Bead onTrouble

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  I shuddered at the choice of words. "Okay."

  "I'm going for coffee. You want to come along?"

  "Actually, I have something to do. And, Beth, I have some bad news," I said. "Brace yourself."

  "There's more? Green Clover is supposed to be our happy place."

  "This isn't happy. I just talked to Cordy and Tony. This morning, early . ." I couldn't find the words.

  "Yes?"

  "This morning, May was found in the river downstream by some campers. She's dead."

  Beth turned a sickly shade. "How? How did she die?"

  "Nobody knows. I met the sheriff just now, and he says the medical examiner will have to tell them. She could have drowned, or, I guess, died from the fall."

  At this, Beth flushed a bright pink.

  "Are you okay?" I asked.

  "Fine. Personal summer." She put her hand to her throat, maybe to cool her neck. Then she shook her head. "I just, I just . . . I'm speechless."

  I thought I saw worry in her pale eyes. And then I realized the obvious—if Shannan had noticed her father's prolonged absences, Beth must have, too. The question was, did she know Ron was having an affair?

  And did she know it was with May? So, was this news a relief, or additional concern to Beth? And what was she thinking now?

  We stood there, looking at each other, neither of us willing to say what was on our minds. What I really wanted to do was hug her and offer that old line about how everything was going to be fine, but that would be admitting things were wrong.

  "I have to write up an announcement," I finally said.

  "You know, to tell everyone."

  "Oh, sure. That's a good idea." She was pale again.

  "I was going to the dining hall ..

  "I'll meet up with you there. Save me a place. Maybe near the door."

  She turned to carefully climb down the trail. I didn't even hurry this time. Shannan had gotten drunk and, in part, it was my fault because I had ducked my worries through sleep.

  And May Feather was dead. I kept coming back to that like it was brand new—seeing her surprised look, seeing her beautiful hands moving the beads.

  The other thing that kept weaving through my mind was all the convoluted connections people had with her. Shannan, who might be glad May was dead, and Beth who might be if she knew of the affair. And how was May's assistant, Jennifer, taking all this?

  Only thing I could do was take the next right step, and I was pretty sure what that was.

  I slipped inside the Lazy L where it was dim and cool. It took me a minute to see that Shannan was alone on the

  sleeping porch, still curled in a defensive posture, with only her streaky brown hair poking out of the covers. She looked like Beth in her teen years, pretty, a little plump, and so vulnerable beneath that quirky humor, I was sometimes afraid she'd break.

  And now things were going to get worse for Shannan,

  "Shannan. Shannan, honey." I pulled back the covers enough to reveal her face, then stroked her T-shirt covered shoulder,

  "What?" She turned her head so I got a whiff of breath that smelled like vomit. "Tante Kitzi?" It was a soft, sad, little voice.

  "I need you to wake up," I said. "Something happened while you were asleep."

  Her eyes widened, and she raised her head, "Oh. That hurts."

  "I'm son-y, but I understand you deserve it. Are you awake?"

  This time she rolled over completely. "Yes_ Why?"

  "Honey, I have some news, and it might be a shocker.

  Are you ready?"

  "Uh-huh." She still looked half-asleep.

  "Okay, here goes—May Feather died last night. She either fell off a cliff or went into the water some other way, but she's dead."

  Shaman blinked and shook her head, fighting off my words. "Where?"

  "Downriver."

  Shannan's face turned paler, and her red-rimmed eyes widened. "Could it be a mistake? Is there any way—"

  "None," I said. "There's a sheriff here, and he's talking to people, trying to- learn who was close to May. He asked me about the last time I saw her."

  "Oh, no!" She jerked upright, but kept her voice down.

  "Did you tell him what we did last night? Hitting my dad's car?"

  "No. And that has to stay a secret between us."

  If anyone found out, then the affair would be public knowledge. Very public. I didn't care what that did to Ron, but I cared a lot about Beth and Shannan.

