by Jackie Lynn
TWENTY-TWO
It was late when Rose was finally roused from her sleep. She had slept long and deeply, but she did not feel rested when she woke. She felt troubled, exposed in the way she used to feel as a child and as a young married woman, the way she hadn’t felt in months.
She tried to shake it off and glanced over at the clock on the microwave oven and saw that it was almost 11:00 A.M. She wondered why someone hadn’t stopped by or called. She was usually at the office well before that late-morning hour and she was surprised that Mary hadn’t driven over in the golf cart or Thomas hadn’t arrived at her door to wake her up for work or at least to check on her.
When she sat up, however, the thin skin stretched and swollen across her forehead, an ache instantly reminding her of her recent injury, she saw that she had left the shades on the window by her bed open. Anyone walking by could have seen that she was asleep.
She guessed that she had been looked in on and then left alone. Probably more than once, she thought, realizing how concerned Mary and Ms. Lou Ellen and Thomas had been the night before. She knew that it had been evident to everyone at the cabin that she was tired and in need of a little extra sleep.
She stood up from the bed, a bit wobbly, and fixed a pot of coffee. She wondered where the old and familiar feeling had been for so long, wondered why it had suddenly been brought to the surface once again—if it was a consequence of her headache or of the pending decision she knew she would have to make.
She found the milk in her refrigerator and set it out by the sink. Then she went into the bathroom, threw some water on her face, and looked at herself in the mirror. The wound on her forehead was now blue, the cut had healed over, and the swelling had diminished a bit. All that was left was a large bruise, a slender line above her brow, and the dull throbbing sensation that reminded her of how it felt to slam against the window of Sheriff Montgomery’s car.
She studied the injury and decided a little foundation and powder would cover most of the discoloration. After she brushed her teeth and combed her hair, she reached for her makeup bag to disguise the wound and also add a little pink to her cheeks.
As she stared at herself in the mirror, the small sponge carefully blotting against her skin, she leaned in closer, her eyes and the bones of her jaw magnified, and suddenly noticed, to her great surprise, how much she looked like her father. In that instant of recognition, she understood the bump on her head had not been the source of her discontent.
As a child, Rose remembered, she had favored her mother. They shared the same peach skin, the thick dark hair, the faint glow of hopefulness. But this time, as she studied her reflection, recalling only glimpses of her mother from outdated photographs yellowed from time and wrinkled from constant folding and unfolding, and realizing that she had aged well past the early and untimely year of her mother’s death, she peered at herself and recognized only her father returning the gaze. The wide nose, the thin brow, the dark nature of his large brown eyes, all of the features of the man she had hidden from most of her life, were now completely hers.
She watched him, pondered him, regarded him. And then she said out loud, as if he were in the room listening, as if he had told her what she had seen for herself, “There you are again.”
Rose put down the sponge and went into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. She sat down at her table, trying to erase the reflection from her mind, the trouble in her heart. She knew she would have to decide what to do about visiting her father soon enough, but she didn’t want to be reminded of him first thing in the morning. She didn’t want to see him so clearly, so closely, and she didn’t want to be locked again in the grips of her family’s dark history, her father’s heavy hand.
She finished her coffee, dressed, and, without the aid of a mirror, continued putting on her makeup. She walked to the office, sorting through the memories, the possibilities, and the matters at hand.
It was cloudy, still cool for the late-morning hour. Rose walked up the driveway, noticing that the group heading to Texas was gone, that a new rig from California was parked three sites down from hers, a large motor home, the expensive kind, with three bedrooms and top-of-the-line appliances. She eyed the luxurious vehicle, the heavily shaded windows, wishing she could get a closer view, and wondered who was staying in such nice accommodations.
She walked beyond the line of sites on the river and headed past the area that was closed to campers, the yellow police tape still marking the entrance, barring people from heading down to the murder site. She stopped, looked over in the field to the empty place where the camper had been parked, and then moved to the office.
Mary and Ms. Lou Ellen were sitting at the desk behind the counter.
“Rose is finally up,” Mary announced.
Both women turned to their friend as she walked in the door. Relief appeared to settle upon their faces. The dog sat up by the counter and wagged his tail.
“Darling Rose, how are you this morning?” Ms. Lou Ellen asked.
Rose went right to her and, without an answer, leaned over and kissed her friend on the top of her head. Ms. Lou Ellen reached up and took Rose by the hand. She held it for a few minutes.
The act was Rose’s way of saying she was fine, of releasing her friend from the guilt that Thomas had said she suffered, and of signaling her affection for the woman who had become so important to her. She wanted her to know not only that was she forgiven but that she was greatly admired and loved. She stood up and smiled, stepping a few feet away from the table.
“I am fit as a fiddle,” she finally replied, not revealing the fretful way she had slept, the decision with which she wrestled, the old veil of trouble now pressing down hard upon her.
“Your head look better,” Mary responded.
She had stood up from her desk and walked over, examining the wound they remembered from the previous night. Mary had already been by her camper at least three times that morning. She had observed her friend’s chest rise and fall, saw her body change positions on her bed, and, confident that she was alive and breathing, had decided not to wake her.
