Geneva raised her eyebrow. It was an eyebrow raise born of years of being a black woman in the South. It was an eyebrow raise that invoked slavery, Jim Crow, and Civil Rights. Lindsay threw her hands up. “Fine. But just because this isn’t a bastion of diversity doesn’t mean that Mount Moriah is full of neo-Nazis who would kill Vernon in cold blood just because he was black. I just can’t believe that about this town. I’ve known some of these people for my whole life.”
Geneva shook her head. “I don’t like to think that way about people either. But what we like to think and what’s true are sometimes two different things.” Geneva sighed heavily. “Lindsay, girl, I truly hope to Jesus that you are right. I truly do. But I just don’t know.”
Chapter 11
After she had finally entered the last of her notes into the computer, Lindsay left the hospital and returned to Kimberlee’s house, intending to work on the memorial arrangements they’d left unfinished on the previous night. She pulled onto the Youngs’ street, and was surprised to find half a dozen cars filling the Youngs’ driveway and spilling out along the road. As she walked toward the house, the low murmur of voices seeped out, even though all of the windows were closed.
Lindsay had to ring the bell three times before a heavy-set man finally answered the door. He wore jeans and a Demon Deacons t-shirt—its scowling, top-hatted cleric logo confronting Lindsay. The man’s thinning grey hair was cropped close to his scalp. A flush of color rose from his thick neck, flooding his cheeks with patches of red. His face was scrunched in concentration, as if he were trying to balance a spoon on the end of his nose.
“Hello. I’m Lindsay Harding. I think we met at the hospital. You’re Keith, right?”
His expression softened with recognition, though a deep wrinkle still creased his brow. “Oh, yeah. Kimberlee said you’re doing the service for Vernon. Come on in. We’re having a family powwow right now. I’m afraid we’ve had another shock. You see, the police came around again…” he trailed off as they stepped inside. “I reckon I’ll let the girls tell you.”
Keith gestured toward the couch, where Kimberlee sat, tear-stained and red-faced. The three Bullard sisters circled tightly around her like covered wagons ready to fend off a gang of marauding bandits. All the sisters were pudgy, most of them were blonde, and all of them seemed to be talking at the same time. Lindsay could only catch snippets of their conversation. “Can they even do that? That sounds made-up to me.” “That Warren Satterwhite is trickier than a magician’s rabbit.” “And meaner than a bag of rattlesnakes.”
Lindsay called a loud greeting over the din. They turned toward her, a hydra-headed mass of freckles and highlights.
“Oh girl!” Kimberlee exclaimed, jumping up from the couch and running to embrace Lindsay. “They think I did it!”
“Did what?” Lindsay said, still not quite following the conversation.
“Killed him! The police think I killed Vernon!” She burst into a fresh torrent of tears and buried her face in her hands. Even during the long hours at Vernon’s bedside, Lindsay had never seen Kimberlee break down so completely. Keith ushered Lindsay and Kimberlee over to the couch, where the sea of sisters parted to make room for them. Before any further explanation was offered, all eyes turned toward the stairs, where the heavy thud of footsteps could be heard.
Versa Bullard, the family matriarch, sailed down the stairs with the iron-clad solidity of a battleship. She wore a sleeveless denim shirt embroidered in a pattern of red and white fireworks and children waving American flags. A pair of fuchsia reading glasses dangled from a beaded chain around her neck. White hair seemed to explode from her head like a sunburst, moving as a unit when she spoke.
She addressed her children: “Well, he’s settled down now. Those tranquilizers did the trick. I swear if we hadn’t gotten those pills down him, we’d have had another death on our hands—either his from a heart attack or that skunk Warren Satterwhite’s from a beating.” With a little shooing motion, Versa directed Keith to vacate the armchair where he was seated. He popped up obediently and stepped aside while she arranged her ample bulk upon the pink leather.
“I guess you’ve heard by now,” Kathilee, the oldest sister, said to Lindsey.
“Actually, I haven’t. What in the world is going on?”
