Dr. Crusher gave me a shot to help ease the discomfort and drew several vials of blood. He mentioned the lab results should be back in about one week and then I needed to schedule an appointment with a surgeon of my choice so he could forward the results.
Joy.
Not even fifty yet and my body had truly given out on me. Only fair, I guess, since my mind and soul had given up on living. The list of things Dr. Crusher informed me that I was no longer allowed to do had astounded me and made me realize how truly frail I had become.
I felt almost paralyzed as I sat on the cold plastic. I stared out the window, searching, wondering if I should just leap out the window. Since my worthless bones were so brittle, the two story fall should basically crush my insides into a pile of powder. With my luck, I would just break everything and be in excruciating pain for months and rack up even more doctor bills.
Pulling my gaze away from the window, I looked at the door. I wanted to scream. Eleanor had insisted I visit the doctor, even gave me the money for the visit. Said she was worried about my health, and after experiencing the horror of finding a dead body, wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“While you’re out, would you mind picking up a prescription for me at Walmart? I’m all out of Xanax,” she’d asked.
I didn’t mention the fact I already knew she was out of meds.
How would I explain this overwhelming sadness settling over me to Eleanor? She would laugh and say I was being dramatic. The first words out of her mouth would be something like “It’s only osteoporosis for goodness sake,” or something similar and that would infuriate me.
After several minutes of internal arguments between my mind and limbs about moving, I finally stood and made my way to the elevator. The appointment secretary noticed and raised her voice to catch my attention.
“Ma’am, you need to schedule your follow-up appointment.”
Pressing the down button, I didn’t even turn her way, I just shook my head. “I will call and make one later. When I can scrounge up the outrageous fees again.”
I stepped out into the bright sunlight, grimacing at the intense light. The Indian summer from two days ago was long gone. The afternoon air was frigid.
Walking like a ninety-year-old woman, I made it to my car and eased my way down into the seat. The cold air made my back throb. A wave of anger at having to move so slowly overtook me, and I threw my purse against the passenger side door. All the contents went flying.
I was a walking billboard for youth. The perfect specimen for a campaign screaming, “Kids, this is your body after forty—take care of yourself now!”
All the bills I had crammed into my purse were strewn across the front seat and floorboard. Thousands of dollars’ worth and no way to pay them.
Leaning over, I picked up the mess. After shoving the crumpled pages back into my purse, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror. The past year had really taken a toll on my face. Time had trampled its way across my skin, leaving a new crop of wrinkles around my eyes and forehead.
My eyes looked dead and lifeless. Their once bright blue hue no longer held any of its previous sparkle. Although my hair was still long, the vibrancy and sheen decided to run away with the sparkle in my eyes. Instead of a pretty dark blonde, outcroppings of gray took over. I hadn’t colored it in months since money was so tight.
Just like Mom used to say—mouse fur. With all that had happened to me over the years, I was surprised I had any hair at all.
Starting up the car, I headed toward the minuscule downtown area, wondering if I should just lie about my diagnosis to Eleanor. Dr. Crusher said I needed spinal surgery and gave me the name of two surgeons in Little Rock. If I told Eleanor that, she’d try to figure out a way to pay for it. Though I still had mixed feelings about the woman, and I’m pretty sure she did about me as well, I knew her well enough to know she’d want to help.
Helping me seemed to be her way of paying penance for her son’s transgressions.
No way. I was already taking enough assistance from her, and I certainly wouldn’t let her pay for an expensive surgery. With the cost of medical procedures, she’d have to take out a second mortgage on her house, and then we’d both be out on the streets. She was retired and on a fixed income, and too old to go back into the workforce.
Since I wasn’t working and had no good leads on a job, maybe I could sell my car. The second the thought popped in my head, I laughed. Seriously, how much would a 1995 Chevy Corsica with over three-hundred thousand miles go for? I probably couldn’t give the thing away.
