by Jeff Abbott
“Death makes us all act odd, Jordy. Bradley’s no exception. Maybe a boy with a delicate mind like his, he just found two funerals overwhelming.”
It sounded good, but I wasn’t convinced. There was more to Bradley Foradory’s dismayed scream than grief.
A call to Sister at the hospital revealed no improvement in Junebug’s condition. He was still breathing on his own, his heart pumping strongly-but he was still asleep and wasn’t waking up. I wondered what we’d do if he never roused. It was a thought I didn’t want to dwell on.
Candace had gone to tend to business at the Sit-a-Spell, and Mark was upstairs watching television. I fretted about him being alone, but he seemed fine and I decided to respect his privacy. I remembered after my daddy died I’d needed time alone, intervals without well-meaning folks hovering over me like flies swarming above honey. I could hear the drone of the little black-and-white TV in his room.
I felt restless, despite my exhaustion, and I opened a cold beer and paced around the living room. Someone had broken in and searched my house for something damned important to them. And I thought I knew what it was.
One event, as far as I could see, had triggered two murders and the attack on Junebug: Trey’s arrival home. Regardless of whatever side issues might be attached to this case, Trey’s homecoming seemed the hub that the entire case turned upon, the firecracker thrown into the crowd to stampede them into action. So the ransacking of the house had to be related to Trey’s return. The only link I could see was Scott’s shocking claim that Trey corresponded with Mama. The people present when Scott made that announcement were my family, Candace, Eula Mae Quiff, Wanda Dickensheets, Hart Quadlander, Steven Teague, and Bradley Foradory. The only reason I could think of for a burglary where nothing was taken was that someone was looking for Mama’s correspondence with Trey-perhaps because a letter of Trey’s might have very well mentioned why he left Mirabeau. And that secret, too long in shadow and threatening to be brought to light, might have been the reason for his and Clevey’s deaths.
So, I reasoned, our burglar had to be one of those present-or someone they’d told with a vested interest in rinding the letters. Bradley might have mentioned Scott’s news to his parents; Wanda could have told her mother, Ivalou, or her husband, Ed. I doubted that Hart would have told Nola that he’d brought Scott to our house, but perhaps Scott had finally told her about his burgeoning friendship with Mark. It didn’t do much to weed out the suspect list.
Suspect list, I thought in some disbelief. Because not only had I been prepared to believe that my sister had a hand in murder, I was now ready to accuse people I’d known my entire life. I set my beer down on the table. Ridiculous, I told myself, you’ve watched too much Murder, She Wrote.
But the house had been searched. That was undeniable.
I could pare the list down further, I thought, by bringing Rennie Clifton into the equation. Who could have had motive to kill her twenty years ago? I’d found that she’d worked occasionally for Hart Quadlander and regularly for Ivalou Purcell; she’d secretly wooed a boy Wanda Dickensheets claimed; and although I couldn’t discern a connection between her and Steven Teague, he’d left town shortly after her death. If her alleged white beau, Glenn, was still alive, I’d have wondered about him as well, but he’d already gone to his reward.
The phone ringing interrupted my mental ramblings. It was Candace, sounding overly polite and none too pleased.
“Get your butt over here right now, Jordan Poteet.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Never you mind. You and I are going to have a conversation.”
“Aren’t we doing that right now?”
“No. Get over here, please.”
“Look, I’m not leaving Mark and Mama here. Not after our house was broken into yesterday!” Whatever bee had gotten in her trousers was going to have to just buzz.
“Fine. We’ll be over in a bit, just as soon as I close up.” She slammed the phone down before I could answer.
We?
It turned out we meant Candace and the estimable Miss Ludey Murchison, the noted reader during the library’s Story Day presentations for the poppets of Mirabeau. Miss Ludey appeared resplendent in mismatched galoshes (the rain had abated yesterday, as I’ve already mentioned), white athletic socks that peeked above her inclement weather footgear, a full denim skirt with a rodeo’s lasso embroidered across it, a blouse that could only be described as Pepto-Bismol pink, and a Houston Oilers baseball cap. She greeted me with her usual friendly smile (helped, no doubt, by her dentures). Candace had a smile for me, too-tight and annoyed.
