He still couldn’t make plans for his tomorrows until he’d dealt with his yesterdays. Rance turned off the water and reached for a towel. Somebody had to know where to locate the man called Drake.
It came to him as he toweled himself dry. Old Reverend Carterette. Rance wrapped the towel securely around his middle. Without bothering to take the time to dress, he hurried to the phone.
One minute Maggie was as high as the birds in the sky from relishing what had happened with Rance the night before. The next she was lower than a flat-footed snake, remembering that he was gone. She knew that what was unfolding at Hightower’s Haven was more pressing than she, but, selfishly, she would have preferred to be the center of Rance’s thoughts right now.
She wanted to be able to sing and shout to the clouds that she loved Rance, but she couldn’t. She had no doubt that he loved her in return, for she had a vague impression of him saying the words in the dark of morning. But right now, clearing up his past came first on his list of priorities. She did understand, she told herself. She really did.
As the mature woman that she was, Maggie understood. But as a reawakened woman, she craved more. She poured herself another cup of coffee and laced it generously with milk.
Maggie had slept well and late, and wasn’t tired at all. Still, she remained in a languid mood. She’d showered and dressed and read the Sunday paper at her leisure, but it hadn’t been enough. She had a secret to tell, and no one to share it with.
A horn sounded from outside.
Funny, she had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard a car approach. She looked out the window to find that Tess had returned from town with the kids, and they were all piling out of her car. Maggie took a long swig of her coffee and went to the door.
A gaggle of kids—some Tess’s children, some hers—waved and trooped past the house and down the dirt lane toward the Popwell place as Tess hurried in with an armful of clothes and the kids’ toothbrushes.
“Not even a ‘Hi, Mom, we missed you’?” Maggie murmured as Tess brushed past her and dumped the load on the floor.
“I sent them all down to the folks. We’re having dinner with them this afternoon. You’re invited, too,” Tess explained as she handed Maggie the toothbrushes.
“Without Tom?”
“He’ll be here later. Prudy Meeks’s basset hound is having puppies, and he has to hold her hand. Not the dog’s, but Prudy’s. You’d think Pru’d never seen a dog drop puppies before.” Tess poured a cup of coffee.
“If you’d paid as much for that dog as Prudy did, you’d be in a snit, too. Besides, you’ve been married to a vet forever. You should be used to it.”
“Pooh. Pru is just looking for attention since her divorce. Does she seriously think he’d look her way?” Tess put the coffee down. “Forget that, Prudy really is worried about her investment. Tell me about last night.”
Maggie looked at her sister, then quickly looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the blush that had come unbidden.
Tess noticed. “That good? You don’t think I let the kids spend the night just because of the video, did you? I want details.”
Blushing even more, Maggie tried to explain. “More happened than just a kiss.”
Tess raised an eyebrow and cocked her head. “Better and better.”
“Take your mind out of the gutter. This is serious.”
“Between you and Rance? That’s terrific. Give me all the details.”
“Tess! Listen to me. Something major happened last night. I’m surprised that you haven’t heard it on the news.”
“I’m sure it was a red-letter day—night—sis. But the news? Really.”
It was like trying to stop a speeding train with a trip wire. Maggie wasn’t sure she could make Tess stop without being blunt. “Tess, Rance and I found a grave in his cellar.”
That stopped Tess’s charge. She slowed down immediately and listened while Maggie told her about the events of the night before.
Reverend Carterette had known right where to find Drake Headly. Rance’s childhood mind had remembered a name, but he’d believed it was a surname all along. Even if he had gotten the name right, everything still would have played out the same way.
The Wee-Care Rest Home bore a superficial resemblance to Hightower’s Haven, Rance noticed idly as he pulled the truck into the visitors’ parking lot in front of the shady porch. The irony of Headly’s choice of residences was not lost on Rance as he walked toward the house.
The long wraparound porch was populated by a group of elderly people busily rocking, whittling, or otherwise biding their time. As Rance mounted the steps, a dozen interested eyes followed his progress, and half as many curious mouths murmured speculatively. Rance straightened and pushed open the door.
There was a desk just inside, the occupant talking so animatedly into the phone that she didn’t bother to look up. She hardly looked old enough to be out of orthodontia or acne medication, but she was apparently in charge. Rance waited for her to terminate her conversation.
She kept talking to someone named Randy, and it was obviously not a rest-home-related call. Rance cleared his throat, but Randy continued to get an earful.
Patience had never been one of Rance’s strong points. He cleared his throat again, louder this time, and waited for the woman to take a breath. When she finally stopped for air, Rance cut in. “Excuse me,” he said, barely attempting to disguise his sarcasm. “I’m looking for Mr. Headly.”
“Hold on. Can’t you see I’m on the phone?” the woman replied icily, without looking up.
“Yes, I can see that,” Rance replied smoothly, enunciating each word carefully as he reached across the desk and pressed the disconnect button on the phone.
“Hey!” she yelled angrily. Then she looked up at Rance. Instantly her expression changed to sweetness and light. “How may I help you, sir?” She smiled seraphically.
“You can tell me where Mr. Headly is.” Rance reached into his pocket and found a match.
