Rosemary for Remembrance

by Christine Arness

  Matt barely heard him, reliving the moment in the Brown Dog when Rosemary told him over baked chops and mashed potatoes that she didn’t want to see him again. Numb, he remembered focusing on the gravy pooling on his plate as Rosemary spoke.

  “I think I love you, Matt Boyington.” Her fingertip had traced erotic little circles on the back of his hand. “But I’m suffocating in this town and you want to get married and raise a family. It won’t work, darling. I’d run off with the butcher and leave you with a houseful of babies in dirty diapers.”

  He looked up from his plate. She was dismissing him, turning him away like a beggar from her door. He, the strong one, the protector, was reduced to coming to her, hat in hand, but he clung to a last straw of hope. “Perhaps if we moved to Chicago—”

  She avoided his gaze. “You belong in Lincoln City, Matt. You’d shrivel up and die in the city, but I’m dying here by inches. The dust, the gossip, the small minds—I’ve got to get away. If you can’t help me, I’ll find someone who will.”

  Ignoring her convulsive swallow and the undertone of desperation, he stabbed his fork into the baked chop and left the utensil upright and quivering. “You said you loved me, Rosemary.”

  “Love?” Rosemary’s eyes widened and she tossed back her hair, a gesture that made his fingers itch to stroke the shining waves. They were dining prior to attending Night Must Fall at the picture show and she was wearing a plain pink dress with a low neckline, her feet adorned in the scraps of leather of her favorite sandals. Matt had been pleasantly aware of the envious glances of the other men in the café. Until now.

  She looked down, toyed with the sugar dispenser. “If you loved me, Matt, you’d have seen how miserable I am. There’s nothing for me here—nothing. It’s better that we part friends than grow to hate each other by degrees.”

  “How could I not love you?” He raised her chin and looked into her eyes. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and I’ve loved you since our first date—that night at the fair.”

  Her lips quivered and she clasped his hand between hers. “Don’t you see, Matt? That’s what’s so wrong between us—that’s why I must get away from here.” Releasing him, she drew a circle around her face with her right index finger. “This is what people see, this is what you’re in love with, but this is not the real Rosemary.”

  “Who is the real Rosemary?” He had forgotten about his cooling supper, the box in his hip pocket, the movie. All he knew was that this moment was a pivotal one in his life—happiness seemed to hinge on her response.

  Rosemary leaned across the table as if by her intensity she could make him understand. “That night at the fair when you told me you loved me, I was in your arms and we were at the top of the Ferris wheel. I knew then that was where I wanted to spend my life—in your arms.”

  Sorrow and pity were mingled in her glance, in the touch of her hand on his forearm. He stiffened, unwilling to hear what he sensed she was about to say.

  “I was mistaken. Now I know that I have to live at the top of the Ferris wheel, Matt, near the stars, looking down on the lights and the people, above the dust and peanut smells of everyday life. But the Ferris wheel doesn’t exist in Lincoln City—you can’t offer me the stars.”

  Matt had taken a punch to the heart. Rigid, he sat in the chair and wished that the warden would throw the switch and end his agony with a surge of electricity, but instead Myrtle came by with the coffeepot and refilled his cup.

  “You two kids better shake a leg if ya plan on getting yer money’s worth at the pictures,” she chided before moving away.

  Rosemary responded with a laughing remark about the movie always starting late and as Matt stared at her, he saw no regret in her smile, just relief that the telling was over, the jilting was done.

  His whole world had crashed down at his feet and she was relieved. Matt wadded up his napkin, flung it on the table, and shoved back his chair. “I wish you happiness in your life at the top. Just remember, Rosemary, that the Ferris wheel keeps turning—no one stays at the top forever.”

  “Matt, wait!” But he ignored her cry as he strode away, blinking hard and praying he wouldn’t meet anyone until he reached the haven of his car. He had told himself over and over again that he hated her, but coming face-to-face with her in the Brown Dog this morning had brought home the realization that he was still a captive to her charm.

