by Kelly Lane
I ducked down in my seat as a huge military-style helicopter with two rotors flew up out of the trees right in front of us, churning up a giant dust cloud of dirt and debris with its spot lamps glaring and deafening motors rumbling, as we hurtled by, no more than twenty or thirty feet underneath. I craned my neck around to watch as the behemoth chopper disappeared behind a stand of pine trees across the road.
“Woah! Precious!” I cried. “Look out for the curve!”
Precious had allowed the car to drift into the center of the road, right in the path of an oncoming pair of headlamps.
“Tarnation!”
Quickly, she jammed on the brakes, downshifted, and slammed the steering wheel hard to the right, wrenching the Corvette back into the right lane just as an old pickup screamed past.
“I need a distraction to calm myself,” Precious mumbled.
She reached out and turned on the stereo. Whitney Houston’s voice boomed musically from the custom surround sound stereo speakers.
“If I should stay I would only be in your way . . .”
The saxophone accompanying Whitney Houston wailed over the sound system as Precious started humming nervously, and totally off-key, as we streaked down the road. Whitney Houston’s voice warbled from the speakers, “And I will always love you . . .”
“What the heck is a military helicopter doing around here? And flying so low?” I asked, finally.
“I just ignore ’em,” Precious said, shaking her head. “They ain’t worth gettin’ all bowed up about. Besides, they never stick around long.”
“I hope life treats you kind . . .” sang Whitney Houston.
“You mean, this isn’t the first time?”
“Nah. You’ll get used to it.”
“Why was it flying so low? We could’ve had an accident!”
Whitney Houston crooned from the speakers, “But above all this, I wish you love . . .”
“Don’t you fret about it, Sunshine,” shouted Precious over the music. She reached over to the dash and turned up the stereo volume until it was earsplittingly loud. “This is my favorite part!” she shouted with a grin.
Whitney Houston’s fierce melody vibrated from powerful woofers and the car reverberated the music as we blasted down the road.
“And I-eee-I . . . will always . . . love you-ooooo!”
Precious sang along in terrible disharmony with Whitney Houston, stomping the accelerator pedal as we careened around another curve. The big engine roared as we whizzed past a white board fence embracing a peach orchard.
“C’mon, Sunshine. Sing along!” shouted Precious. “I-eee-I will all-ways love you!”
I put my hands over my ears. Still, Precious was so off-key that I just had to smile.
“I will all-ways love you-ooooooooo! I will always lo-uhve yoooooooo! I will always love YOUUU-OOOOOO! LOVE YOU! I will always love . . . you . . .” Precious howled.
I just shook my head.
“Beautiful song, ain’t it? All about lettin’ go . . .” Precious shouted. Then she reached over and shut off the music. “Let it go, Sunshine. Whatever it is. Let it go. And cheer up. You got your whole life ahead of ya.”
“C’mon, Precious. Give me a break. We could’ve been killed out here tonight. Not to mention someone just died back at our place . . . again. Why does this keep happening? If you wrote this stuff as fiction, no one would believe it.”
“I get it,” Precious said, nodding. “You’re upset. And especially this time, ’cause the dead guy was your boyfriend.”
“Old boyfriend, Precious. It was a lifetime ago.”
“Okay, sure. It was a lifetime ago. Still, you gotta learn to let stuff go, Sunshine. Stop pushin’ it all inside an’ hidin’ from it. Ya gotta get it out!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Precious.”
“Have it your way. But you should mind my words.”
“Do I have a choice?”
Precious laughed. “So then, not to change the subject or nothin’, but when are ya gonna tell me the rest of the story about this dead Dexter guy?”
Precious glanced sideways at me, waiting for me to reply. I didn’t. She held her look so long that I started squirming in my seat.
“I told Pep at the bar tonight that there was more to this guy than just bein’ a boyfriend,” Precious said. “She didn’t believe me. She said if there’d been a story worth tellin’ then she’da known about it.”
I put my head in my hands.
