by Tegan Maher
I took a deep breath and tried to gain control of myself. "Folks have long memories here and once you've been judged, that doesn't go away. I did see why Will was in there, but he's not going to defend himself because he wasn’t protecting himself. I don't know what Bonnie or Jim did, but whatever it was, you've made sure they'll keep paying for it as sure as Hank did, just in another way. Will, too."
"But Bonnie and Jim didn't do anything. Hank was making them pay him half what they made off jet ski rentals or he was going to pull their permits and report them to the IRS for tax evasion because they don't claim the income from the food stand or jet skis. How the heck he even knew that is beyond me."
"Well congratulations on that one. Because half the town probably has Bonnie dancing in disguise at Tassels, and the other half has Jim pegged as a philanderer with a gambling problem." All the fight suddenly went out of me. "Just ... stop before you ruin anybody else."
I turned to leave his office.
"Noelle, wait."
"What Hunter? I've been trying to tell you Keyhole's different than your big fancy anonymous city but you just wouldn't listen. You've been like a bull in a china shop, and you can't work like that around here. I even offered my help, but you obviously have something to prove. Well, go prove it. You may even be on the right track, but try not to catch any more good people in the crossfire."
I climbed in my truck and pointed her toward home, disgusted and a little heartsick at the same time.
Chapter 28
I
didn't have to work Sunday morning, so I made it a point to sleep in. Hank's funeral was at two and I debated whether or not to go. Honestly, I just wanted to laze around the house and do various forms of nothing, but then I felt bad for Anna Mae so I hauled myself off the couch and dusted off my multi-purpose black dress.
I tossed it in the dryer with a dryer sheet for a few minutes to shake out any wrinkles and make it smell fresh while I put my face on. I was letting Shelby off the hook because she didn't want to go and I didn't blame her. If I didn't feel obligated, I wouldn't go either.
Sometimes I really missed the days when I was living in Atlanta and could fake a sick day just to go shopping.
I pulled up to Blake's Funeral Home and Monuments—which was Blake's Counter Tops on the other side of the building—and found a place to park. The hearse was already parked outside and I wondered for the thousandth time why on earth there were curtains in the back window. It wasn’t like they were closed to keep people from staring in.
There was a respectable amount of people there, but I noticed they were all there for Anna. Hank's goons weren't present.
I walked up to the receiving line and offered my condolences once again to Mr. and Mrs. Doolittle, then gave Anna Mae a hug.
When I pulled her in, I whispered, "Did your house escape the Great Cabbage Rose Infestation?"
Surprised, she snorted.
Mrs. Doolittle, maintaining her mask of sorrow, leaned over and used her mad-mama church whisper to say, "I'm glad to see you have so many friends here for you. Lord knows if it weren't for you, the place would be empty because they sure aren't here to pay their respects to the dead. But for the sake of propriety, pretend for three more hours that you're actually grieving."
Anna Mae straightened. Freedom was within her grasp. She'd do whatever she had to for the next few hours to get away from this particular box of Fruit Loops forever. Her mouth twitched but she solemnly bowed her head, took my hand in both of hers, and thanked me for coming.
The rest of the service went on pretty much like you'd expect for a man who was despised by all. The Doolittles had arranged a caterer for the lounge and most folks came, ate, and left after telling the family how sorry they were.
I knew what they really meant, though. They meant they were sorry there wasn't any booze or take-away boxes. I knew that because after an hour of listening to false platitudes about how great Hank was, I was sorry there wasn't any booze.
Hunter showed up, and though I thought he was going to head my direction a few times, he kept his distance. So be it. I made a circuit of the room, stopping to talk to folks I hadn't seen in a while, and paused by the coffin.
I know it's a huge deal for somebody to look good in the coffin, but every time I hear somebody say, "Oh, she looked so nice; they really did a great job with her," I don't get it. They don't look good. They invariably look dead. That's the opposite of good as far as I'm concerned.
