by Rhett DeVane
“How long will you be here?”
Elvina’s bony shoulders rose and fell. “Could be a while. I have to be able to do for myself, to a certain extent.” Her eyes watered. “I don’t know what’s to become of me.”
Hattie reached over and rested a hand over the old woman’s thin, age-spotted arm. “You have lots of friends, Elvina. We’ll work something out.”
Elvina’s expression brightened. “I am rich in that respect, for certain. Thanks to your late aunt, I have the inside scoop on most everyone. It pays to be nice to folks like us.”
Hattie laughed. “You sound more like Aunt Piddie every day.”
“That is a feather in my bonnet, for sure!”
“Jake and Shug are taking good care of your cat,” Hattie said. “Buster will be spoiled rotten by the time you get home. When Jake lived out on The Hill, he hand fed Shammie canned tuna to bribe him into hanging out in his wing of the house.”
Elvina made a growling noise. “If it wasn’t for Buster and his philandering, I wouldn’t be in this fix.”
“Animals. Got to love ’em,” Hattie said. “Jake talked with Bobby about converting your back porch into a Florida room. Bobby could install a cat door into the sliding glass door so Buster has a spot to enjoy the outdoors without facing the local bullies. It would give you a great place to hang out without worrying about mosquitoes toting you off.” Hattie paused. “If you need a ramp to get to the side door, Bobby can build it too.”
Elvina’s eyes watered again. “I hate to be such a burden.”
“Folks want to help, Elvina. Your job is to let them.”
Elvina’s roommate groaned behind the divider curtain, and they glanced in that direction.
“Poor old woman. She broke her hip. She’s bad off. I’m surely glad I only messed up my ankle. Lord knows . . .” Elvina lowered her voice to a whisper. “A broken hip in one of us oldsters is the kiss of death sure as I’m sitting here.”
“Should I call a nurse?”
“No. She moans and groans all the time. I think she’s plumb out of this world. Never has anyone come by, either. It’s the saddest thing. Having family, or friends like you, is beyond gold.” Elvina’s gaze focused across the room at a vague point, as if she looked into the past. “Did I ever tell you about when Piddie and I first met?”
Only about fifty times. Hattie braced herself to hear it again.
“I had recently moved into town from Miami. My dear husband Clyde had died and I was lost, lost, lost. The little house I live in now used to belong to Clyde’s mama. It passed to me after he died.”
She shifted position and continued, “I don’t know what came over me, moving up here. Guess I didn’t ever really cotton to Miami much. Clyde loved the weather down there, but not me. I like a little change of season, just not too cold for too long like way up north.”
The ache in Hattie’s shoulder subsided a little. She leaned forward and gave the older woman her full attention.
“I suffered one of my blue spells after I moved. Suppose all the changes I’d been through built up inside of me ’til I shut down. Depression is what I had, though back then, it didn’t have that modern label. I didn’t know a soul in town. I managed to pull myself together, but it was the hardest thing I’d ever done.”
“How did Aunt Piddie figure in?” Hattie asked in a disguised attempt to keep the conversation on topic.
“She spotted me in the IGA, wandering up and down the aisles. I must’ve looked a sight. Skinny as a junkyard dog. Never could eat during one of my spells, so my weight would fall off pretty badly. Piddie marched right up to me, introduced herself, and went to talking a blue streak. By the time we hit the cash register, my buggy was full of stuff I didn’t need, and I knew the dirt on half the town.”
“Piddie could natter, that’s for sure.”
Elvina’s thin lips curled into a wistful smile. “There wasn’t a day that passed I didn’t talk to her. I loved that little kitchen of hers more than any place on this earth. Piddie had a way of sensing when I was heading downhill. She would cook up some of those wonderful teacakes.”
Hattie’s mouth watered. Hot teacakes fresh from the oven. Her mom had cooked them too. Somewhere, Hattie still had the family recipe. Time to introduce the next generation to the joys of baking. Hattie imagined her daughter, flour dusting her hands, giggling with crystals of sugar wreathing her lips.
