by June Shaw
Chapter 7
First thing in the morning, I checked the online obituaries to try to learn more about Clara Wilburn. She wasn’t mentioned. Four men, one woman, and a newborn had died in our area. I thought of all their families and others who loved them and wrapped all of those people in my prayers.
Doing that brought me back to Mrs. Wilburn and her son. Although it was especially difficult since seeing him in such a fearful manner with his accusations toward Eve and me, I sent prayerful thoughts around him. And then pictures arose in my mind of her nephew I had spoken with, his grandmother in the manor, and others who had loved her. Even though they might not have liked her? Or maybe that was only what her nephew believed. After he learned she was gone, he probably softened his attitude and realized how important she had been. I envisioned comfort wrapping around him and all of those other people in her life.
I showered, antsy because I wanted to know about Eve’s neighbor and her family. I shoved instant cheese grits in the microwave and spooned them into my mouth and drank a tall glass of milk, barely noticing any of it going down. Getting the phone book from a drawer, I called the Bayou Clarion, figuring I had given them time to get more information.
When a woman answered with the newspaper’s name, I asked to speak with the person in charge of writing the obituaries. It didn’t take long for another woman to speak to me.
“Hi, sweetie, I’m calling to say I hadn’t seen anything in your paper about a Clara Wilburn’s death.”
“Just a minute.” She must have checked her files. “No, we don’t have information about that.”
“Do you think you might get something about it during the day?” I asked, immediately determining I’d asked a stupid question. How would she know what information she would receive unless she was psychic?
She must have thought the same thing since it sounded like a little snort at her end. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I really have no way of knowing what kind of notices we might receive.”
“I realize that. Just wanting some answers.”
“I understand,” she said, although I thought she did not. We disconnected.
My next call was to my sister. “How are you?”
“I’m okay.” Her tone was dull again, so I didn’t need to ask whether she had heard from Nicole again. The good news was that since she felt so down, she would be slapping black paint on canvas instead of going outside her house. And why did I keep thinking of Royce as being such a threatening person? We had only seen him holding up a hammer. And, of course, accusing us of murder.
“Any ideas about helping Dave?”
“Nothing yet.”
Whatever caused my unease made me drive past Royce’s house and Eve’s once I left mine. No sign of movement at either place calmed my concerns.
I wondered about Dave, but figured he was busy with work, and if he wanted to call me, he would. As I drove the highway, I realized another reason Mrs. Wilburn’s death might not be listed in the newspaper here. The name Wilburn was uncommon in our area. Her son was the only person I had ever heard of with the name Royce, although different and unusual first names were often given these days. If Eve’s neighbor moved here from another place, notice of her death and her burial might be announced only in that city. Of course, if she had any relatives with her surname around here, I might learn about her funeral from one of them.
Sure, I could call friends and ask if they knew anything about her, but I had never heard her mentioned in conversation, and if I questioned friends of mine, like Amy at the community center, they would surely press for details of her death that I wasn’t ready to give yet.
A gas station sat ahead. I whipped my truck into its lot, unbuckled my seatbelt, and got out. On the passenger side, I opened the door and took an older phone book out of its inner pocket.
The book was slim. Even though it gave listings from a few of the smaller towns around, more and more individuals were getting rid of landlines, and they weren’t putting their cell numbers in a book. Would phone books and landlines become obsolete? I wondered and flipped through the pages. In our town of Sugar Ledge, more people than I’d thought had surnames that began with W. Many of them were Williams. Not even one was Wilburn. I turned to the next towns in the book and found the same thing. I replaced the book, threw myself back into my seat, and drove.
The people I knew of who could give me more information about Mrs. Wilburn were few. Royce would tell me nothing—except he hoped I rotted in hell for murdering her. Thoughts of him wielding that hammer made me shiver. A low hum escaped while I drove. The man I’d spoken to outside the manor was related to her, but I didn’t get his name since I didn’t want to give mine. Now I wished we could have exchanged them since he should know of her death by this time. Of course, he might have spoken to Royce, and Royce surely told him I killed her and then stuffed her in that garbage bag in Dave’s new place. Royce might have figured I couldn’t handle her body alone and had gotten Eve to help me get it inside.
I knew of only one other person connected to her, and I should go speak with that woman. I was pulling onto the main roadway when my phone rang. I rummaged through my purse and found it.
“Guess what.” Eve didn’t give me a chance to say a word before she yelled at me. “I spoke with my grandson.”
I felt the smile break across my face. The thrill in her voice made me imagine my heart smiled, too. “Really?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And he spoke back to you?”
“Certainly. We had a long conversation. He is a really smart boy.”
I laughed. “I’m certain he is.”
“And he and Nicole and Randy are all doing well.” She chuckled.
I loved hearing her joy. “Okay, now go and throw off that old ratty robe and nightgown and put on some clothes you can wear out of your house.”
She said nothing for a second or two, in which I envisioned her glancing down at what she wore. “These things aren’t ratty. They’re silk and really pretty.”
