I stopped my car nearby, waited a few moments before shutting off the engine, then opened the door. I continued to sit for a while, allowing the crisp late-October air to work its way into the Camry until I was forced to move.
Gravel crunched beneath my feet. My hands formed small balls as I wrapped my arms around myself; I was cold, not so much from the weather as the locale. I hated this place. I hated death. In some strange way, I even hated life.
I made my way up the grassy slope toward a headstone I’d long ignored. “Benson” it read. “Minerva Warren, Beloved Wife &Mother” on the left side. “Daniel Robert, Beloved Husband &Father” on the right side. Just under Daddy’s name, in smaller lettering, was “Honorable Mayor of Summit View, Colorado.”
Bits of dead grass had managed to find their way into the etching of letters. I bent down and blew, watching the bits fly up, then lie on the marble slab over the graves. I brushed the grass away with the palm of my hand, then stood, shoving my hands into the pockets of my coat. “Hey, Mama. Daddy,” I said, then looked around to see if anyone else might be lingering about. I was completely alone. Just several hundred dead souls and me.
“I know I haven’t been here in a while.” I looked around again, then back to the slab. “I need to bring some new flowers out here, don’t I? These are a little faded. I’ll bring out an autumn arrangement next week.” I sighed, as though waiting for an answer, then let a quick laugh escape me. “Oh, I can just hear you now, Mama. ‘Evangeline Benson, how dare you let us lay out here for so long forgotten?’ I’m sorry. I’ve not been mad with you or anything.” I glanced farther down the path, nearer still to the statue of the Good Shepherd. “I’ve just been angry with Ruth Ann. That’s really why I’m here, but I thought I’d stop by . . .” I paused. “This is so stupid. I can’t believe I’m talking to you like this.” I looked around again, then back down. “You couldn’t help it that you got killed; I know that.” Tears formed in my eyes, slipping down my cheeks. “Well, then. Um.” I swallowed. “Daddy, I’m still working hard. And the house is holding up well.” I took a step back. “I love you both. We didn’t say that a lot when I was growing up, but I want you to know that I always have loved you . . . and I’ll talk to you both later.” I continued to back away until I’d returned to the path. I turned myself to the left, then proceeded up until I reached the headstone I’d not bothered to look at in many years.
“Hello, Ruth Ann.” The wind picked up a few fallen aspen leaves that whirled about me. I shivered in the cold.
Arnold—or perhaps it had been one of their children—had placed a white wrought-iron bench near Ruth Ann’s grave. I sat down on it, feeling the icy chill rush through me as I stared at her headstone until my eyes burned from not blinking. I would not cry . . . I would not cry. “How could you have left me?” I whispered, closing my eyes and resting against the back of the bench.
I felt more than heard something moving next to me. My eyes flew open. Ruth Ann, dressed in her favorite pink suit—the very one Arnold had buried her in—stood beside the bench. I jumped up so quickly I lost my step, coming back down hard to the bench on my rear end. I found my equilibrium and stood back up, taking several steps away from the apparition smiling at me. “Hello, Evangeline.”
I pointed to the ghost. “You stay away from me, Ruth Ann McDonald.” I turned my head from the left to the right and back to the left again. Could anyone see this besides me?
“No one here but us,” she toyed.
“I’m not speaking to you,” I said, pointing to her.
She smiled again. “Then why are you here?”
“To tell you I’m angry with you.”
“Because?” She raised a perfectly arched brow.
“You left me! You left me in this awful place all alone!”
“What’s so awful about it, Evie?”
“What’s so awful about it? I’ll tell you what’s so awful about it. You were my best friend. We did everything together. There was nothing left for me when you left.”
Ruth Ann took a step toward me. “Nothing? Seems to me you’ve done pretty well keeping yourself busy. The Potluck Club has flourished, I hear.”
