by Rhett DeVane
This car—the same one she’d seen the two previous evenings, around the same time—was conspicuous because it was trying not to be. A few late-shift workers routinely shared the neighborhood streets with Elvina. Most were going above the posted speed limit, anxious to get home to a soft bed and sleep, and not particularly worried about pedestrians or law enforcement. On the weekends, it was the hormonal teenagers, out beyond curfew and showing off with their screeching tires and acceleration.
The sedan crept along below the limit, coming to full stops at the intersections, even using turn signals. And most intriguing, slowing as it neared and passed certain addresses.
One thing about this little town, the streets had a thousand eyes. But none as watchful as Elvina’s.
Chapter Eighteen
Two weeks after suicide
Monday
Abby McKenzie paused at the threshold of her home. Its perfume—vanilla wafting from an essential oil diffuser and a vague blend of older smells—filled her nose. Houses possessed personalities, reflections of their people: light, dark, cluttered, spare, cozy, or airy. The moment she entered a home, Abby could tell a lot about the human inhabitants. Did they make you feel as if you could plop down on the couch with your shoes off? Or did they hold you at arm’s length—cold and detached?
Each of her friend’s houses held signature scents. Choo-choo Ivey’s home smelled of brewed coffee and cinnamon, and before Prissy went to dog heaven, a lingering undercurrent of dog urine. Loiscell’s house spoke of flowers and all manner of growing things with a hint of earthy incense. The one time Abby had visited Sheila’s home, an overpowering mixture of lemon-scented bleach and disinfectants had hit her full in the face.
Abby inhaled. Her house’s scent held veiled layers of the family: her father’s Aqua Velva aftershave, her mother’s Channel No. 5, the ghosts of fried chicken, sautéed onions, and warm sugar cookies. Now it was hers—regardless of the clutter—and it reached out in welcome. Her eyes stung.
“You okay, Abs?” Ben held the door open, juggling her carryall and a bag of groceries.
“Yeah. Fine. A little winded.”
“It’ll take you a while to get your energy back. Don’t feel like you need to run a marathon.”
“With a ten-inch bandaged open wound and a colostomy bag, I doubt I could run anywhere.” Abby made it to the recliner and lowered herself with a groan.
Ben dropped the armload onto the couch and tucked a quilted throw around her legs. “Rest. I’ll make you a little something for supper.”
“God only knows what. That list is restrictive. No fiber. No fresh fruit or vegetables. No nothing!”
Ben patted her on the shoulder. “Best to focus on what you can have, rather than what you can’t.”
“I have to eat white bread. White bread! I hate white bread! I can’t remember the last time I’ve had white bread! I never, ever eat white bread.”
Ben smiled. “Love ya, Abs. But if you say white bread one more time, I may have to strangle you.”
Abby’s inner petulant child took over. “I don’t have most of the stuff on that dietitian’s list. I don’t even remember what’s in the cupboards.”
Ben picked up the grocery bag. “That’s why I stopped by the store before I rescued you from the hospital. I bought white rice, chicken, broths, all kinds of soups, canned fruits, and I grabbed a loaf of fresh Italian bread. It’s not nearly as mushy as a commercial white loaf.”
“You’re cooking for me?”
“Tonight, I am. By tomorrow, Elvina will have the ladies of the hotline in here in a steady flow of dishes. Don’t worry. I gave her a copy of the diet restrictions to pass along to the neighborhood cooks. Keep in mind, this is only until your surgeon reconnects you. After that, you’ll be able to get back to eating what you want.”
Petulant child sulked back to her corner. “Guess I should hush. It’s only for seven weeks. But after that, I’m having a salad the size of the Rock of Gibraltar with everything in it.”
“Atta girl. Tonight, you’ll be treated to my famous chicken and rice. Then, there’s dessert—”
“Tell me it’s not Jell-O.”
He laughed. “Nope. I wouldn’t do that to you. Something a bit more appetizing. Chocolate pudding parfaits.”
“I would kill for a slab of fresh strawberry shortcake.”
Ben walked toward the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder, “rain check on the strawberries, unless it’s strawberry Jell-O.”