“Why, ain’t you something!” Precious smiled, like she was happy to have outsmarted my sister. “There is more to it! I knew it.”
I looked up and gave Precious a weak smile.
“Y’all weren’t together when he drowned now, were ya? Doin’ a little skinny-dipping, for ol’ times’ sake? Maybe you an’ he were fixin’ to get together again? Ooooh, wait! Maybe y’all already did . . .”
“No!”
“I mean, I’d understand and all. Like the time my cousin Dewanna shot her husband when she found him makin’ hanky-panky with the babysitter on the washing machine . . . Maybe this guy pissed you off and you pushed him into the water and he hit his head on a rock or something?”
“No,” I said. “Now stop this!”
“Sunshine, accidents happen. You can tell Auntie Precious . . .”
“Please! Stop! I wasn’t with Dex last night. I just saw him while I was working in the big house. And if the twins had shown up for work, I might not have seen him at all.” Then I mumbled, “Really, I can’t imagine what happened to him at the pond. I mean, I’m pretty sure it was him getting a snack in the kitchen last night. After that, who knows . . .”
“If you’re in some kinda trouble, ya know Miss Precious has got your back.” She reached over and patted me on the knee.
“Yes. I know that, Precious. Thank you. Still, there’s no trouble.”
Precious shrugged.
“I didn’t kill him!” I cried.
“Aw, I know that! Musta been some kinda weird accident, I guess. Probably the guy got drunk and just drowned himself. Or maybe he choked on a garlic clove. Or, maybe he was allergic to garlic? You said he was snacking on garlic in the kitchen, right? That kinda thing does happen, I reckon. On the other hand, do ya think the whole bunch of them was out there last night?”
“Them?”
“The folks from Boston.”
I shrugged. “Not according to Claudia.”
“No matter. I figure we’ll find out soon enough. Maybe they all killed the guy. Like Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express . . . Love that one.”
“Precious, we don’t know that anyone killed him. At least not yet . . .”
“Maybe we’ll never find out what happened,” Precious chortled, “because Detective Gibbit is on the case, and he’s about as confused as a fart in a fan factory.”
“Oh, right. The case. Let’s see, most likely Detective Gibbit has made a ‘case’ out of this”—I held my finger in the air—“one, because there’s nothing else going on in town.” I raised a second finger. “Two, because it happened at our place and he can’t stand any of us.” I raised a third finger. “And three, because if he can land himself some sort of big, fat case—a murder, or something that looks like a murder—it would be perfect for generating publicity and kudos for himself . . . all helping him to usurp from Buck the job that he thinks Buck stole from him in the first place.”
“He’s sure proven himself to be bound and determined to make a name for himself with lotsa publicity and a snappy conviction. Another mysterious death at Knox Plantation would sure fit the bill.”
I nodded.
“So, when are you gonna fess up and tell me about you and dead Dex?” asked Precious.
I sighed.
She pressed on. “You know you want to . . .”
“Not now, Precious. I admit it, you’re right. We had more than just a few casual dates. We had a . . . complicated relationship. But it was a long time ago. And I had no idea he was coming here this week. Honestly. If I’d known, I would have gone away somewhere.”
She gave me a sideways glance and rolled her eyes.
“It was that bad?”
“Precious, I promise, I’ll fill you in. However, I need to talk with someone else first . . .”
I almost felt relieved to say it out loud. Although, after the awkward scene with Buck in the Roadhouse, I wasn’t looking forward to facing him again. At all. Still, I owed it to him. No matter how he felt about me.
“Why do I think that there’s another man involved?”
I shrugged. Then I thought I saw Precious suppress a smirk.
After that, racing past antique farmhouses and dilapidated barns alongside flat, sandy fields used to grow cotton, onions, soybeans, peanuts, pecans, and fruit, we hurtled along the twisty road in silence. Then Precious downshifted with one hand while she stomped hard on the accelerator pedal, and we ricocheted around a corner before shooting under a shaded tunnel of oak trees. Giant fingerlings of moss cascaded down over the narrow road.
