by Morgan James
My head must have been clearing, Fletcher was really pissing me off. Before I could muster the energy to argue with him, Sheriff Mac, along with two deputies and my Alfie, trotted up the hill and into the clearing. Fletcher used the butt of his rifle to right himself. I was still too weak to stand. Alfie sniffed the dead man, whimpered, and turned his attention to licking my face.
Mac knelt and scanned the man on the ground, only touching him at the neck to confirm there was no pulse. Then he called to me over his shoulder. “Tie up that hound so he don’t finish ruining the crime scene.” Fletcher tossed me the rope that had bound me. I hooked it around Alfie’s collar and pulled him to me. Mac stood and turned to face my neighbor. I couldn’t see his face; but I’d swear he was smiling. “Looks like you found our Georgia convict, Fletcher. Leastwise I hope so. I’d hate to think you’d shoot a day hiker for trespassing.”
“I don’t see nothing funny about it, Mac, but I reckon it’s him. Son-of-a-bitch was holding that there knife in the leaves over there to Miz Promise’s throat. Had to shoot him from a far piece away. Was aiming for a shoulder shot, but the sun was a-glaring. Hit him in the leg. Got the artery, I expect. He was dead time I hiked down the hill.”
“You holler for him to drop the knife before you shoot?”
“For what? So he could cut her throat, or use her for a shield? You watch too much TV, son.”
The two men faced each other. Silence. Was this what they call a Mexican Stand Off? Finally, Mac turned away from Fletcher to me. “That right, Miz McNeal?”
What did he say? I had the momentary sensation of dancing under a mirrored disco ball— lights and music pulsating. I pressed my fingertips against my temples in an attempt to stop the lights. Okay. Mac wanted to know if Fletcher was describing the way it happened. I remembered being pushed to the ground. Passing out when he kicked me, and waking up with my hands and feet tied. The man was standing over me, ranting and raving about something. I looked past him and thought I saw Mrs. Allen, and a small pale haired girl at the edge of the laurels. Why would Mrs. Allen be up here on Fire Mountain? Mac was waiting for an answer.
“Uh, yes. That’s right. He was waving a knife in my face. Saying he could kill me.” My hand went to the base of my nose and touched dried blood. “He, uh, he cut me with the knife. Made my nose bleed.” I looked down at my legs. His blood had soaked through my jeans, thigh to calf. The denim fabric clung sticky and cold on my skin. I fought a new wave of nausea pushing acid up into my throat. “I…I think he was lost … didn’t know how to get off the mountain…”
My last words were lost when a deputy snapped on latex gloves and picked up the knife. He shouted, “Here it is Sheriff. Looks like one of them knives they use for cutting carpet or vinyl flooring.”
A rush like an ocean wave sang in my ears, and I struggled to my knees and stood up on wobbly legs. “Wait, wait,” I could hear myself saying from a long distance away. “The knife. He, the dead man…I think he found it in the backpack. I recognize the jacket he’s wearing. It’s the Roadrunner. Shane Long’s jacket.” I realized I was probably not making sense and stopped to clear my thoughts.
“What I’m trying to tell you is the man is wearing Shane Long’s jacket. Shane’s a contractor who came to my house yesterday… about rebuilding my barn. That must be Shane’s backpack.” My mind slowly wrapped around the image of Shane’s motorcycle parked along the side of the road. Two days it was parked there. Two days. “Oh my God, oh my God…”
Mac’s soothing voice sounded much like his cousin Daniel’s. He took a couple of steps toward me, but didn’t touch me. I was glad. If he had, I would have given way to the swelling hysteria. “Yes. We know. We found Long’s body this morning, down the mountain apiece toward Fells Creek Road. Somebody cracked the back of his head open. Probably this Georgia man here.”
I sank back down on the ground and buried my face in Alfie’s neck to hide the tears running down my dirty cheeks.
11
A deputy driving an ATV arrived and took me down Fire Mountain via a well-traveled path on the opposite side of the ridge I’d hiked up earlier. In less than half the time it had taken me to find January’s cabin, we were breaking out of the woods on the far side of my neighbor Fletcher’s yard, with Alfie trotting happily along side.