She watched his rump. Looking good in those jeans. “You are cruel, Ben Calhoun!”
A tap sounded at the front door and Mason Dixon poked his head inside. “Cool, you’re home.”
“C’mon in.”
The boy stepped inside, a wiggling black and white kitten cuddled in his arms. “I brought Oreo over. Figured you’d want to see him. Or would you rather I keep him at my house?”
Abby held out her hands. “Hand him here.” She cuddled the kitten to her face and nuzzled the velvety patch behind his ears. “I have missed you, little one.”
Mason pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I updated the virus protection on your laptop, updated your browser. Ran a scan too. It’s ready to roll.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Mason, for all you’ve done.” Abby sniffled, wiped tears onto her sleeve. Had to be the lingering effects of the surgery. She wanted to either cry or laugh, sometimes at once. And then there was that mushy, lusty feeling whenever Ben was around. She shook off the emotional flush. “Was Oreo a bother?”
“He stayed in my room most of the time.” Mason reached over and scratched between the kitten’s ears. “He likes to sleep next to my desktop monitor while I do my homework. My dog even got used to having him around.”
“I’m sure we can work something out where Oreo can visit. I may need a little help taking care of him for a while. I can’t lift anything, so cleaning the litter box will be out of my range. I’m doing good to put on my own shoes, much less bend over very far.”
Mason’s expression brightened. “I can stop by before I go to school and after too, if you’d like. Feed him. Do the litter box thing. Whatever.”
A rap sounded on the front door. Choo-choo Ivey entered with a quilted casserole carrier suspended from her arm.
“Choo-choo! Great to see you.”
“I know Ben’s cooking tonight, but this is a little breakfast thing. It’s got eggs and milk and white bread and cheddar cheese. I cut back on the cheese, though. Figured you shouldn’t have too much, on account of cheese might bind you up. And one thing you don’t want is that, so close after your surgery.” Choo-choo tapped the carrier. “It’s supposed to sit overnight in the refrigerator, then you bake it. The bread soaks up the eggs and milk, and it comes out all hot and gooey. I used to make it on special occasions for brunch when Charlie was alive. It was one of his favorites.”
“It has to beat the cold, hard scrambled eggs I had in the hospital,” Abby said.
“They don’t season things to my liking.” Choo-choo waved a hand through the air. “Food tastes better when you’re at home.”
“True.”
Choo-choo nodded toward Mason. “Good to see you again, young man. It was fine of you to take on the care of Abby’s cat while she was laid up.”
“Yes ’um.”
Abby smiled at Mason, then glanced back to Choo-choo. “Elvina told me your daughter was home. Bet that was a surprise.”
“She and her lady-friend left yesterday early. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I was sad to see Jacqueline leave.”
“It went well?”
Choo-choo shrugged. “Hard to make up for years of not saying much of nothing, but we made a dent. She and Tee—that’s her lady-friend—plan on coming back home for Thanksgiving! Not only that, but Jackie said it’s okay if I make a turkey, though it has to be organic. Suppose I’ll have to drive over to Tallahassee to find that. What is an organic turkey, you reckon? One that wears only a hundred percent cott
on?”
Abby laughed, holding her bandaged stomach.
“No chemicals added,” Mason said. “And the food they’re fed too . . . no additives.”
“Glad you cleared that up for me.” Choo-choo favored him with a nod. “Anyway, they’ll come in for the holidays, and maybe we can take up where we left off. Jackie’s got her issues, and I’ve got mine. Don’t think we’ll ever be thick as thieves, but it’s a start.”
“I remember you saying how much you wanted to connect with her before you—”
“—left this world?” Choo-choo supplied. “I suppose my most important wish has come true.” She fixed Abby with a knowing look. “Glad I stuck around.”
“Glad we all did.”
“I’ll be here first thing in the morning to put this in to cook, and to relieve Ben. He’s the one staying the night.”
When Abby started to protest, Choo-choo held up a stop-hand. “Won’t do you any good whatsoever to carry on. We got it all figured out so we can look after you and Sheila ’til you both get back on your feet.”
