by Lisa Wysocky
“Miss Opal, are you all right? Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes,” she said shortly. “I understand you are poking your nose into my Glenda’s murder.”
It took a moment before I realized that’s what she was angry about.
“You need to stop. Right now. Today,” she demanded, waving an arthritic hand wildly about her face. If possible, she looked more shriveled and gnome-like than she had a few days before. It must be hard to lose a child, no matter what the age the child is when they pass.
“I heard from that Watson woman over at the cemetery,” she said. “I thought I was done with her. Nosy bitch. It’s an historical cemetery, you know. She had to know which of their illustrious skeletons my Glenda was related to so we could bury her there. Of all the nerve. And our plots have been bought and paid for for more than fifty years. But I told her. And I told her to keep quiet about it, too. But then she had a visitor. It was you, from the description.”
Opal looked at me accusingly.
A big fat poo on Penny Watson. What business was it of hers if I asked a few questions? I opened my mouth to speak, but Opal jumped in ahead of me.
“All those years,” she spat. “All those years of respectability and peace of mind.” Her eyes darted like an angry bull.
“I thought,” she said, “that it was forgotten. I thought we had stopped it, that we had finally laid it all to rest. But I was wrong. Wrong! And now you are going to stir it all up again. And to what purpose? It will only cause pain. Too much pain.”
“You laid what to rest, Miss Opal? I don’t understand. All Penny told me was that you were the daughter of Alice Giles Henley.”
For all I knew, half the county was related to the woman. I couldn’t see the crime in that. Penny also mentioned there was a scandal in connection with the woman, but I got the feeling that now was not quite the right time to bring that up.
“Hush your mouth. Don’t you think you’ve caused us enough trouble?”
“Miss Opal, I am sorry if I’ve upset you. Please tell me what you’re talking about, because I don’t understand.”
Opal made a snort of disgust. Then she began shaking, trembling violently. A vein throbbed in her temple and all I could think of was that she was going to have a stroke. Not to be selfish, but I couldn’t handle another dead person quite so soon. That was one thing I was sure of. But then, neither could her grandson. When I’d seen Adam at the funeral yesterday he was so pale and drawn that he looked like a candidate for a rest home himself.
“You need to let sleeping dogs lie,” Opal managed to say, her face the color of beets. “If you must dredge up old scandals, wait until I’m dead. Give me that, at least. At this rate, you won’t have to wait long.”
“And if I don’t?”
“If you don’t, whatever truth you find, I promise you on my grave that I’ll say you’re wrong. I’ll tell the world that you made it up. I’ll fight you to my dying day––in court and out. But more importantly, I’ll ruin you. I may be an old lady, but I know people. Just whose horses do you think you’ll be training after I’m done with you?”
Well, now I knew where Glenda got her repertoire of threats. She’d been taught them by her mother.
I looked away from Opal’s angry, demanding stare. Beyond the small window I saw a tiny redwood tool shed. The door to the shed was open and inside I could see a series of rakes, shovels and other gardening tools neatly lined up against the wall. In the center of the shed there was a large piece of equipment, possibly a tractor or riding lawn mower, neatly covered by a bright blue tarp. An older gentleman, indistinguishable between resident or staff, was puttering inside, moving small pots from one shelf to another. My mysterious gardener. I turned back to Opal.
“If I stop, will you tell me why it’s so important that I don’t continue? Not just for me, but for Bubba Henley. He’s still missing. If I understand what’s going on, I might be able to find him.”
Her face distorted into an ugly mask. “You are being ridiculous. That boy’ll show up on his own. Mark my words. Forget about him. Now, I don’t want to talk to you any more so you go on. But you think about what I’ve said. I meant every word.”
I believed her. I got up and moved toward the door. “But Miss Opal, please. If you can just tell me why?”
“Because I said so,” she spat as I stepped toward the hall. “Isn’t that enough? I’m old, too old to live down another scandal. All I’m asking is that you leave me alone.”
I escaped down the hallway, passing Miss Sanders’s desk on the way. She gave me a baleful stare and I knew exactly who was going to be the next victim of the wrath of Opal Dupree. Miss Sanders knew, too.
