Mourning Crisis

by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  Atticus grabbed his brother’s dirty white T-shirt and yanked him close to him, bringing his face right up next to his. “You get in there, and you clean that mess up now. That ain’t no way to treat the dead, you hear me, little brother?”

  “Yes, sir.” Boone dragged himself into the rig and got to work.

  Atticus faced me, his expression soft and gentle. “I got to apologize for my brother. He’s a little slow sometimes. Never did quite catch up with the rest of us. I’m sure Tucker took advantage of him. He didn’t mean any harm.”

  “It’s okay. I wonder what’s so important about whatever it was that Tucker wanted, that he felt the need to manipulate your brother into standing guard, while he pillaged through it like that? It’s all kinds of a mess now.”

  “You’ve seen my momma’s trailer, right? Boone probably didn’t need much encouragement to let him make a mess, and besides, he’s easy to manipulate. He’s not the sharpest nail in the box. Momma’s done her best, but he’s lucky to be working at the moving company. Only reason he’s there is ‘cause Buford got him the job.”

  That wasn’t in the dossier. “I know.” I winged it.

  “You ready?”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “Head on up to the trailer? Momma’s probably waiting on us.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.” I peeked in on Boone. “But shouldn’t we wait for him?”

  “Naw, he’ll be fine.” He crooked his finger. “Come on. You can follow me.”

  I’d wanted to stay and see if Tucker returned or if Boone came out with anything, like maybe the thing Tucker wanted so badly, whatever it was, but I didn’t know how to do that without causing suspicion, so I hopped into my Tribute and followed Atticus to his mom’s trailer.

  Christopher Lacy arrived a few minutes later. I wiped the shocked look from my face as quickly as it appeared. Christopher did a grand acting job in comparison to mine. He pretended I didn’t exist, much like he’d done in high school, actually.

  None of us went inside. Mid-October weather in Asheville wasn’t usually in the low 80s, but Mother Nature suffered from hot flashes or something Momma said, so we took advantage of the warmer temps and spread out between three plastic and metal tables in front of Alice’s single-wide on the small twelve by twelve plot of gravel.

  “Why are you here?” I whispered to Christopher.

  “Keeping an eye on you,” he said.

  “I’d rather you get an answer to my autopsy question.”

  “I did that already.”

  My eyes widened. “So quickly?”

  He patted his pants pocket. “Modern technology makes getting answers a snap. Just emailed the medical examiner’s office and wouldn’t you know it, they responded. Like magic.”

  I rolled my eyes and then waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, I said, “Well?”

  “Not here.”

  “Can you give me a hint?”

  He shook his head. “This isn’t Christmas, May—Ivy.”

  Dang it.

  Alice walked over from the opposite side of her small lot, for lack of a better term, since there wasn’t any grass, with a blue, green and yellow hand-knitted afghan wrapped around her bony shoulders. “Ivy, you want to do me a favor?”

  “Sure, Alice.” Not really since you’ve pretty much treated me like garbage since the moment we met. I gave myself a personal what-for for being sassy in my head. The woman, as nasty as she’d been, had just lost a loved one. She could use a little forgiveness, and rightfully so. She’d never heard of me because I hadn’t existed. I reminded myself to have patience and ease up.

  “You think you could handle cleaning out Buford’s rig for me? I don’t think I’m able to what with my health the way it is and all, and my boys, they’re just all tore up about Buford dying. I don’t want to upset them more than they already are.”

  “Um, sure. I forgot to give you back the key anyway, and I have the time. I could start tomorrow.” Whatever that thing is Tucker Hyut desperately wanted to find in that truck if it was there, I’d find it going through Buford’s things. I might not know what it was exactly, but I’d likely have it eventually in the stuff I’d go through.

