by Webb Hubbell
“No, you won’t. Mike will pick you up at eight-thirty. Neither Clovis or Martin think we should let our guard down yet.”
“Why? The case is closed.” I was tired of having a bodyguard. I sure didn’t want one following me around in Pawleys. “I don’t know how you and Walter stand round-the-clock protection every day of the year.”
“That’s not what you told the press. Besides, the guard posted in your house monitored two men in a gray Camry watching your house last night. It’s almost a question of who’s zooming who. So do as you’re told.”
I caught the humor, wanted to argue, but was just too tired to care.
MONDAY
47
THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE A BLUR. We landed in Little Rock mid-day and drove directly to Ben and Linda’s. Beth was due in on Southwest that afternoon. As expected, the funeral had been scheduled for ten in the morning on Tuesday. Ben’s house was filled with well-wishers and mourners, and his kitchen was full of food: peppered hams, casseroles, deviled eggs, grits, biscuits, salads, cakes, and pies—all the food you’d expect for a Southern funeral.
Despite Preacher Barnes’ glowering presence, a full bar had been set up in Ben’s den, and a keg and ice chests full of soft drinks were on the back porch. Children were everywhere, running and playing in their Sunday best. Ben’s friends were clustered in small groups, talking about kids, sports, their various ailments, most anything but Rachel. Feeling a little lost, Maggie and I were content to settle into a corner of the living room until Jasmine caught sight of us. She rushed over and guided us through the crowded room to Ben’s office where he and Linda sat on a small sofa.
We all hugged and he said, “Thank you for coming. I have so much to thank you for. But not now—there’ll be time to talk later.”
We slipped out a few minutes later, feeling a little guilty and more than a little relieved.
Jordan and I picked up Beth at the airport that afternoon, and after a brief stop at the Armitage, we joined the others for dinner at Micki’s. Sam appeared sans Kristine. An ailing aunt had unexpectedly called Kristine to Florida. When asked, Sam admitted he didn’t know she had an aunt. We spent the evening cozied up around the fireplace in Micki’s great room, talking about old times, good times, bad times—anything but Rachel.
The next morning Helen Cole joined us for the funeral. An usher guided us to a designated pew, and for the next hour Preacher Barnes lectured us about the perils of too much education and big city life. I can’t think his words provided much solace for her grieving parents—or hope for anyone else, for that matter.
We followed the crowd back to the house, but didn’t stay long. Ben and Linda were always surrounded, and their sons were nowhere to be seen.
Jasmine tugged on Maggie’s sleeve just as we were leaving. “Can y’all come back around six tonight? Ben wants some time alone with you. Hopefully things will have calmed down by then.”
I glanced at Maggie and said, “Of course we can.” We had planned to join Clovis and Stella for dinner before we left town, but surely we could spend a little time with Ben beforehand.
It seemed to me that the more sensational a death is, or the younger the departed, the longer folks wanted to stay—whether to be a part of the history or maybe witness a little drama, I can’t say. Late that afternoon, Maggie and I slipped in through the back door.
Ben greeted us with an exhausted smile. “I’m sorry we haven’t found time to talk. Maybe that’s the point of these things—you put one foot in front of the other till you’re plum worn out. But at least for a while you don’t have to make decisions or think about much of anything.”
I had no answer to that—and I was sure he didn’t expect one.
“Linda and I owe you so much. We’ll get to that later. Right now we have a favor to ask.” Linda nodded in agreement. I noticed the knitting lying in her lap. It reminded me of a child’s “lovey.”
“Anything,” I responded.
“Can we talk again in a few weeks’ time? We will have put our daughter to rest and comforted everyone who needs comforting. I’ll need to come to DC. Her landlord called to tell me he’d give us an extra month, but we need to clean out her apartment.
“That’s perfect. I’m going away for a few weeks myself. You don’t need to come to DC. We can take care of her apartment, unless it’s something you want to do. We’ll make an inventory and send it to you. You and Linda can decide what can be pitched and what you want sent home. I may need to get some kind of authorization from you first. Do you know if she had a will?” I asked.
