“Things to figure out: Home, Work, and Ed,” he said. “What’s that about?”
“I’m a list maker,” Claire said. “I like to research every option before I make a decision, and if I put it down in writing it helps keep me organized. You’re so smart and sensible I guess I thought you might help me decide what to do about the other two.”
“I’ll be glad to help you figure things out,” he said.
Ed stood up and walked over to where Claire stood with her back to the counter. He reached out, put his arm around her waist, and pulled her close.
“Here’s some data for your research,” he said, and kissed her.
Warmth spread throughout Claire’s body as she lost all sense of place and time. When he finally let go, she felt dizzy and disoriented.
“Let me know if you need any more help figuring things out,” he said, his voice low and husky.
He gave her a look with real heat to it, and then went out the back door. As he closed the door behind him, Claire cleared her throat and reached out to steady herself against the counter; her knees were suddenly, mysteriously unable to hold up her body. With her other hand, she touched her lips, which still tingled from his kiss.
“That answers that question,” she said, and then giggled.
Her heart thumped, and her face felt warm.
“Oh my,” she said. “Oh, my.”
Her phone tweedled and she plucked it off the table where Ed had put it.
“Sorry, love,” the text from Carlyle read.
She waited awhile, but he didn’t write anything else, and she didn’t respond.
Scott had followed Ed and Claire at a distance, and made sure they were safely in Claire’s house before he turned his attention to the Davis house next door. The light was on in the kitchen and Phyllis was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking, and drinking straight from a bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Well, well, well,” she said, as she opened the screen door. “Will you look at what’s come prowling around my back door?”
“Hello, Phyllis,” Scott said. “Can I come in?”
“Sure, sweetie,” Phyllis said, and made a big show of putting her cigarette out and fanning the air.
The kitchen was acrid with smoke and the smell of trash. Scott could see a sheaf of official-looking paperwork on the table, but there was a tabloid magazine on top of it.
“What can I do for you?” Phyllis said, and offered him the bottle of whiskey.
“No thanks,” he said. “Celebrating something?”
“You might say that,” Phyllis said. “My ship done finally come in, sweetheart, and about damn time, too.”
“How’d that happen?”
“None of your beeswax,” she said. “But I will tell you that it’s enough so I can finally get out of this loser town and have a life, and that’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Well, you be careful,” Scott said. “If some of those friends of yours catch wind of your good luck, they might want a piece of it.”
“Hah,” she said. “What do you want?”
“I want to get you caught up on the case,” Scott said.
“What case?” Phyllis said.
“The murder of Mamie Rodefeffer,” Scott said.
“You can’t prove that,” Phyllis said.
“Let me tell you what I know,” Scott said, and he laid it all out for her, from the beginning, the day Mamie was murdered, all the way up until today, when Courtenay’s body was found.
“I don’t know anything about anything,” Phyllis said, trying to sound undisturbed, but her eye had started twitching at the mention of the tea, and her hands were shaking by the time he described Courtenay’s dead body.
“You know a lot more than you’ve told me,” Scott said. “And I know this all leads back to Knox.”
“Whatcha doing here, then?” she said. “Shouldn’t you be arresting Knox?”
“Aren’t you the least little bit worried?” Scott asked her. “I gotta tell you, I was a little afraid I’d find you here with your neck broken.”
Phyllis’s eyes widened.
“But I didn’t have anything to do with any of that,” she said. “I was just doing the glasses.”
“The glasses?”
“Trick was trying to get Mamie to turn over her finances to him and Sandy, on account of he didn’t trust Knox. He took the old bat to the eye doctor a few weeks ago and she got new glasses. So then Trick got this idea that he would convince Mamie she was going much worse blind, so she’d have to move into a nursing home and he could take over.
“So Trick waits a week and then goes back to the eye doctor, and tells the guy Mamie says the reading glasses were too strong, but she doesn’t want to come back in. Well, the doctor doesn’t want her to come back in again on account of Mamie’s being, well, being Mamie. So the doc makes a new pair of glasses a little bit weaker, and when Mamie goes to the restroom at the depot in the morning, like she always does, she leaves her reading glasses on the table, and I switched ‘em. Then a week later, we do the same thing; the doctor makes them a little weaker, and I switch ‘em again.
“We did it four times. We didn’t mess with her walking glasses ’cause we didn’t want the old bat to get hit by a car or anything. We just wanted her to think she was going blinder so she’d ask old Trick to help her out.”
“So when you went back in the room, it was the reading glasses you were after?”
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s all. We didn’t want to hurt her; I was just helping Trick get her into a nursing home. That really would have been the best thing for Mamie. I even sent lunch up to her house that day, on account of she missed out on her breakfast. I was doing right by her, see?”
“By convincing a helpless old lady, whose only joy in life was reading, that she could no longer read.”
“Well, we woulda replaced her glasses with the good ones once she moved into the home,” Phyllis said. “That was Trick’s plan, anyway.”
“You really have no shame,” Scott said. “I won’t bother to explain to you why what you did was crueler than killing her. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, get your panties all in a bunch, why don’t ya?” Phyllis said. “You’re such a fragile blossom.”
