Minerva Day

by Christie Keele

  "Nope." He opened his office door for the two of them and they stepped inside. "I'm calling Sheriff Owens over there. She'll find his sister." Davis yawned, slumped into his chair, and watched Schmidt finish his notes.

  Schmidt pushed his notepad in his back pocket. "How many kids did he molest anyway?"

  "Two nephews, his brother's sons, I do believe, fifteen years ago. They were nine and twelve years old. He served his time, but it sure as hell wasn't enough."

  Davis and Schmidt locked eyes and the deputy plunked down in the chair by the window. "Jesus."

  Davis raked his fingers across the leg of his pants then reached for a package of Tums in his drawer. "God help me, I hate dealing with pedophiles."

  ***

  Two days later, another snowstorm plowed through Pinewood and the streets were bare. People didn't get out much in this small town, especially after one of their famous storms along with a festive, and in some places rowdy, holiday. George sat with Sheriff Davis at Ma's Coffee Shop. The place was empty except for a family of travelers that lined the stools at the counter. A small girl twirled her chair and her father scowled at her. Ma, the owner of the place, discussed ski poles with the mother, the only other woman in the place.

  "I don't believe it," George said. "How can he have an alibi? What are the fucking odds of him being gone that day?"

  "Good odds. The sister reported he got there on Wednesday and stayed through Christmas day. All the records verify that. I'm sorry. Even the house and yard were clean. They didn't find a thing." George watched Davis gulp some water and poke a bite of mincemeat pie with his fork.

  "What records?"

  Davis finished chewing then said, "Debit card, a cell phone call. Seems he made a purchase at the Wal-Mart in Clovis that evening. And the call was placed to the man's mother in Clovis that night, traced to just outside the city limits."

  George watched him take another bite of pie. "The day of the carnival?"

  Davis' eyebrows met at the center and a compassionate look settled on his features. George sighed and looked away before looking back at him. "Records don't lie. And Clovis is too far for him to just dart back and forth."

  George finished the contents of his glass and signaled for another. He watched Ma grab the milk pitcher from the refrigerator and amble toward their table. "Thank you," he said, and she patted his shoulder before walking off. He thought about Piper and how much she suspected Minerva of killing Henry. "You asked me about Minerva and Henry's death. Have you thought about that anymore?"

  "I think Minerva's got other issues going on with her," Davis said.

  "But there's no statute of limitations on murder, is there?" He looked puzzled. "I thought Henry's death caused even you to be suspicious."

  "Yep, but we're looking at suspicion, not any tangible facts. That's a separate issue. Someone thought of as committing a crime is one thing, being accused of it is a separate thing in the eyes of the law. And right now, this is about Fellow."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Minerva wrapped the last ornament from the tree and stuffed it in the box. Searching for strays, she found one and pushed an arm through several branches to retrieve it. She winced when a pine needle caught her forearm, causing her to drop the ornament where it bounced off another branch and exploded on the floor. Minerva dropped to her butt, legs splayed like pudgy logs. This was the part she hated the most about Christmas...the stripping of the tree, the packing away of many cherished ornaments, and all done on the second day of the New Year.

  A finger poked a small drop of what looked like chocolate on the green of her jogging pants. Her eyes roamed the pants for more bloodstains. Finding no more, she stretched out belly down on the floor and picked up the tiny shards of glass. The task fascinated her. She studied the remains of each sparkling piece big enough to hold in her fingers. Each sliver seemed to hold a memory.

  Her mind traveled to the time John was around six months old. It was Christmas, and the tree was already in its place in the corner of the trailer. John had crawled to the tree, mesmerized by the twinkling lights and glittering balls. Minerva turned the piece of broken glass between her fingers toward the light and she remembered John's little hand reaching for one of the balls. Minerva had sat down beside him, slapping his hand away each time he'd reach. The slaps weren't hard. The boy continued reaching until he tired of Minerva's persistence. But when John had wailed in anger, his face bright red, Minerva pulled him to her lap and wrapped her arms around him.

