by Rhett DeVane
The senior agent stood up and reached a hand to rest on Glenn’s shoulder. “All you have to do when Agent Hurst comes back is tell me you want to speak to your counsel. I will know then, that you’re with me.” He stepped back when the door latch clicked.
Agent Hurst walked into the room clutching three Styrofoam to-go cups. His eyes shone with anticipation, jonesing for a fight.
A slow smile teased Glenn’s lips. He took special pleasure in ruining the rooster’s fun. Though he directed his words to the senior agent, Glenn’s gaze rested on Hurst. “I don’t think we have anything to talk about. I want my attorney.”
Chapter Seventeen
Four days after suicide
Friday
Elvina Houston steered the Delta 88 into her special parking spot and switched off the ignition. The Witherspoon mansion never failed to impress her. Not like some of its modern competitors.
Ostentatious houses reminded Elvina Houston of toads. They squatted on their lots, overpowering the shrubbery, intimidating the trees. Far from making her drool with envy, the overdone houses made Elvina laugh. Chattahoochee didn’t have the lion’s share of the toad-houses—not like certain neighborhoods in Tallahassee.
The Witherspoon Mansion was no toad-house made of perfect brick. The home graced its rolling lawn and provided a tasteful statement instead of a rude interruption. Elvina knew the mansion from the days of the paint-by-numbers club and its charter members: Betsy Witherspoon, Sissy Pridgeon, Piddie Longman, and herself. Now all of the women were deceased, save for Elvina. And some days she didn’t feel so good, herself.
As soon as she stepped from her car and toward the stately old home, Elvina’s spirit lifted. Like so many of the older women who walked through its portal, the home had seen more than a few decades. After Betsy Witherspoon died, the house had changed hands to her only offspring, but the debts from Betsy’s extravagance made it impossible for Jake to retain ownership.
When Holston Lewis finally purchased the mansion from a south Florida couple who never so much as set foot in town, the Greek Revival-style house looked like a down-on-her-luck dowager. With a lot of elbow grease, a few tubs of spackle, pots of paint, and a generous amount of love, the house had resumed its rightful place as the town’s crown jewel. The perfect throne for the head of the little-ole-lady hotline.
When she walked into the back door—the one used by staff, for deliveries, and by patrons familiar enough to come through the less-impressive entrance—Elvina felt the old house fold around her. Some days, she sensed the spirits of her deceased friends looking over her shoulders as she measured out coffee and wandered the lower level in search of plants that needed attention. In the quiet moments before Mandy, Wanda, or Melody came in, the house spoke to her in a low language: creaks and clicks that might startle a less stalwart person. Elvina listened, sure that each sound echoed those long-silenced voices.
Soon the phone would ring. Someone with a hair emergency. Someone who had pulled a back muscle scraping the leaves from the gutters. Someone in terrible need of a nail fill. Elvina sat at the massive mahogany reception desk with a hot cup of coffee cradled in her hands.
Snippets of thought bumped into each other. Something about the series of events surrounding Choo-choo Ivey and her yoga minions disturbed Elvina’s waking moments, and had started to creep into her dreams. It reminded her of an annoying arithmetic word problem: one where a train leaves from Town A at 2:30 and from Town B at 4:15, heading toward each other. If one was going so fast and the other so fast, then when would they crash? She despised word problems. Too many variables.
Elvina woke the computer and typed in her password. The day’s schedule appeared, neat and orderly. The way she liked things. Since Elvina tended to think in a straight line, the abstract gathering of seemingly unrelated facts annoyed her. Given the correct equation, she would solve the problem. But how in Hades did she figure out the formula on this one?
Piddie had often told Elvina that she could “beat a dead horse until it turned into a wall hanging.” If something festered in the backside of her brain, Elvina had no choice but to keep worrying it until it came to a head.
As soon as Ben Calhoun stepped into Abby’s hospital room, he heard crying coming from the bathroom. He dropped his duffle bag and tapped on the door.
