Burying Daisy Doe

by Ramona Richards

  I stood up. “I can’t believe we have a plan of action.”

  He rose as well. “I can’t believe you’re going to let me kiss you to celebrate.”

  I froze, my eyebrows somewhere close to my hairline. “You want to kiss me?”

  “Are you this slow as a detective or just as a date?”

  “Do you really think I’m the kind of girl who kisses on the first date?”

  “Thought I might try and find out.” Mike stepped closer and cupped my face in both hands. Their warmth and his closeness sent a sliver of desire down my spine, and my chest tightened. I wanted to kiss him.

  But it had been a long time since I’d kissed any man, and, apparently, not long enough. An image flashed through my head, a face I had not thought of in months. One that drove any thoughts of a kiss out of my mind.

  I couldn’t bridge the gap. I put my hands against his chest. “Mike, I—”

  A soft rumble under our feet signaled the raising of a garage door, and Mike released me. Saved by Miss Doris.

  I paused and swallowed hard. “So this courting thing … it’s not just a cover?”

  He grinned, then stooped to gather up the take-out containers. “OK if I pick you up at about 10:30? Sunday school starts at 9:30, but we’ll skip it tomorrow. We’ll make more of an entrance if we show up first to the main service at eleven.”

  Looked like my presence at Pine Grove Baptist would be a bit more permanent than I planned. Miss Doris—and my grandmother—would be pleased.

  Pine Grove Baptist Church wasn’t the largest church in town—that distinction belonged to the newly built First Baptist out next to the interstate—but it was by far the oldest. Located on the outskirts of town, in the bend of a US highway headed into Gadsden, Pine Grove had been around in one form or another since 1846, and it claimed the town’s oldest families for members. It sat in a sloping valley between two mountain ridges, the final “toes” of the Appalachian foothills of northern Alabama. The latest incarnation, a white clapboard chapel backed by a pink stucco-covered fellowship hall and Sunday school wing, faced the highway like a spiritual gateway into the city.

  Apparently, Pineville’s Baptists fell into the same two categories as the rest of the town: locals and commuters, aka “the drive-ins.” Drive-ins attended First Baptist, finding Pine Grove too conservative and cliquish.

  In the South, small-town religious life bore a remarkable resemblance to small-town politics.

  Mike, a deacon at Pine Grove, also served as one of the ushers. When the other ushers would join their wives in the pews during the service, Mike would stand at the back, in a crisp at-ease pose, so he could observe both the entrances to the sanctuary as well as the congregation. The church had not only gotten used to his standing guard, they had embraced it, as if the town’s police chief had become their personal guardian angel.

  Thus a groundswell of whispers began in the parking lot as we arrived together in Mike’s personal car, a long, lean 1978 Jaguar XKE, rescued from a salvage yard and restored by his mechanic father. The twelve cylinders of the white car purred softly, making the engine hard to hear. Most of the men in town knew that Mike owned the car, but he seldom drove it, preferring to tool around town in his police cruiser.

  “Nothing like making a statement,” I mumbled, not entirely happy with the head-turning attention we garnered as we pulled up next to the church.

  Mike grinned. “Trust me, city girl. By this afternoon, everyone in town will know that you have my ear and my trust.”

  “A philosophical bulletproof vest.”

  He chuckled. “Something like that. Even though I’m still an outsider here, after this, you’ll be less of one. Now wait and let me get your door.”

  “My mother taught me the proper way for a lady to get out of a car, thank you very much.” I grinned. “Even if I never do it.”

  I waited as he walked around and opened the passenger door. I’d dressed carefully for today, in a simple rose-colored shift that made the highlights in my blond hair stand out and my blue eyes shine. Beige pumps and a beige bolero jacket complemented it, and a beige-and-rose scarf pulled everything together. Conservative but eye-catching.

  I swung both legs out of the car at the same time, pressing my knees cautiously and firmly together. I took his hand to pull myself up. The two-inch heels on the pumps put me close to Mike’s six-two height, so we made a noticeable couple even without the Jag. His navy-blue suit fit him snugly, and I took his arm as we entered the sanctuary.

