Karen G. Berry - Mayhem 01 - Love and Mayhem

by Karen G. Berry

  Kinky Friedman once said about women that “no one knows what goes on between the earrings.” Certainly, whatever thoughts roamed the space between Melveena’s single carat diamond teardrops remained a mystery. No one knew all the answers. No one, that is, but Melveena Strange. And Melveena wasn’t talking. She was smiling.

  Perhaps she was smiling because of the changes in the Park. Yes, there would be changes. No one would lead those Thursday night kickboxing classes. No more letters to the newsletter. Claudina, Queen a Hearts would have no more questions from the Lorn in Love. And no one would have any need for high-stepping sartorial advice from the Fashion Filly. How sad, thought Melveena. Things would change for the Park, because things had changed for Melveena.

  Last Saturday night, everything had changed.

  SHE’D PULLED UP to the door of the Blue Moon in Tender’s truck. The truck hadn’t been hard to borrow; she’d let herself in to the office after the meeting and helped herself to the set of keys Rhondalee had locked up in there. Rhondalee hadn’t heard the truck start over her talk shows. Melveena had driven to the Blue Moon and waited. She’d seen Raven approaching the Blue Moon, the Reverend leaving, their exchange. Once Raven went inside, she’d pulled into the parking lot, rolled down the window and smiled at him.

  The Reverend had doffed his hat in surprise. “Evening, Sister Strange. Where is that fine automobile this evening?”

  “Oh, Clyde has it down at the station to detail it, Reverend. I just happen to be ready to talk terms.”

  He smiled brightly. “That is fortuitous news, Sister. My truck is beyond resuscitation.” He climbed in, sat down, and flashed his bridgework. “Let’s talk.”

  “Why don’t we drive while we talk?”

  “That would be mighty fine, Sister.”

  She hit the gas as soon as the door slammed shut. No one followed. He cleared his throat as if he was about to orate or emote or proclaim, but all he had to say was, “Did you have a figure in mind, Sister Strange?”

  “A figure?” She smiled. “Well, you have to understand, Reverend, that this car was left to me by my Granny Strange. It carries great sentimental value.”

  “Of course. And how does that sentimental value translate into dollars?”

  “Granny Strange drove me to my first day at the University of Little Rock in that car.”

  “I understand, Sister Strange. Now, about the price?”

  “I’m not sure you do understand. In that car, Granny drove me to my first civil-rights demonstration. And she took me with her to the Democratic National Convention. She was one of the delegates who nominated Jimmy Carter.”

  “Is that right.” The Reverend swallowed, and his Adam’s apple gave a mighty bounce.

  “She always admired Jimmy Carter tremendously. He’s the epitome of a moral man. He brought peace to the Holy Land, if only briefly. And then all his work with Habitat for Humanity.”

  The Reverend shifted, restless. “Your grandmother sounds like a wonderful woman. Now, are you ready to talk money, Sister Strange?”

  “Well, it’s hard to put a price on a car like that. I just keep wondering what Granny Strange would have thought about my selling it. She was a pistol. She left me a few things, actually. Here, I want to show you something else she gave me.” She pulled the truck into the parking lot of the Bone Pile Store, and started going through her pocketbook.

  “Sister, I’d like to get down to business, here.”

  Melveena rummaged through the purse with a frown. “Where did I put that?” She smiled. “Oh, here it is. Granny Strange gave me this right before she died.” It was a smooth motion, the way she pulled the .45 from her handbag, cocked it, held it to his nostril. Anyone watching might have thought the woman had practiced. “Put your hands on the dashboard. Don’t move. Or I’ll happily shoot your nose right off your face.”

  A braver man certainly would have risked a run for it. But the Reverend was a coward, so he sat there with his hands on the dash. “Sister Strange…”

  She poked the gun a little farther up his generous nose. “Stop that ‘sister’ crap right now.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed like a fishing float. She eased the pistol off slightly.

  “It appears to me that you might be listening to some rumors, Miz Strange, some unfounded rumors.”

  “I see. Rumors. Rumors such as you fathered a child on a barefoot ninth grade drop-out named Bonnie.”