  Matt uttered a strangled cry and flung up his arms, barking his knuckles against the dashboard. Zack was so startled by his companion’s sudden epileptic fit that he swore and stood on the brakes, and sent them both lurching against the windshield.

  “What is it? Are you poorly?”

  Matt choked and pointed. Zack leaned forward to peer over the long bonnet of the car and gulped, swallowing a wad of tobacco in his shock, as the two men stared at the pale shape sprawled before the car and lit by the high beams of the headlamps as though on a stage instead of a graveled road.

  Unaware that he had moved until he found himself kneeling on the dirt and stones of the roadway, Matt stroked the tumbled curls of red-gold that were all he needed to identify Rosemary. She appeared to be sleeping on her side, one arm twisted under her body. The silken material of her dress whispered as he turned Rosemary and lifted her; her head fell back over his arm, her neck bent at a horribly unnatural angle.

  Zack sucked in his breath as if he’d just surfaced for air after a long stretch underwater. “Put her down, boy. She’s dead. Rosemary Dickison, ain’t it?”

  Hunkering down with his elbows resting on his thighs, he stared at the body while Matt remained motionless, unable to acknowledge the truth of the older man’s words. He pressed his hand against the softness of Rosemary’s throat in a futile search for a pulse beat. “She’s still warm, Zack.”

  “Couldn’t have happened too long ago. But it’s a powerful testy night—that would slow the cooling.” Zack pressed a horny thumb against his front teeth. “Blood on her face’s still fresh. Neck’s broke. She’s been to or was on her way to the dance. Shoes dusty, but she ain’t walked far. No handbag.”

  Zack spat into the dust, stood up, and began casting in ever widening circles like a rangy hunting dog searching for a scent. Matt continued to cradle Rosemary. Her hair hung loose in a glowing fan in the illumination of the headlights; a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth and a dark bruise across her forehead were the only indications of trauma.

  Zack stomped back, swearing. “Can’t find a bag nor nuthing else. How she ended up here with a broken neck’s got me buffaloed.”

  With visible reluctance, he lifted her skirt. “Panties and garter belt are still in place so it don’t appear that some man’s carnal instincts got the better of him.”

  Matt jerked the skirt from the rough fingers and smoothed the fabric down before lowering Rosemary with gentle hands, as if she might shatter if jarred. He would never again hear the laughter that reminded him of the chime of the bell on the market door or inhale her sweet perfume when she greeted him with a kiss. The hopes for a reconciliation that he’d been nourishing in a secret part of his soul had died in the dust along with his dream girl.

  “We’ve got work to do, youngster.” Zack towered over him, the toes of worn boots treading on a swirl of the peach dress.

  Suppressing the urge to knock those clumsy boots away, Matt rose to his feet. “Someone murdered her, Zack.”

  “It’s for Givens, the coroner, to say accident or murder. My guess’d be a hit-and-run.” Zack chewed on his thumbnail and squinted down at the body.

  “Rosemary lives ’bout a mile and a half from here.” Matt gestured to the north, realizing as he spoke that he’d used the wrong tense.

  “I keep a flask under the car seat for emergencies. Have a nip—you look like you’re gonna keel over. Did ya know her?”

  The ominously still figure on the road wasn’t Rosemary. His mind flashed back to an evening earlier that summer when they had played tag at dusk, giggling like tw
o youngsters, in the town park. He’d captured her by the statue of Abraham Lincoln and there, in the shadows under Abe’s beetle-browed gaze, she wrapped her arms around him and paid her forfeit with a tongue-touching kiss that left his senses numb and his mind reeling. Then she’d slapped him on the buttocks and ran away, laughing. “You’re it!” He had leaned against the statue, staggered by the sudden insight that his companion was true quicksilver—beautiful, impossible to hold in one’s hand—and he couldn’t live without her. Then she had reappeared, still laughing, her yellow cotton dress like a pale moonbeam, its skirt rustling as she pushed him down into the grass and covered his face with kisses. As he held the warmth of her body and felt the solid beat of her heart against his chest, tears of pure happiness filled his eyes.

  Three days later, the ring burning a hole in his pocket, he sat in the Brown Dog with his head full of plans to take her to the park and propose in front of Abe, forced to listen as she told him that the quicksilver had escaped from his hand.

