The Secrets of Rosa Lee

by Jodi Thomas

  The chocolate sauce bubbled across the top of the round cinnamon roll. Lora took a deep breath. “Chocolate and grease, my two favorite food groups.”

  Micah’s smile returned. “How often do you indulge in this slow form of suicide?”

  “Every Tuesday,” she answered as she cut off a bite and blew on it. “I came home on a Monday after my divorce. We moved what little I had left into storage, set me up an office next to my father’s at the dealership, and I went to sleep in the twin bed I’d slept in most of my life. The next morning I thought I couldn’t get out of bed. Nothing…nothing would make me want to face this town, this job, my failure.”

  Micah winked. “And then you remembered.” He pointed to the roll.

  “Right,” she laughed. “My reason to live.” She pushed the first bite in her mouth.

  Micah folded up his paper as Polly slammed down his oatmeal and wheat toast. “May I have one of those rolls?” he asked politely.

  Polly groaned. “Instead of this?”

  Micah quickly added, “Oh, no, for dessert. I still want this order.”

  Polly mumbled something about breakfast don’t have no dessert as she moved away.

  “You’re very brave, Preacher. Not many locals have the nerve to change their order once Polly writes it down.”

  He tasted his oatmeal. “I must be living dangerously lately.”

  “I’ll say,” Lora agreed.

  As they ate, they talked about yesterday. Neither had much in the way of news, but it felt comforting to rehash the details. They were like veterans in an unknown war.

  After Polly delivered his roll, Micah said, “Sidney’s getting out of the hospital today. I talked with the sheriff when I came in and he said Will’s driving the ambulance over to pick her up at no charge.” He tasted his cinnamon roll and shoved the oatmeal aside. “I really don’t know her, but I feel like I do. I’d like to go check on her this afternoon and make sure she’s settled in at home, but…”

  “But it might not look right.” She could see his problem. Single minister visits single teacher in her home alone. The town would fill in the blanks. Lora fought the urge to swear. Living in Clifton Creek reminded her of stepping back in time. They might have the Internet and cell phones, but sometimes she expected the theme song from Mayberry R.F.D to start playing out of thin air. She handed Micah her business card with all her phone numbers on it. “Call me when you’re heading over and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Thanks.” He shoved the card into his vest pocket. “You worried, too?”

  “In some way we all became a family yesterday. Billy even commented about how we need to watch one another’s backs.” She shuddered. “I’ll be glad when we can vote on what to do with that old house. Give our recommendation to the mayor. Forget about the committee. That old place has years of bad vibes. I’ve heard stories about it all my life.”

  “Maybe the drill bit flying was just a onetime, freak thing that happened,” Micah mumbled between bites. “It probably had nothing to do with us, just kids playing around. Maybe they wanted the house to fall thinking there would be a park or something else put in its place?”

  “Maybe. But if it wasn’t?” She pictured zombies running down Main Street all carrying drill bits as they screamed the committee members’ names. Horror movies always had a group of people on the monster most-wanted list. “What if someone singled us out?”

  “Then we fight.” He plopped the last bite of the roll in his mouth and stood.

  “Great,” Lora whispered as she waved him goodbye. She was going to war with a regiment from the monster appetizers menu and the preacher thought they could fight.

  Ten minutes later, when Lora made it to her office, she could still hear Micah’s determined words. He surprised her. Weren’t men of the cloth supposed to be meek? He seemed kind and thoughtful, but meek wasn’t a word that fit that minister. Yesterday when he’d removed his coat and only wore a shirt and trousers, he’d definitely been relaxed. Today in his brown suit he looked more official.

  As she turned toward the car dealership’s set of offices along the back wall of the showroom, Lora wasn’t surprised to see a man sitting on the corner of her desk. Her father thought the floor plan of see-through office walls and no doors except on the restrooms made the place look welcoming and honest. Lora thought it more a bother. Anyone trying to sell her anything could camp out in her office until she showed up. Dora, her father’s secretary and the unofficial hostess, would even serve them coffee.

