I woke Lonnie up just after it was light. I recognized that it was important for us to get away from the motel before the other customers began to stir with the new day. It took a few moments for him to realize where he was, and when he saw Sammy’s body stretched out across the floor, all he could say was, “Oh, yeah.”
He showered, and after he was dressed, he pulled the body into the far corner of the room so that it was not the first thing the maid would see when she walked in. As we left, I tried not to look at the nightstand separating the beds. I hoped Lonnie did not see me looking.
He bought sausage biscuits at a drive-through window and we drove back to Morris in silence, a couple whose vacation had ended badly. The morning chill persisted, unwilling to give way to the cool winter sun. I looked out the window at the wax myrtle, the red bay trees, the scrub pines streaming past my window. In a month, these desolate lowlands would be full of green, new plants fighting for survival. As Lonnie would say, it wasn’t anything personal, it was only business.
Arriving back in Morris, I was struck with a sudden sense of longing and loss for all the years I had spent here. Wanda’s Main Street Cafe was open for business, and as we drove past, I could see some of the businessmen having their eggs and bacon and coffee, ready to start the work day. Shirley Cooper was turning the sign on the front of the bank to open for business. But I also saw Simmons Independent Insurance agency, empty of all the office furnishings, only the sign painted on the front window to remind the town of what it had once been, that there had been life inside. It would be the same with me, I suspected. Everything that I had valued so much, taken so much pride in, everything that I had given my life to build was now going to be wiped away like scribblings on a chalkboard.
Lonnie pulled to the back of the driveway, as far from the street as possible. He came around to help me out of the car, and I was struck by his newfound decorousness. The house felt cold and still inside, and I turned the light on in the kitchen to bring some life back into it—it reminded me too much of a tomb. I offered to make Lonnie coffee, but he declined.
“So,” I said. “I guess then we just need to get down to business.”
“Probably best.”
“I’m going to write out a paper here that will give you access to all my accounts,” I said, “and will make you an equal partner in my business. That way, you will have the right to sell anything you see fit to sell. What will you do with it all?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Drex and me got an idea that we can go out West to learn to drive long haul trucks. If you got a record, you can still get a license to drive.”
“Even if you have been convicted for drugs?” I asked.
“No, not for that. But Drex says he knows a man who can give him some papers. Or, if we can’t do that, then he might just use your . . .” His words trailed off and Lonnie hung his head, as if embarrassed by his admission. I wondered which one of us he was trying to protect.
“Drex will use my identity,” I said. “I see. A trucker. How very butch of me.” I offered a feeble smile and directed Lonnie to the front of the house. “I keep my letterhead and business accounts in the shop, but you know that already. We will need to go in there to write the contract.”
As Lonnie followed me into the shop, I remembered the afternoon so many months before where I had shown him the house, the shop, hoping to impress him with my affluence. Had he been scouting me even then? Had Drexel told him about me in prison, that I was an easy mark? Was my inviting him to the house to seduce him merely a coincidence in a plan where I was not the player but the one being played? If that was true, and I knew that it was, I felt that my heart could burst with sadness, that if I began to cry for the level of this deception that had been thrust upon me, that I could not cry hard enough or long enough and that I would surely split in two from grief. I was now not only prepared to die, I welcomed it.
I wrote out the paper for Lonnie but did not sign it straightaway. I told Lonnie that since the paper would not be legal unless it was notarized, he would have to take it to the bank. I called Shirley and told her to expect him.
“I know this is all a bit unusual,” I told her, “but I have been in a bad way ever since my accident. I am going to take a long vacation. I am certainly overdue for one. Lon and a friend will handle things here for me.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Vale,” she said. “Tell him to bring the signed paper over in the next day or two and I will handle it personally. And you have a nice trip. Do you know where you’ll be going?”
“No idea at all,” I said. “Just someplace quiet. And peaceful.”
When I signed the paper, I handed it to Lonnie. “I want you to know one thing,” I said. “I am doing this because I love you. I have loved you from the moment I saw you. And I know that you may not understand it, but I am happy to give all that I have to you.”