  She pushed to her feet, her mind still deep in thought, and discarded the broken remains in the box of wrapped decorations, then sealed the lid with the same duct tape she ripped from the box two weeks ago. One by one, she carried each box to the spare bedroom and stacked them at the back of the closet. Something behind the bedroom door caught her eye and she moved the door to see. Fellow's suitcase was propped against the wall, the one brought with him for his stay. She grabbed the handle and sat on the bed, unlatching the metal buckle.

  She unfolded two pairs of underwear, one green pair featuring the Hulk and the other plain red, pajama bottoms, still wrinkled from wear, a white t-shirt wadded up inside the bottoms, a kid's toothbrush, two pairs of jeans, and two shirts, one green and one blue. Closing the lid, she read I Love My Grandma on the front. She brought the suitcase to her lap and ran her hand over it. This was the one she gave to him as a gift when Piper and George took him in.

  She couldn't say she loved the boy like one of her own. After all, she had only known him for a short while. He wasn't like a real grandson, since he came from a different family, she thought. Lord knows what kind of family he came from and what kind of person he'd grow up to be. She would have to spend more time with him and get to know him better.

  Though she was good to Fellow, Minerva felt maybe he didn't like her. She pondered the time she did tell him she loved him and he stared at her, unresponsive, eyeballing her like she was insane or something. How could she get close to a boy like that?

  Henry would agree, she'd bet. He once said it was hard raising the twins, but he wouldn't discipline them. She had hated this soft side of Henry and spent much of the kids' upbringing begging for his help. But he refused to be caught in a pickle. "I don't want to get caught in the middle," he said. Henry never wavered from his decision. He disliked being in pickles.

  She shoved the suitcase into the closet and shut the door, her lips pursed in a tight bow. She would begin making bread for her visit with John.

  Minerva kneaded the dough, noticing how dirty the kitchen floor was. She covered the dough to let it rise, then took a shower. Her wet hair chilled her so she grabbed the towel she used after the shower and wrapped it around her head. The heater had been set where she wanted it all winter and she refused to adjust the dial. If she were that cold she would get under her nice electric blanket, or wrap herself with the afghan on the couch. She thought about turning the heat up for John, but decided it wasn't worth paying the expense. Minerva touched the oven to see if it was hot, uncovered the dish of dough, and placed it in the oven. Uneasy about burning the bread, she set the timer a couple of minutes early and placed it where she could hear it. Then she remembered the dirty floor.

  She swayed to a Nat King Cole oldie on the radio while she mopped, an old dream of being a dancer playing in her mind, her skirt billowing while she twirled and dipped, back-up dancers in multi-colored clothing moving in time. She envisioned a white tuxedoed gentleman who grabbed her by the waist and guided her through the leaps, the light shining from his shoes as he stepped. She saw their exhausted bodies, chests heaving at the end while they smiled and bowed to the crowd.

  Minerva had less headaches and dizzy spells since she began the new prescription. Her creaky knees ceased to cramp nightly, the lead-limbed feeling she awoke with most mornings was gone. She approached the day with a sense of well-being. All was right in her world.

  But she knew it wasn't right. A gruesome image of Fellow flashed into her head while she po
pped the tab off a Dr. Pepper and took a big gulp. Nausea grabbed a hold of her. She ran to the sink and a stream of brown soda sprayed from her mouth. Minerva leaned against the sink until the nausea subsided and the gruesome image of the child dissolved away from her mind. The discomfort of what might have become of him since his disappearance caused the same sick stomach each time her mind wandered.

  After straightening the trailer, she turned on the TV and sat waiting for her son. And when the timer blasted, she removed the sour dough bread, the buttery aroma causing her stomach to growl. She snipped an end piece and splattered thick chunks of butter on it. Minerva was pleased with herself when she chewed and the bread seemed to melt in her mouth.