I waved goodbye to the deputy and stood on my back porch looking across the pasture to Fire Mountain. It seemed totally implausible that I’d been up there an hour ago with a dead man sprawled over me and my hands and feet tied with red and white striped rope. I held out my wrists, thinking the pattern of the rope was familiar. Didn’t we sell this rope at Granny’s Store—along with other hiking and camping supplies? Supplies like sterno for cooking, and … what was it Susan said? The Goddard twins came in and bought all the D cell batteries? But what did that matter? Shane Long bought this particular rope. It was in his backpack. Why would Shane buy such “girly” red and white rope? He was a contractor. Surely he would have strong utilitarian rope among his tools. This gaily-striped rope looked like something you’d buy if you wanted to make sure you didn’t lose it, or wanted to identify something. My headache, which felt roughly the size of Texas, splintered thoughts about rope into thoughts of getting into the house to find something for the pain. Alfie pushed ahead of me through the kitchen door, determined to be first into the house. Well, he was certainly feeling right at home.
There is no way I would have answered the ringing phone, if I hadn’t recognized the Atlanta phone number. I picked it up and rummaged through a kitchen drawer for Tylenol. “Hey Brooks, What’s up? Talk fast, I’m really busy right now.” I thought it best not to explain my “really busy” was needing to change clothes because I had drying blood sticking to my jeans.
Talking fast does not come naturally to my oldest friend and Grady High School classmate, Brooks Threadgill, the beautifully preserved wife of Fulton County Superior Court Judge Dixon Threadgill. “Well, Sugar, I’ll tell you what.” Brooks somehow extended what to six syllables. “I was sitting there at Salon Rue waiting for my nails to dry, and you will never guess what I heard from some pruney old biddy under the dryer. Course, I have no idea who the woman is, so who knows if the information is the least bit reliable. She is certainly no one I know from the club. But…”
I love Brooks dearly, but she is a snob to the very bottom of her Georgia peaches and cream heart. My teeth were beginning a small chorus of chattering. I was either cold, or the shock of what had happened to me was sinking in. I grabbed a towel from the utility room laundry basket and wrapped it around me. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but I’m kind of in a situation up here. Maybe I could call you back later?”
“Don’t be a bore. I’m trying to tell you something vital to your future.”
How is it that Brooks has such a knack for making me feel guilty? The Shoulda-Woulda- Coulda-Committee said not to hang up. After all, I was safe, back in my own home—almost unharmed. It wouldn’t kill me to listen to Brooks for a minute. I took a deep breath. “Okay. So, tell me. Cause I really do have to hang up.”
Brooks either sighed or huffed into the phone. It’s hard to know with her because everyone tells her she sounds like Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep. Thus, she feels compelled to cultivate Bacall’s low, breathy voice. “Do you remember our party last Christmas? The Judge introduced you to that sweet Robert Tarlton?”
“Yes, I remember.” Tacky red and green, holiday plaid cummerbund. Body like a garden gnome. A small garden gnome. I can also be a snob.
“You know he’s a state court judge from Decatur— tons of family money. Well, I didn’t tell you at the time because you can be so starchy, but he called after the party to ask for your phone number. I didn’t give it to him, of course, because I knew he was married.”
“Good girl, Brooks. What does this have to do with the pruney lady?”
“Would you please give me a little damn minute to explain? Honestly, Promise, sometimes you do try my patience.”
I knew I should not have answered the phone. Even if Brooks was having a mini-breakdown, it could have waited. Her breakdowns are never really serious, just very dramatic. It’s my obsessive helping personality. I sucked in another deep breath. “Sorry. Go ahead and explain. In my lifetime, if possible.”
“I’m trying to tell you the pruned, biddy woman was saying that Janice and Robert Tarlton have just divorced. This is an opportunity you cannot overlook. You need to get married before you have absolutely no marketability left.”
My groan stood Alfie’s ears up on alert. I rubbed his head to assure him I was fine. “I’ve been married. Remember? Didn’t work out.”