  Besides that, my little adventure would be spread around fast.

  The Camdens are hardly the Kennedys, but in Texas we're always good for news. A Camden using a car as a battering ram would interest a lot of reporters. Texas Monthly and the Austin American-Statesman would be all over it. Even the wire services might pick it up. My mother would have a stroke, and my cousin Houston Webber would use it to cause grief for my entire family. He doesn't much like me as it is, since I have the house and changed my last name back to Camden after the divorce. He'd use this as reason to start another legal fight for the house.

  I could just imagine him claiming that I wasn't capable of caring for the Camden Manse, which he considers some kind of national trust. He has no clue how many doors don't close properly, and how much paint has to be replaced yearly, and how the tiles chip or fall off the walls, and how we've dealt with mold and a sinking foundation just because the place is old.

  Even as the thoughts of my family went through my mind, I knew they were nothing compared to how awful this could be for Beth and Shannan.

  "Tante Kitzi, I'm so sorry," Shannan said. "It was all my fault. And if someone finds out . . ."

  "I think we need some kind of story," I said, pretending it didn't bother me to tell her to lie. Problem was, I couldn't see any other way. "I'll bet somebody saw us leave the camp or looked for us while we were gone. We have to tell the truth about that." She nodded agreement with me. 'We can say that you talked to your father on the phone, and he sounded funny, so we went to find him—"

  "No. We can't mention my dad at all," she said. "If we do, then the police might want to talk to him, and they could find out about May and him."

  As a five-year-old Shannan used to beat me at chess.

  She has the kind of mind that sees opportunities and repercussions with every move. If I ever go back into politics, I'm bringing her on staff.

  "You're right," I agreed. "But at some point, we'll have to explain why we left camp and where we went. Maybe if we have an answer, no one will ask." I thought about the problem, but it was Shannan who came up with something.

  She said, "My birthday is coming up, and I would like some beading tools. Needle-nose pliers, some wire cutters, maybe some copper wire; the kind of things we might find at a hardware store. Weldon and Company was the closest one to camp that was open."

  "We didn't buy anything."

  "No," she agreed. "But that's like you. You wanted to shop and see what they had, just to make me happy, but you'd buy from one of the vendors here. You always do that."

  I was surprised that she'd noticed. My grandfather is the one who taught me that you only have one vote on the bal-lot, but you also vote with every penny you spend. If you shop a national chain, you're saying no to a local merchant.

  If you spend your money on candy, then someone will make more of it.

  Shannan was right that I wouldn't take a sale away from the women who came all the way to camp to sell us supplies.

  I nodded. "We went to look at things for your birthday.

  We didn't see your father. Or May."

  "That's right. And I don't think they even knew each other."

  "They've met," I said. I remembered a night when we'd all bad dinner together after an exhibit at the Austin Club.

  "But just barely."

  "Oh. Okay."

  I slid my arm around her shoulder. She was shaking, and it couldn't be from the temperature. "Honey, don't worry, okay? You probably won't have to talk to anyone."

 
I hated that I was putting Shannan in such a bad position.

  "That's not a problem," she said.

  And suddenly I saw scenarios that Shannan had recognized all along. The possibility that her father not only picked May up here, but that he had come back with her and been inside the camp. That perhaps he was with May right before she went into the river. And what if, God for-bid, he had something to do with May's death?

  In which case, Shannan had a great deal more to worry about than a lie or two.

  Eight

  "... some consolation in knowing that her designs will be enjoyed by generations to come."

  Someone once told me that we teach what we need to learn; maybe that's why I'm still training people to speak—because I don't have it mastered completely yet.

  No matter how many techniques I use, I sometimes feel like I miss the magic mark, just a little. I felt especially in-adequate as I faced the women of Green Clover. My words needed to give information, and at the same time heal the hurt that information caused.

  Judging by the faces staring back at me, I wasn't suc-ceeding. Maybe the words weren't in me, but more likely it was going to take time for people to be okay with what had happened. Some people had moist eyes, others were white with shock.