  Christopher reached his hand under the table and squeezed my knee. I all but flew out of my seat. He pressed harder to keep me in it. I had a feeling he was sending me some kind of warning and darted my eyes to his. He looked at me and shook his head just a touch. I was right, I just wasn’t sure what that warning was, though I suspected it had something to do with the thing Tucker so badly wanted out of that truck, or a non-verbal advisement to not do it.

  “Could you be done in a day or two? We’d like to get the truck sold as soon as possible. It’s an eyesore, sittin’ out there like that. The homeowners association never did like it there. Always complained about it. Especially that cranky old pain-in-the-butt Billy John Jefferson. Now that Buford’s gone, he’s gonna get all up on me about it, too. Already said something at the funeral about it. He’s had a bone to pick with Buford ever since the incident with his momma anyway.”

  “He said something about that to me at the memorial service and the funeral. My love never mentioned him, but he was awfully sassy to me. What happened between them?”

  Christopher stiffened. Frustration swelled from him and knocked into me like ocean waves. If I’d closed my eyes, I probably could have smelled the sea and tasted salt water, that’s how strong his body language hit me. I pushed my foot into his. He pressed his back into mine, only harder.

  I’d learned that when Alice Mableton got on a roll, her southern drawl kicked into high gear. When I’d first arrived in New York, I struggled to understand the unique dialect, as I’m sure they struggled with mine. Coming back to Asheville after several years was the same. When someone with a thick southern dialect spoke, I really had to pay attention, even with my own mother.

  “It wasn’t nothing serious, ‘least not to Buford anyway. Guess Billy John’s daddy was in the war, and he brought back some knick-knack or something and when Billy decided to throw his momma in one of them nursing homes, he asked Buford to move her, which Buford did cheap, and on his own time, and I guess the knick-knack broke or something, and he couldn’t give him no money fer it ‘cause you know, he moved him without his company knowin’ an all, and Billy John, he got his shorts all up in his—” she glanced at Christopher. “’Cuse me officer. All got all upset about it, and threatened to report him to his boss and such, and Buford told him he didn’t break it, it was already broken, and he didn’t move him with the company, he did it on the side so he could give him a discount and all, but that didn’t matter to Billy John none. And ever since, he’s been hounding my nephew an makin’ threats an all, and even threatenin’ me with the association and such, and I ain’t havin’ none of it no more, I’ll tell you that.” A light sheen of sweat glistened over her face, and Atticus suggested she sit down. He pushed a chair up behind her.

  “Momma, you can’t be doing this to yourself, you know that.”

  She sat. “I know that baby, but you know how that man gets me goin’.” She fanned herself with her hand. “Sometimes I’m glad that boy is dead. Puts an end to some of this for me.” She stared at me. “You get that truck cleaned up, and we can sell it to Tucker and be done.”

  My body tensed, and I had to force myself to relax. “Tucker’s buying it?”

  “Course he is. They were partners, and he offered, seems like the logical thing to do, don’t you think? Made an offer, and we accepted.”

  “Already? That’s fast. Buford’s only been gone a few days. Have you even had time to have the truck checked out? Do they do appraisals or something on them?” I faced Christopher. “Do you know, Detective, how these things are handled?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, Miss Sawyer.”

  I took my phone out of my purse and clicked on my Safari icon. “How much is he giving you for the truck?”

  Alice’s lip formed a straight, flat line and Boone’s
followed.

  Atticus responded. “Momma said he’s offered a flat fifty thousand.”

  I pounded the keyboard on my iPhone. “Do you know the specifics on his rig? I know it’s a 2017 Volvo, but that’s about it.” I’d found that in the dossier as well as information in the rig itself.

  Boone shrugged because he was basically useless, and Alice made her impression of a doll. Just stood there, motionless and silent. I liked that version of her a lot better than the previous one.

  “I’m sure it’s in the rig,” Christopher said.

  He was right, but I hadn’t paid that much attention to the paperwork I’d found in there before. “Without any info, I can’t be sure, but based on what I see online, Tucker’s taking you for a ride. 2017 Volvo’s are going for at least seventy thousand. You can’t sell that thing without someone telling you what it’s worth first. I can’t believe Buford would want that.”

