“Yes.”
“She left out that little tidbit when we saw them. Wait a second, you questioned him? Virginia, that guy held a knife to my throat! You shouldn’t have gone there by yourself.”
Virginia hopped into her car. “I can handle myself, partner.”
“Understood. Anyway, I’m calling it a day too.” Jeff exhaled a heavy sigh, sending fluttering distortions to the other end of the line. “Hey, do you want to meet me at Bakwudz tonight? I need to drink, and I need to drink hard.”
“Like ten o’clock?”
“Sure. I might get there a little early,” Jeff said as he pulled into the driveway for the Bakwudz Bar.
Virginia hung up and looked at her mobile browser, where she had typed in the name of the survey company. “It’s two blocks from here. Might as well take care of it now.”
In Barter Ridge, Lula Mae Rome arrived at her house just as the sun was touching Crown-of-Thorns Mountain – named for the ring of twisted dead trees that encircled its barren peak. She placed her park ranger hat on the kitchen table and called for her dog. “Sophie!” She walked to the living room but didn’t see the French bulldog. “Sophie?” She continued into the hallway and found the dog sitting in front of a closed door. “There you are. Why didn’t you come?” Sophie looked up before returning her attention to the door. “Emory’s not home. Why’re you staring at his room?” Lula Mae saw light shining beneath the door. “Is he home?”
She turned the knob and opened the door. “Emory?”
Lula Mae shivered at the chilled wind blowing through the open window. She hurried to close it but slowed before reaching it. “Did someone break in?” She took a pensive step toward it. “Where’s the screen?” She poked her head outside and saw the screen below, leaning against the exterior wall. She drew her head back in, shut the window and locked it.
Now shivering from fear, she turned around and scanned the room again for anything unusual. All she saw was Sophie now staring at the closed closet door. Is someone in there?
Rushing to the chest of drawers, Lula Mae opened the small box on top, where Emory always put his loose change, and she found a good fifteen dollars in coins. She grabbed one of his old socks from a drawer and poured the change inside. Clutching the mouth of the sock, she cocked her arm, preparing to swing the makeshift weapon.
Lula Mae crept to the closet door, shooing the stubborn dog away with her foot and gripping the door knob.
Sophie barked, sparked by Lula Mae’s heightened stress and strange behavior.
Lula Mae took a deep breath, swung the door open and jumped back with her sock-wielding arm raised. Her eyes darted about, but from the top of the closet to the bottom, she saw nothing more than a cedar chest on the high shelf, Emory’s old clothes hanging on the pole and several pairs of shoes aligned on the floor.
“Lula Mae?” Sheriff Rome called from behind.
She screamed and shot around to face her husband. “Nick!”
Sheriff Rome stood in the bedroom doorway. “Is something wrong?”
“I thought someone broke in.”
“And you were going to attack them with a sock?”
“It’s filled with change. It’s supposed to hurt.”
“Good lord, Lula Mae, you gotta stop watching those prison shows. What makes you think someone broke in?”
She pointed as she placed the sock on the nightstand. “The window was open, and the screen is on the ground.”
“It was? Maybe Emory came back for a visit.”
“Well, that’s what I thought, but he’s not here.”
He looked around the room. “Nothing else is out of place or missing.”
Lula Mae picked up Sophie and cradled her. “I know I didn’t open that window, and I certainly wouldn’t have left it open.”
The sheriff drew his pistol, prompting a gasp from his wife. “Stay here.”
Sheriff Rome left his wife alone with their dog in Emory’s old bedroom to search the rest of the house for signs of intrusion. Following a cursory inspection, he returned to her and announced, “All clear.”
Lula Mae bowed to let Sophie jump from her arms. “Thank goodness. Who do you think it was?”
Seeing the tension still in her brow, the sheriff lied to alleviate her concern. “You know, I might’ve done it. I came home for lunch, and it was a little stuffy in here. I think I did open it, and I guess I just forgot to close it.”
Lula Mae’s shoulders dropped. “Nick, how could you? Sophie could’ve gotten out.”