Elvina’s voice broke Hattie’s daydream. “I didn’t grow up with much in the way of family. My daddy died before I was born and I never had any brothers or sisters. My mother was a cold woman, Hattie. And because I was born out of wedlock, her family disowned both of us. I have kin somewhere, I suppose. But I never met ’em. Wouldn’t even know where to begin to look.
“Piddie told me as long as she drew a breath, I was not abandoned in this world. Said friends were God’s way for making up for family. That’s why I took it so hard when she passed. Oh, I do believe she’ll be waiting on the other side for me. I have to believe.”
“She will be, Elvina.”
“That’s why I’ve made a decision. Much as I loved Clyde, I don’t want to be shipped off to Miami to be laid to rest when my time comes. I’ll be cremated, like Piddie. Then I’m going to be sprinkled right alongside her at the Triple C.”
Hattie blinked. What did one say to such?
Elvina slapped her hands on her lap. “I’m not ready to help her push up daisies yet. I got a good ten or fifteen years left in me, way I figure. I must move on with this healing business and get back to my obligations.”
“Everyone will manage, Elvina. Take all the time you need.”
“As soon as they let me out of this place, I’m hot-footing it home. Well, as much as I can with only one working foot.” Elvina wagged her finger. “I can’t begin to fathom the mess the Triple C will be in.”
“Nice to know you’re needed, isn’t it?”
Elvina gave a definitive nod. “You’re not just whistlin’ Dixie.”
What the heck did that old saying mean, anyway?
Elvina’s intense gaze focused on Hattie. “Family is everything. No matter if it’s your work people, your blood relatives, or your good friends you’ve made into family. Family is everything.”
Chapter Thirteen
The extended column of thunderstorms rolling west across Lake Seminole sent a line of wind gusts whipping through the treetops. The temperature dropped. At first, Sergeant J. Blount assumed the loud rapping on the top of the cruiser’s light bar to be hard rain. Then he noticed the bouncing silhouettes of hailstones popping off the hood.
He turned the cruiser north toward the Florida/Georgia border and accelerated. The only lights on the storm-darkened highway were his, slicing a path through the deluge. Small, detached limbs scudded across the blacktop, grabbing at his tires like skeletal arms.
Jerry took a sharp left and headed toward East Bank campground. Beneath his breath, he said a silent prayer for Mary-Esther’s safety. The fact he cared about this particular woman’s welfare unsettled him, but he shoved it aside. Just doing his job. Just looking out for a woman alone in a bad storm.
At the bottom of a steep hill, he veered left into the unpaved lane through the campsite. His high beams rested on the barren campsite.
What the heck?
No logs stacked by the fire ring. No evidence anyone had recently occupied the area.
Gone.
He took a pass through the rest of the campground. The drive back into Chattahoochee was slow, as if the tires slogged through heavy mud. It was his own fault for allowing the little Cajun woman to trigger his protective instinct. His mother said he tended to let stray cats and dogs follow him home.
He had a soft spot for needy things.
Jerry pushed through the front door of the Homeplace Restaurant. No fellow diners tonight.
Mr. Bill waved from the little office behind the cash register. “Evenin’, Jerry. Bad night out.”
“Nothing a hot cup of co
ffee won’t help.” Jerry shook the moisture from his jacket and draped it across the back of the booth. He eased into the seat and stared through the water-dappled window at the puddled reflections of the traffic light. Green. Yellow. Red. Repeat. A feminine hand placed a cup of steaming black coffee in front of him.
“Thank you.” His voice sounded as deflated as his spirit.
“You look like you’ve gunned down your last friend, Officer Blount.”
Jerry recognized the soft voice, glanced up. His heart stuttered.
“How about a piece of hot apple pie with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream?” Mary-Esther asked. “That lifts me when I’m in the dumps.”
“Sure. Yeah.” That was the best he could do?
Mary-Esther returned and slid a loaded dessert plate and fork beside his coffee mug. “Why are you out driving around? Surely no one in his, or her, right mind is out and about committing acts of larceny.”
