Promptly at six-thirty, a four-wheel-drive pickup and two cars pulled into our parking lot. Eight adults and a five-year-old boy piled out of the vehicles. One of the men immediately lit a cigarette and sucked on it while coming down the walk. I met the family on the steps of the front porch to ensure no one tripped.
Darlene Anderson, Claude’s married daughter, must have been around sixty. She was escorted by her younger brother, Claude Junior. The other six were an assortment of the deceased’s grandchildren, and a tyke who was a great-grandson. The only one I remembered was grandson Stony McBee because Tommy Lee had warned me about him. I had to stop him at the door and coerce him into finishing his cigarette outside.
Wayne and I stood a respectful distance away while Darlene and Claude Junior led the family to the casket. Only the upper half of the split lid was raised, and the relatives huddled close together as everyone wanted to see at once.
“What’s wrong with Paw-Paw’s legs?” asked the child.
Wayne and I exchanged a smile. Nine times out of ten, a youngster wanted to know why the casket covered the lower half of the body. Usually, a grownup explained the family’s preference not to put the entire length of the loved one on display.
“Yeah,” said Stony McBee. He glared at me. “You didn’t take his shoes, did you?”
His accusation stunned me. “No,” I said, louder than I should have.
“Hush,” said Darlene to her nephew.
“No. I wanna see.” Stony grabbed the edge of the lid and tried to lift it.
“Stop it,” Claude Junior told his obstinate son.
“It’s locked,” Stony said. “Why would they lock it? Paw-Paw ain’t getting out.”
Wayne stepped closer. “It’s not locked, it’s latched.” He slid two bolts and lifted the lower half.
Claude McBee’s trousers were neatly pressed and his brown shoes tied and buffed to a soft shine. Even the argyle socks were stretched tightly over the old man’s thin ankles.
“Happy now?” snapped Darlene.
“You can’t be too careful. Daddy, I’m going for a smoke.” He turned, glowered at me, and headed for the porch.
The room was silent. Then Darlene sighed.
“I know what’s wrong.”
Wayne and I edged nearer. What had we forgotten?
“Daddy needs his pocket watch.” She reached in her leather handbag and pulled out a gold watch and chain. With practiced skill, she looped the chain through a vest buttonhole and slid the watch into a pocket. After studying her father for a few seconds, she extracted it. She opened the case and set the hands to match the time on Claude Junior’s wristwatch. She wound the stem and replaced the watch in the pocket.
No one spoke. The steady click of the second hand sounded from the casket.
“There,” she said.
Over the next hour, about twenty people came to offer condolences and view the body. Preacher Calvin Stinnett met with Wayne and me to go over last-minute details for Saturday’s service. I asked him if he would suggest to the family that we conclude the visitation a half-hour early given the road conditions.
After the last visitor left, Wayne invited the family to view the body one final time. Preacher Stinnett joined them and offered a prayer.
While Mom and Uncle Wayne went for the family’s coats, I stood with Darlene and Claude Junior as they reviewed the Those Who Called register. I told them I would bring it and the flowers to the church the next day.
Then Darlene returned to the casket.
“It’s gone,” she screamed. “Somebody’s done stole Daddy’s watch.”
Each of us ran to join her, as if her eyes weren’t good enough to see it.
“You’re responsible for this,” Stony shouted at me.
I gently grabbed Darlene’s arm to comfort her. “Quiet,” I said.
Stony stepped beside us. “Don’t you tell me what to do.”
“We need quiet,” I repeated firmly.
Darlene looked up at me, and I saw comprehension dawn in her eyes.
“Shut up, Stony,” she ordered. “Everybody stand still.”
The room fell silent. Then, like a distant radio station growing stronger, the tick of the watch broke through.
“I hear it,” said the three-foot kid, and he leaned his ear against Stony’s sport coat.
The man’s face went pale as his family stared first at his ticking pocket and then at him.
“Stony!” cried Darlene in horror.
