by Ruth Moose
I even thought about taking a rake or shovel with me. This was not a jungle so no bush knife was needed unless I ran into vermin. A hard hat might have been nice, and I should have remembered to bring a flashlight. Though it was daylight, old houses tended to be really dark inside.
At the front door of Verna’s house the first thing I checked was to see if it was locked. No. The knob turned, the door opened, and I was in, which meant Reba was probably out. Roaming? Gone back to her tree. That’s the first place Ossie would go looking.
I called, “Reba?” No answer. The whole house was quiet as a tomb. Not an easy or good metaphor.
I eased my way into the hall and bypassed the living room, not that I could have gotten in it anyway. The French doors had stuff piled next to them so close I knew I’d never get the doors open. The dining room was the same way.
I squeezed myself down the path. At least I could see the ceiling, which looked as if it needed painting and replastering. The huge patches of lattice showing through where the plaster had fallen looked worse than the ceilings at the Dixie Dew, missing pieces of miniature scrolls and swags and swirls, before Scott and his crew remolded and repaired the plaster and painted them with beautiful creamy white paint.
On the path to my left was a sort of den, I supposed. Somewhere behind stacks of newspaper, magazines and books there was probably a fireplace. On the far wall there was probably a window or two now covered with “stuff.” I might not be the neatest person in the world, but I knew for sure I could never live like this.
Two bedrooms across the hall looked as if nobody had been in them in years. The beds were covered with clothes piled to the ceiling. The floor was wall to wall with boxes of shoes. My Lord, there must be a couple hundred pairs. Some boxes were stacked on top of each other, some were open, and shoes were scattered like some big department store fire sale. Hell had to be a shoe department with every pair on sale and when you found the perfect shoe that fit, you couldn’t find its mate. Digging and digging through hundreds of shoes to find one that matched.
The word “Hell” made me think of fire and how this place could go up in minutes. Old timber, heart-of-pine flooring, plus Verna’s collection of stuff. This place was a fire hazard. If I reported it to some town department, could it be declared a fire hazard? Condemned? Would Verna have to move? Where would she go? As far as I knew she had no family. No sisters, therefore no nieces or nephews. Cousins? Cousins didn’t usually take cousins in.
I was getting more depressed the longer I stayed in this house, but I kept going until finally, in a small room at the back of the hall, I saw a recliner chair and some quilts. There was a tiny TV on a table close by. This must be where Verna spent most of her time, perhaps even sleeping in that chair. The bathroom was just around the corner.
I felt awful that I had not checked on her, but I’d been up to my ears with all I had to do to get the Dixie Dew Bed-and-Breakfast up and running and try to get The Pink Pineapple tearoom off the ground. Not that I’d had that many events yet, just the occasional call for a tea or two with sandwiches, which I could whip up in no time. And I always had scones in the freezer, some cakes of various kinds. I could have made the time.
In the kitchen I already knew what I’d find: all those plastic containers from frozen dinners that Verna had washed and stacked in rows on her counters. Plus the boxes they came in, all neatly stacked on the table by the window where the curtains hung heavy with dust and gook from a thousand days and nights.
Verna’s kitchen had one of those old porcelain sinks with the drain board, and, miracle of miracles, there wasn’t a dirty dish in it. Sparkling clean. Underneath the sink was not a cabinet but a sort of skirt. The fabric, a print of pansies, gathered and strung on a wire, concealed the dark underneath.
I had to get out of there, but I couldn’t go without one more attempt at finding Robert Redford. I couldn’t figure out how to call a rabbit. For cats you call, “Here kitty, kitty.” For rabbits, do you call, “Bunny, bunny, bunny”? That didn’t sound right, so I whistled. I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled. I was so out of practice the sound came out more a sputter and a lisp.
But what do you know? The curtains under the sink parted and two pink eyes sparkled up at me.
“Robert Redford?” I stepped back in utter surprise.
He hopped out and I swear he grinned at me as if to say, You found me. Okay, you’re it, your turn. Now you go hide. I swear that rabbit smiled.