“It feels better today,” Rose replied with a smile. “I think being back in my own little camper helped tremendously.”
Ms. Lou Ellen nodded with a wink. “Did you sleep, dear, or did Thomas fulfill his duty?”
She slid papers off of the chair beside her, making room for Rose to sit down.
“‘Fulfill his duty’?” Rose asked, surprised by the question, uncertain of the meaning behind it.
The older woman smiled. “Keeping you awake?”
Rose sat down.
“He was supposed to make sure you didn’t go right to sleep,” she said. Then she pointed to her own temple as further means of explanation. “Because of your head wound, dear.” She appeared puzzled at Rose’s reaction.
“Oh,” Rose responded. “His duty … I was thinking … Well, never mind what I was thinking.”
Rose rested her elbows on the table. “We stayed up a little while, but I had been alert and conscious for at least six hours since the injury. That’s enough time to allow for concussion-related problems.”
“I see,” the older woman replied. “Well, you are the nurse.” She smiled.
“So, what have I missed this morning?” Rose asked.
She reached down and petted the dog. “Lester Earl, you seem to have made a home for yourself here.” The dog stood up and then headed to where Mary had returned. He curled himself between her legs.
“He’s trying to win Mary’s heart,” Ms. Lou Ellen reported, watching the dog.
“He’s your husband,” Mary snapped. She spun around, whipping her legs past the dog, who yelped and then hobbled over to the older woman.
“Ex-husband, Mary dear,” Ms. Lou Ellen replied. “He has his freedom to charm any woman he chooses. And it appears as if he has chosen you.”
“It’s okay, Lester Earl,” Rose said as she turned around and faced the counter where Mary was standing. �
�It takes her awhile, but she’ll warm up to you. She did with me when I showed up unattended.” She turned back around, reached across the table, and took part of the newspaper her friend was reading.
“Yes, but I warm up to you because you give me lunch break,” Mary said, eyeing Ms. Lou Ellen’s companion.
Rose thought she saw a hint of a smile coming from her friend. She did not comment.
“That’s the only reason?” she asked.
“Of course,” Mary replied.
“Well, I never thought I’d see such a thing. Mary demonstrating good humor.” Ms. Lou Ellen grinned.
Mary made a hissing noise, moved to her seat at the desk, and began reading the mail.
“So, what’s happening in West Memphis today?” Rose asked. She skimmed over the front page.
“Just the usual,” Ms. Lou Ellen replied. “A couple of car wrecks, at least one church supper, and high school baseball.” She was reading the obituaries.
Rose flipped through the section she had picked up, wondering if there had been any mention of her kidnapping or of the murder of the man from New Mexico.
“Clyde Gilbert died,” the older woman said somberly. “He had cancer, I think. And he was a very sweaty man, if I remember correctly.”
“Well, I assume it was the cancer that killed him, since I don’t recall ever hearing of death by perspiration,” Rose responded.
“Doesn’t say,” she replied. “The family will receive guests later this evening.”
“Maybe you take them some of Rose’s funeral food,” Mary suggested as she threw away some junk mail.
“That’s a lovely idea, Mary dear.” Ms. Lou Ellen immediately placed the paper on the desk. She appeared excited. “I think I’ll go right over and see what I have that’s ideal for that family.” She stood up from her seat and walked over to the counter. “Would you say chicken casserole or beef stew?” she asked her friends.
“Hmmm,” Rose replied. She appeared deep in thought regarding this question. “I think it goes back to what you remember about his condition, that it would matter whether he died from the cancer or from the sweat,” she said, attempting to be humorous.
“I see your point exactly,” Ms. Lou Ellen replied seriously. “A long-term illness speaks more of a stew or beef-based entrée.”
Mary and Rose faced each other. They were both surprised by their friend’s thoughts.
“And a sudden death is more of a poultry-themed meal.” She tapped her finger on the counter in deep consideration.
“Stew,” Rose said. “I’d definitely go with the stew.”
The older woman turned to Mary for confirmation, but the office manager only shrugged her shoulders.
“Yes?” Ms. Lou Ellen asked, and grinned, “Then beef stew it is. Thank you so much for your assistance.” She nodded in Rose’s direction.
“Lester, would you like to return home with me, or would you prefer to stay with these two comely women?”
The dog looked at Rose and then at Mary, who sneered at him, and immediately bolted for the door. Ms. Lou Ellen raised her brows and nodded, as if she understood the dog’s decision.
“Drop by and see me, Rose,” the older woman said as she headed out. “I really must hear more about your incident.” She waved and walked outside, moving toward her cabin.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on the dog,” Rose said as she put down the paper and eyed the coffeepot. She could tell there was still some left from the morning brew. She poured herself a cup and sat down in the seat Ms. Lou Ellen had previously occupied. She was now across from her friend. Mary waved away the comment.
“Any new campers?” she asked Mary.
“Two,” the manager reported. “One on number forty-five, the other near you, number seventy-eight,” she added.
