Shotgun Moon

by K. C. McRae

  Olivia returned to the front pew, next to Barbie. On Barbie’s other side sat another woman. A woman with long dark hair. Anna? The thought was incongruous, and Merry couldn’t believe Bo’s wife and lover would be sitting together at his memorial. She craned to the side, trying to see the woman’s face beyond the swath of blue-black hair. The man sitting next to Merry cleared his throat. She glanced up to see him scowling at her. With an apologetic moue, she sat up straight again.

  Hazel’s mayor addressed the group next. He praised Bo’s involvement in the community, from serving on the library board to mentoring disadvantaged kids. And Clay had begun working with the same group of kids, organizing them into a softball team and acting as their coach.

  Swiveling her head, Merry saw several youngsters in the seats around her.

  The pastor returned and gave them a few parting banalities. They ended by singing “Amazing Grace,” and she found it not only familiar, but surprisingly comforting. Row by row, the pews emptied into a neat double column as mourners exited the church proper.

  In the large vestibule, she waited to go through the receiving line. She heard Olivia muttering thanks over and over as the mourners shuffled forward. Then Merry stood in front of her.

  The girl standing between Olivia and Barbie was about sixteen years old with soft brown eyes and smooth toffee-colored skin framed by her straight black hair. Definitely not Anna Knight.

  “I’m so sorry,” Merry said. “And Aunt Shirlene and Kate O’Neil wanted me to pass on their sympathies.” She didn’t mention the reason the two women couldn’t attend the memorial was because they were busy bailing out the only suspect in Clay’s murder. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

  Olivia nodded, but Merry didn’t warrant thanks. Merry couldn’t blame her. The police would have told Clay’s stepmother that they’d arrested Lauri.

  “Hi,” she said to the girl.

  The teenager’s eyes widened. “Hi.”

  Barbie, standing on the other side, said, “This is Delores Little Wolf. Bo was tutoring her in math. Delores, this is Merry McCoy.”

  Merry nodded. Little Wolf was an old Cheyenne name. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Delores’s manners won out. “Nice to meet you, too.” Her voice was soft as butter.

  “I’m very sorry about Bo. And Clay.” She directed this to both Delores and Barbie.

  The girl stared at her, but Barbie said, “Thank you,” and managed a strained smile. The short hair set off sharp features and gave her an elfin look. She wore little makeup, and her skin was fine and unblemished, though still inflamed along one side of her face. The bandage by her ear was smaller than it had been two days ago.

  “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

  Barbie nodded and turned to the next person in line.

  Bo hadn’t been having an affair at all; he’d simply met the girl he was tutoring in the Hungry Moose, and Herb Paysen had jumped to conclusions. So what had Bo and his son argued about the day of Clay’s murder?

  sixteen

  That evening, after a long, restorative ride on Izzy, Merry returned her fishing gear to the basement. In the dim light of the single bulb swinging from the ceiling cord, she fitted the tackle box back into its outline on the shelf, a neat rectangle delineated by fine gray dust. Around the edges of the room, leaning towers of overflowing containers held sentimental or still-useful odds and ends. Lifting and prodding, she finally found the box that held her old leather crafting equipment.

  Metal instruments clanked and muttered within the cracked cardboard as she lugged it up to the kitchen and set it on a chair. She unfolded a terry dishtowel onto the table, and spread out the tools, wiping each item with a damp cloth. The scent of leather permeated the room, mingling with the smells of coffee and dust.

  She rocked a round knife through a scrap of goatskin lacing, checked the edge, put it to one side. Next to it, she arranged an all-purpose knife, a rotary cutter, and a pair of shears. She found an embossing wheel with a loop pattern, modeling tools, stamps with animal heads: a horse, a buffalo, a wolf, and a steer skull. A beveller and a large punch emerged from the box last. At one time there had been more stamps, and she remembered at least one other embossing wheel. Another beveller and a couple of punches seemed to be missing, and there weren’t any edgers or awls in the gleaming row of implements.

  A carefully wrapped bundle opened to reveal an array of odd-shaped leather scraps. The meager selection included a strip of crinkly-grained steer hide with a two-toned, pebbled surface. Then a piece of dark indigo calfskin, oblong and rough-edged, and under that, a length of pigskin suede. Finally, a handsome specimen of top-grain, vegetable-tanned cowhide the color of caramel, fine-textured and inviting design. She had used some of this for her last project years ago, a wallet for her dad. The leather, smooth against the pads of her fingers, bent with ease. In her mind, a pattern she could work into the hide began to develop, inspired by the steer skull stamp and Mama’s overgrown roses now perfuming the warm night air drifting through the open kitchen window.

  She glanced at the clock, surprised to find it so late. After eight and Shirlene hadn’t called yet. She picked up the phone from the kitchen counter and punched in the number.

  Her aunt answered on the first ring, as if she’d been sitting by the phone.

  “Hey, Shirl. You get the bail all taken care of?”

  “Oh. It’s you. Yeah. I’ve hocked everything I own, but it’s done.”