  Up to that point, breakfast had been near normal, but now the joy of Green Clover had evaporated into the air. I noticed a woman at a nearby table wiping a tear off her cheek. I'd heard at a recent meeting that she was just finishing radiation treatment for breast cancer, so being at camp was, for her, like a declaration of life. At least until she got the final test results. Now, I had told her about another tragedy.

  Beth and Cordy, who were sitting near the back door, looked pale. Like everyone else, Cordy used the Craft Retreats to renew her spirits; her dad had passed on just a few months back, and she was still grieving. One more grief.

  I've always heard the term "heavy heart." Lyndon Johnson said it a lot during the Vietnam War, and now I felt it clear through my body. I hadn't been a great friend of May, and I had hated that she'd been having an affair with Beth's husband, but none of those things were punishable by death. May was still one of our community, a piece of us that made the whole. Whatever her flaws, we all had them, and she shouldn't have died.

  Fighting the heaviness inside me, I lifted my chin and went on, "May will be missed by all of us—those who knew and loved her as a friend, and by those of us who learned so much from her as a teacher. Naturally, the demonstration she had scheduled for this afternoon will be canceled—"

  "No, that's wrong." Jennifer, May's assistant jumped up. Her eyes were wide and a little too bright, her lips so pale they were almost white. Her red nail polish was chipped, as if she'd been peeling it off. She looked around at the women, then at me and seemed to shrivel inside her skin. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, it's just that you all know how proud May was of the beautiful work she did." Nods from the women encouraged Jennifer, and she stood a little straighter. "I'd like to do the demonstration for her. As a tribute to May, so people carry on the designs."

  She faltered, her eyes on me. "If you don't mind . ." the young voice trailed off. She looked so unhappy.

  I didn't doubt that May was hard on Jennifer at times, but still they knew each other well, and I was betting this was the first time Jennifer had been faced with a death so close to home. It used to be that we learned about the cy-cle of life and death by watching our grandparents age and pass away, but grandparents are young nowadays. I'm a grandparent, and I'm certainly not ready to die. That first death we experience is always a shock, and I guessed that Jennifer wouldn't get over May's death easily.

  I glanced at Cordy in the back of the room, and she was nodding vigorously.

  "Of course, you should do the demonstration, Jennifer,"

  I said. "The demonstration will be held as planned, and this evening at eight, we'll have a special campfire to honor May Feather. Everyone is invited to attend."

  I took a breath before I finished. "And I'm sorry I had to give you all this terrible news. Cordy and the staff of Green Clover offer their condolences as well."

  Not a cup clattered, and not a fork touched a plate. I stepped from the center of the room. I couldn't look at the sad faces as I walked between the tables, then out the door, careful to close the screen quietly.

  Cordy was right behind me when I reached the path.

  `Thanks, Kitzi. I just couldn't have done it myself, and you said it just right. I appreciate it," she said.

  "You're welcome." I felt a hundred years older and fifty pounds heavier than I had yesterday at this time. Then I'd been buoyant as I got ready for camp.

  I guess I want every meal at Green Clover to end with songs and awards instead of the slumped shoulders I'd seen this morning, The news I'd delivered made everyone look old and worn. I tried to console myself with the fact that at least the retreat would continue and maybe there would be some time to heal.

  "What did you think of Jennifer volunteering to do May's demo?" Cordy asked. "I feel so sorry for that kid. I hope I did the right thing by letting her go ahead with it."

  Beth joined us in time to hear Cordy's remark. Together we started up the path, our steps deliberate and slow.

  "Maybe it will be good therapy for Jennifer," Beth said.

  I nodded agreement.

  Cordy said, "I just hope she does okay. Not that anyone else cares, but Jennifer needs a win."

  She sure looked like she needed one. I nodded, saying, "I hope Jennifer doesn't judge herself by May's standards; May's technique always seemed flawless in the front of the room."