“Abs? Abs? You . . . okay in there?” He heard a muffled answer, but couldn’t make out the words. “Do you need me to get your nurse?”
“No!”
That one, he got. Should he go in? He shoved his keys in his pants pocket. The toilet flushed. He heard shuffling, the clang of the rolling IV pole, and the door swung open. When she saw him, Abby burst into tears, huge gulping sobs, her shoulders shaking up and down.
“Abs, what . . . ? Here, let’s get you back into bed.” He rocked the rolling pole over the low tiled threshold. One wheel stuck; he cussed it and jiggled it over the hump. Then he slipped his arm carefully around Abby’s waist and led her, still crying, to the bed.
“I’m so messed up,” Abby managed between bursts of emotion. “So messed up.”
He pushed past his hesitation and gathered Abby into his arms, cooing comfort, swaying gently. She clung to him and cried harder. If that was even possible.
Someone tapped at the door. A nurse walked in, took in the scene, and mouthed, “I’ll come back.”
Ben nodded.
For what seemed like forever, Abby cried. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, she stopped and pushed back. Snot streamed from both nostrils and her red eyes had already started to puff around the edges.
“Here, Abs.” Ben handed over a couple of tissues from the bedside table. Abby blew her nose twice and wiped her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.”
She took a shaky breath, puffed it out. “It all just kind of hit me.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Ben didn’t leave his position on the side of her bed, only pulled back a little. His wife had always needed to talk after the bad spells, until she couldn’t communicate at all. Listening was the best and often only thing he could do.
“I’m so messed up, Ben.”
“You said that before.” He offered a slight smile. “Going through extensive surgery, the pain, the days in a hospital room—those things can sideline even the bravest person.”
Abby shook her head. “It’s not just that. I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“I don’t deserve you, Ben. I probably never will.”
Words gathered in his mind, aching to get out. His timing often sucked. “Besides my mom and granny, I’ve only cared deeply for two women in my life, Abs. My wife was one.” He stopped. He had her full attention now. She wasn’t even sniffling anymore. Here goes nothing. “You’re the other.”
Her gaze fell to her folded hands. “I don’t know how to do this, Ben. I’m damaged goods.”
“What? A few extra seams here and there? A nice little decorator bag for a few weeks?” He grinned. “Not like I’m Brad Pitt.”
Abby’s lips quivered, then lifted at the corners. “I was married once.” She coughed, cleared her throat. Ben poured a glass of ice water and handed it over.
Here it came: the past love and life talk. At some point, every man and woman had it. He’d tell her about his stuff too, at some point. Get that out of their way.
“His name was William Harvey Hansel. Stupid, stupid, stupid. That any woman should get married straight out of high school. Just stupid.”
Ben held Abby’s hand.
“Will was charming and dashing, even at that age. Perfectly outfitted. Always precise with the right thing to say. Good with special touches. And I was just plain old Abby McKenzie.” She took a deep breath. “Will’s family moved in from up north when I was in my junior year. He was so exotic with that Wisconsin accent. I had landed the prize. First time in my life. I got what those cheerleaders and silly Buffy-type girls long
ed for.
“I was a virgin when we got married. Will slept with me that first night, and a few times afterwards. Then he found convenient excuses not to. Weeks stretched into months, and we did little more than hug.” Abby stopped. “I can’t believe I’m telling you all this.”
Ben squeezed her hand. “I’m right here. Tell me as much, or as little as you wish.”
She raked her free hand through her hair. “Other than the physical part, the marriage was as perfect as the magazines and romance movies promised. Until I came home early from a college class in Marianna and found my perfect husband in bed with his . . . male lover.”
What could he say to that? “Oh.”
“It’s not that I’m all against Will’s lifestyle. I’m not. It’s just . . .Why can’t people be who they are instead of trying to be who they’re not?”
Ben noted the way Abby held her free hand, fisted, the knuckles white. “Times were different then. Not to defend him. Cheating on your spouse is never okay, no matter who you cheat with.”