Jerry shrugged. The scent of warm sugar cinnamon blended with the coffee aroma. His mood improved. “Want to join me?”
Mary-Esther flipped a hand toward the empty room. “Why not? Not like it’s a big tip night.” She turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
When she returned, she carried a second mug and an insulated carafe and set it down between them. “Saves me a trip back to the kitchen.”
“You’re not at East Bank anymore.”
One of Mary-Esther’s brows lifted. “No. Rules say I can only stay there fourteen days in a row.” She poured herself a cup.
“Thought you’d decided to leave town.” He dug into the pie.
“Nope.” She took a sip of coffee. “Had to go be a vagabond at a campground on Lake Talquin. I’ll keep moving, long as I need to.”
“You all right . . . out there?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He forced his gaze from her intense scrutiny. “Weather changes a lot this time of year. Getting cold soon.”
“You’re worried about me, aren’t you, Officer Jerry?” She cocked her head to one side and studied him.
Women, and especially this one, made him feel as if he had rusty nail soup for brains. He slugged coffee to keep his throat from closing up. “Don’t want anyone to freeze on my watch.”
“I hope to be somewhere better soon. Mr. Bill has given me a couple of leads on some garage apartments. Imagine, I could move in off the streets and the local law enforcement wouldn’t have to fret about me causing trouble.”
“That never crossed my mind. Really, Mary-Esther—”
She reached over and brushed the tops of his knuckles lightly with her fingertips. A current zinged to his toes.
“I’m touched, Jerry. But I’ll be okay.”
*
“Some weather last night, eh?” Jake Witherspoon trundled to the front display window of the Dragonfly Florist. His cane-of-the-day, one of over two hundred at last count, sported decoupage orange, yellow, and red fall leaves on the shaft.
Hattie looked up from her appointment calendar. “Tell me about it. I thought the roof might blow off. It never fails. When Holston’s out of town, we get a storm to end all storms. At least the electricity didn’t go off. Before they reworked our lines, the lights went out if a dog peed on a power pole.”
Jake shook his head. “Sister-girl, your language is so colorful sometimes.”
“Took lessons from you, Jakey.”
Separated by a decorative archway, Jake’s store, the Dragonfly Florist, shared a common wall with Hattie’s massage therapy room. Though Hattie’s room wasn’t nearly as spacious as Stephanie’s at the Triple C, The Madhatter’s Chocolate Shoppe and Massage Parlor nailed it for diversity.
Hattie inhaled the aroma of confections and freshly brewed gourmet coffee, blended with the scent of flowers. The combination pleased her.
A husband seeking atonement could purchase a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers, dark chocolate delicacies, and a gift certificate for an hour of relaxation massage. If that trio didn’t get him out of the dog house, nothing short of jewelry could.
“You want Shug and me to come camp out while hubby is away? We could bring fondue and talk trash until the wee hours.” The twin dimples deepened in his cheeks when he smiled.
“Appreciate the offer, but Sarah and I are big girls.”
Hattie’s best friend regarded her with a lifted eyebrow. “Something else eating at you, Sister-girl?”
“Probably nothing. Silly to mention.”
Jake plucked a dead leaf from a mixed-plant basket on the front counter. “Every time I hear that something is probably nothing, I know it is more than likely something. Give.”
“There’s been a strange van driving by The Hill. Margie said it’s pulled off the highway and turned around several times, sometimes in front of their house, sometimes a little farther up the lane.”
“A delivery truck?”
“Don’t know. Maybe. Our packages generally come by the post office or UPS. Occasionally, FedEx. Still, they would have left the box by the front door if I wasn’t home.”
“Have you seen this mystery van?”
“Not yet. But I’m keeping my eyes open. Usually, someone is on The Hill most of the time. We keep odd hours, so if someone’s casing the area, it would be hard to pin down a time when all three houses are deserted.”
“Maybe you should mention it to the county patrol officer, in case. He could drive by every now and then.” Jake returned to one of three fall-themed floral centerpieces. First Baptist Women’s Auxiliary luncheon, the work slip stated.