Scott got up and went to the door.
“I’m finished helping you,” he said.
“Who asked you to in the first place?” Phyllis said.
“No,” Scott said. “I want you to hear it and believe it; because you’re going to need my help someday, maybe sooner than you think, and I’m going to slam the door in your face.”
“Wah, wah, wah,” Phyllis said. “Cry me a river.”
Scott left Phyllis’s rotten-smelling house and breathed in the cool night air. He had planned to go back to his own house up on Sunflower Street to spend the night, but he knew he couldn’t do that. It would not be good for him to be alone with his thoughts tonight. He might end up at Knox’s house.
Instead he went to the bookstore, and used his key to let himself inside. He punched in the code to the alarm, and turned on a light behind the café counter, where the stereo system was. He sorted through the CDs until he found Al Green’s. He inserted the CD, skipped ahead to “Let’s Stay Together,” hit repeat, and then play.
Maggie came down with Sean, who was holding a baseball bat.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Maggie said.
Sean waved goodnight and went back upstairs.
Scott held out his arms.
“Shall we dance?”
“Are you drunk?” she asked him.
“Maybe a little,” he said.
She was wearing one of his T-shirts and his flannel robe, and her feet were bare. Her hair was wild; long red curls shot out in all directions. She had been frowning, but when she walked into his embrace she was smiling. She smelled like the bed, her warm, sleeping smell.
“They’re playing our song,” he said. “Do you remember the first time I sang this to you?”
“The night you arrested my second best barista,” she said.
“Mitchell,” Scott said.
“That’s the one,” Maggie said. “He just graduated from UVA Law School. I sent him fifty bucks in a card; I wrote that it was from both of us.”
“He was standing outside his ex-girlfriend’s house at three in the morning, singing this song,” Scott said. “Plastered.”
“After he passed out, we played gin rummy in the break room,” she said.
“And do you remember what was playing on the radio?” he asked her.
“This song,” she said. “Because you called in and requested it.”
“Because I know people.”
“Because you have connections,” she said. “I was mostly impressed that you knew all the words.”
“My dad used to play this song all the time,” he said. “He said it was the greatest love song ever written. That was the night I knew who it was about for me.”
“Wasn’t that the night Theo got murdered?”
“Yes,” he said. “But that’s not what I remember about it.”
“So this is your version of standing outside my apartment like Mitchell did for his girl?”
“Something like that.”
“But we are staying together,” Maggie said.
“And I don’t want to waste one moment of it,” Scott said. “Not for any reason.”
“Do you want to come up?”
“Let’s listen to it all the way through, one more time,” Scott said.
“You’re so squishy,” Maggie said. “I guess it’s good one of us is.”
When the song began again, Scott sang every word, while they danced.
Chapter Eight - Saturday
Claire woke up at four in the morning, overcome by nausea, and just made it to the toilet bowl before she puked up every pineapple juice drink she’d imbibed hours earlier. She thought she would probably never be able to drink pineapple juice again.
Afterward, she sat on the cool tile floor, her back against the tub, with only the light from a street lamp outside to illuminate the room. She could hear her father snoring loudly in the guest bedroom next door; at least she hadn’t disturbed him. His body clock had been waking him up at 5:00 a.m. all of his adult life; it was one of the few things he hadn’t forgotten, that hadn’t changed.
Claire thought about Ed’s kiss and the effect it had on her. That train was now moving out of the station, and there was probably no stopping it without a nasty wreck. Her libido was on board, but she wasn’t sure about her heart.
She thought about Carlyle. Despite knowing what was likely to happen, she’d allowed herself to hope again. Mostly out of loneliness, she knew, and the memory of how wonderful being in love with him had felt. In the end, she admitted to herself, he hadn’t been enough in love with her to resist Sloan’s offer, and nothing had changed since then.
Claire had enjoyed believing Carlysle was a better man than he actually was. She had made that same mistake before, mistaking charisma for character. That was a big hazard when it came to getting involved with those her father quaintly called “show folk.” From now on there’d be no more texts to a friend. She’d put his number in the same limbo file into which Sloan’s was kept.
Claire took a shower and went back to her bedroom with wet hair. She opened the window just enough to let in some cool air and took some deep breaths; that seemed to help settle her stomach. She fell back to sleep going over her list for the coming day. As a consequence, she dreamed about going to Sunshine Florist, over and over. In this dream they were out of lily of the valley, and only had cactus flowers. Erma kept saying that’s what Maggie wanted, even though Claire insisted, “She’s only prickly on the outside.” Erma argued with her, Claire insisted, and then the dream would begin again.
She woke up to Maggie and Hannah getting into bed with her. Hannah crawled across her, holding a plate full of buttered toast. Maggie sat down next to her, carefully holding a mug of hot tea.
“Wake up, sleepy head,” Hannah said. “Your mother said you were throwing up all night.”
“You were sick the other day, too,” Maggie said. “The last time Hannah did that, six months later we got Sammy.”
