Mystery Bundle (Saints Preserve Us, Pray For Us Sinners, Murder Most Trivial)

by Leigh Ellwood

  Abruptly Ronnie’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, a move that surprised Ronnie just as much as it did Landon. “Please, you don’t need to apologize any more. Lorena is fine, and so are we. You and your brother weren’t responsible for Paul Dix’s death.”

  “But if we hadn’t stole the body first—”

  “Mr. Dix would probably still have been killed, he knew too much and he was a liability. You don’t know what would have happened, so don’t bother creating and reliving alternative scenarios.” Ronnie removed her hand and resumed a safe distance from Landon. What was that scent on him? It was spicy and bold, no doubt some brand of cologne advertised in outdoors magazines featuring rugged cowboys riding into the sunset. Why were her insides suddenly shivering?

  Quickly she bolstered the distance between them by opening the refrigerator again and unconsciously returning the priest’s soda. There did not seem to be a world outside the kitchen anymore, and it unnerved Ronnie to be feeling such a way, especially with Lew…

  Ronnie squeezed her eyes shut. She did not want to think about Sheriff Lew Caperton right now, regardless of what she was feeling. She was still angry with him.

  “Any—anyway,” she continued, “you and your brother actually did us a favor by taking Lorena when you did. I doubt anyone else would have taken as good care of her.”

  “We cut off her finger and gave it to your grandma, I wouldn’t call that good care,” Landon protested hoarsely. “Why do you think I’m in here? I can’t even look at Mrs. Alger.”

  “So? It’s done. We couldn’t reattach the finger, but it is back with the body anyway. Nana forgives you, and we have moved forward. Somebody else could have chopped her into tiny bits and sold her relics on the black market.” Whether or not there existed a black market for first-class saintly relics Ronnie could not really say, but the would-be lie at least brought a smile of relief to the boy’s face.

  “Mrs. Hayes doesn’t forgive us still, I can tell,” he said, his face suddenly falling. “Lorne’s not helping much by going back to prison.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about my sister. She still hasn’t forgiven me for things I did to her when we were kids,” Ronnie assured him. Then, realizing Gina might be within earshot, she leaned back to spy on the activity in the living room. In doing so she nearly crashed into Father Joel.

  “Oh, Father Joel! I forgot about your soda.” Ronnie felt suddenly guilty.

  The priest showed no disappointment. “Not a problem, Ronnie. I’ve just come for Landon so we can get going. Rick has your box of donation items, and we’re going to take your grandmother back to the church.”

  “Are you sure, Father? How will all of you fit into the cab?” Surely Father Joel was not planning on having Nana sit on somebody’s lap?

  From the corner of her eye she watched Landon take one last gulp of soda before pouring the remaining liquid down the sink. “Oh, the boys will be fine riding in the back of the truck,” came Father Joel’s detached voice from the other side. Landon nodded in agreement.

  “Yeah, we’ve done it before. No biggie,” he said. “Thanks for the drink, Mrs. Lord.”

  “No problem. Just don’t get dehydrated today. And please, call me Ronnie. Mrs. Lord is my mother-in-law.”

  “We won’t… Ronnie.”

  A shy smile lightened the young man’s face, and Ronnie considered hiding behind the refrigerator door again. What was wrong with her today?

  ~ * ~

  “You know, by the time you get everything unpacked and in place you’ll be ready to move again.”

  Gina and Ronnie sat alone in the living room, each curled on opposite corners of the couch, staring at the bare wall before them. In the time following Father Joel’s departure, only one box had been unpacked, the contents of which were stacked at Ronnie’s feet. The bed upstairs had yet to be put together, the computer in the downstairs bedroom was not yet connected to the Internet, and only half a roll of tissue paper remained in the downstairs half-bathroom. The temptation to beg another night at Gina’s house nagged at her.

