Who Left That Body in the Rain?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “Ah, the peace and quiet of the countryside.” Joe Riddley handed me the umbrella. “Go get supper started. I’ll bring in the animals and feed them.”

  Having spent years convincing people I don’t cook, I take care not to ruin my reputation. “Eggs and bacon enough for you?” I asked.

  “If you put toast and applesauce with it. That too much of a stretch?”

  “You’ll be fortunate if your eggs are cooked,” I warned. “They may come flying at you when you come through the kitchen door.”

  “I’ll send in advance troops to check for enemy fire.”

  I let myself in and set my pocketbook on the counter, hung my damp coat in the utility room, and went to pull out eggs, bacon, and bread. As I cooked, however, I started to sniffle. First I sniffled happily, because it felt good to be able to joke again with Joe Riddley. Then I sniffled sadly, for Skye and Gwen Ellen. Finally I started thinking about the night our neighbor found Joe Riddley shot in the head down our road, and how I could have gotten the same news they brought Gwen Ellen. By the time Joe Riddley ambled through the door with Lulu at his heels and Joe on one shoulder, I was bawlng like a baby.

  He hung up his cap. “What’s the matter now?”

  “You’re alive,” I said, sobbing. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

  I think he must have been having the same thoughts outside, because he sent Joe up to the curtain rod and came to hold me. Neither of us cared if supper was a bit cold.

  We were eating our last bites of egg and toast when Gwen Ellen called. “I just hate to bother you all, but I don’t know who else to call.” Her voice was thick with tears.

  “Are you by yourself?” Surely either Tansy or Laura was close by at all times.

  “Oh, no. Tansy’s fixing supper—although I told her I can’t eat a bite. I asked everybody else to leave, though. You can only be nice so long.” She broke down and sobbed.

  Gwen Ellen had always teared up at sunsets and wept buckets in sad movies. She cried at weddings, funerals, even baptisms. If our preacher gave a touching illustration in the sermon, Gwen Ellen would start wiping her eyes. But who wouldn’t cry after her husband lay dead for hours while nobody knew he was missing?

  It wasn’t just Skye that was making her cry this time, though. “Skell still hasn’t come home.” She was crying so hard I could hardly make out the words. “I’m worried sick.”

  “Skell’s gone away for weekends a lot of times before.” That was part of her problem, of course. Disliking Hopemore as he did, Skell was apt to take off in his car for long weekends to hear bands play, watch cars race, do anything that was lively and jammed with people. Since he’d moved into his own place, he didn’t always tell his family when or where he was going. Even before Skye died, Gwen Ellen was having a hard time admitting Skell was grown.

  “Yes, but this time he didn’t go to work or tell them he wouldn’t be there.”

  That was a good point. Skell had never been responsible about getting to work on time or sticking around all day, but he had never failed to show up. I scratched one ear while I thought how best to answer. “Maybe you ought to ask the police again to look for him.”

  “I tried. Chief Muggins says they can’t do anything until he’s been gone longer. Tansy and Laura say the same thing you do—stop worrying, he’s just off on some trip. But I can’t. I’m worried sick. MacLaren . . . ?”

  She used to say my name just that way when her hair ribbon wouldn’t tie, when she couldn’t solve an arithmetic problem, or when she wanted me to call her mother and ask for a permission she didn’t think she could get herself. When I didn’t jump right in to volunteer this time, she added, “Maybe he’s just gone down to Dublin.” MacDonald Motors raced a car at the NASCAR track. Skell didn’t drive it, but he liked to hang out around those who did.

  “We’re not going down to Dublin at this hour. Besides, I wouldn’t know how to go about finding Skell once we got there.”

  “Could you just drive around town a little bit, then, to see if you can find his car?”

  Skell wasn’t driving around Hopemore. He’d have run into somebody who’d have told him about his daddy, and he’d have headed home. Only because I felt so sorry for her right that minute did I say, “Okay, we’ll go look around. If Skell’s in town, we’ll find him.”

  Joe Riddley shook his head, but he laid down his napkin and slid back his chair.