Hattie’s cell phone rang and she stepped back into the privacy of her massage office to talk.
“Double doo-doo!” Hattie said when she returned to the Dragonfly Florist side of the business.
“Strong words, Sister-girl. Who crushed your Crayolas?”
“I have to go back to Tallahassee for another dang MRI.”
“Did you not behave last time?” Jake pointed at her with a sprig of fern. “Bet you wiggled. I know I should’ve insisted on going with you.”
Hattie stuck out her tongue. “I did fine, thank you very much. One of the nurses called and said they want a series of my neck. They didn’t see any problems with my shoulder. But that is precisely where it hurts!”
“Nerve impingement,” Jake stated.
“Let you shack up with a nurse, and all of a sudden you can diagnose the world.”
Jake handed her a daisy. “You are positively foul when you’re in constant pain. Good thing some of us can handle suffering.”
True enough. If anyone had the right to grouse about pain, it was Jake Witherspoon. Since his abduction and assault, the small lines around his lips and deep circles beneath his eyes provided a constant reminder of the hate crime that had almost taken his life.
The worst scars didn’t show.
She twirled the flower offering in her fingers. Such a sunny-faced bloom.
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Hattie stuck the daisy behind one ear then reached over and hugged her friend with her good arm. “I hate the idea of another MRI. It took all I could do to get through the first one without absolutely crawling out of my skin.”
“Can’t they give you something in advance? Ask for the open-design machine. It’s much less agonizing if you’re edgy in tight spots.”
“How can I take drugs and drive home?”
Jake reached over and cradled her chin in his palm. “Sister-girl, I can go with you.”
“I couldn’t—”
He dismissed her with a sweep of his hand. “It’ll be fun. We can make it into a little outing, like old times. I’ll get Jolene to cover the shop.”
“But . . . Sarah. And with Holston out of town—”
“Leigh, I’m sure, will babysit for the little chinaberry. See? No obstacles. You really do need to get this thing taken care of. You’re trying to keep up with your massage therapy patients, and you can barely move.”
“Okay, okay. Deal. I’ll phone the doctor and get t
hem to call in something to relax me.”
Jake grabbed a handful of daisies and expertly placed them into an arrangement. “As I recall from after your surgery, you’re one of the most amusing people on the planet when you’re on the dope.”
*
Mary-Esther parked the van in a narrow driveway beside a wooden framed house off Satsuma Road. She checked the address. Had to be it, but where was the apartment? She turned off the key. The engine sputtered. She got out.
A thin, stooped elderly man tottered onto the side porch and waved her way. He descended two short steps as if each movement caused him great pain.
“Hi,” she said as she stepped closer. “I’m Mary-Esther Sloat. Mr. Bill told me you—”
“I know who you are. Bill just called me. The place is in the back. Been empty for a couple of months. Could be musty. It’ll need a good cleaning. I can’t hold out to do it, and my wife neither . . .” He stopped. “I’m Eustis Herring. Wife’s Rose Herring.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
Mary-Esther trailed after the man, careful not to walk too fast as to pull ahead of him. Behind the house, a narrow, two-story structure leaned toward a large live oak tree as if it yearned to become part of the natural landscape. The open garage housed an old pick-up truck with at least two flat tires. A set of rickety stairs led up one side of the building to the second story.
“I can’t make those steps.” He handed her a scratched Visit Florida! key ring. “Look around to your content. Knock on my back door when you’re done.” He turned and wobbled toward the main house.
The stairs screeched and moaned as Mary-Esther ascended. Good thing she wasn’t heavy. The key strained against the frozen lock mechanism, and she wiggled it to release the deadbolt. Two shoves and the door pushed open.
The scent of old dust tickled her nose. She sneezed twice. The efficiency wasn’t fancy by any stretch. A brown couch and mismatched chair huddled in one corner. In the other stood a double bed with a small end table. A low-pile rug covered the painted wooden floor. No pictures claimed the walls, nothing to indicate the personality of the owners or the previous renter.