"But do not come to the back," she said, a throaty laugh escaping her lips.
She could imagine him easing back on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand. The romantic voice of Engelbert Humperdinck turned low on the CD player filled the room and she could almost hear his voice through the walls. She smiled when she thought of Walter noticing the vanilla aroma of several candles glowing on the coffee table. This was nice...forgetting the pain for a short while...feeling her mind drift from the cruel reality of this time to another place and time.
Minerva yanked herself out of a too-tight girdle, almost falling before she untangled the garment from around her ankle. Damn it. She rummaged through another drawer hoping to find a better fitting one. Holding a black one from years gone by, she squeezed herself into it, checking the clock on the bed stand at the same time. This girdle's better, she thought, until she stood erect. A pudgy roll spilled from the waistband, and turning for a side view, lumps formed on her butt. She twirled and tried to get a better view, but found she couldn't crane her neck that far. Grabbing the new shimmering peach chemise, she pulled it over her head. It thrilled her knowing it would fit since she tried it on at Wal-Mart. It looked great—until her eyes bulged when she saw the waistband. She frowned while studying the lumps under the chemise. Her eyes plummeting to her feet, she realized she hadn't taken the time to exfoliate her heels.
She raised the chemise up past her waist, positioned two strong thumbs on the waistband, and peeled it off. Catching her breath, she observed herself in the mirror. Amazing what going natural can do for a girl. But she still pondered how in the beejezus girdles could actually accentuate the flaws. She sprayed the top of her teased hair, reapplied tangerine lipstick, pulled on new slippers with wispy feathers covering the tops, and stepped out to meet Walter.
Only he wasn't in his intended spot on the couch. He was bent in the middle of the living room, blowing out the last candle, overhead light turned back on. The fuzz on her slippers swayed to the motion when she halted mid-entrance. She glared around the room then back at Walter. "What's wrong?"
Walter soft-shoed towards her, arms open. "Now, Minerva, can we talk about this?" He spread his arms but she dodged around him. She grabbed Lew and plopped down in Henry's chair, her stone hand patting the dog's back.
"Minerva, I—"
"What's the matter, Walter, you ain't attracted to me?" She said, a rigid pout forming her lips. She grabbed a green Christmas throw off the back of the chair and covered her cleavage and legs.
She watched him pull the footstool near the chair and sit down. Taking her hand, he said, "I find you very attractive, it's just that, I don't think it's appropriate right now."
Minerva snatched her hand from his. "Are you saying I have no taste? That I'm stupid for putting this together?"
Walter shook his head and removed his glasses. "Not at all. I don't think those things, but I know Fellow is on your mind lately. He's on mine, too." Minerva's eyes widened. Lew squirmed from her grasp and tumbled to the floor, where she shook her head and bounded toward the hall.
Minerva blinked out of her trance. "Of course he's on my mind." The words dimmed behind her. "Why wouldn't he be?" She avoided Walter's gaze and watched down the hall for Lew. She felt his fingers stroking her cheek.
"This is a lovely evening. The candles, the wine - it's all wonderful. I so appreciate it. And you," he said, now stroking her arm, his soft voice melting her reserve, "are one beautiful lady."
"You didn't see my new nightie. I bought it for you." She peeked out the top of her eyes at Walter.
Walter shifted on the stool. "I did see it. Very nice. You look sexy in it, believe me." He smiled and Minerva stared at him, frosted lips parted.
"But you aren't attracted to me. You said you liked me, and that bracelet..." Walter's sigh filled the room and Minerva saw the frustration on his face.
"I do like you, Minerva." She watched him adjust his glasses. "This is all so new to me. I haven't dated in so long. There's been no one in my life." She tilted her head and he looked at her. "Let me explain. With everything going on, it's very hard for me to...you know...do anything. I think of Piper and George, and that little Fellow, and you. I think of what all this is doing to all of you, and how incredibly difficult it must be to not know...well, to not know...."
Minerva stared at the cleft between Walter's eyebrows. "To not know where Fellow is," she said.