I threw up my arms. “What a motley crew we are. Lizzie’s doing well, I suppose, but Goldie’s left Jack, Donna Vesey gives me grief at nearly every meeting, Vonnie apparently married some man back in college who got killed in Vietnam but not before he got her pregnant, and she had the baby, thought he’d died, but now he’s come to Summit View looking for her and God only knows if she’ll even talk to him. You can just imagine what this has done to her relationship with Fred, not to mention with her mother, who apparently knew that the baby lived, but didn’t want—”
Ruth Ann raised her hand. “I know all this, Evie.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “How’s Leigh?”
“You know about Leigh?”
She nodded again. “And Jan Moore and Lisa Leann Lambert.” I walked over to the bench and sat down. “Oh, Ruth Ann. Why haven’t you been here to pray with me? What a mess we all live in down here.”
Ruth Ann joined me on the bench, her body not touching mine. She looked straight ahead, hands folded in her lap, as she said, “You’ve been meeting to pray all these years, Evangeline. You, Lizzie, Goldie.” She turned her head to look at me. “Von, Donna, and now Lisa Leann.” She smiled a closed-lip smile. “You’ve got quite the little prayer group going, but you’ve forgotten to invite one very important person.”
I furrowed my brow, unable to think of a single woman from Summit View who should be a part of our group. “Who?” I asked.
“You’ve forgotten to invite God.” Ruth Ann shifted a bit, holding up a hand to stop the outburst she knew would fly out of my mouth. “Hear me out, Evangeline. When was the last time you truly prayed about anything? In faith?”
The tears I’d tried to keep at bay rose and spilled over again. “When I prayed for you to live.” I jumped up. “Why’d you have to go and die on me, Ruth Ann McDonald?”
Ruth Ann remained seated. “Are you angry with me, Evangeline? Or God?”
I stomped around for a few good seconds before answering, “I’m mad with you both.” I looked her in the eyes, realizing for the first time that she wasn’t wearing those old, large-framed glasses . . . knowing her vision was crystal clear. My shoulders fell; my head bowed. “How could you?” I whispered. “I prayed so hard. How could God not have heard me? How could you have given up so easily?” I fell to my knees before her and began to sob.
Ruth Ann rose and walked over toward me. No sound came from her footsteps, but through my veil of tears I could see her tiny bare feet approaching. She stopped just in front of me. “God heard you, Evangeline. You prayed I would be healed, and I was.” My shoulders shook almost violently from the flow of tears. “I’ve never felt so good in my life as I have in my death.”
I looked up to see her smiling at me. “Shut up, Ruth Ann McDonald,” I said, suddenly hearing laughter forcing its way from way down inside of me. Ruth Ann knelt before me, laughing just as hard.
“Oh, Evie,” she said, sobering. “You’re still such a character.”
I sat back on my rear end, rested my forearms on my knees, and looked around the serenity of the place. “Lizzie says there are five healings: a healing of the attitude, the natural immune system, medical science, miracles, and death.”
“Lizzie always was the smart one.”
I cut my eyes over to her. “What’s it like up there?”
She smiled at me again. “It’s pure heaven,” she answered, and I rolled my eyes. “Well, you asked.”
I sighed. “I surely did.”
We sat for a few more minutes in complete silence; I’m not sure what Ruth Ann was thinking, but I was reflecting on the fact that life and death were such strange creatures. Goldie’s marriage was dying, but her daughter was pregnant again. Our pastor’s wife was battling cancer, but my niece was bringing life into the world.
“Hey,” Ruth Ann said from beside me. “Do me a favor, okay?” “If I can.”
“When you leave here, go see Jan Moore. Spend time with her now . . . while you can.”
“What do you mean, while I can?”
“The end of every day is filled with missed opportunities, Evangeline. Don’t miss the opportunity to spend time with a really fine woman of God. Not so much for her but for you.”
I bit my bottom lip. “All right. I will.”
“Good. Now, then. Close your eyes.”
“Don’t question the dead, Evangeline. Just do it.”
I closed my eyes and listened only to the silence around me. From somewhere, way far off, I thought I heard traffic; but it could have just as easily been the wisp of an angel’s wings.
“Proverbs 3:5 says that if we trust in the Lord with all our heart and lean not on our own understanding, and in all our ways ac–Shepherd_ knowledge him, he will direct our paths. Say that with me,” she coaxed.
