Covenant

by Ann McMan

  “I am now.” Roma Jean told her. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and used it to gently sop up some of the blood. “Thank you, Miss Glenadine, for saving my life.”

  “He had no call to do what he did to you. Violence like that ain’t never what the Lord wants. It’s not His way. I’m real sorry about comin’ up here with him. It was wrong. He ain’t the man I thought he was.”

  “Don’t you worry about me, okay? Let’s get you inside and get some ice on that lip.”

  Roma Jean helped the small woman stand up. She knew they’d both be sporting bruises from head to toe tomorrow. She was sure about one thing: once Byron got finished with Manfred Davis, he wouldn’t be dispensing his rogue form of divine justice on anyone for a long time to come.

  They slowly made their way to Charlie’s small porch.

  That was when they heard the blare of another siren, and a third cruiser screeched to a halt out front.

  Roma Jean recognized this one.

  Charlie had arrived.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  It was starting to get dark when David arrived in Fries. It always amazed him how most of these small towns seemed to roll up and go into hiding once the daylight faded. Even the smattering of storefront businesses that struggled to keep going pretty much closed down at five o’clock. Only a few people continued to live in the cookie-cutter mill houses that lined the narrow streets, hugging the hillside above the river. They all disappeared at night, too—heading inside to watch game shows or Fox News while they ate supper off metal trays in front of their TVs.

  Growing up, he remembered how the old cotton mill in town had been a hive of activity, and its big parking lot was always filled with cars. He and Maddie would sometimes come over here after school with Beau and a couple of other kids whose fathers worked at the mill. They’d all get Cokes at the market on Main Street, and dare each other to hike out across the old Bedford Dam that harnessed river water to power the looms in the mill.

  Now the place was little more than a ghost town.

  But Gladys still lived here—alone in the same house she and her husband bought from the mill back in the early ’70s.

  David could see the lights burning in Gladys’s front room, although her curtains were closed tight.

  He hoped she wouldn’t greet him at the door with her squirrel gun . . .

  He parked in front of her house and walked to her side door to knock. Nobody in the county ever used their front doors—not unless they were selling something or were there to witness for Christ.

  After he knocked, Gladys’s porch light blazed to life. He saw her peek at him from behind a gauzy curtain before she unlocked the door and stood blinking down at him with confusion.

  “Hi, Gladys. I know it’s late, but I was hoping I could talk with you for a minute. I promise not to keep you very long.” She continued to eye him with a wary expression, so he hastily added, “I just wanted to thank you for helping me out with the whole cemetery thing.”

  She unlocked her screen door and stepped back so he could enter her small kitchen.

  “I didn’t tell him much,” she said, once he was inside. “Bert and Sonny saw that damage, and he come out here askin’ about that headstone and wantin’ to know if I saw anything. He know’d I was out there doin’ flowers for the 4th.”

  “It’s okay, Gladys. You did right telling him the truth.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. I hope you ain’t in no trouble . . . I told him it was your right to do what you needed to out there—you wasn’t hurtin’ nobody.”

  “I’m not in any trouble,” David assured her. “Except for maybe what I did to that angel statue. But I’ll make that right. It’s not a problem at all.”

  “I was only out there after the picnic because I left my good shears out there—them ones John got me that have the big handles. I didn’t wanna lose those. They’re just about the only ones I can use with my arthritis.”

  “It’s lucky for me you were there, Gladys. The fact that you saw me saved me from a whole heap of trouble.” Gladys looked unsure about David’s meaning. “Everybody knows I had a fight with the mayor right before he got . . . before he died. After he pushed me into that food table, I kind of freaked out and took off. Nobody knew where I went, and I couldn’t prove that I wasn’t there when Watson died. You seeing me at the cemetery—even though I was outta my head—really saved me. I came here to thank you.”

  Gladys seemed embarrassed. “I didn’t do much.”

