by Leanna Ellis
Mother is pouring tea into her fancy teacups. She’s regained her composure and cares enough about what Mr. Boyle thinks not to use Dad’s bass fishing coffee cup to serve her gentleman caller. Her ex-husband.
Mike’s gaze lands on Mr. Boyle who is sitting at the kitchen table. “Oh, hello,” he says, giving a nod toward the older gentleman. “I’m Mike Mullins.”
“Nice to know you. Cal Henry Boyle.”
If I’d had time to process this latest wave of chaos, I might be worried how awkward it will be with Mike, or how disconcerting it is to learn my mother was married before, or that her ex-husband provided the rent-a-hearse service to haul her current husband’s empty casket. But immediate trouble has a way of taking precedence. I can see trouble written all over Mike’s anxious features. Trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with D, which probably stands for Daddy. After all, what else could be causing trouble at the dance hall but Dad’s casket? Or the arrival of the corpse?
I grab my purse. “Does Mother need to come?”
“Might be best if she didn’t.”
“What do you mean by that?” Mother sets the teapot on the table and props her hands on her hips. “If it concerns your father, then I’m coming.”
“Mother, tell Oliver we’ll be back.”
“But what about tea?” Mother holds an empty cup and saucer.
I’m not sure it’s the best idea to leave Mother alone with a suitor, an ex husband. But at least Oliver is there to chaperone.
Then I see the sheriff’s waiting SUV. Suddenly, my feet drag the ground.
“Is that how you got home?”
“Yeah.” Mike’s tugging on my arm so I’ll walk faster.
“I’m sorry I left you.” Reluctant to see Drew, to get into the sheriff’s car again, I stop only a couple feet away from the SUV.
“Suzanne,” Mike puts a hand at my elbow, “I’m fine. I’m a big boy.”
“But—”
Then Mike explains the emergency at the dance hall.
One minute later lights flash and sirens blare.
“Mrs. Hoover was snooping around.” Drew’s features pull downward into a professional frown.
“Sounds like her.” I make a grab for the door handle and remember to fasten my seat belt when I almost slide across the bench seat.
“Whose body could be in the casket?” The sheriff’s question sounds rhetorical. The obvious answer is my father, but I know he’s not there and that’s not the question.
“I don’t understand the fuss.” I try to put a calm face on this situation. “Isn’t there supposed to be a body there?” I say, as if it needs an explanation. Maybe it does. I’m starting to get confused myself. Isn’t that a good enough reason not to lie? Because in keeping track of all the stories, all the threads become like a spider’s sticky silk, jutting first this way then that and eventually trapping you in your own lies.
What if there is a body in the casket? What if Daddy’s body is in the casket? The thought panics me. But then Mrs. Hoover wouldn’t have run screaming; she would have expected to see Daddy’s body. Still, I reach for my cell phone to call Daddy and make sure he’s all right.
“If your father isn’t there and another body is, then that makes two mysteries.” Drew glances in the rearview mirror at me, his blue eyes steady even as the SUV weaves and bumps along the road. “Two crimes.” The ominous tone of his voice sends chills down my spine.
“Who are you calling?” Mike cranes his neck to look back at me.
I lean way back in the seat to make the call as inconspicuous as possible. “Uh, Oliver. I forgot to tell him we were leaving.”
“Hello?” Daddy’s voice booms in my ear.
“Hi.” I refrain from saying his name. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. You?”
“Oh sure. I just wanted to let you know where we are.”
“Okay.” Dad doesn’t sound particularly thrilled to hear from me. “Where are you?”
“On our way to the dance hall. We’ll be back at the house in a little bit.”
“Okay. There some reason you want me to know this?”
“Just in case you missed us.”
“I’m not coming to the house, Sugar Beet.”
“I know.” There’s a pause. I sense the sheriff and my husband listening from the front seat. “Okay, well, that’s all.”
“Okay.”
I click off the phone. Mike winks at me. He understands. I breathe a little easier knowing my father is okay. But my heart still hammers away at the possibility that someone else may not be.