“Except for the black paint splatters. Hurry. I’m coming to get you, and then you can tell me all about your big conversation.” I disconnected and headed for her house.
It didn’t take long to reach her. She chattered nonstop. The joy in her face and body expression—arms waving and hands aflutter while she spoke of the baby and upper body twisting while she sat on the passenger side of my truck—all made me happy. I could barely keep up with her rapid-fire words about how Noah had made a sound while she talked to him. She was certain he had been trying to call her Meme. Nicole hadn’t called too often because she was nursing, and the little guy was always hungry. They were trying to work out their schedules so both could get some rest.
Lifting her nose, Eve looked toward the backseat. “Your truck smells exquisite. You baked cakes?”
“Yes. I’m glad you spoke with Nicole. Now let me tell you what’s going on on my end. I went to the funeral parlor to see if they weren’t fixing Mrs. Wilburn up there.”
Eve’s eyes squeezed together. “Oh, Sunny.”
“Well, they weren’t. And I wanted to learn more about funerals that weren’t announced but didn’t get anything. There aren’t any other Wilburns in the phonebook, either, but I did learn her stepmother lives in the manor, and that’s where we’re going.”
“Great. She ought to be able to tell us a lot.”
“Unless she does like Royce and starts yelling and accusing me of murder. I especially hope that won’t happen in front of Mom and her friends.”
Eve reached over and gripped my hand. “At least we’ll be together.”
Hmm, would that take the sting out of what could happen?
Chapter 8
Few cars sat in the parking lot of Sugar Ledge Manor. Those that belonged to residents rested in their familiar places—close to the entrance, near blooming crepe myrtles and rose bushes. I drove a little farther through the parking lot instead of taking one of
the first empty places. When Eve looked at me, I explained. “I’m checking to see if I spot Mrs. Wilburn’s nephew again.”
“Do you know what he drives?”
“No, I left before he went to whatever it is.”
She stretched her head forward and turned it one way and another as though trying to spot him, although she had no idea what the young man looked like.
When I reached the end to the right, I turned and spun back the other way. Two women who walked out of the entrance stopped and watched me. I nodded at them, getting no acknowledgement in return, and recognized them as the pair in dark blue shirt and pants of many of the people who worked here. One of them had long, tight curls I admired. They had eyed me when I was here the last time and had heard me asking Mom and her crew if they knew Clara Wilburn. A creepy feeling wormed along my shoulders.
“Do you know who those two women are?” I asked Eve, giving my head a small tilt toward them.
She exchanged stares with them. “No. I think I’ve seen them working inside, probably helping a person in a wheelchair or bringing a meal to someone’s room.” She turned to me. “Why?”
“They were together and seemed really interested when I asked Mom and her friends if any of them knew Mrs. Wilburn. That was soon after Mrs. Wilburn was found murdered, so not many people would have known about her death yet.”
“Do you think they knew something?”
“It’s possible. Or it’s possible that they just stare at visitors.” I pulled into the empty spot where I’d parked before. Maybe the man I’d spoken to out here would come back and notice my truck here. Why that would matter, I had no idea, but I was searching for anything.
No one was in the foyer. What swelled inside it now was the rich aroma of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread. My nose led me forward, and I was pleased that I was here right now. I looked for Mom and her friends where they normally sat to visit with each other right beyond the foyer and wasn’t surprised that none of them were there.
“They must be eating,” Eve said.
“I don’t blame them if their meal tastes anywhere as good as it smells.”
“I agree.”
We gave the angel food cakes to the young woman manning the sign-in counter so she could deliver them to the kitchen. She assured us diabetic residents would be thrilled. We needed to walk only a little farther and turn left to reach the large open area that held dozens of tables. Each table held four chairs. Residents lined up at the buffet with their trays. Servers placed food items that each individual asked for on their plates. Many people were already eating. A couple of staff members served those who required assistance to get their meals, normally those with walkers or wheelchairs.
Eve and I exchanged greetings with people. We knew some of them but definitely not all.
“Oh, you look just like her.” A woman with deep wrinkles and puffy white hair pointed at Eve and then me when we stepped near her table.
“No,” the gent seated with her said. He pointed at me. “She looks just like her.” His index finger swerved toward my identical twin.
“I see that now. You’re both pretty women.”
“Thank you,” we said at one time.
“We’re looking for our mother,” I said, seeing the table where Mom normally enjoyed meals now empty. “But I don’t see her or any of the ladies she usually sits with.”
The man nodded. “Those are some gambling fools.”
Eve swerved her head toward mine as I did mine toward hers. “Our mother?” she asked.
The woman smirked at the gent and tilted her head. “No, she and the other Chat and Nappers just decided to go on the bus to a casino today. The Treasure, I believe.”
They had done that a handful of times before, but certainly not enough times to worry about Mom being addicted to gambling. I glanced around, trying to pick out the person we were mainly here for. “Would y’all know who Adrienne Viatar is?”
“Yes.” The lady pointed two tables over toward the serving line. “That woman who’s got the mashed potatoes all down her chin, making it look like a fluffy goatee. That’s her.”