The reward money Clifton Simpson mentioned when I found Martha Cayhill’s body was a bust. I was thankful my name had been kept out of the news because the thought of dealing with reporters made me cringe. The flip side was I hadn’t heard a thing from anyone, not even Detective Dick. Cliff had stopped by the next day, just like he said he would, but only to grab his jacket. The subject of Martha Cayhill never even came up. Cliff looked tired and frazzled and stayed for less than two minutes.
Why was I even worried about such things like my diagnosis or spinal surgery? Two days ago, I was ready to chuck it all and slip into the murky waters of Suicide Lake. Forty-eight hours later, I was trying to figure out a way to pay for a medical procedure I didn’t want to endure.
Truly, I was a basket case. Instead of pain medication, Dr. Crusher should have given me something to sort out my brain.
Like a lobotomy.
I DIDN’T PAY much attention to my surroundings as I drove through town. I knew Ridgeport by heart. Every nook, cranny, and side-street etched into an internal map in my head. Other than a weekend getaway to Pensacola, Florida once with a few of my girlfriends from high school after my divorce, I’d spent every single day in this town. I could probably drive through it with my eyes closed and not hit a thing.
Ridgeport, Arkansas—Whitten County seat and home of the Ridgeport Lions—Class 2A football champions two years running! Woo-hoo! Population in the city limits of five-thousand, twelve-thousand if you include the entire county, according to the last census. A tiny berg situated in the middle of Nowheresville, USA. The kind of town you pass while driving on the freeway, unaware humans actually lived on the other side of the thick woods.
A town full of people struggling, just like me, with day-to-day life. A place forgotten in time, firmly entrenched in old-school, good ol’ boy politics and values.
Hell on earth.
I should have moved away years ago, but I didn’t. Thought about it in the dark at night while crammed under the covers—alone—and even during the day at work back when I had a job. Like a fool, I remained behind, unwilling to escape for a variety of reasons. The biggest knot holding me in place was I promised myself the day I found out my mother killed my father, I wouldn’t leave until I knew for sure she was telling me the truth.
In other words, I got stuck in the red clay mud, my past tethering me to the land.
“Trapped like a worm, you are,” I muttered, doing my best impression of Yoda.
When I turned onto Main Street, the place was packed. People lined both sides of the two-lane road jockeying for better positions. Six news vans with their big satellite dishes were parked in front of City Hall. Slowing down, I glanced to the right and saw Mayor Peyton Cayhill standing on the concrete steps. Dressed to perfection, his expensive black suit and bright, red tie without a wrinkle or stitch out of place, he addressed the throng of reporters. His snow-white hair shimmered under the afternoon sun.
A wave of sadness hit me. Poor man. At his age, losing a loved one was hard enough when the cause was natural. Normal. Living the last sixteen months in a constant state of worry and fear, hoping and praying she’d turn up—alive—had to have been mental torture. Mayor Cayhill had the extra baggage of dealing with the fact his wife’s disappearance was under investigation for murder.
Murder!
In this small town?
When the ten-o’clock news reported the jaw-dropping
story yesterday evening, I was stunned. There hadn’t been a murder in Whitten County—well, since my ex killed his wife, which was almost six years ago. The next one was over thirty years in the past—the night my mother killed my dad and his lover. No one knew about that secret, so the town was in a state of collective mourning for the horrible ending to their beloved First Lady. Prior to that, you had to go way back to the early 1950s. Mom told me the story once how a botched moonshine transaction ended when the seller killed the buyer after a disagreement over pricing. Lack of major crimes occurring was the main reason most people born in the community stayed.
Safety.
The creepy factor of my ties to three-out-of-four murders made my head spin.
Even Dr. Crusher mentioned the tragedy during the examination. “You know, along with your mother, I went to school with Martha and Peyton. Oh, they were such a lovely couple! No finer lady ever graced Whitten County. There wasn’t a charity or community service Martha wasn’t a member of. To think someone ended her life is worse than thinking she just up and ran off!”