I did. I repeated the familiar Scripture three or four times until I realized I was no longer saying it with Ruth Ann but alone. I kept my eyes closed, sighing deeply. I was ready, I decided. Sitting in this place of death, I was ready to face Jan Moore. I was ready to face life.
“Evangeline?”
I opened my eyes quickly. I was no longer sitting on the ground but on the bench where I’d first closed my eyes. I was chilled to the bone, and Vernon Vesey was standing before me—one hand resting on the butt of his gun and the other hand on the bullet packs clipped to his belt. He wore his black leather officer’s jacket; the sun glinted off the five points of his badge and danced in the coolness of his eyes. He tugged at the brim of his uniform cap. “Evangeline, are you all right?”
I looked around quickly. Ruth Ann was nowhere in sight, and I knew I’d only dreamed our conversation. But this apparition—my old friend Vernon—was real. “I’m fine, Vernon Vesey.” I sat up straight as I spoke.
Vernon nodded toward the front of the cemetery. “I got a call from the groundskeeper. He was a little concerned about you sitting up here all alone for so long. Thought you might’ve had a heart attack or something.”
“No. No heart attack. A heart transplant, maybe, but no heart attack.”
Vernon frowned. “Say what?”
I patted the bench beside me. “Have a seat, Vernon Vesey. I have a question for you.”
Vernon sat, the leather he wore pulling and stretching as he did so. He had put on a few pounds since we were kids.
I turned to look at him. “Answer this for me, will you? What was so special about Doreen McDaniel?”
Vernon shook his head. “Oh, heaven’s above, Evangeline. Are you still singing that tired old song?”
I squared my shoulders. “I want to know. I need to know.” I jutted my chin toward him. “Quite honestly, I believe I deserve to know.”
Vernon turned enough to face me. “Evangeline, I was all of twelve years old. Boys twelve years old will do nearly anything when it comes to trying to . . . well, you know.” I’m not sure, but I think he blushed. “Twelve-year-old boys like to think they’ve gotten to first base, if you don’t mind my being so crude.” He smiled at me with a hint of mischief. “Oh, that Doreen. She knew what she wanted from early on, didn’t she? I suppose I was powerless to resist her wily ways.”
I butted Vernon’s shoulder with my own. “You got every bit of what you deserved in the end, if you ask me.”
Seriousness brushed across his face. “I got Donna. That’s the most important thing.”
I nodded, turning to face forward. When I did, Vernon wrapped an arm around my shoulder, pulling me to him, then drew us both to rest on the back of the bench. He crossed his legs at the ankles, and I allowed myself to relax in his embrace. We sat like this for a few minutes before he broke the silence.
“Ruth Ann McDonald,” he said. “Now there was a good kisser.”
I jerked my head to look up at him, realizing immediately that he was teasing me with a lie. “Vernon Vesey, don’t you dare talk ill of the dead.”
Vernon reached up, ran a finger down the length of my nose, then up to remove his cap. “Evie-girl,” he said softly. “I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do since I was a boy.” I felt his arm pulling me closer to him. “I’m going to kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before . . . and when I’m done, I just may kiss you again.” We were so close I could smell the morning’s coffee on his breath. “And then you know what you’re going to do?”
I shook my head no.
“You’re going to go home, get dressed, and I’m going to take you to dinner. After that . . . who knows?”
I closed my eyes, felt his lips against mine. It was—how did Ruth Ann put it?—pure heaven. Vernon doesn’t kiss like a chicken anymore, I thought ridiculously. And then I wrapped my arms around his neck, for God and Ruth Ann and Mama and Daddy and all of Summit View to behold.
47
That woman is
a legendary kisser . . .
Well, I just wish you’d look at that, Clay Whitefield thought as he sat in his rundown jeep, parked just beyond the cemetery and well out of view.
He flipped open his notebook, scribbling thoughts and ideas as quickly as he could, then began to jot questions needing to be answered if he were ever going to write the story of the ladies of the Potluck.