  No, Ronnie thought. It would be better to just fit a sheet over the mattress and sleep on the floor. She saw no reason to spoil the joy in which her brother-in-law basked the moment he reclaimed his basement.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Ronnie said finally. “I can’t find a better place to live for the mortgage I’m paying. Real estate is really getting expensive out here.”

  Gina closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the wall. “People want to live in the country now, away from Jacksonville. Of course the land’s going to sell at a premium if it’s in demand, and it’s still cheaper than moving out to Fernandina.”

  “Yeah, well, if the area continues to be developed nobody’s going to be able to tell where Jacksonville ends and where Ash Lake begins,” Ronnie shot back. “We’ll all be moving into the ocean to get away from the serpentine chain of Starbucks stores and dry cleaners following us up the street.”

  “Serpentine chain,” Gina snorted. “How long have you been rehearsing that rant in your head?”

  “Does it show?” Ronnie asked with mock innocence.

  Gina shook her head. “Well, don’t complain to me. Write a letter to the editor. Aren’t you on a first name basis with that guy at the Times-Union?”

  Ronnie thought of the gruff Oscar Blaine, spewing phlegm into her phone when she had called last year to complain about the intrusive journalism techniques of beat reporter Chet Hoskins. “I just might do that, thank you for suggesting it.”

  They remained silent for a few more seconds when Gina suddenly bolted upright. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter to three. Plenty of time.” Gina’s sons still had forty-five more minutes of practice. Gina relaxed back into the couch.

  “You know, if you had kept your TV set we could be watching the end of Southwest Memorial,” Gina chided. “You want to know how Allayne’s doing, you only have to turn on her show.”

  “Those episodes are taped weeks in advance, Gina,” Ronnie sighed. “Besides, they have so much makeup on her she probably looks better than she did at her healthiest. I think the local news provides a better perspective.”

  Courtesy of the local newspapers and morning news shows, Ash Lake had over the past few weeks been granted daily coverage of Allayne Witt’s homecoming. Every day Ronnie opened the paper to a picture of Allayne strolling through the Avenues Mall in Jacksonville, dining at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse, or signing autographs for a gaggle of ever-present fans. It amused Ronnie to see such fawning media exposure; it was not as if Jacksonville was devoid of celebrity, given that various Jaguars players and surviving Lynyrd Skynyrd band members could often be spotted around town. Perhaps Allayne warranted more attention because she had two Daytime Emmys on her mantel and the occasional matinee idol on her arm, while the Jags continued to struggle through their seasons.

  The one thing Ronnie did not see in the paper during this time was a picture of Allayne Witt coming out of the Mayo Clinic on the Southside of Jacksonville after a chemotherapy session. There were no pictures to be seen of an unglamorous actress ravaged by a bout with breast cancer. In a way, though, it pleased Ronnie that the press had enough grace to leave that aspect of Allayne’s life private. Still, she wondered how the woman who had once sat next to her at Girl Scout meetings fared.

  “Well, as I’ve probably asked a hundred times this morning, have you heard from Allayne lately?” Ronnie asked Gina.

  “Please.” Gina picked at a loose thread jutting up from the sofa arm. “The only time I hear from Allayne Witt is through her fan club or one of the legion of ‘little people’ on her payroll, and everybody in town gets those things in the mail. I don’t think I’ve spoken a complete sentence to her since that last benefit she sponsored, and that was two years ago.”

  Ronnie had to think about that one. “Oh, yeah, you mean the one for the Allayne Foundation. Seems like every television star has an eponymous charitable organization devoted
to eradicating some unpronounceable disease, huh?” she said. The eponymous charitable organization in question, The Allayne Foundation, was originally set up to aid underprivileged children in the North Florida area, but recently the focus was expanded to include benefits to cancer patients, particularly children. Ronnie knew Allayne often sought local celebrities to associate with her at various events. The Algers, specifically Nana, had been approached in recent months for such things, no doubt in response to Lorena’s canonization. With Lorena unable to participate…

  Gina shifted and cast a sideways glance at her sister. “You’re getting rather eloquent with your vocabulary lately, aren’t you?”