I looked behind the curtains and saw a huge bag of rabbit chow, a water dish and his litter box. Self-contained rabbit hutch. Reba must have outfitted him and said, “Now rabbit, you stay there. Be home,” then gone off and left him.
She had told me she hadn’t seen Robert Redford when she helped me tack up posters. She may have meant she hadn’t seen him that day, or she could have said it with her fingers crossed behind her back to cancel out the lie. All I knew was at this moment I had found Robert Redford. I hugged up that rabbit and even kissed his warm pink nose, laughing and crying a little.
“Oh bunny, honey, you’re all right. You’re all right.” I held him close, felt his little heart racing right up close to mine. He was all warm and fuzzy and really sweet, nuzzling my neck and chin. He was all right.
He was going to stay all right, too, and I was going to know where he was because I was taking him home with me to the Dixie Dew.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Robert Redford was kicking, trying to wiggle out of my arms. He still had on his red harness and leash, so I put him down and let him walk—hop—to the Dixie Dew’s front steps, where he let me pick him up and carry him inside.
Inside we were greeted with cheers from Ida Plum, Scott and Malinda, who had stopped by on her way to work and said, “Today’s got to be a better day than yesterday.” She did the thumbs-up victory sign.
Ida Plum just gave us a puzzled look and took Robert Redford in her arms.
Miss Isabella and Miles Fortune smiled, looked up from their breakfast, but kept eating as if they were enjoying these odd locals, who had such strange customs of shouting and cheering when someone came in the door carrying a big rabbit. Odd, but harmless in a quaint way.
Robert Redford got passed around for hugs and petting as I told his tale of adventure. Not that I knew all of it, but I simply guessed that he’d hopped home after Verna was taken to Moore County Medical. After eating his fill of clover and spending a night out in the dark and dew he must have been on the porch when Reba broke out of jail and came to Verna’s house for asylum. She’d let him in.
“And cake,” Ida Plum said taking her turn with the rabbit again.
“Cake?” Scott’s eyebrows raised. He looked at Ida Plum.
“Reba found her own wedding cake in my freezer and stole it,” I said, taking back Robert Redford, who now wanted to nip at my hair. We headed toward the kitchen.
As I walked through the dining room I saw something that almost made me stop in my tracks. An empty place at the table, Debbie Booth’s. Miss Isabella and Miles Fortune calmly continued their breakfast and gave small, indulgent smiles as the troop of us passed by. Where was Debbie Booth? I needed to check on her.
First I had to put out a water dish for the rabbit on the mat beside Sherman’s own yellow bowl, then pour him a portion of cat chow in another bowl. Sherman moved over and the two of them sat eating side by side as though they’d been doing things this way for years. “Good kitty,” I said and patted Sherman’s black head.
“Good rabbit.” I patted Robert Redford’s white one.
Back in the dining room I got down to the panic of the day, Debbie Booth’s place at the table. “Debbie Booth? Anybody know what’s keeping her?” I tried to keep the concern out of my voice.
Ida Plum and Scott shook their heads no. “I’ll bet she just wanted to sleep in. Recover from seeing and tasting all those green bean concoctions. I know I would,” Ida Plum said. She brought in more coffee and nudged me toward the kitchen.
&nb
sp; “What?” I asked as I watched Scott pick up his retractable ruler from the kitchen table, flick it in and out. “I got work to do.” He grinned. “That is if you want a gazebo anytime soon.”
Did I? Did I? Just the word “gazebo” coming from his lips gladdened my heart. So there was hope, but was it possible in time for the wedding? I could have kissed him soundly and more than once but first I had to see the real thing sitting in my back garden. I’d been hoping for the gazebo long before this green bean thing came upon us and had the whole town going ditsy. The fact was Mayor Moss had deep pockets and I didn’t. Scott had a business to run. The gazebo he’d have to build for love and delayed payment until my bank loan came through. Miz Mayor had tied up Scott to build a fashion runway, fair booths, shore up the Agriculture Building and who knows what else. That model solar convenience facility? Was that his idea, too? All this he had done for the mayor in addition to a big restoration project he had going in Pinehurst.
Back in the dining room I refilled coffee cups. Neither Miss Isabella nor Miles Fortune seemed concerned about our missing Debbie Booth. They ate in companionable silence and seemed intent on their personal plans for the day.