The phone was ringing when I got home. I was too upset to talk, so I let the machine pick it up.
“Oh, Cat darling, I just heard,” squealed my effervescent client, Agnes. “How ghastly for you. Your neighbor bludgeoned to a bloody death mere inches from your happy home. I’ve been meditating the last few days, dear. And I spoke with two of my dearly departed husbands and this time they both got along amazingly well. Amazingly. Hopefully Ira will join us next time but he always was a little shy, poor dear. Anyway, I didn’t rejoin the real world until this morning. It’s hideous. Absolutely hideous.”
I wasn’t sure if Agnes was talking about Glenda’s murder, meditation, her departed husband’s shyness, or the real world. I pictured Agnes, hands flying as she talked, the sparkle in her eye, her outlandish wardrobe, and I smiled.
“And,” she continued, “you’re trying to help the police solve the case. That is so like you, to get involved like that. I read it in the paper, so I know it must be true. It’s just below the picture of the calf triplets on page three. Aren’t they just the cutest things you’ve ever seen? Holsteins it says they are. Just adorable. By the way, did you know you’re never supposed to kick a cow chip on a hot day? My neighbor’s nephew told me that. Said things get real messy if you do.
“Anyway I’m calling to let you know I’m sending you a trench coat. Black. You don’t have one, do you, dear? I don’t think so. But I know you can’t do your best to help the police unless you are properly dressed. It’ll arrive later today, I think. Now, please, please, please let me know if I can help. Oh … but I don’t know what I could do.”
There was silence for a moment while Agnes, bless her heart, was trying to think. I debated picking up the phone, but decided not. She’d keep me there for hours.
“I know,” she finally shouted. “I can lead a pep rally in front of the police station. Encourage the troops. Show my support. Gracious me, I’ll have to get pom-poms, won’t I? And I’m not sure where one might find those. Oh, The Yellow Pages. That’s it. I’ll get it all organized here and call you back. Toodles.”
I almost laughed. Pom-poms. A pep rally. Won’t Sheriff Big Jim love that? The imagery that thought conjured up was worth at least one national championship. If I had the slightest inkling that Agnes could get organized enough to pull it off, I’d call her back and dissuade her. But if I knew Agnes, she’d never make it past the pom-poms. Thank God.
I returned Jon’s car keys to the office and sat in the one good chair, the one Glenda had commandeered in the last hours of her life. Opal Dupree was a very determined lady. In one way she was as country as mud, but in another, she was the shrewdest woman I’d ever met.
Whatever the scandal was, or had been, I wouldn’t find it out from her. And if she had any say in the matter, no one would find it out from me because I would never learn what it was. I had no doubt that Opal could––and would––carry out each and every one of her threats. Opal not only had a great many contacts in the Nashville area, she had them across the country. Probably she had them across the globe. I was sure there were more than a few big shots in banking, government, media, and business who owed Miss Opal one last favor.
I wandered out into the aisle, and wondered what life would be like if I were mistrusted and disliked. What would I do
if I didn’t have the stable, if I couldn’t be around the horses I loved like family? It wouldn’t be pleasant. Probably I couldn’t afford to live here anymore.
My little worn-out house and my battered barn entered my thoughts. Much of my feeling for the place came from all the work I had put into it. Seven years. Not a lifetime by any means. But time enough.
I rubbed an inquisitive Gigi on her shiny, chestnut forehead. I liked my life just the way it was. But I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I let Opal run me out of town. I also couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do everything I could to find Bubba. And that was one thing, I knew, Opal Dupree did not want me to do.
My mind made up, I raced back into the office and called Deputy Giles. This time I got him.
Cat’s Horse Tip #13
“A bad attitude is the first sign a horse is sore or hurting.”
25
“DEPUTY? CAT. GUESS WHAT! I AM absolutely, positively, completely sure that Glenda Dupree was the great-granddaughter of Col. Sam Henley.”
“So?” His tone was skeptical.
“So,” I said, “I think her mother, Opal, is the illegitimate child of Sam’s daughter, Alice Giles Henley.”