“You planted it on me, you son of a bitch.”
Before I could move, Stony’s fist caught me full force on the nose, sending me into a wreath of flowers to land flat on my back. Through the petals draped across my bleeding face, I saw Stony grabbed by two burly cousins. Then Darlene swung her handbag and hit her thieving nephew across the throat. He started coughing for air and struggled to break free. Someone twisted his arm behind his back so hard Stony screamed and lurched onto the casket. The full lid crashed down with a resounding boom that stopped everyone. Claude had spoken.
I saw Mom and Uncle Wayne enter the room, coats on arms and mouths agape.
Welcome to Clayton and Clayton, one of the Hoffman Family of Fine Funeral Homes.
I sat in the den recliner, my head tilted back and mouth open to breathe. Cotton swabs were jammed up my nose and an ice compress lay across my eyes. Uncle Wayne had administered first aid while Darlene Anderson hung over his shoulder, begging me not to press charges against her nephew, the one whose Adam’s apple she had cored. She knew I had been with her when the watch was pilfered.
Stony had been hustled away, his arm wrenched so high behind his back he practically floated out of the room. I figured the family would exact punishment more severe than the legal system.
Uncle Wayne gave the opinion that my nose wasn’t broken, but would swell to Rudolph proportions. Instead of a reindeer, I’d look like a raccoon as both eyes blackened. Mom forced me to take two Tylenol and to promise to stay over. She called Freddy Mott to assist Wayne with tomorrow’s funeral. It was more a precaution against me attacking Stony if he showed up at the service. That he had sucker punched me hurt worse than anything else.
About an hour after the McBees wreaked their havoc, I felt well enough to get ready for bed. The packing in my nose had stopped the bleeding, and I carefully cleared my swollen nostrils. The first breath stung, but the nasal passages seemed in working order. A stranger stared back at me from the mirror. Too bad we were approaching Christmas and not Halloween.
Mom brought a cup of weak tea and a plate of gingersnaps to the bedroom. As she set them on the nightstand, she said, “I used to worry about you when you were a policeman.”
I laughed. “Then I never so much as stubbed my toe. I’m convinced mortuary science courses need to include self-defense.”
“People are just so stressed when a loved one dies.”
“So stressed they rob the body?”
She shook her head. Mom always looked for the good in everyone. Stony McBee proved too much of a challenge. “Well, I’m glad you’ll be staying in tomorrow.”
“I can’t hide from an entire family. I’m only skipping the service to avoid upsetting Darlene.”
“You can sleep late, can’t you? I’m going to the grocery store early and I’ll take your dad. He likes to push the cart.”
“I’ve got some paperwork from Hoffman to go over. And I need to see Susan. She’s going through a tough time.”
Mom sat down on the edge of the bed and looked away. “How anyone could accuse a sweet girl like her of murder is beyond me. Is there anything you can do?”
“Get to the truth. Fight those slurs in the press.”
“Oh, no,” Mom exclaimed, and turned to me wide-eyed. “I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“A reporter called this afternoon. The one that wrote that article about Susan in the Vista.”
“Melissa Bigham?”
“Yes. She wanted you to call her. Left me a b
unch of numbers. I got so wrapped up with the McBee arrangements and then the fight.”
I thought Mom was going to cry.
“It’s all right. Probably just had a question.”
“I didn’t tell her you were in Atlanta.” The tears began to trickle. “I didn’t want the newspaper to think we have to sell the funeral home.”
I sat on the bed beside her and put my arm around her shoulders. I could feel the tremor of silent sobs. In all the turmoil of the past few days—Dad’s wandering off, Susan’s troubles, and the prospect of selling a huge part of her life—Mom had never let her feelings come through. Now, looking at her balloon-nosed son in the room where he grew up must have broken the emotional dam. I wasn’t sure what the true issue was behind her tears. Probably Mom wasn’t sure either, but the tears were real, and we sat together and let the moment play out.