  Miss Doris faced the altar when we first walked in, but one of her girls spotted us and whispered in her ear. She spun around, her face lit by a wide grin. Mike led me down the center aisle but stopped at only the third pew down. He seated me on the right side of the church, directly opposite most of the ushers’ wives. As he went back up the aisle to assume his duties for the morning, I scooted over to leave room for one person. I placed my rose clutch purse on the seat beside me. And waited.

  Miss Doris arrived first, dropping in beside me with a wicked grin. “So tell me what’s going on? I thought y’all just watched a DVD last night.”

  I forced back a grin and brought out my best Scarlett O’Hara accent. “Why, Miss Doris, whatever do you mean?”

  She smacked my arm. “Now, don’t you play coy with me, young lady.”

  I arched my eyebrows. “I’m serious. There’s really nothing to tell.”

  “Humph. You’re holding out.”

  I hesitated, then relented, leaning toward her with a conspiratorial whisper. “We just talked. Decided to start going out some. But, really, nothing serious.”

  She grabbed my hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Good for you. At least it’s a start.” Miss Doris patted my arm with her other hand and giggled, as if she were fifteen and Mike were the captain of the high school football team. “Just in time too. Now you’ll have a chance to show off some of your cooking on Decoration Sunday.”

  Apparently, I looked as confused as I felt. This was becoming a habit.

  “Oh, honey, don’t your people have Decoration Sunday where you’re from?”

  “Um, I don’t think so.”

  “First Sunday in May. That’s just a couple of weeks away. Haven’t you noticed it in the bulletin?”

  “Um …”

  “Dinner on the grounds right after church. Big potluck. All the women bring their best dishes. After lunch we all put the new flowers for the year on our people’s graves. If you had folks buried out there, you’d want to clean off the gravesites a few days ahead of time. Y’know, kill off the weeds, maybe put down clean sand or chips.”

  There were a few things about small-town life you just had to take as they came and figure them out later.

  “It’ll be a good time for you to show him you know how to cook.” She peered over her shoulder at him again. “You have no idea how we’ve been praying for that boy. He needs a woman. A good woman.”

  Right. I could hear Mike’s laughter at that statement. “Now, Miss Doris, I’m sure he’s—”

  “Especially after what happened to the last girl.”

  A tiny red flag popped up in the back of my head. OK, maybe not really red. More yellow. Maybe orange … “What happened to the last girl?”

  “And it wasn’t his fault. That girl Jessica had always been on the wild side. We’d tried to warn him, but men, you know, they always think they know best. And they hadn’t been together long. But my guess is he’ll never leave Pineville because of it. Wouldn’t be able to.”

  My stomach tightened. This was turning more ominous by the second. “What happened to her?”

  A lone chime from the organ signaled the start of worship. Miss Doris straightened. “Oops. I have to get back.” With another pat on my bicep, she scooted away and back to her pew with the girls.

  I glanced around at Mike, but his solemn chat with another deacon kept him occupied. I faced forward again, staring at the empty wooden cross at the front of the church, a sick feeling spr
eading from my stomach up into my throat.

  What in the world have I done?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Pineville, Alabama, 1969

  ROSCOE CARVER SHED his uniform as soon as he hit US shores. His second tour ended a few weeks after he’d connected with Robert Caleb Spire, and he hit home ground just before Christmas. Roscoe remained grateful for what he’d learned … and that he’d survived. But unlike the first soldiers who’d returned from Vietnam, he knew what kind of welcome waited in the US, especially in his own community during the year following Martin’s and Bobby’s assassinations.

  Which was why he’d told no one of his pending arrival home, and Roscoe stepped off the Greyhound wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. The only remnants of his time overseas were the boots and his service jacket, worn because they were the only items of their kind that he owned.

  He waited until the bus roared away and the smoke and diesel fumes had wafted up, dispersing in the cutting winter cold. Roscoe hunched his coat tighter around his shoulders and shoved his hands into the pockets as he glanced around at the small town, the drugstore, hardware store, the bank, courthouse. There was a new beauty salon for white women, and one of the dress shops had closed. The owner, Miss Libby Bowlin, had been ill when he’d left; Roscoe wondered if she’d passed away.

