by Sarah Hualde
They organized and reorganized every display — a $500 price tag flickered from the wedding quilt. Lydia hadn’t realized the Wedding Quilt was for sale. On Sunday, someone offered her $650 for the beautiful piece. A wave of guilt socked her in the gut. Jacqui would not like Lydia missing a huge sale.
The entire ordeal was humiliating for Lydia. She had no choice other than to sit and watch and endure it. The little girls working at her skirt were slow but still much faster than she was at detaching the apron. Patrons strolled past to see if the rumors were true. They took pictures, and some took videos of Lydia’s embarrassing moment.
Ivy tried to detour the gawkers and offer them something else to stare at, but it wasn’t any use. She prayed they were merciful and didn’t display the mess online.
Again, she noticed. Cordelia didn't turn her face to the crowd. She made her rounds without a word and without meeting the eyes of her vendors.
Lydia saw Cordelia, too. She assumed, at first, Cordelia was merely exhausted. Disturbed by the lady’s inability to acclimate to the day, she prayed for her and wished, even more, she was free to stand. The woman needed help and probably an excellent cry. She was acting like a deranged woman. Then again, after months of worry and terror, the discovery of Hobo Joe’s assault would make anyone insane.
“Ivy,” Lydia called. Ivy finished a sale before replying.
“Yes, I see her.”
“Do you think you can go to her?”
Ivy untied her crafter’s apron and folded it. She tucked in her duffle bag and straightened her shirt. “What should I do?’
“Maybe bring her a slice of pie and some tea. Invite her to sit at the bandstand for a while. Anything to help her reset.” Lydia reached an arm under her chair. Her purse was too far for her fingers to hold. “Get in there,” she said, “and help yourself to some money. I’m sure I’ve got a twenty tucked in there somewhere.”
Ivy complied with hustle. Lydia sat watching her. The girl tracked Cordelia through four booth inspections before Cordelia turned to face the teenager. Ivy pointed to the bandstand. Latte and Lava finished their set half an hour ago before packing in their gear. Ivy led the distractible woman to the steps of the gazebo and sat down beside her.
Lydia wished she was able to hear their conversation. Ivy would relay it back to her, no doubt. However, second-hand reports were never as good as first-hand discussions.
Shannon and Susie, the girls wielding the seam rippers, clapped and giggled. “We did it!” The apron fell to the dirt.
“Yes! Thank you, ladies! You did great. Here are your extra raffle tickets and a few dollars. Split a dessert on me. “
Shannon, the eldest, took the cash while the other girl took the tickets. They offered their thanks and sprinted toward the food stands. Fifteen minutes until closing and Lydia still hadn’t sold a single item.
✽✽✽
The Market ended with Ivy and Cordelia still reclining on the steps. Their fried pies went untouched. Each drank their teas, their hands wrapped around the once warm mugs. The sun had an hour before it set. The last vendor boxed up their wares and drove off.
Lydia paced by her car. She wanted to know what was going on, but she didn’t want to interrupt Cordelia. She fiddled with her phone. A quick text to Kat addressed the absence of news from Ethan or Gus. After thirty minutes of waiting she sent a message to Ivy.
From where she stood, she saw Ivy check her phone. However, Ivy did not respond. She set the phone back in her purse. Scout, slumbering in her car seat, was due for her second dinner. Lydia didn’t want to rouse the little girl earlier than needed but her feet wouldn’t keep still. She needed to know what was happening.
Climbing into the driver’s seat, she arched across the center console and reached back to the middle position. Her fanny hung out of the car, as she unlatched Scout. Footfalls behind Lydia startled her into fast action. She left the baby napping and spun around, forgetting her gravitational center teetered outside the safety of her car. She splatted, bum first, atop the curb and landed with her elbows digging holes into the lawn.
Her husband stood above her and offered her a hand up. His face was welcoming but not jovial or humorous. Lydia’s fits of clumsiness usually made him laugh aloud. He stood stalwart and silent. Something was very far from alright.
Ethan dusted Lydia off before retrieving Scout from her seat. He brought her cheek up to his and nestled her in the crook of his neck. This had been his favorite way to snuggle his own baby girl, Joan. He took a deep inhale of baby scent.
