Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  “It’s okay, sugar.” Choo-choo rubbed her palm up and down Sheila’s back. “Let it all out.”

  “It’s all my fault,” Sheila managed between gasps for air. “If I had left Glenn years ago, this never would’ve happened. He’d still be alive. That woman in Tallahassee wouldn’t be hurt.”

  “If. If. If,” Choo-choo said. “If a frog had longer legs in the front, he wouldn’t hit his butt when he hopped. There’s more than enough guilt to go around, if you want to start pointing fingers.”

  Abby joined in, “I’m still not convinced Glenn wasn’t involved with whoever we hired to . . . you know . . . to—”

  “Kill us all?” Loiscell added. “Me neither, Abby. I’m not one to chalk it up to coincidence.”

  Sheila blew her nose. For the moment, the tears had stopped. “You’re asking me to believe my husband actually signed up to kill people?”

  Loiscell said, “I hate to speak evil of the dead, but Glenn was far from a saint, Sheila. If someone waved a big enough wad of cash in front of him, sure, he might have taken it.”

  Sheila’s shoulders drooped. “That makes it even worse. That he might kill for hire.”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense, especially now. I mean, why would the FBI be involved? And who shot Glenn?” Loiscell said. “It’s all so twisted.”

  Abby wiped the moisture from her eyes. “I still can’t get over how close I came to not being here, how close we all came. What were we thinking?”

  Choo-choo blew out a breath. “We weren’t. That’s the problem. I’m going to blame it on the awful summer heat.”

  The other three stared at Choo-choo. Abby’s mouth hung open.

  “You all know how this has been the most crushing summer in years. Weeks and weeks of over a hundred degrees and the air so thick you could slice it with a butcher knife. Makes folks do uncommon things.” Choo-choo warmed to her theory. “Why, you hear on the news every winter, how some Northerner cooped up too long because of all that cold and ice, goes all crazy and hauls off and kills himself and a houseful.” She stamped one foot for emphasis. “I’d match our gosh-awful summers to their winters anytime.”

  No one spoke for a beat until Loiscell said, “Hon, I do believe that’s the most outlandish rationalization I have ever heard.”

  They joined in nervous twitter, then the mood soured.

  Loiscell wrung the tissue in her hands. “If Glenn was the one, and he didn’t do such a hot-shot job . . .” She glanced to each of the others in turn. “The one who gave him the orders is still out there. Waiting.”

  Sheila’s crying started anew. “I don’t really want to die.”

  Tears burned Choo-choo’s eyes. “If things had gone according to plan, I wouldn’t have had the chance to make things right with Jackie. God knows, I miss Charlie something fierce, even miss that silly little dog much as I hate to admit it, but . . . ”

  Abby snuffled. “And Ben and I . . .”

  Loiscell hung her head. The outpouring of emotion overwhelmed her. “I have to start chemo and radiation again. Heaven knows, I don’t want to. But Lisa will be with me.”

  Abby handed Loiscell a tissue. “We’ll be there for you too.”

  All four women cried. When one started to calm, another started afresh. If the old cliché about “grief shared being grief halved” held true, the four women of the Suicide Supper Club would’ve reduced their bond of sorrow down to dust within a few moments.

  Elvina Houston spotted Choo-choo and Loiscell’s cars parked by the curb in front of Abby McKenzie’s house. Those gals liked to get together after yoga, but they usually did their gathering up at Bill’s. The front porch and living room lights were on. Had something happened with either Abby or Sheila? Sheila was having a bad patch of things, what with that husband of hers shooting her and that other woman, and ending up in jail, then getting himself killed on top of it. Elvina stopped walking and scanned the area. There didn’t seem to be much action around the place; Elvina figured everything was okay. She walked past, not one to barge in uninvited. At the next block, she circled around. That’s when she spotted it, that mystery car, parked a block over, in front of a vacant lot. Her hackles raised up something fierce.

  As soon as she got sight of Abby’s house again, she spied a shadowy figure creeping up the back stairs. Ben Calhoun? No, Ben would come in through the front. And he surely wouldn’t creep.