I was studying the waxy complexion of a man who I was actually glad to see in a coffin when I heard gum snap. A voice beside me declared, "Wow, he looks like shit. Even worse than when he was alive."
I turned to find Cheri Lynn standing beside me wearing what must have been her Tassels costume—a black pleather bustier and matching short shorts, fishnet stockings, and red, four-inch stilettos.
I couldn't decide which was tackier—her wardrobe choice or her decision to show up to begin with. I lowered my voice and adopted the same tone Mrs. Doolittle had used earlier. "Jesus H. Cheri Lynn! What are you doing here? And, for the love of god, what are you wearing?"
I placed my body between her and Anna Mae, who was speaking to the reverend with her back to us, in an attempt to block her from view, then reached out to take her arm, hoping she'd follow my lead and peacefully exit the room.
Don't get me wrong—I've never had anything against Cheri Lynn per se. She wasn't dealt much of a hand in life, but she played it the best she could. Years of being under the thumb of one man or another hardened her.
Her choices, if you can call them that, placed her on the fringe of Keyhole society. The “good Christian folk” looked down their noses at her and locked her out of polite society, which made her an easy target for the less savory citizens. It was a vicious cycle.
She learned to survive though. She'd been branded as trashy, and she sorta was, but her propensity to give most of the world the finger was a defensive reaction to being rejected by the “good” people who could have helped her instead of slinging rocks at her from the porches of their glass houses.
Still, she couldn't stand there half-naked in the middle of a funeral, even if it was Hank's. When I looked closer, I realized what should have been obvious from the beginning if I'd been paying more attention to her and less to the situation.
When my hand passed right through her arm, she jerked back and flickered a little. "Stop that. It freaks me out. And I'm not going outside with you. I haven't even read the flower cards yet."
Freaks her out? Houston, we have a much bigger problem than figuring out who sent the flowers.
CORALEE WAS STANDING across the room from us talking to Ms. Bloom, our former English teacher. She was listening with one ear, no doubt learning way more than she wanted to know about corns or body hair, while perusing the room in search of an escape route.
Her gaze wandered over and past us, then jerked back as her brain belatedly processed what she was seeing. Coralee wasn't exactly a medium; she preferred to say she was unbiased toward her friends' existential statuses, which allowed her to see more than other people could.
Of course, there weren't many people she didn't consider at least a distant friend, and so far the few who didn't make the cut hadn't shown up as ghosts. Thus, Coralee and her unbiased brain understood exactly why I was standing there, probably looking like I had to pass gas but couldn't find the exit sign.
I breathed a sigh of relief when she excused herself and made her way toward us. If there was one thing Coralee was good at, it was whipping ducks into a row, and I was desperately in need of that skill right now.
As she approached, she plastered on her funeral smile and gave me a hug, then drew back. "I believe I need some air. Would you care to join me, sugar?" She looked at Cheri Lynn, daring her to refuse. I was all for the idea.
"I think that's a wonderful idea. It's a little crowded in here."
We made our way around small clusters of people who were standing around chatting and eat
ing finger foods, then pushed through the back door, with Cheri Lynn floating along beside us, pouting. Thankfully, the parking lot was empty.
As soon as the door closed, Coralee rounded on Cheri Lynn. "What in the name of little red wagons have you gotten yourself into now?"
Cheri Lynn was outraged. "How on earth is this my fault? Somebody up and kilt me. I'm the victim here."
I looked heavenward and would have prayed for patience, except I knew better. This situation was likely a result of the last time I made that mistake.
Instead, I ran my tongue over my front teeth and changed tacks. "Cheri Lynn, back up. How long have you been ... like this?"
She puckered her mouth and twisted it to the side. "I don't know for sure. I remember getting home from work Friday, which would have been early Saturday morning. I remember my key wouldn't work for some reason, so I went around to the back door. I saw a shadow come up behind me in the slider. When I turned around, there was a guy swingin' a shovel at my head."