Rose knew she meant the expensive rig she had recently seen that was just around the drive from her casita. Number seventy-eight was a nice site, a large pull-through near the bathhouse and the laundry room. “Family or single?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” Mary said. “They check in late.” She reached up for the registration book. “California,” she said, searching for and locating the card. “Can’t read the name.”
“Family from South Carolina at number forty-five. They arrived yesterday, staying two nights.” she explained.
Rose nodded. She continued to skim across the paper, not finding any story about what had happened to her. She did find a small report on the inside front page about the murder at Shady Grove Campground still being investigated. It said that there were no new details and that the name of the deceased was still being withheld while family members were being notified.
Rose remembered the two men she had met the day before, the nephew and his son, John and Daniel Sunspeaker. She remembered the slow and careful way they’d acted toward her, the kindness of the older man as he gave her the dressing for her wound.
She wondered if the sheriff had seen the two of them that morning, if the camper had arrived safely at the sheriff’s office, and if the family members knew about the ladder. She decided that she should go to town and find out what she could. She noticed the clock. She knew Mary would need her lunch break first.
“You hungry?” she asked.
Mary nodded. “Maybe I just go next door and get some funeral stew,” she said.
Rose smiled. “Sounds like a good idea to me.” Then she put down the paper and moved over to the desk to see what work needed to be done. When she noticed the message book, she remembered something.
“By the way, did that FBI agent ever come by here yesterday, the one who called?” she asked.
She remembered her conversation with the sheriff and that he claimed he didn’t know anything about the Federal Bureau of Investigation being involved in the case. She assumed the man never showed.
Mary nodded, and the affirmative answer surprised Rose. “He came about ten o’clock,” she replied. “When he found out the camper had been stolen, he left very quickly.” She closed the registration book and straightened the papers on her desk. “He was very upset,” she added.
“Did he show you a badge?” Rose asked, thinking that this man, like the one pretending to be a Highway Patrol officer, might have been impersonating an agent.
“No,” Mary said. “Just told me his name and where he was from.” She finished cleaning up her desk and prepared to leave for lunch. “I remembered the phone call.”
“And where was he from?” Rose asked as she sat down.
“Louisiana,” Mary replied.
Rose waited. The name of the state startled her, though she didn’t know why.
“Natchez,” Mary added, and Rose turned quickly to her.
“Good-looking tall man, long hair, from Natchez, Louisiana.”
Rose immediately remembered the stranger she had seen in town at the sheriff’s office and at the library. She fell back against the seat at the desk and a long, cold shiver ran down the entire length of her spine.
TWENTY-THREE
After Mary returned from her lunch break, Rose gave the manager the few messages she had taken, then headed out of the office to her car, which was parked at her campsite. She had decided that she was going into town to find the sheriff and get permission to search inside the camper again. She also wanted to speak to the family members of the dead man to see if they knew anything about the secret compartment and the ladder that was hidden inside his travel trailer.
Rose considered paying Ms. Lou Ellen a visit first, but when she peeked in the window at the cabin, she saw that her friend had already left. She assumed she had picked out the perfect grief dish and was on her way to deliver it. She saw the dog curled up by the door, and for the first time, she wondered if the dead man’s family would want the dog returned. She wasn’t sure how her friend would feel about having to give him up. She decided that choice would not be hers to make and that she would let Ms. Lou Ellen handle that situation when the time came.
She wa
lked along the entryway and rounded the corner of the drive, moving very fast. She traveled that path so many times every day, she’d quit paying attention to her direction anymore. She usually stared at the river or over toward Thomas’s place.
As with previous trips, she wasn’t watching where she was heading, and before she knew what had happened, Rose ran right into the owner of the California motor home. He was outside fiddling with something in the front of his vehicle.
“Whoa there, missy,” the man said, catching Rose before she knocked them both down.
“My goodness, I am sorry,” Rose insisted. She stepped back, embarrassed at what had happened. “Are you okay?” she asked.
She touched her head, remembering the recent injury. She was glad not to have caused herself more harm.
“I’m fine,” the man replied. “But it looks like you might need to be more careful.” He seemed to notice the bump and the bruise.
Rose studied the man. He was stocky, broad across the chest, and had wide shoulders. He was fifty or sixty—Rose couldn’t tell precisely—and he appeared to be a man of money. He was wearing a beige silk shirt with narrow brown thread delicately sewn along the seams and borders, tan linen pants, and soft leather designer shoes, as well as a belt made of the same tawny color. The large belt buckle was carved from a thick, heavy piece of blue-green turquoise. He had on a silver chain that dropped beneath his collar, and his hair was black and slicked down, giving it a wet appearance.
Rose thought he looked nothing like a man who traveled by camper, even a camper as nice as the one he stood in front of, and when she remembered what he drove, she turned to get a better view of it.
“I just got this thing,” the man said, noticing her interest in his rig. “I’m not sure I know how to get it all connected properly,” he added. “I figured out the electricity and the water last night when I arrived, but this”—he picked up the long plastic pipe that he had dropped when she ran into him—“I don’t know where this goes.”
Rose could see that he was trying to hook up his sewer line. He appeared completely helpless. She was in a hurry, but, remembering her job at Shady Grove and her duty to aid the other campers, she delayed her departure to assist him.