  Before we left, I hurried to the downstairs bathroom to wash my face, pat my hair, and put on a little lipstick. Phyllis and I keep my hair the same honey brown it was when Joe Riddley married me, and it still looked nice after her fixing it that morning for the wedding, but I hadn’t powdered my nose since I’d had several good cries and two trips through the rain. By the time I felt presentable, Joe Riddley had the dishes soaking in hot soapy water. Over the years I’ve learned how to gauge that almost to the second.

  Cruising up and down the rainy streets of Hopemore doesn’t take long, even if you drive slow. What the chamber of commerce euphemistically calls “Greater Hopemore” only has thirteen thousand residents. But I found myself enjoying driving around without talking, listening to the swish of our tires on the wet streets and feeling the warm security of being together.

  Joe Riddley looked over at me with a ghost of a smile. “Feels like high school, doesn’t it?”

  We used to cruise around for hours on weekend nights, trying to postpone the time he’d have to take me home. I reached over and laid my hand on his, glad of its familiar comfort. “Just what I was thinking. Can we go by Skell’s once more?” I turned to peer out through the slanting downpour at dim yards and bushes that sparkled under streetlights.

  “We’ve been by twice.”

  “I know, but—”

  I didn’t finish, because he was already turning in that direction. “We can swing by there again, but he’s not gonna be there.”

  “Did you remember to give his key back to Tansy?”

  He felt for his shirt pocket. “No, I plumb forgot. I’ll take it by tomorrow.”

  I hesitated. Joe Riddley has never been what you might call enthusiastic about my poking around mysterious circumstances. But this might be the only chance we got. “Why don’t we go look at Skell’s place and see if we can get any hint of where he might have gone?”

  “I was already in there,” he reminded me.

  “Did you see any signs he planned to leave?”

  “The place was such a mess, I don’t know how you’d tell.”

  “Did you look in the closets?”

  “He’s not hiding in the closet, Little Bit.”

  “We might be able to see if his suitcase and clothes are missing.” When he didn’t reply, I added, “Joe Riddley, what worries me about Skell is that whoever killed his daddy might have killed him, too. If I knew a suitcase was gone, I could stop worrying.”

  “Charlie Muggins is gonna have our hide for this.” Nevertheless, he turned back toward Skell’s and pulled into a parking place just down from his town house door. I didn’t complain that he parked so I had to wade through an inch of water.

  He snorted when I covered my hand with the hem of my skirt to turn the doorknob, but I’d been thinking about what he said. “If Charlie Muggins and his deputies ever do get to the point of fingerprinting the place, I don’t want them finding mine. You can explain that Gwen Ellen sent you over, but . . .” I didn’t finish that sentence. I didn’t need to. Charlie had been waiting to arrest me for something ever since we first met.

  I left the door cracked behind us for a quick getaway, and stood uneasily in the dark smelling old garbage and dirty clothes. “Turn on a lamp, hon,” I instructed. “I’ll wait right here. If there’s a second ferret in here, and it runs over my feet, I’ll join Skye in the bosom of the Lord.”

  Skell’s place looked like he hadn’t hung up a single shirt, shelved a single book, or put one piece of junk mail in a wastebasket in the year he’d lived there. Silver CDs lay beside crumpled underwear on
the thick black rug. Wadded T-shirts covered an expensive stereo system. A lone sock hung from the lamp shade. Joe Riddley flung that to the floor in disgust. “I’m surprised he hasn’t burned the place down. And look at that garbage can spilling all over the floor, when there’s a Dumpster just down the way.”

  “Kids who grow up with a Tansy in the kitchen aren’t apt to carry out garbage as often as they should.”

  Stomping my feet on the carpet to alert loose ferrets, I moved toward the bedroom. It stunk of unwashed sheets. I flipped the light switch with the side of my finger and saw waves of dirty clothes all over the floor. Just as I shuddered at the thought of germs breeding around me, Joe Riddley spoke over my shoulder. “I’ve seen cleaner slums.”

  “The funny thing is, Skell always looks so bandbox neat.” I went to the closet and again used my hem to cover my hand as I opened the closet door. Skell had enough slacks with razor-sharp creases and well-starched dress shirts to start his own store. I couldn’t tell if any were missing.