The twins, Kristalene and Kennadine, both began talking at once. During the time she spent with the Bullards at the hospital, Lindsay had never really figured out which twin was which. She now came to realize that it didn’t really matter.
“They came over here this morning with a warrant to search the house. Pulled out everything from all the closets and basically ransacked the place,” one twin said.
“Who came?” Lindsay asked.
“Warren Satterwhite and a bunch of police, and then some other guy I think was from the FBI or something. They brought him in special to work on Vernon’s case,” the other twin answered.
The first twin continued, “Then they came back a few hours later and said they just wanted Kimmie to come over to the police station and answer a few more questions. She knew something funny was going on ‘cause they were acting all shifty.”
The other twin elaborated, “And when they got her to the police station, that scary, serious-looking detective or agent or whatever he was pulled out this piece of paper with all these horrible things written on it and asked her if she’s seen it before…”
Twin #1 lamented, “Terrible things! Like about Vernon being black, only they didn’t say black, they called him a such and suching you-know-what…”
Twin #2 concurred, “And it said how he shouldn’t be married to a white woman and how he shouldn’t do his Confederate army man thing…”
Twin #1 explained, “And the detective was asking Kimmie if she saw this paper before…”
Twin #2 clarified, “Which, of course, she never had…”
Twin #1: “And then they said that they’d run some kind of test…
Twin #2: “Which I don’t even think they can do, anyway. It just sounds made-up…”
Twin #1: “No, it’s not made up. They can do that. I told you I saw that on CSI. Regular CSI, not Miami, which I don’t even watch anymore because I don’t like that one fellow who they have on there now.”
Twin #2: “But anyway, they said they ran this test on some piece of paper that Warren Satterwhite took from here last night that had a poem or something on it, and they said it was printed on the exact same printer that the horrible letter about Vernon was printed on! And that that was Kimmie and Vernon’s printer!”
“That slimeball!” both twins said simultaneously.
Kathilee, the non-twin sister, interjected with a brief aside. “We never liked the Satterwhites, you know. Warren’s cousin Jake used to throw sticks at our dog when he walked past our house on his way to Little League practice. And Gremlin was a sweet old thing and hardly ever bit anyone.”
The twins nodded in agreement. “Satterwhites are just like that. Do you remember old Zeb Satterwhite?” The twin who was speaking paused for effect. “He was a ped-o-phile.”
“Well, maybe not a pedophile, exactly, but he was near on fifty and married a girl of about eighteen,” the other twin explained.
“And that fancy, serious-looking detective—he didn’t even have the good manners to introduce himself—was acting all high and mighty. Said he used to work in Los Angeles.”
The other twin said gravely to Lindsay, “L.A.” She spoke the letters as if they summed up the man’s character.
“Anyway, the police were being real mean to Kimmie and saying ‘Why did you do it?’ and ‘Why weren’t you at the reenactment?’ and saying they were going to bring Momma in for questioning! Something about establishing her alibi or something.”
Lindsay looked helplessly around the room. “I’m not sure I understand what is going on.”
Kathilee stepped in to explain. She seemed to be the family spokesperson, serving as a sort of translator who interpreted the Bullard
s’ familial ciphers for the outside world. “You see, the police think that our Kimmie had something to do with Vernon’s death. I guess they don’t have enough evidence to arrest her, so they were trying to get her to confess. She told them she didn’t do anything wrong and had nothing to do with it. Kennadine’s husband, Marshall Pickett, is a lawyer. You might know him? He has those commercials on cable where he dresses up like a cowboy and chases after the Malpractice Kid? Anyway, Kimmie told them she was going to call him to come over and wouldn’t say anything else without him there. When Marshall showed up, he asked them was she under arrest. They said no and they had to let her go.”
“We all came running over when we heard,” one of the twins said.
Versa smiled at her children. “Daddy about broke a land speed record getting over here. He was so riled up we had to give him something to calm him down. I crushed up a couple of them pills that the doctor gave him and put it in his sweet tea. He’s upstairs now resting.” She crossed her arms with a self-satisfied expression. The compression over her chest somehow, improbably, meant that the line of her cleavage shot out of her shirt like the mercury in a thermometer, reaching up to the base of her throat.