Claire had not even considered this a possibility. She calculated it in her head. It had been over three months since she was last with Carlyle. She’d had periods since then, hadn’t she? Suddenly it seemed completely possible, and her stomach rolled again.
“Watch out, watch out,” she said. “Coming through.”
She was still retching in the bathroom, now just dry heaves, when Sammy entered the room.
“You’s sick,” he said. “You’s got a tummy ache?”
“Yep,” she said. “Will you hand me a wash cloth?”
Sammy opened the cupboard underneath the sink, and brought one back to her. Claire wet it under the tub faucet and wiped her face. She sat down in the same position she’d taken earlier in the morning, her back against the tub. Sammy patted her shoulder.
“You’s okay,” he said. “You’s be all right.”
“Thanks, Sammy,” Claire said.
Claire’s mother came in and reached for Sammy’s hand.
“Sammy, let’s give Claire some privacy,” Delia said.
“Her’s not naked,” Sammy said. “Her’s not pooping.”
“Let’s just let her be,” Delia said, and gave him a firm push down the hallway.
“Her’s ducks don’t fly ...” he was protesting as he went.
“Thanks, Mom,” Claire said.
“You need to see Doc,” Delia said. “This has been going on too long.”
Claire nodded and then covered her face with the wet cloth.
“I have too much to do today to be sick,” Claire said.
“Remember to let other people help,” Delia said as she went out the door and closed it behind her.
It was almost immediately opened again by Hannah, who was munching on a piece of toast.
“Do you want me to go get a stick thingy for you to pee on?” she asked.
“I can’t be,” Claire said. “It’s not possible.”
“Have you seen a star in the east, lately?” Hannah asked. “Because the timing is right for your child to be lying in a manger when the three wise guys bring goldfish, Phineas, and Ferb.”
“I love your son’s biblical interpretations,” Claire said. “But no angels have come unto me. Nor anyone else.”
“Hey,” Hannah said. “Do you want some toast?”
“Not yet,” Claire said, getting to her feet. “I will take some tea.”
“I drank yours,” Maggie said, from behind Hannah. “Are you done puking? Cause I’m a sympathetic puker.”
“I’m done,” Claire said, and made her way past her cousins, back to her bedroom, and into bed.
Hannah again climbed over her and sat with her back to the headboard. Maggie went to get her some more tea. When she came back with it, Claire sipped it gratefully. It was sweet and hot, and soothed her sore throat.
“We came for our instructions,” Maggie said.
“Get my handbag, please,” Claire said, and pointed to it on the floor.
Maggie handed it to her and Claire retrieved her notebook. She went over all that Hannah had been assigned, and Hannah kept saying, “check,” after every item.
“Does that mean you’re all done?” Claire asked her. “Or are you just agreeing that these are your responsibilities?”
Hannah pulled her own copy of her list out of her back pocket. It was wrinkled, torn, and there was evidence something had been spilled on it.
“The only thing I have left to do is pick up the flowers,” Hannah said. “Then we reconnoiter back here for hair and makeup at sixteen hundred hours.”
“Shave your legs,” Claire said. “And your armpits.”
“I already did, bossy boots,” Hannah said.
She pulled up her pants leg to prove it.
“What
about me?” Maggie said. “Is there anything I need to do?”
“You need to work at the bookstore just as if you don’t know any of this is happening,” Claire said. “Did you wash your hair this morning?”
Maggie leaned forward and flipped her hair over.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “It’s still not dry underneath.”
“Just stay away from your mother,” Claire said. “You know how psychic she is. One look at you and she’ll know something’s up.”
“Speaking of scary psychics,” Hannah said. “How was Anne Marie’s shindig?”
Claire told them the whole story.
“Jiminy cricket,” Hannah said. “She’s brainwashing all those bored rich ladies.”
“Tell the massage therapists I will give them sanctuary at the bookstore,” Maggie said. “I could get Elbie to drive them up to the airport in the church van if they decide to go home early.”
“That reminds me I need to text them,” Claire said.
While she was texting, Patrick came in and belly flopped across the bed. Banjo the beagle followed him in, turned around three times, and lay down by the door.
“Hey, Smurfettes,” he said. “I’m here for my marching orders.”
“You’re going to babysit our father all afternoon,” Maggie said. “I don’t care if he’s a little buzzed, but I don’t want him singing sad Irish ballads at the reception.”
“I’ve got this,” Patrick said. “Don’t worry.”
Ed came in. Patrick rolled over and sat up.
“Look who it is,” Patrick said. “Clark Kent. Hey, Lois, you’re boyfriend’s here.”
Claire focused on her texting and did not look up.
“Well, ladies and gent, I’m going to work at the service station this morning, where I will carefully ration dad’s liquor,” Patrick said. “We’ve got a little after-party planned for you lovebirds tonight at the Thorn.”
“Oh, Lord,” Maggie said. “I can just imagine.”
“What’s this?” Claire said. “I didn’t know about that.”
“That’s because the groomsmen are in charge of it,” Patrick said. “You’re not the only one who can plan a party, as we so clearly demonstrated last night.”
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