  “I married her.”

  “You what?”

  His voice took on a funeral-director unctuousness. “I took her as my wife in the name of the Lord. The Lord knows I was working His deeds.”

  “I think the Lord might see things differently once she talks to Memphis.”

  “She won’t talk. Those girls were born silent.”

  It took a second for both of them to understand what he’d just said.

  She lowered the gun to his crotch. “I was just going to shoot your nose off if you moved. Now I have another target in mind.” The truck’s passenger door opened just in time to keep the Reverend’s private parts from preceding him to Kingdom Come. Angus MacIver pushed his way in and placed his iron fiddler’s hands around the Reverend’s skinny neck. Ever-mindful of the social niceties, Melveena made the proper introductions. “Reverend, you remember Bonnie’s older brother, Angus.” The Reverend made a gargle of strangulation.

  Melveena lay her gun on the floor and hit the gas. The three passengers bucked and rocked in that old truck as she navigated the ruts. “Angus,” she said gently, “he’s supposed to be breathing when we get him up there.”

  “Yes Ma’am.” He relaxed his grip, but only a bit.

  The Reverend choked out, “Sister Strange…”

  “I told you, don’t call me sister anymore.”

  She needed guidance in the dark. “This way,” Angus muttered as she used her strong arms to manhandle Tender’s old Ford along. Flumes of yellow dust rose red in the taillights behind them. “Turn here. Stop. We’re here.”

  They were on one side of the Bone Pile settlement, all the dark backlit by a bonfire.

  “Hands on the dash, Reverend.” She trained Granny’s Colt on his temple as Angus let go and climbed out the back. She could smell the Reverend’s fear.

  “Sister, if you let me go, I’ll take care of her. There’s a place in Arizona where I can live with her openly as my lawful wedded wife. Gator has promised to help me get her up there.”

  “So Gator’s in on this?”

  “He has a special interest in this, yes. It speaks to his religious beliefs. You see, we’re from a place where…” He faltered. “We are from a place where such arrangements are not uncommon. I was put out early. Gator stayed. I have been trying to find a way back for thirty years. Gator says if I help him win the talent show, he’ll take me back there, and I’ll take Bonnie and perhaps some of her sisters, the Lord willing.”

  Melveena thought about Bonnie MacIver, fourteen going on thirty, now, with this man’s child in her belly. Melveena thought about the twelve unearthly girl children in her classroom. She remembered the rhyme she’d heard them saying on the first day of school. That rhyme that made her start holding hands and asking questions.

  Jesus loves the little worm

  Jesus don’t care if you squirm

  Jesus wants you all to learn

  Jesus don’t care if it burn

  Jesus leak and Jesus squirt

  Jesus don’t care if it hurt

  “Please let me go, Sister Strange. I am begging you…”

  “I’d suggest you stop begging for my mercy and start praying for someone else’s.”

  Angus opened the passenger door and wrestled the cringing preacher out to the dirt.

  “Reverend,” said Melveena, gesturing with the gun. “Stand up and walk. You might not have lived like much of a man, but can you at least die like one?”

  He stood, then, brushed off his suit and straightened his hat.

  Angus retrieved a pair of boots f
rom the bed of the truck and tucked them under his arms. He steered the silent preacher to the flames that waited for him behind the largest of the darkened cars. There had to be a hell of a fire going, Melveena thought. She put the gun away, rummaged in her purse, refreshed her lipstick. She smoothed down her hair, breathed.

  Then she crossed herself.

  Angus came back to the truck and climbed in beside her. They sat side-by-side, silent.

  It rose like the flames, the unearthly wail of the Bone Pile women. It filled the air in a hammering cascade loud enough to force any listener to his knees. If those were words they called out, they were older than English. Syllables ran from one to the next, rhyming and adding and building and twisting and licking and searing. It was structured just like the rhyme of their daughters, thought Melveena, the rhyme that sent her up these dark roads to talk to the mothers. To express her fear that something horrible was happening to their wild, innocent daughters.