  “You’re it!” Her husky laughter echoed in his ears. Matt’s stomach heaved and he turned aside to be sick in the long grass by the side of the road…

  Chapter 38

  At four-thirty, the air was soggy with the portent of rain as Ross freed his Italian-style racing bicycle from its exiled imprisonment in the basement of the apartment building and dragged it out onto the sidewalk. As he wiped off the cobwebs, Louella came shuffling up, the polka-dotted plastic bag that now seemed an extension of her left arm dragging one shoulder lower than the other.

  “Where’s the redheaded girl been—the one who’s suing you?” She bent closer to peer at his averted face. Louella interpreted facial expressions the way an economist construed subtle swings in the stock market.

  In no mood to be cross-examined by his eccentric neighbor, Ross shrugged and pushed down on the front tire to see if it needed air.

  Louella grew impatient with his silence and began to swing the bag back and forth as if she were attempting to hypnotize him to help him remember. “Great legs, Ross, and she had her hair done up at the back of the neck in one of those snooty things. What was her name? Did ya scare her off?”

  Ross capitulated, aware that she was capable of following him and the bicycle down the street until she got an answer. “Her name is Abigail James, she had her hair in a snood, and she’s a colleague, nothing more.”

  Louella blew her nose on an enormous black-bordered handkerchief—bought in bulk after her second husband died, she had informed him at an earlier date—and unearthed a crushed package of cigarettes from the depths of the plastic bag.

  Handing Ross her nickel-plated lighter, she bent to the offered flame and inhaled smoke with a sigh of pleasure. “Now that girl had class, Ross, not like them tie-dyed blondes you’ve been sniffing ’round lately. Time you settled down, laddie, and started a family.”

  Puffing on the cigarette, she waddled up the steps to the entryway. “A good woman is like a million-dollar lottery ticket, Ross. Not too many floatin’ around and if you lose one, you’ll regret it the rest of your born days.” A hacking cough. “Men are like cracks in the sidewalk—I’m always tripping over ’em.”

  The door banged behind her and Ross grinned despite his depression. He pushed the bicycle four blocks to the gas station and put air in both tires.

  Ross rode until he felt the mist of light rain on his face. He was thinking about last night’s reception, visualizing the scene he’d interrupted in Judge Kyle’s workshop. Julia had been livid; if Red possessed an ounce of sense, she’d back off.

  The driver of a Jeep pickup honked and waved. Ross lifted a hand in salute, the thought occurring to him that if he supplied proof that Spider had killed Rosemary, Flora might agree to drop the investigation. Perhaps if the specter of Rosemary no longer stood between him and Red…Besides, he argued with himself, he had a vested interest—if Flora’s will with its inflammatory reward provisions were probated, as state’s attorney he would have to deal with a full-scale witch hunt.

  Ross continued to pedal, the rest of the idea unfolding. Dave, the toast of law school bull sessions with his razor-sharp mind and lively imagination, was now a popular nonfiction writer and during their last conversation had mentioned his current project, researching a book on criminals with unusual nicknames. Spider sounded like a habitual offender and if he’d continued his career of crime elsewhere in the country, Dave might have a lead. Ross crossed the street to retrace his path, deciding to give his buddy a call.

  As Abigail drove away from the museum, the skies, which had been threatening all day, opened and rain was drumming on the roof of the car by the time she turned into her driveway.

  She was still thinking about Matt’s reply when she’d asked him to speculate about who might have wanted Rosemary dead.

  His eyes had held the pain of fresh grief. “If you’re looking for ‘wants,’ you’d have to put my name at the top of the list. I killed her a hundred times in my dreams after she threw me over. Once I saw her dead, the dreams stopped.”

  Entering the kitchen, Abigail paused, puzzled by the strange, sweet odor permeating the atmosphere. She found the scent growing stronger as she walked through the house, leading her to the living room. Someone had been in her house—had burned a small quantity of dried leaves on a china plate and smeared the charred ashes on the wall in the shape of an arrow pointing to a heart.

