Desperate Measures

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Just counting empties, that’s all. No police state here, I can assure you.”

  “You stayed the night again?” she said.

  “I did. The couch and I are becoming best friends.”

  She turned to look in the direction of the couch and saw Sam for the first time.

  “Is that your dog or is there a bear in my house?”

  “That’s Sam. You met him earlier,” I said.

  “We didn’t exchange names, as I recall,” she said.

  “He doesn’t talk much. Strong silent type.”

  “I’ll bet. He’s got a nice coat. Trained?”

  “You mean does he do tricks or will he soil your white carpet?”

  “I was leaning towards the carpet thing.”

  “Well behaved in that regard. Will not soil carpet or hardwood floors.”

  “Can he do more than just sit there and look pretty?”

  “You wouldn’t believe his capabilities. You want some breakfast?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m famished. Vodka will do that to me, you know.”

  “It would seem that vodka does many things to you,” I said as I served her eggs, bacon, and toast on a plate.

  “I can feel the judgment of your tone and see it in your eyes,” she said.

  “You’re reading too much into my disdain for drinking altogether. I’m not really a teetotaler; I just don’t think it’s a good drug to help avoid the messiness of life.”

  “To each his own, I say. You cope your way and I’ll cope mine.”

  We ate a while in silence. I handed Sam half of my strip of bacon and portion of my toast. He remained close to see if anything else might come his way. Now and then he would look at Duchess. She didn’t look at him.

  After a few cups of coffee, I had the feeling that she was coming around to her usual state of mind once again.

  “So, tell me madam detective, why my ex-husband thought it was in my best interest to know that my daughter was murdered instead of taking her own life?”

  “Can’t answer that.”

  “He’s a bastard, you know.”

  “Perhaps, but he thought you should know the facts.”

  “Facts are painful.”

  “Often.”

  “Do you enjoy telling people painful facts?”

  “Depends on what they are?” I said.

  “I don’t like your facts in this case.”

  “We are in agreement on that. I don’t like what I learned. I don’t like the fact that an innocent young woman was killed for no good reason. I don’t like the fact that other people died because of great stupidity at play in a so-called religious environment. I don’t like much about this whole case or mess, or whatever you want to call it. But what I do like is that I cleared Melody’s name. That’s about all the satisfaction I can glean from this sordid stuff.”

  “She’s dead. There’s no satisfaction in that.”

  “Satisfaction comes from the way in which she is remembered, not the way she died or the reason she died or that she died at all.”

  “You sound as if you have some experience with death and finding answers,” she said.

  “Lost my father when I was eleven.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, and it felt like she meant it. “Tell me where and when the satisfaction came in to play.”

  “I have devoted my life to the lessons he taught me those few years we were together. I help people because that’s what he did with his life. That’s about the extent of any satisfaction I have besides the strong and enduring memories of him.”

  “I don’t mean to diminish what you are saying about your father, but there are only a few people in the world who know of him and know of you. Seems limited.”

  “True enough. Satisfaction doesn’t have to come from widespread knowledge. If I’m the only person in the world who remembers my father and the good he did, then that’s enough for me. I’m all the proof his memory needs. I keep doing what I can.”

  “Interesting philosophy, I must say. And you think this helps me?”

  “Can’t say. I can only offer it. If it helps, then good. If it doesn’t, then I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you find some comfort and peace. I’ll leave the dishes for you to clean up,” I said.

  I took my few personal belongings from the coffee table and headed towards the front door.

  “Oh, detective, thanks for staying with me again,” she said as I walked down the hall. “And for the breakfast.”

  75

  Rosey and I drove to Clancyville from Boston. Sam slept most of the way. Aside from requiring a break now and then for nature’s call, Sam was the perfect passenger.

  My hometown was the obvious stop for us. Besides needing to pick up Rosey’s Jaguar, I wanted to see my mother. I also wanted to find out the latest chapter in the ongoing saga of the Clancyville Baptist Church. With my history of life inside a church house of ornery people, there had to be some development during the time I had been finishing up in Weston and Boston.

  It was late afternoon when we arrived. Fall was definitely in the air. A few trees were already showing signs of color. One or two had given up some dead leaves scattered around my mother’s yard. Other leaves were hanging on for dear life.

  “The prodigal daughter returns,” my mother said as we entered through the backdoor.

  “I thought it was a come and go affair once I turned forty,” I said.

  “Always with the mouth,” she said, more to the others in the room than to me. Ginny Mae was doing some early supper prep at the kitchen sink. Rosey was heading towards the stairs with our luggage. Sam was drinking some water out of the dish Ginny had placed on the floor for him.

  Ginny turned and looked in my direction. I smiled at her.

