Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  Lucille’s nose crinkled. “Dear!”

  “Then I saw her up at the Triple C yesterday when she came in for a color and cut. It was like she’d won the lottery. She had a skip to her step, and Mandy said she even double-tipped. If you know Choo-choo, you’d know that ain’t like her. She’ll squeeze a dime until it spits out change.”

  “People have reasons for their actions, Elvina. It’s not necessarily a cause for concern.”

  Elvina’s brows knit together. “You believe people get happier right before they die?”

  “I’ve seen it happen. Why?”

  “At my age, I attend more funerals than birthday parties. I never know when I see one of my older acquaintances, whether it will be the last time or not. They can be so full of life and happy, then the next moment, bam!”

  “None of us have a stamped ticket with a guaranteed departure date. No matter if we’re young or old.”

  “True enough. Still, I can’t help but wonder if Choo-choo might be having some sort of last minute . . . what would you call it? . . . burst of grace.”

  One of Lucille’s white eyebrows tilted up. “Maybe she has a new male friend.”

  Elvina froze, stunned into momentary silence. “That’s it, Lucille. That has to be it.” Elvina’s eyes narrowed. “That little dickens. Here she has a new love interest and hasn’t breathed so much as a word to me. Wait until I get a’hold of that woman.”

  Lucille laughed. “Heaven help her. I’d hate to get on your bad side, Elvina Houston.”

  Two weeks before suicide, Sunday

  Choo-choo Ivey closed her eyes and images of Charlie’s face flickered past. Charlie at twenty-two: his red-tinged hair combed straight back, Irish eyes sparkling with mischief. Charlie at thirty-nine: sun-kissed and freckled, holding the bow rope of a small fishing boat. Charlie at forty-seven: still muscular and fit, his T-shirt off and looped around the waist of his faded shorts, mowing the lawn in the July heat. Charlie, sixty: hair thinning on the top, still boyishly handsome in his Sunday best. Charlie at the end: face and body ravaged by disease and pain, reaching out to grasp her hand.

  Finally, the Charlie of her recent dreams: youthful, joyous, waiting for her and bouncing from one foot to the other, wondering why she was taking an eternity to arrive. Prissy sat at his feet, restored to her puppyhood, her stubby cotton ball tail wiggling a beat. Choo-choo actually looked forward to seeing the little dog again.

  I will see Charlie soon! The thought repeated in her mind like a meditation mantra. How much longer—only a matter of days. She no longer prayed for death to tap her while she slept; she had snatched the Reaper’s scythe.

  A niggling voice inside asked, “What about Jacqueline?”

  Choo-choo shoed the voice away. Three months. It had been three months since she had spoken with her daughter. Choo-choo had lost count of the numerous voice mail messages she had left beyond the beep, and the hand-written letters. A couple of times, Jacqueline had bothered to contact her, but always at a time when Choo-choo was away from home, as if her daughter gleaned enough information from her missives to know when to call. “Hi, Mother. I’m fine. Sounds like you are too. Later . . .”

  What could make a daughter so loathe her mother? Choo-choo raked her memory for clues and came up empty. She had not been the queen of school cupcake bakes and didn’t sew fancy smocked dresses, but she had faithfully attended parent/teacher meetings with Charlie and sat through every kind of sporting event imaginable. That had to count for something.

  Choo-choo poured a tall glass of tea and talked to Charlie. “I know I wasn’t the touchy-feely, nurturing type. You filled the role of boo-boo kisser and Band-Aid vendor. You pitched softballs in the back yard and dried tears. You gave her that mandatory ‘birds and the bees’ talk.”

  When Charlie became gravely ill, Choo-choo’s latent nurse tendencies surfaced. She had fed, bathed, comforted, medicated, and monitored. Finally, she understood why others displayed altruistic behavior. It felt good, and at least she could do something. Too late for her relationship with Jacqueline, selfless love had altered Choo-choo’s life.

  She broke off a piece of dry toast and chewed. How could she leave behind some fashion of farewell without prompting guilt and remorse? A letter, a recorded message?

  Choo-choo settled on the former. She grabbed the small notepad next to the phone. She scribbled and scratched out words, entire paragraphs. Started and stopped. Drank tea. Wrote some more. But words seemed inadequate to bridge across the years of estrangement and silence. The remainder of her estate after the hit man’s payoff—house, car, stocks, bonds, and certificates of deposit—could fill in where words failed.