  “That’s not true. Byron told me you even offered to pay for the damage I caused. I can’t tell you how much that meant to me, Gladys. And I want you to know how sorry I am that I scared you that day. I wish I hadn’t done that. It wasn’t right.”

  “Don’t you worry none about that. Your daddy did you wrong, and you had every right to be mad at him. He had no call to treat you the way he did. He wadn’t a good man. I always knew that.”

  “No, ma’am,” David agreed. “No, ma’am, he wasn’t.”

  “Have you had supper yet? Are you hungry?”

  David knew Gladys wanted to move on. “I did eat before I came out here. But thank you.” He gestured toward the bags of decorations on her kitchen table. “Byron said you were working on the Veterans Day decorations. How far along are you?”

  “Not very far. I can only tie a few of them bows at a time. My hands is too bad.”

  “What are you watching on TV tonight?”

  Gladys turned her head toward the living room, where there were sounds of cheering and clapping.

  “Wheel of Fortune is on right now. But it’s almost over.”

  “What’s on next?”

  “Dancing with the Stars.”

  “I love that show!” David exclaimed. “How about I watch it with you and maybe tie some of these bows while we’re sitting there? We can critique all the outfits.”

  Gladys only took a moment before accepting his offer. She collected the bags of ribbon and florist wire, and handed them to him.

  “Do you want some ice tea?”

  David said he’d love some, and carried the two bags into her living room.

  Chapter Ten

  Recorded Interview

  Preliminary Inquest Investigation

  Death of Mayor Gerald Watson

  “My full name is David Arthur Jenkins. I’m the acting mayor of Jericho, and I run the Riverside Inn with my partner, Michael Robertson. No, sir. I don’t have any siblings. My father is deceased and my mother now lives in Gulfport, Florida. She’d been a teacher here in Jericho until she retired, about two years ago.”

  I feel like such an idiot for putting this off so long. I’m lucky they didn’t arrest me for being stupid.

  “That’s right. Mr. Watson and I were supposed to have a debate that day at the picnic. It was scheduled to end right before the fireworks. That’s when he showed up by the dessert tables and went after me for talking to his daughter. He was acting like a total lunatic, too.”

  Are they going to want me to tell them what he accused me of? How he accused all of us of polluting the community with our perverted lifestyles? Do they need that much detail?

  “He said I was an evil influence on his daughter and he wanted me to stay away from her. Then he launched into a tirade where he pretty much lashed out at everyone in town he disapproved of—me in particular. He said he’d refuse to debate me because it would sully the dignity of the office. That’s when he shoved me into the dessert table and everything got knocked over. It was during that pandemonium that he grabbed Dorothy by the arm and dragged her off.”

  We all just stood there and let him do it, too. We all stood by and watched while he took that little girl off to . . . to do god knows what. If there’s any guilt to be had, it belongs to all of us for not protecting her—especially after we all saw what he was, and how terrified she was when he hauled her away. I won’t ever forget that look in her eyes. It was like standing in front of a mirror.

  “No. I did not follo
w him, and I don’t know anyone else who did, either. I got up and left so I could calm down and try to get my head together. Yes, sir, I did leave the park. I went to the cemetery to see my father’s grave. I guess I was gone about an hour or so. I got back in time to help Michael and Nadine finish clearing the food away. That was right before the fireworks started. No. We didn’t stay. Michael and I were still too upset about what had happened with Watson and the debate. We packed up our things and went home.”

  I wonder if they know about the cemetery and the damage I did to those graves? Maybe I should tell them I already said I’d pay to repair that bronze angel statue . . .

  “We found out about what happened at the river after we got home. Nadine Odell called to tell us. We didn’t go back out there—Michael said we’d just be in the way. The only thing we worried about was what would happen to Dorothy—who’d take care of her that night. We were going to offer to keep her with us at the inn, but Nadine said she was going to go home with Dr. Heller. She’s Dr. Stevenson’s mother. She had been giving Dorothy piano lessons and they’d become friends. Michael and I knew that Dr. Heller’s was a safe place for Dorothy to be. We were glad that worked out. The whole thing was horrible, and we all knew the real nightmare was just beginning.”