And she thought she had a crush on him. Maybe even loved him. She was a fool. The look on his face filled her with shame. What she observed on those handsome features was disgust, hatred, for everything she did this evening, for everything she failed to do, for everything she never said or did that she should have said or done. Minerva's nose reddened and her eyes darted around the room, frantic for the right feeling. But this, too, slipped past her conscious mind, and she was left with the only response she knew.
"You think I had something to do with it, don't you?" She scrambled out of the chair and the throw fell to her feet. Her eyes narrowed and a finger pointed. "Don't you!" Walter jumped up from the stool before she stomped past him to the kitchen, each deliberate step an echo of her words. She took the bottle of wine from the bucket, shook off the drops of water, then spinning to Walter, said, "I guess this means we're done." She unscrewed the lid and turned the bottle up to her lips.
Walter stood near the kitchen entrance. "Of course I don't think you had anything to do with it." He motioned her toward him. "Come here, let's talk. We're misunderstanding each other." Minerva watched him fidget a smile but it was lost on his face.
She swigged the wine again and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Tipping the top of the bottle toward the door, she said, "You better leave. I got nothing else to say to you."
Minerva ignored the hurt expression on his face. She glared at him while he retrieved his hat from the rack and put on his coat, his arms moving like lead weights. "Are you sure about this, Minerva? I'm willing to talk if you'll just make up your mind to." She didn't answer and he stepped to the door.
Minerva finished her fourth long drink and teetered to him, swaying while she walked. One slipper wrenched sideways and her foot slipped out, twisting her ankle. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Walter stumble to catch her. She managed to grab him just as both dropped to a knee. The bottle of wine fell from her grasp and rolled away, spilling the remaining contents in its path. "Oh, my gosh," Walter said.
Minerva thought he looked disoriented. She slapped his back and struggled to a sitting position. "You okay?" she asked.
She suppressed a giggle when she saw him trying to recompose himself. He sat with a thud on the floor, his glasses jerking from one side of his ear. Minerva laughed at the sight of his glasses sprawled across his face and laughed harder when he fumbled them back in position. Seeing her new demeanor caused the same reaction in Walter. They both laughed until they held their stomachs and Minerva wiped her moistened eyes.
Minerva turned quiet after the laughter subsided. "Don't get me wrong. Fellow is on my mind all the time." She entwined her fingers in Walter's. "Sometime I just have to stay busy—just to keep sane about it all."
Later that night, after Walter left, Minerva huddled under her electric blanket. The evening had turned out okay after all, even though they didn't make love. Laughing as they did made her feel good, and for now, her feeling rejected by Walter was buried deep inside her chest. Lew yapped to be lifted to bed, but Minerva only untangled a hand, found the dog's head, and shooed her off to her own bed down the hall. She didn't want the dog in bed with her tonight.
After Minerva pushed Lew away several times, she finally obeyed, dragging the pink chemise behind her.
***
Piper said goodbye to her husband, locked the door, and returned to Fellow's room. She lay on the bed for a minute, then got up, found the bottle of Valium on the kitchen counter where she left it last night, uncapped the lid, and swallowed two pills. Capping the lid, the glow of the tree in
the living room caught her eye.
Piper surveyed the room. George had plugged in a waving snowman that sat on the mantel fireplace, a plastic grin covering its rounded face. She pulled the cord and the waving stopped. No need for all the damn lights, she thought. Moving to the tree, she reached for the cord, but stopped. Underneath the tree were four gifts, the two she had wrapped for George, and two unidentified ones. Opening the tags, she read, To My Love, from Santa. They both had agreed not to exchange gifts but here they were, still wrapped and under the tree. George had mentioned opening them, but somehow the words had escaped Piper. She pulled the cord and the tree went dark.
The calendar read the last day of December, New Year's Eve, more than a week since Fellow went missing. Piper flipped it closed and stood in the kitchen, her oversized robe hanging past her knees. Her hair in knots, she picked up a stray comb from the table and tried running it through. The small teeth were not strong enough to do the job. Tossing it back on the table, she pulled the robe around her and walked back to Fellow's room.
