“Our Father, who art . . .”
Nealy rolled over in the large bed. She was groggy but alert enough to realize she wasn’t in her own bed at Blue Diamond Farms. She squinted when she brought up her arm to look at the hands on her watch. Could it be 10:05 when it was light out? She blinked and then blinked again. How could it possibly be morning? She’d slept almost around the clock. Maybe doing good deeds allowed one to relax to the point of being comatose. She struggled out of bed, reached for the phone to call room service. “A pot of coffee, toast, and a pack of cigarettes,” she said into the phone. “Thirty minutes! Can’t you bring it any quicker than that?” Assured they would try, Nealy headed for the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth, showered, washed her hair. She was wrapping her head in a towel when her breakfast order arrived.
She scribbled her name on the charge slip, ripped open the package of cigarettes, then poured coffee. She gulped at it, surprised how good it was for a hotel’s.
The envelope she’d brought with her was directly in her line of vision. Maybe she’d open it with her third cup of coffee. A perfect smoke ring escaped her lips. She savored the smoke, knowing full well how bad it was for her. She was going to have to quit smoking very soon if she started training Shufly. She wondered if, at her age, she was up to the three years of gut-wrenching work. She wasn’t a kid anymore. Her joints could attest to that. If she pulled this off, she would be riding the Derby when she was fifty-two. The press would have a field day with her. Let them.
She poured more coffee into her cup as her thoughts shifted to her children and the Colemans. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Let it all go, Nealy. Don’t go there. That was yesterday. The kids will be fine. The Colemans will be like the phoenix, they’ll rise again from the ashes.
Nealy reached for the thick yellow envelope. It contained complements of the various detective agencies she’d hired, photocopies of old newspaper articles about the Colemans. She’d read them all and had found nothing of help until Smitty pointed out an old picture of Seth Coleman eating lunch in what looked like a diner named the Horseshoe. A waitress with a long braid hanging down her back was smiling at the rancher. The caption underneath the picture said the waitress’s name was Martha Ridley. Nealy’s mother’s name was Martha Ridley.
Smitty had written to the Austin courthouse and, for twenty dollars, secured Nealy’s mother’s birth certificate as well as birth certificates for Pyne, Rhy, and herself. The birth certificates back home—the ones Pyne had sent on with all the boxes belonging to Josh Coleman—had the last name of Coleman on all three of them. The three certificates spread out in front of her said the last name was Ridley.
There was only one Ridley in the local phone book. Carl Ridley Mortuary. There was no home listing for Carl Ridley. Still, it was a place to start.
Nealy shuffled the papers, the local maps Smitty had stuffed into the envelope, as well as a local telephone book. All she needed was a beginning. Maybe all the lost pieces would surface and fall into place.
Forty minutes later, Nealy was dressed and in the rental car, the map spread out on the passenger seat. It was eleven-thirty when she parked in the mortuary’s empty lot. Two long, shiny, black hearses sat under a canopy. She shivered as she made her way around to the front of the building.
Inside, she flinched. The scent of flowers was sickeningly sweet and overpowering. Somber music seemed to waft from the ceiling. She itched to return to her car.
“May I help you, miss?” asked a young man, so perfectly attired, so hushed, so somber as he approached her, his hands folded in front of him, that Nealy thought he looked like one of his own customers.
She cleared her throat. “Are you Mr. Ridley?”
“There is no Mr. Ridley. He passed away several years ago. I handled the remains myself since I was his partner. I’m Jason Lyons, the owner.”
“Well, Mr. Lyons, I’m trying to locate my mother’s people. My mother’s name was Martha Ridley. She used to live here. Do you know anything about your partner’s family?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Carl never talked about his family. He never had children; his wife passed away many years ago, and he never remarried. I do know that he had a brother who is also deceased. It seems to me there were three sisters. Two of them lived in Dallas but I remember Carl going to both of their funerals some years back. He never said what the sisters’ married names were or if there were children. Carl wasn’t one for sharing his private life. I think the other sister moved away to someplace where there were horses. I don’t know why I say that. Carl must have mentioned horses at some point. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Did Mr. Ridley have any friends I can talk to?”