Abby sighed. “Too bad you can’t corral us in one spot.”
“Not such a bad idea.” Choo-choo tapped a manicured nail on her lips. “If you don’t mind having a house guest, we could move Sheila over here. For obvious reasons, she doesn’t much want to go back to that house.”
“I have two bedrooms, if she can see past the clutter. Besides, I doubt I’ll be sleeping in a bed for a while. Imagine I’ll be parked right here in this recliner. The incision pulls too much when I try to lay flat.”
Choo-choo nodded once. “Decided then. That’ll take a load off Elvina. She’s been running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to get the food brigade moving in two directions at once.”
“I’m going to owe you all big time when this is said and done.”
“No debt between friends. And keep in mind, Elvina Houston lives for navigating a good drama.” Choo-choo glanced toward the kitchen. “If you and Mason will excuse me, I’ll go store this casserole in the refrigerator and make sure Ben is finding his way around your kitchen.”
2 weeks after suicide, Wednesday
The transport people—three grim-faced guards—arrived and told Glenn Bruner to don a Kevlar vest beneath his prison garb. What the hell? They formed a joyless procession from his narrow cell, down a hallway, through a set of heavy doors. He stepped outside.
The lead guard motioned toward a prison van. Glenn’s pulse picked up. Something hit him in the back, battering-ram hard. He crumpled to his knees, fell forward and planted his face in the gravel. Dizzy, trying to catch his breath, figure this out. What crazy sumbitch would shoot him here, with law enforcement people raging like fire ants? A madhouse of excited conversation flowed around him.
Hands pawed at him, flipped him over, tossed him onto a gurney, and shoved it into the maws of an ambulance. Where the hell had that come from, and how had it gotten here so fast? The ride from the Leon County Jail to Tallahassee General Hospital—if that was where they were headed—should have been a short one, but the ambulance kept rolling and the sirens silenced after a few minutes. For the next half-hour, Glenn lay on the gurney—dazed but unharmed because of the vest. No one said a word, and he got the distinct impression he shouldn’t either. Something huge was going down.
Following a series of stops and sharp turns, the emergency vehicle halted. Glenn was snatched up and herded into the back of an unmarked transport van, the ambulance left behind. The journey continued. Time passed. More turns and twists. Then the doors rolled open. Glenn didn’t recognize the area—a small rural airstrip lined with rows of pines. The same two grim-faced men who had posed as paramedics unlocked his restraints and shoved him into a cement block bathroom with a stack of civilian clothing and a pair of worn leather boots.
The remainder of the trip, he spent in the company of a series of silent pilots. Middle of nowhere airstrips. Refuel. Move on. A couple of times, Glenn dozed off. One of the men offered a limp sandwich and bottled water. Since he didn’t know when he would eat again, Glenn took it. So much for airline cuisine and courteous service.
Abby McKenzie jumped when the loud knock sounded at the front door. Oreo dove for the protection of the underside of the couch.
“That can’t be your wound care nurse this early, can it?” Sheila asked. “Thought she came around noon.”
Abby set her half-full mug on the table beside the recliner. “It has to be Elvina or Choo-choo. No one else would show up here much before nine in the morning, or face Elvina’s wrath.”
Sheila opened the door. Two men in dark suits stood on the porch. The older one spoke. “Excuse me, Ma’am. We’re looking for Mrs. Sheila Bruner. We were told she might be at this address.”
Sheila’s hand fluttered to her throat. “That’s me. I’m Sheila.”
As if on cue, both men flipped open identification badges and shoved them toward her. “May we speak with you, Mrs. Bruner?”
Sheila glanced back toward Abby, then nodded toward the men. She held open the screened door and motioned the two inside where they took seats on the couch.
“What we need to say might be best in private,” the older man said.
Sheila shook her head. “You can talk in front of Abby. She’s a dear friend.”
Abby sat up as straight as the recliner and her incision would allow. “What’s going on?”
The older man spoke again. “I’m Agent Wickler. This is Agent Hurst. FBI.”
Abby and Sheila exchanged nervous glances.