  She waved at Dora. The middle-aged greeter waved back. Her father’s statement about the right combination of fat and meat crossed Lora’s thoughts. She shook the possibility out of her head. Her mother would kill her father by slow endless conversation if he even looked at Dora.

  Walking into her cage of an office, Lora ignored the young man dressed as if he had just stepped out of a line dance. She put up her purse and removed her jacket. She couldn’t miss the width of his shoulders, or his Western clothes right down to his fifteen-hundred-dollar boots and pressed jeans. He wasn’t here to try to sell her pencils and caps with the logo of the dealership.

  She raised an eyebrow in interest as she shoved her briefcase under the desk. If he needed a car, he would have been waylaid by one of the salesmen before he could make it to her office.

  Finally, with everything in order, she faced him. “May I help you?”

  His smile seemed calculated. Not too wide, not too innocent. “I certainly hope so, Miss Whitman. I’m Talon Graham. My friends call me Tal.” He waited as if expecting her to recognize the name.

  Lora had seen his type before. In fact, she’d married one of the tribe. Handsome, well-mannered, high-maintenance, used to getting his way. The kind of man who wanted a blonde on his arm. Trouble was, she’d been that blonde once before and no longer wanted the role.

  Since he obviously knew her name, she asked again. “How may I help you, Mr. Graham?”

  He stood. “I’m in oil exploration by profession, but I’m here as president of this year’s Rodeo Association. I’d like you to help me make next year’s rodeo the best Clifton Creek has ever seen.”

  “The rodeo’s nine months away. We don’t need to plan advertising yet.” She wanted to add that, hopefully, she wouldn’t be in town nine months from now, but with what her father paid her, it was a possibility. Also, men in oil exploration weren’t known to stay long in one place.

  “I know, but it may take some time.” He winked. “First I plan to organize a huge fund-raiser to improve what Clifton Creek laughingly calls a rodeo grounds. Second, I’d like to get to know everyone in town, or at least anyone who will help.” He stood, towering over her. “Your daddy told me yesterday that you wouldn’t mind introducing me around. As an outsider, I’ll need to move in the right circles fast.” He glanced down, seeming almost shy. Almost. “He said you would be at my disposal whenever needed.”

  Lora swore she felt smoke coming out of her ears. She could almost hear her father telling this man that his poor daughter had nothing to do with her life and would be happy to take him around. After all, divorced women don’t have an easy time getting back on the horse.

  Talon had the nerve to grin when he added, “So, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next few months?”

  She’d have to kill Daddy, she thought. “I’ll talk with my father,” she managed to say as she glanced through her glass walls.

  He’d finally gone too far, pimping her out to a rodeo. And because Isadore would be impossible to live with as a widow, Lora would have to murder her, too. Maybe she could get a deal when buying double caskets and plots. She saw it all now, the church packed, the funeral procession long and loaded with the newest models on the lot. The coffins would be matching champagne white. Too bad the funeral home didn’t have Casket Cash.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The afternoon rain drove Billy Hatcher’s roofing crew inside. Most of the guys called it a day. Sam Davis and Billy drove ove
r to do cleanup on the window replacement job at the Altman house.

  The sky hung low, bringing the shadows of twilight early. Billy heard more than one person say the rain might freeze after sundown. If so, there would be no work tomorrow until the sun warmed everything up. He didn’t care. Unlike the others, he had plenty to keep himself busy. Roofing was seasonal work anyway, but it paid well. He figured he had enough put away to last three months in an apartment when bad weather hit. A few inside carpentry jobs should carry him through till spring. If his plan worked, he wouldn’t have to move back in with his father and whatever old lady he had playing house with him now.

  But until it got too cold, he’d sleep out, sometimes in the country, sometimes in his car. Lora Whitman would have been surprised to learn more than just his car parked behind the Altman house last night. He’d slept there after he’d walked her home. A rich girl like her would never understand that the longer he could wait to get the apartment, the more chance he’d never have to see his old man again. He’d taken the rap for him once and almost landed in jail. He wouldn’t do it again.

