"What now?" I barked into the receiver.
Silence.
"I have had it with you," I said loudly. "If you want a piece of me, stand up like a man and say so!" I started to hang up, but stopped as someone began speaking.
"Is this Maggie Reid?" the woman asked.
"Don't mess with me," I warned. "I am not in the mood. And who exactly is this?" My heart was racing, but not because I was afraid. Now I was angry.
"Bertie Sexton, from the Mobile Home Kingdom." I sat straight up in bed. "I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am, but I think we should talk."
"Talk?"
Bertie Sexton was crying or had a very bad cold. She was snuffling and clearing her throat, with little catches of breath that sounded like stifled sobs.
"Did you hear about that guy?" she said softly. "Mr. Sizemore? The one you had come out and do the audit?"
"Where are you?" I asked.
"I'm at home," she said. Her voice broke and I knew she was crying. "They sent me home on account of I was too tore up to work. The police were out to the lot and they were all over us. I couldn't take it anymore." The girl was openly crying now.
"Look," I said, "get ahold of yourself, honey. You know where the Bisquitville is on West Market?" I got a sniffly sound that I took for an affirmative. "Meet me there in thirty minutes." I hung up before she could start crying harder. Mama always said that action was better than a bucket full of tears, and in Bertie Sexton's case that had to be true.
I flew out of bed, dressed, and crossed my fingers that the police had returned my car. They had, but they'd left it in a NO PARKING BETWEEN 6 AND 9 A.M. zone, then they'd ticketed it! Weathers's doing, no doubt. I didn't have time to stop and speculate. Bisquitville made strong, hot coffee and I needed plenty to get my brain going.
It was late in the day for Bisquitville's early regulars when I pulled into the parking lot. The phone company trucks were gone. The construction worker pickups were now replaced with Volvo station wagons and passenger vans, a sure sign that „ the second shift, preschool-mom regulars, were clustered around the tables and booths, comparing notes and complaining.
Bertie Sexton had beat me to a back booth in the crowded, smoky restaurant. She saw me as I walked through the side door, but looked away. Her eyes were black mascara-rimmed circles and her pale face looked ghostly in the harsh daylight that poured through the many windows.
I ignored her while I grabbed a large coffee and a bacon biscuit, and made my way over to her booth. She waited until I was seated across from her to look up.
"Thank you for coming," she said, in heir baby soft voice. "I didn't know who else to talk to, what with Mr. Spivey being dead and Don, er, Mr. Evans, turning out to be not at all the man I thought he was. I figured with you being a woman and just coming into the business, well, there might be a chance to right some wrongdoings." There was an angry flash in her dark brown eyes, the flash of a woman scorned. I was fixin' to get the good stuff from Bertie Sexton and nothing suited me better.
"Well now, honey," I said, reaching across the table to cover her hand with my own, "you just take a deep breath and tell me all about it. You know, I had a feeling things were not quite right when I was in the other day. If they're not treating you right…" I let my voice trail off and tried my best to look sympathetic. As in, just tell old Aunt Maggie all about it.
That was all it took. Bertie scanned the little restaurant for interlopers, decided it was safe, and began to talk.
"When I came to work for Mr. Spivey, five years ago, the business was still growing. Mr. Vernell had gone off to tend to his other business and Jimmy needed someone to help out in the worst way." Her eyes widened a little and I knew then that Bertie had fallen hook, line, and sinker for Jimmy's fast talking.
"I tried to tell him there were problems, that some people weren't doing right by him or the customers, but I couldn't get him to listen. As long as he could run off when he wanted, the money kept coming in, and everybody liked him, Jimmy was fine. He didn't care what Tommy or Don did."
This was the good stuff. "You know," I said, leaning in closer, "Jimmy was a fine man." Bertie's eyes welled up with tears. "The very thought of someone trying to take advantage of him just makes my blood boil!"
Bertie's eyes flashed again. "He didn't have a wicked or disloyal bone in his body!" she said. "There he was, loyal to that terrible woman, and her sneaking around here like a yard dog, sniffing up after Tommy Purvis. They weren't even trying to keep it a secret, if you ask me."
"You mean Roxanne and little Tommy Purvis?" I acted like this was the biggest surprise in the world.