  No law, those women had said to her through throats parched with anger and betrayal. We have our own law, they’d said. Bonnie MacIver’s mother, with her prematurely aged beauty and exhausting voice. Leave the menfolk out of it. Leave it to us. Blood is women’s work.

  It’s true, thought Melveena Strange. Wrath is not the work of men. Wrath is the work of women and gods.

  Wrath takes its time.

  THEY WERE CERTAINLY taking their time. Angus had cried, finally, he’d broken down like the boy he was and cried. She patted his arm. “Angus. You’re doing just fine, baby.” She held his hand. Angus trembled. They rolled up their windows and tried not to listen to what was happening.

  It hadn’t taken nearly as long as it seemed, sitting in that truck with that shaking boy. The noise of the women stopped. She heard the whine of something mechanical and for one terrible moment she thought, Sweet Jesus, they’re dismembering him with an electric knife.

  “Dustbuster,” mumbled Angus.

  He was a young man, a boy, really, but looked old getting out of the truck, walking back to the bonfire. He came back with a darkened boot tucked under each arm, dragging what was left of the Reverend on a blanket. She marveled at the ease with which he wrapped the body, hefted it up and threw it in the bed of the truck. Melveena would remember the sound of it landing for the rest of her life.

  Angus polished the boots with an old rag all the way back to town. The act seemed to calm him, to change him back from that weeping boy into a narrow-hipped heartbreaker. “You know, the hardest part was getting a good pair of boots for the kicking. The Mas got strong feet, but not that strong. They asked for mine, but I said no way. I had to look hard for a pair good enough for the job.” He admired the boots in the light from the dash.

  She leaned her head out the window and delicately vomited.

  “Sorry.” He carefully put the polishing rag in a snap-top Baggie, sealed it. “Where do you want this, Miz Melveena?”

  “Just put it in my purse, Angus.” He did, and reached into his pocket and let another handful of something else fall in there. It sounded like silver dollars. “What was that?”

  “His rings.”

  “His rings?”

  “Would you keep ’em for us? We all trust you. We all agreed, you were the one to take care of them. We know they’re worth a lot.” He looked so pleased with himself for thinking of it.

  Melveena thought about those rings rattling around in the bottom of her purse. The loose change she had in there was worth more. But the Open Armers had believed that their Reverend, his rings, and his faith, had been real. She had wanted to cry. “Certainly. I’ll put them in a safety deposit box, Angus, and I’ll mail you the key at the store.”

  She cringed at the sound of the body in the back of the truck thudding and bumping as she hit ruts and potholes.

  “What if somebody sees us?”

  “No one will think twice, since this is Tender’s truck. You found the Reverend’s keys?”

  He held them up, jangled them. “In his pocket.” He’d put on the Reverend’s hat. The initial plan was that he’d wear it back to the park, then drive the Reverend’s truck with the Reverend’s body in it out to the quarry, the one wet place in the county. Both the truck and the body would go in. No one swam there, the water poisonously fouled from caustic chemicals leeched from a mining setup back in the early seventies. It hadn’t been dry in a hundred years. If it dried up a hundred years hence, well, the folks then could deal with the appearance of a skeleton in an indestructible polyester leisure suit. They just had to stop by the trailer first, pack a suitcase, make it look like the Reverend had left of his own accord. Angus had asked five boys from Bone Pile to keep Gator out of the way. They would pretend they wanted to back Gator in the talent show, they would do it for their cousin/uncle/half-brother/nephew, Angus.

  Not a bad plan, she had to admit. Except the Reverend’s truck was broken down. And there was always a chance that those five boys from Bone Pile hadn’t been able to keep Gator at the bar all this time. What if he was home? Even if he wasn’t, he knew about Bonnie. What if he talked to the police, made a trail that led to Bone Pile? She’d known she’d have to do something about that man, too. Just what, she wasn’t sure. But first she had a dead body to deal with.

  “We’re going to have to roll this truck into the quarry instead, Angus.”

  “But this is a good truck!”

  “It can’t be helped. We’ll go by his trailer and get the suitcase. It will look like he stole Tender’s truck to get out of town.”