I quickly made Miss Ludey comfortable in the living room with a glass of iced tea and a slice of buttermilk pie. (Miss Ludey had said she’d prefer pecan pie, but told us-in gratuitous detail-of the shoddy adhesive qualities of her denture sealant, and she didn’t want to risk gumming a nut.) I, on the other hand, was quickly made to squirm by Candace.
“Miss Ludey says,” Candace began, “that you’ve been snooping again.”
“Pardon?” I said faintly.
“You went to see Thomasina Clifton and grilled her about her daughter’s death.”
“I had a talk with her. I would hardly call it a grilling. We had Kool-Aid.”
“Damn it. Listen to me, Jordan. This is a case for the police to solve, not you! Stay out of it. Why do you insist on sticking your nose in where it has no business?”
“Wait a second! Two of my friends are dead. Another may never wake up. My nephew and my sister have been put through hell. Someone broke into my house. And it’s not my business?” I turned to the inoffensive Miss Ludey, who apparently had already heard all Candace’s complaints against me. “Why’s Candace bothering you, Miss Ludey?”
As Miss Ludey had her mouth full of buttermilk pie, Candace deigned to answer for her. “Miss Ludey stopped in for dinner.”
“I don’t cook much since the kitchen fire,” Miss Ludey offered through half-swallowed pie crust. I didn’t ask for an explanation of what incendiary event she referred to.
“And she and I had an interesting chat. Did you know that Thomasina Clifton used to clean for Miss Ludey? They’re still old friends. Mrs. Clifton told Miss Ludey all about your visit.”
“Well?” I demanded. “What’s your point?”
“Jordan!” Candace said. “You have an unfortunate habit of playing detective. You shouldn’t. You’ve managed to get yourself involved in two murder cases, and both times you narrowly escaped with your life. I want to keep you safe!” Her voice rose in pleading.
I truly hate to see Candace beg, but I smiled anyway. She was worried about me. It was sweet. But I was not going to be deterred by baseless fears.
“Look, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And I’m not investigating. Franklin Bedloe’s doing that. I’m just asking questions.” I considered it prudent not to mention to Candace my perusal of old papers, my discussion with Ed over Clevey’s plan to buy into KBAV, or my hiding of the scrap of cloth Sister left at the crime scene. Those activities didn’t exactly fall under asking questions.
Candace regarded me with a raised eyebrow. “Please don’t insult my intelligence, Jordan. You fancy yourself a regular bloodhound. Well, I think it’s time for a leash. How would you feel about New Orleans?”
“Huh?”
“I adore New Orleans,” Miss Ludey piped up. “I met a sailor there once who could-”
“That’s nice, Miss Ludey. You can tell us all about it in a second.” Candace patted her knee kindly to avoid any detailed discussions of Miss Ludey’s past nightlife. “I think you could do with a change of scenery, Jordy. My brother and his wife would love to have you for a visit. I’ve already talked to Peter, and he said their house is open to you.”
“Excuse me? I’m not about to leave Mirabeau while Junebug’s in the hospital.”
“Someone,” Candace said, her usually calm voice growing strident, “put bullets in Trey, Clevey, and Junebug. Presumably that sam
e someone broke into your house. You’ll excuse me if I prefer my men bullet-free.”
“Candace-”
“Begging’s never been my strong suit,” she said, her voice steadying. “But now I’m pleading. Please, get out of town for a while. Go to New Orleans. You and Peter can party on Bourbon Street and drink at Pat O’s and take in a Saints game. Have a wild time. Drink and leer at women. I promise I won’t mind. Just go. ”
“I am,” and I made sure I enunciated clearly and calmly, “ not leaving Mirabeau. My sister needs me. My nephew needs me. Junebug needs me. And while I appreciate your concern, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“This is not Cowboys and Indians, Jordan. This is real life. You could be a target and I won’t just stand here and-”
“If you ask me,” Miss Ludey interjected, “it was that nutty niece of mine.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Wanda. The crazy one.” Miss Ludey leaned forward, talking in a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s not quite right in the head. Haven’t you seen her gallivanting around town, dressed like Elvis Presley? It’s downright embarrassing.”
