“Don’t be late,” Myrtle said early the day before. “Promptness is important to me.”
I understood that about the older woman, and I wasn’t late, but it was the last time I’d have to rush to a coffee appointment with my crotchety client. My heart ached for Myrtle, but promptness wasn’t my best quality, and the eighty-five-year-old woman wasn’t the most comfortable client to work with, so it wouldn’t be a lie to say a tiny part of me didn’t feel a touch of relief about that. When I realized that sense of relief, it was quickly replaced with guilt. My momma would be horrified to know her little girl felt something just south of joy because of someone else’s misfortune. Her voice echoed through my head. You were raised better than that, it said. I silently responded, yes, I was. I apologized to my deceased client, hoping she could hear my heart speaking to her.
I breathed through my mouth and stopped myself from squeezing my nostrils shut as I stood outside Myrtle’s old farmhouse along with the gathering crowd. The strong smell of ammonia lingered from what I assumed was the neighbor’s chicken coop. The old man likely hadn’t cleaned it well or recently, and I worried about the poor chickens. The stench was hard on their little lungs, not to mention the hens’ egg production.
The front part of the property was already filled with rubberneckers, but that wasn’t hard to do since the house rested on a narrow plot of land that butted up next to its neighbors. The rest of it though extended back for what felt like several miles. It never made sense to me, how my little county was designed. Instead of wide open spaces of land, our lots were piled up close together next to our roads extending behind them to either the next country road or the next plot of land. Closer to town, of course, was different, the lots were normal, but the older properties on the outskirts of the county reflected the original landscapes of when settlers first made it to Bramblett County. My mother once told me she thought that whoever drew up the plot lines in Bramblett County must have sipped a little too much moonshine before deciding where one property ended and another began. Practically every other county in the state had square lots but ours. Ours were so unique that one year at the annual county fair we ran a county competition to see who could come up with a county tag line using that theme. They were all horrible, and the judges couldn’t pick. As a real estate agent, I was relieved. Long narrow lots weren’t the first selling point I lead with when showing a property to a prospective buyer, and I preferred the county not brag about something I saw more as a hindrance than a benefit.
I ignored the whispers and gossip wandering through the expanding crowd and let my eyes wander over the home of my deceased client. I closed them for a moment and let my mind wander back to my childhood when I’d piddle down the old country road and see the home during its better days, before Myrtle and her husband had aged and couldn’t take care of it. I wanted to remember the house that way before it was destroyed and replaced with townhomes or condos.
I adored old southern homes. Each of them told a story, their place in history set in the memories of their town, their families, and the people that knew them. The white wrap around porch with the swing and rocking chairs where the family sat and talked or just spent time together instead of ignoring each other for the bright light of the TV or the hypnotic thrill of the Internet. I adored the rows of matching sized windows with black shutters, how they spoke to me of structure and familiarity. I love the weathered white painted wood siding because I grew up in something similar, and just being near Myrtle’s reminded me of mine and the memories of days long gone. My heart ached for my client, but it hurt for something long gone, too; my childhood.
I would have stayed lost in the moment but was immediately jolted out of it when the Bramblett County Sheriff, Dylan Roberts sauntered over.
My heart raced and tiny beads of sweat pooled at my hairline. The familiar fresh and clean, manly soap scent hit my nose and overtook the ungodly ammonia smell right away. My nose was happy, but my heart sunk into the pit of my stomach.
Yes, I’d made the 911 call, and yes, I knew that meant that law enforcement would arrive, so to think it wouldn’t be the county sheriff was ridiculous but was it wrong for me to hope a deputy showed up in his place?
He saw me and tipped his brown brimmed hat my direction. “Did you touch anything?”
My desire not to see the sheriff had nothing to do with a lack of respect for the office itself. I didn’t even disrespect the position. I actually admired law enforcement. I respected their dedication, their commitment, and their desire to uphold the law.
I just had issues with the person currently holding that position.
