Your Cheatin Heart mr-1

by Nancy Bartholomew

  "Make your call, Ms. Reid," he said.

  I pulled the phone a little closer, my heart pounding. Who was I going to call? Not my divorce attorney. She didn't handle criminal cases. Not Vernell. Not Sheila.: Not Bonnie at the Curley-Que. She had enough on her with six kids and running the shop. The simple fact was, I had no one to call.

  I sat there with my hand on the phone, not wanting Weathers to know I was in a bind. As Mama always said, pickings are slim when your mouth plants the seeds of pride. I slid the phone back in his direction. The time had come to take action.

  "You know," I said, "I'm not gonna make that call just now. Instead, I'm gonna do you a favor." I pulled my purse onto my lap. I wasn't a lawyer, but I'd watched enough TV to play one.

  Weathers snorted. "You're going to do me a favor, huh?" His eyes were lasering through me, sparkling. Beneath the angry exterior, he seemed secretly amused.

  "Yes, I am. See, you don't have enough to charge me with murder. If you did, you'd have a D.A. in here." No discernible reaction from him, so I went on. "Jimmy was a good man. I don't know what's going on, or who wants to make me out to be a killer, but I do know one thing: If you don't find his killer, I will. So, I'm going home right now, and you can't stop me. I'm closing in on twenty-four hours without sleep, and I don't function like that."

  I stood up, slinging my purse strap over my shoulder. "I'll talk to you later, if you let me leave. But if you jam me up, I'll have my attorney here in a New York minute, and then I won't say another word to you."

  I turned around, headed for the door, and left. I couldn't believe he hadn't tried to stop me. I glanced up at the wall clock in the investigators' room, it was almost five A.M. It hit me as I reached the door of the main office that I'd gone and sowed the seeds of pride once more. How was I going to get home? Before I could stop myself, I'd whirled around and glanced down the corridor at the door to the interview room. There he stood, leaning against the doorjamb, a half-smile edging his face.

  "Need a ride?" he drawled. His eyes slid over my body. He didn't try and hide his interest.

  "Don't go to any trouble," I answered. I just couldn't help myself.

  Weathers walked slowly toward me, the smile never leaving his smart-aleck lips.

  Chapter Five

  Marshall Weathers left me in the parking lot of the Golden Stallion Club. I stood next to my battered white '71 VW and watched him drive away. As sure as I stood looking at his taillights fading off into the early Greensboro morning, I had not seen the last of him. And there wasn't going to be a damn thing I could do about it either.

  I reached for the door handle and noticed for the first time that black fingerprint powder smudged the door handle, the steering wheel, and most of the interior of my car.

  "Good, great, all I need, "I said into the cold morning air. "Why don't you just put one of those fluorescent orange stickers on the car and say murder suspect?" The Golden Stallion parking lot was empty, except for the cars of those customers who had been unable or unwilling to drive home alone last night. Beer bottles littered the broken asphalt lot. The building, normally outlined in bright neon lights, looked seedy and exposed by breaking daylight.

  I slid into the driver's seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and cranked up the car. It would take the entire ride home for the heat to begin kicking in, and even then, it would be minimal. I drove a VW because it was a personal symbol to me. Before I got married, I'd owned a white Beetle. It was my pride and joy, earned with every penny I'd saved since childhood. Vernell wrecked it one night when he was drunk, not long before we got married. Another omen I'd overlooked.

  I puttered out onto High Point Road, driving down the commercial strip that gradually disintegrates the closer you come into town. It took me all of the five-minute trip to Mendenhall Street, until I drove up my block and saw the crime scene van still parked in front of my house, to realize that I couldn't go home.

  A Channel Eight news van was parked just down the street from the crime scene van. They wouldn't be the only buzzards swooping down for a good look. And how long would it be before the phone started ringing and the neighbors started to gather? How long before the Spivey family saw fit to start their own fact-finding mission into Jimmy's death? I needed some place to hide, somewhere no one would look for me.