  Ronnie shrugged. “I teach English. That’s my excuse.”

  “Well, the only one I do hear from all the time is that loudmouth mother of hers. Oh!” Gina added with a grimace. “Lorraine Witz, ugh. She came into the deli the other day while Loni was slicing me some turkey. The whole time we were at the counter it was Allayne this and Allayne that. How great she is and how much money she’s making and how she was spending it all on her dear mother who worked—”

  “—two jobs, one at the Waffle House off I-95 by the airport and the other for some godforsaken podiatrist who looked like Katharine Hepburn in man drag, I know.” Ronnie too had heard the same platitudes from the senior Witz woman, as Lorraine Witz was very fond of lording her famous daughter over everybody and anybody powerless to move. Who could move, what with Lorraine keeping her audience captive with her hypnotic, nasal voice and vice-like grip?

  Gina fanned her fingers in front of her face, an obvious attempt at mocking the stage mother. “I had no other choice, what with Harold leaving me high and dry for his bimbo receptionist who defied gravity. She didn’t have two brain cells to rub together, and yet he hired her to do shorthand. Little did I know what she was really doing with her hands,” she declared in Lorraine Witz’s Brooklyn-born accent to Ronnie’s encouraging laughter. Returning to normal, Gina shook her head at her sister. “Yeesh, if you already know the answer, why did you ask?”

  Ronnie shrugged. “Dunno. I’m just curious to know how she’s really doing, you know? The papers don’t report about her health, just fluff pieces, so we don’t really know how well she’s recovering from the cancer, if she is.”

  “Well, call her yourself, Ron!” Gina looked at her watch. “Just because she’s a big time soap star diva doesn’t mean she’s unapproachable.”

  “I can’t do that. She won’t remember me. She was in your graduating class.”

  “So what? Yeah, we shared classes, but she ran with the cool kids and the drama club. And she was Jewish, so she certainly wasn’t going to tag along with our off-campus Bible study. Besides, Nana’s the one who really gets invited to those shindigs. They only contact me personally when they can’t find her.”

  Ronnie rose and tried to mentally measure the opposite wall. It certainly was large enough to support an entertainment center, but when did she ever watch television? Back when she had her own set and cable television hookup at Gina’s, the boys used it more than she did. She had not watched Southwest Memorial in earnest in at least five years, either. More than likely the characters she followed were either dead and awaiting resurrection, or in witness protection.

  Gina opened her mouth to say something more when a sharp digital whirring noise filled the air. “Where’s the phone?” she asked instead as both women glanced around the room.

  “Good question.” Ronnie peered over boxes and unruly stacks of papers for her handheld receiver, finding it on top of a folded newspaper in the kitchen. She answered on the third ring to a quiet, feminine voice.

  “Veronica Lord?” she called hoarsely before Ronnie could even acknowledge the call.

  “Uh, speaking. This is Ronnie.” Ronnie felt her heart numb. Already one week into school and her students were finding excuses to bail, she was certain. Who else could it be, since only the school and family had her new number? Even Lew did not have it, and Ronnie was not sure she wanted to give it to him just yet, considering…

  “Ronnie, hi. This is Allayne Witt, you know, from high school? Or should I say Elaine Witz?” The voice on the other end faltered, and Ronnie heard Allayne speaking brusquely with somebody in the background. Ronnie took the second to clamp her hand over the mouthpiece and mouth Allayne’s name to Gina.

  It amused Ronnie that Allayne would introduce herself as ‘Elaine from high school,’ as if Ronnie had not known of her success. Perhaps she was modest enough not to introduce herself as ‘Allayne Witt, the fabulously wealthy Emmy winner who did so much better than you in life’.

  “Why is she calling me?” she wondered aloud. How did Allayne get her new number? Surely soap opera divas were not that connected that they could call the phone company on a whim?

  “Maybe her ears were burning?” Gina suggested.