“I almost forgot,” he said, rising to rummage in his desk. “The FBI gave me her will along with some other personal effects. She left everything she had to Linda and me. I was going to give it to you, but I plum forgot. The FBI said the government has already seized all her bank and brokerage accounts, so I don’t know if it’s worth anyone’s time to do anything.” He pulled the will from beneath some other papers and handed it to me. His eyes were swollen and he looked miserable.
“Aw, Ben, I wish I could have done more. Of course I can come back, whenever you’re ready. In the meantime, I’ll keep Rochelle’s will in a safe place. If you don’t mind, I’m going to talk to an estate lawyer to make sure I’m right about what you should do.”
I assured them that Maggie would be able to reach me if they needed anything. They gave me the keys to Rachel’s apartment and car, and we said our goodbyes. On the way out, I pulled Jasmine aside to emphasize that if something came up she should call Maggie immediately.
On the way to Stella’s, Maggie commented, “Jasmine is very attractive. Stella is right to keep her away from Clovis.”
I laughed. “What does Bonnie Raitt sing? ‘Don’t advertise your man?’ Both you and Stella really are protective.”
Without a hint of a smile, she replied, “Damn straight.”
I wondered if Carol, or for that matter, any other woman would ever feel that way about me.
“Maybe you should introduce Jasmine to Sam,” I offered.
Now her face widened into a slow, satisfied smile. “Jack Patterson, you are a genius.”
When we arrived, Maggie quickly cornered Micki and Stella. Jordan had pulled Clovis and Paul aside, leaving Beth and me alone in the living room. As usual, Sam was late.
I handed Beth a glass of wine and said, “Beth, I need a break. I’m going to Pawleys for three weeks. You still okay with my selling the house?”
“If you don’t, I might come to DC and hire Susan for you. Dad, it’s time, it’s time for change. I hope that’s what Pawleys is about.”
“It is. Now tell me about school and Jeff.”
Soon everyone broke up from their private conversations and joined us in the living room. Larry and Sam arrived, and we all relaxed into easy conversation while we tucked into take-out Chinese.
After dinner, I pulled Micki aside and gave her the will, asking her to make a copy and send the original to Janis Harold, probably the best tax and estate lawyer I’d ever run across.
“Tell her I’ll call her in a few days,” I said.
“I thought you were getting away for a few weeks?”
“I am, but it doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking. In fact, that’s exactly what I want to do—walk the beach and think.”
“You okay, Jack? You haven’t flirted with me once—a girl might get her feelings hurt,” she smiled.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind, but as to flirting, well—I’ve grown to like Larry. He’s good for you, and I’m not.”
Her blush caught me by surprise—I hadn’t seen Micki blush very often. “He is good for me, very good, but...”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Not between Larry and me. We’re great, but his mom is not my biggest fan. She thinks he can do a lot better, and that he’s wasting his time designing and building furniture.”
“She’s wrong on both counts. Give her time to adjust to a future she hadn’t imagined for her son; she’ll co
me around. Speaking of furniture, the chair he built for Clovis is perfect. You think he’d build another for me?”
“There’s already a waiting list, but I’ll see what I can do. After all, I am sleeping with the carpenter,” she said with a laugh.
“Your sacrifice is greatly appreciated,” I said with a little bow.
She took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “God, Jack, it’s fun working with you. Hurry up and find us another case.”
I smiled, but didn’t say anything, wondering if I should.
SATURDAY
48
I SPENT THE NEXT FEW DAYS clearing the decks at the office so I could be gone without Maggie having to call me every five minutes. We both stayed in the office late the two nights before I left, and it was well worth the effort. Martin had insisted on a security detail at my house, but they didn’t see a soul except the neighbors walking their dog and a couple of kids out for a lark. No men in a grey Camry followed me. I issued a press statement saying all questions about Rachel should be referred to Micki, counsel for the family. Micki was okay with this while I was gone.