Everyone knew and everyone was talking about it. I played the role of shocked citizen to perfection and never mentioned my involvement in the discovery.
After all, I knew how to keep secrets. I had over thirty years of practice.
I considered stopping to listen to the news conference, but opted to head to Walmart and pick up Eleanor’s Xanax. I had prescription pain meds of my own to fill, though I knew I wouldn’t. Not that I didn’t want them, I simply didn’t have much money left to buy them. I’d sold everything I had of value, including my old computer, all my DVDs and CDs, even my treasured collection of snow globes. Out of the little haul, I had less than five-hundred dollars left in my wallet.
I could watch the Mayor’s interview on the news later. The need to soak in a hot bath called to me, for it was the only thing I could do to ease the pain in my back that was free.
I pulled into the parking lot at Walmart and went inside. While waiting for the pharmacist, I thought about Martha Cayhill—and Mom. Martha graduated a year after my mother and had also been homecoming queen. Mom had been a beautiful woman. When drunk, she’d spend hours staring at grainy images of her younger self, urging me to look with her while she reveled in her glory days. Caroline Clark was gorgeous. Curvy. Sexy. A vivacious, come-hither smile perpetually on her lips.
Martha Cayhill was different. She was beautiful, too, but in an opposite way. Mom was Ridgeport’s Marilyn Monroe, and Martha was its Jackie O. Tall, stately, serene, with big brown eyes and full lips—she could have passed as Jackie’s sister. She was the kind of woman meant to be on the arm of a politician—just like Mrs. Kennedy.
Mom hated Martha. When flipping through her yearbook, she had no choice but to look at a woman she considered her nemesis. Mom had been head cheerleader and Martha was on the squad, too. Martha had been a junior maid the year Mom was crowned homecoming queen. All of Mom’s fond memories of being the “it” girl in high school shared the same space as Martha.
Once, I made the mistake of asking Mom why she despised Martha so much. Her answer, spoken in heavy, drunken words, still made my skin crawl.
“That bitch never had to work for a thing! I did. I wasn’t born into money. I worked hard for every accomplishment. Martha didn’t. Her daddy’s money bought her way into things and titles I scratched and clawed my way up to get.
"Privileged bitch. She didn’t appreciate the accolades because they were handed to her. Mine were earned, and they meant the world to me. The only thing I trumped her at was marrying your father. He was captain of the football team, you know. Everyone wanted him, including Martha. She had to settle for the slimy little worm, Peyton.”
Peyton Cayhill was elected Mayor three months before Dad’s disappearance. Mom never said a word about it. She didn’t have to voice her opinions. They were expressed just fine after she took an ink pen and scratched out every occurrence of Martha Cayhill’s face in the yearbook.
“Ma’am, your medication’s ready.”
Pulled back to the present by the perky voice of the pharmacy technician, I walked up to the counter. While scrounging around for the remaining cash Eleanor had given me, the piece of paper Dr. Crusher wrote my prescription on fell out. Before I could pick it back up, the young woman had it in her hands.
“Oh, you have another one? Okay, give me a few minutes.”
“No, uh, I can’t afford to fill it right now,” I said, reaching my hand out.
The look of pity on the woman’s face made me want to punch her in the mouth.
“No insurance, huh? That’s okay. This medication comes in generic form, too. Ten dollars. Can you do that?”
Snickers and whispers from people in line behind me made my face flush with embarrassment. Unsure what to say to make the situation easier and less painful, I simply nodded.
Standing there at the pharmacy counter of Walmart, I wanted to crawl behind a shelf and disappear. The bright fluorescent bulbs above felt like hot stage lights illuminating my shame and humiliation. The tension in my muscles didn’t help the pain in my back. I closed my eyes and took a deep cleansing breath, forcing myself to remain still instead of fleeing the store.
Like I could run, anyway. The lumbering gait would make the people behind me cackle with delight.
