Red laughed. “Thought you was gonna change clothes.”
“I changed my mind instead.”
Red turned to me. “What’re we having for lunch?”
“I was thinking about a nice risotto, salad, baked potatoes, mayonnaise biscuits, and peach pie with a lattice crust.”
“You guys are nuts,” Emerson said. “All you think about is food.”
While she traipsed around the kitchen, I phoned Coop but got turfed straight to voice mail. I left a message about Emerson. When I hung up, she was right beside me. She tucked the hedgehog between her knees and held out two rubber bands.
“Teeny, will you braid me?”
“Sure.” Using my fingers, I divided her hair into three sections. I remembered how Aunt Bluette used to gently run a brush over my possumy curls. She used to keep a little TV propped on the kitchen counter, and we’d watch true crime shows. In one episode, the cops had needed a serial killer’s DNA, and they’d bagged a hairbrush.
As I gazed at Emerson’s clean scalp, I saw how easy it would be to pluck a strand. Without hesitating, I grabbed a glistening hair and tugged. It popped free, long and curly, with a tiny filament at the end.
Emerson shrieked and the hedgehog thumped against the floor. When she saw what I was holding, she slapped my hand. The hair went flying. We reached for it at the same time, but she was quicker. Cupping the hair in her fist, she raced down the hall.
“You almost had it, homegirl.” Red picked up the hedgehog.
The toilet flushed, and seconds later Emerson skidded back to the kitchen. She jerked the hedgehog from Red’s hands.
“Relax, kid. I ain’t gonna take your toy.”
“But Teeny would.” Keeping her eyes on me, she twirled the hedgehog by its ears. “Traitor. Jezebel. Witch.”
I just stared. Her lips twisted into a giant snarl. “Why are you always looking at me?”
I shrugged. “You’re cute.”
“And you’re a hair-pulling bitch.” She shivered, and fine bumps appeared on her arms.
Red pushed away from the counter. “Don’t call Teeny names.”
“She’s a hooker.”
“Jesus, kid. I ought to wash out your mouth.” Red’s ears turned scarlet.
“Wash your own. You took the Lord’s name in vain. That’s a whole lot worser than what I said.”
Red’s mouth opened and clamped shut. I waved my hand to show that I wasn’t offended.
Emerson lifted her braid, dragged it through the air, and traced an indecipherable word. “Know what I wrote? I wrote Teeny’s middle name. It starts with a B and ends in H.”
“You only got one letter right,” I said. “My middle name is Bluette.”
“Isn’t that the French word for ‘bite me’?” She stomped out of the kitchen and ran up the stairs.
“Sheesh,” Red said. “I ain’t ever heard a little girl talk trash. Why’s she doing that?”
“You’ve got a psychology degree. Figure it out.” I pushed a straw basket into his hands. “And while you’re at it, fetch me twelve ripe peaches.”
He pushed open the back door and strode toward the orchard. I opened the cabinet and pulled out ingredients. Minutes later, a floorboard creaked in the hallway, then Emerson stepped into the kitchen, wearing a pink one-piece swimsuit. Cat’s eye sunglasses and flip-flops completed the ensemble. She tottered across the room, dragging a quilt and humming to herself. She seemed to have forgotten about the hair-pulling incident.
“Wow, don’t you look fancy,” I said.
“Thanks. It was a gift from my dorm mother at Chatham Academy.” Emerson straightened her sunglasses. “I’m going to lie in the sun for a while.”
She flung open the back door and pranced down the steps.
The phone rang. I answered with a muffled hello.
“Teeny, this is Lester.”
I imagined his thin, little mouth pressed against Kendall’s. Had Barb known about the kinda-sorta affair? That would explain why she’d left Bonaventure. But it didn’t explain why she’d killed herself.
“I was just about to call you,” I said, and bumped my lie count up to twenty-four. “Emerson is with me. She hitched a ride to my farm.”
“Super dooper,” he said. “I’ll pick her up tonight. Let’s say eight-ish. But don’t tell her I’m coming—unless you want her to run off again.”