  The figure—clearly a male—groped above the back door jam. Abby kept a spare key hidden there. Elvina and the casserole committee members had used it to let themselves in. She hunkered down next to a line of shrubs and watched him unlock the door and disappear inside. Not right.

  Elvina crossed the back yard, careful to keep to the shadows. She tiptoed up the steps, through the door, and inched inside. Her heart skipped. A man in black lurked in the dark dining area, watching the living room. Abby, Loiscell, Sheila, and Choo-choo sat in a cluster, crying and carrying on like someone had just shot Elvis. Words of warning formed in her mind. Before they reached her lips, Elvina saw the gun. Lord help!

  The little black and white cat on Abby’s lap lifted his head. His pupils widened and his ears flattened back. He rumbled low.

  Elvina took a couple of steps back into the kitchen and grabbed the first thing she could find. No time to reconsider. She slipped up behind the man in black, reared back, and knocked the fool out of him. Whack! The sound broke through the melody of women weeping: a strange noise like a metal paddle hitting an overripe melon.

  The man in black managed to squeeze off one reflexive shot before he fell to the floor like a sack of concrete. The bullet went wild, shattering a hole in the sheetrock behind the couch. Didn’t make much of a noise, a muffled pop. Everything happened in a scramble. Someone screamed. Sheila dove to the floor. Oreo hissed and shot from the room as fast as his three legs could run.

  Everyone spoke at once. Choo-choo held one hand over her heart. Loiscell jumped up, arms gesturing in crazed arcs. Abby grappled for the phone. Elvina stood over the vanquished intruder with the heavy iron frying pan in her hands. Her hands shook.

  Two men rushed into the room from the back of the house. Before Elvina could take fresh aim with the skillet, the older of the two called out, “FBI!”

  The skillet dropped from Elvina’s grasp and clanged on the wooden floor. Sheila grabbed Loiscell. Choo-choo’s mouth hung open. Abby’s eyes flicked from the crumpled man to the two agents.

  The older of the two federal agents held out his hands. His voice came out soothing and even. “Ladies. Ladies. Let’s all take a deep breath and calm down. Talk this out.”

  That voice reminded Elvina of the handsome black man who did the insurance commercials. The kind of tone that would make you buy anything and think you’d gotten one heck of a deal.

  The man-heap moaned once, low. The younger agent—the one with the severe hair and stern expression—crouched down and slid two fingers to a point on the fallen man’s throat. Nothing on the young agent’s clothing was without a precise crease. He glanced toward his superior and nodded.

  “I’ll need for all five of you to sit, to remain seated,” the older man said. “Miss McKenzie, put down that phone.”

  Without taking her eyes from the agent, Abby moved the cell phone to the table by her recliner. Elvina walked into the living room and took a seat on the couch.

  The senior agent offered a thin smile. “Thank you.” He swept his gaze across the group. Four women perched on the couch, at the edge of their seats. One sat in the lounger. “Agent Hurst and I will remand this man into custody.” He paused, fixed his attention on each woman in turn, an intense look. “Remain in the house. Do not try to phone out or contact anyone.” His eyes bore down on Elvina. “Mrs. Houston, no text messaging, no emailing.”

  Five heads bobbed ascent. Elvina remained silent. The young agent slid a white packet from one pocket, snapped and held it beneath the prostrate man’s nose. The man shuddered; his eyelids flickered and opened. H
e moaned again. Agent Hurst shoved him into a prone position, pinned his hands together, and secured them with a thin plastic strip.

  The senior agent joined his partner and they pulled the bound man to his feet. The man’s head bobbed back and forth. Then they shuffled him through the dark dining room and out the back way.

  The door snicked shut. Elvina jumped up and scuttled to the side window and parted the blinds. “They’re shoving him into the back of a car.”

  “Police car?” Abby asked. Oreo peeked around the hall corner, meowed, then three-legged back into the living room and scrabbled into Abby’s lap.

  Elvina glanced over her shoulder. “Dark sedan. Probably a Crown Vic. Feds always drive Crown Vics.”