“Oh I know that. But Promise Honey, you married beneath you. That’s never a good idea. That’s one thing Mama was right about. Oh well, at least you got the silver.”
“I’m not sure about the beneath me part, but I don’t want to get married again, and I surely don’t want some other woman’s balding reject.”
“Don’t be cruel. Robert could get hair transplants. He can afford it.”
“And why do you always say so-in-so ‘got the silver’? What difference does it make who gets the silver?”
“You do not appreciate one damn thing I’m trying to do for you. I swear, it is a wonder we have remained friends for so long. For your information, it matters because the person caught with his, or her, pants down definitely does not get to keep the silver. Thus we all know who is discrete, and who is not.”
“Consequently, we know my ex-husband was not discrete, and was just…”
“I know, just another snake in paradise. That’s what you always say.”
“Right. Randall Barnes—old news. Throw out the paper, or use it for the birdcage. And I don’t want Robert Tarlton. Don’t want to get married.” I wondered for about two seconds if Daniel had put Brooks up to this call—thinking he would look like a prince compared to Tarlton—then dismissed the thought. Daniel is not a devious person by nature. I really had to get Brooks off the phone. I was cold. Even with the towel wrapped around me, my jaws still trembled. Talking about the garden gnome Robert Tarlton, after what I’d been through on Fire Mountain felt like I was living in a Salvadore Dali painting. Too surreal. Even if cutting Brooks short hurt her feelings, I needed to get warm and do something about my headache. “Thanks anyway. I know you’re trying to be a good friend. I really have to go now.”
“Think it over. I know you’re having a hard time with your little investment up there in God’s country. You need a sweet man to take care of you in your old age, just the way the Judge takes care of me. And you, of all people, know I require more taking care of than a twenty-year-old Mercedes. Listen Honey, our generation is balancing on the blade of this make it on our own crap for women. You know it’s true. We simply were not trained to totally support ourselves—unless we want to be poor, and who in their right mind would have being poor as a lifetime goal. There is nothing wrong with being taken care of. God knows we pay our way with the men we marry. Do you have any idea how much physical work it takes to stay a size eight at my age? And the boring people I have to feed and be nice to every time the Judge comes up for reelection.”
Brooks launched into one of her major whining jags, and I’d already heard about her face lift so I rested the phone on the kitchen counter, scrubbed my hands at the sink, took two Tylenol, and grabbed a plastic garbage bag from the pantry. The plan was to go back out on the porch, shed my clothes, stuff them into the bag, and then toss the bag into the outside plastic bin. Didn’t even want to think about putting blood soaked clothes in my washer. I picked up the phone again and took it with me out on the porch. I was pretty easy to hold it against my chin, listen to Brooks, and take off my jacket, shoes, socks, and pants. The shirt was a little more difficult.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Promise? You simply didn’t start being independent early enough to be financially secure at your age. It’s not your fault. Not really…except you had this weird midlife crisis event and moved to the mountains…”
“Brooks, can’t we talk about this…” I heard a vehicle tearing down my gravel drive and gears grind into park. Alfie broke into a trot around the corner of the house and came back with a person who looked sort of like Susan. “Listen, I’m going to have to call you back. I’m standing on the porch in my underwear and someone’s driven up.”
As I was hitting the off button, Brooks was saying, “See, that’s what I mean. You are in the throes of a serious midlife crisis. You’d never stand on your porch in Atlanta in your underwear.”
12
Susan took the porch steps two at a time and wrapped me in a bear hug. Her-six foot tall frame, plus the high-heeled boots she was wearing, meeting my five-foot-four meant my face was buried in a scratchy black waistcoat, and my chest poked by a wide silver belt buckle. “Mac called me. This is terrible, just terrible. Are you okay?” She released me and stepped back to look me over. “Oh my Lord, why are you standing out here in your underwear?”
“I took off my clothes out here to put them in a garbage bag. I’m okay. Just shaken up.” I had to ask. “Why are you wearing a mustache, and dressed like a pirate?”
“Oh this.” She reached up and pealed the black hair from her upper lip, leaving a pink abrasion behind. Ouch. That must have hurt. “I was at rehearsal. The Perry County Arts Council is doing The Pirates of Penzance…you know, Gilbert and Sullivan. Kind of a late 1800s Monty Python stick. Great parody.”