“I won’t.” I hung up. If only I could feed him a Bitter Apple Pie, a time-honored Templeton laxative. I wouldn’t give him a lethal dose, just enough to cause unstoppable diarrhea. If he had to sit on a commode for a few days, Emerson could stay with me.
I glanced out the window. She was stretched on the quilt, listening to her iPod. I felt sad to my bones. Her whole world was fixing to change, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.
eight
To make a peach pie, you need two crusts—homemade or store-bought. It helps pass the time if you hum. Aunt Bluette used to sing “Down to the River to Pray.” Brush the lattice top with melted butter and sprinkle with sugar. Bake in a 350-degree oven for 45 minutes. Serve with ice cream and a praline pecan garnish.
I’d made this pie ever since I could reach the stove. Some cooks thought it was too sweet and syrupy; others claimed it was bland. Like my aunt always said, “One person’s sugar-rapture is another person’s sugar hell.”
Coop showed up just as I took the pie from the oven. While the dogs leaped around him, he braced his arms in the kitchen doorway. His hair curled around his neck like chocolate shavings. “Something smells delicious,” he said.
I smiled. He’d been through an ordeal, but he could still appreciate home cooking. Why was I so hesitant about marrying him?
Red glanced up from the newspaper. “You get my tire fixed?”
“Had to get a new one,” Coop said. Light streamed through the window and hit the hard line of his jaw. He bent down to pat the dogs.
Red lowered the paper. “Those tires are brand-new.”
“When I was looking for Emerson, I must’ve run over a nail.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Red’s top eyelids flattened, giving him an owlish look. Coop glanced up, and I could have sworn that something passed between them, something they didn’t want me to know.
They didn’t notice when I walked out the back door. The storm had left behind a crisp, green varnish that smelled of pine needles. Birds flitted in and out of trees. A plane droned across the sky.
“Aunt Bluette?” I whispered. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know what it takes to raise a child.”
But neither did Lester. He hadn’t wanted Emerson to know about the DNA test; I’d honored his wishes, but she’d still run away. Now, in just a few hours, he would take her home, and I’d promised I wouldn’t warn her. Even a hardened adult couldn’t take that much deception in a single day. How could Emerson stand it?
Tell her the truth.
I walked toward the quilt and the faint sound of a Black Eyed Peas song drifted up. She lifted her sunglasses. “Move, Teeny. You’re blocking my rays.”
I squatted beside her and plucked out her earbuds. “I’m sorry I pulled your hair.”
“I’m sorry you interrupted my music.”
“I need to tell you something, but you’ve got to promise you won’t run away.”
She sat up. “Okay. Maybe. It depends.”
“Your father is picking you up tonight.”
Her chin jutted out. “But I’m already with my father.”
“I’m referring to your legal daddy.”
“‘There can be only one,’” she said. “That’s from Highlander. It’s a neat movie. You ever watch it?”
“Many times.”
“You’re pretty cool for a skeezer.”
I shrugged. “Nah, I’m just a film buff.”
“Well, Miss Buffy, when is Mr. Asshole coming to pick me up?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Dammit.” She slapped the quilt. “I knew this was coming. Coop’s a lawyer.
Can’t he do something?”
“Lester has legal rights.”
“Legal schmegal.” She gave the quilt a karate chop. “What about my rights? For all intensive purposes, a child should have rights.”
My brain was stuck on intensive purposes, one of my favorite malapropisms. I chewed the edge of my mouth, holding back a smile. “Not until you’re eighteen. Then you’ll make your own decisions. Good ones and bad ones. But at least they’ll be yours. In the meantime, you can’t keep running away.”
“But the Philpots piss me off.”
“Each time you run away, you’re hurting yourself.”
Her eyes wobbled. “How?”
“I don’t mean to scare you, but a thousand things could happen. You could fall and bump your head. And you should never, ever hitch a ride with a stranger.”
“I know that. But I was so mad.”
“Hey, I understand. Lester made me mad, too. But you can’t let your anger be bigger than your common sense.”
“I don’t want to go home with him. I like it here. Can’t you talk to Mr. Philpot?”