Maybe they saw Debbie Booth as one of those self-sufficient types who gets into a situation and lands on her feet, perky and smiling, waving both hands in the air as if to say, What was all the fuss about? I am fine. I am perfectly fine. But I knew she had not been in good health last night. My question now was whether to wait a bit and see if she came down to breakfast looking a bit peaked but otherwise upright. Or what? It was early yet. I debated whether I should wait or play busybody and go upstairs.
I decided I couldn’t dillydally any longer. I almost raced up the stairs. Ida Plum heard me and came behind me, hard on my heels. We screeched to a halt outside Debbie’s door. There, just as I had left it last night, was her cup of tea and plate of toast. Untouched. Not a good sign.
“Debbie,” I called. “Are you all right?”
No answer. Nothing. Not a sound.
I knocked. Waited, knocked again.
“Debbie!” I called louder.
Ida Plum opened the linen closet to get the master key so we could unlock Debbie’s door and go in. But when I tried the door, it was unlocked. We tiptoed in. What I saw made me gasp and reach back for Ida Plum’s cool hand.
Debbie Booth, so young, so curly haired and cute, lay flat on her back in bed, her skin the color of wax. She wore green polka-dotted baby doll pajamas and had a few curlers in her hair. Curlers. This was a revelation. I had thought her hair was naturally curly.
I froze. Ida Plum stepped closer, checked Debbie’s breathing, then her pulse. She held out her arm to stop me from coming closer. She pulled the sheet up—all the way up and over Debbie’s head—and we left the room.
“911. They’ll call Eikenberry,” Ida Plum said. “Then I think we better call Ossie on this one.” She closed the door and made sure it was locked.
I was near panic, gasping for air, couldn’t believe I’d seen what I’d seen. Not again. Not in my precious Dixie Dew. Two. Two dead people in one house. My house! First Miss Lavinia Lovingood and now Debbie Booth. I grabbed my middle and Ida Plum grabbed me. “Don’t you pass out on me now,” she said. “Or scream. Or anything else.”
I stopped at the top of the stairs, took some deep breaths, felt color come back to my face, neck and hands. “What about Miss Isabella and Miles Fortune?” I whispered as we came down the stairs.
“Miss Isabella’s luggage is already on the porch. She paid and checked out when she came down for breakfast,” Ida Plum said.
“What about Miles Fortune?”
“He said earlier he’d taken his daily run before breakfast this morning and was going over to Raleigh for new running shoes,” Ida Plum told me. She went for the phone.
I went outside to wait for the inevitable. What in the world had killed poor Debbie Booth? Yesterday she was throwing up like she had a stomach virus or food poisoning. I’d had a touch of food poisoning once or twice. I felt like hell for a few hours and maybe overnight, weak the next morning, but it didn’t kill me. Just made me miserable and resolve not to buy seafood from the back of a pickup truck even if it did say STRAIGHT FROM THE SEA and the driver swore his fish and shrimp had been swimming only hours ago. If it was something Debbie ate, it had to be either at the fairgrounds or before. I knew nothing she’d eaten at the Dixie Dew had anything in it that would make her sick. In my mind I went over what all I had served for breakfast yesterday. The rest of us had eaten the breakfast casserole and muffins and we were fine.
Then I remembered how Malinda had gotten sick at the fairgrounds. The smoothie? Malinda had thrown up almost immediately after drinking it. Miss Isabella mentioned that Debbie had gotten a smoothie and gone back to the Dixie Dew feeling sick right after that. But it didn’t make sense. Malinda had the smoothie, thrown up and been okay. Debbie was dead. Did the Dixie Dew have a curse on it? Sometimes I really did wonder.
Chapter Thirty
While Ida Plum called 911, I waved Miss Isabella off. She and Debbie Booth drove to Littleboro in separate cars and as she left, she said she hoped Debbie was enjoying her “lie in” this morning. Last night she thought Debbie had looked a bit under the weather and Miss Isabella had told her to rest and sleep late.
