Live Free or Die

by Jessie Crockett

  “I’d like that. I don’t cook, but I love to eat.” I drained my coffee cup and carried it to the sink. The counters, stove and sink gleamed. With four kids and full-time work, it was a remarkable level of cleanliness.

  “One day we do this.” She walked me to the door and held it open.

  “Luisa, if you need help with something, please let me know. Everything is hard if the language isn’t easy.”

  “Why you are helping us? You are not knowing us.”

  “My husband Peter was killed in an accident when my two sons were twelve and sixteen. I know what it’s like to raise kids on your own. If people in town hadn’t helped me, I don’t know how we would have made it through.”

  “Beulah helped us, and look what Ethel say today. We are better with no help.” Luisa snuffed her nose like she was about to cry again. “I knew when she say me not work more at museum she not like me, but I not know she go to say bad things in front of many people and my sons.”

  “Ethel fired you from your job at the museum?”

  “She say she not need me there. My work was no good.”

  “But Beulah hired you. Did you tell her that Ethel fired you?” Luisa shook her head, sending her black hair swirling around her face.

  “No. I say nothing to Beulah. I want no trouble with anyone.” She shivered and hunched her shoulders as cold air blasted through the open door. I wasn’t shivering. My growing fury was toasting me nicely from the inside out. It kept me warm all the way to Ethel’s house.

  Fourteen

  I meant to confront Ethel before I cooled down, but as I approached her house it was dark, and I needed to use the bathroom. I shouldn’t have gone home. By the time I’d attended to the call of nature, I’d lost my nerve. The house was warm and smelled of freshly baked bread. Augusta was there fixing dinner.

  “I thought you’d still be out with Gene.” I opened the oven door and peeked at a roasting chicken and scalloped potatoes.

  “Always leave them wanting more. That’s my policy.” Augusta wiped her hands on an apron I’d forgotten I owned.

  “You have a policy for romance?” I slumped in a rocker as she bustled about the room washing greens for salad, slicing a loaf of bread.

  “Everyone has a policy whether they acknowledge it or not. Even you.” Augusta pointed at me with the bread knife.

  “My life is devoid of romance.”

  “That’s because that’s your policy: no romance.”

  “It’s not a policy. It’s a lack of opportunity.”

  “You’ve got a seven-foot-tall redheaded opportunity knocking on your door pretty frequently lately. I’d say he’s interested.” My cheeks flamed, and I gnawed my thumbnail. I haven’t bitten my nails since the second grade when my father promised me a whale-watching trip if I quit.

  “What makes you think he’s interested?”

  “Because despite my best efforts, which are considerable, he kept his attention on you the night he stayed over after the accident. And what about at the funeral this afternoon? Who was holding your hymnal for you and fetching your coat?”

  “He has good manners. That has more to do with a proper upbringing than any particular interest in me.”

  “Why is it so hard for you to believe someone might find you attractive?” Augusta thumped the bowl of salad on the kitchen table. I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling my shoulders slump forward. Augusta pulled out a chair and dragged it close to me. “What is going on here?”

  “Peter was cheating on me. He was involved with another woman when he was killed.” My eyes smarted.

  “Peter?” Augusta squeezed my hand. “Are you sure?”

  “Ethel told me.” A tear skidded off my cheek and plopped into my lap.

  “How would she know?”

  “The woman was a bank teller over in Langley. Ethel was making a deposit one day and saw Peter leaving the bank with her. Being the hateful busybody she is, she followed them. They drove to the woman’s house during the lunch hour. Ethel found it interesting enough to keep tabs on him for a couple of weeks.”

  “She told you this?” Augusta’s eyes widened.

  “One morning about a month after Peter’s funeral she dropped in at the post office and told me how lucky I was to be a widow instead of a humiliated divorcee. She suggested I check Peter’s credit card statement for dinners at the Italian restaurant in Hoyt’s Mills.”

  “Good Lord. Did you check?” Augusta’s nose twitched like she smelled something rotted.

  “I did. Purchases I didn’t know anything about at restaurants and jewelers and florists showed up for over a year.”