“He belonged to the Chamber of Commerce, the Kiwanis, and all the town’s organizations since he was a local businessman. I took over in that regard about five years ago when he lost interest in civic activities. The truth is he buried just about everyone he ever met or worked with. You might try talking to the lady who took care of him the last couple of years. She might know something. I can give you her address and phone number if you like.”
“I would appreciate that very much,” Nealy said, looking around at all the burgundy furniture, the dark blue carpets, and the heavy velvet draperies hanging over the windows. She hated the furnishings, the atmosphere, and the pasty white man writing down the address behind a highly polished desk. Why couldn’t the room be light and airy? Why did they have to have brass lamps with dark green shades and lightbulbs that burned during the day? Her skin itched, and her eyes started to water with the heavy flower scent. She started to breathe through her mouth.
“It’s not far from here. I made you a rough sketch. Catherine Nolan is her name. Give her my regards when you speak with her.”
“How . . . how old is Miss Nolan?”
“Oh, she’s up there in years but quite spry,” Lyons said.
He can’t wait to get his hands on her, Nealy thought. Bastard. What a way to earn a living, sitting around waiting for people to die. She fled.
Jason Lyons was right; Catherine Nolan’s house was less than fifteen minutes away. Nealy parked on the street and stared at the small white house with a large front yard. It looked well maintained. She wondered what “up there in years” meant. Was Catherine Nolan really old? If so, who kept the house painted and who maintained the yard?
She liked the small front porch with the two cane rockers. The heavy door behind the glass storm door was shiny red and held a Christmas wreath that was still fresh and green and gave off a scent. She rang the bell and waited. It opened almost immediately. Nealy introduced herself and was invited inside.
Catherine Nolan looked just the way a grandmother was supposed to look. She was plump and wore an apron. Her cheeks were plump and pink, and her eyes twinkled behind wire-rimmed spectacles. Her hair was snow-white and fashioned into a topknot on the middle of her head.
“Come in, come in,” she said when Nealy introduced herself. “Can I offer you some coffee and gingerbread? It’s fresh out of the oven. Today is my baking day. I hope you don’t mind if we visit in the kitchen. I have to watch the oven.”
“I’d like that very much, Miss Nolan.”
“Call me Rinney. Everyone calls me Rinney. Sometimes I forget my name is Catherine. Tell me why you’re here, Miss Clay.”
Nealy told her. “Mr. Lyons said you might be able to help. He also said to give you his regards.”
“Don’t be needing his regards just yet. He’ll be getting me soon enough. Got my plot all picked out, even my casket. Got me one of those fancy Springfield jobs from a mail-order house with lots and lots of shiny brass. All paid for, too. I have it stored away in the garage. Mercy, I don’t know what I can be telling you. Mr. Ridley was very close-mouthed. When he passed on, I packed up his things. No one wanted them, so I fetched them here and they’re still in the cellar. Didn’t seem right to throw a man’s life away like that. There wasn’t any family left in these parts,
and no one knew where to look for any distant relatives. I asked everyone in town, and the police chief said it was all right to store the things here in case anyone ever did come looking. Good thing I did, too, since here you are.” She set a flowered plate with a generous slice of gingerbread in front of Nealy. “Would you be liking some fresh whipped cream with your cake?”
“I do have a sweet tooth, ma’am. Yes, I would. This coffee is delicious.”
“I grind the beans. Makes all the difference.”
“Miss . . . Rinney, did you know Seth Coleman, or any of the Colemans for that matter?”
Rinney Nolan looked like she’d just swallowed a lemon. “Everyone in these parts knows the Colemans. Heard they fell on hard times. I know it isn’t Christian of me to be saying this, but I’m glad. I don’t know, maybe the young’uns aren’t too bad, but old Seth, he’s a legend around here.”
“He was my father,” Nealy said.