“Mrs. Bruner, I’m afraid I have bad news about your husband, Glenn Bruner.”
Sheila leaned forward. “Yes?”
“Unfortunately, your husband was shot this morning. Despite the efforts of emergency personnel, his injuries proved fatal. I am very sorry for your loss.”
Sheila’s face drained of color.
Abby managed to speak. “Shot? What the—”
The younger agent talked next. “From what we can tell so far, Ma’am, it was a professional hit.”
“Hit?” Sheila’s expression flickered between fear and bewilderment. “But he’s in jail. Isn’t he? I mean, he was—”
“Your husband complained of a severe headache. Because of his recent injury, he was being transferred to TGH for a CT scan and further examination.” The older agent cleared his throat. “Your husband’s body will be held at the Leon County Morgue until a release is authorized.”
“I was going to go over there. I was. Maybe, even later today.” Sheila gripped her hands together so snugly, the knuckles paled beneath the stretched skin. “I couldn’t before now. I just got out of the hospital, and then, there’s Abby . . . ” She closed her eyes. “I was waiting until I knew what to say . . . I . . . I didn’t know what to say to my husband. Do you understand?”
The agents looked at each other, then back to Sheila.
Sheila stood. “I should go to him.”
Agent Wickler rose and reached for Sheila’s trembling hand. “Mrs. Bruner, there is no graceful way to say this. Your husband’s face was terribly disfigured. You might not want to . . . It might be best to wait until your funeral director can— ”
“We need to know who we need to contact, for the arrangements, Mrs. Bruner,” Agent Hurst said. His expression showed no emotion, no compassion.
Sheila stumbled backward and sat down. She stared, her eyes unfocused.
Abby said, “Everyone around here uses Mr. Burns at Memorial Gardens. I’m sure, if you call him. . . .” She reached for the phone directory on the table beside her recliner. “I can find the number.”
“No need. I’ll locate the business.” Agent Wickler rested a hand on Sheila’s thin shoulder. “We’ll take care of everything, Mrs. Bruner.”
To Abby, the senior agent said, “You might want to avoid watching the news for a couple of days. That’s one reason we felt it imperative to come. I’ll have the city police patrol the house.”
“You think—?
” Abby frowned. Her eyes flicked in Sheila’s direction.
Agent Hurst gave a curt nod. “The media will crawl all over this. I’m shocked they didn’t beat us over here. You can bet they’re on the way.”
The senior agent handed Abby a plain white business card with block style printing. “I’ll be in contact as soon as the coroner releases the body. Please, call if you need anything.”
The two men let themselves out. A million and one questions swam in Abby’s mind. The FBI? Why were they involved? A tornado of hot mess, that’s what this was turning into. “Sheila?”
Sheila rocked back and forth, her arms wrapped around her midsection. A low, monotone hum sounded from deep in her throat.
Choo-choo Ivey took her coffee to the back porch swing. Though summer had yet to relinquish its chokehold, the last couple of mornings had brought a tease of cooler, drier air. The leaves up north were already turning, but in the Florida Panhandle, only a few of the dogwood trees had picked up the hint.
She anticipated the fall and especially enjoyed the winter. The chill made her joints ache, but she could live with that minor annoyance. When Charlie was alive, cooler weather had meant long mornings spent cuddling. The man radiated heat. He had never once complained when Choo-choo stuck her ice-cold feet under his.
A cardinal sat on the wooden fence and sang his clipped song. Soon, Choo-choo could dig out the fluffy thick sweaters, bulky socks, scarves, and gloves from the storage bins beneath her bed. The down comforter could unfurl from its plastic storage bag too.
Her head hurt from all the self-analysis she’d done lately. In her youth and through the busy middle years, Choo-choo had seldom taken time to ponder her actions. If she felt peaceful, good. If she felt bad, it would pass. No reason to look for boogers behind every bush. No need to let a daughter get you flustered either.
Maybe working with the Hospice patients had forced her to slow down. When she sat with someone who counted the time in days, hours, then minutes, she listened to the murmur of her own life’s unanswered questions. Could she have been a better mother? Why had her compassion waited until so late in life to surface?