"Oh yeah, honey," she said, "All the time! The second Jimmy'd take off to play golf, in'd come Roxanne, like the queen of the world. She and Tommy'd sit out in her car for hours. Her just a-smiling and him acting like she was the hottest thing around. And you know, he didn't mean a bit of it. It was insurance, pure and simple."
"Insurance?" Bertie was going faster than I could track.
"Oh, sure," she sighed, "Tommy was taking kickbacks from the set-up guys." I must've looked confused. "You know, the guys that put the homes on the lots and secure them to the piers and all. If Jimmy'd found out, he would've just killed Tommy. But he knew Roxanne wouldn't let Jimmy fire him. Wouldn't suit her needs. And," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I'm sure old Tommy was cutting Roxanne in for a goodly amount."
"Roxanne was taking money from her own husband's business?"
Bertie nodded sadly. "She and every other living creature knew Jimmy didn't love her. He tried, but he couldn't hide it. He was in love with someone else, if you ask me. I just never knew who it was." Bertie looked even sadder. "You think I like my hair this color?" she asked suddenly. "Jimmy used to say how much he loved curly red hair so I-" She broke off, staring at me. "Hey!"
I didn't know what to do. I kept my face neutral and played stupid.
"It was you!"
"Bertie, I was married to Jimmy's brother! I would no more…"
Bertie shook her head. "That don't mean much, as envious as Jimmy was of his brother."
"I never," I said.
"Oh, I'm not saying you did," she said. "But it sure explains a whole lot. Unrequited love." She sighed wistfully. "I was turned down for Jimmy's unrequited love. Just like in the movies."
I let her trail off into the romanticized version of her past, and then brought her back with a snap.
"And Don done him wrong, too?"
Bertie's eyes flashed and I knew we were closing in for the kill. "You better watch out for him, sugar," she said, "'cause he sure isn't worried a thing about you!" Bertie's cheeks were flushed and her ears were turning as red as her dyed hair.
"What do you mean, he isn't worried about me? He ought to be worried. If Jerry Lee Sizemore found out he's been doing wrong…" Again, I let my voice trail off and Bertie chimed right in.
"Oh, it didn't take Mr. Sizemore finding out," she said. "I knew for a long time what Donald Evans was up to. I even told Jimmy about it, not three days before he died. I just didn't care anymore."
The hairs stood up on my arms and I felt chill bumps run across the back of my neck. "What did you tell Jimmy?"
"About how Donald Evans was lining his pockets with money from Ashdale Manufacturers while Jimmy lost out! Had to be close to three hundred thousand a year that Jimmy never saw."
"How could Jimmy not know?"
" 'Cause Don wasn't here three months before he'd won Jimmy over and convinced him he could run the day-to-day of the lot. Then he cuts a deal with Ashdale to rep only their homes, and put them on Ashdale's lots, and use Ashdale's finance company. Jimmy would never have done business like that."
So why hadn't she told Jimmy sooner if she cared so much for him? I looked across the table at her, a long hard look, and realized what must have happened. Bertie wasn't just unattractive, she was homely. Underneath her thick layer of makeup, her skin was deeply pockmarked. One eye wandered ever so slightly to the outside of her face. And a
padded Wonderbra was probably all that stood between her and the outside world. Don Evans hadn't wanted Bertie Sexton, either.
She saw the look on my face and her own face hardened with bitter anger. "He's got him a high-dollar girlfriend," she said. "Rolls around town in a white Caddy. Picks up her cell phone and says 'jump,' and old Donald comes running."
Poor Bertie. "Well, you two sure seemed cozy when I stopped by," I said.
Bertie pushed her thick red hair out of her eyes and attempted to fix both eyes on me. "Do you think I'm a fool?" she asked. "If he knew I'd found out about him and Ashdale and then told Jimmy, he'd kill me." She saw the shocked look on my face and rushed in. "Well, maybe not kill me, but you shoulda seen Jimmy's face after he went in and had it out with him!"
Bertie made a big show of looking at her watch, and then back at me.