Her eyes were fixed on some point over my head, staring at something only she could see. "I was so scared. I felt the crunch when it hit me. I saw stars. It sounded weird—kinda like when you bite into an M&M. Then everything went black.
"I woke up on my back porch where I'd fallen. I don't know how much later, but the sun was comin’ up; I could see its reflection in the glass. I couldn't move, and was so cold, but the colors of that Georgia sunrise comin’ up over the mountains ..."
She shivered, then turned her attention back to me. "You! They were talkin’ about you, Noelle."
I swallowed around the lump in my throat and swiped a tear from my cheek. "Me? Who was?"
"Jim and the guy who killed me."
Jim Simpson was the guy who owned Tassels and several of the other businesses over in East Keyhole. He was also my closest neighbor. He lived on fifty acres or so that butted up to the east corner of the farm. Adelaide used to joke that he wanted his house set up on the mountain so he could look down over his kingdom.
Coralee chewed her lip for a minute. "Okay, back up a minute. What did the other guy look like? Had you ever seen him before?"
"Yeah. He'd been in a couple of times, but both times I seen him, he came through the back door into Jim's office and left the same way. He never went out into the bar. He was a looker—a tall drink of water with dark hair. He kinda had that hot military thing going on."
The hair on my arms stood up. Even though it was pretty general, it was the same description Gary Wilkenson gave of the guy trying to get him to invest in my farm.
"You said they were talking about me?"
Oh yeah. I went back to get change for the bartender and stopped when I heard your name. They were talkin’ about your farm."
"What about my farm?"
"About how much money they were gonna make when they developed it, which didn't make no sense to me because I knew you wasn't gonna sell that place. That was when Jim noticed me and asked what I wanted. I got the change and left, but I heard that guy ask if I'd heard anything."
She cast her eyes down. "Jim told him not to worry about me. That I was nobody."
Coralee tried to touch her, but of course her hand passed right through. "Oh, sugar. Don't you believe that. Jim Simpson is a waste of good air."
"Well, apparently the other guy didn't believe him, either. Because he showed up at my house and bashed me in the head with a shovel."
What do you even say to something like that? Again, not a topic Miss Manners even came close to touching on. "Cheri Lynn, you didn't happen to hear the name of this guy, did you?"
She thought for a minute, doing that sideways pucker thing with her mouth again.
"No. I'm sorry, sugar. I sure didn't."
The wind had picked up a bit and the entire top of Coralee's hairdo flipped up at once. She smoothed it back down and it fell obediently right back where it belonged.
"Okay, we gotta get back inside. The service is about to start. Cheri Lynn, you can stay if you want, but you have to behave yourself. I know you have some decency in ya, so, considering the circumstances, show some respect for Anna Mae, regardless of what you may think of her. Then we need to get you taken care of."
"Oh, I don't have nuthin’ against Anna Mae, 'cept she wanted to throw me outta my house. She woulda come around, though. Actually, I kilt Hank as much for her as I did for everybody else."
Wait, what?
Chapter 29
"C
ome again?" Coralee was looking a little faint. I, on the other hand, didn't bat an eye at her confession. As a matter of fact, I crowed a little bit inside for figuring it out.
She popped her gum. "Yeah. I offed Hank. I baked him up a mixed-berry pie, 'cept I used belladonna berries from Bebee's garden instead of blueberries. I remembered from summer camp Anna Mae was allergic to berries, so they'd have to clear her. And I'm used to bein' underestimated. Throw in all the other people Hank was robbin', and the water would be so muddy that by the time it cleared, all anybody would see was what a better place the planet was without him on it."
That still didn't answer my question. "I can't argue with your logic, but why kill him now?"
"Things had gone on long enough. He was suckin' the life outta this town. Outta me, and Anna Mae. I heard him talkin' to Will on the phone about that nephew of his, Cody. I realized what he was doin' and went to see Will, usin' the excuse that my cat was sick. He looked awful,” she said.
"I've run into Cody a few times in town. Once he opened the door for me when I was comin' outta Raeann's shop, and another time, he helped me load my groceries in the car."