  ***

  That evening, while Minerva and John sat in the kitchen, they spoke of the weather, local news, and what's happening at the golf course in Ruidoso. Minerva listened while John spoke of his work and the difficulty maintaining the grassy hills during the winter. It was the silence after the small talk that bound her to her own corner of the table. Unvoiced complaints brought on by the twins over the years rose from the silence. And John? What was he thinking? Probably wondering how to talk about Fellow without pissing her off.

  "Listen, Peter," she said, thinking his middle name sounded better than John, the name he preferred to be called, "I've had enough of being accused of things." She turned, letting her dark eyes bore into his. "Why do you hate me?"

  "I don't hate you."

  Minerva clutched her hands to the small of her back and shuffled to Henry's chair. She sat and watched John unfold a chair close to the door, where he smoothed a ruffled throw rug with his foot. "That rug's old as sin," she said. Her eyes darted around the carpet, which had never been replaced. "Just like the rest of this house."

  "Do you mind if I turn off the TV?" John asked, reaching for the remote on a nearby stool. Minerva eyed the remote and shrugged. He pushed the button and laid the remote across his lap. "Is there anything you might have forgotten about that day at the carnival?"

  "Peter, damn it, you know I have a good memory." Minerva snickered and John sat stone-faced. She ran a hand through her hair, put off by his cold demeanor. "Have you ever known me to lie?"

  "Yes." He said this so matter-of-factly Minerva's head jerked.

  "When?"

  He rubbed his chin and scratched his head. His gestures infuriated Minerva.

  She jabbed a finger toward the door. "Get out."

  He straightened and glared at her. "I have known you to lie, on numerous occasions. What about the time the doctor called the house to speak with Dad and you told me to tell him Dad wasn't home? That call could have been very important. It was his doctor, for Christ's sakes."

  Minerva shifted and one ankle bounced over a crossed leg. "What are you talking about? No doctor called him. You're wrong."

  John crossed his arms on his chest and Minerva did the same, her ankle still twisting in circles. "I was the one who answered the phone and you told me what to say."

  Minerva rubbed her blushing nose. "You don't remember right."

  "And what about the time you drowned those puppies and told Dad they were deformed? He was hurt for days after that. He wanted at least one of those puppies."

  "We had too many dogs already and your father was too ignorant to know that."

  Minerva glared back at John while he stared at her with glassy eyes. "He knew what was going on. He was anything but stupid."

  She heard his words get caught in his throat. Her mind flashed to the evening the puppies were born, many years ago. One had gotten stuck in its mother and the only one with sense enough about what to do was Minerva. Henry was too upset, huddling on the couch. Yes, he loved his Missy Poo, as he called the mutt, but the least he could have done was help her. It wasn't easy for her, either, pulling the last puppy out, yelling for the kids to get out of the garage, shielding their eyes from the missing limbs and dead dogs. They were all so...tiny...small enough to flush down the toilet.

  "And what about telling me we're adopted?" His eyes squeezed shut as if trying to understand. "Why would you lie like that?"

  "I think you're overdoing it, Peter," she said, ignoring his last question. "Those puppies were deformed, most of them had a disease, limbs gone and all." She saw John draw his arms tighter across his chest. "I did the best I could." Minerva nodded with each word. "No doubt about that."

  "Oh, I have no doubt," John said.

  Minerva felt his eyes boring into hers now and she blinked to defer the emotional onslaught that threatened her blood pressure and heart rate.

  "You did the best you could, I'm sure."

  ***

  Piper clutched George, her body trembling while she listened to Sheriff Davis. She knew as soon as he walked through their front door there was bad news. "The body of a young male has been found," she heard him saying through the thick fog of her mind. "We have reason to believe it's Fellow. Please, let's have a seat." Piper, still holding onto her husband, dropped to the couch and pulled him down with her. Her stomach churned and a cold sweat drenched her forehead. Her fingers dug into her shaking husband's arm and she held her breath, dreading what the sheriff was about to say.