The small muscles at Abby’s temples pulsed. She jerked her hand from his grasp and pounded both fists on the bed. “Why, why can’t people be what they’re supposed to be? Tearing up families! Hurting everyone around them? All those years and years of lies! If I can’t believe in him, how can I ever believe . . . in anyone?”
Ben was no expert on women, heck what man was? But he could read people, had always been able to. This wasn’t about a brief doomed marriage. “Abs . . .?” He touched her hand, a gentle brush. “Tell me. Please. If you can.”
She squeezed her eyes together. Let out a deep shuddering breath. “That man, the one in bed with my husband, was . . . was . . . my father.”
Abby opened her eyes and looked past him, into space. “We all went back to McKenzie-normal. His parents moved out of town shortly after our divorce. I got curious a while back and found Will on the Internet. He lives in San Francisco, a highly successful designer. Goes by the title W. Harvey.” She stopped for a beat, continued. “My father never said a word to me about it, never said anything to anyone, as far as I know.”
When Abby looked at him, Ben saw the pain etched across her features. She reached for him and he held her. Abby’s body seemed to curl up, to shrink, as if he cradled the young girl instead of the grown woman. Her head pressed against his chest, reminding Ben of the way his own son had done, listening to the comforting thrum of his daddy’s heart. Ben rocked her, side to side.
Finally, she pushed back and studied his face. “That’s me. Screwed up me. Guess that’s why I can’t get past hello.” Tears pooled in her eyes again. “But I want to. I really, really want to.”
Ben reached over and brushed a stray slip of hair from her temple. He caressed her cheek, still damp from tears. Leaned over and kissed both of them, pulled back. Abby’s eyes showed a mixture of hope and fear.
Ben cupped her chin. Moved in slowly and pressed his lips to hers. Tender. Easy. Warmth flowed from him to her in waves. He pulled back. Later, the kiss could be longer, deeper.
“I think you and I have gotten a little past hello, Abs.”
“Aren’t you pleased as punch? You get to go home today!” Loiscell Pickering plumped the pillow behind Sheila’s head and stood back to study her friend’s expression. “Only, you don’t look pleased.”
“I’m happy to be leaving here. They’ve been wonderful to me. It’s . . .” Sheila’s eyes watered. “I don’t know if I can set foot back in that house.”
“Choo-choo and I discussed that very thing this morning. We made a plan. Her daughter and friend are visiting from the West Coast, so she wasn’t able to come over today. You’re going home with me.”
“Loiscell, I don’t—”
“I’ll not hear any guff out of you, young lady. I have plenty of room. While my daughter Lisa was here, she helped me set the guest room in order. It had gotten a little out of hand, what with me being such a—”
“Pack rat,” Sheila supplied.
Loiscell lifted one eyebrow and let it fall. “True. I am that. Everything I couldn’t bear to throw away had ended up in there. It was cleansing to shuffle most of it off to charity. Now I have all the room in the world, and I’ll be happy for your company.” Even more amazing, that Lisa couldn’t drag anything back to Atlanta with her, since she’d flown down.
Loiscell gathered a stack of get-well cards and stuffed them into a zippered pouch in Sheila’s overnight case. “If you’ll tell me what clothes you want, I’ll get whatever you need. We’ve already moved your little cat to my back porch.”
“Buttercup?”
“So that’s his name? I’ve been calling him Little Yeller. I tried letting him sleep inside, but he wasn’t happy there. He can come and go from my porch, and still has a safe place to get in out of the weather.”
Sheila’s eyes misted over. “He’s really very sweet. Glenn would never abide an animal, so I kept him outside.”
“Not much your husband would abide, it seems.” Loiscell bit back a torrent of harsh criticism. No need to belabor the facts.
Sheila picked at the cuticle on her right thumb until a pearl of blood appeared. “There’s something I need to do before I leave the hospital. Would you walk with me?”