“I’m going to need your help, I think. I’m about to break some sad news, and I’m certain you’ll be needed. Stay nearby, will you? I’ll wave you over when it’s time.”
A tirade of thoughts assailed Lydia. Names, faces, and accidents appeared and morphed. Ethan handed the baby over to Lydia and Lydia pulled the sleeping one in for a close hug. Scout sighed and shimmied into Lydia’s folds with easy recognition.
Ethan did not kiss or pet his wife before heading toward the gazebo. He didn’t wink or joke or banter. He walked, one foot in front of the other straightening his back with each step. Whatever he had to say sagged on his shoulders like he was toting an anchor around his neck. Lydia ached for him. She was proud of her husband. However, she did not envy his job.
Chapter 18
Lydia stood next to Cordelia at the Ashton Coroner’s office. The grieving woman kept awkwardly calm. Lydia wondered if perhaps she was in shock. Somehow Lydia had scored front row tickets to the body identification. She sucked on a mint hoping it would dilute the smell of antiseptic and death. Cordelia didn’t need her puking all over the morgue.
The doctor met Ethan at the viewing window on the other side of the morgue doors. Lydia was grateful she didn’t have to go inside the actual lab. She was itching to scream and flee as it was. If they were forced to linger in death’s welcoming room, she’d break.
Cordelia squeezed Lydia’s hand. Lydia forgot they’d been holding hands and jumped in reflex. “Want to pray before they show us,” she asked.
“Thanks, Lydia. However, I’ve been praying for two months. I’ve always known the trail would end here. I appreciate your prayers, but I’d like to get this over with, now.” Cordelia nodded to the awaiting assistant, and the man pulled a white hospital blanket away from the deceased man’s face. Cordelia’s grip slackened. “My Mario,” she said. “It’s him.”
Cordelia fell into Lydia’s arms, and Lydia held her up. In tearless and tired sobs Cordelia watched the coroner wheel her husband away. The sheet snagged on the assistant’s name badge and tore back revealing Mario Muggs' left hand. Cordelia wailed. Ethan noticed and hurried to correct the error. The assistant quickened his pace. Disapproval speckled the Coroner’s face. Someone was in for a stern reprimand. Ethan washed his hands before exiting the morgue.
Then the flood commenced. Cordelia heaved. Both Ethan and Lydia dragged her to a nearby bench. She could no longer hold her weight.
“His hand! What? I don’t understand. His hand...” Cordelia moaned the same disjointed phrases. Ethan and Lydia locked eyes as each struggled to soothe the new widow. Neither had words.
✽✽✽
Hobo Joe guarded the Muggs' residence stationed on the front porch of his hostess’ home. He drank sweet tea from a large glass and ate donated pot pie while rocking in Miss Rene’s usual seat.
Joe knew Mario Muggs. He’d known him for years. During market season, he and Mario enjoyed early breakfasts at the crosses and talked about military life.
Mr. Muggs was a veteran of multiple wars. He’d served his country for many years before retiring to Honey Pot. Enjoying his later years in a slow-paced and quiet town was highly recommended by Mario’s doctors.
Many times Mario chatted with Joe about the past and how it never fully released Mario from its grasp. At times, Mario lived in terror of unseen enemies. Most days, Mario grappled with survivor’s guilt but tackled it and dropped it at the feet of Jesus. He busied h
imself with his greenhouse crops. It was his joy to focus on creating life instead of the horrors of taking it.
Cordelia was Mario’s lighthouse. She shined with hope over the dark days and warned him of rocky times to come. She’d learned the signs of his condition early on and helped catch him before he tumbled into the shadows of the past. Together they were whole. In Joe’s opinion, Mario Muggs would no more have left his wife than the sun would rise in the west.
He studied the empty house and prayed. Just a little clue and maybe he’d unravel what happened to Mario Muggs.
✽✽✽
Kat spoke into her cell. Flora listened intently. Five of their children were visiting the Hive B&B. They helped Thaddeus with low key manual jobs in return for ice cream sandwiches and a few dollars. Kevin went with them.
Lydia’s voice trailed from the other line. Flora struggled to hear the words.