  I don’t know why they didn’t ask me about Gladys… I wonder if Byron already told them? Why else would they be taking me at my word for where I went when I ran off?

  “I honestly don’t know what I’ll do at this point. Eventually, there’ll be a formal election to replace Watson as mayor. I only agreed to do this on a temporary basis because none of the council members wanted the job. To tell the truth, I think I’ll be a lot happier sticking to what I know, and helping my partner run our business. Watson cast a long shadow in this community, and it’s going to take years to be rid of the stench he left behind.”

  And for people like Dorothy, it’ll take a lifetime.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Maddie arrived at her clinic on Tuesday morning to be greeted by two pieces of breaking news.

  The first revealed itself when Peggy told her with a raised eyebrow that Lizzy and Avi had both called in to say they were running late. Maddie wasn’t too sure what suspect variables Peggy had added together to arrive at her implied suggestion that the two of them were off together someplace, “playing hooky”—but she knew she’d be a lot better off not asking. Satisfied that neither of them would need to have any appointments covered or canceled, she told Peggy it was fine, and retreated to the safety of her office.

  She stopped by the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, and ducked across the hall to take a peek at the new clinic library.

  Avi had made a lot of progress. The space actually looked pretty good. She’d even put some kind of woven cloth on top of Maddie’s wine fridge, and had placed two pretty nice pieces of hand-thrown pottery on top of it. They looked like a couple of the Jugtown vases from the waiting room.

  Syd was still griping at Maddie to bring the damn fridge back home. She had told her she would, just as soon as she could figure out a good place to hide it from David. The problem was, she was running out of hiding places. Maybe she should ask Michael if she could stash the bottles in their own damn wine fridge at the inn?

  That’d be the last place he’d ever look . . .

  She got the second piece of breaking news when she sat down at her desk and booted up her computer.

  The district medical examiner in Roanoke had completed Gerald Watson’s autopsy, and had sent copies of the report to her and to Byron Martin.

  Here we go, she thought as she waited for the attachment to download.

  The first thing she did after opening the file was scroll to the section detailing the conclusions reached about Watson’s cause of death.

  Primary Cause of Death

  a. Laryngospasm

  b. Asphyxiation

  Other Significant conditions contributing to death, but not resulting in it/underlying causes

  Chronic alcoholism, enlarged liver, smoking, blunt force trauma.

  Manner of Death: Accident

  Primary Cause of Death:

  a. Acute Intoxication

  b. Ataxia

  c. cute respiratory distress syndrome

  Maddie closed her eyes and felt the surge of relief she’d hoped for, but had believed unlikely.

  Then she read the full autopsy report.

  Watson’s blood alcohol level at the time the autopsy had been performed was .23, which meant that at his actual time of death, he’d been well beyond the legal limit for intoxication. He also had dangerously high cholesterol levels and signs of liver damage consistent with late-stage cirrhosis. There was evidence that he’d suffered two head traumas prior to death, showing signs of cerebral contusion limited to soft tissues and bone. Watson’s brain showed no signs of epidural or subdural hemorrhage, although minor swelling was noted. There was also evidence of an indirect orbital floor fracture of the right eye.

  The ME went on to cite the presence of small stones and vegetation clenched in the subject’s hands and beneath some of his fingernails, further suggesting that Watson had been conscious before entering the shallow water.

  In summary, Watson was an advanced alcoholic—based on examinations of his esophagus, heart, and fatty liver—who was legally drunk at the time of death. The head injuries he sustained weren’t severe enough to kill him, but his alcoholism led to obstructive laryngospasm and consequent respiratory arrest, resulting in the onset of sudden death.

  Watson’s death had officially been ruled an accident.