  Merry closed her eyes. “I bet Lauri was glad to get home.”

  “She was.” Something in her voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “What do you mean she’s gone? Gone where?”

  “I don’t know where. After dinner I went to check on her and her room was empty. Some of her clothes were missing and so was a suitcase.”

  Damn. “She take her car?”

  “It’s still in the driveway. I’ve called her friends, I even called some of the motels around here. I don’t think she could get very far without a car.”

  “Jesus. And you didn’t see her go?”

  “No, Merry, I did not. If I had, I would have stopped her.”

  “I know. Sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll call if I find anything out.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing and she’ll be back by morning. You never know.”

  But as they said their goodbyes and hung up, she could tell her aunt thought Lauri was gone for good. Her cousin had dug herself into a mighty deep hole, and now she was dragging Shirlene into it with her. Along with all of Mama’s meager savings.

  ———

  Merry packed up her leatherworking equipment, no longer inspired to begin a project. She limped through the house, picking things up and putting them back down, tired but restless. She stopped in front of the sideboard and traced the elaborate silver curlicues decorating Mama’s black-lacquered cinerary urn. Resisted the temptation to remove the lid and look inside.

  Her foot didn’t hurt as badly, and her head hadn’t ached all day. She didn’t feel like staying home alone. She wanted to be around other people, if only to watch them. After dreaming for so long about solitude, she now found she had less tolerance for it than she used to.

  She grabbed her keys and jacket.

  On the far end of Hazel, the gaudy magenta neon sign flashed THE LUCKY LOWDOWN CASINO into the night air. Inside, she slipped onto a stool at the bar. She ordered a shot of Scotch and turned to observe the crowd. Sipping her drink, her eyes moved over the dancers and the backs of people facing the machines lining the walls, hunched over video poker and no-armed bandits, feeding in their money and punching electronic buttons. The palpable belief the next game would be the winner hovered around them like auras. Digitized gambling was a vice so sterile
she couldn’t fathom its allure.

  The gamblers persisted despite the zydeco pounding out of the speakers above. Unexpectedly, it was Cajun Night at the Lucky Lowdown, and dancers swarmed the open floor. Some of them displayed impressive ability, two pairs in particular capturing her attention with their skill.

  She watched for a while, holding each sip of peaty single malt on her tongue and then allowing it to slide gradually down her throat. The bartender reached over and poured her another drink.

  “It’s on her,” he said, pointing toward a small round table in a corner off the dance floor.

  She looked, and Anna Knight waved at her. Barbie sat next to her roommate, her shorn hair looking pathetic under the dull lights. Merry waved back, pretending not to understand Anna’s gesture to join them. She sipped and watched some more. Anna alternated between flirting with passing men and directing sorrowful looks at Barbie while patting her arm. Occasionally Anna would speak, but Barbie sat staring at the feet of the dancers, blinking and swallowing from the glass in front of her with clocklike regularity.

  When their waitress walked by, Merry asked her what the two women were drinking and bought them a round. When the drinks arrived, Anna gestured her over again. She wove her way to them through the tables. Anna flashed a high-wattage smile, all white teeth and pink tongue and dark red lips. Barbie looked up as Merry approached, and a small smile replaced her wan expression.

  “How’re you doing?” Merry asked.

  She sighed and shook her head. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “Is Olivia still staying with you?”

  “Yeah,” Anna said. “She’s kinda bossy, you know?”

  Barbie glared at her.

  “Anyway, I thought it’d be a good idea to get Barbie out of the house,” Anna said. “She needs to have a little fun, take her mind off things!” But her voice was hollow. She obviously didn’t know what else to do. “Do you like to dance to this stuff? It’s a blast. Barbie’s really good.”

  Barbie gazed at her roommate with exasperation. A tall man in black jeans and a shiny black shirt came up to Anna and asked her to dance.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked.

  “God, no,” Barbie said.

  They sat in the zydeco-filled air for a few moments. Anna and the man in black made a striking couple as they swirled and swayed.

  Merry took a chance. “It’s hard to lose someone you love.”

  Barbie’s eyes jerked to hers, then fell away again. “Your mother died recently.”

  She nodded.

  “I liked her a lot.”

  She nodded again. “I hear it gets better.”

  “Does it?” Barbie said after a pause. “I suppose it must. I just don’t know if I can get over … what a damn waste it is, I guess.” She took a swallow of her gin and tonic, then shook her head. The movement was a little off, and Merry wondered how many drinks she’d had.

  Barbie looked at the dancers, then back at Merry. “Why would your cousin shoot him like …” she trailed off.

  Merry sighed. “She didn’t.”

  “The police arrested her.”

  “The police are wrong.”

  Barbie shifted her red-rimmed gaze toward the dance floor again.

  “All I know is no one should ever have to go through the hell you’re going through.”

  Still staring at the swaying bodies, Barbie’s eyes filled with tears.

  Merry sighed. “I meant to be comforting. But it doesn’t help, does it?”

  Barbie shook her head. “But it’s nice to know you tried.”