By Thursday, I was ready to leave, in fact chomping at the bit. Clovis had finally given me the okay to spend my vacation without a bodyguard. I was frankly surprised when he relented and wondered if Maggie and Clovis hadn’t conspired behind my back to have me watched by somebody locally. As long as they left me alone, I frankly didn’t care.
Walter offered his plane, and I accepted, glad to avoid the commercial flight into Myrtle Beach. We landed at the Georgetown County Airport, where, thanks to Maggie, the rental car was waiting. After a trip to the new Lowes grocery for provisions, I was driving across the north causeway onto Pawleys an hour later.
Now my toes were wiggling in the wet sand of the Atlantic Ocean. The weather was a little warm for October, but the wind still required a jacket as I ventured out on my first walk to the fishing pier and back. The home I had rented was perfect. With a large kitchen, family room, and master bedroom on the first floor, I had no reason to go upstairs at all. I wasn’t expecting company.
I quickly fell into a routine, getting up early in the morning to walk the beach from one end to the other just after sunrise, a distance of about three and a half miles round trip. I then cleaned up and went across the causeway to a little place I’d found off Highway Seventeen that served breakfast. I figured that after a three-mile walk, I deserved a good breakfast.
I picked up both the New York Times and the local Myrtle Beach paper at the Food Lion and returned home to settle in. After reading the papers, I picked up one of the many books I’d been meaning to read, keeping my vow not to turn on the TV until after dinner. I took a second walk around noon or rode a rented bike around the island, then ate a light lunch. My afternoon reading session usually resulted in a nap. The length of these afternoon naps revealed the extent of both my mental and physical exhaustion.
I’d told Maggie I wouldn’t read any emails or answer the phone for the first week, unless she or Beth needed me. So far neither had called. I took a final short walk every evening at sunset, made myself a cocktail, and then took an Uber back across the causeway for an early dinner at one of the excellent mainland restaurants. Frank’s was my favorite.
I never stayed out late, and usually ended up watching a ball game or finishing a book before an early bedtime. Sounds boring, but I’ve left one factor out of my daily routine, and she wasn’t the least bit boring.
Every morning at breakfast the same employee greeted me from behind the cash register. Her face was covered with freckles, and her long red hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. She wore it piled on top of her head, held up with a variety of combs, pins, and pencils. She always wore the same outfit—a plaid snap-pocket shirt with the sleeves rolled up, blue jeans, and cowboy boots.
She appeared to be in her early thirties, and at first I thought she might be the owner’s daughter. She was always in motion, seemingly willing to do most everything—combination hostess, waitress, busboy, and cashier. She flirted outrageously with every man or boy who walked through the door. I later learned she was the owner, and that her name was Jo Ellen Murphy.
Everyone seemed to enjoy her shtick—it was so over-the-top not even the wives or mothers could object. She wore a diamond ring and wedding band on her left hand, and any guy who got out of line got the back side of that hand as well a firm nudge out the door. I hadn’t been to Pawleys often since Angie’s death, but she greeted me each time like I’d been there just the day before.
On Monday night, I was watching the game between the Saints and the Redskins when I heard a knock and the front door flew open. I have to admit I nearly jumped out of my skin. When I could focus, I saw Jo Ellen walk in like she owned the place. She’d changed into a blue dress shirt and had pulled her hair into a ponytail, but the jeans and boots were the same. I thought I detected a hint of perfume.
“I thought you might want some company for the game. Who’s winning?”
Somewhat taken aback I said, “Uh, the Saints so far. Can I fix you something to drink, uh, Ms. Murphy?”
“It’s Jo, and no, I brought my own, hope you don’t mind,” she said, pointing to the large leather bag at her side. “I’m sure you have a blender. Just give me a couple of glasses and some ice.”