  Davis took a breath and pulled his hat off his head. "We found the body about an hour ago." He pulled in another deep breath. "I'm sorry to say...this boy was found in a ravine two miles from where the carnival took place." He looked at George. "I know, we looked all over the place when we searched, but it seems maybe the body was moved there later, we're not sure yet. We'll get all those details soon... that's a promise." Piper didn't hear how hoarse and broken Davis' voice became while he explained the details, as if they were caught on bloody nails in his throat. Davis paused before continuing. "The boy had a plastic cord wrapped around his neck." His voice had softened while he spoke. "There was blood on his neck and what was left of his clothes."

  "No!" Piper screamed. "No!" She sat up and turned to her husband. "I can't hear this," she said, collapsing back into his arms. "I can't hear anymore." George's arms encircled her.

  "Oh, my God!" George said, holding tight to his wife. "He was strangled? That's what happened?"

  "We will get the full report very soon," Davis said. "But yes, he was strangled." Davis paused again. "George, I'll need you to come with me to identify the body."

  Piper wanted to reject his words, to run from them instead. Strangled? A plastic cord? Some blood on his clothes? Bile rose to her throat and she thought she would throw up. Fellow wasn't fully clothed! She turned, bent over, and heaved. She felt George's arms around her, pulling her to the couch, a damp cloth pressed to her mouth. When her stomach settled, she turned to her husband and asked him to repeat what he had said.

  "Do you want to go with us, or stay here? I can get John to come over to stay with you." She felt his arms tighten around her again before he pulled back and looked at her.

  "I've got to go with you," she said. "I can't stay here."

  ***

  Five blocks from the their house, Piper, George, and Davis exited the sheriff's four wheel drive Ford and plodded through slush to the front door of Masons Funeral Home. The morgue was located in the back rooms.

  Dazed, Piper watched George stomp his boots on a rubber mat. She walked down the dimly lit hall—her legs numb—barely feeling the leaden weight of his arms encircling hers. She had forgotten to breathe until George clutched her arm. Her guarded eyes took in everything.

  She saw Davis nod to a clerk at the front desk. They proceeded down another hallway. A soft piano played in the background and candles lit an entrance to a door, but Piper only heard jumbled sounds. They continued down the hall, made a right turn, and headed straight. George's grip tightened on her forearm again and she saw him wipe his other palm on the front of his shirt. He removed his cap after they entered through a metal door.

  Piper stopped. She abruptly dropped her arms to her sides. "George, you go first," she said, her eyes not moving off a bare spot on the wall
across the room.

  She barely heard her husband's voice. "No, we can—"

  Without looking Piper grabbed his wrist. "No. I want to go in by myself, after you." She backed herself from the room and looked up at him. "I want to go in alone."

  George's eyes bored into hers. "Okay," he said. "I'll go in." She glanced at him and saw him gesture down the hallway. "There's a bench you can sit on." She nodded, turned down the hall, and stood by the cushioned bench.

  ***

  George clasped his hands in a knot and stood frozen, eyes closed. His lips moved in a silent prayer while Davis summoned the mortician. He didn't see the lined vaults on two different walls, nor did he turn his head and see the bright light filtering in the room, which came from the main office. A door next to the last vault read Autopsy. An assistant entered and apologized for the mortician being away that day, then introduced himself.

  George bowed his head, fists still clenched and held to his heart while he heard Davis thanking the assistant for his help.

  After the vault was rolled from the wall, George felt Davis' hand on his shoulder. At the same time the assistant unfolded a while sheet and uncovered the face, he gasped and his knees buckled. Davis caught him in a tight hug. Steadying himself on Davis' arm, he observed the tiny face, the dark matted curls, the long lashes on closed eyes. The boy looked as if he had played hard all afternoon and was found fast asleep on the living room floor.

  Davis' hoarse voice broke through the silence. "Is this your son?"

  He drew a sharp breath. "Yes." Loud sobs seized him and the impact rocked his shoulders. His shaking hands clutched those of the sheriff. He looked one more time at Fellow's face. "I need to get Piper."

  ***

  The coldness of the steel table bore through her fingers. She had wobbled into the room on George's arm and her hands instinctively clutched the sides of the table to steady herself. She didn't hear her husband's soft footsteps while he backed up then turned out the door.