  “I have some work to do upstairs,” she said and excused herself from the remaining participants. Sam trotted over to the backdoor, nosed his way outside by pushing on the screen door, and left us alone.

  I walked over and hugged my mother.

  “What’s that for?” she said to me.

  “I missed you.”

  “I don’t do the feely, touchy stuff, as you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. Still, I’ve had a difficult case all in all. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate all that you did for me while we lived together.”

  “You always have difficult cases. Why was this so meaningful for you?” she said.

  “People who should have known better turned their backs on a young woman and she paid the ultimate price for their lack of concern.”

  “So this is you thanking me for not turning my back on you?”

  “This is me acknowledging that I had good parents. I haven’t always given you the credit you deserve for guiding me along.”

  “Playing second fiddle to a ghost was not easy,” she said.

  My eyes widened noticeably and I must have raised my eyebrows when she looked at me.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it came out,” she said before I could say anything.

  “I understand. You just surprised me.”

  “I loved your father dearly and you have no idea how much I miss him. Still, it has been hard being your mother in his shadow.”

  “I have some responsibility for that,” I said as a confession. “You and I have not always gee-hawed about life and work. You haven’t really admired the kind of work I chose.”

  “Your work scares me to death. I don’t want you to end up like Bill Evans, bleeding from fatal wounds in your driveway or some place else on this earth. I hate your work. I hate your job. I hate the fact that you feel that this is what you’re meant to do. You scare me to death,” she said and walked over to the sink and stared out the window.

  “My work scares you and I scare you. Both?” I said.

  “Turn my hand over for the difference. Nearly one and the same. You’re just like your father. Your job and your person, they blend, they mesh, and they get all messed up together so that it is i
mpossible to separate them. So, yes, you and your job scare the hell out of me.”

  “I can’t apologize for my work,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t expect that to come out.”

  “And … hard to apologize for who I am.”

  “I get that. Just …,” she stopped.

  “But, I could be … I don’t know, mother. I owe you and I think I could have shown my gratitude in better ways through the years.”

  “You asking for my forgiveness?” she said.

  “I suppose I am. Or I am finally getting around to saying thank you to you for taking such good care of me and showing me the care and love you did. I could have turned out differently if you had been a different kind of mother.”

  She turned around and faced me. A tear was running down her right cheek and she wiped it quickly.

  “So you’re now blaming me for the profession you chose,” she tried to laugh but it sounded forced. Actually, I think she was warding off more tears.

  “Yeah, I guess I am. You and dad were complicit in that. Your values mixed up well with his.”

  “Damn you,” she said and walked over to me and hugged me.

  We stood there in each other’s arms, holding each other tightly for a minute or so. Ambivalence was rampant within me. I felt strange. I felt joy. It is never easy to learn that one’s parents are humans after all. Inside information is not always pleasant, especially when it is about someone close. But then again, information can lead to knowledge and knowledge can lead to growth. Still, growth can be painful. Like death.

  We separated and there was that awkward moment that manifests itself between two people who are struggling to find the road back from wherever it has taken them.

  “Tell me about the church,” I said as I moved slowly to the table and sat down.

  “You want some coffee?” she said.

  “That’d be good.”

  “The church. I suppose you mean the latest in the saga of religion in rural America,” she said as she poured two cups.

  “Yeah. What’s happening? Did Reverend Stoddard stay after the board acknowledged their mistakes?”

  Rachel sat down next to me. We both sipped our coffee.

  “Well, to his credit, Reverend Stoddard forgave the board but he also said it was best that he leave. So, he and his family moved out. We’re looking for a new pastor. Did you find any up north that might fit the bill here in the south?” she said.

  I shook my head and drank the coffee.

  “I didn’t come across any that caused me to desire a more intimate acquaintance with them; but then, I wasn’t in Massachusetts looking for a preacher.”

  “Well, let me tell you about Jessica Thompson, the latest,” she said.

  “Is this gossip, mother?”

  “Yes, and it’s rather juicy,” she grinned and proceeded to tell me what Jessica had recently discovered about herself.

  About the Author

  M Glenn Graves has been writing fiction since graduating from college in 1970 but did not begin to work on novels until 1992. Born in Mississippi, he has lived in Tennessee, North Carolina, Missouri, Virginia, Costa Rica, and the Dominican Republic. He graduated from Mars Hill College with a BA in English and Religion. He received a Master of Divinity in 1977 three years after he finished his four year tour in the United States Navy. Married to Cindy, they have three grown children – Brian, Mark, & Jenn. They also have three grandchildren – Jonathan, Matthew, & Phoebe. Glenn, Cindy, and Sophie, their Lab, currently reside in the mountains of western North Carolina where he is the pastor of a local church.