“I’m sorry.” Sheriff Rome caressed her shoulders. “How about we don’t cook tonight? Change out of your uniform, and I’ll take you to the Creekhouse to eat.”
“But it’s the middle of the week.”
“It doesn’t have to be a weekend for me show off my beautiful wife in town.”
A luster of delight beamed across Lula Mae’s face. “Give me five minutes.”
When his wife left for their bedroom, the sheriff hurried outside through the kitchen door and scurried around the house to Emory’s bedroom window. The snow coverage was minimal now, but even in the dusky light he spotted discernible shoeprints – tracks too big for him to have made. He pulled the flashlight off his belt and inspected the window. At the top of the bottom pane, just below the lock, he could see scrapes along the wood where the paint had been chipped away. There was no doubt about it. Someone had inserted a slender object between the two panes to jimmy open the lock. Maybe a knife. But why?
Chapter 25
As the sun descended from view, a relieved Emory pulled his car up to Willow Springs. Earlier he had to pry Ms. Mary Belle from her former land, using gentle words at first and then pleading, bargaining and even admonishing – everything shy of physical force to get her back in his car. She only acquiesced once he asked her if she would rather be driven back by him or the sheriff. Apart from a stop to drop off an anti-spooking charm for Bernadette Jenkins, she had remained silent the entire return trip.
Emory stepped out of the car and opened the door for her, but she didn’t budge. “Ms. Mary Belle, we’re here.”
She clenched her eyes closed. “Gi’ me a minute.”
He notice her clutching her abdomen. “Are you okay?”
“Toucha the blue devils. Musta upset m’ stomach.”
Emory offered her a hand. “Do you need some help?” To his surprise, she accepted. He pulled her from the car, but before she straightened up, she heaved and threw up all over his pants. “Oh my god!” Seeing her legs buckle, he grabbed both her arms near the shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She coughed and heaved again. Ms. Mary Belle regained control but not her strength. “I need he’p.”
“Okay, let’s get you inside.” Emory tried to help her walk in, but her feet weren’t moving. “Ms. Mary Belle, I need to pick you up. Are you okay with that?” When she didn’t answer, he took that as consent.
Emory picked up the ailing Crick Witch, who was lighter than he anticipated, and carried her inside. Lucy, the screaming woman from his first visit, stood behind the counter and clutched her chest when he opened the front door. “What happened?”
Emory explained as he sat Ms. Mary Belle in a chair. Lucy called for help, and within thirty seconds, two men arrived rolling a gurney between them. They loaded her onto it and wheeled her down the hallway.
“Where are they taking her? Shouldn’t she go to a hospital?”
“We have a doctor onsite. Excuse me, but I have to make a phone call.”
As Lucy dialed the phone on the counter, Emory looked at his soiled pants and whispered, “Bathroom?” She pointed to the door behind him. Over the next several minutes, the PI went through about twenty sheets of cheap brown paper towels that fell apart with three or four scrubs against his thighs. When he exited the bathroom, the calico-haired woman was still talking on the phone, so he took the opportunity to gather Ms. Mary Belle’s belongings from his car. He returned just as Lucy hung up. “I don’t understand. She was f
ine.”
Lucy hurried toward the hallway on the right. “Well, that’s how it happens.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m needed.”
Now alone, Emory looked down at the thorny basket and carpet bag in his hands. He thought about placing them on the counter but feared they might not make their way back to their owner.
After a little meandering, he found his way back to Ms. Mary Belle’s room. Placing the basket and bag on the tidy twin bed, his eyes took a brief jaunt around the space before his feet followed. The characterless room was quite different from Ms. Mary Belle’s house – standard furniture, manufactured linens, painted walls. The dresser top, however, presented a few telltale signs of its occupant – jars of who-knows-what, rocks, sticks and yarn. He also saw a tiny frame with a black-and-white photo of two teenage girls standing in front of an old car. “I wonder if that’s Ms. Mary Belle and the friend she lost. Her Specter. Maybe it’s her sister.” He returned the photo to its place and picked up one of the rocks beside it.