"I can't stay," she said, "I've got things to tend to. I came to you only because I cared so much for Jimmy." I didn't believe that for one sweet second. "I was going to just leave. After that sweet Mr. Sizemore offered me a job, I thought I'd just walk away and not need the Mobile Home Kingdom. Everything's different now. And nobody pays like the Spivey brothers, least not until that cute Jerry came along." She sighed again, as if resigned to hear lot in life. "But that don't matter now. What matters," she said, the angry glint back in her eye, "is that somebody needs to look out for me and the Kingdom. I know how Jimmy felt about his brother, and I hear he's bad to drink. He can't be counted on. No, the way I see it, I figure that somebody oughta be you."
She stood up, grabbed her purse, and stood staring down at me. Clearly I was the last hope in a long line of failed heroes. I watched her walk off, a frumpy wanna-be sex kitten. Now what? I wondered.
The moms were leaving Bisquitville, rushing off to run their errands in the two hours left before they returned to preschool to pick up their little darlings. I watched them, pairing up in twos and threes, and for a moment I felt envious. I wanted those years back. I wanted to rush off to the grocery store, then take my little girl home for a nap. I wanted to be me, before it all unraveled, before I knew what a louse Vernell was.
But who was I kidding? Something inside me knew that Vernell was no-good husband material before we even married. And no matter how many times I could magically transport Sheila back to toddlerhood, she still had to grow up into a rageful adolescent and leave me behind. A few years from now, who knew? Maybe she'd marry and have a daughter of her own. Maybe then she'd decide to be close again.
I shook myself and stood up. It wouldn't do to stay in one place too long. Not with the police and a killer on my tail.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mama had a saying for times of trouble: Good intentions in a crisis are like feathers on a pig, they get in the way and probably do more harm than good. I was sure Detective Marshall Weathers had good intentions, but I knew the Spivey family from the inside out, and therefore I was the best candidate to sort out the whole mess.
If you want something done, do it yourself. Save yourself a whole lot of trouble and pig feathers. I could continue to sit by and wring my hands, or I could take the bull by the horns and steer the course of fate. It seemed only logical to direct my little Beetle over to the Mobile Home Kingdom. Furthermore, if I was responsible for Jerry Lee Sizemore's death, then I had a duty to his remaining kin and to his memory.
I pulled my little car up into the lot and parked right in front of the model trailer. This time no one came rushing up to greet me. No prowling salesmen, cigarettes dangling from their lips. No slick finance managers. There were a few cars and pickup trucks in the lot, but no sign of their owners.
I stepped out into the sunshine and squinted to read the sign on the door of the model. It was a cardboard clock, the little red hands pointing to two P.M., and a red-lettered sign that said "Gone to lunch." I ran up the steps and tried the door handle, but it didn't budge. I looked around the lot. Columns of single-wides and double-wides stood like rowhouses, some with their storm doors hanging open, some leaning back at an angle, as if not securely fastened to their temporary piers.
It was like a ghost town. The trailers were so closely packed that they cast one long gray shadow the length of the lot. Behind them, the cars whistled past on I-85. Out on Holden Road, it was lunchtime. Traffic moved along at a fast clip, carrying hungry workers to the nearby Mexican restaurants and fast food joints. The lot was eerily silent.
"Good a time as any to look around," I said out loud. "Not like I'd be trespassing."
I started off down the walkway, my cowgirl boots crunching into the fine gray gravel. The first three mobile homes I tried were locked, but the fourth was wide-open, the product of a forgetful or careless salesperson. I stepped inside the double-wide, reaching for a light switch before realizing that, of course, display homes weren't fully set up with electricity and running water.
Sun streamed in through the back windows, making it bright enough to see without lighting up the poor construction. It looked like a dream home. Fully furnished down to fake food on plates in the eat-in breakfast nook, children's toys in one of the bedrooms, and plants in planters by the back door.
"Oh, this is nice," I said aloud. "This is really nice." I walked down the long hallway to the master bedroom, touching the wallpaper, letting my feet sink into the thick, pile carpeting, and thinking that maybe Vernell and Jimmy had really been on the cutting edge of what was now a booming business. I stepped into the master bedroom and glanced up at the skylights in the vaulted ceiling.
The four-poster bed was piled with pillows and quilts. For one uncontrollable second I found myself thinking of Marshall Weathers.