  Choo-choo pushed the notepad aside and dug the slip of paper from her purse. How Sheila Bruner—timid little Sheila—had managed to obtain the assassin’s contact number was beyond belief. As instructed, Choo-choo dialed, waited for a generic greeting, and left her home number and first name. Within the half-hour, the phone rang and a deep male voice gave instructions.

  Choo-choo scribbled on the notepad beneath her feeble letter to Jacqueline. “Got it.”

  She heard the disconnect click, then dead air.

  A couple of hours later, Choo-choo stood inside of the Mid-view Truck Stop café near Tallahassee. Eleven a.m. sharp. Choo-choo’s pulse thrummed. Charlie would’ve loved this. He had been a big fan of crime and thriller novels. The whole thing seemed so deliciously James Bond-ish.

  She scanned the line of booths and spotted the woman—the Yellow Dress lady, left side, 5th table from the buffet bar. Five, her lucky number. A good omen.

  Time to dust off her latent actor capabilities. Choo-choo cleared her throat.

  “Just one this afternoon?” A server clad in gingham asked.

  Choo-choo ripped her gaze from Yellow Dress long enough to reply, “No. I’m meeting my great niece and there she is.” She tucked her clutch beneath one arm and scuttled toward the fifth booth. “Yoo-hoo! Sandy!”

  Yellow Dress spotted her and slid from the booth. They embraced like long-lost sisters separated at birth. Choo-choo pushed back, held Yellow Dress at arm’s length. “Look at you. You haven’t changed a bit in five years.”

  A couple of women cast bored glances their way, otherwise no one took note of an old lady and a twenty-something female throwing a reunion in a truck stop diner.

  Intriguing. Would the assassin be female then? Choo-choo appreciated the idea of women in traditionally male roles, but this? Or was the mysterious woman in yellow his wife? Did hit men even have wives? Surely they did, or at least girlfriends. A hit man was still a man. Maybe this “Sandy” didn’t fully grasp the nature of her mate’s line of work.

  They sat down, maintaining a running banter. They ordered brunch: the Country Slammer for Yellow Dress Sandy and a biscuit for Choo-choo, two coffees. No way Choo-choo could choke down even a bite, but she’d try. For appearances.

  Until the food arrived, they caught up on fictitious old times. Yellow Dress Sandy blathered on and on about her parents, how she’d started back to college for her master’s, about sick relatives. Goodness, she was a pro. Choo-choo played along, asking about the latest baby—“Leticia, right?”

  They spoke in code, like the man had instructed on the phone. Four of us. The date, time, location. A figure, agreed upon. Even what to wear. All in a storyline any eavesdropping busybody wouldn’t suspect.

  The pretend drama scrambled Choo-choo’s stomach. Lord, don’t let me get the runs. No telling about truck stop bathrooms. Choo-choo fiddled with the paper napkin in her lap, twisting it into a sweaty baton.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Yellow Dress Sandy slipped a piece of paper from her purse and slid it across the table. “Our new address and phone number.”

  Choo-choo forced her hand to lift, take the paper. Bank routing numbers. The olden days of briefcases packed with unmarked bills had caved to the new digital age. Too bad. It could’ve added so much noir to this little play.

  Yellow D
ress Sandy wolfed down the Country Slammer breakfast. Mopped egg yolks with wheat toast. Choo-choo nipped a few buttered bites of biscuit.

  “Wish you’d eat more, Auntie. I worry so about your health.”

  Choo-choo almost choked.

  Chapter Nine

  One week before suicide

  Tuesday

  Loiscell Pickering hoisted a bulging bag of clothing and added it to a growing tower of boxes bound for charity donation. Why hadn’t she done this years ago? The pants—in the “old Loiscell” pre-cancer sizes—could wrap around her body one and a half times with material to spare. Ruby red pumps—when had she worn those? Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Wizard of Oz costume party?

  After she completed the closet purge, the carpet showed through the few pairs of stacked shoes. How long it had been since the closet floor had seen daylight was anyone’s guess.