  Billy had missed his class at the Y yesterday because of the trip to the hospital with Lora. He planned to spend extra time tonight to catch up with everyone. The aikido workouts were just one more thing he never talked about at work. He never discussed the classes with anyone except Sheriff Farrington, who’d talked him into starting the martial art. In class, while he practiced, Billy thought of himself as distant from the world, almost as if he were a lost soul floating without any place or past marking him.

  As soon as they finished work today, he’d disappear from problems for a few hours. The workout would exhaust him and he’d sleep without nightmares for a change.

  Sam Davis unlocked the back door of the Altman place and held it open while Billy carried in a couple of brooms and an empty box. They’d installed new glass in the bay window that morning at the sheriff’s request, but they hadn’t bothered to clean up. Sam wanted to get as much roofing done as he could before the rain hit.

  So they were back, doing cleanup. The dining room looked as it had when Billy left it yesterday morning, with folding chairs scattered and fragments of glass everywhere. Only today the clouds brought rainy-day gloom and the house aged in the poor light. The dark wood seemed sinister. The shadows haunted. The hollow spaces lonely.

  “Don’t understand Sheriff Farrington,” Sam said, flipping on the portable work light and setting it in the center of the floor. “If that committee you’re meeting with was organized to decide what to do with this house, why not wait until they make up their minds before adding a new window? Glass ain’t cheap. We could be tearing this whole place down next week.” He bit off a chew of tobacco. “My feeling is most folks in this town wouldn’t give a damn if it crumbled. It ain’t good for nothing but feeding termites.”

  Billy ran his hand over the banister, as always feeling the wood as if it could somehow whisper to him as he greeted it. He liked the old house. It was out of place here, just as he felt he was. Billy had no idea what he waited for, but somewhere out there in the future was a chance. Maybe he’d only get one, but when it came he planned to take it.

  Sam Davis felt no need to introduce himself to the house. “It ain’t like the town’s got memories to preserve in this place. Altman might’ve founded the town, but those who knew him are long gone. Rosa Lee Altman didn’t do more than nod at anyone around here. Only person she ever let in was that nurse old Doc Eastland had and I guess maybe the doc visited now and then before he died.”

  Billy started to work, noticing the light made the slivers of glass sparkle. “Why don’t you ask the sheriff? I didn’t see the salesman at the lumberyard griping when Farrington paid for the glass.” Billy didn’t particularly like Sam Davis, but the old guy was friendlier than most at work. He knew everyone in town and treated Billy the same as he did all those he considered below him in rank. He’d worked for the lumberyard for forty years and made it to foreman of a work crew. Billy didn’t see Sam as exactly climbing the ladder, but in Sam’s mind he saw himself as successful.

  “I did ask the sheriff.” Sam leaned on his broom and snorted. “He said the mayor told him to. But if you ask me, it’s some kind of trap. Farrington figures if we put new glass in, the fools will come back. He’s expecting to catch them, but I think all we’ll do is sweep up more glass. The sheriff might catch them if they try something on his watch, but that Deputy Adams couldn’t catch a dead rabbit and the guy who comes in from Wichita Falls to take weekend watch isn’t much better.”

  Billy thought of pointing out to Sam that he wasn’t the one sweeping up glass in the first place. “Maybe they want this house to look good, it being on Main and all. I heard someone say at lunch that there is more than one oil company in town looking at the land.”

  Sam laughed. “If it was important to look good, half the buildings on this street would have to go. Willie’s feed store hasn’t had a coat of paint in thirty years. And don’t forget that gas station Dixie Roberts turned into a flower shop in the sixties. She deserted the place to marry some trucker who drove by and honked. Now, ivy grows all over the roof. Realtor couldn’t give the place away.”

  Billy knelt to get a few pieces of glass out of the floor while Sam’s voice played on.

  “Be careful there, boy. Don’t want you getting any more glass in that hand.” He moved closer so he could watch Billy work. “If you get hurt on the job, I have to fill out all kinds of paperwork.”