  Choo-choo cleared her throat. Tried to speak twice before the words finally came out. “You watch too many cop shows.”

  Elvina didn’t turn around. “I know what I’m talking about. Those Feds keep Ford in business. Why do you think that company did so well when the rest of the automakers were floundering? The U. S. of A. government, that’s why. Whoa!” She released the blind slat and bustled back toward the couch. “One of ’em’s coming back in.”

  “Which one?” Choo-choo asked.

  “The handsome fella with the gray at the temples,” Elvina said.

  “Wickler,” Abby supplied. “His name is Wickler.”

  Loiscell scrunched closer to Sheila and Choo-choo to make more room for Elvina. Agent Wickler entered. Amazing, how he stepped so light for a large man. Guess they covered that in Fed training.

  The agent glanced around, spotted a spare dining room chair, and moved it into a position facing the women. “Ladies, this has been quite interesting for all of you, for all of us.” Sweat stains ringed his shirt at the neck and armpits. “My partner is keeping our guest—” he said guest with invisible air quotes “—company. Time is crucial, so I’ll cut off the gristle and fat and get to the meat.”

  He undid the top button of the pale blue oxford shirt and massaged the back of his neck. “Been a long couple of days. I know you want to phone your friends, run up a flag, call the papers, write a book . . .” His eyes slid to Elvina, “or a blog post.” His pleasant expression faded; the cozy get-to-know-y’all party was clearly over. “That will not be allowed.”

  Elvina snorted in spite of herself. What did he mean she couldn’t tell it all? This wasn’t about Jan Silverman’s bunion removal or some back-room love affair. It was only the most exciting thing to happen in this town since Jake Witherspoon’s abduction and assault back in the late ’90s, and this government fellow was ordering her not to crow?

  Agent Whitaker continued, “This is far beyond what I have the leisure or clearance to explain. Suffice it to say, there will be grave consequences if any of you,” he speared them with his glare, “break confidence. National security issues, the protection of everything you hold dear, everything good and American, depends on your cooperation.”

  Elvina’s lips twitched. Laying it on a little thick there, Mr. Fed.

  “We know everything about you.” One corner of his lips lifted. “Everything. The actions you all took are punishable, could drag you down, through the courts, attorney fees, public knowledge of your little . . . arrangement.”

  Arrangement? Elvina narrowed her eyes and turned toward her friends.

  “From this point, you will not discuss or acknowledge the events leading up to and including this evening. With any one, at any time.” He paused. Breathed. The mantle clock chimed. The Visit Florida silk pillow toppled from her end of the couch and Elvina nearly jumped out of her skin.

  Any other night, neighbors might still be moving around outside. Enjoying their yards, sipping beers. But the stubborn heat clung to its power and ran any sane person into artificial air. Any other night, one person would know something had gone south at Abby McKenzie’s house. That person was sitting right here, in the middle of this circus. And she couldn’t bark to another single soul.

  Agent Wickler stood, returned the chair to its former position. He faced them. “Good night, ladies. May you not have the misfortune to see me again.”

  His steps made little noise. The back door closed behind him. A car door slammed; an engine started. A beam of light swished through the blinds. The engine noise faded until only the cicadas and the call of a lone owl fouled the quiet.

  “Well now. Ain’t that some shit.” Elvina pivoted to focus on the others. “I’m in this thing up to my neck. Might as well spit it out. All of it.”

  Four weeks after suicide, Tuesday

  Elvina Houston lowered her rump onto her bench seat beside the Piddie Longman Memorial Garden. Three squirrels appeared, eagerly watching her movements.

  “All right. All right.” She dug in the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a double handful of peanuts. “Here.”

  The rodents grappled for the scattered nuts. Two more joined the fray.

  “Good thing y’all can’t share the secrets I tell out here, or I’d have to ask you to leave.” Elvina brushed the peanut husk dust from her hands.

  “Piddie, I’m glad I have you to turn to. I’ve got a weight on me that I can’t even share with Lucille. Looks like it’s something I’ll have to take to my grave.” She paused. “Reckon I’m more like you than ever now, with no-tells to carry with me to the Great Beyond.