  They’d passed between the lions at the gate. Melveena turned off the headlights, leaving them to drive by the parking lights. Then, there in the road, she saw a pair of long legs and pair of new black boots extending into Sweetly Dreaming Lane.

  “Sweet Jesus!”

  She hit the brakes hard, and the body of the Right Reverend Henry Heaven thumped high and hard against the front of the truck bed, only to bounce out onto the lane with a thud.

  “Somebody might have heard that,” whispered Angus.

  “Someone would have, if she weren’t stone drunk in the street.” Melveena studied the legs stretched out before her. Raven hadn’t moved. “This is officially a botched plan, Angus, and it’s time for us to start panicking and doing stupid things.”

  “It is?”

  “It’s probably our only hope at this point. Take that blasted blanket and leave him where he fell. Let’s put this truck back and get the hell away from here.”

  He jumped out and snatched the bloodied blanket from the corpse. She parked Tender’s truck. Angus carried the boots to the shoe rack outside the front door.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed as she closed the truck’s door. “In the name of all that’s decent, Angus,” Melveena hissed, “those boots should be burned.” But she knew he would never burn a pair of boots.

  He whispered back. “I have to put ’em back.” He put them on Rhondalee’s shoe rack.

  “Those are Tender’s?”

  He nodded. “The Sheriff will never check these out.”

  “That’s actually good thinking.” Certainly she couldn’t blame the young man, having followed a similar train of thought in her own choice of vehicles. There was no way that Memphis would ever suspect his brother of murder, no way that this truck would ever go to Forensics. But still, she thought of that fine, tall man wearing those boots and shivered.

  Angus had walked out of the Park carrying the old blanket. She assumed the women of Bone Pile had disposed of it. But who knew? With as little as they had, that blanket would probably be cleaned up and used again. In fact, Melveena felt sure that the blanket would end up stretched over the sleeping body of one of the girls that the Reverend had defiled.

  She had walked down the street as if she didn’t see the two bodies in the street—one dead, one passed out. She’d found her car tucked over by the Clubhouse and driven home to Ochre Water. To her little lavender bungalow, which she’d entered quietly so as not to disturb her greatest mist
ake. She’d disabled her smoke alarm and turned on the teakettle. Then she’d started a fire in her stainless steel kitchen sink. She’d gagged again at the smell of burnt blood and cloth and plastic, at the images carried by touching what she had to touch.

  “What the hell you doing?” Clyde’s sleepy voice had called over the television. “That stanks!”

  She’d washed the ash down the sink. “I was making myself a cup of tea. There was a bread bag on the burner.” She’d washed her hands, her manicured, lovely hands that had touched that rag. She’d washed them over and over again. There was no way to wash her mind.

  She’d known she’d have to take those rings out of her purse, but she hadn’t been able to bear to touch them. What metal gave out was too strong. She could feel it through gloves. Images of the man’s death were one thing. The images of his life would have done her in.

  So, she’d re-enabled her smoke detector and brewed her tea. She’d sat all night in her easy chair, sipping tea and calming herself, until it was time to go to Coffee Klatch. Clyde, on the couch, had caressed his remote and slept. He’d given her nothing but his presence that night. That night, it had been enough.

  Well, thought Melveena as she drove down the highway, that was that. For a botched plan, that wasn’t too badly done. Thankfully Gator Rollins had the good grace to die without her direct intervention. But thanks to her less than smooth execution of an amateurish plan, suspicion had fallen on the one friend she had in this state. To clear Raven, she’d tried to incriminate Gator Rollins. Fossetta had been hurt.

  Poor Fossetta.

  Oh, Melveena knew she’d left some loose ends. She knew she’d left trails of evidence, done a hasty, haphazard job of it. There were probably snake holes all through the entire undertaking. But after all, she thought, this was my first murder.

  I’m sure if I tried again, I could do better.

  Melveena caught sight of herself in the rearview. Her lipstick needed refreshing. She rummaged in her handbag. Her fingers closed around a random tube and she felt the shock travel up her arm. She gripped that tube of Pearl Mimosa, the lipstick that she’d bought for Bonnie. She would touch it now and then. For as long as the vibrations remained, she could check up on Bonnie. A little psychic social call.