I didn’t think Miss Ludey should be casting fashion stones, but I declined comment. My mind was on the odd interconnections that sew this town together. Miss Ludey was kin to Wanda and Ivalou? I hadn’t known that.
“Wanda’s your niece?” Candace asked, her chastisement of me momentarily suspended.
“Great-niece. I mean that in a genealogical sense. She’s never been that wonderful of a relative.” Miss Ludey picked a fragment of pie crust out from between her teeth.
“Miss Ludey, did you know Rennie Clifton?” I asked. Candace shot me a look (I was, after all, daring to investigate right in front of her), but she remained quiet.
“Well, sure I did. I knew her mama, and I met Rennie when she was in school. I used to substitute-teach sometimes.” This was another unknown episode in Miss Ludey’s history, and I tried not to think of her shaping young minds, even on a transient basis. “She was a very pretty girl. She could have had her pick of any of the colored boys. But she was sweet on Glenn Wilson.”
“And Wanda was dating him?” I prompted.
“Oh, yes. Wanda wasn’t dressing like Elvis then, but she was still a peculiar girl. She told me that she and Glenn were bound to get married after they graduated from school and they’d go off and work at Disneyland. She wanted to be Snow White and greet people in the park.”
It was certainly a fascinating career path that Wanda had planned for herself, but it wasn’t what I was interested in. “And Wanda was aware of the attraction between Glenn and Rennie?”
“Oh, yes. I heard her and her mother talking about it once. Wanda said she wasn’t going to put up with a nigger taking her man away.” Miss Ludey sniffed. “I have always found Wanda to be rather offensive in her choice of language. I should have read to her more when she was little.”
“And how did Ivalou feel about all this? After all, she was Rennie’s boss. She could have fired her.”
“Oh, Wanda insisted on her mother firing Rennie. But Ivalou pointed out that if she kept Rennie busy at the flower shop, then Rennie wouldn’t have time to be out sparking with Glenn. And Ivalou told Wanda she needed to learn how to keep Glenn from straying.”
“Just how’d you know all this, Miss Ludey?” Candace asked, a trace of skepticism coloring her tone.
“I overheard them at Ivalou’s flower shop, not long before Rennie was killed. Wanda and Ivalou were arguing about it in Ivalou’s office on a day Rennie wasn’t working. I’d come in to order flowers. My mama’s birthday was coming up and I always put flowers on my mama’s grave for her birthday and for Christmas.”
“Your memory seems rather keen on the details,” Candace said, not unkindly.
“My dear,” Miss Ludey answered with a dose of asperity, “how many times do you hear two relatives discussing a black girl who is about to steal one’s man? It wasn’t a conversation I was likely to forget.” Candace was quiet, glancing at me.
“You said this was right before your mother’s birthday, Miss Ludey. How long before Hurricane Althea was that?”
“Barely a week.” Miss Ludey answered without hesitation. “I found it a trifle disconcerting that Wanda and Ivalou had that discussion about Rennie and then the poor child ended up dead.”
“You didn’t think one of them-” Candace began.
“When Ivalou said she wasn’t going to fire Rennie, Wanda stormed out of that office and shoved right past me without even saying hello. She had the fire of hell in her eyes. And when I walked into Ivalou’s office, she looked downright icy. I asked her what Wanda had her panties in a wad about, and Ivalou just said it was business she- meaning Ivalou-would have to take care of for Wanda. Ivalou didn’t know I’d heard as much as I had.”
“But Rennie Clifton died in a hurricane, Miss Ludey,” Candace said. I shook my head at her. Some people are still clinging to outmoded notions in Mirabeau.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Miss Ludey said. “Our whole family had decided to wait out the hurricane together at my brother Ralph’s house, and Ivalou and Wanda both didn’t show up until after the storm was over. Ivalou got there about an hour after the storm had passed, and Wanda showed up about three hours later. Ralph was frantic about them both. But all I know is, Rennie Clifton was dead, and Glenn Wilson broke up with Wanda less than a week later. I sometimes wonder if that poor boy didn’t suspect.”
I bit my lip thoughtfully. Candace was not so trusting in Miss Ludey’s veracity.
“And why didn’t you say anything twenty years ago?” she demanded.