“What are you doing?” a voice asked from behind.
Startled, Emory turned to find Luke Hinter standing in the doorway. “Luke. Your aunt—”
“I know. They called me. She’s in the infirmary now.” The surfer in a suit stepped inside. “Why are you going through her stuff?”
“No, it’s not like that.” Emory nodded toward the bag and basket on the bed. “I brought in her things.”
“I don’t understand. Why did you have them?”
Luke was now close enough for Emory to see flecks of brown in his otherwise blue eyes. “I took her out to her to see her old house.”
Luke sighed and crossed his arms. “Ah, dude, why’d you do that? She’s never going to get over that place if she’s able to visit it.”
Emory held up the rock. “About that, I have some potentially good news. There was an auction sign on the property. It looks the TVA has changed plans, so now you can get it back for your aunt.”
“Man, that’s awesome! What a relief!” Luke nodded his head back toward the doorway. “This place keeps calling me to complain about her. I’m afraid they’re going to kick her out, and I can’t have her live with me.”
“I know your aunt will be happy if she can return to her prop’ty… Uh, property.”
In one fluid motion, Luke jumped onto the bed with his butt on the pillow, back against the wall and size-thirteen wingtips crossed at the end of his long legs. “But we better not get ahead of ourselves. There’s no guarantee we’ll have enough money to actually buy it back.”
Emory’s eyebrows arched upward. “Don’t you still have your aunt’s money – the money the TVA paid for her property?”
“Well yeah, but someone could bid more than what we have.”
Emory’s brows found their way home. “Of course, you’re right.”
“I could put in some of my own money, but I can’t go much higher than what was paid.” Luke interlocked his veiny fingers over his belt buckle. “No matter what, we shouldn’t say anything to Aunt Mary Belle. She’s frail enough as it is. Telling her she might get her property back and then snatching it away again could kill her.”
“Speaking of her health, do you know what’s wrong with her?”
“She has liver cancer.”
Emory gasped at the news. “Is it treatable?”
“She won’t have it. She doesn’t believe the doctor. Thinks she’s just homesick.” Luke pointed at the thorny basket beside his feet. “The doctor thinks it’s from all the sassafras tea she’s had over her life.”
“Really?” Emory looked at the chunks of sassafras root piled inside the basket.
“Yeah, there’s some carcinogen in it. Uh, what’s the name? Safrole. I think that’s it.”
“I should probably take this away then.” Emory grabbed the basket. “How long does she have?”
“The doctor thinks maybe six months.”
“I’m sorry.”
Luke popped off the bed, not bothering to flatten the covers. “Me too. She kind of grows on you, you know?”
Emory chuckled. “I actually do. Well, I better get out of here. Oh.” He handed the rock to Luke. “She might miss this.”
“She definitely would.” Luke held it up for inspection before returning it to the top of the dresser. “I don’t understand her fascination with gravel.”
Emory left Luke alone and found his way to the exit. As he glanced up at the rising moon, he heard a ping and checked his phone. It was a text from Jeff – a picture of him in a bar, smiling and holding a green drink in the center of a group of smiling people. “See i don’tneeed u.” That was followed by another, pictureless text, “lets doa shot to the end of our partnershhhp. celebraate. im at bakwudz.”
He obviously turned off auto-correct. Emory closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. This is all my fault. He looked at his soiled, stinking pants and then texted back, “I’ll be there in an hour. Don’t drink anymore without me.”
Emory pushed open the heavy alder door to Bakwudz Bar and stepped into an homage to the heritage of Southern mountain living. Above tables made from reclaimed barn wood hung photos of significant outposts in local postbellum history – damming rivers for power and flood control under the New Deal, bootlegging and the rise of auto racing, and Depression-era shots of impoverished families. A fake moonshine still emitted intermittent jets of smoke toward the ceiling, from which dropped several chandeliers of vintage lanterns.