  Loiscell moved on to the hall linen closet, pitching sets of sheets, towels, plastic-wrapped comforters, and stacks of tablecloths. The heirloom pieces—an ecru lace coverlet of her grandmother’s and a couple of hand-embroidered holiday table runners—missed the grab and toss. By midmorning, she stopped for a cup of cocoa and a handful of peanuts. Everything had started to look like junk. No need to get carried away.

  Her son Lance wasn’t sentimental. With the exception of a few of his father’s old hand tools, Lance wouldn’t care what she chose to leave behind. Lisa, his polar opposite, would covet all of it down to the last paper clip. By cleaning out at least a little, Loiscell was doing her daughter a huge favor. Otherwise, Lisa and the twins wouldn’t be able to find a pathway between rooms. The times Loiscell had traveled to Atlanta, she had hidden her shock at the amount of stuff Lisa had accumulated. Her daughter had taken the pack-rat gene supplied by her mother and multiplied it tenfold.

  Loiscell smiled. Gangly, athletic, belated flower child Lance. Last time she saw him, his meager possessions had included two bicycles—one off-road and one city cruiser—outdoor gear, minimal clothing, one set of sheets, a pillow, blanket, and a few toiletries. If his hair was an inch or two longer, Lance would have appeared well-suited for life in the sixties, a joint dangling from one hand, with a dreamy-eyed, willowy female in the passenger seat of his dirt-pocked Volkswagen van. Yet being a new-age hippie, Lance shunned animal fat, alcohol, chemicals, and drugs.

  What money Loiscell possessed—a small savings account and a few certificates of deposit—would help her children. Lisa could finance the twins’ college education and assist Rachel and Rick to start their lives free of so much debt. After the income from the children’s books started to flow, Lisa might take time to travel, write, and enjoy life. She might find time to date.

  To Lance, the cash would seem an encumbrance. He might even push it off on his sister. Loiscell hoped he would use it to visit some exotic place, to ride his bike through a shadowy, medieval forest, or camp in the jungle with the call of Howler monkeys for a lullaby.

  Loiscell reminisced as she sorted through years of closet flotsam. Lance’s worn pair of soccer shoes. Lisa’s bagged high school cap and gown with the colored honor tassels still looped around the yoke. Old term papers, notebooks, and containers of snapshots. Loiscell boxed the mementoes and labeled them with a black permanent marker. The items belonged to her children’s past; best for each to decide what snippets to discard or carry forward.

  How would her death affect her children? Loiscell sat back for a moment.

  Cosmic Lance would view his mother’s death as part of The Big Plan. At some point, he might take a moment at the base of a waterfall or atop a red rock cliff to remember his mom and allow the universe to envelope her spirit.

  Lisa would fold into herself, scrunching up like a garden slug sprinkled with salt. Loiscell recalled the way Lisa had handled both her daddy’s death, then her own failed marriage. Crying, then cocooning. Finally throwing herself into a cavalcade of busyness. At least Lisa had the twins, her profession, and the upcoming book release to help her move forward.

  “Can’t be helped,” Loiscell muttered. She pitched a lumpy stuffed Easter bunny over her shoulder to the trash pile. No way she’d leave that mangy thing for her daughter to cart back to Atlanta. It was a health hazard.

  Time to “get real,” as her grandchildren put it. She was going to die soon, one way or the other. She had cheated cancer twice. What were the odds? One near-future path led to chemotherapy and radiation—a drawn-out suffering—to steal a little more time. The other, to a swift, well-planned exit. Prolonged pain had a way of wearing down even the most stalwart, positive patient.

  She moved to the den, stacking outdated magazines into the recycle bin. How might she comfort Lisa and Lance? She couldn’t talk with them in advance or even send an email. Too much of a chance of becoming morose and sentimental. Lisa would drop everything and drive home.

  A letter. Loiscell would write each of her children and grandchildren a long missive. Tell them how proud she was. How she admired Lance’s free spirit, Lisa’s fortitude, Rachel and Rick’s youthful humor and potential. Before the Big Event, she would slip the letters into the mail. By the time they arrived, tucked between bills and credit card offers, Loiscell would be free.