“Who was that at the house?” Mike’s question startles me.
I shove the cell phone back in my purse. The SUV bounces and my knees knock the metal cage. “You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Cal Henry Boyle.”
“That’s what he said. But who’s that?”
“Mother’s ex-husband.”
He looks at me then. So does Drew. The SUV veers out of its lane and the sheriff jerks his attention back to the roadway. But Mike still stares at me. “You’re kidding, right?”
“He … uh …” I decide to edit the real story into a bite-size chunk that’s consumable for all in the SUV. “He read Daddy’s obituary in the paper this morning. Apparently it was in the San Marcos and Austin papers as well. He thought he’d come over and check out the new widow. Seems he’s been harboring a love for Mother all these years.”
“She was married to someone else? Did you know that?”
“Nope. I’m not sure anyone did.”
“So if she was divorced before, then why all the fuss …” Mike’s brow furrows and I understand his unspoken question. Why is Mother putting up such a stink about another divorce?
“Well, they weren’t actually divorced.” It’s not easy sorting the facts as Mother explained them to me while she boiled water for tea. “Their marriage was annulled. Her parents insisted on it. You see, Cal Henry wasn’t of age. It caused quite a stir in their little town. Very embarrassing for Mother and her parents. No decent girl would chase after a younger man. And a seventeen-year-old boy can’t earn enough money to support a wife. Of course, Mother was only a year older, but you know how rumors exaggerate the truth, make things out to be much worse than they are. So to save face, Mother was shipped off to Killeen to stay with relatives.”
“Very controlling of her parents.” Mike’s tone is pencil thin but heavy as lead.
I begin to wonder if the need for control is a genetic trait handed down from generation to generation, from mother to daughter. So Mother’s parents controlled her life with an iron hand, and she controlled mine. Or tried to. Do I now exhibit the same controlling behavior? Have I inherited Mother’s ways? Buck teeth would have been preferable.
Drew turns the SUV on the highway that runs past Luckenbach. “What about your dad?”
“That’s where she met dad. He was stationed in Killeen. He’d joined the army. Mother fell in love, and that was that. Poor Cal Henry was left behind.”
The SUV slows and I brace a hand against the metal cage. The tires screech as Drew pulls to a stop in the community parking lot near the dance hall. It’s a slow day in Luckenbach, but a few tourists wander around among the roosters and chickens. Drew’s out of the car before I can dislodge myself.
“Let’s go,” he says, “and see if I’ve got a murder investigation on my hands.”
I mentally note that Mother would be his number-one suspect. And Mike and I would be accessories.
* * *
MRS. HOOVER’S SNUFFLED tears echo in the rafters of the dance hall. A couple of the windows have been propped open for air circulation. Through the open doorway, I see the casket. It’s still on the table up on the stage where we placed it earlier. There wasn’t a dead body when it flipped over or when it crashed in the hearse, so if there is one now then it’s what you might call fresh. I cringe at the thought.
Drew walks right past everyone lingering out
side the doorway—Pastor Reese, Mrs. Hoover, the bartender and store manager, and a few tourists who no doubt heard the commotion. Mike and I follow, giving nods of greeting.
Acting as Drew’s deputy, my husband pauses and waves everyone back. “Let’s vacate the dance hall.”
When the door is closed, Pastor Reese joins us in front of the casket. Sprays of flowers and potted plants have been delivered, filling the hall with a sweet aroma. But lurking just outside is a horrible stench of deceit.
“Did you want to talk to Mrs. Hoover?” Pastor Reese jams his hands in his front jean pockets.
“Not now.” Drew climbs up on the stage.
“But she’s waiting.”
Drew doesn’t answer.
“She just went berserk.” The pastor points at Mrs. Hoover with his thumb. “Started screeching there was a dead body in there. Of course there is. I don’t know what else she expected to find in a casket. But she said it was the wrong body. So we called the sheriff’s office. You think the funeral home made some kind of mistake? I’ve heard of things like that happenin’.”