“Sure, hon. Moving around is good for you. But we can get out and patrol the streets when we get back to the Hooch. You might want to conserve your strength today. The trip home will wear you out.” Loiscell dug in her purse and handed Sheila a bandage strip. “Best to cover that cuticle. No matter how much they clean, there’re all kinds of evil bugs in a hospital. Last thing you need is to get a Staph infection.”
“Please, Loiscell.” Sheila grimaced with the effort to rise. “There’s someone I need to see . . . here.” She wrapped the bandage strip around her finger.
“No harm in that I suppose. Long as we keep it brief.”
The two women made their way down to the opposite end of the hall where Sheila stopped in front of the door leading to another private room.
“Someone from back home in here?” Loiscell rummaged through her memory. Surely, Elvina would have told her if one of their other friends had been hospitalized.
Sheila shook her head. “No, just a lady I need to speak with before I leave.”
A soft voice answered Sheila’s knock. When they entered the room, a bedridden woman flipped the television volume down. “Yes?”
Sheila nodded to Loiscell, then crossed to the chair beside the bed. “I know you might not remember me. I’m one of the ladies you stopped to help in front of the restaurant.”
The woman’s eyebrows knit together. “I’m afraid I don’t recall much from . . . that night. It was almost dark, and then . . .”
“I met your husband in the hall last night when I took one of my walks. Forgive me for bothering you, but I need to—”
Loiscell’s hand rested on Sheila’s good shoulder. Sheila took a deep breath. “I’ve spent my whole life pretending. Pretending to have a perfect marriage. Pretending that nothing hurt me. I’m finished with all of that.” Sheila paused. “I can’t take back what has been done to you, to both of us.”
“What—”
“I don’t even know your first name.” Sheila repositioned her wounded shoulder.
“Lucinda . . . Lucinda Myers.”
“That’s pretty.” Sheila’s expression turned wistful. “Lucinda sounds like the name of a sweet little girl in ruffles and lace. I like it.”
The woman glanced from Sheila to Loiscell, her eyebrows raised.
“I know this all seems odd to you, Miz Lucinda . . . ” Loiscell stopped speaking when Sheila held up her hand.
“Please, Loiscell. I’ve been letting someone else speak for me for a long time. Way too long.” Sheila’s features softened. “Lucinda—I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your first name—I’m here to tell you how very sorry I am that you got hurt. And how very blessed I feel that you are alive.”
“Thanks, but—”
> “I can’t turn back time and take any of this back. If I could, I would. I would do so many things differently.” Sheila closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I am so deeply sorry.”
From where she stood, Loiscell noticed the slight tremor of her friend’s hands.
“I’m Sheila Bruner. My husband was the one with the gun.”
Elvina Houston laced up her walking shoes and put down a snack for her cat. By the end of her long day, the stream of worry had prompted another of her common ailments: insomnia. “I’ll be back, Buster.” No need to take one more drug, even if it helped her achieve sleep.
Elvina made her way through the neighborhoods, hugging the curb with a small flashlight hanging from a clip on her belt—for the spots not illuminated by streetlights. The darkness revealed more than the light of day. She caught snippets of a heated argument, saw the lights of those who shared her nocturnal affliction. At one house, she spotted the vehicle of someone’s clandestine lover partially hidden behind a tall hedge.
After years of nightly roaming, Elvina knew exactly who lived where, what kind of car or truck they drove, and if they kept their dogs inside after dark.
A police cruiser drew up alongside and slowed. Elvina waved. It picked up its pace and turned at the next intersection.
Elvina checked the time on her nightglow watch. She slipped her smartphone from its clip-on holster and stepped from the sidewalk into the deep shadow of a magnolia tree. She hit the message recorder app.
“Friday. Eleven forty-five p.m. Older model sedan, dark color. Choo-choo Ivey’s house.” She polished the fingerprints from the face of the amazing piece of equipment before slipping it back into its case. Gone were the days when she had to carry a notepad and pen. This phone had it all. If she could get close enough to that car to snap a digital photo of the tag number, she could have one of her contacts at the police run a trace. Odd, how the little white license plate light wasn’t shining. Wasn’t that illegal or something?