  “What a bastard, and you couldn’t even confront him about it.”

  “I wanted so badly to ask him why he did it, what was wrong with our marriage. What was he finding with that woman that he wasn’t finding with me?”

  “I don’t know, Gwennie. I just don’t know.”

  “You know what the worst thing was? Being so angry I could hardly breathe and having to pretend to be a grieving widow. Every day people would stream into the post office with condolences, and I’d have to fake it when what I really wanted to do was to grab them by the shoulders and shake the pity off their kind faces.”

  “The boys don’t know, do they?”

  “Certainly not. I’ve never told anyone. As far as I know Ethel hasn’t told anyone except me either. I’ve never heard about it if she has.”

  “And we both know you would have heard.” Augusta jumped up and rummaged through the fridge. Pulling out a bottle of champagne, she set it on the table and went to the dining room. Returning with the flutes Peter and I had used at our wedding reception, she ripped off the foil and deftly untwisted the wire cage.

  “I don’t feel like celebrating,” I said.

  “I’ve been divorced four times. Believe me, I know exactly what it takes to get over a marriage. Come on, on your feet.” Augusta grabbed the bottle and led me into Peter’s office.

  “Shrines are no good. I made that mistake with Walter.” Augusta had met Walter in college. Probably they’d still be married if he hadn’t arrived home from work one evening with a nineteen-year-old girl in tow and announced that God had called him to become a polygamist.

  “You felt keeping Walter’s money constituted building a shrine?” I looked around at all of Peter’s things I hadn’t had the heart to get rid of.

  “Absolutely.” Augusta popped the cork on the champagne and poured us each a glass. “That’s why I spent it all. No shrines. And this,” Augusta swept her hand around the room sloshing champagne as she pointed, “is definitely a shrine.”

  “The boys needed a place to remember their dad.” I focused on the bubbles rising to the top of my flute instead of looking at Augusta.

  “The boys don’t live here anymore. Neither does Peter.”

  “I like this room the way it is.”

  “You like the taxidermy fish and the collection of miniature tractors? You like the annoying plastic clock that makes a different bird sound every hour on the hour?”

  “Maybe it’s a little outdated. I really do hate that clock.” I took a sip of my champagne, then drained the glass. Augusta promptly refilled it.

  “You start taking down the maps from the walls, and I’ll get some boxes from the barn. And another bottle of champagne.”

  By two in the morning we had dragged everything I no longer wanted or needed into the barn or into the hall. The room looked like possibilities instead of memories. The change felt good.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Augusta asked, sitting on the floor and leaning against a wall.

  “I still need an office, but it needs some new wallpaper and fresh paint.”

  “We’ll go out to a home improvement place in the morning and maybe back to Gene’s for a few pieces of furniture that are more your taste.” Augusta yawned.

  “I haven’t budgeted for buying furniture at Christmas time, at least not at Gene’s prices.” />
  “Don’t worry. I’m sure I can get you a great deal.”

  “I don’t want you to do me that sort of a favor.”

  “Don’t fuss. It’ll be my pleasure.” Augusta wrapped me in a perfumed hug. “Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day, and we both could use some beauty sleep.” Augusta led the way up the stairs and fluttered her hand at me as she reached the guest room door.

  I slipped into my pajamas in the dark and crawled between the chilly sheets. I wished someone was there to help warm the bed, but my mind didn’t wander to thoughts of Peter and the past. It was lingering on the present when I realized I wasn’t alone after all. Switching on the bedside light I spotted Pinkerton snuggled down at the foot of the bed. Holding him at arm’s length I stomped down the hall to the guest room and tossed him in to join Augusta. Returning to my own room, I yanked the quilt off the bed and dumped it in the hall until I decided what to do with it. I didn’t want the cat hair in my own washer, but there was no way I could avoid cleaning it.

  I wiggled my feet down to the spot Pinkerton had warmed and drifted off to sleep, wondering again what it would be like once more to have someone to cuddle with. Someone tall. Maybe someone with red hair.