Everything was still in its place, the clothes, the toys, as if he only stepped out for a minute and would be back. Piper sat on the bed and held the familiar bear to her chest. A gift to Fellow, this had been her own toy when she was the same age. She reached for the small leather sandals he loved wearing, even in winter. And perched on his dresser was a soft Pillsbury doughboy doll he hated but protected from his Nerf ball shots, the doll smiling down on him in a permanent welcome. These things she held and touched, running her fingers around their surfaces, imagining his baby feet in the shoes. She held the doughboy to her nose and inhaled, imagining she could still detect her son's scent.
Piper sat, not moving, on his bed for a while. Her face flushed hot when she realized the hatred she felt for his abductor.
She flipped the switch of a Woody lamp on his bedside table, but the light refused to come on. She rose and went down the hall to get another bulb. Two boxed bulbs rested next to each other at the back of the shelf.
She slid a chair from the dresser, climbed on it, and caught of glimpse of a dark object not quite concealed under an extra pillow. She stretched and grasped the steel .45, where it burned cold on her skin. She carefully climbed down from the chair and sat on the bed.
The weight of the gun while she turned it in her hand made it seem larger. Remembering how her father showed her years ago when they went target shooting, she clicked the safety, pulled the slide and one bullet ejected. She released the slide and the other bullet entered the chamber.
She stared at the loaded gun.
Her hand squeezed the grip and her finger wrapped around the trigger.
She slowly moved the muzzle to her right temple. The cold end pressed into her flesh. I could do this.
Piper thought of her son and what George had told her. The odds of finding Fellow alive were very slim now. She thought if her son were found dead, it would be the end of her life. It seemed the worst had already happened, she just didn't know it yet. She couldn't live with this. She wouldn't want to. These thoughts made her go numb and she felt nauseous.
She steadied herself on the bed and pushed the muzzle harder into her temple. She closed her eyes and held her breath.
A light tremor started in her wrist and spread to her arm. She tried steadying her hand but the trembling worsened. Bile rose to her throat and her head pounded.
***
"Sheriff Davis, we don't have a damn thing, other than the grandmother." Davis nodded his head and watched Deputy Schmidt spit tobacco into a Dr. Pepper can.
Davis had warned him of the hazards of dipping snuff, even declared his office a "no dipping zone," but Schmidt didn't take heed. "Well, you gotta do better than this if you want to keep your damn job," Davis said, the southern lilt adding emphasis. "Have you checked the local files for anyone accused of this kind of crime?"
"You can't fire me if I quit." Schmidt guffawed and beat his fist on the desk, causing Davis to shake his head at him and raise his eyebrows. The threat of canning Schmidt had been uttered over the years more out of affection than reprimand. He watched his best deputy pretend to compose himself and turn serious. "Yes sir, we have checked the files, but came up with nothing. The two scumbags checked out: one's out of the state on permission, the other's in a wheel chair. Can't do no harm there."
Davis froze then turned his body toward the Deputy. "One's in a wheel chair?"
"An elderly nut. Lives over on Central. Why?"
Sheriff Davis whooped and slapped his thigh. "Damn it, we got a lead." He rounded his desk, took a pen from the drawer, and, opening his notebook, scribbled something on the lines. He tore the paper from the book and handed it to Schmidt. "By God, looks like for a village idiot, you did very well." He watched Schmidt read the slip of paper.
"What lead do we have?"
"You'll see soon enough, just get that paper to Mahoney and we'll be on our way." He lifted the receiver and punched a button on the phone. "You and me are takin' a little drive this icy morning."
***
An hour later, they arrived at the home of Jeffrey E. Stump. The crumbling gray house was small and a chain-link fence surrounded it. The yard was grassless but contained patches of rocks strewn around. There were no decorations or anything announcing this was a friendly place. Even the paint-stripped porch was an offending sign. A scruffy man in an off-white undershirt opened the door. He reversed his wheel chair and the two lawmen stepped in.
"Sorry to bother you," Davis said. "But we have a question for you. Do you mind?" He moved a stack of newspapers farther down the couch and took a seat. Schmidt stayed near the door, his hat between his fingers.