Emory unbuttoned his black field jacket but kept it on, not expecting to stay long. As he searched for Jeff in the near-capacity crowd, he found himself mouthing the lyrics to the Roseanne Cash song he heard playing overhead – only it wasn’t Roseanne Cash singing. It was a man’s voice, and it sounded live. Moving closer to the stage, he saw a sign promoting karaoke night, and onstage at the microphone stood Jeff, singing “Seven Year Ache.”
Oh my god. He stopped to watch and listen. It’s beautiful.
More eyes turned to the stage, and noisy patrons fell into scattered whispers. The audience appeared enraptured by Jeff as he poured his heart into the song, imbuing his voice with the dejection of the lyrics. For Emory, the haunting croon was like a satin rope to his chest, tugging him closer. As soon as the last vocal note ended, Jeff dropped his forlorn expression and flashed his incredible smile – like an actor hearing, “That’s a wrap!” from the director. The audience delivered a vigorous applause, intensifying the shaky hand of the man who grabbed the mic afterwards.
Emory wormed his way through the crowd to get to Jeff, who headed toward the bar. “Jeff!”
“Emory!” Jeff grinned and threw an arm around his neck.
“I can’t believe what a great singer you are. Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I sing better drunk. Do a shot with me.” With his arm still hooked on his neck, Jeff led Emory to the bar.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“Interesting question. To put it in economic terms, maybe I’ve reached my point of satiety, but my goal is the saturation point, and I’m not dripping vodka yet.” Jeff squeezed between two bar huggers and raised his hand to attract the bartender.
“You don’t need more vodka.”
“You’re right.” Jeff slapped the bar and held up two fingers. “Two tequilas.” He turned back to Emory. “So what are you doing here?”
“You texted me.”
“I did?” He squinted his eyes, searching for the memory. “Oh yeah. Sorry, Virginia stood me up, and I… You were next on the list.” The bartender filled two shot glasses with tequila, and Jeff handed one to Emory.
Emory raised the glass. “Cheers.”
“Wait!” Jeff blocked Emory’s forearm with his free hand. “That’s not how partners shoot.”
“What do you mean?”
“You do me, and I do you.” Jeff rested his free arm on Emory’s shoulders and held his shot glass up to his partner’s l
ips. “Now you do the same.”
The sweet, oaky smell of Añejo tequila tickled Emory’s nostrils, but he was more concerned with two pairs of eyes burning through the crowd at them. One belonged to a mid-twenties man with perfect hair, wearing a polo shirt with the sleeves cut off, while the other belonged to his denim-jacketed pal. “People are looking.”
“Don’t be so paranoid. No one cares. Now give me my damn shot.”
“Fine.” Emory threw his arm around Jeff’s shoulders and popped his shot glass up to his partner’s mouth.
Jeff jerked his head back. “Careful! Don’t chip my teeth. My smile’s half my charm.” He touched his lower lip to the rim of the glass. “Cheers!”
After downing the tequila, Jeff exhaled and pounded his chest, while Emory winced at the burning trail the liquor cut down his esophagus. “Good, isn’t it?”
Emory clanked the shot glass back onto the bar. “Aren’t we supposed to chase with a lime and salt?”
“We don’t do that. Just savor the flavor.”
“Consider it savored. Listen, I’m sorry about this morning. I should’ve waited until later to tell you. How did the show go?”
Jeff laughed. “I was actually charmless, if you can believe that. My responses were terse and dull. Thankfully, Virginia picked up my slack, so the interview wasn’t a total loss. I just hope there really is no such thing as bad publicity.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
Jeff looked down his nose at Emory. “Well, we won’t. You’re off to greener pastures. Why are you even here?”
“Remember, you texted me.”
“But why did you come?”
Emory told him, “I don’t want you to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Jeff placed an arm around his shoulders. “I need you to drive me home. You’re in no condition to be alone.”
Emory laughed. “Thank you for looking out for me. Where’s your coat?”
“In my car.” He broke from Emory and led him to the door.
Once outside, Emory shoved his coat lapels together while he scanned the parking lot. “Where’s—”
Death Opens a Window Page 16