"Stop that!" I said loudly. "Hum," I said. The old Mama trick for bad thoughts. Humming will keep him out of your head. "I'm Falling in Love with You" came unbidden to my lips, and I hummed away at full volume. But it didn't seem to do the trick. For when I stepped into the master bath and saw the oversized Jacuzzi tub, my wicked thoughts were back. I hummed louder and stepped into the walk-in closet.
I still heard a faint whistle behind me, but there wasn't time to react. Something collided with the back of my skull and the humming stopped. I remember falling forward into the darkened closet, but little else.
"Mama? Mama, answer me!" It was Sheila's voice, trembling with anxiety, begging me to answer her, and yet I couldn't quite rise up out of the mist that surrounded me.
"What should we do?" she cried. "Should we call nine-one-one?"
A deeper, adolescent male voice answered. "I don't think we oughta jump to that," Keith was saying. "Remember, she and the cops don't gee-haw too good right now."
"But what if she's dying?" Sheila cried.
I must've moaned. I thought I was speaking. I thought I'd said, "Keith is right for once. Don't call the police." But Sheila and Keith didn't act as if they heard me.
"Listen," he said. "I think she's coming around. Maybe we can get her to a doctor."
I blinked my eyes and saw only blue sky. The brightness made my head pound.
"Mama?" Sheila's face loomed into view. The blurriness of her features began to fade as the world swam into focus. I was lying on the bed in the mobile home's master bedroom, staring up at the skylights.
I tried to sit up, but Sheila pushed me back against the pillows. "You'd better not move," she said.
"What in the world is going on?" I said, my voice coining out in a hoarse whisper. "What happened?"
"You tell us, Mama. Keith was checking to make sure the trailers were all locked up so he could take off for lunch and when he saw the door wide-open, he decided to check around. That's when we found you."
Keith stepped out from behind Sheila. He looked worried and I noticed his hand placed protectively on Sheila's thin shoulder.
"Honest, Mrs. Reid, I thought for a minute you was dead! There you were, facedown on the closet floor, still and cold. I didn't even know if you were breathing! Sheila liked to have died when we realized it was you."
&nbs
p; "You shoulda seen Keith, Mama," Sheila beamed proudly. "He had CPR training in vo-tech school." I looked up at pimply, skinheaded Keith and shuddered. The thought of those chapped lips wrapped over my own and blowing stale breath into my lungs made me cringe.
"Surely I was breathing?" I asked, once again attempting to push myself up off the pillows.
"Oh, yes, ma'am," Keith said. "That's how come I knew you wasn't dead or nothing. I used to get knocked out all the time skateboarding."
That explained a lot, I thought. My head was pounding. "Sheila, why aren't you in school?" I demanded. "And what are you two doing here?"
Sheila favored me with her most adult expression. "Mama, it's a teacher workday. Keith let me use his truck while my car's in the shop. I was just coming back to take him to lunch."
"Back where?" I still couldn't pull myself together.
"Mama! Keith works here! I told you he had a regular job. He's the clean-up man." I looked at Keith, all decked out in a dirty blue jumpsuit, his name embroidered in red on the pocket. "He cleans out the trailers and helps set them up when they come in."
Keith tightened his grip on Sheila's shoulder. "Sheila's uncle gave me the job a couple of months ago," he said. "I'm working my way up."
Everyone's entitled to their fantasies, I thought. Working his way up, indeed! I really tried to sit upright this time, and finally succeeded, although my head hurt like crazy and my entire body felt detached and unresponsive.
"Mama," Sheila said, her face rigid with worry, "what happened?"
"Honey, I have no idea. One minute I was looking around, the next, I'm here with you two."
"Mrs. Reid," Keith said, "it just isn't safe to go roaming around in these trailers, not without a salesperson or something. This isn't the first time someone's gotten into one of our trailers, looking for stuff to take or a place to stay for a little while. We're right by the highway, you know."
Well, duh, I should've been more careful. Of course. But what good was that piece of advice gonna do me now? I'd come to the Mobile Home Kingdom looking to find something the police could've overlooked. Instead, someone had found me, and I didn't for a second subscribe to the theory that a vagrant had bopped me on the head.
Your Cheatin Heart mr-1 Page 19