Sintown Chronicles II: Through Bedroom Windows

by David O. Dyer, Sr.

  “I tried to do the right thing. When her business is on the ropes, I'll make the offer again. She'll come around."

  “Something in the sound of your voice makes me think this Dottie woman is more to you than just a competitor."

  “Maybe she is. I'm old, but I'm not dead yet.” He grinned. “Dottie's about my age, a widow, and a very handsome woman."

  “Oh,” Maggie said as she removed her hand from his thigh.

  George pulled into the parking lot and sighed. “There's nothing to do but park under the basketball goal,” he said.

  “I hardly think anyone will be playing basketball this morning,” she replied frostily as she released her shoulder strap.

  “Wait a minute, Maggie,” he said as he put the lever in park. “I ... I want to ask you something. You don't have to answer right now, but I want you to be thinking about it—praying about it maybe."

  She turned to him. “What is it?"

  “I don't want you working the graveyard shift. You're so damned attractive, even when you are wearing brogans and sloppy clothes. Who knows what kind of people roam through Dot at three in the morning?"

  “I can handle myself, George. We've already been over this bridge."

  “Maybe you can and maybe you can't. I don't want you hurt, Maggie. I don't want you raped."

  “Are you firing me?"

  “Oh, mercy no,” he said. “I ... I really like you, Maggie, and during these past few days I've come to highly respect you for the many talents you have. You're a beautiful lady, both inside and out. I want you to manage the place with me."

  “You want me to be a manager?"

  He nodded as he smiled.

  “You want me to work closely with you like you and your wife used to do?"

  He nodded vigorously.

  “Sounds to me like a position you should offer Dottie Frank,” she said and she made a hasty exit from the car.

  He caught up with her on the front steps of the church. “What kind of answer was that?"

  “If you want someone to play the role of your wife it should be someone you love."

  “I don't love Dottie Frank."

  “Oh?” She pretended to pull away from him, but allowed him to restrain her. “Then what are your feelings for her?"

  “Don't make me do this,” he said.

  She just looked at him.

  He glanced from side to side to make sure no one could hear. Softly he said, “A man has needs. I would like to have sex with her. I know I shouldn't say things like that but damn it, you asked."

  “Do you love me, George? Is that why you want me to play the role of your wife?"

  “I ... I..."

  “Do you want to screw me, George? Is that why you're being so nice to me?” This time she pulled her arm from his grip and mounted the granite stairs.

  * * * *

  Mary Lou McGee slipped through her husband's study door. She admired the dark haired man as he sat at his desk, poring over his sermon notes. When he looked up she said, “The sanctuary is packed.” She crossed the room to his side and kissed him on the cheek. “They're bringing in chairs from the Sunday School rooms. I just wanted to wish you good luck.” She kissed him again and turned to leave.

  “Mary Lou,” he said as he stood up.

  She stopped and turned. He folded her in his arms so tightly she found it difficult to breathe.

  “This is Easter Sunday—the high point of the Christian year. A time to celebrate and rejoice in Christ's victory over death and our hope for eternal life."

  “Yes,” she wheezed while wedging her hands against his chest.

  “The graves in the cemetery are covered with beautiful flowers. Roses adorn the altar. Every person here today is wearing his very best clothing. Many of the ladies will be wearing new hats, purchased just for this occasion. Dogwoods have opened their empty-cross blossoms. All are expressions of joy and hope."

  “What's wrong, Mack?” she asked as she pushed him away and stared into his tear-filled eyes.

  “I just received a call from Charlotte Memorial. They were trying to reach you. As you know, Bobby Elliott beat the gunshot wounds, but he just died of pneumonia."

  Chapter Six

  Mack shook the hand of the final departing church member and hurried back to his study. Instantly Mary Lou was in his arms, covering his face with kisses. “You did a beautiful job, my husband. The way you tied Bobby's death to the hope we have in the resurrection was perfect. People all around me were weeping and I was a bit teary-eyed myself."