“Yes, I know. Your dad loves the music. Strange. A bluegrass fiddle player humming operetta tunes.”
“Yeah, I guess it is. But he does love the music. That’s why when the guy playing Frederic crapped out on them, I said I’d do it. Daddy’s going to hoot in the aisle when he sees me up there singing and dancing around as a pirate guy.”
No doubt Daniel would get a charge from Susan’s antics on stage. He adored everything she did, and I adored the fact that he did. She took off her jacket and wrapped it around my bare shoulders. I was lost in coarse boiled wool, gold braided sleeves hanging limp at my fingertips, and just a hint of a mothball fragrance. “Come on inside. It must be fifty degrees out here. I’ll start a fire for you.”
When I got out of the shower, Susan had changed into a pair of dark purple overalls. She had a fire going and was stirring something wonderfully garlic-smelling at the stove. “You always carry a change of clothes in your Jeep?”
“Yep.”
“Me too. You never know. Do you?”
“That’s for sure.” She handed me a glass of white wine and pointed to a kitchen chair. “Sit. Drink. I’m making you some veggies and pasta.”
“You really don’t have to do that. I could warm up some of the squash soup you made. It was delicious, by the way.”
“Yeah. That did turn out pretty good.” Tossing the mushrooms, onions, and zucchini in the hot olive oil, Susan chatted on. “Got to do this gently. Don’t want to bruise the vegetables. I love to cook. I think I love cooking better than anything else I do.”
“Not better than singing and playing the banjo?”
“Well, probably not. But my music is like breathing to me. It’s another part of me, like my toes, or whatever, so it’s not really something I do. It’s me.” She turned away from the stove and pointed at me with her spatula. “Speaking of bruises. I guess you know you got a beauty creeping from your hairline to your eyebrow.”
My hand went up involuntarily to touch the tender spot over my left eye. “Yeah. I saw it in the bathroom mirror.” We sat in silence. I knew Susan wouldn’t press me to tell her what happened. She’d give me time to accumulate the courage. That’s one of the things I love about her.
Later, after the pasta was eaten, Alfie was fed, and the cats’ bowl was topped off, I poured my third glass of wine, and we moved into the great room where the fire promised warmth and security. I couldn’t help but think about the stone chimney on January’s mountain. “I found January McNeal’s cabin today.”
; Firelight flecked in Susan’s eyes. “You did? That is totally awesome. It is still livable?”
“Only if you are a snake. It’s mostly in ruins. Burned down. Blackberries growing where the floor used to be. But the stone chimney is upright, charred, but upright.”
“Could you feel your kinfolk still there?”
I closed my eyes, concentrating on what I’d sensed up on the mountain before the Georgia man appeared. I’d touched the stones. I’d pressed my hand against the door frame. I’d felt the sorrow. I’d seen the blue stuffed elephant. “Susan, the strangest thing happened up there.”
Susan held out her hands in a calming gesture. “It’s okay, Miz P. If you aren’t ready to talk about Fletcher Enloe shooting that guy, just don’t, not yet.”
I realized I was shaking my head, probably to clear the wine, as well as to try to tell her I was not talking about the Georgia man. “No, no. I don’t mean that. Listen. I know I told you yesterday that I couldn’t say for absolute sure that the little girl at Mrs. Allen’s house was a real person.”
“Yeah, I know, and you said you believed she was real, even though you didn’t actually see her.”
“That right. But today, I saw a blue stuffed elephant up there near the cabin. I’m sure it was the same one I saw yesterday in Mrs. Allen’s kitchen. And then, after the Georgia guy knocked me down, I’m sure I saw Mrs. Allen with a pale little girl standing off in the laurel bushes.”
Susan came over and sat beside me on the sofa. “What happened to you today was terrible, really terrible. You banged your head pretty badly. You might even have a concussion. Do you think maybe you just thought you saw her and the girl up there, on account of the trauma and all? Cause really, it doesn’t make sense that she’d be up on Fire Mountain with or without a little girl.”