“Daddy’s too pigheaded to take his medicine when he needs it,” Kathilee said. “His heart ain’t as strong as it once was, and he can’t take all this stress with Vernon and whatnot.”
At the mention of Vernon’s name, Kimberlee sprang back to life. She grabbed Lindsay’s hand as if she were holding on to the edge of a cliff. “When Vernon died, I thought it was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. This, though…I just can’t see a way through this. I have never been so scared in my whole life. The police took all the stuff I’d printed out for the memorial service for ‘evidence’.” She paused. “I wish Vernon was here. I know that doesn’t make sense, because if he was here, none of this would be happening in the first place. But I can’t help but feel that if Vernon was here, he would know exactly what to do.”
Kimberlee’s words shot through Lindsay’s brain like a jolt of electricity. Kimberlee might be more right than she realized. Vernon Young would know what to do—and maybe he had already done it. It was only a hunch, but it was a hunch that Lindsay intended to follow up at the earliest opportunity.
Chapter 12
When Kimberlee’s siblings and parents finally left late that evening, Lindsay and Kimberlee drafted the program for Vernon’s memorial service. Kimberlee’s bravado had disappeared after the accusations of her involvement in Vernon’s death, and she was more than happy to let Lindsay take over organizing the memorial. She was quiet and submissive and agreed to every one of Lindsay’s suggestions—including allowing more time for quiet reflection and the addition of a eulogy. Lindsay offered to type everything out at home, since Kimberlee’s printer and computer had been confiscated by the police. It was after midnight when Lindsay finally got back to her house, but she dutifully sat down on her bed, propped her laptop on her knees, and began arranging text on the page. She had an early shift the next morning and she had to get the program finished before she left. At some point around 2 a.m., the pillows seemed to become softer, the bed more comfortable. Lindsay turned out the light. She was nearly done anyway. Maybe she should just rest her eyes for a minute…
Lindsay woke up hours later, restless and sweaty. Her computer had put itself to sleep, too, and it lay dark and silent on the bed next to her. She realized that she’d forgotten to turn on the air conditioning when she got home. She lay there, too hot to sleep, but too tired to get out of bed and lower the thermostat. In her fevered half-sleep, she had terrible nightmare of a thin-faced man. He peered in through her window; his otherwordly green eyes glowing in the moonlight, drilling into her.
The sinister presence from her dream was still with her when the alarm sounded at 5:45. She silenced the alarm with a blunt blow from her fist. She lay in bed for a few minutes, letting her vision adjust to the gray predawn light and trying to erase the glowing green eyes from her mind. She silently cursed herself for taking an extra shift this week—a 7 a.m. Friday shift to boot. In theory, Lindsay, as one of the staff chaplains, should have had a fairly regular schedule, with mostly 8:30a.m.-5:30p.m. shifts and the occasional night or weekend on call. Chaplaincy residents, like Geneva, were supposed to be the ones paying their dues by keeping erratic hours. In reality, though, Lindsay’s schedule was almost always unpredictable. Rob liked to try out new ways to schedule the chaplaincy rota—hence the invention of the 7 a.m. shift. He claimed that these little experiments were aimed at making the service more efficient. Lindsay was pretty sure that their actual goal was to rob her of sleep and a social life. As if Rob’s diabolical scheduling tendencies weren’t bad enough, the other chaplains always called on Lindsay if they needed someone to cover for them. As one of them had innocently reminded her, “With no kids and no husband you must have so much free time.” It was hard to disagree. It took a frigid shower, two cups of coffee, and a giant cinnamon bun for her to put together something resembling consciousness and leave her house.
##
As usual, her shift gave her no respite. Almost as soon as she arrived, she was summoned up to the cardiac unit by the duty nurse. The nurse explained that the family of a patient, a seventy-five-year-old smoker with congestive heart failure, was undermining the course of treatment. They held very deep-seated religious beliefs that they didn’t feel were being adequately addressed by the staff. The duty nurse called for Lindsay, hoping that she could persuade the family to cooperate.