  He held her tightly for a long moment before he spoke. “I need to find Adele and do what I can to comfort her. Those fundamentalist preachers have it all over me at times like this."

  “What do you mean?"

  “They simply pass off a tragedy as being God's will."

  “The God you and I know would never will a sniper to kill a good man like Bobby Elliott."

  “I know, but one who is grieving, like I know Bobby's wife is, craves answers—needs to believe that there was some reason, some purpose in the tragedy—that some good may come of it. I don't have such words of comfort to offer."

  “Just knowing that you care is a great comfort, Mack."

  “Adele is at the hospital?"

  “No. As soon as the service was over, I came back here and called Charlotte Memorial. She just left. They think she is on her way home."

  “Then I need to be there to meet her."

  “Sandy and Tim told me they were going directly to her house. They'll be there when she arrives. You need to eat something, Mack. You skipped breakfast this morning. I have a roast in the oven. Let's go home, get a bite to eat and then visit Adele. We can take slices of the roast and some rolls for her to snack on."

  “You're going with me?"

  “Of course. As hysterical as she became when Bobby was shot, I may need to give her a sedative. Besides, I care about Adele too."

  * * * *

  George crawled behind the steering wheel, cranked the engine, but did not put the car in gear. “What did I say that hurt you so, Maggie?"

  She did not respond.

  “Whatever it was, I'm sorry."

  There was still no response. He slipped the gear into reverse, backed up from under the basketball goal, moved the gearshift to drive and crept out of the parking lot.

  “I'll take you home. Then I'm coming back to the restaurant. I think I'll fry some chicken, make biscuits and maybe a couple gallons of tea to take to Mrs. Elliott."

  “Did you know them?” she asked.

  “I knew who they were. That's about it. I'm not sure I ever met Mrs. Elliott, but I have run into Bobby a few times."

  “Why do people take food or send flowers to people who are grieving the loss of a loved one?"

  “I don't know. There's not much anyone can do to help in times like these. It's just a way of saying we care."

  She nodded.

  “That's where she lives,” he said.

  “I thought that was the entrance to the Dollars’ house."

  “Other side of the road."

  She glanced through the rear window. “Oh,” she said.

  “Thank you."

  “For what?"

  “For talking to me."

  She shook her head. “I feel like such a fool."

  “I don't understand."

  “The last few days have been, well, the best days of my life. I felt like I was living in a fairyland or something. I have a good job, a mansion to live in and a boss who treats me so wonderfully. I got a little possessive. When I realized that you have an interest in this Dottie woman, I became jealous. I felt like she was a competitor trying to take you away from me. I'm sorry, George."

  “I shouldn't have mentioned her."

  “Not true, George. It was foolish of me to think that you have no interests outside the restaurant. I need to get a life."

  The motor hummed as the recreational complex loomed into sight. “Maggie, I don't know what to s
ay. I'm confused. You asked me if I love you. You asked if I wanted to have sex with you."

  “I was off base, George. I'm sorry."

  “I think I owe you an answer. I like you, Maggie. I like you very much. You know that. Having you around has taken ten years off my life. I feel like a young man again. Do I love you? Yes, I do. But not in the way I loved my wife."

  “Like a daughter?” she offered.

  “No. Not that either. I can't explain it."

  “You don't have to."

  “Do I want to have sex with you? Yes.” He stared straight ahead, but felt her looking at him. “It will never happen. I'm old enough to be your father. It will never happen with Dottie Frank, either. She hates my guts, and with reason. Oh, one day she will let me buy her out, I'm sure, but she will always blame me for putting her out of business."

  He pulled into the circular driveway, pushed the lever to park and left the motor running. She popped lose her shoulder harness, opened the door and looked at him.

  “I'm flattered that you want me to help you recapture some of the joy you used to experience with your wife, George. I know you loved her deeply. I'll do what I can. I'll take the managerial job you offered me and we'll make a success of the restaurant and motel together.” She smiled her special smile. “I'll see you at the restaurant in a few minutes and help you prepare something for Mrs. Elliott. I want to change clothes first."