I thought, Oh boy, she sure is sleeping late. God bless her little recipe-loving soul. I just nodded and wished Miss Isabella a safe trip.
Miles Fortune had jogged out after Miss Isabella, cocked his head as he heard the wailing sirens approaching, but shrugged, hopped in his rental car and sped off. “Hurry, hurry,” I said under my breath. As the sirens got closer Miles disappeared down the street in the opposite direction.
I sat in the porch swing holding Sherman. Robert Redford sat at my feet giving himself a bath. “Funny rabbit,” I said. “You’re a good boy. You’re home.” He looked up at me, twitched a whisker. He seemed perfectly happy here. He had people and he had Sherman. I didn’t worry he’d bound away looking for Verna or try to go next door. He seemed relieved to be found.
I didn’t have long to wait for the world as I knew it to come crashing in. Ossie DelGardo had beat Eikenberry to the Dixie Dew. He roared up in the police car, blue and red lights flashing, parked right smack dab in front, got out, slapped on his white cowboy hat, slammed shut the car door and came striding up my walk like he owned the place. And me.
“You,” he said and pointed his forefinger like a dagger toward my heart.
“Me?” I said meekly. Sherman jumped down and disappeared in the boxwoods. Robert Redford hopped under the swing.
“You,” he repeated. “As I have said more than once, I did not move to this godforsaken nowheresville burg to work and you’re making my job work.”
“It’s not my fault,” I said and started to say more, but just clamped my lips shut and held the door for his majesty’s grand entrance. Ossie looked down as if he expected a red carpet, then glanced to both sides like he waited for trumpeters to sound his arrival. He wiped those snakeskin boots on my doormat. Okay, so that proved he wasn’t raised in a barn, and I’d give him points for manners.
Ida Plum would raise him up some notches in her rating, which had always been higher than mine since my rating of Ossie was zero. I thought he acted like this town was beneath him, that he was too good for the likes of us Littleborians. That he’d like to wipe his feet on all of us. And here he was engaged to one of us: Juanita, who was a Littleboro institution. I thought she must be doing hair on the third generation: grandmother, daughter and granddaughter. I hadn’t been in her shop since my seventh-grade disaster of a perm. I came out looking like a brunette Little Orphan Annie. Every hair on my head was curled and the curls curled. Now I just took the manicure scissors to my bangs and whacked the end of my ponytail when it got to brushing my butt. “Simplify, simplify” was one of the idioms I got from Ben Johnson. I remembered Juanita’s beauty shop had plaques of sayings on the walls, things like HAI
RDRESSERS ARE A CUT ABOVE and WE ARE BEAUTICIANS, NOT MAGICIANS. A little humor always helps no matter where you find it.
Bruce Bechner came right behind Ossie. It’s like the two of them were joined at the hip. You saw one, you saw the other one. Bruce tipped his hat to me and said, “Ma’am.” He went in after Ossie, who squared his shoulders and strode ahead like he was ready to take on a Roman army if that’s what waited for him inside.
I hugged myself. None of this was good and I feared the worst as I pointed upstairs. What were Ossie and Bruce doing up there? Taking photographs? I hadn’t noticed a camera, but then some cameras were so small one could be in a shirt pocket and Ossie and Bruce had whizzed right by me. Checking for fingerprints? Poking in Debbie’s lingerie drawer? I thought the worst.
Ida Plum poked her mop of white cotton-ball curls out the door, dish towel slung over her shoulder. “In case you have forgotten, this is still a business. You have one guest and another to come. And breakfast dishes to clear up. I’ve got linens to do.”
About that time Eikenberry very quietly pulled up in his long, gray hearse, parked right in front of the Dixie Dew and came in. He nodded his good morning. And as was his way, his look seemed to measure me up and down and sideways as if he were fitting a coffin for me. In his dark, spiffy suit, white shirt and shiny purple tie, he went upstairs. Purple tie, I thought, what’s the world coming to? Is it his little attempt at modernism in a very conservative, traditional business? That purple tie would lead to a lot of speculation and gossip in Littleboro. Did he now have a girlfriend? Been on a vacation to some exotic place with palm trees? Was something different in his life? Any change around Littleboro got the gab going.