  1 week before suicide, Thursday

  Abby McKenzie stared at the insurance pending roster until the numbers blurred on the monitor display. For almost two weeks, Ben had delivered Dr. Payne’s office mail during the mid-morning madhouse when she was at her busiest. He left the usual stack of magazines, bills, flyers, and payment envelopes with a nod and a simple “good morning.” She had tried to gain his attention in yoga class, but he came in late, sat at the back of the room, and left before they could speak.

  Except Ben hadn’t come at all today. Maybe he’d just open the door and throw their mail into a waiting room chair. Avoid any chance of seeing her.

  Hurting someone as gentle as Ben Calhoun was right up there with slapping baby bunnies or snatching an all-day sucker from a toddler. Ben didn’t deserve it, and Abby was a total witch.

  Face it, sweetheart. A decent relationship with a male is a no-go for you. The thought depressed her so thoroughly she found it hard to breathe. Soon it would be a moot point. If reincarnation was the truth behind it all, perhaps she’d be able to come back and make a fresh go of things. Next time around, she would have the perfect father, fall in love, marry, have children, and grow happy and fat with the man of her heart’s choice. All this, given the chance she didn’t come back as a cockroach to repay the suicide karma mortgage.

  Abby took bites of double meat/double cheese pizza chased with sweet tea while she thumbed through a mound of insurance correspondence. The heck with scrimping with PB&Js and diet cola. The staff had cleared out for lunch, and the waiting room was blissfully quiet.

  Abby sliced open a thick white envelope. “You are flipping kidding me.” Though the day’s insurance claims were submitted electronically, she often received written communication asking the most asinine questions. For the fifth time in less than two months, the same company had written for additional information. “What more do you want? A testament from the President? I’ve already sent you two copies of the x-ray, a letter from Dr. Payne, and everything short of a plea from God.”

  Abby snapped. She scribbled notes and drew arrows in bright red marker across the letter, taped another x-ray envelope in the middle, folded the paper until it was less than four inches square, stapled it a half dozen times, then stuffed it into a stamped return envelope and shoved it in the outgoing mail. “There you go! Pleasure doing business with you.”

  Maybe they’d disburse funds this time. Sometimes it paid to go a little nuts.

  Abby had just taken a huge cheesy bite when she heard the click of the front door. She slugged a huge gulp of tea to unglue the pizza spackled to her teeth.

  “Good morning.” Ben handed a stack of mail through the opened window and retrieved the outgoing correspondence.

  “Actually,” Abby glanced down at her
watch, surreptitiously licking the tomato sauce from one corner of her lips, “it’s afternoon.”

  “Abby, I—”

  “I’m sorry, Ben. I really am.”

  He fiddled with the clasp on his messenger bag. “I overstepped.”

  Abby shook her head. “You didn’t. All you asked for was a cup of coffee. I . . .”

  Ben held up a hand. “No need to explain.”

  “Do you think we could be friends, Ben?”

  When he smiled, the fine lines around his eyes crinkled, but his expression remained defeated and sad. “I thought we were.”

  Chapter Ten

  Two days before suicide

  Saturday

  Glenn Bruner checked the rearview mirror twice before slowing and pulling into a sandy road barely wide enough to accommodate a vehicle. Scrub oak branches reached like tentacles and grabbed the truck’s flanks and undercarriage.

  At a small clearing, Glenn parked, looked at his watch, and switched off the ignition. The pick-up’s engine sputtered blue exhaust, coughed twice, and died. Might as well relax. He reclined the seat. Sometimes he missed a good smoke. He had given up the habit a few years back. Besides, smoking would be hazardous to his health. Imagine that, a hit man worried about dying of lung cancer. That there was funny.

  The rumble of a motor and the crack of underbrush called Glenn to attention. He flipped the lever and the seat snapped upright. A dusty dark blue Chevy Blazer pulled alongside the pick-up. When Glenn opened his driver’s side door, the rusty hinges squealed like pigs at a slaughter.

  “Where’d you find that piece of crap?” Clay asked when Glenn slid into the Chevy’s passenger seat.

  “Belongs to one of my poker buddies, his hunting truck. We swapped for the afternoon. I didn’t recognize where you were telling me to go, and some of these dirt roads are narrow as all get out. No way I’d bring my truck down here. Surprised you brought yours. Sides are probably scratched to hell and back.”