marriage—or even love. Not an ideal arrangement.”
Augusta rocked silently, her lovely brow knitted in thought. She would give me a righteous explanation, and everything would be okay, even better than okay. Life would be good again.
“I see,” she said, and she might have said more, but just then Deputy Weber pounded on the back door with a jarring that shook the house.
He stood on the porch with his hat crushed against his stomach and his face was smoky gray.
“What is it? What have you found?” Whatever it was, I knew it wasn’t good.
It wasn’t. They had found Uncle Faris’s casket in the shed behind the barn, he said, and Uncle Faris wasn’t in it.
But someone else was.
CHAPTER THREE
It was a woman, the deputy said, probably in her sixties or older, slightly overweight with bleached hair and bright red nail polish. Wearing only panties and bra, she had been wrapped in a cheap muslin sheet before being deposited mummy-style in what had been my uncle’s former resting place.
“Does that fit the description of anyone you know?” Donald Weber asked. I stared at him, unable to speak. Why would anyone leave a body in our shed? “She might be one of Jasper’s acquaintances,” I said finally. “Has she been dead very long?” Maybe some other long-deceased relative had been uprooted as well.
I felt my bones go cold when he shook his head. “Happened fairly recently I’d guess.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief, but he couldn’t wipe away the horror. “The coroner should be able to tell us how she died.”
“What on earth’s going on? Is an escaped lunatic on the loose? A serial killer? And why here?’ I thought of all those movies I’d seen about maniacs dismembering people with chain saws, and came close to grabbing him by the lapels.
“Not that we know of; at least there’ve been no reports.” Donald Weber was trying to speak reassuringly, but I could tell he was almost as shaken as I was. We don’t find dead bodies lying around just every day here in Liberty Bend.
But where was Uncle Faris? And how was I going to tell Aunt Zorah that what remained of the man she knew as her husband, fool though he might have been, had been displaced by a strange woman?
The earth-stained vault containing the casket was found beneath bundles of straw in the shed where Dad’s tractor used to sit. The small storage room behind it was littered with empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, and a can that once held pinto beans. And according to Sergeant Sloan, it was ripe enough to sprout legs and walk in there. Jasper Totherow wasn’t noted for exemplary hygiene.
“I don’t suppose you’d remember if you saw that straw stacked up back there when you ran Totherow off the other day?” the deputy asked.
A rabid rhinoceros couldn’t chase me into an empty building with Jasper Totherow. “I didn’t go inside,” I explained. “He was sneaking around the back of the barn, hoping I wouldn’t see him, I guess. Do you think he might’ve put her there?” It made me shudder to think about the woman lying dead in our shed while I was alone in the empty house.
“I honestly don’t know,” Donald Weber said, “but I had Sergeant Sloan make some inquiries when I learned he’d been hanging around. His wife said she hasn’t seen him—and she’d have no reason to lie, and he hasn’t turned up at his usual haunts. Ralphine Totherow might be able to shed some light on this. Maybe she can tell us who this woman is.
“Jasper may be half a bubble off plumb, but he knows how to make himself scarce,” he added aside to me. “And if he didn’t have something to do with all this, you can bet he knows who did.”
He turned to Sergeant Sloan. “Mike, get on the radio and see if you can find somebody to locate Mrs. Totherow. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
But Ralphine Totherow had never seen the shrouded woman in our shed and had no idea who she was. She didn’t know where her husband was either, and from what Donald Weber let slip, didn’t care if he never showed up.
For the rest of the morning our place was invaded by a team of investigators. Ugly orange crime-scene tape crisscrossed the barn lot where Maggie used to ride her pony; detectives and photographers tramped ab
out. The coroner did a preliminary inspection, and finally an ambulance came and took the pitiful remains away.
Since I was told in polite, but specific, terms to stay away from the grisly goings-on in the shed, I was glad to remain inside with Augusta’s tranquil presence.
“I wish you’d ask somebody to stay with you, Prentice, at least until we can locate this Totherow guy,” Don Weber said as they started to leave. “Meanwhile, you can rest assured we’ll keep an eye on the place. You will call us at the first sign of trouble? Right?”