  Alice coughed, but not a real one. A sarcastic, obnoxious one. “Tucker ain’t gonna pay no seventy thousand.”

  “Then you don’t sell it to him,” I said.

  “That ain’t your decision,” Boone said.

  “Buford paid for that truck. He owned it free and clear, didn’t he? That’s why you can sell it, right Atticus?”

  He nodded, albeit, begrudgingly.

  “If it were you, would you want it sold for at least twenty thousand less than it’s worth?”

  His eyes shifted between his mother and me. “Momma, she’s got a point.”

  “Atticus, we talked about this. Tucker wants the truck, he should have it. It’s his right.”

  I jumped out of my seat. “How is it his right? He’s not family. Buford didn’t have a will, he didn’t leave it to anyone, so it should be sold for its fair value.”

  Alice snorted. “And you ain’t family either, so you don’t get a say in any of it.”

  My heart pounded so hard my head vibrated, and I thought maybe a neighboring mobile home’s stereo had their bass on too high. “That…that…”

  “Ivy.”

  I stomped my foot. “That doesn’t—”

  “Ivy.” Christopher tugged on my sweater, hard. “Ivy. Sit down.”

  It took me a second to realize he meant me. Get back into character. You’re Ivy, I thought. “This is ridiculous. My Buford wouldn’t want that.”

  Alice fussed with her tacky, bulky, polyester sweater. “Your Buford, as you keep sayin’, is dead and buried. Don’t matter what he wants no more. And we all don’t even know if you’re tellin’ the truth anyway. We ain’t never heard of you ‘til after he gone and died anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Boone said.

  “Momma, she’s the real deal. Nobody would go and do what she’s done for a stranger. And Buford didn’t have nothing she’d want anyway,” Atticus said.

  “Looks like he had an expensive truck now, don’t it?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from losing it.

  Christopher grabbed my arm. “Miss Sawyer, how about you and I head on out of here before things get too emotional?”

  “I think that’s a mighty fine idea,” Alice said.

  If I’d bit my cheek any harder, I’d taste blood. I marched to my car, but not before making direct eye contact with both Boone, who, of course, looked right at the ground, and Atticus, who shrugged but at least had an apologetic glint in his eyes.

  My car lurched its way out of the trailer park. I pulled over at Buford’s truck and stared at it. Christopher walked over to my window and tapped. “We should go. Follow me.”

  “I’d like to—”

  “Not now.”

  I huffed loudly but followed him anyway.

  6

  “You need to quit this job.”

  “You don’t know me all that well, Christopher.”

  We sat at French Broad River Park. Christopher drove to a local BBQ place, picked up the best pork BBQ I’d had in years–you just couldn’t find BBQ like that in New York—and we sat on a blanket and the park and ate it. It was practically a date, only most dates didn’t include the guy rapid-fire lecturing the girl, so I figured it wasn’t actually a date. But, if I had to give it a date rating on a scale of one to ten, with one being not at all a date and ten being yes, absolutely a date, I’d rank it at about a six, with the caveat that the couple was actually on a date, just in the middle of a tiff.

  A gal could swing things in her direction easily when desperate, even when her life hadn’t turned out at all like she’d planned and landed in the middle of a dead man’s family drama after crashing through an Off-Broadway stage floor during her big break.

  “No, I don’t, but I’d like to, and if you keep hanging around those people, I may not get the chance.”

  I gazed at the water and the trees on the other side of the river. “Don’t you just love the way the fall colors reflect off the river?”

  “Mayme, I’m serious.”

  “What did you find out about the autopsy?”

  He sighed. “Buford had a medical history riddled with allergy problems. The medical examiner assigned to his case said Alice pitched a fit when she suggested an autopsy. Said he’d been complaining about wasps in the rig, that she’d warned him to clean it out, or he’d wind up dead, but he refused, so she knew that’s what killed him. The medical examiner said all signs pointed to an allergic reaction and anaphylactic shock, and she didn’t see the need to perform the autopsy based on his medical history.”