  “I'll wait for you,” he offered.

  “No. I want to take my Blazer. The church bulletin said there is to be a meeting of the Dot Volunteer Fire Department and Rescue Squad at three. I want go to it."

  “You want to be a fireman?"

  “No,” she grinned. “A firewoman."

  * * * *

  “Drop me off at the diner,” Dottie said.

  “Why, Mom? I thought you were going to have lunch with us,” Billy protested.

  “I'm sure it won't be as good as yours, Dottie, but I have a hen in the oven,” Tracy said. “Surely it'll be edible."

  “Honey,” she said. “Don't be so defensive. You're a good cook. I want to fry a chicken, bake a tin of biscuits and maybe prepare a gallon or two of ice tea for Adele. It's the least I can do."

  Billy parked in front of Dot's Diner and shut off the motor. “We'll help and then go with you to pay our respects to Mrs. Elliott."

  Dottie flipped the light switch and turned on the deep fat fryer. “Did you see that little tart sitting in church with the old bastard?"

  “I thought she was sweet,” Tracy said. “And did you hear her singing the hymns? She has the voice of an angel."

  “The devil has angels too, you know."

  “Mom!” Billy chided.

  “Don't you Mom me,” she said. “Mark my words, she's up to no good. Pranced down the isle and joined the church like she owns the place."

  “She seems pretty nice to me,” Tracy insisted. “Billy and I shook hands with her after the service. She's working for Mr. Bennett and staying at his house until she can find a place of her own."

  “Likely story,” Dottie hissed. “You can bet your life she's screwing the old fool."

  “Mom!” Billy chided again. “Even if she is, which I doubt, what difference does it make to you?"

  Dottie glared at her son. “I don't give a damn what the old goat does."

  * * * *

  Borders turned onto the Lumbermill road. “It's murder, now,” he said.

  “Such a tragedy,” Leora replied with a sigh. “That Eddie Crow and his wife joined the church this morning. You think he's the one who did it?"

  Borders shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt it—no motive."

  “But he had a recently fired rifle."

  “True, but there's nothing to link the rifle to the shooting. The deputy's report said Crow claimed he was shooting rats. The report noted that the front yard was grown up and could be rat infested."

  “What do they know about this Eddie Crow?"

  “His story checks out. He and Greta have jobs at the new restaurant and motel. They came here from Charlotte where Crow worked as a cook and Greta was a waitress at the old Cup and Saucer. Prior to that they worked at a restaurant in Fayetteville."

  “What about his wife, Greta?"

  “She's probably not his wife. There's no record of the marriage, but they could have gotten married in another county or even another state I suppose. She was a hooker working the military base in Fayetteville until Eddie met her some way. She seems to have cleaned up her act—no arrests for the last three years anyway."

  “Still, he's the only suspect."

  “I talked with him a little after the service this morning. They've rented a cottage on Schoolhouse Road. He said they joined the church because they want to become a vital part of the community. He told me he was going to join the choir and the fire department too. Seems like a nice guy."

  “A model citizen,” she summarized.

  “Looks that way."

  * * * *

  As she began clearing the dishes Greta said, “Eddie, please let me go back to wearing panties and a bra when I'm in the house. Remember how you used to like seeing my panties glued to my labia?"

  “Where did you learn such a big word, bitch? I like watching your naked ass waddle around here,” he replied as he wiped grease from his lips with a paper napkin, “and your tits jiggle real nice when they aren't tucked inside bra cups."

  She lifted her breasts and looked at them. “You said yourself I was beginning to droop. They look better in a bra. I could cut the tips out of a bra so my nipples would poke through. You'd like that. And besides, grease splattered out of the pan when I was frying the pork chops and burned my left boob."

  He laughed. “Bring it over here. I'll kiss it and make it well."

  She obeyed, but as he roughly ran his thick tongue over her flesh she mumbled, “It ain't funny. It hurts."