The sheriff also happened to be my first—and only love. Granted, that was several years ago in high school and part of college, but first loves weren’t easily forgotten, especially when they lived in the same small town. I gathered my composure and pressed my lips together for just a second before I spoke. “No, I didn’t touch anything. I watch crime shows, you know.”
God bless, I did not really say that, did I?
“Okay then. Stay put. I’ll have some questions for you in a bit.”
I saluted him and instantly regretted it. Calm, cool and collected obviously wasn’t working out like I’d hoped. I pushed a fly away blonde curl behind my ear and wished I could crawl under a rock and hide forever. Too bad Myrtle Redbecker didn’t have any rocks big enough to hide my five-foot-four-inch body.
My best friend, Belle Pyott bumped her shoulder into mine. “I saw that.”
I hung my head in shame. “Did it look as bad as I think?”
She inhaled deeply and then released the breath slowly while nodding. “Absolutely.”
I desperately wanted to disappear right there. “Lovely.” I pointed to Myrtle’s front door. “I guess things could be worse though, right?”
She nodded, then tucked a curl on the other side of my head behind that ear. “You could be poor old cantankerous Myrtle Redbecker. I can’t believe she’s dead.” She clasped her fingers around mine. “And you found her. Are you okay, Lilybit?”
Most everyone in Bramblett County called me Lilybit even though I’d tried for years to drop the nickname and go by my given name, Lily. Some things stuck, and being the youngest and only girl of four children—who, along with my parents, had all moved away—Lilybit was one of those things that stuck. I tried to appreciate that the name wasn’t horrible. I knew other people in town who had it worse. I graduated from high school with a kid named after his father, Richard Madders. The family referred to them both by Dick but used big and little instead of junior and senior. Mr. Madders didn’t seem to have a problem with the word choice, but his son sure did. It bothered him so much, he hightailed it right out of town two hours after graduation and hasn’t been back.
“Hello? You in there?”
I’d been lost in thought, obviously. “Oh, sorry. I’m fine. I think.” Truth be told, I’d never discovered a dead body before, and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt. “Maybe I’m in shock. I don’t know.” I pressed my first two fingers to my neck and checked my pulse. “Feels normal.” I didn’t mention how it nearly beat out of my chest when Dylan showed up.
“Maybe we should get you checked out anyway?” She placed her palms on my cheeks and forehead. “You’re so flushed.”
I wasn’t sure if that was from finding a dead body or seeing my ex-boyfriend.
Belle popped up on her tiptoes and eyed the growing crowd. “Medic? We need an ambulance or something over here,” she yelled. “This woman just found a dead body. She could be in shock.”
I hushed her. “I’m fine. Really.”
Billy Ray Brownlee, one of the county volunteer paramedics, rushed over, his mouth drawn downward in concern. “You all right Miss Sprayberry?”
I grabbed his bicep and squeezed. “I’m one hundred percent okay, Billy Ray. Belle is just overly cautious. You know how she gets. Don’t you go and worry your sweet self, you hear me?”
“You sure?” he asked. “I migh
t could get you a cup of sweet tea and a Band-Aid and fix you on up if you’d like.”
Billy Ray was nothing short of seventy-five years old and had been the county volunteer paramedic longer than my twenty-six years alive. He had the kindest soul and biggest heart, but he didn’t know a thing about medical care. His sure fire medical cure all for everything was a cup of sweet tea and a Band-Aid. It didn’t always heal the wound, but his kindness most definitely helped to heal the heart.
“I’m sure, Billy Ray. Now you go and get to saving other people. I’m fine.” Billy Ray’s good old boy sweetness brought out the small town southern girl in me every time.
“I don’t mind staying with you two pretty ladies. An old man like me don’t get all that much joy these days, and I might could use some joy.”
Belle gave him a hug. “You definitely deserve joy, Billy Ray. You’re just the sweetest man alive, and I am sure there are a lot of women who would love to spend time with a wonderful man like you. Now you go and save one of them. Show them how amazing you are.”