  “She warned him about cleaning the rig?”

  “That’s what the ME said.”

  “Have you seen the inside of her mobile home?”

  “Can’t say that I have. Why?”

  “She’s a hoarder, and I’m not exaggerating.” I gave him specific details about the inside of Alice Mableton’s trailer from the piles of stuff on the tables to the dishes and garbage cluttering every empty space available everywhere to the trash on the floor. “And Buford’s truck wasn’t dirty or messy at all. It wasn’t spotless, but in comparison, it was clean as all get out, so that doesn’t make sense.”

  He nodded. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Did she say where the wasp stung?”

  “Can’t confirm, but from the basic exam, she doesn’t think it was his neck. She thinks it might have been his leg or butt.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “When someone dies from a sting, they swell up where the sting entered. She said there were two swollen areas but neither were on the neck, and only one had a small puncture spot, but it was too big to be a sting, and without an autopsy, she couldn’t take the time to see if there was actually a stinger in either spot. But with Alice’s temperament and his physical appearance, it was evident he passed from anaphylaxis, so the ME was comfortable enough to go with the allergy and her determined cause of death.”

  “That’s not right.”

  He shrugged. “The signs all lead to an allergic reaction.”

  “Something feels off about all of this.”

  “That may be, but it’s a call the ME chose to make.”

  “But what if it’s the wrong call?”

  “I guess someone could petition to have the body exhumed and have an autopsy, but it’s unlikely it’ll happen, not unless there’s just cause, and I’m not sure there is.”

  “What if I found just cause?”

  “How would you do that?”

  “When I clean out his truck tomorrow. What if that thing Tucker’s looking for shows up, and it points to a reason for Buford’s death?”

  He dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. “You’re still going to clean out his truck?”

  “Of course I am. Something’s going on with those people, Christopher. I need to find out.”

  “Why? Why do you need to find out?”

  “Because. Because I…I do.”

  He cocked his head to the left and shook it. “Well, there you go. That’s a valid reason.”

  “A man is dead. Some weird guy sa
ys everyone hated him—”

  “Which isn’t far from the truth.”

  I waved my hand. “Whatever. His aunt refused his autopsy for no logical reason.”

  “Happens all the time.”

  “Still strange.”

  “Not unheard of in that world though.”

  “And another extremely eerie guy that makes my skin crawl practically threatens me about something—he won’t even tell me what—but swears I have, even though I don’t, and he’s planning to purchase Buford’s truck for at least twenty thousand under price, and you don’t think something strange is happening?”

  “I never said I didn’t think something strange is happening. I said I don’t want you involved.”

  I clasped my hands under my chin as if I was about to pray. “So you’re saying you’ll help me find out?”

  His words were crisp sounding and succinct. “I said you shouldn’t be involved.”

  “But you didn’t say you wouldn’t help me.”

  “Is this how you do things?”

  I smiled. “I told you, you didn’t know me all that well, Christopher Lacy.”

  “I’m beginning to understand that, Mayme Buckley.” He bit into his BBQ sandwich.

  “So, you work tomorrow?”

  He nodded. “Why?” A bit of BBQ sauce rested in the corner of his mouth. I took a napkin and dabbed it off.

  That slight intimate action left us staring at each other. I pulled my hand away. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, and yes, I do work tomorrow.

  “Oh, I was hoping you could hang out with me while I clean out the truck.”

  “I’m off at six. Why don’t you wait until then and we’ll do it together?”

  “That’s pretty late, and there really isn’t that much to do. You know what? It’s okay. I can handle it on my own.”

  “I can stop by and check on you if you’d like.”

  “I would like that.” I took a bite of my sandwich.

  “Then it’s settled. I’ll stop by on my break.”

  “Great,” I said with a mouth full of food.