“Well, dear, one doesn’t like to think that one’s relatives could be murderers,” Miss Ludey said. I could well understand her attitude, having been caught in that same moral dilemma in recent days. “And everyone said that Rennie’s death was an accident. I didn’t have any proof. I still don’t.”
“Yet you’ve decided to speak up now?” Candace pressed. Note I didn’t intervene in her investigating.
“Well… I don’t want to sound selfish. Ivalou and Wanda are my closest living relatives, and they want to put me in a nursing home. Honestly! Me, and I’m as sharp as the day I was born. They just think I’m nuts ’cause I don’t care if my clothes match and I like to papier-mache my walls.” Miss Ludey snorted derisively at this lack of perception among her kinfolk. “I figure if those two got skeletons in the closet, now’s the time to air ’em out. I don’t think they could put me in a nursing home from prison, do you?”
I stuck my face in my hands. How much of this Ludeyesque tale to believe? She’d just frankly admitted to a strong motive to belittle Wanda and Ivalou and claimed detailed memories of conversations that were two decades old.
“So why don’t you tell this to the police?” Candace demanded.
Miss Ludey gave my beloved a disapproving look. “The police aren’t investigating Rennie Clifton’s death. Jordan is. Do try to keep up, dear.”
“Is there anything else you remember, Miss Ludey?” I asked, not looking toward Candace for fear I’d crack a smile.
She thought. “No, except that Wanda suggested that if Ivalou didn’t fire Rennie, maybe Ivalou could get Hart Quadlander to fire Rennie’s mother to teach ’em a lesson.”
“What sway did Ivalou think she had over Hart?”
“My dear. Ivalou has been chasing unsuccessfully after Hart Quadlander for years. Hart is kind to her but doesn’t encourage Ivalou in her pursuit of him.”
I shuddered. “Yuck. Neither would I.”
“You haven’t painted a very kind picture of Wanda, Miss Ludey.” Candace crossed her arms. “You must not care for her at all.”
Miss Ludey stiffened. “I didn’t choose to be related to Wanda. And I don’t mean to shock. But it’s not a lie to say I consider her and her mother most unlikable.”
The phone rang. I dove for it. A thunder of feet on the stairs told me Mark was coming down. He peered expectant
ly at me from the staircase.
I listened to my sister’s voice, holding my breath. I told her I’d be right over.
“It’s Junebug,” I told the others. “He’s awake.”
15
He lay in a tangle of wires and tubes. Machines bleeped at his bedside, monitoring vital functions. A massive bandage covered one side of his shaved head. I leaned close to his bristly face, peering down into his angry eyes.
“Shot me,” Junebug whispered at me. “Son of a bitch shot me.”
“Yes, I know.” I leaned closer. “Who?”
“Jordan, don’t tire him,” Barbara Moncrief ordered. “He doesn’t know who it was, and that’s what’s making him mad.”
I’d gotten to the hospital to learn Junebug had been conscious for nearly an hour, had started speaking coherently in short order, and after being repeatedly fussed over by doctors, had seen his officers, his mother, and my sister and had asked for me. (Sister was of the opinion that he wished to make sure I was not in trouble.)
I was surprised that the physicians, who tended to hover and speak in acronyms, allowed me to see him. But in a small town, being police chief counts for a great deal. Lord knows it wasn’t me wielding the frightening scepter of being town librarian that got me in among the IVs and glowing screens to see my friend.
“You,” I said, “have scared the living hell out of me. You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?”
He grunted at me. “Have to be-keep you out of trouble.”
“Don’t tire him, Jordy,” Barbara repeated. “He’s so weak.”
“Bullshit, Mama,” Junebug murmured, but he closed his eyes.
I felt a vast flood of relief. He would be okay now, surely. Barbara certainly seemed to be optimistic. I wanted to find a doctor and get a definitive report. Or find Sister, I thought. No doubt she had wrested an opinion from every medical practitioner in Bonaparte County.
“Arlene-” Junebug whispered.
“She’s just outside, dear,” Barbara assured him. “Dr. Meyer doesn’t want you having too many visitors at once. But I want you to tell her to go home and get some rest. She’s been by your side nonstop.” She smiled at me. “Arlene’s a good woman.”