I had hoped we would find someone who appeared more alert, a person who could give us information about Mrs. Wilburn and family members who disliked her, who may have even wanted her killed, although I wouldn’t mention that last part. We would need to be much more discreet. This woman slouched over, her shoulders even with the bottom of her breasts that flattened at the top and widened at the bottom like a ski slope. The wire-rimmed glasses she wore looked as thick as the bottoms of old soft drink bottles. Her hand shook while she carried a small piece of meat to her mouth.
No one else sat at her table, so now might be the best time to speak with her. Eve and I could each take a seat there and maybe help her eat.
“Thank you. We’ll go meet her,” I said to the pair who had returned to eating their meal.
“Oh, no.” Our informant swallowed the food in her mouth before saying more. She gave her head a shake that made gold loop earrings that looked too large for someone her age swing in front of her hair. “She gets a bad upset stomach if she talks while she’s eating. I believe she swallows too much air, and it cramps her up real bad.” That wasn’t a condition I was familiar with.
“Then we can just wait until she’s finished and speak with her afterward,” Eve said.
The woman’s earrings again swung. “Uh-uh, right after her meals, she has to get her sleep. One of the workers comes and helps her to room, and she gets in bed for quite a long nap.”
This idea wasn’t going to work well. But the food I smelled and saw in their plates seemed delicious. Voices became louder as more people entered. The sound of chairs scraping back at tables added to the commotion.
“Maybe we could sit with y’all and eat dinner with you two,” I suggested, tilting my hand toward the pair of empty chairs. We could possibly find out more and fill our stomachs at the same time.
The gentleman pulled his lips tight and back. “We have people who join us every day, although they sometimes get here after us.” He stretched his index finger toward one and then the other empty chair. “Those are their seats.”
“And did you pay for your meals?” the woman questioned sharply, to which we shook our heads. “You need to do that a day ahead of time so they’ll prepare enough food for everyone.”
We had been told that when Mom first entered the manor. “Thank you for talking to us,” I said, and the two continued their lunch.
I couldn’t help going toward Mrs. Wilburn’s stepmother. She had cleaned almost every bit of the mashed potatoes from her plate so that the trace of white left on it was less than what she wore on her chin. She stabbed a postage stamp size piece of baked chicken, brought it up to her mouth, and held it there on her fork. Instead of eating her meat, she looked up at us. Her eyes did that thing I’d seen many times over the years—a person looking at me, swinging their eyes over to Eve, holding on her only a second, and then moving back at me. And then like I had witnessed often over time, the person who saw me and Eve next to each other took on a small smile with the realization that we were twins. We’d often been told that we were the most identical that people had ever seen.
While this lady stared at me, I was ready to speak to her. What should I say? Offer my sympathy? If I did that while she was eating, according to the woman I just spoke to, this one would probably choke on her food and turn blue and wind up exactly like her stepdaughter. What would be the point of that?
If I asked about relatives who didn’t like her stepdaughter or might have had a reason to kill her, would that be more appropriate?
The chicken on her fork splintered, a slender part of it holding onto the tines, a larger portion dropping to her plate in the gravy that splattered to the front of her white blouse. The brown gravy created a pattern like a little map of Louisiana with its long toe aiming for her shoulder. One asset I was proud to possess was the ab
ility to notice detail, that trait I’d acquired when I sold undergarments and had to measure and help fit bras and snug body-molding bottoms on so many women, I sometimes blushed when I saw those people in town.
“Sunny.” Eve tapped my arm.
I was prepared to ask her if she also thought Adrienne Viatar’s left breast resembled our state when reason took hold. I tightened my lips against my teeth.
Eve gave her head a strong jerk back toward the exit. Right beyond her, I couldn’t miss the lady who’d spoken to us and warned us not to talk to this one now. She was shaking her head and wagging her finger at me so hard, she reminded me of my first-grade teacher, who didn’t know about my dyslexia any more than the rest of us did at that time. Every time I read a few words or a group of numbers in class, she gave me that same hard shake of her head and finger wag as though I had been a really bad puppy. She would end this display of negativity toward me by speaking my name with a sharp tone and say, “No, you are wrong. Again.” No wonder I hated my early schooling.
Only the smallest slivers of that chicken still held on to Adrienne Viatar’s fork, making me think of the wishbone our mother used to remove from the whole chickens she cut up and fried. It was our favorite piece. Eve normally let me break off the smallest piece and then I got to make a wish, which was always the same: Please don’t let me be so dumb.
Bless my third-grade teacher, who figured I was dyslexic and had me tested. Schooling became a little easier then since they discovered my problem and adjusted my classwork and testing to accommodate my disability. My gratitude really went out to that teacher who let me know about so many brilliant and talented people I had heard of who also dealt with the condition. That helped me hold my head higher, although the need to check myself with some numbers and words still remained. Eve helped with that in our business.
“Sunny.” She hissed my name near my ear and tugged my arm harder, assuring me we needed to go.