“You don’t have to worry about that!” I promised as I watched them drive away.
The phone was ringing as I stepped inside. “How’s it feel to be a woman of leisure?” Dottie Ives wanted to know.
“Depends on how you define leisure,” I said, and told her about the body in Uncle Faris’s coffin.
Dottie isn’t easily shocked, but she drew in her breath so hard I thought she’d inhale the receiver.
“Dear God! Are you serious?” My friend gasped when she finally was able to speak. “And your uncle—what happened to him?”
“That’s what we’d like to know. At first I thought there might be some kind of weird ritual going on, but this puts a whole new slant on things.”
“And you don’t know who she is?”
“Haven’t a clue. No ID on her, no clothes either except for underwear. I heard the sergeant say the sheet she was wrapped in looks like the commercial kind you’d find in a cheap motel or some place like that. Somebody had cut a strip from the bottom—to get rid of any labels or markers I guess.”
“Prentice, this is positively ghoulish! Do they know how she died?”
“Don Weber—he’s one of our deputies—said she had abrasions, bruises like she’d been dragged, but of course they won’t know for sure until the coroner completes an autopsy,” I told her.
“Aren’t you terrified out there by yourself? Why not hang out with me awhile? You’ll have to bring your own hot dogs though. The larder’s getting low around here!”
She was joking, but I knew it wasn’t much of an exaggeration. I had a well-stocked freezer and no rent to pay. Dottie wasn’t as fortunate. “You can’t imagine how tempting that sounds, but I’ll wait till Mom’s spaghetti sauce runs out. Don’t guess you’ve had any luck with the job market?”
This provoked a growl. “Not a lot, but I have an idea I’d like to kick around with you when we get a chance. How about you?”
“Haven’t had time to look into it yet. Just being back in this house without family is adjustment enough without all the gory excitement.”
A brief pause followed this. “How is your mom?” Dottie knew our relationship was about as strained as an old rubber band.
“Okay, I guess. I phoned her soon after I got here. She’s playing in a swank restaurant three nights a week and taking in piano students.”
“Her heart must be breaking.”
“I know. Mine too.”
“Well, that’s one reason I called. I talked to Rob last night.”
My heart raced like I’d been in a marathon and all the blood rushed to my head. I couldn’t speak.
“He doesn’t understand. He misses you, Prentice. Why won’t you talk to him?”
“What doesn’t he understand? Don’t they use the same language in England?”
“I guess some men just aren’t demonstrative, but he cares about you. I know he does.” She sighed. “Maybe it’s some kind of hangup about his first wife. He might not even be aware of it. Won’t you at least give him a chance?”
“Dottie, tell me you didn’t call him.”
“He tried to call you at your apartment and learned the phone was disconnected. Didn’t know about the Journal folding of course. That’s when he called me.”
“I suppose the phones in London have all been out of order since October. I haven’t heard from Rob since he went back after Dad’s funeral. Surely you must remember that.”
“Prentice, he asked you to come back with him; you turned him down. He admits he didn’t handle it well.”
“You didn’t say anything about my reason, did you? About what he hasn’t said.”
“That’s between the two of you. I’m only a lowly messenger . . . and a lonely one if you must know the truth. I’d hate for you to make the same mistake I did.”
Dottie and her husband had divorced when their son Luke was twelve and the boy chose to live with his father. Luke was now in college and mother and son seemed to have a good relationship, but I knew she regretted missing even a portion of his growing-up years.
“Rob knows where I live,” I said. “And I’m sure you gave him the phone number.”
Now I would have to worry over whether Rob McCullough would call or not.
Thank goodness Aunt Zorah telephoned soon after I spoke with Dottie and gave me an excuse to get out of the house. The two policemen had been by to tell her about the unexpected guest in our shed and Uncle Faris’s wandering ways. Now she expected me on her doorstep with my suitcase within the hour. “Don’t know what we’ll have for supper, but I’m sure I can scratch up something,” she said.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I’ll come on one condition, that you’ll let me pick up a pizza.” The last time Aunt Zorah scratched up something I lost three pounds, and the very thought of her meat loaf made me weak all over. “But just for tonight,” I added. I didn’t like to leave the house empty too long with whoever killed that woman spooking about.