He blushed. It was adorable. “Yes, ma’am.” He smiled at Belle and I and shuffled away.
“It doesn’t matter how old they are, men just melt around you,” I said.
“They do not.”
“Right. And yes, you’re all sugar and spice and all that, but we both know it’s that.” I eyed her curvy figure and pointed to her face. “And that. God gave you the face of an angel with those blue eyes and perfect cheek bones. Making you nice was just so women wouldn’t hate you.”
Belle was born and raised in the south, but her roots, as my mother said, were dug up from the north and transplanted in the Georgia clay long after our people settled on the land. The Italian in her personality came out every so often, but it was definitely obvious in her appearance. Her long dark hair and olive skin turned heads, and her southern accent just made her all the more appealing to everyone that crossed her path.
She rolled her eyes and then did something angelic by rubbing my arm and hugging me. “So, what happened? Tell me everything.” She rubbed her nose. “But first, what on earth is that smell? It stinks to high heaven out here.”
My nose must have adjusted to the stink because I’d forgotten about it until Belle mentioned it again. I reminded her of what happened when chicken coops weren’t cleaned.
“Those poor chickens.” She rubbed her nose again. “And my poor nose. Anyway, back to you and finding Myrtle. Tell me everything.”
“I came to have coffee with Myrtle and update her on the property listing like we’d been doing from the start. She’d told me she’d made a decision on one of the three bidders, and we’d planned to discuss that this morning. I knocked on the door, but she didn’t answer. The door was unlocked, so I opened it a crack and hollered in, but she still didn’t answer, and that’s when I saw the glass on the floor down the hall and—”
“Glass?”
“Yeah, from the back door in the kitchen. Whoever did this broke the glass in the back door to get in. I saw pieces of it on the kitchen floor, and that’s when I realized something wasn’t right, so I went in and checked.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying you saw broken glass on the floor and just walked on in? What if the killer was still in there? You could have been killed.”
“I know, but I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about Myrtle.”
“Of course, you were.”
“Besides, I listened before I went in and I didn’t hear anything, and it didn’t feel like anyone was there, so I thought it was safe.”
“It didn’t feel like anyone was there? What does that even mean? Are you psychic now or something?”
I rolled my eyes. “No. I just mean it felt okay to go in.” I shook my head. “I can’t explain it. Maybe I wasn’t really thinking straight. I don’t know. I just know I saw the broken glass, and I needed to check on Myrtle. It was the right thing to do. And I called the sheriff, and given the circumstances, you should be proud of me for that.”
She nodded. “Yes, that was probably smart of you, and yes, I’m astonished that you had the guts to do that, actually.”
“Gee, thanks.”
A car door slammed behind us. “Where’s my aunt? What’s going on here?” Jesse Pickett’s booming voice reverberated across his aunt’s front lawn. “Where’s Dylan? Someone better tell me what’s going on.” Jesse pushed out his chest, and, as my father would say, bowed up, but the trembling chin and wide eyes gave away his fear. Yes, he was angry, but the wide eyes were more afraid than anything.
Fear could drive a man to do worse things than anger could any day.
I cut Jesse off at the front porch steps just shy of the front door. “Jesse, I think you should wait for Dylan to come out.” Jesse graduated with Belle and me, and Dylan graduated a few years before. We didn’t hang in the same social circle as Jesse, but in a small town, everyone knew everyone. “I don’t think you want to go in there.”
Jesse was at least a foot taller than my whopping five feet and a few short inches, and he carried more than double my weight on his burly body, so I knew I didn’t have any real chance of stopping him if he didn’t want to be stopped, but I had to make the effort anyway. It didn’t matter. He shoved me to the side, knocking over an old rusted shovel in the process. “Out of my way Lilybit. You ain’t telling me what to do.”
I picked up the shovel and leaned it against the other side of the window out of his way.
Just then Dylan stepped through the front door onto the porch. He grabbed a hold of Jesse’s shoulder. “You might want to calm down there, buddy.”