“Do you know what room he’s in?”
Rance snapped the wooden matchstick in two before it ever made it to his lips. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be wasting my time here, talking with you,” he replied, as levelly as he could.
The woman shrugged and had the grace to look apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’m new here. What is Mr. Headly’s first name?” She turned to flip through a card file.
“Drake. Drake Headly.”
“Oh, yes, he’s assigned to room 4-C. But he’s probably not in there at this time of day.” She consulted the card again. “It says here he likes to sit in the solarium.” She shut the file box and scooted out of the chair. “Follow me. We’ll check in there before we look in his room.”
She led Rance through a dim corridor to the back of the house and into a glassed-in chamber on the south side of the building. The room was filled with blooming plants and vines and was as hot and humid as a tropical rain forest. Yet the lone occupant was huddled in a chair and wrapped in a blanket.
The woman’s tone was patronizing as she addressed the old man. “Mr. Headly?”
He looked up, as if surprised to hear his name. He blinked and stared at Rance blankly, his eyes dull and his movements listless.
“You have a visitor, Mr. Headly.” The woman backed away. “I’ll just leave you two to talk.”
Rance appraised Headly as Headly did the same to him. Rance hadn’t expected to find such a frail old man. He should have been about the same age as the hearty, robust Joe Popwell. But this wizened old man seemed aged beyond his years. He looked like a man whose soul had died already, but whose body hadn’t yet caught on. Just the opposite of Rose Hightower.
“You aren’t Bob Carterette,” he said, his voice thready and weak. “Who are you? Nobody ever comes to see me but Bob.” The old man started to cough and wheeze, but motioned Rance away when he moved to help.
“I’m all right,” he finally managed. “Who are you?” Headly peered up into
Rance’s face, as if trying to read a name somewhere between his ears. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
The brittleness in Rance’s heart softened. “No,” he replied quietly. “But I think you might have known my mother.”
A flicker of something crossed Headly’s face. “Who was your mother, son?” The old man’s voice strengthened, and he sat up straighter.
“My name is—was—Rance Hightower. It’s Montoya now. My mother was Rose Hightower.”
Headly sucked in a quick breath of air, then looked down. He shook his head slowly. When he looked at Rance again, he waved a clawlike hand toward a chair. “You know, don’t you?” he said simply. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
Rance pulled up a chair and settled into it, using the time and the activity to compose himself. He finally had his answer. His heartbeat slowed to a crawl, and a chill settled over him in spite of the greenhouse effect in the solarium. “We found her early this morning,” he finally said.
“You favor her, you know,” the old man said irrelevantly. “I thought I knew you when you came in. You got his size, but you favor her more than you do your daddy.”
Rance had no idea what to say. He didn’t have to say anything. The old man continued.
“She was a pretty little thing.” Headly’s voice was a rasp. He chuckled, and the laugh turned into another rasping cough. “She was wild as a cat on an anthill that day.” Headly looked across the room to nowhere in particular, as if he were trying to see into the past and make his recollection clearer.
“I spent the last thirty years trying to forget what happened. Now I suppose you want to know it all.”
Rance nodded.
“Hell, I’ve been holding it in so long, maybe getting it off my chest will do me good.” Headly sighed long and deep.
“I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident.” The old man shut his eyes tight, intense concentration on his face. He shook his head. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at Rance, as if he had forgotten he was there.
“She had scraped together enough money to make a respectable down payment on the place. She came flying down the lane in that old Chevy of hers, radio blaring, all excited and happy. Said. she’d pay me off the rest bit by bit.” Headly shook his head sadly. “I don’t know what got into me, but I had it in my head that I had to be some big landowner. I told her I knew she didn’t stand a chance in hell of paying me back, and I turned her down.”
Rance swallowed and tried to analyze what Headly had just told him. It sounded as if his mother’s accusations had been true. He drew a deep breath. “You mean you really did dupe my father out of the place?”
Headly shook his head regretfully and sighed. “I didn’t set out to. At least, at first. But when that note came due, I could’ve—hell, should’ve—worked something out with your daddy. But by that time, I wanted that land so bad I could taste it.
“We were nothing but poor white trash when I was growing up. World War II and the GI Bill were my way out. I worked hard to get where I was at the bank, but I still didn’t think I had the respect I deserved. Figured owning all that land would give it to me.” He shook his head again.
“Rosie didn’t take my turning her down too well. She chewed me out about Luther’s death, then she pulled that gun out of her pocketbook and started waving it like she was going to shoot. She did get off one shot.”
Rance had been desperate to find out what happened way back then, but now he wasn’t so sure he wanted to.
“She didn’t hit me, but the bullet stuck in the windowsill in the living room. I covered up the hole, but the bullet might still be there.”
Headly stopped and sneezed. “Damn pollen in here. The only room in the place where I can almost get warm enough, and they fill it with weeds,” he muttered.
He continued. “I just tried to get the gun away, but she fought harder’n a banty rooster. I finally managed to snatch the gun from her, but she lost her balance. She stumbled backward and caught her heel on the hearthstones. She fell up against the fireplace and hit her head on that big rock that sticks out on the left side.” The old man shook his head regretfully. “One minute she was yellin’ her head off, the next thing she was dead.”