Pastor Reese looks toward Mike. “But wait a minute. That can’t be. When the casket flipped over the other day, and you righted it, Mr. Mullins. Was the right body in there?”
Mike gives the question some thought. Drew is watching him. I feel sweat run down along my spine.
Slowly, confidently, Mike says, “Everything was as it should be.”
“Well then, that’s good. We’ve locked the place every night. Didn’t want no vandals.” Pastor Reese shakes his head. “Just don’t see how something like that could happen. It’ll be terrible if Mrs. Davidson finds out.”
Drew steps up on the stage, carefully examining the area around the casket. “The casket was closed then since it arrived?”
We all stand there staring at the casket as if it were a zoo exhibit.
“Mrs. Hoover was snooping around,” Brother Reese confides in a low voice, “wanting to get a peek at Archie. Mrs. Davidson insisted it be a closed-casket funeral, which was understandable with the blunt trauma her husband took. But you know Mrs. Hoover.”
“So is there a body?”
“I don’t know.” Pastor Reese’s brow lifts toward his do-rag. “I didn’t look. Apparently, Mrs. Hoover slammed it down and ran.”
“You might want to stand over there.” Drew tilts his head toward a table and bench that are far enough away not to offer a direct view of the insides of the casket.
My heart hammers, and I grip Mike’s arm. Did Mother go over the edge? If she did, then I’m responsible too. After all, I didn’t do anything to stop her. And I’ve been thinking she’s only delusional. More like diabolical.
“Maybe we should talk to Mrs. Hoover first,” I say, stalling, knowing we could find only an empty tomb, so to speak, and then there will be a lot of explaining to do. Or what if there is a body? A real body? This one wouldn’t have the luxury of being embalmed. This, I remind myself, isn’t some television episode. This is real. With real blood. Real murder. Real death.
Drew stops before his hand touches the casket. He looks at me. “I don’t deal with hysterical females.”
“But Mrs. Hoover might be able to tell us more.”
“This will tell us all we need to know.” He reaches out to lift the casket, looks back at me. “You’re not going to start screaming, are you? If so …” He tilts his head, indicating Mike should escort me out.
My spine stiffens, as does my resolve. “I’m fine.”
Mike grins at me, reminding me with his jeans and boots and shaved head of Butch Cassidy and his cavalier attitude.
Drew turns back to the coffin, and the muscles along his shoulders bunch as he checks the bolt. “Unlocked.” He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket.
“You’re not going to scream?” My voice causes Drew’s hand to pause midair. “Are you?”
He ignores me. But Mike whispers, “Watch out.”
“I’ll go check on Mrs. Hoover.” Pastor Reese walks hurriedly toward the entrance door, leaving only the three of us. A moment later we hear the th-thunk of the doors closing.
Drew uses the handkerchief so that his hands don’t actually come in contact with the casket. “Fingerprints,” he explains.
He doesn’t want to destroy evidence. For a trial. Our trial? Or Mother’s? For fraud and libel? Or murder?
Drew pushes the lid of the casket upward. Even from a few feet away, I can see there’s a body, a pale profile with a waxy-looking nose. My knees weaken, and I plop down onto the nearest bench.
“What has Mother done?” I whisper.
Mike puts a hand on my shoulder. I’m not sure if it’s to comfort or to silence me before I incriminate my own mother.
Then it sounds like Drew is laughing. My head jerks up. A rumbling sound drifts toward us. I realize it’s not Drew but the body.
Standing I step forward with Mike. Inside the satin-lined casket, my father’s best friend, Flipper, lies there, eyes closed, hands clasped upon his chest, mouth open. He snores almost as loud as my father does.
“Oh, poor Flipper.” I reach out and touch his very warm arm.
“He’s been upset about your father. Started drinking again.” Drew extracts an empty bottle from beside the very live corpse.
“You can’t blame him,” I say. But I can blame my mother for this.