I looked at us in the mirror, a battered face and a wrinkled face. Mom’s was the more shocking. I realized she had gotten old, and I had no clue how many more years I would be able to wrap my arm around her.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” I told her.
“I know. You’re a good son, Barry.”
We sat a few more minutes, and then she stood up. “Well, let me get the numbers for you now. I might forget in the morning.” She smiled. “You’ll know you’re in trouble when your dad has to remind me of things.”
Mom brought back a sheet of paper with four numbers—cell, work, home, and pager. The note “call anytime” was written under them. It looked like Melissa had more than a simple question. I waited until I heard Mom close the door to her bedroom, and then tiptoed downstairs to the office.
Since it was after ten, I tried the home number first.
“Barry?”
Even she had my number in caller ID.
“Yes. Sorry to get back to you so late. I got tied up.”
“I’ve got something for you that might help Susan.”
I grabbed a pen and notepad. “I’m all ears.”
“After my story ran yesterday, I got a call from Annette Nolan.”
The name sounded familiar. “Who’s she?”
“My predecessor at the paper. She worked there for years.”
“Right.”
“Annette retired five years ago. I interned with her the last year and then got hired when she left. Every couple months we have lunch, and I thought that’s why she telephoned. I didn’t return the call until today.”
“She knows something about Sammy Calhoun?”
“She thinks so. He’d come to her about a story.”
I felt the tingle in the back of my neck. That fit with Cassie’s information. “Did she contact Ewbanks?”
“No, and she won’t. She’s afraid.”
“Of Ewbanks?”
“She just said she couldn’t trust anyone in the system. Sammy Calhoun was proof of that.”
“Are you printing her story?”
“What story? She won’t talk to me. Says she doesn’t want to get me killed.”
“How about Tommy Lee? Will she tell him?”
“She wants to talk to you.”
“Me? I don’t know the woman and only vaguely remember seeing her byline.”
“She knows we worked together on the Willard murders,” said Melissa. “She guessed you helped get the information for yesterday’s story. Annette’s sharp. She figures you’ve got a vested interest since Susan’s involved.”
That’s the problem with a small town. Everybody knows your vested interests. “Where does she want to meet?”
“Her place. It’s off the road to Chimney Rock.”
“Can we go tomorrow?”
“You can. I’m shut out.”
“Shut out?”
“She’s scared,” said Melissa. “Scared for me. And Annette Nolan doesn’t frighten easily. She told me she’s afraid I’ll stick my nose in some hole and end up buried in one like Calhoun.” Melissa laughed. “For some reason she thinks you’ll keep your nose out of trouble.”
I touched my nose and the pain shot up to my eyes. “Okay. Give me her number.”
“Sure,” she said, and the lilt in her voice told me what was coming next. “For a price.”
“You’ll get the story, Melissa.”
“The exclusive story,” she corrected. “You talk to no one until it clears my paper and the wires. Including Susan’s aunt.”
“I promise.” What did I have to lose? When Annette Nolan saw my nose for trouble, there’d be no story.
Maybe she’d believe I was injured in a high-speed funeral procession.
Chapter 12
The night passed in fitful chunks. At one in the morning, I took two more Tylenol and got three hours’ sleep out of the next five. Dawn was another hour away when I gave up and went downstairs to the office.
I reviewed the packet of material from Hoffman Enterprises. Their fringe benefits were far greater than what we could afford as an independent operation. Even Freddy would qualify for the 401-k, and I knew he had trouble squirreling away money for a rainy day. The supplies Hoffman used weren’t my first choice, but I might be able to supplement their basic stock with my preferences, particularly the restorative cosmetics. I thought about applying a heavy coat to my own face.
At seven-thirty, I heard Mom and Dad stirring upstairs. I started a pot of coffee to greet them and returned to the Slumber Room to get things ready for transport to Crab Apple Valley Baptist Church.