  Opening my bedroom door the next morning, I spotted Pinkerton curled up once again on the quilt. I shooed him away, carried the blanket downstairs and then set off for Suds Yer Duds. The Laundromat was just the place to leave Pinkerton’s fur. I had to pass Dinah’s on my way and noticed Winston coming out dressed for church. He rattled a white paper bag at me with one gnarled hand and held a half-eaten doughnut in the other.

  “Eggnog doughnuts this morning. Get ‘em while you can.” He ambled down the sidewalk, dribbling crumbs on the icy pavement behind him. Five minutes later, clutching a doughnut sack of my own, I stood in front of Suds Yer Duds, a single-story building clad in fake brick siding. The rusty metal roof dripped melting snow down my back as I struggled with the door.

  I stuffed the furry quilt into a machine and settled in a ripped vinyl chair to flip through an old Reader’s Digest and munch a doughnut when Ray burst in carrying a stack of laundry baskets.

  “What’re you doin’ here?” Ray eyed my doughnut bag as he thumped his baskets down on a washer.

  “Laundry.” Not sharing doughnuts with Ray was helping him to avoid becoming a stereotype. At least that’s what I told myself as I slid the bag under the Reader’s Digest in my lap.

  “I thought it was probably something like that. What’s in the bag?”

  “Feminine hygiene products.” Ray threw a hand up to shield his eyes like I’d turned a laser pointer full in his face. He hummed loudly and busied himself with his dirty uniforms and crusty socks. I pulled the doughnuts out from under the magazine and parked them in the open. It didn’t look like they were in any danger from Ray.

  “So where’s your boyfriend?” he shouted over the slap of the washer once he had run out of tunes to hum.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Same thing as everyone else, your love life.” Ray plopped himself in the rickety chair next to me. Absentmindedly, he picked at a rip in the upholstery with a hairy forefinger.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have no love life.”

  “That’s what I told Winston, but he said to keep an eye on you. What do we know about this guy anyway?” Crazy as it was, I felt a little touched by Winston’s concern.

  “What guy?”

  “You know, Mr. Big Shot Investigator.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. What other rumors are gallivanting around behind my back?”

  “I heard Augusta killed Beulah to get a hold of her estate.”

  “She wasn’t even in Winslow Falls when Beulah died. Who said that?”

  “I don’t know who started it. I just know Clive repeated that he had heard it somewhere else.” I wondered what Clive had to gain from saying such a thing. Had he had anything to do with Beulah’s death himself and wanted to throw the attention elsewhere?

  “You know Augusta better than that and so does Clive. Besides, there were other people who might have had a reason to kill Beulah.”

  “Like who?”

  “You’re the Police Chief. What’s your opinion?” I didn’t want the village churning itself up against Augusta, but I wasn’t going to toss anyone else into the fray as a distraction.

  “We all know who did it. The only mystery around here is why your boyfriend is holding off on arresting them.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. Just humor me for a minute and pretend someone else could have set the museum on fire. Who else could it be?”

  “Well, if it wasn’t those kids, I’d have to say Pauline could be a good possibility. She was pretty steamed up about Beulah not giving her the job as curator.”

  “Ethel said the same thing at the meeting the other night.”

  “I suppose even Ethel could have done it. She got the job at the museum, but maybe she didn’t like answering to Beulah. She was a good lady, but she could be hard to take when it came to the museum.”

  “That wouldn’t explain why she’d set fire to the museum. She couldn’t have control over a building that burned to the ground.”

  “Maybe she had a lot of faith in the fire department. Maybe she thought you guys would do a better job.” Ray’s radio blared from his belt. “That was Farley. Phil Lawrence just hit a deer out on County Road.”

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Nobody but the deer. Phil wants me to help him toss it into his truck. No sense good venison going to waste. I’m gonna be gone a while. Don’t leave my wash in the dryer too long. It doesn’t look professional if my uniform’s wrinkled.” Ray slammed the door on his way out, sending a chunk of ice crashing down off the roof. As far as I was concerned, no amount of laundry care was going to help Ray look professional. When my quilt was clean, I took it home to air dry.