“I can try.” But I knew he wouldn’t listen. Just this morning he’d accused me of turning the orchard into a love shack. He wouldn’t want his daughter exposed to a bizarre ménage à peach.
“I bet you won’t try hard,” she said. “Because you don’t like me.”
“Wrong.”
“Huh, you think I’m a brat.”
“You work hard at it.” I pressed my finger against her belly. “Inside, you’re Marshmallow Fluff.”
She giggled, then reached for my hand. “I shouldn’t have called you a bitch.”
I forced myself to give her a stern look. “Just don’t do it again.”
“Why? ’Cause you’ll get mad?”
“This isn’t about me. When you call people names, it doesn’t hurt them, it hurts you.”
She grimaced. “How?”
“Words have power. They can make you feel good inside or they can have a bite. And when you call someone a bitch, in a weird sort of way, you become a bitch. What you say about others is how you secretly feel about yourself.”
She pretended to gag. “That’s the suckiest thing you’ve ever said. If I called a squid a butthole, it would still be squid. And I wouldn’t turn into a butthole.”
“You’d be one on the inside.” I rubbed my forehead. I was going about this all wrong. She’d seemed liked a mini-adult, but now I realized she was still a child. And I was trying to make her grapple with mature concepts. I took a breath and started over.
“People are a lot more complicated than squid. We feel love, hate, jealousy. Some are honest. Others can’t tell the truth to save their lives. Mostly, people are a mixture of good and bad. Some are sweet. Some are tart.”
“Like a smoothie?”
“Right. But it’s not your job to judge the smoothie.”
“How am I supposed to know the difference between good and bad if I can’t judge?”
“You watch and learn, just like you study animals. Then you put it all together and decide what kind of girl you want to be. Kind people teach you to be caring and thoughtful. Gossips teach you to hold your tongue. Selfish people teach you how to be generous.”
I didn’t know where these words were coming from, but they felt true. I wasn’t just talking to Emerson, I was talking to myself.
She sighed. “I don’t know what a bitch is, but I felt bad after I called you one. I might not show it, but I’m easily hurt.”
“We all are, honey.”
“Even the Philpots?”
“Yep.”
“Mr. Philpot isn’t coming over for a while. I’ve got time to soak up some rays.” She tugged my hand. “Why don’t you lay out with me? Not to be rude, but you could use a little tan.”
* * *
Lester’s silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway at eight-thirty. He got out, his brown suit waffling around his long legs, and frowned at the house. Den of iniquity, his eyes said.
I led him into Aunt Bluette’s cozy parlor with the rag rug, pictures of dead Templetons, and the old walnut hi-fi, where vinyl records rose up in black columns. He sat on the sofa, twisting his hands together, casting suspicious glances in my direction.
“Where are your boyfriends?” he asked.
“In the backyard, fighting a duel.”
My answer seemed to disappoint him. He undid the top button on his collar, and light brown hairs sprang out around his Adam’s apple. “It’s so hot outside,” he said. “My throat’s parched. Could I trouble you for a glass of iced tea?”
On my way to the kitchen, I passed by the stairs. Emerson had been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. What if she’d planned to escape? She could climb out the window and shimmy down the trellis. My stomach twisted. I ran up the stairs and knocked on the door.
“You okay?” I called.
“Can’t a girl primp in peace?” she yelled.
I ran back down to the kitchen and fixed the tea. Lester hadn’t asked for pie, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I cut a slice anyway, and set it on a china plate.
Even assholes needed comfort food.
I resisted the urge to garnish the dessert with a passion flower, which is slightly poisonous but only if you eat the roots or seeds. It can also be used to rid the body of worms.
The fork rattled on the plate as I walked back to the parlor. The room was quiet as a burial chamber, except for the walnut clock on the mantel. Each decisive tick said, Time’s up, a reminder that my short stint at mommyhood had ended.
I set Lester’s tea and pie on the table. He lifted the glass, ice tinkling, and drank; his throat clicked in rhythm with the clock. T-Bone lumbered into the room; Sir was right behind him.