“Whatever,” my aunt said. She didn’t specify a certain kind of pizza, but I didn’t order meat toppings in case she was still in her vegetarian stage.
She wasn’t. “Where’s the pepperoni?” She looked in the box and frowned.
“The last time I was here, you wouldn’t touch meat,” I said.
“Oh, that. Well, never mind. I have some leftover tuna casserole if you want it.”
My stomach quivered. “This is plenty, thanks.” I followed her into the kitchen where we shared the pizza at her small round table covered with a yellow-fringed cloth. My aunt likes fringe. It dangles from her lamp-shades, her curtains, even from the vest she wore over a multicolored blouse. When Aunt Zorah was in college, my mom told me, only her strict upbringing prevented her from becoming a beatnik. They preceded the hippie movement, she said, and were what my mother referred to as “artsy.” Aunt Zorah took to wearing berets and writing long poems nobody could understand that she read in coffee houses, but she never could let go and become a free spirit, Mom said. My aunt got rid of the beret, but she still writes poetry, and her mode of dress is something out of the ordinary. She’d probably spit nails if she knew Mom told me about her almost-wild college days. What would the Daughters of the American Revolution think? Of course they might guess . . . today she wore dangling metallic earrings shaped like the sun and a necklace of orange beads and string.
I told her I was sorry about Uncle Faris.
“It’s a bad thing, Prentice. I reckon they picked him because he was so far removed from the rest, and some of the soil had washed away, but I worry more about you than what happened to Faris. The old fool’s long dead. They can’t hurt him now.” She used her “I don’t care” voice, but when she stood to throw her paper plate in the trash, I saw sadness in her eyes.
“You said they couldn’t identify the woman. What’d she look like?”
I shuddered as if a snake had shimmied up my back. “Didn’t see her, but she was about your age or older.” I gave my aunt a brief description and she shrugged. “Must’ve been somebody passing through. Homeless maybe; you’re right on that main highway.” She shook her head. “But I can’t for the life of me imagine how she ended up where she did!”
“The police think this happened recently,” I said. “I’m sure when they learn who put her there, we’ll know what happened to Uncle Faris.” My pizza looked back at me with olive eyes and I shoved it away. I was just making things worse. Where in the world would you hide a body that had been bur
ied all those years?
“Maynard Griggs said they buried him with his Phi Beta Kappa key. I told him it was a good thing, because Faris wouldn’t want to be parted from that. Lord, he was proud of that thing! Fool didn’t have a lick of practical sense, but he was book smart. Read all the time. That was what we had in common.” She filled a glass from the tap and stood with it in her hand. “About all we had in common,” she muttered.
I wanted to go to her and put my arms around her, smooth her bottled auburn curls, but I didn’t dare. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never heard my aunt admit that she loved her husband, but I knew she did, and the memory of his disgrace still hurt.
“What do you hear from your mother?” she asked, finishing her water.
“Not much. She seems to like it there. At least she’s staying busy.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Virginia needed this, Prentice. She had to get away. Losing Maggie on top of your father’s death was more than any woman should be expected to deal with, and she’s handling it the best way she can.”
“We had already lost Maggie,” I reminded her. “I didn’t even know how to get in touch with her to let her know Dad died.” I wish I could forgive my sister for that.
“Your mother used to hear from Maggie from time to time, but she never knew where to find her.” Aunt Zorah switched on a light in her living room and moved a stack of books from a chair.
“She didn’t want us to. Wouldn’t use a return address,” I said. “There were a couple of letters from different places in Alabama, and a postcard from somewhere in Tennessee, but she didn’t stay anywhere long enough for us to find her. We didn’t even know she was married until the accident.”
And I still wasn’t sure it was an accident. My sister and her husband, Sonny Gaines, had died violently when their car tried to outrun a train while crossing the track. Sonny had been driving.
“Mom got a phone call from Maggie last summer,” I said. “Sometime in July, I think, and for some reason Mom was under the impression Maggie was living alone, that she was trying to get her life back together. And maybe it was just hope and imagination, but I think she got the idea Maggie was thinking of coming home.”
An Angel to Die For Page 3