  Fifteen

  Augusta was up by the time I got home, and we spent most of the morning sitting at the wallpaper counter in a home improvement place down in Riverton. We eventually settled on wallpaper and paint and celebrated our decisions over a late lunch at The Lobster Pot. Augusta dropped me off at the house to start painting and continued on to The Hodge Podge to look for a desk and a lamp.

  Peter and Ethel both filled my thoughts throughout the afternoon. The more I dabbed and swiped, the more I felt my anger at Ethel returning. She had humiliated me when I was the most vulnerable. I had an overwhelming desire to give her a piece of my mind. Augusta still hadn’t returned by the time I washed out the paint brush. Before I could lose my nerve again, I stuffed my feet into my boots, grabbed a Mag-Lite and dashed out the door.

  Ethel’s house stood dark in the dusk of the evening. The street lamp outside was the only light shining nearby. I barreled up the steps to her front door and knocked, but there was no reply. Ethel’s blue town car hunkered in the driveway, and I’d never thought of her as much of a walker.

  I stomped through the snow around the side of the house to try to peek inside. Curtains along the side of the building were still drawn shut. At the back of the house I raised on tiptoe to peek through the flapping plastic covering the kitchen window. A puff of wind lifted the corner of the plastic and revealed the kitchen. Light glowed from the digital clock on the coffee pot, and I could barely make out a jigsaw puzzle covering one end of the table.

  I poked my flashlight through the gap and flicked it on. As I swept it around the room, the beam landed on the ceramic tile. Ethel lay sprawled on the floor in front of the wood stove. Even from this distance she didn’t look too lively. Her eyes were closed, but the angle of her body looked too uncomfortable for natural sleep. Jasper was walking across her back and kneading her with his claws. I could hear the flannel ripping from where I stood. I tried the handle of the back door, but it was locked.

  I waded back through the snow and pounded down the street as quickly as my out-of-shape legs would take me. Bursting through the door
at Dinah’s, I was glad for the first time in my life to see Ray.

  “It’s about time you decided to get some exercise.” Ray pointed at me with a half-eaten hotdog. “That photo in the paper wasn’t exactly flattering.”

  “Gwen doesn’t exercise,” Clive said from the stool where he always ate his supper.

  “Something’s wrong with Ethel,” I said. “She’s laid out cold on her kitchen floor with the cat climbing all over her.” Ray stuffed the rest of the hotdog into his mouth with one shove, and Clive sprang for the door. The three of us climbed into the town’s only police car. Ray was so excited to flip on the siren he forgot to close the car door before pulling away from the curb.

  Squealing to a stop in front of Ethel’s house, Ray threw the cruiser into park and dashed up the front steps. Over and over he slammed his shoulder into the heavy door, getting absolutely nowhere. I stood wondering how we were going to get in when I realized Clive had disappeared. Retracing my steps through the snow, I rounded the corner of the house and saw Clive using a key to open the back door and step inside. Jasper streaked past me into the dark as I entered the kitchen. I bent down and felt Ethel’s wrist for a pulse. I couldn’t feel anything, but the truth is, I never got the hang of pulse-taking, even during the eighties when everyone was into aerobics and target heart rates. Still, from the bloody paw prints tracked away from her head, I’d say Ethel’s heart rate was definitely at the resting stage.

  Clive must have let Ray in because there he was, hot and eager. He’d pulled out an exact copy of the notebook Hugh was always scribbling in.

  “We’d better call the ambulance,” I said. I searched for the phone and found it, cleverly disguised as a plastic napping cat. As it rang, I noticed a kerosene heater tipped over on its side, just like the one at the museum. I gestured for Clive to take the phone and checked out the heater.

  It was less than four feet from Ethel’s body. A little fuel had leaked onto the ceramic tile floor and trickled toward her corpse, but as I joggled the heater I couldn’t hear sloshing in the fuel reservoir. I surveyed the room and couldn’t see why the heater tipped over. The base was wide and the floor even. Jasper wasn’t heavy enough to have knocked it over by rubbing against it. I couldn’t see him getting dangerously close to a working heater anyway.