Lester lowered the glass. “Yick. Will they bite?”
“Not unless you do,” I said.
Red and Coop walked into the room and sat in the green velvet chairs across from Lester. The three men glared at one another. No introductions. No greetings. I positioned myself by the pocket doors and kept an eye on the stairwell. The bathroom door was still closed.
“I just left Eikenberry’s Funeral Home,” Lester said, looking pleased with himself. “I picked a mahogany casket with a waterproof liner. The viewing is Tuesday. Six to nine. I’m having a tasteful graveside service on Wednesday.”
“What would be untasteful?” Red pressed his fingertips together.
“Who are you?” Lester blinked.
Red badged him. Lester held up his hand and showed his teeth, like Béla Lugosi shying away from a crucifix. Then he lowered his arm. “How do I know if that badge is real? You could’ve bought it anywhere.”
“It’s real,” Coop said. “He works for me.”
Lester smirked. “Is he working tonight? Or enjoying Teeny’s opulent hospitality?”
“I’m on duty 24 / 7.” Red paused. “How’d you get your wife’s body released so soon?”
Lester ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “One of my friends called the Sweeney coroner. Then everything moved faster.”
“You must have important friends,” Red said.
“A few.” Lester smiled. “Not to brag, but I’ve been to the governor’s mansion several times. I’ve attended fund-raisers with Ted Turner and Newt Gingrich and Jimmy Carter.”
“Did one of them call the coroner?” Red asked.
“You can drop the sarcastic tone.” Lester’s eyes widened until they resembled two fried eggs. “I’m just trying to explain how I dealt with the coroner.”
“I’m surprised that Sweeney has a corner,” Coop said. “It’s a podunk town. Six traffic lights. Three detectives. A volunteer staff fingerprints the jaywalkers.”
“Sorry that my wife didn’t ask your opinion about the best place to be murdered.” Lester’s hand hovered in front of his mouth, as if to call back the words. A red flush crept up his steep forehead.
Murdered? I gripped the pocket door until my knuckles turned white.
Coop leaned back in his chair, his foot scraping against the floor. “Did you say murdered?”
Sweat beaded on Lester’s forehead. “The Sweeney police are calling her death a suicide. I can’t help what the coroner thinks.”
“What does he think?” Red asked.
“Ask him yourself. I know that Barb killed herself. She left a suicide note, an empty bottle of merlot, and an empty bottle of pills. She liked antidepressants, stimulants, downers. She thought she was exempt from adverse drug reactions. There’s no telling what the toxicology screen will show. That’s what started this whole ‘she might have-been-murdered’ mess.”
Coop’s knee jogged up and down. “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“I phoned the coroner this morning to see if he’d done a tox screen. The answer was no. He’d already finished the autopsy and he was satisfied that Barb had hung herself. I could tell that he didn’t care about her drug problem. He was on his way out the door. Going to Pinehurst, North Carolina, to play golf.”
Lester talked fast, his eyes shifting back and forth.
“I threatened to call the governor,” he continued. “The coroner checked her again, and that’s when he found the thing in her head. But he was just getting even with me for messing up his trip.”
Coop’s knee went still. “What thing in her head?”
“A subdural hematoma. That’s a blood clot inside the skull. A slow leak. Like she’d been struck in the back of the head and a vein bled slowly. Or she could’ve fallen. It wasn’t a serious injury. It wouldn’t have been fatal. Even the coroner said so.”
“Did the police notice that your wife had a head wound?” Red asked. “They should have seen it at the crime scene.”
“Haven’t you heard a word I said? The injury was inside her brain. No scalp laceration No blood. Just a hematoma inside her skull. How this adds up to murder is beyond me.” Lester spoke in a flat and emotionless voice, but a pulse throbbed in his neck. “If she’d had a broken hyoid bone, then I could understand the coroner’s paranoia. But she just had a head injury.”
Red gripped the sides of the chair, his fingers sinking into the plush velvet. “I’m confused. If the coroner suspected homicide, why did he release the body?”
A Teeny Bit of Trouble Page 8