  What sounded like another phone being tossed in the air assaulted Ronnie’s ear, and soon Allayne was speaking to her again. “Hi again, sorry about that. Hello?”

  “I’m here.” Or am I, Ronnie wondered. Allayne Witt had called her just as she and Gina were talking about her. How weird was that? “Did, uh, you need to speak with my grandmother? She was here, but she left for church a few minutes ago. My sister Gina’s here, though.”

  At the mention of her name, Gina leaped from the couch and gestured wildly for Ronnie to retract her words. “I don’t want to talk to her!” she hissed. “What the hell am I going to say? I know I’ll just say something stupid.”

  “Well, actually, I don’t know with whom I should really be talking,” Allayne said. “I did try your grandmother and she wasn’t home, and I just found out your parents aren’t in Florida anymore. Your uncle gave me this number. I was calling with regards to your, um, Great Aunt Lorena, is it? The one the pope’s turning into a saint?”

  “She was my great, great-aunt,” Ronnie affirmed. “Actually, he doesn’t turn people into saints, he—” Ronnie stopped herself. She did not feel like explaining the canonization process to Allayne. She was aware of the actress’s Jewish heritage, but had read in some magazine article that Allayne had traded those beliefs for some hybrid of the Eastern religions and New Age mysticism, complete with a parade of gurus, yogis, and vegetarian chefs tramping in and out of her California home.

  “Yes,” Ronnie finally said. “The canonization is set three months from now in Miami. Most of the immediate family is going. What would you like to know? If I can’t help you, I’ll find someone who can.” Perhaps she’s researching for a role, maybe the soap’s sending her character to a convent, Ronnie thought.

  “Well,” Allayne faltered again, and Ronnie detected that the girl sounded a bit embarrassed to be speaking to her. Before Ronnie could add something, another dull thudding noise exploded through the receiver.

  “Hello? Who is this?” came a brash, nasal voice that could only belong to Lorraine Witz. “Is that Veronica Lord?”

  Oh, Lord. Before Ronnie could acknowledge her, Lorraine spoke up again. “Listen, Veronica. What we have to talk to you about, I don’t feel comfortable doing it over the phone. How soon can you get over here? It’s an emergency.”

  Chapter Three

  “Every time I drive by her property, I ask myself why Allayne chose to plant her house here, of all places,” Gina said as Ronnie’s Firebird swooped from the main road onto the gravel path that led to Allayne Witt’s Florida home. Two Witt, a split-level monstrosity of picture windows embedded in pale pink stucco, was nestled in a clearing surrounded by a motley assortment of trees. Recently planted palms, their fronds still wrapped in clear plastic, lined a large manmade lake in the backyard, while a small orchard clustered in front.

  Ronnie noticed the trees blocked the view of the house from the main road, and she surmised that was done on purpose to discourage Allayne’s more rabid fans. Of course, a gated entrance could have better solved such a problem, if one existed. She had to wonder about the type of person who would camp out
in front of a celebrity’s home for just the slightest brush with greatness. Probably no different than the people who left medals and prayer cards on Lorena’s old grave.

  Ronnie guided the Firebird to a stop behind a silver BMW two-seater. “Where else would you have suggested she build a house? Downtown Jax is full, and I don’t think she’d want the monorail running through her bedroom.” Ronnie yanked the parking brake back with a loud clicking noise.

  “I don’t know,” Gina sighed. “I figure somebody with her money would have bought one of those palatial spreads at Ponte Vedra by the golf course, or at the beach in some gated community.”

  “How much do you suppose Allayne makes a year? Primetime actors get paid per episode, but soaps run daily. How does that work?” Ronnie wondered aloud as she undid her seatbelt. Aside from her car and the BMW, there were two other luxury cars parked slipshod along the gravel-covered circular driveway in front of the house. The blue Mercedes bearing the Florida tags which read SOAPMOM had to belong to Lorraine, but who owned the red Porsche 911 convertible? Was that Allayne’s, too?