Questions like: was the legend of Evangeline Benson and Vernon Vesey even accurate? Maybe their ill-fated prepubescent love affair hadn’t ended with just one kiss. From the looks of things on the hillside, Clay would say those two might have been carrying on behind the backs of the good people of Summit View.
If that were true, could there be a possible tie-in with David Harris? Maybe he was their “love child.” Maybe his original suspicions were way off track.
He shook his head. Wait a minute, Whitefield. Harris has some Hispanic heritage . . .
Did that mean, then, that Evangeline Benson may have been involved with someone else? Someone her parents would not have approved of way back in the love era of the sixties?
And—if so—who would be the one person most likely to know the answer to that question?
Clay snorted as he flipped the fraying cover of his notebook shut. “Well, that doesn’t take a genius to figure out,” he spoke into the cool air. He shifted in his seat and turned the key in the ignition, then shot a glance back up to where Vernon Vesey and Evangeline Benson were still hot in an embrace.
He breathed a sigh of relief. They hadn’t heard the start of the jeep. He shifted the gearshift into reverse, backed up about a foot, then swung out onto the road. Sheer determination set the expression of his face.
With any luck Donna would be back at the café. With any luck the turning point of his story about the ladies was just at his fingertips, especially since he knew firsthand that Harris was coming back to town.
48
Half-Baked Attempt
As Clay’s jeep was nowhere in sight, I’d decided to treat myself to a slice of Sal’s cheddar cheese pie before the fun and games began. I ate my last bite still warmed from Sal’s microwave and took a swig of what remained of my iced tea. I checked my clipboard. David was due in at DIA at 1300 hours, 1:00 civilian time, arriving on Frontier Flight 381. It took about three hours to get through the airport, the rental car agency, and up I-70 to this part of the high country, so I figured I’d get a call from him as soon as he got settled in the Gold Rush Bed and Breakfast. I checked my watch. As it was approaching 1630 hours, or 4:00 p.m., his call could come at any moment.
To my chagrin, Clay pulled up to the café in his old jeep. The bell above the door announced his arrival. “Good afternoon, Deputy Donna,” Clay said as he walked in. He turned to Sal.
“The usual?” she asked as he nodded his head and sat down next to me at the counter.
“Got any news for me, Donna?”
I wiped my mouth with my napkin and turned to him. “Can’t say that I do.”
H
e gave me a sly grin. “A lot of intrigue going on around here, I’m told.”
I pulled out my wallet and reached for a ten spot. “Well, then maybe you’re the one who should be telling me what’s new.”
He leaned closer. “I’ve talked to David Harris.”
I felt the color drain from my face. “Oh yeah? What did David have to say?”
“Well, now, that’s actually confidential. However, I hear something is going down this afternoon. Right?”
I stood abruptly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I walked over to the register and gave Sal the ten. She handed me my change, and I walked back to the counter to leave the tip. “So, what are you planning to do, run an exposé on all this nonsense?”
Clay’s eyes shone. “Something like that.”
Without another word, I turned and left the café. How could David call Clay? Had he given Clay Vonnie’s name? I’m pretty sure I hadn’t given David Vonnie’s full name. But for gosh sakes, how many Vonnies live in Summit View?
My cell rang as I climbed into my Bronco.
“Deputy, it’s David. I’m at the hotel. Go ahead and call Vonnie and let her know she can meet me in room 109; it’s a suite with a little sitting area.”
“Not so fast,” I said, feeling steamed. “I’m coming over to talk to you.”
“Is everything okay?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
I roared my truck through the heart of town and pulled into the driveway of the bed and breakfast. It was charming, really. A Swiss-alpine-styled Victorian, painted gray with white shutters and trim. Flower boxes filled with plastic red geraniums lined every spectacular leaded glass window. Lilly Deval, the owner and proprietor, had mothered this old mansion to this state of glory, decorating each room in period furniture and vintage-like wallpaper. I whipped into the driveway and found David Harris standing outside, waiting for my arrival.
“What’s wrong, Deputy?” he called to me as I climbed out of the truck.
The Potluck Club Page 26