  Maddie sat back and removed her reading glasses. This was a surreal outcome. Although she’d known about the phenomenon of laryngospasm, she’d never encountered a single case of it in all her years of practice. She wondered if her mother had? She’d be sure to ask her about it, once they could discuss all of this in greater detail.

  The good news was that Watson had not been murdered—by anyone. Maybe now, the town could begin to heal.

  Her phone buzzed. Peggy told her Sheriff Martin was on the line. No doubt, Byron had just read the report, too.

  “Did you read it?” he asked as soon as Maddie answered.

  “Yes. I just finished.”

  “So, tell me if I’m reading this thing right.”

  “If by that, you mean the report says they found no evidence that Watson was murdered, you’d be correct.”

  Byron blew out a breath. “Jesus H. Christ.”

  “Yeah. Looks like we all dodged a huge bullet on this one.”

  “No kidding. I can’t even imagine what this will mean to Dorothy—not to mention half the other people in this town.”

  “I know,” Maddie agreed. “I guess we’ll have to pray it’s enough evidence to free Dorothy from believing she killed her father.”

  “Yeah. Do you think it’s all right for me to tell Celine?”

  Maddie thought about it. “It probably is. But you might want to give it twenty-four hours, just to allow time for due process. I’d guess this will allow the inquest team to wrap up their interviews pretty quickly and the word will get out soon enough.”

  “Okay. Fair enough. By the way, what the hell is laryngospasm?”

  “It’s a spasm of the larynx that cuts off an individual’s air supply. Under these circumstances, we’d probably call it ‘dry drowning.’ There was no water found in Watson’s lungs, meaning he didn’t die from being face down in the water. The laryngospasm he suffered could’ve occurred at any time—it just unhappily occurred that day.”

  “Is that a common thing?” he asked.

  “No. It’s extremely rare, in fact.”

  “Damn . . .” He absorbed what Maddie had explained. “Kind of hard not to see the hand of providence in this one. We’re sure gonna have a lot to celebrate once everybody finds out about this.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Hey,” she got an idea, “I know you and Mom are dropping Dorothy off later for tacos—why don’t you just stay
and join us? It’ll be intimate . . . just our usual cast of thousands.”

  “I don’t see why not. Let me ask Celine.”

  “Fantastic. I’ve got a couple bottles of great wine I’ve been hiding here at the office. I’ll bring them home tonight. Even if nobody else knows the reason, you and I can celebrate.”

  “Maddie? Why in hell are you hiding wine at your office?”

  “It’s a long story, Byron. I’ll tell you tonight.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Celine had been in her studio, thinking through some new musical selections that might be right for Dorothy. Already, the girl’s musical vocabulary had expanded beyond rudimentary methods to school her in keyboard patterns of scales, arpeggios, and chords. A mastery of that basic keyboard vocabulary was rightly considered essential to play and interpret repertoire—and Celine believed that Dorothy had now advanced beyond that intermediate point, and was ready to tackle a more standard piano repertoire—like the sonata she’d been wrestling with.

  She believed that etudes, in particular, would be especially appealing to Dorothy, since they were generally built upon repeating patterns that, once established, expanded to introduce quick changes and shifts—all designed to increase the performer’s flexibility and coordination.

  She’d finally decided on two etudes written by Viennese composer Carl Czerny—who had always been one of her mother’s stalwarts. Czerny, as her mother had declared, provided an essential introduction to the work of Beethoven, who Celine knew was rapidly becoming one of Dorothy’s favorites.

  “Du musst gehen, bevor du rennst, Tochter.” You must walk, before you can run.

  Celine had only been ten years old when her mother sat her down to teach her the first Czerny etude of many.

  She wondered if she still could play it from memory?

  She was halfway through Op. 261, No. 13 when she realized Dorothy had arrived home from school. The girl stood just inside the doorway to the studio, listening—but being careful not to intrude.

  “Hi there.” Celine stopped playing. “I didn’t hear you come in.”