“I don’t plan on it. But—” he looks like he intends to blame someone—“this explains the body. It doesn’t explain the missing one.” Then he looks right at me. “And I know your father is not dead.”
Mike is nonplussed. “Do a search online?”
“I saw Archie’s truck parked at the Old Hockheim Inn. I called over to Austin PD to check on Mrs. D’s story. There was no reported wreck. No body to transport. So I figure these ghost stories are really Archie, walking and talking to his neighbors. Except they think he’s dead. That about right?”
“About sums it up.” Mike shrugs.
“You want to explain?” Drew glances from Mike to me, while leaning an elbow on the open casket.
“Mother.”
Drew’s eyebrows lift.
“Daddy left her. She decided she liked the idea of being a widow, not a divorcee.”
“I see. So you’ve been harboring this information. Protecting your mother?”
“And Daddy too. Trying to get them back together. Without embarrassing them or …” It seems impossible to explain. “What are you going to do about this? About Mrs. Hoover?”
* * *
“MRS. HOOVER?” THE sheriff startles her.
She looks up from her soggy handkerchief, her eyes rimmed in red, her lipstick smeared. She’s sitting at a picnic table under the shade of a large oak. “Was he d–dead?”
Mike and I stand just off to the side. Far enough not to intrude. Or laugh. But close enough to hear everything.
“No.” Drew kneels down next to her.
“So where is Archie’s body?” Her question sounds more like that of a reporter than a hysterical witness.
“Don’t you worry about that.” He touches her elbow, helps her stand, and starts moving her toward the parking lot. “Now I want you to go on home. Don’t worry about anything here. I’m not going to file charges against you.”
“What?” She stops dead in her tracks, sways slightly. A rooster crows nearby. “Me? What on earth for?”
“Like I said, I don’t plan on filing any charges. That is, if you do as I say and go on home.”
Lickety-split, Mrs. Hoover scuttles away before we can say good-bye.
“That’ll give her something else to think about for a few minutes.” Drew winks at us both. “Now,” he rests his palm against the handle of his revolver, “I’d like you and the delinquents responsible for this mess in my office in one hour.”
He glances over at Pastor Reese. “You too, Reverend. We can use your help. Let’s get this cleared up.”
“I don’t think Mother will be willing—”
“Get them to my office,” Drew interrupts, his expression stern. He glances at his watch. “Be there by four o’clock, or I’ll arrest them both.”
With the pastor handy, I suppose we can either remarry them or bury them both.
22
We stand on the front porch of my mother’s house. Mr. Boyle’s Cadillac is still parked out front. Drew’s SUV rumbles back down the driveway. I have to go inside and convince Mother to go with me to discuss this situation with the authorities.
“I’ll see you at the sheriff’s office.” I reach for the door.
Mike puts his hand on my arm. I look at his fingers circling my wrist, holding me. Then my gaze travels to his face. I read regret and pain.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Words collide in my throat. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry about all this.”
“It’s not your fault. Mother—”
“Not that.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. “It was really my fault.”
“We need to talk some more.”
“Are you ready to tell me what Josie said? Or why you were in a hotel room with her?”
“As soon as possible.” He rubs the palms of his hands against my arms as if trying to warm me. Smiling that smile that has always worked its charms on me, he says, “You’re not planning something like your mother, are you?”
“You mean to kill you off?” I attempt a laugh but can’t quite. None of this is funny. “No. I wouldn’t do that. Don’t you trust me?”
“Yes, I do. Do you know that I would never—”
I put my finger to his lips. I can’t bear to hear him say it.
Reluctantly I pull my hand back. Feel his touch, insistent, on my arm still. I glance down. His fingers are tan and strong, and my flesh looks weak. I wish for the security of his arms to hold me together, yet I’m not sure his embrace offers security anymore. This isn’t about his fidelity; it’s about mine. But I can’t explain that to him.
Slowly I push beyond his touch, move forward, opening the door and entering Mother’s house. My legs feel wobbly.