Claude McBee had been whisked away to the cooler temperature of the back room last night. A scattering of loose petals and leaves marked the spot where I had crashed through the largest floral arrangement. I carried the remaining ones onto the back porch where it would be easier for Uncle Wayne and Freddy to load them later.
A check in the downstairs bathroom mirror showed me I did indeed look worse. My nose needed only horn-rimmed glasses to pass for the joke disguise kids bought from novelty shops. The color under my eyes had darkened from blue-green to black, and I was glad I wouldn’t be giving Stony McBee the satisfaction of seeing his handiwork.
I poured myself a cup of coffee as Mom and Dad entered the kitchen. They were dressed and ready for their morning outing. A flash of alarm crossed Mom’s face at the sight of my bruised features. Then she managed a smile.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like Muhammad Ali’s sparring partner,” I said.
“Can I bring you anything from the store?”
“Just a grocery bag to put over my head so I don’t scare small children.”
Dad came right up to me and stared. He reached out and gently touched my nose. “Football?”
I knew he wasn’t commenting on the size. His mind had jumped back fifteen years to when I’d taken a cleated foot to the face. My unorthodox defensive move had tripped the opposing fullback short of the goal line and stopped the game while the referees removed his shoe from my helmet. At least I’d gotten a standing ovation as they carried me off the high school field.
“Yeah, Dad. Big game last night. I knocked them dead.”
I helped my parents navigate the ice to their car and gave Mom a warning to watch slick spots in the Ingles supermarket parking lot. I told her I felt well enough to return to my cabin and I’d call later to let her know how I was doing.
At eight-thirty, I telephoned Annette Nolan, afraid if I waited any longer, she’d leave for a day of Saturday errands. A woman creaked a hello. She sounded as ancient as the hills.
“Miss Nolan?”
“Yes, who’s this?” she demanded, her voice suddenly stronger.
“Barry Clayton. Melissa Bigham suggested I call you. I wondered if you’d have time to see me today.”
“Right now.”
It wasn’t a question.
I crossed an ice-choked creek and wound the jeep up through a barren apple orchard. The road had been plowed, and the gravel was thick enough to provide good traction. Annette Nolan said her farmhouse wa
s about halfway to the top of the ridge.
She had described her home as two storied and white sided, which fit most farmhouses that were better than a tarpaper shack or the abandoned homestead collapsing beside the next generation’s mobile home.
The road turned onto the ridge’s southern exposure where patches of rock and weeds broke through the melted snow. The apple trees stopped at the edge of a barbed wire fence encompassing several acres of sloping pasture. Beyond the enclosure stood a barn and what I gathered to be Annette Nolan’s residence. It wasn’t what I expected.
The paint was dingy, but the architecture appeared wondrously Victorian. A corner turret contained round windows with mullions shaped like the steering wheel of a sailing ship. One would expect to stare out those glass panes at the ocean, not the Appalachian mountains.
The road split, with a branch headed to the barn and the other looping back to form a circular driveway in front of the house. I parked beside the stone steps to the porch. Embedded in the side of the top step was a tarnished plaque reading CONNEMARA II—1955. I recognized the word Connemara as the name of the poet Carl Sandburg’s home over in Flat Rock and knew this structure must hold an interesting story.
I rapped on the door and then listened for footsteps. Hearing none, I peered through the window. A log burned low in the living room fireplace. The glow flickered across an afghan-covered sofa and a couple of dilapidated easy chairs. Hundreds of books were piled along the floor and jammed into shelves that lined the walls.
I stuck my head in the door and called for Miss Nolan. Somewhere out of sight, a cat meowed. Hesitant to wander in uninvited, I left the porch and followed the cleared road around to the barn. A green Subaru Outback sat next to the windowless side of the rough plank building. The snow lay heavier in the protection of the barn’s shadow, and my boots crunched through the crusty surface as I sought an entrance.
The barn’s doors were wide open, but an inner gate of unfinished slats barred the way. An old man with a long gray beard studied me from the other side. He let out a sharp raspy bleat that made me jump. A billy goat.
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