“Fancy that. If you had told me that when you first came here, I would have sent you packing instead of offering you my fresh cake.”
“No, no. It’s not what you think. I hate his guts. I really do. I’m here because of my mother. I want to know about her. Can you tell me anything?”
Still bristly in spite of Nealy’s confusing confession, Rinney said, “I can tell you plenty. She took up with that rancher, and it was the end of her. She was a fun-loving girl, Marty was. Worked hard over at the Horseshoe. That’s where she met Seth Coleman. He was smitten with her. Everyone in town knew. Carl, Mr. Ridley, was beside himself, thinking the townspeople would go off and die somewhere else. Said it wasn’t good for his business.” She clucked her tongue to show what she thought of that statement. “It wasn’t like people were going to go out of town to die. In the end it didn’t hurt his business at all. Your grandparents took the shame really bad and became reclusive. They stopped going to church, and the Reverend, he would stop by and talk from time to time. Marty moved out of her parents’ house and Seth set her up in an apartment. Paid all the bills. Gave her spending money and bought her clothes. He even bought her a car. Then the second baby came along and then a third. I guess you were the third one. I was a nurse back then. Your mama got very good care, I can tell you that. She was a good mother, too, from what I heard. Loved her babies she did.”
“Yes, I was the third one.”
“Then it all went wrong. Marty’s car was gone. At first she thought someone stole it. Wasn’t so. Then the whole town started buzzing about Seth Coleman’s brother that came for a visit. Seth never went to the Horseshoe after that. Then Marty was gone. By that time her other two sisters had married and gone off to the Lord only knows where. Carl Ridley was the only one left. He didn’t talk about his sister after that. Not that he talked about her much before. He felt too shamed to even bring up her name.”
“What . . . what did the townspeople think when . . . when she left?”
“Just about what you would think they would think. What they knew was more like it. That Seth paid his brother to take Marty and the young’uns off his hands. He got tired of her and was seen chasing Melba Winerose, but nothing ever did come of that. That’s all I know. Now, did you like my cake?”
“It was very good. Do you mind me asking how old you are, Rinney?”
“I’m eighty-four. The reason I’m eighty-four is I never got married. Didn’t have some man telling me what to do and when to do it. I had peace of mind. And I had money in the bank and my own little house, and I did have a car for a long time. Sold it off a while back. My neighbors take me to the store and to church. Sometimes I miss not having children, but I’ve had my share of dogs and cats. Gave them a good home, and they snuggled with me at night. Now”—she held up a warning finger—“that’s not to say there were never any men in my life. There were several, but I made sure they went home at night to their own beds. I’d like for you to tell me what happened to your mama, child.”
“She died. That old man Josh worked her to death. I never knew her. The only picture I have of her is this one,” Nealy said, pulling the photocopy out of the yellow envelope.
Rinney peered down through her bifocals. “She was pretty, that’s for sure. I’m sorry she died so young.”
“Do you remember anything about her, Rinney? Anything she might have said when she was in the hospital, maybe something she said to someone. My brothers and I don’t really know anything about her.”
The little woman’s face puckered up. “She liked violets. Someone brought her some when she delivered one of the little boys. Come to think of it, she had violets on her little table every single time. She liked to needlepoint. She made me a pincushion once. I still have it. It was to thank me for taking care of her when she was in the hospital. I forgot about that until just now. It had a bluebird on it. She said something about bluebirds and happiness. To my way of thinking that meant she liked birds and bluebirds in particular. You wait right here, and I’ll fetch the pincushion.”
When Rinney returned, Nealy reached for the small, round tufted cushion. Tears burned her eyes as she stared down at the pincushion. She was holding something in her hands that her very own mother had made with her hands many, many years ago. A gift of gratitude to another human being.
“If you want it, child, keep it.”
“Thank you. Thank you so very much.”
“If you like, you can go down to the cellar and look through Carl’s things. It’s warm down there, but you best put on one of my aprons so you don’t get your clothes dirty. There’s only three or four boxes. Some of the things belonged to your grandparents, small things Carl kept as memories. There might be something there of Marty’s. I didn’t go through the things, just packed them up. By rights, I guess those boxes now belong to you. You can take them with you.”