In his eyes, I could see that same look I saw the day when he was trying to figure out the numbers for the prices of gas so he could put them on the sign in front of Joe Boggs’s service station. I did not give him time to speak, time to react. I reached up and put my arms around his neck and pulled him close to me. “I do this for you,” I said, kissing him full on the mouth. I could feel the stubble of his beard on my face as I kissed him and he kissed me back, his lips full and firm against mine. And when I felt his hands tightening around my throat, I was not frightened at all, thrilled by the ecstasy of his kiss, telling myself only to “breathe out.”
Breathe.
Out.
LOCAL FLORIST POSSIBLE VICTIM OF FOUL PLAY
Two Suspects Arrested in Connection
with Area Deaths
Police announced yesterday afternoon the arrest of Lon (“Lonnie”) Flowers and Drexel Smith, two ex-felons who moved to the area last year, in connection with the disappearance and possible murder of M.R. Vale, a local resident who operated Vale’s Floral Design for twenty years and was a lifelong resident of Morris.
Police are also investigating the involvement of Flowers and Smith in the deaths of three other individuals: local businessman Roger Simmons; Sammy Hutchens, a runaway teenager from Greer, South Carolina; and Annabeth Owensby, who friends say disappeared almost three years ago.
Police traced a clue found in the Peach Bottom Motel, near Florence, to Vale’s house in Morris, where they apprehended Flowers and Smith where they were in residence at the time. The body of Sammy Hutchens had been discovered on February 24 at the Peach Bottom Motel by the owner’s wife, Mrs. Lucinda Galloway. The inn owner, Mr. Rex Galloway, identified a photograph of Flowers, saying he had checked into the motel on February 23 with another man.
Vale’s body has not been found, but police are searching an area where Smith resided that once belonged to Ms. Owensby. Reaction to the murders among area residents has been one of shock, with townspeople describing Vale as a “quiet man who kept to himself.”
Detectives have verified that Flowers and Smith were incarcerated at the same time at Birchwood Boys Home, a facility for sexually violent youths, and again at Harnett Correctional Institution, though on unrelated crimes. Flowers served a four-year sentence at Harnett for sodomy on a minor, and Smith served two and a half years for the manufacture of methamphetamines. Both were released on parole. Flowers, who trained as a mechanic in the medium-level correction facility, worked for JB’s Garage in Morris and had also been employed as a delivery man for Vale’s Floral Design.
The case, which is quickly drawing national attention, is the largest murder investigation in the history of Morris, according to local authorities. Bail has not been set for either of the accused.
7
So, now you know.
It was fairly simple, really. While Lonnie slept, I put one of my business cards into the Gideon Bible, which was in the drawer of the nightstand. Finally, a practical use for one of the damned things. I circled Psalm 94:6 in pen: “They slay the widow and the stranger, and murder the fatherless.” Around the margins
of the page, I had written all our names: Roger’s, Annabeth’s, Sammy’s, mine. On the back of the card I wrote: You will find the murderers, Lonnie Flowers and Drexel Smith, at this address.
The media attention has been extreme as you may imagine given the nature and extent of the case. Articles entitled “Florist Killed by Flowers!” or TV segments called “A Deadly Arrangement” are not uncommon. These will undoubtedly provide many additional (and salacious) details not included here.
But as you read these articles or watch these programs and listen to the way they describe Lonnie and me, I want you to forget all the wretchedness and misery they try to inject into the story. What I hope you will remember is the softness of Lonnie’s lips on mine, the sadness in his eyes, the strength of his grasp. For what I recalled in those last flashes of my life was the moment when I first saw Lonnie standing in front of the gas station, strong and simple and pure. Yes, pure. For in that moment, he held nothing for me but undiluted potential, was the unawakened dream, the eternal promise that is known simply as before.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2015 by James Driggers
“I Went to Your Wedding”
Words and Music by Jessie Mae Robinson
© 1952 by ST. LOUIS MUSIC CORPORATION
Copyright Renewed 1980 MPL MUSIC PUBLISHING, INC.
All Rights Reserved
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
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eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-476-2
eISBN-10: 1-61773-476-4
First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2015
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3475-5
ISBN-10: 1-61773-475-6
Lovesick Page 32