I found the blender in the cabinet above the fridge and watched as she made a concoction she called a redneck margarita—frozen limeade, Sprite, Bud Light with Lime, and lots of tequila. I chose to stick with my glass of Cabernet. Unfazed, she carried the frothy mixture into the family room, and sank into the sofa, and asked, “What’s the score?”
The first thing I learned about my unexpected guest was that she knew one hell of a lot about football. She also knew a good deal more about me than I knew about her, which was basically nothing. I asked about the wedding rings, and she told me she’d gotten married fresh out of high school, but in her words, “it ended badly.” She still wore the rings to avoid complications at work, although she’d “upgraded the diamond quite a bit.” She was closer to my age than I’d guessed and didn’t mind admitting it. She was easy to talk to, had definite political opinions, and made no bones about them.
The game was a blowout, Saints ahead by 28 to zip at halftime, so we took our drinks out on the deck to enjoy the rising moon. She was very different from the people I knew in DC or had met at Carol’s. She seemed utterly authentic, both a product and part of her environment. Then again, I had to admit maybe my DC friends were exactly the same: I just didn’t like the environment. But why was she here?
“I am so glad you dropped by tonight.” I began, but she quickly interrupted me.
“Hold that thought, Jack, I gotta pee. I think I’ll switch to wine—do you have any white? Great, pour me a glass, and let’s continue this conversation inside. I’m getting cold.”
I followed her through the screen door and pulled a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge. I’d just rinsed out a wine glass when she walked in wearing only her white shirt and panties. Gone were the boots, jeans, and her ponytail. Her hair was a beautiful, tangled mess. She kissed me softly on the lips.
“You were about to ask me why I came over tonight. Well, the answer is sex. I want to use you for sex. Now let’s take our wine into the family room, and I’ll explain the rules.”
I was dumbfounded, but followed her like an eager puppy, and we sank into the couch facing each other. She leaned in and gave me a long, slow kiss.
“Jo’s rules: If you come for breakfast tomorrow morning there will be no hint about tonight. No wink, no comment, not a word. I have a reputation to keep. No self-respecting off-island girl ever sleeps with a tourist. Agreed?”
“This tourist off-island girl thing doesn’t make any sense to me, but agreed,” I said. Why would I argue?
“Next. I like spontaneous. No dates, no dinners. I show up if and when I want. If you have company, I’ll disappear. But when I come over is totally up to me.”
&n
bsp; “You won’t even let me take you to dinner?” I asked.
“I told you I have a reputation to keep,” she said sternly. She also began to trace the back of my hand softly with her nail.
“They’re your rules, but I’d still like to take you out. How about a beach walk and dinner here?” Her hand was now working its way up my arm.
She took a long sip of wine before she answered. “Well, maybe. I don’t normally take beach walks because I’m on my feet twelve hours every day. But dinner here might be nice if I don’t have to cook.” She reached over and kissed my neck.
“Finally, this is about sex, not some love affair that always ends badly. When you leave it’s over between us, plain and simple. No phone call, no flowers, and no cards. Deal?”
She rose, taking my hand and pulling me toward the bedroom. How could I argue with her rules? Just then, I might have agreed to most anything.
49
JO WAS GONE WHEN I WOKE UP: no surprise, as she opened the restaurant at six o’clock sharp every morning. I wondered if her visit last night had been a dream. I mean surely this sort of thing doesn’t happen often; at least it didn’t to me. I did my best to avoid her at breakfast that morning, and she did the same, although I thought I caught a glance now and then. I finished my country-fried steak, gravy, and eggs and walked over to the counter to pay. Without looking up she commented, “You seemed hungry this morning.” I tipped my baseball cap and walked out, trying not to grin.
She didn’t appear that evening or the next. I was tempted to push it at breakfast on Thursday, but her rules had been clear. Maybe it had been a one-night fling after all. That night I decided to try a new Italian restaurant in Litchfield. It was pretty good, but all in all, not worth the drive.
When I opened the front door I was startled to find Jo lounging on the great room couch, sipping a glass of wine, and wearing nothing but my best blue dress shirt.