“Holy smoke!”
I leaned over and looked at the speedometer. As was usually the case with Precious, we were closing in on seventy miles per hour. Sucking in my breath, I pressed my hand against the dashboard as Precious accelerated again. The big engine growled and revved higher as we careened sharply around another curve. Then, flying into the left lane, we passed a crawling John Deere tractor, yellow flashers warning us that it was a slow-moving vehicle.
“Crazy farmer . . . it’s too late to be out on the road like that!”
“Gotta stay out in the field until the job’s done,” I said, repeating the words I’d heard my dad say a million times when I was a child on the farm.
“Oh darn. I forgot to turn on my phone,” said Precious.
She threw her right hand up and behind her, reaching in between our seats, where she’d jammed her purple alligator purse. There wasn’t much room to put a purse in a car like that. The car swerved left and right as she rummaged awkwardly inside her bag.
“Precious, can I help you?”
“No, thanks. I got it!”
She yanked her glittery smartphone from the bag. Without looking, she switched it on and set it down on her lap.
“So, Precious, what do you know about that helicopter that you’re not telling me?”
Precious opened her mouth to answer me, just when singer Tina Turner’s voice crooned, “You’re simply the best . . .” from her phone. Precious grabbed the sparkly gold phone from her lap. She had a call.
At least she’ll have to slow down, I thought.
She didn’t.
“Oh, hi, Tilly. Whatcha know good?”
Precious’s friend, Tilly Beekerspat, was calling with the latest installment of local gossip, no doubt. I figured they’d yammer on the phone until we arrived home.
“No! Y’all don’t say!” Precious’s eyes were as big as saucers. “Wait, hon. Hold on a sec.”
Precious covered the microphone of her smartphone with her hand and leaned toward me. The car veered into the center of the road.
“Precious! Watch it!” I cried.
She jerked the steering wheel, and the car slammed back to the proper side of the twisty road.
“It’s my friend Tilly,” Precious said anxiously. “You know, she works at dispatch—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” I said, waving my hand impatiently at Precious.
“She says she’s been tryin’ to reach me all night. She don’t have any details yet, but Detective Gibbit definitely thinks your old friend in the pond was murdered!”
Precious never answered my question about the helicopter. And, after the news about Dex, I forgot to ask about it again.
CHAPTER 25
Dex and I were nose to nose. He was yelling. I was crying. It was snowing outside. He’d just brought me home from the holiday party.
“You whore!” he shrieked, ripping off his coat, dropping it on the floor. “How dare you stand in the corner and talk with Bud Crowninshield all night long! You’re my fiancée, not his! And your job is to stand by my side, not his!”
I’d had too much to drink, and the apartment room was whirling around me. Still, I probably hadn’t had as much to drink as Dex . . .
“I’m sorry, Dex!” I cried. I tried to pull off my scarf, except it wouldn’t release from around my neck. “Really I am. I didn’t talk to Mister Crowninshield all night. I did everything you always tell me to do. I made small talk with your boss, Mister Manley, about fly-fishing. Just like y’all told me to. I even complimented him on his ugly paisley tie. And I offered my cookie recipe to the human resources lady, Missus Featherstone.” I wiped a tear before starting to unbutton my coat. “For twenty minutes or more, I listened sympathetically to your client from Michigan as he complained about his acid reflux! I even chatted about the pretty beaches on Martha’s Vineyard with the guy from corporate headquarters. He said he liked my dress. And he invited us to visit his summer place! Isn’t that what you want?”
“Stop it!” shouted Dex in my face. He grabbed my hands, pulling them away from my coat buttons. I snatched my hands back defiantly.
“Let go!”
“You weren’t by my side, where you were supposed to be!” he shouted even louder. Spittle from his mouth hit me on the face. “Just like last time, you went off by yourself . . . to flirt! I watched you. You didn’t think I noticed what you were doing. But I did! You’re nothing but a cheap Southern tramp!”