  "It did, didn't it?" Cordy said. "I also think a lot of her popularity came from her way of weaving in legend and stories while she was beading. And she never made a mistake or missed a step!'

  There was a moment of silence before Beth said,

  "May's designs were very good, too:'

  Beth didn't like to talk about other people's designs, but she was honest to a fault.

  I come not to praise Caesar, but to bury him.

  Did Beth know she and May were in competition for the attentions of her husband, as well as the Tivolini contract?

  I couldn't shake the pale image of May's face in my headlights. And Ron's, too.

  I stopped abruptly.

  "What's up?" Cordy asked. She and Beth were both staring at me.

  "Oh, I just, I just keep thinking . ." my words trailed off. "I just want to do some thinking. I need to get away for a few minutes. Would you excuse me? I'll be back in a little bit."

  They nodded in silence, respecting my need for soli-tude. Except I wasn't going to be alone. Someone had to tell Ron that May was dead, and I seemed to be the one to do it. If not, that chore might fall to Beth, and I couldn't let that happen.

  There was road construction on the highway, so the drive to Beth's took me almost thirty minutes. I put the extra time to good use, trying to convince myself that this was some noble effort on my part. A gesture that people like Nelson Mandela or Mother Teresa might make.

  It's like trying to convince yourself that eating a pound of See's candy won't make you gain weight, and I can't lie to myself like that for very long.

  The flaw in the self-talk was that I was going to tell Ron for my own reasons and it wasn't about Ron at all. I was protecting Beth. Austin is too large for May's death to be on a newscast, and Ron wasn't likely to get a paper from the little communities near the camp that would cover the story. Which meant Beth might be the one to break the news to him, and there was no telling how he'd react. I couldn't imagine him in tears, but there was no reason to chance it.

  If I was really honest, I was also protecting myself. If Ron knew who caught him last night, then we needed to get that handled now, before it became an issue with repercus-sions that neither of us wanted. It had to be talked over in private.

  My third reason was the least noble of all. I wanted to see his face when he heard about May. It wasn't quite as mean-spi
rited as it sounded. Mostly I hoped seeing him would help me understand their relationship.

  Reasons aside, when I pulled up in their driveway, I was half-hoping he wasn't home.

  I didn't even get out of the car at first. I just sat there, looking at Beth's house, realizing that I wasn't sure I liked it. It was a two-story, dark redbrick home with a neat circu-lar drive, one tree, and a few straight-arrow boxwood hedges. Nothing was allowed to shed or sprawl, and nothing much flowered, either. I guess flowers could make a mess.

  The place was too antiseptic and stuffy to be Beth's house. When we were in college, we'd talked about where we'd like to live, and Beth had wanted a snow-covered A-frame, or a geodesic dome, or an overgrown English cottage with vines and flowers. This was Ron's idea of a house—a little stately, exceptionally tidy, and boring as hell. It didn't have the curb appeal of a fire hydrant.

  A knock on my window startled me.

  "Are you all right in there?" It was Mrs. Martin, Beth's next-door neighbor—the one who saw all and knew all.

  Ron particularly disliked her because sometimes in the evenings, she and her male friend, Ernie, sat in her driveway on plastic lawn chairs watching the world go by. I don't think Ron objected to the watching so much as he did to the cheap chairs.

  "Ms. Martin, how are you?" I said, cracking the door so she'd move and I could get out of the car.

  "I'm fine, but I'm not the one sitting in a hot car," she said, swinging the door open with vigor.

  "Don't mind me, I was just thinking about something,"

  I said and stepped out. "You know how that happens sometimes."

  "Can't say as I do, but then I'm pretty much on top of things, unlike some people I know." I had no idea which people she was referring to, but I didn't ask, because she went right on. "What are you doing here? Beth is away for the weekend. She's at some bead thing at a kid's camp outside of town. Green Clover, that's it. Won't be back 'til Sunday."