She shrugged. "He's a good kid and deserves a shot. A coupla days after that, Hank left his shirt on the bed while he took a call," she shuddered. There was this black book in there, just full of awful things he was doin'. I thought long and hard about how to get rid of him legally, but y'all know that wasn't gonna happen. So," she shrugged, "I baked him a pie."
We stood there for a few seconds, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Cheri Lynn broke the silence.
"Alrighty, then," she said, changing her tone as if she hadn't just confessed to murder. Or euthanization, whichever. The line in this case was kinda blurry. "Let's get in there and get this over with so we can plant the no-good sumbitch and figure out who kilt me and wants to steal Noelle's farm."
Just as we were reaching for the door handle, Hunter stepped around the corner.
"I didn't hear you answer her question, Coralee. And I'd sure like to know the answer. Why did you decide to kill him now, or at all for that matter?"
Coralee realized the conclusion he was making at the same time I did, and her face paled a bit underneath her foundation. She fell back on the timeless defense of last resort; charm. Like I said, she was good at gettin' ducks into a row.
Cheri Lynn floated over so that she was standing between the three of us. "Just blame it on me. Tell him the berries are still growing at the back of my property."
Yeah, because I hadn't already tried to do that.
"Sheriff. We were just speculating as to why somebody had decided to kill Hank now, when he's been terrorizing the town for the last two decades. Longer, actually, if you count the bullying he did as a kid."
Hunter didn't look convinced. "But the way she phrased it ..."
I stepped in. "Exactly how did I phrase it?" Honestly, I wasn't sure exactly what I'd said, and I was hoping he wasn't either. From the look on his face, my dog was hunting.
"You said, 'I can't argue with your logic, so why kill him now?'"
She turned back to Hunter. "I didn't answer because I haven't the foggiest. Frankly, I thought he'd manage to keep bullyin' folks until his ticker gave out. As a matter of fact, I had money on it and lost."
Poor Hunter. He had no idea what to think; I had to cough to cover my laugh because the expression on his face was just off the chain. "You what?"
Coralee looked him in the eye and spoke clearly and slowly. "I lost money on it.
We run little pools at the salon. You know—a way to pass the time and keep things interesting. Just ladies' bets. Twenty-dollar buy-in most of the time. We had one on how and when Hank was gonna die. I woulda won it except I went with natural causes. Roberta from the church auxiliary beat me out because she bet on murder."
It was too much for him; he was developing a nervous twitch at the corner of his eye. Storm clouds had gathered overhead while we'd been talking. The wind had picked up and a fat raindrop landed right on my cheek.
"Let's get back inside. The service is starting. I assure you, Hunter, Coralee didn't kill Hank, and if you want to question her afterward, I'll be one of the first in line to attest that she's a lot of things, but a baker's not one of 'em. As a matter of fact, I need to talk to you anyway, and it's important." I studied his thoughtful expression and narrowed my eyes. "And don't go thinking Roberta had motive, either, though that woman can bake."
Coralee and I headed back inside and Hunter trailed behind, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.
AFTER THE SERVICE, I told Hunter I had reason to believe something bad had happened to Cheri Lynn, but he wasn't in the mood to be accommodating. As a matter of fact, he was a jerk.
"What, did you have a vision?"
I glanced at Cheri Lynn, who was hovering right beside him. "You might say that, yeah."
"Well I deal in facts, not carnival ju-ju and mysticism."
Cheri Lynn smacked him in the back of the head, though her hand passed right through. "Hey! Tell him to take that back. My Bebee was a gifted carnival mystic!"
I didn't know what else to do; he wasn't budging an inch and frankly, he was starting to make me mad.
"Tell him to call Tassels. I didn't show up for work last night."
I relayed the suggestion and was surprised when, after staring me down for a good two minutes, he picked up his phone and searched for the number. I'm pretty sure he was doing it out of spite though, so he could gloat when I was wrong.