Jesse worked to shrug his shoulder from Dylan’s grip, but the effort was futile. His gaze darted from Dylan’s face to the front door and then back to Dylan’s face again. “Where’s my Aunt Myrtle? Someone said she’s dead. Is that true? She’s all I got left for family. I need to see her.”
My heart sank. I’d forgotten that. Jesse lost his mother, father and two younger sisters in a drunk driving accident on Interstate 85 when I was away at college at the University of Georgia. His grandparents, Myrtle’s brother Buford and his wife, were long dead, and Myrtle and her husband Wilbur never had kids. Wilbur died years ago, so she was the last of Jesse’s living relatives. Whether the two had a relationship or not, it must have been hard for him to know he’d lost his last living relative.
Dylan placed both hands on each of Jesse’s broad shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was a calm whisper. “I’m sorry Jesse, but yes, your aunt is gone. The coroner is in there with her now, but I don’t think she’d want you to see her this way, buddy.” He shifted their stance and directed Jesse off the porch and toward the side of the house. Belle and I tried to follow, but Dylan shot us a look that clearly read back off.
The small crowd must have read it the same, or they were afraid of Dylan because they all stayed away, too. I wasn’t afraid of my ex-boyfriend, but I could understand why the rest of Bramblett County would be. He’d bulked up in the seven years he’d been working in Atlanta, and the innocent smile on his face had been replaced by something similar to a distrusting scowl.
I watched as the men talked, trying hard to read their emotions. Dylan showed very few, but Jesse’s were all over the place. Hands in the air, feet stomping, head shaking. His stance, sometimes stiff and straight, clearly defending whatever I couldn’t hear him say, and other times shoulders slouching in defeat. When Dylan escorted him to a deputy’s car, I feared the worse.
“He’s sure surprised to see his aunt’s dead,” Odell Luna, Myrtle’s eighty-something-year-old next-door neighbor said to the person standing next to him. I zoned in on their conversation. “Seems to me he ought to be happy as a pig in slop what with him being the one to get the property and all now.”
As the real estate agent of record for the property, I knew that wasn’t true, but I didn’t say anything at that moment. Myrtle showed me her will and given the possibility of her untimely (as she called it) death, the p
roperty had been put in a trust to allow for the sale to be completed to one of the three current bidders with the profits being donated to charity. If none of the bids resulted in a sale, the land would stay on the market through the trust until another purchase agreement was made. She had specifically stated the property and any proceeds from the sale would not go to her nephew, though I wasn’t privy to the reasons why.
Did Myrtle’s planning for her death mean she feared something might happen to her or was it because she was older and just covering her bases? With her dead inside her home, I couldn’t help but wonder. Why would someone want to kill her anyway? As my mother would say, no, she wasn’t the sweetest cookie on the tray, but she wasn’t the sourest apple in the bunch either. Either way, she didn’t deserve to die.
I did a full body shake. I really needed to stop quoting my mother. Not only did it make me sound old, it made me feel old. Besides, it made me miss her terribly. Colorado was a long way away, and I had no plans to visit my parents until after the first of the year.
“I know what you’re doing,” Belle whispered.
“What?” I whispered back.
“Thinking about your mom. Stop it. She’s not dead. Myrtle Redbecker is.”
She had a point, but sometimes the distance between Colorado and Georgia felt like the distance between earth and heaven. My parents hadn’t moved away that long ago, but I their leaving left a hole in my heart. We’d made it through the rough teenage years and finally reached a place where we could enjoy each other, and then they moved hundreds of miles away. Standing outside of Myrtle’s home after just finding her dead on her kitchen floor and then having to call 911 only to have my ex-boyfriend come rushing to the scene—that’s a whole lot of emotional stuff wrapped up in one event. I’d love nothing more than to sit on my mom’s front porch with a glass of sweet tea and a piece of apple pie and tell her about it, but her porch wasn’t in Bramblett County anymore, and that was something I’d have to just get used to.
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