  Not much else had changed in Pineville, a small town frozen in time. His mother’s letters had mentioned no protests, no riots, no unrest at all. The rest of the country might have been coming apart, but Pineville?

  Not so much.

  Yet, Roscoe thought. Just wait.

  Turning east, Roscoe took a long deep breath of the crisp winter air of home and set off on the four-mile walk to his daddy’s farm.

  Just wait.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Birmingham, Alabama, Present Day

  “A FLAMINGO? IT had to be a pink flamingo?”

  “You know your granddaddy loved those birds.”

  “Yeah, so did Tony,” I murmured.

  Gran puckered her lips the way she always did whenever my ex-husband’s name came up. Ten years after the fact, Anthony B. O’Connell was still persona non grata where she was concerned, and I half expected her to spit and mutter a curse on his head. Gran had always been petite, and age had made her more so. But the one time Tony had dared visit, she’d put a finger in his face and threatened to seriously damage his ability to sire children if he hurt me again. Tony stood six three and had a running back’s build. To his credit, he had not laughed, although he had appeared incredulous at the thought of a five-foot-tall, silver-haired grandma doing damage to him.

  That was, until she’d murmured, “Smirk all you want. Eventually, you’ll have to sleep.”

  We’d stayed at a hotel that night.

  Gran nodded at big pinkie, her short hair shimmering in the sun. “Well, Johnny fell in love with them when we saw a whole flock one year down at Busch Gardens.”

  “Yeah, I remember the slides from that trip. I just didn’t know he loved them enough to paint a giant one of the side of his RV.”

  “Travel trailer, dear. It doesn’t have an engine.”

  Right. I circled the travel trailer one more time. The 1969 Airstream Overlander had been my grandfather’s second love. Bought after he retired in 1995, it became his hobby, and he’d renovated it twice before he died in 2009. The last renovation apparently include neon-pink and tropical-green pinstripes that circled it and the six-foot-tall pink flamingo that graced the right side.

  “It’ll certainly go with Belle’s bright blue.”

  “Oh, you’ll just be … what is it the kids say?”

  I looked around at her. “What?”

  She snapped her fingers. “You be stylin’!”

  “Gran.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t. You’re more likely to break a hip than be a hipster.”

  She laughed. It was a running joke with us, with her insisting she should “stay up with the times” and me reminding her she was just fine with her own times. She always had been. Gran, at eighty, kept her snowy white hair in a pixie cut that sweetly framed her thin face. She wore classic clothes with simple, elegant lines.

  “Well, go on in. You need to take a look around, then we’ll go shopping and outfit it with all the stuff you need. I do wish you could stay the night.”

  “Can’t. Have to work in the morning, so I need to get this beastie back in time to get it parked in Doc’s yard before dark.”

  I opened the door, expecting the usual trailer décor, since Papa’s first renovation had basically restored the old trailer to its original state. I had not seen this latest version, and I stopped just inside, my mouth gaping. “Wow. Trailer life has changed a bit.”

  Gran nudged by me. “Told you.”

  Originally, a flip table and a couch that converted into a double bed had dominated the front living area. They’d been replaced by a set of custom walnut shelves with a drop-down desk, a hunter-green swivel office chair, and a matching recliner that converted into a single bed. The dark laminate wood floor stretched into the galley, which Papa had modernized with a new fridge, mini-microwave, and hunter-green countertops and appliances. Three gas burners lined the cabinet next to the tiny double sink. Underneath, a small oven would be perfect for at least two casseroles for Decoration Sunday. Near the front door, a small bistro table waited with two of the smallest swivel stools I’d ever seen.

  Whereas the front of the trailer was all dark wood and green, in the bedroom green gave way to a rice-paper look in the shades and the three-panel pocket door that led to the bath. The couch/full-size bed unit on the right side of the room had a soft gray upholstery that I’d need to slipcover, probably before I got it out the driveway. Opposite the couch was a wall of storage—closet, floor-to-ceiling drawers—along with a small vanity table, mirror, and a flat-screen television.