“You don’t mind?” Nealy asked, incredulous that at last she had something she could sink her teeth into. She held the bluebird pincushion over her heart.
“Be glad to get them out of the cellar. I just keep moving them from one spot to the other. Sometimes when it rains hard the cellar gets wet.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, Rinney.”
“You can thank me by not thinking harshly of your mother. She was young, and she did love that man. She truly did. He broke her heart. I think she loved you young’uns more, though. You go ahead downstairs. The light switch is on the right. If you bring the boxes up here, I’ll tape them up for you. They’re right there under the steps.”
Nealy stood at the bottom of the steps, her heart thumping in her chest. She walked around behind the steps and stared down at four huge cartons. The mother lode! She felt light-headed, almost giddy with what lay before her. She would carry them out to the car and back to the hotel, where she would ask them to label the boxes and ship them UPS to SunStar Farms. Instead of heading back to Kentucky, she would go to Virginia first, and be there with her brothers so they could open the boxes together.
Her knuckles were pure white as she continued to clutch the bluebird pincushion.
“You’ve been very kind,” Nealy said when she had secured the last box in the trunk of her car. “I will treasure this pincushion all the rest of my life. I didn’t have one thing, not one little thing, not a scrap of paper, not a hairpin to prove to me I really had a mother. Is there anything I can do for you, anything at all to show my gratitude?”
“I’d like it if the next time you visit Marty’s grave, you put a bunch of violets there for me. Tell her I remembered.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, Rinney. Maybe I’ll get some seeds and plant them all over her grave. In the spring, when they bloom, it will be like a carpet. A beautiful, violet carpet planted with love from her daughter and her nurse. If you ever find yourself in Kentucky, be sure to visit.” She hugged the little woman, who hugged her in return.
“You drive safely, young woman,” Rinney said, and smiled.
6
Dusk was settling over SunStar Farms as Nealy watched her brothers
carry the four cartons of Carl Ridley’s belongings into the living room. Rhy had his bowie knife ready to slice through the thick tape Catherine Nolan had used to seal the boxes. Nealy had her fingers crossed, the pincushion in her hands. She’d carried it with her, either in her hand or in her pocket, since the old nurse had given it to her. Her brothers’ expressions tugged at her heart. Please, she prayed, let there be something in these boxes that will show us we were loved and wanted. I don’t care if it’s a scrap of paper, just so it’s something.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Rhy said gruffly, his expression apprehensive. “We’re going to be mighty disappointed if there’s nothing in here but funeral books and sympathy cards.”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Nealy looked at Pyne, whose eyes appeared glazed. “You open the first one, Pyne.”
Pyne’s hands trembled as he pulled the sturdy carton toward him. Everything in the box belonged to their uncle Carl Ridley—old bank statements, ledgers, a paperweight, an assortment of odds and ends from a desk. Nothing personal, nothing intimate.
“Rhy, you go next,” Nealy said, her fingers tracing the outline of the bluebird on the pincushion.
Rhy ran his fingers through his graying hair, a determined look on his face. He yanked at the carton and opened it. “Books and pictures. Old-fashioned pictures.” He held up a handful of pictures. “They’re so old they’ve started to turn brown.”
“No, that’s the way they were back then,” Nealy said, reaching for the pictures. “They call it sepia. Oh, look, this must be our uncle and his wife. You look like him, Pyne,” Nealy said, as Rhy held up a framed photograph. “You really do. Who’s that?”
“Must be our grandparents,” Rhy said quietly. “They look like nice people. Stiff but nice. Oh, God, look, here’s a family picture. Which one is Mom, Nealy?”
Nealy peered at the picture. “This one,” she said, pointing out a young woman of about seventeen. “See, she has the braid going down her back. She had the braid in the diner picture. I bet she never cut her hair. Oh, she was pretty. Are there any more?”
Kentucky Heat Page 11