  I jumped when Joe Riddley breathed on the back of my neck. “Find anything?”

  We both jumped when we heard a man’s voice at the front door. “Skell? Where the dickens have you been? Your sister’s worried sick.”

  Somebody came into the living room and slammed the door.

  I voted for hiding and hoping whoever it was would go away. Fear of Chief Muggins makes me a tad unreasonable at times.

  Joe Riddley, fortunately, recognized the voice. “Ben? It’s us. The Yarbroughs.” He turned and loped toward the door. I paddled through the sea of dirty clothes in his wake.

  The manager of MacDonald’s service department was a long drink of water, six-feet-six and built like spaghetti. In the low light of the living room his brown eyes were dark as pools of cypress water, and I was surprised how handsome he was. I’d never seen him except in a loose mechanic’s jumpsuit and a cap. The green polo shirt he wore with jeans showed muscles I hadn’t suspected he had, and without his cap, his dark hair was an unruly mass of curls.

  “Folks pay good money to get curls like that,” I teased to ease the air.

  He ducked his head and scowled. “I’d gladly give ’em away, if I could.”

  Joe Riddley swore by Ben when it came to cars, but I found him a mite morose. I’d never seen him smile, nor heard him utter more sentences than were absolutely necessary.

  He addressed Joe Riddley, his voice urgent. “Listen, have you seen Skell? Laura asked me to see if he was here, and when I saw the light—”

  “Unfortunately, it’s just us, on the same errand. Unfortunately, because he’s not here.” Joe Riddley turned off the lamp, leaving us in darkness except for the streetlight in the parking lot.

  “Where the dickens could that kid have gone?” I demanded of the world in general.

  Ben had been raised right—he held the door for us older folks like it came natural—but under his breath, he muttered, “I hope he’s sober, driving that silver bullet.” The anger in his voice surprised me, as did the force with which he pulled the door shut behind him. Was he jealous? Did Ben yearn to trade in his truck for a Porsche?

  The rain still came down like curtains. Joe Riddley put on his cap, and held our umbrella over me. We huddled under the roof of Skell’s small porch, and I looked around the parked cars, willing Skell’s to appear. “Seems like he’d have told somebody he was leaving,” I muttered. At the moment, I couldn’t think who Skell’s friends were.

  “Laura’s fit to be tied.” Ben slapped his cap against his leg again and again. “He shouldn’t have gone off and left her with all this to deal with on her own.”

  “He didn’t expect his daddy to get killed,” I pointed out.

  “No, but she had to close for him last night and today both, and if he doesn’t get back by the time we reopen, I guess she’ll go ahead and run the lot for him, too.” He sounded as outraged as if he’d have to do it himself.

  “Why don’t you come down to Myrtle’s and join us for pie?” Joe Riddley suggested.

  “I was heading over there for supper,” Ben admitted.

  “We’ll buy you supper while we have pie. Little Bit’s feeling real generous tonight.”

  We ran for our car, and Ben splashed toward his truck. As we drove past Casa Mas Esperanza, I saw that their lot was full again.

  Myrtle’s, on the other hand, was not. In a town our size, every blip in the economy is felt somewhere. Hopefully it would even out eventually.

  As always, Joe Riddley glared at the floodlit sign in Myrtle’s parking lot:Cooking as Good as Mama Used to Do

  “She ought to take that down, the way she’s cooking these days.”

  “The food’s not as good without a little bacon grease and sugar,” Ben agreed, coming up with us at the door, “but I guess your husband needing a heart bypass might tend to make you change your cooking habits.”

  “My mama cooked with fatback and sugar all her life, and she died at eighty-one,” Joe Riddley muttered. “It’s genes, not cooking.” Mr. Medical Encyclopedia stomped ahead to pick a table.

  He had plenty to choose from. The place was nearly empty, and Myrtle’s face lower than an earthworm’s belly. When she saw Ben with us, though, she lit up in a smile. “It’s good to see you eating with company instead of a book for a change.”