“Girl, can you believe it was murder? I mean, in our town? You best remember to start locking your doors at night. The world just ain’t a safe place anymore. Not at all.”
The words of a woman behind me helped calm my frazzled nerves. At least she and the person she was talking to were no longer interested in the poor chick, standing in front of them, who couldn’t afford her meds.
“No doubt! All this time spent searching and there she was, floating around in Suicide Lake. Tragic! Bill’s already installed an extra set of deadbolts on the front and back doors. Tomorrow, he’s meeting a guy out in Poyen to buy a trained guard dog. Said he don’t want me staying at home alone while he works nights. He’s such a thoughtful man. You should check into that, Gretchen. Get you a dog to keep you safe.”
“I’ll do no such thing, Charlene! I’ve been alone for years now after Walter passed on, and I don’t want to share my living space with some creature full of fleas and in need of constant supervision. I’ve got my protection right at my bedside. Name’s Smith and Wesson.”
“Good for you! Always knew you was a smart gal. So, have you heard any more tidbits you want to share? The news ain’t saying much.”
Despite the fact I hated gossip, my ears perked up. Even without turning around to look at her face, I recognized the voice of one of the women.
Gretchen Chase.
She’d been my immediate supervisor at the call center—and the one who’d let me go. Gretchen’s husband had been one of the three lawyers in town before he collapsed on the floor of the courthouse after suffering a heart attack during the sentencing phase of my ex-husband’s trial. He died on the polished wooden floor in front of a stunned courtroom.
Though the subject was never broached at work, after Gretchen’s husband died, our long-standing friendship vanished. We became nothing more than supervisor and employee. There was a faint niggling in the back of my mind that Gretchen somehow blamed me for her husband’s death. Blamed probably wasn’t the right word. Maybe associated me with the loss of her spouse. Whatever the reason for the demise of our relationship, it happened.
Carl Chase’s connections throughout town allowed him to be privy to even the faintest whisper of gossip. Apparently, Gretchen still had access. Pushing aside my previous embarrassment, I honed in on their conversation. Since Gretchen was about to drop a load of privileged information, she lowered her voice. Ignoring the other noises in the store, I strained my ears to listen.
“Oh, yes. Enough to make your hair stand on end.”
“Do tell!”
“Ol’ Martha Cayhill didn’t kill herself at Suicide Lake.”
“That ain’t anything n
ew, girl! News already said a homicide investigation is underway.”
“I know. Obviously, you missed my point. She didn’t commit suicide at the lake, and she didn’t die at the lake, either. Martha was killed somewhere else then dumped in the water. Recently.”
The other woman named Charlene gasped in shock. It took everything I had not to do the same.
“What? How do they know that already?”
“Because she still had flesh on her and they found evidence she’d been trussed up like a hog waiting for the slaughter truck. She’s been gone for over sixteen months, which means she’d been nothing but a pile of bones by now, had she been killed back then. Coroner said she’d been in the water less than a week.”
“Lord-a-mercy! Wonder where she’s been all this time?”
“Girl, you know Martha. She could’ve been anywhere doing God-only-knows-what. The woman certainly wasn’t a white lily like everyone likes to picture her. Not at all.”
The young girl popped back over with my medicine. Unwilling to turn around and face the annoying gossip queens, I paid for the pills in silence, thankful the girl hadn’t used my name.
“Renee? Is that you?”
Damn.
Without turning around, I nodded. “Afternoon, Gretchen.”
“Since you’re out in the middle of the day, guess you haven’t found a job yet. Rest assured if anyone calls me, I’ll make sure to give you a reference.”
The nasty tone in Gretchen’s voice sent sparks of anger throughout my chest. All sorts of ugly comebacks bounced inside my head. Saying anything would require me to face her, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. At that very moment, I realized Gretchen Chase, nee Snowden, had turned into my personal nemesis.
One of Mom’s favorite sayings popped inside my head: “Love and hate—only the span of a butterfly’s wings between them.”
Suicide Lake Page 3