Rance had to remember to breathe; somewhere during Headly’s narration, he had stopped. Now he pulled in a big gulp of air.
“But why didn’t you get help? She shot at you. It would have been ruled self-defense.” Rance stopped abruptly. It seemed disloyal, somehow, to put it in those terms.
“I guess neither one of us was in our right mind that day. By the time I came to my senses, it was too late. I’d already hid the evidence. Nobody would’ve believed me. Ever’body believed I had cheated your daddy out of that property. Just what your mama thought. I wasn’t exactly very popular around Mattison after I bought that house of hers.”
Headly snorted ruefully. “Instead of the respect I wanted, I got nothing. If anything, it was worse. Hell, I wish I’d never heard of Luther Hightower and any of his kin.”
Now that he had the answers, Rance didn’t know what to do. He sagged in the chair and buried his face in his hands.
“You gonna tell ’em?”
“I don’t know,” Rance said slowly. He struggled to his feet. “I just don’t know.”
Rance turned to leave; he was accomplishing nothing here. He had to think. “Thank you for telling me,” Rance muttered as he stumbled out. His path was blocked by someone else at the door. Sheriff Potts, he noticed, but he didn’t stop. He supposed that Potts had reached the same conclusions he had.
The way the newscaster presented the story had made it sound as lurid as a tabloid headline. She could just see it displayed on the rack beside the checkout counter in the grocery store. Son Finds Corpse Of Long-Lost Mom In Cellar Grave! the headline would read. Maggie shook her head sadly and switched off the television set.
She hadn’t heard from Rance all day. Or anyone who would know the real truth about the find in the cellar. It wasn’t so much that Maggie needed more details; she’d already figured out most of it before it was confirmed on the ten-o’clock news. She was worried about Rance.
Rance’s condition the night before had been tenuous at best. No balanced man would have gotten up in the middle of the night and bashed down a wall in the cellar on a whim. Voices or no voices.
Maggie had been able to calm him, to make him forget for a little while. But that had been hours ago. A lifetime. Before his worst fears were confirmed.
She reached for the phone and dialed the number she had committed to memory after her repeated attempts to reach him. Rance wasn’t home. Or he wasn’t answering the phone. It rang and rang.
Maggie replaced the receiver on the cradle and peered anxiously out into the dark void. There were no lights from the direction of Hightower’s Haven, so she guessed he was gone. There was nothing to do, so she closed up the house for the night and pointed her feet toward her bed. Just before she sank into the cool cotton sheets, Maggie looked outside one more time. There was nothing to see. No lights, nothing. Not a clue to tell her if Rance was all right.
She turned out the lights and tried to make herself comfortable enough to sleep. After a battle with the sheets, tossing and turning, she realized it was futile. Flopping over on her back, Maggie stared up at the patterns that the moonlight was painting on the ceiling and sighed.
She had told herself that the few moments they’d shared in this very bed were only temporary. At the time, she thought she’d convinced herself. But the way Rance whispered that he loved her had suggested that he wanted more than just a moment’s peace. Had she been so wrong to believe him. Or had she only dreamed she’d heard what she wanted to hear?
She rolled over and punched the pillow. There was something else she hadn’t taken the time to think about in her haste. They had taken no precautions. After so many years of married love, she’d stopped worrying about such things. Was she a candidate for pregnancy? Why had she been
so impulsive?
She vowed to leave dating to the young. She was too old for this, and too many of the rules had changed.
There was no chance she was going to sleep tonight. Not without a stiff drink. And she wasn’t about to resort to that.
“Where are you, Rance?” she whispered into the night. “Why haven’t you come home...or come to me?”
Chapter 16
The thick evening air weighed down on him like a soft, warm blanket. Rance sat alone, his back propped against one of the few surviving peach trees in the old orchard as he stared up into the star-spangled night. Come Christmas, he would put in new trees, the promise of new life. But now there was nothing here except the derelict remains of a time long gone.
He’d intended to go home. To sleep. To catch up on the hours he’d missed the night before. But when he entered the house, the quiet had been so pervasive that he couldn’t stay. He had gotten used to the voice and the feeling that he wasn’t alone. Now he was.
The silence in the house had echoed loudly in his mind and reminded him of everything that he had lost. His father, his mother. Would he ever be able to fill the void?
And the yellow police tape burned in his memory like so much salt in an already festering wound. When would his life become normal? Ordinary. Sane.
Rusty nuzzled his neck and whimpered, kissing him with her cool, damp nose. Rance scratched the animal behind her ears and hugged her tightly to him. The dog squirmed and broke out of his grasp. She stood just out of reach and barked once, then stared at him gravely.
Rance chewed on a match until the stick splintered in his mouth. He plucked it from his lips and threw it away. Rusty darted after it, but lost it in the dark. “Go on home, Rusty,” Rance murmured as he watched her. “Go to your babies. They need you more than I do.”
The dog looked at him as if she understood and ambled away. She turned once and seemed to ask, “Are you sure?” Then she dashed off.
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