  “I surely wish you were here. I feel more alone right now than I ever have.” The crunching of peanut hulls punctuated Elvina’s words.

  “I was a hero last night. Me. Little ole me. And the sad thing is, I can’t even take credit for it, on account of four people ending up in a mess of trouble with the U. S. government.”

  One of the squirrels nibbled and watched her from the end of the bench.

  Elvina breathed out, deflating like a pricked balloon. “They told me all of it, Piddie. Still can’t quite wrap my mind around it.”

  Another squirrel hopped onto the bench beside Elvina. She held out a peanut and it took it from her fingers.

  “Honestly Piddie, when it comes right down to it, I don’t know how I’d handle the fame of being a hero, because I’m not one, not really. I don’t reckon anyone could stand by and watch someone cold-blood murder four people. Now those folks over at Bella Bella—they were the true heroes, the way they came out and took charge. For sure.”

  Elvina pulled the remainder of the peanuts from her pockets and threw them onto the bench.

  “ I . . . I didn’t have the slightest clue that four women—one of which is a pretty close friend—felt so down and out that they had planned to get themselves killed. I don’t feel even a little sorry for that Glenn Bruner. He was an ass. Got himself mixed up in something he couldn’t pull clear of, and it cost him his life.”

  She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief. Wiped her eyes. Then directed her attention to the small garden where her best friend’s ashes blended with the rich soil.

  “Like you always said: If you dance with the Devil, don’t be surprised when you end up with hot feet.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Nine months after suicide

  Monday

  Abby McKenzie crawled onto a flat rock and assumed a lotus meditation position. She absently patted the spot where the colostomy bag had once been attached, still grateful at seven months beyond the second surgery not to feel anything but a five-inch raised scar.

  No one had prepared her for the strange depression and sense of detachment that followed physical trauma. After the pain of reconnection and the slow process as her bowel adapted, Abby believed she was past the worst. Then, her attitude crashed and every day became a gray expanse. Ben stood by, offering support and steady love, and more important, allowing her time to totally experience each dark moment.

  Three months out, a strange unfocused anger broke the surface. Everything and anything annoyed her. She lashed out, punched pillows, and screamed in the shower. When Abby scraped aside her deep-seated mistrust of all men, the Daddy Issues came bubbling up. She met them full
-on with a counselor who urged her to “get to the core.” Remember, Abby. All of it. The times your father held you when you were sick. The times he cheered you on. The times he believed in you. The times he broke your heart.

  The only way out was through. Abby kept moving until the weighty darkness eased a little. And her father became just another flawed person, doing the best he could. Her daddy.

  Abby took a deep breath and closed her eyes. For a moment, her thoughts drifted to the time in the Intensive Care Unit, her body crisscrossed with monitor wires, IV tubing, and fluid-filled drains.

  She opened her eyes to a better reality. Zion National Park’s red rock cliffs soared around her. The air: clean, sweet, and dry. The sound of water trickling down the ferns suspended from the overhead grotto soothed her spirit. She smiled and closed her eyes again.

  “Perfect!” Sheila held a digital camera at arm’s length and aimed. “Now look all chilled out and peaceful.”

  Not a hard assignment. Abby focused on her breathing and allowed her shoulders to relax. She rested her upturned hands on her knees.

  “Great! Got it!” Sheila slipped the slim digital camera into a small belt pouch and joined Abby. “I want you to take one of me too. Only, not here. Maybe tomorrow when we reach the top of Bright Angel Trail.” She lowered herself to the rock beside Abby. “I just wish Loiscell could be up here with us.”

  “She’s shopping like it’s nobody’s business, trying to find the perfect piece of Native American jewelry to take back for Elvina.”

  “We owe Elvina our lives. I pitched in for her gift.”

  Abby nodded. “Me too. Not like we could ever repay her. And Loiscell’s content to hang out with Lance. It’s great of him to take time to be here with us, helping plan the hikes and show us the best spots in Zion. I’m sure he’ll work around his mom’s limitations. She still doesn’t have a lot of energy.”