“Hang on a minute, Lydia.” Kat turned to Flora. “She says they found Mario Muggs.”
“Alive?”
Kat frowned. “Cordelia identified him.”
“Oh.”
Kat went silent, listening again to Lydia. Flora patted Enoch’s diapered bottom as the baby settled in for a snooze.
“She says Cordelia took the whole thing really well until an unfortunate accident. His hand shot out from under the sheet.”
Flora shivered. “Gruesome.”
Kat agreed but it didn’t seem as big of a fiasco as Lydia recounted. “Yes, but enough to need sedation? They gave Cordelia a shot, watched her for an hour, and sent her home with Lydia. Lydia tucked Cordelia into bed.”
Flora recreated the moment in her mind. “Perhaps, because of all the buildup and the waiting, she was about to fall apart, anyway. Sometimes the smallest thing can trigger the deepest feelings.”
Kat grunted but had to agree. There was no way of telling what Cordelia felt during the past two months. Unless she was Cordelia, her empathy and understanding would always fall short. “It must be horrible to be so alone in your sadness.” Kat reflected aloud. Flora approved the sentiment in silence.
✽✽✽
Lydia froze. Though she moved through her routines and duties without much concentration, she could not force her mind to engage.
After putting Cordelia to bed, she agreed to sleep on her couch for a few hours. Lydia didn’t regret her service, but she wished she were home. She didn’t see what use she could be to Cordelia when anxiety whirlpooled in her veins. Collapsing into herself, Lydia spooned her purse.
Ethan would be busy for days. His waking hours would fill with the pursuit of not only Joe’s attacker but now the murderer of Mario Muggs. Lydia wouldn’t receive much comfort from her husband until after the killer was found and brought in.
She tried closing her eyes. However, the darkness only invited more memories. She battled with suffocating stillness by reciting hymns to herself until she drifted to sleep.
✽✽✽
Emily spotted the Sheriff’s car sitting in the Mission’s driveway. She’d escaped discovery the night before. She didn’t know how but she was grateful for the pass. The dining room buzzed. Kids eating and others were clearing. The noise played with Emily’s nerves. She didn’t want a conversation. She wanted to hide. Emily watched the car. Maybe someone else has gotten into trouble? She doubted it.
Her eyes tracked Ethan as he walked up the drive. His attire was casual, enough, but he was wearing the top half of his uniform. The doorbell rang. Mr. Mike answered it. Without shock or surprise on his face, Mr. Mike greeted Sheriff Everett and led him into the counselor’s office. Emily figured she had ten minutes left. Ten grueling minutes was all she had to decide which path to run down.
✽✽✽
Flora revisited her early morning conversation with Kevin. He’d detailed the finding of Mario Muggs for her. Of course, no one had known it was Mario Muggs, yet. She’d fallen asleep before processing it all.
She sipped on tea, watching her children play outside. If the body discovered was Mario Muggs, what was Mario doing with Mr. Goldman? How had his body wandered into a garbage can? What were the odds the trash smashers would strike the very night Mr. Goldman wheeled him out to the curb?
Images of Mario’s hand slipping out and terrifying Cordelia popped into the forefront of Flora’s imagination. She pictured an ashen, bluish hand reaching out to grab Cordelia or wave her farewell. The hand never appeared normal. Flora warped it with her thoughts. It held a secret. One that would nibble at her until she uncovered it.
✽✽✽
Lucas’ scowl wasn’t directed toward anyone else. It seared Emily’s skin. She squirmed beneath its pressure as the boys spoke with Ethan Everett, in his office. She could see everything through the office windows.
Lucas’ father, the deacon over benevolence, did most of the lip flapping. His arms moved in rhythm to his agitation. He obfuscated between shoving a finger in Lucas’ face to pointing at the Sheriff.
Braden’s mother sat in a chair, stone-faced and empty of excitation. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone. She seemed to be absent from the room entirely. Her detachment confused Emily and saddened her.
She had no mother to come to her rescue. Mr. Mike sat beside her at the desk as they awaited her child advocate from Lewiston. He said nothing after asking if she was okay and if there was anything he needed to know. Had she been harmed? Did she want to see the Mission nurse? Mr. Mike had been kind and tender with her. No judgment clouded his questions, only pain. He hurt to see his young ward work her way into such a situation. His sweet concern pierced Emily.