I heard the sounds of conversation on the deputy’s end of the connection. “Hang on,” he said to me. There was more muffled conversation before Deputy Giles came back on the line. “I’m sorry, Miz Cat. I know you’re trying to help. But what actual proof do you have? And even if you did, being illegitimate ain’t cause for arrest. It ain’t a crime. I can’t pull someone in just because their parents weren’t hitched. And I honestly don’t see that it has anything to do with either the murder or the disappearance of the Henley boy.”
“Okay,” I said, deflated. “Sorry I bothered you.”
“No, Miz Cat, it’s not a bother. You never know, and Lord knows I got on your case when you didn’t say something. So please feel free to call. Anytime. Hey, gotta go, but I’ll call you later.” He hung up the phone.
Disappointed, I sat at my desk and thought. That had to be it. The scandal involving Alice. Opal had gone out of her way to make sure it wasn’t dredged back up. What could be worse for a woman of Opal’s generation than for her parents not to be, as the deputy put it, hitched? She must have been ostracized a great deal as a child to harbor such strong feelings about it today.
My mind shifted gears and I jumped to the day I found Glenda. I remembered it was raining. I was mad and went to her house to confront her. There was no answer at the front door, so I went around to the back. The house was so still, so quiet. But I went in the back anyway. I thought no one was home. So why did I go in? Anger? Curiosity? I decided the question was unimportant and shoved it aside. The fact was, I had gone in. I found Glenda. I was sick and then I called the police. I sat outside on the steps. I heard a car and Adam was there. Then Deputy Giles showed up. The sheriff and the press arrived. I talked with all of them and then watched with Adam as they got ready to load the body.
My mind jumped again. Robert Griggs knew, somehow, that Glenda had choked to death. How did he know that? Hill Henley lost a sale of a prized Tennessee Walking Horse due to Glenda’s death. Or was the death due to the loss of the sale? It was all too confusing.
I called Adam to let him know I wanted to come over to look at the crime scene. There was no answer at his office, on his cell, or at the number next door, but I left messages at all numbers anyway. I grabbed my jacket to ward off the rain that had started and once again hightailed it over to Fairbanks.
Well before I arrived, I could see remnants of the crime scene tape fluttering in the slight, wet breeze. Either Adam, the police, or the elements had taken their toll on the bright yellow strips.
The front door was locked and there was no response to my repeated bell-ringing. I couldn’t tell from the windowless garage if Adam’s Jag was housed inside, so I splashed through a muddy patch in the yard around to the back and once again the back door eased itself open after a few loud knocks. Adam really needed to get that fixed.
Inside, it was deathly still. The clock above the stove had stopped, the curtains were drawn and the whole feeling was tomblike––dark, damp and chilly.
“Adam? Adam, it’s Cat. Are you home?”
I tiptoed across the hard bricks to the plush dark red carpet that covered the dining room floor. My heart was thumping to beat the band and my breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. I’d either have to stop sneaking through other people’s houses or get a prescription for Valium. I glanced at the stairway as I entered the hall and was relieved to see that someone, probably Cinda Lu, had cleaned up my mess. I stopped cold at the cordoned off entrance to the living room.
Glenda had always been a stickler for perfection. And to the casual eye, the living room was as she had always kept it. But I noticed a small brass vase had been knocked on the floor underneath an antique end table, and the table itself was out of alignment with the sofa it stood next to. The carefully arranged copies of Architectural Digest on the coffee table were scattered here and there, and the portable phone, which was always kept on the table next to the sofa, was still in its cradle, but lay sideways against the base of the wall.
I went back to the dining room, a room that had fed generation upon generation of Henleys. Despite the chill in the house, I was sweating in my warm, down-filled jacket, so I took the jacket off and hung it on a chair. Then I wandered around the room for a few minutes, taking in details I had missed on previous visits.
Finally, I sat at the huge table and tried to think back, to recover from the murky depths of my meager mind exactly what the living room had looked like when I found Glenda. I couldn’t remember anything except the bloodied mantle and that grotesque hand reaching up from the fireplace. Ugh.