  I put my head down and kept right on past my house. I must've driven in circles around UNCG's campus, winding across Spring Garden Street and down Tate Street, pausing in front of A Cup of Joe before realizing that even it wasn't open. One by one, I ruled out my friends. It didn't take too long, either. Since the divorce, I hadn't made the effort to get out and make new friends. Bonnie, my partner, was the closest to a best friend I had, but she was a single mom with six kids. And I sure couldn't afford to fritter money away on a hotel, not unless I went back to cutting hair full-time.

  I don't know exactly how I arrived at the conclusion that I should go to Harmonica Jack's. Maybe I just happened to turn onto his street. It could've been because the band rehearsed in his huge, echoing, loft apartment. Or perhaps I knew, instinctively, that he was the least likely to make a pass at me, and even if he did, he would take no for an answer. Whatever the reason, he was my last shot.

  Jack's loft was in a very transitional part of Greensboro, in the heart of the historic district, across the train tracks from the upscale renovated lofts. Jack really lived in a converted warehouse, retrofitted, by himself, for human habitation. It was a work in progress. He had no doorbell or front door, only a loading dock. Whenever we came to rehearse, we banged on the loading dock garage door, a battered metal contraption that worked on pulleys.

  In the still-early morning, I pounded and the door sounded like a yard dog chasing an alley cat across garbage cans. It took quite a bit of pounding on that door to rouse Jack from what could only have been a few hours of sleep. I heard clattering from deep inside the building, swearing, and finally the groan of the pulley system, working to open the loading-bay door.

  "What in the name of sweet Jesus," he groused, the door only halfway up. I bent down, peering up under the door.

  "Jack, it's me, Maggie. I know this is a hell of a time to bother you, but I…" The tears that I hadn't known were coming, came. "Sorry," I said, rubbing my sleeve against my eyes and trying to get the control back. "I don't mean to get like this. I haven't had any sleep and…"

  Jack popped the door up, anchored the chain on a cleat on the doorframe, and pulled me inside.

  "Maggie," he said, his arm around my shoulders, "it's all right. Come on in." He released the chain with one hand, his other still resting on my shoulder. The door slid quietly back into place. He led me across plywood floors to a dilapidated sofa which rested in front of the warehouse's sole heating system, a pot-bellied stove. "Take a load off," he said, pushing me gently down into the sofa's soft cushions. "I'll make us some coffee."

  He turned and walked to the makeshift kitchen which seemed to consist of a microwave and a hot plate. He looked no different fresh out of bed than he did most nights at the club. His wiry blond hair stood out in wild tufts around his head, and he was smiling, a soft, gentle smile I'd never seen him without. Jack was a hippie in a generation that no longer recognized them. He'd missed his era.

  He wore wrinkled, wide-legged jeans and no shirt; his feet were bare. His chest was smooth and for the first time I realized that he was too thin. He'd been away from his mama long enough to get scrawny and not long enough to learn how to tend to himself properly. He probably wasn't more than twenty-six or -seven, but his face looked younger.

  He could make coffee, though. Just like I liked it, strong and black. Mama always said, "Weak coffee, weak character," and she was probably right. Jack didn't seem to lack character.

  "Now," he said, settling into the arm chair next to me, "what happened with the cops?"

  I told him, skipping the details. When I got to Jimmy, a tear or two started leaking down my cheeks and Jack handed me a wrinkled napkin for a tissu
e. He didn't say much, just listened, sipping his coffee, his eyes slowly widening.

  "That stupid detective seems to think I killed him," I said. "I was there for hours and hours, saying the same thing over and over, but he wouldn't listen."

  "So you've been there all this time?" he asked.

  "Yeah. Well, there and driving around trying to figure where to go. I can't go home. I didn't know where else to go and…" I broke off, refusing to give in to my feelings. "I'm going to get the creep that killed Jimmy. You watch me!" The coffee sloshed dangerously in its cup when I saw myself, facing down Jimmy's killer, a gun in my hand.

  "Maggie," Jack said, standing up in front of me, "here." He grabbed one of my hands, took the coffee mug from the other, and pulled me up from the couch. "Come on." He led me from the room, up a roughly framed set of steps and into the huge loft that overlooked the downstairs and functioned as his bedroom.