  The crude drawing was almost identical to the one sketched in the book and on the card with the herbal bouquet, except this time the arrow’s tip pierced the heart and a trail of blood-red drops, like rose petals, extended down the wall to the floor.

  Chapter 39

  Deputy Kevin Farmington resented having yet another service of process dumped in his lap before the end of his shift. He had a date with SueEllen in half an hour. At least this defendant wasn’t capable of PV (possible violence). According to a note clipped to the papers, she was just an old biddy doddering in and out of senility. Simply hand over the folded yellow paper and speed back to the station to drop off the squad car.

  Rainy Sundays were good days to clean up the backlog of summons for non-emergency civil matters. The people scheduled to be served with process could usually be found at home. In his six months as a deputy, Kevin had also learned that those pulling a Sunday shift got stuck with busy work since calls to the dispatcher were infrequent; most criminal offenders seemed to be off the streets nursing their hangovers from Saturday night.

  Helen was polishing silver at the kitchen table, the utensils laid out before her in neat rows on a linen cloth. The darkness clouding her mind, which had retreated during church and lunch with her best friend, Pearl, now returned and made each movement an effort. The calendar above her head read August 6th and today’s saying was “Enjoy today. Have a picnic in the park.”

  She couldn’t imagine enjoying anything about today, a muggy, rainy Sunday. A day when it was hard to breathe and pressure throbbed at one’s temples. “You’re getting old, Helen,” she said aloud. A knock on the front door startled her into dropping a spoon.

  Despite the gun strapped to his hip and the tan uniform, the caller’s ruddy cheeks reminded her of her nephew Andy, and Helen smiled at him in a motherly fashion.

  “Are you Helen Peters?” he inquired.

  “I am indeed, young man. What can I do for you?”

  He pushed a folded yellow packet into her hand. “Helen Peters, you have been served with a summons. You are required to file an answer or otherwise appear in court within thirty days from today’s date.” He ran the words together without taking a breath.

  “Court?” Helen had only grasped one word out of the solemn incantation. She looked down at the paper in her hands and saw that the typed language at the top included her name with the words “an alleged incompetent” underneath.

  “I don’t understand…”

  The imploring eyes and veined hand on his sleeve made Kevin decide to be a few minutes late for his date with SueEllen
. “You’d better sit down and read this carefully, Mrs. Peters. It says you’ve got to go to court for a competency hearing.”

  She gasped and swayed in her little blue house slippers and he supported her, wondering if he should call a doctor. She was pale and seemed shaken, one hand clutching at her meager bosom, and under his breath, he cursed the children filing the suit and their insensitivity in not having prepared her for this.

  “Enjoy today—have a picnic in the park!” A burst of hysterical laughter followed this bizarre statement and Kevin shook his head in sympathy. Her children were going to win this competency hearing hands down.

  After being helped to a chair in the living room, sipping a glass of water, and suffering through having her hand chafed, Helen managed to assure the square-jawed deputy that she was all right and he left with a tip of his cap and an undisguised look of relief.

  Helen remained in the chair. So Darlene planned to drag her own mother into court. Helen had seen enough courtrooms on television to know that other people would be there, rows and rows of hostile eyes staring at a body. She looked around the cozy room, her fingers plucking at the doilies covering the chair arms, and vowed she wasn’t going to go easy—not by a long chalk!

  Idle hands were the devil’s workshop. That was the problem with Darlene and Paula—nothing to do. Pushing herself to her feet, Helen remembered she hadn’t finished sorting that trunk in the attic. Laboring up the steep, narrow staircase as the darkness oppressed her with heavy hands, a single word throbbed in her brain: court, court, court, court, COURT!

  Chapter 40

  Abigail had to threaten to go over the head of a bored operator before the woman agreed to send out someone with more authority than a patrolman. A lieutenant and two of his men arrived nearly an hour later and the results of their brief investigation were disappointing. They confirmed her observation that a window had been jimmied open, but after dusting for fingerprints, the consensus seemed to be that the intruder must have worn gloves and the downpour of the past hour had also washed away any footprints.