The slight disarray in the living room was most likely the work of the paramedics and the police. I think I would have noticed right away if the room had been trashed the day I found Glenda. If it hadn’t been, then that meant there wasn’t a struggle and that Glenda had probably known her killer.
I had just made a mental note to ask Cinda Lu if she’d straightened the room when the hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I sensed I was not alone. I whirled my head around to check the kitchen door––the door directly behind me. Nothing, yet I couldn’t get over my unease. I slowly turned my head back around and was immediately knocked off my chair with a blow to the left side of my head.
“Just give it to me and I’ll forget you were here.”
I blinked. Standing over me were two blurry, hooded, and draped figures that slowly merged into one. “What?”
“The notebook,” said the figure. “Glenda Dupree’s notebook. You have it.” The voice was gravelly, distorted, rough, unrecognizable.
Since the night I realized Bubba was missing, I’d battled a nervous, shaky, fluttery feeling. But now a horrid, icy calm filled my being. It was a feeling of paralyzing fear. Of the two feelings, I definitely preferred the former.
My ears were ringing and my head was throbbing so much I couldn’t think. The figure took a step toward me. It was the kind of slow, careful step you take when you mean to catch an unwilling colt, but you don’t necessarily want the colt to know what it is that you have in mind.
“I … I don’t have it.” I said through the fog, pulling my feet toward me and away from the approaching hood. I silently thanked the guardian angel that made me invite the deputy into the house Wednesday night. He’d left with the notebook tucked deep into an evidence bag, otherwise it probably would have been left out on my kitchen table, easy for anyone to find.
The cloaked figure took another step toward me and I somehow struggled into a squatting position. There was blood dripping on the floor near me but I was too frightened and concussed to realize it was mine.
“Give me the notebook. She knew about the basement medicine.”
I tried desperately to think. I couldn’t remember anything Glenda’s notebook had said about a basement, and the on
ly thing that could be construed as a medicinal notation was l=opium+saffron+wine. The opium equation. “L,” as I later found, had stood for laudanum, a concoction that had been used for centuries as a pain killer, and was still being used during the Civil War. As in back in Col. Sam’s day.
They said in his later years the colonel was crazier than a mad cat. I wondered if his madness was consistent with addiction to laudanum and bet that it was. That solved the big mystery surrounding Col. Sam and the smuggling. Probably, opium was not a big crop in the Mid-South during the Civil War. But I bet it was grown in boatloads in China. And Darcy had connected him to China through information she found on the Internet. When the war ended, I wondered, did the smuggling stop, or had it continued? And if it had continued, what, if anything, did it have to do with my crouching on the floor with an insane cloaked person hovering over me? And why could I think so clearly about this when I couldn’t figure out how to stand up?
Basement medicine, I thought. What was it Carole said about safety and her kids? I blinked my eyes to try to speed up my thoughts. Didn’t work. Codeine. Basement. Kids. Keep it locked up. I blinked again. Surely this can’t all be about some cough syrup? And surely that’s not hunky Keith Carson, or worse yet, Carole, under that hood?
Before I had a chance to look closely for identifying characteristics, the figure said, “The notebook is mine. Mine.” Then large, strong, gloved hands flexed, and the cloak, hood and all, charged at me.
I was physically strong and quite fit from daily workouts in the saddle, but I had been weakened from the blow to the head. I tried to stand, to run, but was overcome with dizziness. Instead, I started to crawl toward the front door, but the figure kicked me against the stairway. It pulled an object out of thin air and suddenly I realized what that object was. For the first time I felt that I was going to be killed, right then and there.
Outside, a banging came from the thick, antique front door at the same time the figure viciously swung the long metal hoof rasp at me. It looked like the same hoof rasp I had picked up out of the back yard that morning and had laid on my kitchen table. Shaped like a long, quarter-inch thick metal ruler with a wooden handle on both ends, Hank had found it in the barn and thought he’d appropriate it for his own use. However, the flat part of the metal hoof rasp had hundreds of small sharp points, like the gigantic nail file that it was, and Hank’s tender mouth doubtless had found it a bit too much.