  "You haven't slept in more than twenty-four hours. You gotta get some sleep." He led me over to his unmade waterbed, pushed me down onto the edge, and proceeded to take my boots off. "Here," he said, pushing me back against his pillow and covering me with the thick quilts that layered the warm, squishy bed. His voice was as soft as the little waterfall by the old home place. "You go to sleep. We can talk when you wake up."

  Patting me on the shoulder as if I were his little sister, he sank down onto the frame of the bed.

  "I gotta call Sheila," I muttered, half attempting to get up and grab the phone.

  "No, you don't. Call her later," he said, and I wondered if he knew who Sheila was. He reached over to the bedside table and picked up one of the harmonicas lying there.

  "Maggie," he said, his voice the softest whisper, "listen to this. I thought I'd play it behind that song you wrote." He began to play and I closed my eyes, working to listen. Now and then I struggled to open my eyes, but it was no use. My mind was following Jack's tune, deeper and deeper into the darkness.

  Chapter Six

  In my dream I was floating on a yellow raft somewhere in the Caribbean. The warm waves gurgled beneath me and felt warm. I flipped over, onto my stomach, and looked at the water below me. It was so clear that I could see the sandy bottom, fifty feet away. Brightly colored fish swam by as I watched, floating in and out of a clump of black seaweed. As I watched, the seaweed swayed with the movement of the water, then left the sea floor to float toward me. The black weeds changed shape and became Jimmy's body, arms and legs swollen pink logs, the eyes eaten away.

  I screamed, instantly awake, panting, struggling to sit up and unable to move. For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was. Then it all came flooding back. I was in Jack's house, on his waterbed, and Jimmy was dead in my house. I tried to hop out of the bed but I couldn't. Whenever I moved, the waterbed seemed to surround me, resisting my attempts to leave.

  I finally settled for rolling to the edge, grabbing the wooden frame, and sliding off onto the floor. I could hear soft music coming from the floor below, and smell the faint trace of old coffee.

  "Jack?" No answer.

  I grabbed my boots and walked to the edge of the half-framed wooden stairway. There was no sign of Jack anywhere.

  I had no idea what time it was, but from the way the sun hit through the trees, touching the window, I guessed midafternoon. I needed coffee and I needed a plan. I wandered in a stupor into the designated kitchen area of the big open room and started searching for coffee. A note from Jack and a garage door opener lay beside a dirty white carafe.

  "Gone to see Evelyn. Here's your opener. Make yourself at home. There's coffee in the, carafe. It'll be all right. Jack. P.S. Sparks wants us at the club early. 8 P.M."

  I glanced at the clock on the stove. Three o'clock. I reached for a broken-handled mug and poured the still-hot coffee.

  "All right, girl," I said into the empty warehouse air, "what was it Mama always said? If you keep your chin up, your mouth won't bring you down." Something like that.

  I reached for the phone and tried Sheila's private line at Vernell's palace. No answer, just her cheery voice instructing me to leave a message.

  "Sweetie," I said, "it's Mama. Honey, pick up if you're there." No answer. "Sheila, when you get this, call the shop. We need to talk." Before Vernell and Jolene poisoned my baby against me.

  I jammed my feet into my cowgirl boots and took a few quick swigs of coffee. First things first. Stop by the Curley-Que and cash a check. Then on to the house to grab enough clothes to get me by for a few days. I had a purple denim and rhinestone outfit hanging in the back of my closet that I'd been saving to wear for New Year's Eve at the Golden Stallion. I figured that tonight called for something special, something that made me feel good about myself no matter what people said about me. In a town the size of Greensboro, Jimmy Spivey's death was gonna be big news. People would be flocking to the club, just hoping to get a good look at the woman the police were surely labeling as their prime suspect.

  Somewhere out there lived Jimmy's killer. He knew and I knew that I hadn't killed Jimmy. The cops didn't care. They had their suspect. I crammed the garage door opener into my purse and headed out. The metal grated against the track, screaming in protest as I opened the garage door. It was clearly up to me to find Jimmy's killer.

  Big doin's were happening when I walked into the Curley-Que. It was Saturday afternoon, our busiest time of the week. The 'Que hummed with activity. The air was filled with the familiar stink of ammonia covered over with perfume, and everywhere you looked women sat patiently in pink smocks, waiting to be beautified.