  “Books are good company,” Ben informed her, heading to a table. As soon as we’d settled, Joe Riddley asked Ben where he came from. Up north, folks care about ethnic background. Down here, we want to know where people are from. Then we run through a mental list of our own relatives to try to figure out if we are related, and how. If we aren’t kin, then we try to figure out who we know in common. That provides security in an uncertain world.

  Ben flexed his long fingers and cracked his knuckles. “I grew up over near Sandersville.” That was about an hour away. “You all grow up around here?”

  “All our lives. What family do you have?”

  “Three sisters and a brother. I’m second in line. My older sister is a nurse, the one after me is a high-school gym teacher—she reminds me a bit of Laura, the way they’re both crazy about sports—and the third one is in law school. My little sister the lawyer.” He gave a little grunt that was either a laugh or a sign of his pride in her. “The baby, my brother, is still in college and can’t make up his mind what to do. They’ve spoiled him rotten, but I guess you always do with the last one.” He gave me a quick look, but asked Joe Riddley, “You got just the two boys?”

  “Just the two,” he agreed. “Your parents still livin’?”

  “Yessir. Daddy teaches history in high school, and Mama teaches second grade.”

  “You always want to be a mechanic?”

  He shrugged. “Pretty much fell into it. Comin’ up, I liked workin’ on cars. I was pretty rebellious back then, too, so I goofed off in school and didn’t make the kind of grades that earn scholarships. The year I graduated, my brother had to have a big operation, and it took every cent my folks had. I went to Vo-Tech and got certified as a mechanic, figurin’ I’d earn some money, then go to college when I figured out what I wanted.” A little grin flickered across his face. “Turns out this was what I wanted. God’s funny, sometimes—uses what we thought were detours as shortcuts.”

  Since he didn’t seem to mind talking once he got started (so long as he didn’t have to look at me), I asked something I wanted to know. “How do you keep your hands so clean?”

  He ducked his head with another flicker of a smile. “Rubber gloves. Sounds sissy, doesn’t it?” He spread his big hands out and looked at them. “But Laura says if doctors and dentists can wear them, so can we. It took some getting used to, but it makes us more presentable.” He flexed his hands and cracked his knuckles again.

  Myrtle came by just then to set pint jars of sweet iced tea before us and take our order. After she’d swished her skirts back through the swinging kitchen door, Joe Riddley asked, “What brought you to Hopemore?”

  Ben was quiet s
o long, I figured he hadn’t heard the question. With one long forefinger he traced and retraced a circle on the green Formica tabletop. (Myrtle doesn’t run to tablecloths and white linen napkins. She just has the best pie in Middle Georgia.) Finally he lifted his head as if it were an act of courage, and his words were so low they sounded like groans. “I was married. We were just coming up on our second anniversary, expecting our first baby, when they both got killed by a drunk driver who ran a stop sign. After that, I needed to go somewhere—it didn’t much matter where. I got to talking to Skye down at the car races one day, and he said he could use a good mechanic, so here I am.”

  “And here’s your supper.” Myrtle slid that into his sentence as neatly as she slid a plate of meatloaf, green beans, and macaroni and cheese in front of him. Anybody who ordered the special could have dinner on the table in about two minutes flat. But anybody who didn’t want Myrtle joining in on their conversation had better find another place to eat. “Chocolate pie coming right up,” she promised with a flap of one hand.

  “How long you been here?” I asked, to pass the time.

  Ben cut a big wedge of meatloaf and chewed while he considered. “I guess it’s fixing to be seven years. I’ve been manager just over four.”

  “Been here long enough to start looking for a wife,” Myrtle informed him, setting pie before Joe Riddley and me.

  A flow of dark pink started in Ben’s neck and worked its way up to his ears. The way he hunched over his plate, I couldn’t see his face, so I didn’t know if he was mad or embarrassed. Or maybe he still wasn’t over that first wife. Wounds like that can take a while to heal.

  Joe Riddley prodded the meringue on his pie, which stood three inches thick with little sugar beads on top. “Someday you gotta tell Little Bit how you do this, Myrtle.”

  “I’ll tell her the day she asks.” Myrtle gave me a wink and swept on to the next table. Joe Riddley and I sank our teeth into a little bit of heaven.