  There’d be less of a possibility if Sam helped, but Billy doubted that was in the old man’s plan. “I’m careful. You ever been in this place before today?”

  “Once, when I was a boy not yet old enough to go to school. Miss Rosa Lee wasn’t all that old then, maybe in her fifties. She ordered some lumber, big flat boards, delivered to the back door. My father brought it, and she paid him cash.”

  “What did she need it for?”

  Sam frowned. “I don’t know. That’s been years ago. But I do remember thinking it strange, because my daddy didn’t usually take cash at delivery. Folks came in back then and bought the lumber before it ever moved out of the yard. My daddy didn’t have the money to make change. He left me sitting on her back porch while he went to get her money.”

  Sam scratched his head as if he had fleas. “She weren’t mean like some folks used to say. I remember. She brought me out a cup of lemonade and talked to me about her roses. I can’t think of any one thing she said, but she sure made them bushes sound like they were priceless. Called each one by name, like they were her children or something.”

  “What did she look like?”

  Sam shrugged. “Like an old lady, I guess. I remember she had the palest blue eyes I ever seen. Ghost eyes, I heard someone say.”

  “What does that mean?” Billy knew he shouldn’t keep asking questions. Sam would never start work. But he couldn’t help himself.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it means she sees ghosts. Maybe it means she was one. Haven’t you ever heard someone say that about a person with light blue eyes?”

  “Nope,” Billy answered. “But I haven’t been around much.”

  He was kidding, but Sam nodded as if he agreed.

  Billy moved around the room, picking up every sliver of glass. He knelt, noticing the scratch Lora Whitman’s chair had left. The fresh scar only added to the thousands already covering the floor. As he progressed to the hallway, checking for any shards that might have slid out the open door, Billy noticed nail holes running in a straight line in front of the stairs. No nails remained, but the holes forever blemished the floor. Whoever had ripped them out had been without skill, leaving marks where a hammer’s claw had twisted.

  He glanced back at Sam, who now leaned against the door frame. “What do you think of these holes?”

  The old man didn’t move. “Termites probably. I told you this place ain’t good for nothin’ else.”

  “In a straight line? All about two inches apart?” />
  Sam walked over and took a look. “Strange.”

  “Why would anyone want to damage this floor? What could they have nailed here in front of the stairs?”

  “Beats me, boy, but it’s quittin’ time. I’m heading home. You want a ride back to the lumberyard?”

  “Sure.” Billy brushed his fingers against the strange holes. “You want me to drop the key off, Sam? I got to go in and pick up my check anyway.”

  Sam handed him the Altman house key. “Thanks. That’ll save me getting wet.”

  Billy slipped the key into his pocket then touched the marring in the floor one last time as if to say goodbye.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Please, come in out of this rain.” Sidney Dickerson held the door open to her bungalow situated along what everyone called Faculty Row. “Welcome, Lora. Reverend. I can’t believe you came to check on me on a day like this.” The afternoon sky had darkened to evening hues.

  Micah and Lora hurried into the small entryway of the professor’s home. He juggled the gift basket he brought the professor while he pulled off his jacket and left it on a bench by the door.

  When Micah faced the professor, he noticed the lack of color in Sidney’s face, but her smile was warm and genuine. She had been home long enough to take a nap, because the back of her hair flattened to her skull.

  Sidney must have read his mind, for she ran her fingers through her mousy-brown curls as she led them to a living area.

  Micah glanced around the small apartment. It probably had the same floor plan as the ten others located on the north side of the campus. The bungalows had been remodeled a few years back and were offered to faculty for half what they would pay to rent a similar place in town. It had been a way to attract teachers to a college where the salary couldn’t compete with larger schools.

  Sidney looked comfortable in her jogging suit and walking shoes. She straightened pillows on the couch as she moved about the room. Micah didn’t miss the quality of the furnishings or the collection of art crowded between bookshelves. He had a feeling that all the professor owned rested in the confines of these walls. One framed photograph stood out on the cluttered desk that divided the living area from the kitchen.