  The two new girls we'd hired when I went to full-time singing were doing customers. Bonnie was apparently heading off a crisis. She stood facing me, but unaware of my entrance. Her entire attention was focused on a short, white-haired woman.

  "What do you mean, Maggie's not here?" the woman was saying, "Maggie always does me."

  "I'm sorry, Neva," Bonnie said calmly, "not today. Your appointment is for next Saturday."

  "Cain't be," Neva said, her voice a petulant whine. "My granddaughter's coming to take me to early church in the morning. I know I made my appointment so's I could have fresh hair when I went."

  Bonnie touched her arm gently, as I'd seen her do many times with her children.

  "Honey," she cooed, "I'll do you. It'll be fine."

  I stood watching for a moment. Neva Jean Riddle would never stand for it.

  "Nope," she said, stamping her tiny foot. "Maggie knows just how I like it. She knows about my cowlick and ever'thing." From where I stood, I could see Neva's jaw working a plug of chewing gum.

  Bonnie's face was slowly flushing, and she pushed a strand of brown hair back over one ear. I could almost hear her dunking, Maggie don't pay me enough for this.

  "Neva," I cried, stepping up and tapping her on the shoulder. "Let's get a smock on you, sweetie. I'll be right along. Isn't your granddaughter coming to get you tomorrow?"

  Neva whirled around, a relieved smile on her face. "There you are! This 'un said you wasn't coming." She gestured toward Bonnie, who stood gaping, looking at me as if I were a ghost.

  "Well, sweetie, it isn't your regular day, but I'm here, so let's get to work."

  Neva toddled off toward the changing room and Bonnie practically flew toward me.

  "What in the world are you doin' here?" she demanded. "And where have you been? Did you not see the paper? I've called your place a million times!"

  The busy shop had come as close to a standstill as possible, given the whirring dryers. Everyone was slowly looking up, drawn like soda crackers to soup by their curiosity.

  "Keep your voice down," I said.

  "Whatever for?" she asked. "It ain't as if there's a soul left on this earth that don't know what's what. It's on TV, it's on the radio, and it's all over the paper. The phone's been ringing off the hook with folks looking for you."

  "Like who?" Tasked, catching sight of Neva out of the corner of my eye, emerging from the dressing room swathed in a faded pink s
mock. I motioned to Lotus the shampoo girl to go ahead and do Neva, then turned back to Bonnie.

  "I don't know. They aren't leaving names whoever they are."

  "Bon, the police think I killed Jimmy. My gun is missing. Someone put Jimmy's credit card in my car. Someone's trying to make me out to look like a killer. I'm not a killer!"

  Bonnie's face softened. "I know, honey."

  "I'm going to make the police believe me."

  Bonnie nodded.

  "But I can't go home right now. I'm staying with one of the guys in the band until things calm down and Jimmy's killer gets arrested."

  Lotus was slowly leading Neva back to the shampoo station. Bonnie's customer was shooting her impatient looks from the chair where Bonnie had temporarily abandoned her. Time was running short.

  "Listen, Bon, I need a cash advance, about two hundred dollars."

  "Well, Maggie, shoot, you don't have to ask. It's your business."

  "I know, but can we spare it?"

  Bonnie grinned and looked around the packed Curley-Que. "You ever seen us do this much business on a Saturday?" I had to admit the place did seem more crowded than usual, even for a Saturday.

  "I reckon we'll make two hundred extra today alone," she said. "Just keep in touch, all right?"

  I nodded. No sense worrying Bonnie. Jimmy's killer had gone to a lot of trouble to set me up. I figured it had to be someone I knew pretty well, someone who knew how to get into my house and get to my gun. I wasn't going to waste a lot of time telegraphing my next moves.

  I wandered over to Neva and started my routine. She was a pretty simple job, curl and comb-out, then once every three months, a trim. I got into the rhythm quickly, winding little pink curlers around her thinning white hair.

  Neva seemed to be the sole resident of Greensboro who had not heard about Jimmy, so she prattled on about her children and her granddaughter Felicia. It was the sort of one-sided conversation that required only a nod or a murmured "uh-huh," so it took me by surprise to hear another voice impatiently calling me.