She dug into her pocket, in reflex, searching for her cell. Lucas still had it. It wouldn’t have done her much good. Emily wanted to text Ivy to ask her to pray.
The friends weren’t as close as they once had been. However, they had reconciled. She knew, even if Ivy hated her, her friend would always be praying for her. That’s how Ivy was. Lydia was who Emily most wanted beside her.
A sudden tear in her shield ripped Emily’s defenses from top to bottom. She crumbled. Mr. Mike offered a steady hand on her shoulders as comfort. It helped. She needed Lydia to hold her and tell her everything was going to work out, just as she’d done countless times before. That was one relationship she’d burned up and tossed to the breeze. It was gone forever.
Chapter 19
Even in sleep, Lydia felt the lurking presence. At first, her mind protected her with theories of dreams. Perhaps it was Joan. Joan used to wake her up every morning with her face centimeters from Lydia’s. Though the little girl smiled at her mother, Lydia’s conscious mind never caught up with her surroundings. She always startled and on occasion, she’d scream.
When that thought didn’t satisfy the weird sensation, it switched to shadows. Lydia was on a dirty porch with a drunken raging man and could not run fast enough to escape his wrath. Then Lydia was in a field, all alone, suddenly swarmed by bees while a vengeful pair of eyes watched her from a hiding spot nearby. Still not satisfied, a crisp white sheet buried Lydia. Her hand shot out and grabbed for help, but she was wheeled away.
Lydia trembled to wakefulness under the weight of her thoughts. Her eyelids fluttered open and instantly spotted the disturbed Cordelia glaring at her. Lydia played it safe and did not move. Cordelia continued her unblinking observation for another half an hour before she lumbered back upstairs.
Waiting to hear the woman’s weight settle on her bed, Lydia retrieved her phone and called Dr. Lawrence. Her phone buzzed in her grasp before her call connected.
Ethan. She switched the calls over, “Babe?” Her breath rattled through her lungs in chunky uneasy syllables.
“Were you exercising?” Lydia shook her head, though Ethan could not see her. When she didn’t verbalize, worry thickened Ethan’s tone. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”
“Yes and yes and no. I’m okay. Cordelia’s acting strange. She spooked me.” Lydia’s choice of verb made light of the tremors pulsing through her che
st. Lydia was terrified. She didn’t feel she had the right to be so scared. Instead, she worried she was losing her mind. Lydia play-acted calmness, over the phone for Ethan, as best as she could.
“Do you think you can come down to the station?” Lydia checked her breath and recoiled. She felt her hair. It was a hot mess. Her clothes were rumpled and smelled of antiseptic. “There’s someone here who wants to talk with you.” She still did not answer. “I’ve sent Gus to get coffee.”
Her trigger word spoken, Lydia had no more excuses. “Be there as soon as I can.”
✽✽✽
“His finger!” Flora’s announcement startled her nursing baby. Enoch’s hands shot out in reflex, and the mother tucked them back into the blanket with a tender pat. She giggled to herself.
✽✽✽
Mr. Joe took up sentry on Cordelia’s couch. “Dr. Lawrence will be here within the hour. She’s been sleepwalking, but I think she’s okay. I cracked open her door and made certain she was in bed, right before you got here. She’s sleeping.”
Joe nodded. “She’s in shock. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Thanks for being here. I’m sorry to ask you when you’re hurting too.”
Joe squinted. He pulled his casted leg up onto the arm of the couch. He reached for his bag and brought out an old, worn leather Bible. “It gives me some time to catch up with Jesus. Miss Jacqui is amazing, but it’s hard to concentrate while under surveillance. “
Lydia took one last look at her disheveled reflection. She’d sprayed every piece of clothing with fabric deodorizer and gargled with water mixed with peppermint oil. “Some party animal, I am.” She said to her mirrored self.
“Better to be in a house of mourning than of feasting.” Joe paraphrased scripture, dismissing Lydia and causing her stomach to rumble at the mention of feasting. His eyes tracked the noise. “Or not.”