“Can’t nobody reason with them,” the duty nurse said. “I was raised in Lumbee swampland down east, but these folks is about as country as biscuits and gravy. They make my people look like city slickers. They ain’t never even seen an escalator before they came up in this hospital!” She smacked her lips and made a little “umm” sound. “I’m just prayin’ you can get through to them before they kill that old woman in there.”
Lindsay agreed to give it a try. She approached the patient’s room with caution. Although the door was shut, the sound of raised voices bounced along the corridor, and as she got closer, she could make out snatches of conversation.
“Y’all need to calm down and listen to me,” one voice instructed.
“I’ll calm down when you listen to me,” a second voice responded harshly.
By now Lindsay was just outside the room. She leaned in, placing her ear against the door. The metal felt warm against the side of her face, as if the first flames of a fire were smoldering just on the other side. The two voices once again became distinguishable. “I’ll just come back when you have calmed down,” said the first.
“We’ll be calm when you listen to us and stop killing Mama!” shouted the second.
Without warning, the door clicked open and swung inward, sending Lindsay careening into the room. She stumbled forward until she flopped gracelessly across the hospital bed of an ample-bodied old woman whose elaborate grey braids crisscrossed her head. Lindsay quickly righted herself, doing her best to straighten her white chaplain’s coat and smooth the blonde curls that fell across her eyes.
“Oh, hello. I’m Lindsay…uh…Chaplain Lindsay Harding. I’m one of the chaplains here at the hospital.” She extended her hand to the person closest to her, a balding man whose starched dress shirt was buttoned all the way to his pale, scrawny neck.
“Luther Peechum,” the man replied.
He accepted Lindsay’s handshake, though he eyed her with suspicion. Lindsay tried her best to appear, if not professional, then at least less ridiculous than the clumsy, eavesdropping mess that had just crashed into their midst. She greeted each of the room’s occupants. A pretty, pert nurse with a plastic clipboard extended her hand and introduced herself as Cynthia. She had a strawberry-blonde bob and wore bright pink clogs that were self-consciously “fun,” while still practical and efficient. A pinched woman in an ankle-length skirt wordlessly shook Lindsay’s hand. The look of contempt in her eyes almost froze
the smile off of Lindsay’s face. Finally, Lindsay extended her hand to the old woman whose bed she had so unceremoniously face-planted into. A thin plastic oxygen tube ran under the woman’s nose. A thousand tiny wrinkles creased her skin.
“Welcome, Reverend,” the old woman said, wheezing heavily.
“Thank you,” Lindsay said.
Lindsay took in her surroundings. The room’s three small windows stood open to the blue and gold morning light. The screens were lying stacked in a corner. Warm, moist air clung to everything like wet wool. Lindsay was suddenly aware of the prick of a mosquito, which had alighted on the back of her hand. She slapped it dead, splattering a droplet of her own blood.
“It’s best to just leave ‘em be. Killing ‘em only makes the bite itch worse,” the pinched women said.
Lindsay recognized the voice as the one she’d heard accusing the nurse of attempted murder. Looking at her now, Lindsay realized that she was very young, perhaps Luther’s teenage daughter. Or teenage wife.
“I suppose you’re right,” Lindsay replied brightly. “But I never could countenance letting a mosquito sink his teeth into me.”
“They ain’t teeth. That’s a proboscis. And it ain’t a him. Only the females suck blood.” The young woman’s proclamation was followed by silence. They all stood staring at Lindsay, while she awkwardly scratched at the red lump that was beginning to rise on the back of her hand.
“So,” Lindsay began. “I heard there was a little misunderstanding about the window screens.”
“Ain’t no misunderstanding,” Luther Peechum said, looking pointedly at Cynthia, who hugged her clipboard to her chest. “Windows are open so the Holy Spirit can enter to heal Mama. Them doctors and nurses reckon that jabbing her with needles and stuffing her with pills is going to heal her better than Jesus can.”
“They’ve got no faith. That’s why she keeps getting worse.” The young woman seemed close to tears.
A Murder in Mount Moriah Page 6