Davis watched Stump turn and his pale arms backed the chair into a corner. He scanned the room and wiped a finger across his nostrils. The room's putrid smell almost made him gag. A cat with what looked like dried feces on its tail limped across the stained carpet, an open wound oozing on its back. He pointed to it with his hat. "What's ailing your cat, there?" He noticed the obvious disgust was not lost on Schmidt. He, too, wrinkled his nose.
The old man's eyes bulged without blinking. "Nothing that can't be fixed with alcohol." Stump's lips opened, showing an uneven row of teeth, one of them a mix of green and black. His words were jumbled, like he was sleepy, or already drunk, Davis thought.
"Looks like it needs a vet," Schmidt said and Davis nodded at him.
Stump muttered something to himself and Davis perked an ear toward him. A wet cough escaped through the thin lips. "What do you need?" Stump said, the impatience on his face showing up Hyde-like. "Ain't got all day."
"Where were you the day of the Christmas carnival, Stump?" Davis asked.
Stump stroked the stubble on his chin with two yellow fingertips. "What day would that be...Thursday?" His hand dropped and his eyes focused on the ceiling. Davis made a mental note of these movements.
"That's right, to be exact, that evening," Davis said.
"Oh, I know. I was out of town, at my sister's in Clovis." Davis felt the pierce of Stump's stabbing eyes. This monster, with his evil eyes and green teeth put him on edge. It was hard for Davis to see convicted child molesters as anything but monsters, even if they had put in their time.
"You can check if you want."
"We will," Davis said, trying not to grind his teeth. "Can I have your sister's phone number, Mr. Stump? And do you mind if we looked around your house and yard?" He pushed the sick cat away with the toe of his boot and continued writing in the notepad.
"She don't have a number and you damn sure aren't lookin' around my place without a warrant." He said this nonchalantly, as if they should have already known. Davis' eyes narrowed and he stared at Stump. His two deputies would be there soon with a search warrant.
He heard Schmidt swear under his breath and he shot him a look.
"This about that missing boy?" Stump asked. "I don't know nothing about that."
"Now that's pretty interesting," Davis said. "Several p
eople claim they saw you there, a man in a wheelchair that fits your description."
Davis watched him squirm in his seat, an old wheel creaking as he moved. "You know you can't come in here accusing me of nothing." An old finger wagged at the Sheriff but he avoided both men's eyes. "Shit, I was never guilty before, anyways." A bony hand fidgeted on his crotch. "Besides, lots of folks sit in wheelchairs."
"Not too many at the carnival," Schmidt said.
"That's right," Davis added.
Stump pushed himself straighter in his chair, pale hands clutching the sides. Davis moved to the edge of the couch. "Now listen here, you bastards," Stump said. "If you ain't arresting me, get the fuck out. I think it's time I get me a lawyer."
Davis caught his deputy's eyes glued to the wobbling Stump. "Guess you better," Schmidt said. "Just like you've been found guilty before of handling kids, you'll see yourself in court again." He maneuvered his hat on his head, glanced at Davis, then looked back at Stump. "And we'll be back for a look-see on them animals real soon. It'll give us good reason to pop right on in here. Animal cruelty and all."
Davis adjusted his hat on his head and followed Schmidt out the door. Looking back, he saw Stump still fiddling with his crotch, his eyes bugged and glaring at him.
Five minutes later, Davis pulled his vehicle into his designated spot at the office and checked his watch. "Branson and Jones should already be at Stump's with the search warrant. Maybe we'll get something there. Can't wait to check his alibi."
He saw Schmidt nod and continue taking notes in his own spiral notebook. "That child-molesting puke," Schmidt said. "Didn't you say one of the people at the carnival saw him actually talking with the boy?"
Davis's face scrunched like he bit into a lemon. "Yep, goddammit."
"We heading to Clovis, Sheriff?" Schmidt said. Davis watched while he pinched a dip of snuff between his gum and lower lip and wiped the residue on the leg of his pants.
Minerva Day Page 14