  “Well?”

  “This thing has more storage than my house in Nashville.”

  Gran chuckled. “Johnny liked souvenirs. Never enough room for all the things he wanted to buy.” She tapped my arm. “Come on. I got dumplings on the stove. I’ll show you the technical stuff later.”

  “Technical stuff?” I followed her outside and toward the house. Gran’s chicken and dumplings had the same drawing power as a pied piper or a fountain of hot chocolate.

  “You know, the generator, waste control, gas, that kind of stuff. The air conditioner and the solar panel are on the roof.”

  I glanced back at the trailer, really noticing for the first time the cluster of equipment on the top. “Not exactly a pup tent, is it?”

  “Certainly a sight more expensive than a pup tent.” She held open the door that led into her enclosed back porch. What had once been a concrete patio was now a comfy sitting area with cushioned rattan love seats, jalousie windows, and a plethora of plants.

  The trailer wasn’t the only thing Papa liked to tinker with.

  “Ever wish he’d have put the money into a nicer house, maybe something over in Mountain Brook?”

  In 1963, Gran and Papa had bought this bungalow in a cozy Birmingham neighborhood not far from where US 11 became First Avenue North. There they had stuck through all the changes in Alabama’s largest city, good … and not so good. A Korean War vet, not much disturbed Papa, with the exception of bad manners and wasteful habits. Twelve years older than Gran, he’d helped her raise three kids in that efficient little three-bedroom: my mother, born two days after Gran’s eighteenth birthday, and two sons. Uncle Brad had died in the first Gulf War, and Uncle Jake up and turned survivalist on us in the late nineties and had moved to Alaska with three cats, four dogs, six months of food, and a trunk full of ammunition. For some reason, Jake had never married. And we’d never heard from him again. After twenty years, Gran assumed bears had eaten him.

  So it was just Gran and me. We just didn’t mention that part much. No need, really. But Gran had been thrilled when, after the divorce, I dumped Tony’s last name not fo
r my maiden one—Spire—but for hers. She’d raised me. It made sense that I would become Star Cavanaugh.

  Gran picked up a wooden spoon and dug deep in a pot bubbling with thick chicken broth and bouncing dumplings. “Well, we talked about a new house a few times. Usually when one of the neighbors complained about us having that giant flamingo in the back yard.”

  “Can’t imagine why that would bother anyone.”

  “Anyone ever tell you that your mouth will keep you single?”

  “You. My last four dates.”

  “We’d look, but we’d never find a place that we liked as well as here. Besides, we fit here. We knew all the flaws and strengths, what we’d need to fix right away, what could wait. Would be like leaving an old friend.” She spooned soft dumplings and tender chunks of chicken into large bowls.

  My mouth watered. I set out the silverware and poured two tall glasses of milk. We sat, and I waited as Gran said the blessing, then dug in.

  “We can start shopping for the trailer in the attic.”

  I swallowed a savory bit of dumpling. “Beg pardon?”

  “I stored a lot of the containers and dishes we used up there. No use in duplicating what we don’t have to.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She went silent for a long time, and I knew she really wanted to ask me about how things were going in Pineville. After all, I was investigating the death of her son-in-law. Following a few minutes of silence, I cleared my throat. “I’m getting settled in nicely up in Pineville, but I still have a long way to go. I’m just getting to know folks. I’ve made friends with the local police chief, and I think he’ll be a big help.”

  “Good.” But she didn’t look up.

  After another moment, I said, “Gran, I’m not Daddy. I don’t have his lawyer’s arrogance or sense that justice must be served right now and out in the open. I’m a cold case cop. I know that things like this take time. A lot of it. Some of the cold cases I’ve worked on have taken months, even years, to unravel. I also know that most murders occur because of either passion or greed, but I don’t think money was the issue in this case. Neither Daddy nor my grandmother had that much. Passion’s dangerous. I’m going to be extremely careful.”