  Merry had come over to the table hoping to ask her questions about the night Clay died, but Barbie wasn’t in any shape to answer them. This was real grief. Or guilt. Sometimes the two were hard to separate.

  She drained her Scotch. “You want a ride home? I’d be happy to drop you.”

  Barbie looked hesitant. “That’s okay. I’m sure Anna will want to leave soon.”

  Merry looked out on the dance floor. Anna was dancing with a new partner, a cowboy who was two-stepping her around the floor to the lilt of a Cajun fiddle. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open in laughter. Barbie followed her gaze.

  “She doesn’t look quite ready to leave,” Merry said.

  Barbie sighed again. “Yeah, I guess I’d better take you up on that ride. Thanks.” She donned her short jacket, a canvas and corduroy affair, and made her way out to the dance floor to talk to her roommate. She spoke, and Anna nodded and said something back, then waved at Merry. They headed out to the parking lot.

  ———

  Barbie gave directions to her house. Merry liked the small white dwelling, or what she could see of it in the dark. She thought of it as a “grandma” house, probably because her own grandmother had lived in a similar one when she was a child.

  Merry got out when Barbie stumbled on the front sidewalk, following her and holding the screen open while she unlocked the door. When the knob twisted, she turned to go.

  “Wait.” Barbie stood framed in the light from inside, miller moths fluttering around the porch light above her head. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem.”

  She stood looking at Merry, something unreadable in her eyes.

  “You going to be okay?” Merry asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t … I don’t want to be around all those people. But I don’t want to be alone, either. You want to come in?”

  Merry nodded. “Sure, I can come in for a little while.”

  Inside, the house was nothing like Grandma’s. The floor was maple hardwood, the walls a seafoamy color that proved to be a neutral background for the impressionist prints hanging on them. Monet. Manet. The air smelled of bleach.

  Barbie saw her looking at the prints. “Anna’s collection. It always struck me as odd, that she’d like all the blurry stuff when she seems so sharp.”

  “Sharp like smart?”

  “Like well-defined.”

  “Maybe she likes the contrast.”

  “Maybe. I don’t mind them.”

  Merry started to move a folded quilt and bed pillow to one end of the couch so she could sit down, but Barbie grabbed them and took them to a room down a small hallway.

  When she came back, she said, “My waterbed blew a gasket or something. Flooded my whole bedroom. I’ve been sleeping on the couch until I get it taken care of. Olivia’s asleep in the guest bedroom.” She held her finger to her lips.

  Merry lowered her voice. “Anna told me someone intentionally sliced up the bed.”

  “Anna has a big mouth. This probably isn’t a good subject for us, so let’s just talk about something else, okay? What do you want to drink? What were you having at the Lowdown—whiskey?”

  “Scotch. But I think I’m pretty much done for tonight. I don’t suppose I could talk you into a cup of coffee?”

  “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll join you. Hate to drink alone and all that.”

  She began measuring and pouring in the tiny kitchen. Merry moved to a tall stool at the breakfast bar and watched her through the opening. At the Lowdown their grief had mingled, serenaded by fiddle and accordion. Here Barbie seemed more awkward. Maybe alcohol had lubricated their previous interaction, and now she was sobering up.

  Or maybe she wanted to talk and didn’t know how to start. Merry plunged in, having no idea if she was saying the right thing. “How long had you and Clay been going out?”

  Barbie looked up, disconcerted. “What?”

  “You and Clay. Going out. How long?”

  “I heard you. It just … everyone else has avoided talking about him altogether.”

  “Might help to talk. If you don’t want to, just tell me and I’ll back off.”

  “Well. No, you’re right. I’ve wanted to, I guess. But I don’t know if I’
m ready to yet. I’m still so goddamned pissed off.”

  “At him, for dying?”

  “No, not at him. At your fucking cousin.” Barbie turned away and brought her hands to her face. Her shoulders shook, and she made small snuffling sounds.

  Shit, shit, shit. Merry went around to the other side of the counter and found a glass, filled it from the tap. And waited. Finally, Barbie let out a long, shaky breath and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, holding it over them for a moment as if she wanted to hide in the comfort of the dark.

  She sniffed, and when she moved her hand, Merry was holding a paper towel out to her. She smiled a little and blew her nose.

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. You needed to do that.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I did.” She paused. “He slept with her, you know?”

  “Lauri?”

  “Yes, Lauri.”

  “But he didn’t.” At Barbie’s look, she held up her hand. “No, really. She told me the father of her baby is Denny Teller.”

  “Well, she sure changed her tune,” she said with bitterness.

  “Denny admitted they had sex.”

  Barbie paled. “Oh, God.” She poured a cup of coffee, running her teeth over her lower lip. “I was so damn mad at Clay. For nothing.”

  God, no wonder she’s such a mess.

  “I know about what you did.”

  Merry’s head jerked up. “What?”

  “I heard. You killed your rapist.”

  Stunned at the abrupt turn of conversation, Merry stared at her.

  “I just want you to know, I think what you did was really brave. More women should take control like that.”