As he stood nearly on top of me, tall and erect, Dex’s normally handsome face was red and twisted. His steely blue eyes flashed fire. Backed up against the wall, I had nowhere to go. I looked down. Dex’s hands were balled into tight fists.
“Please stop,” I whimpered. “I wasn’t flirting. I was being friendly. And I did everything you told me to . . .”
Every time I spoke, it only made him madder.
“Did I tell you to wander off by yourself? No!” he shouted. “Did I tell you to let Crowninshield peer down your dress? No! Did I tell you to accept drinks from other men? No! Did I tell you to laugh with Dick Coffin and look like you were having a better time with him than you were with me? No, no, no! Everyone warned me about getting tangled up with a Southern girl. But no. I didn’t listen.”
He was angry as sin. And I was, too. He was judging me unfairly and I knew it. Apologizing, trying to explain, arguing using logic, none of it had worked.
Finally, I couldn’t stop myself. I looked up and the ugly words poured out . . .
“Yeah. That’s right, Dexter Codman. I’m a cheap Southern tease,” I said sarcastically, hands on my hips. “That’s all I want to do. Flirt with your incredibly unattractive business associates. Especially with Bud Crowninshield who has dandruff, and a terrible case of halitosis. Quite the turn-on, don’t you think? So, what are you going to do about it, Dex? Huh? Tell me! What are you gonna do about it this time? Push me down the stairs again like last time? Break my arm again . . . ?”
Dex roared as he held his fists in the air.
I kept going. “Maybe I won’t cover for you this time. Maybe this time, all your friends will find out about you at work! What do you think everyone will say when they see me, again, all bruised and broken . . . huh? What do you think they will think about you then? You can kiss your fancy, high-paying career good-bye!”
There was a thunderous CRACK, and I was blinded for a moment. Then my face screamed in pain . . .
Suddenly, the scene shifted.
It was a summer night, and we were in the car, Dex’s tiny Alfa Romeo Spider, his pride and joy. The top was down, and we were arguing as we flew down the Mid-Cape Highway. Dex had just hit a
cat . . . and he hadn’t stopped.
“Dex, please . . . That’s someone’s pet!” I cried. “Please, stop. We need to do something . . .”
“It was a stupid cat, Eva!”
“No . . . it was someone’s beloved pet. I saw the collar. It had a collar, Dex!”
“Shut up about the damn cat, Eva. And leave me alone. I’m driving!”
“But Dex, maybe the poor thing was still alive . . . We’ve got to go back and see . . .”
“Jesus . . . I can’t take any more of this!”
Before I could finish my sentence, Dex—still blasting down the highway—reached over and unhooked my seat belt.
“Dex . . . what are you doing!”
He swore at me. “You’re nothing but an ignorant, spoiled little farm girl. Get out!”
“Wha . . . what . . . ?”
With his long arm stretched across me, he unlatched the passenger-side door of the tiny sports car.
“Everyone was right. I can do a helluva lot better than the likes of you, Eva Knox!”
“Dex! What are you doing?”
“Get out!” he shrieked.
“The car is still moving! Stop! This is a highway!”
“Get out, you silly bitch!”
Still maneuvering the convertible down the highway, Dex put his left foot on the accelerator pedal and swung his right foot over the center console and started shoving me with his foot and his free hand. Shocked, I didn’t think fast enough to hold on. The passenger door was open and banging against the car, and although I was snatching at it, trying to close it, I couldn’t get a grip on it, and Dex was kicking and pushing me out of the seat . . . I could see the highway pavement whizzing below . . . As inconceivable as it seemed, I was falling out of the speeding sports car . . .
I jerked myself upright, my heart thumping fast inside my chest.
Then my eyes flew open.
Sitting upright in my grandma’s four-poster bed, I was covered in sweat, as tears poured down my cheeks. I heard Dolly whimper from her cushion on the floor below me.
“Bad dream,” I said aloud, sobbing. “Bad dream.”