  He pushed back from the table. “Put ’em on if you like,” he said. “But if I don't like it I'll stick that damn boob in a pan of sizzling grease."

  She picked up the remaining dishes and took them to the sink. It's not worth the risk, she thought.

  “Before you wash the dishes,” he said, “wrap up the rest of the pork chops in aluminum foil. I'm gonna make a trip to the poor widow Elliott and express our condolences."

  “Want me to go with you?"

  “Naw. I'm just gonna stay for a few minutes. I'll pat her on the back, tell her it was God's will, and be on my way. I'll make some excuse for your absence."

  “You murdered him, Eddie—not God."

  “Yeah, but how do you know God didn't tell me to do it? The bastard had it coming for what he did to me, and so does the Dollar bitch."

  “If you say so, but the boy didn't do nothing to you."

  “The sins of the mother are visited upon the sons..."

  “What?"

  He waved her away. “You wouldn't understand."

  She handed him the wrapped chops. “I cut the bones out. They'll make good sandwiches if you'll stop by the Dot Grocery and pick up a package of rolls. Tell her I'm sorry."

  “Yeah, sure. Look, I'll probably be gone most of the day. I'm going to that meeting of the volunteers at the church this afternoon."

  “Is it okay with you if I take a nap?"

  “No, it isn't. Get the dishes cleaned up and then clean out the spare room. You've put that off long enough. That room stinks to high heaven. I can't stand to go in there."

  “Okay, Eddie.” She suppressed a smile. “I haven't noticed a smell, but I'll scrub it down real good for you."

  Hot water was still filling the sink when she heard Eddie slam the front door. Good riddance, she thought.

  While washing, drying and putting away the dishes she felt like she was in prison. Her thoughts turned to escape, but where could she go? What would she do? For a while she made a good living as a prostitute, but her thoughts kept returning to three soldiers and a dark ally in Fayetteville. She needed money of her own—mon
ey Eddie didn't know about.

  She went to the kitchen closet and extracted a bucket, rags, furniture polish, a dust mop and the vacuum cleaner. She set everything down outside the door to the spare room and braced herself for the cold chill she expected. It didn't happen. She wasn't sure if she was pleased or disappointed.

  Greta stepped inside the room and inhaled deeply. She smelled no offensive odor, but the room was more of a mess than she remembered. Eddie has been in here, she thought, but he must not have found anything of value. She picked up litter, stacking papers neatly on the dusty desk and returning books to the bookcase. She pulled open one of the file cabinet drawers. It was half full of manila folders. She found the other three drawers the same. She opened one of the folders. The contents seemed to be a child's book report. She shuddered as she remembered her own school days.

  Greta plugged in the vacuum cleaner, but before turning it on she said, “Ain't you in here, Lady?” There was no response—no cold chill. She laughed. “Guess I should have said ‘Aren't you in here, Lady?’ since you was a schoolteacher.” She pushed the button and the vacuum cleaner motor sprang to life with its harsh whir.

  When she finished, she put away the cleaning materials and returned to the room. She knew Eddie wanted everything thrown out, but she just couldn't. She decided to cram all the books together on the bookcases, making room for whatever he wanted to put there, and jam all the papers in the file cabinet. She could tell him that the books might be worth something to a collector and the papers too. Before Eddie threw them out, an expert should examine them.

  As she rearranged the bookshelves, she wondered what stories the volumes contained. She wished she could read better. Books contained so many big words she did not know. She gave up trying to read them when she was in the fifth grade. She moved her neat stacks to the filing cabinet and, when she was finished, the gray metal drawers were tightly packed.

  “Lady,” she said as she sat down at the desk, “I told you this morning I would go through your things this afternoon. Where are you?” She tensed for the cold chill, but she found herself perspiring instead. She wiped a puddle of liquid from under her sagging breasts. One by one she opened the desk drawers and, to her dismay, all but the last drawer was crammed with more papers and spiral bound notebooks. The last drawer contained a single notebook.