The Broken Spine

by Dorothy St. James

  Oh, dear. It suddenly hit me. That was what was wrong. The screwdriver I’d found in the shed wasn’t a common screwdriver, but the kind with a hex head. It was the exact kind of screwdriver that had been used to remove the bolts that kept the shelf that had killed Duggar from tipping over. I knew what they looked like only too well, since I’d spent the morning studying the bolts keeping every other shelf in the library from tipping over.

  “Let me take a look,” Charlie said. Without waiting for permission, he crawled under the table. “You need a Phillip’s head to fix this, not a hex.”

  “Too bad it isn’t a flathead screw,” Tori said. “I use a butter knife to loosen and tighten those.”

  “I might have what you need in the trunk of my car,” Charlie said.

  “Isn’t he handy?” Tori gushed.

  “And so well read,” Flossie added. “Charlie, you’re quite a step up from the idiots Tori usually dates.”

  “Oh, hush,” Tori fussed. “I don’t go on that many dates.”

  “Glad you consider me a higher-class idiot,” Charlie said with a laugh.

  Everyone in the room was talking and laughing at the same time, all except for Jace.

  “My mom borrowed my toolbox several months ago and hasn’t returned it,” I said to him. “Actually, I don’t think she will. I’m going to have to buy a new set of tools. But the previous owners of this house, a sweet older couple, were moving into a retirement community and had left me pretty much everything they had in their shed: the lawn mower, trimmer, and an odd assortment of tools.”

  “I see,” he said, his voice curt.

  I had no idea what I could do to loosen the tension between us. He wasn’t my friend. I wasn’t a killer, and it still surprised me that anyone might think I was. “I spoke with Anne this afternoon,” I blurted. “I explained to her about Dewey being loose in the library and how I’d spent the morning searching for him. She seemed to understand.” And you should too, I left unsaid.

  He looked at me. And I mean really looked. He leaned toward me and gave me a hard once-over that felt like he was peeling my skin open. “It’s killing you what’s happening to the library. And that worries me. I might not remember everything from your tutoring sessions, but—”

  “Like what subject I was trying to teach you?” I interjected.

  “Exactly, but I do remember how passionate you were about books even then. You always had a library book in your hand. You called them your best friends. Who does that? Books are books. They’re not people.”

  “Booklovers do that,” I said. “All booklovers.”

  But he continued to frown. He obviously didn’t see books the same way I did. I suspected they were simply words on a page for him, which I found incredibly sad.

  He mumbled something about repeating past mistakes. “I shouldn’t be here. I’ve got to go,” he said louder. “I’m sorry, Tru. I need to take this.” He picked up the screwdriver on his way out. “It might be evidence.”

  “What was that about?” Flossie asked when she noticed he’d left.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said with a groan. “Hopefully not more than twenty-five to life.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tori pushed a glass of wine into my hand and told me to drink. According to her, I needed to put some color back in my cheeks.

  “No one is going to arrest you,” Flossie declared. She slapped her hand against the arm of her wheelchair as added emphasis. “I won’t let that happen.”

  “I don’t see how you can stop it. The police seem to be doing a bang-up job of building a case against me.” I took a long, slow sip of the wine Charlie had brought. The deep red flavors swirled in my mouth. It was smooth and not at all like the tangy wine we usually drank at our girlfriend parties. Gracious, I couldn’t remember ever tasting anything quite like it. “This is good,” I said to Charlie, holding up the glass.

  “It should be. It’s a 1961 Château Pétrus Cru Merlot from France,” he replied. He’d just climbed out from under the table with a Phillips-head screwdriver in hand. He gave the table top a wiggle. It didn’t move. “It was an excellent year for grapes in the region. I’m glad you like it.”

  “It’s amazing, really. I’ll have to be sure to remember the name and ask for it the next time I’m at the grocery store,” I said as I jotted down the name onto my shopping list.

  He smiled warmly. “You do that.”

  “You’re not going to find that at a grocery store,” Flossie teased.

  “Oh, right.” I blushed. We’d never had wine at one of our girls’-nights-in that didn’t come from our local A&P. To cover for my blunder, I thanked him for fixing my table. Tori gushed again about how handy he was. She gave his arms a squeeze. And Flossie ignored us while she continued to make plans about how to keep the police from making me into a convenient scapegoat.

  “Enough of that,” Tori fussed. “We’re supposed to be distracting Tru, not giving her a panic attack.”

  “You’re the one who invited the detective to our party.” Flossie wagged her finger at Tori.

  “It had to be done.” Tori waggled her finger right back at her. “Besides, who could have guessed he would have gotten all weird over the sight of a screwdriver. Like, who doesn’t have a screwdriver in their house?”

  “A hex-head screwdriver? Sitting out on a china cabinet?” Flossie said. “Honey, that’s not an everyday thing.”

  “Well, what’s done is done,” Tori declared. “We have wine to drink, pizza and cake to eat, and a movie to watch. I say let’s get this party started.”

  I carried the box of pizza. Charlie picked up the bottle of wine. Tori had the DVD. And Flossie carried Dewey, who’d decided her lap made the best perch in the house. We made our way into the living room and were all settling into our spots when someone sang out, “Knock, knock.”

  There was only one person in my life who’d sing “Knock, knock” instead of actually knocking on a door.

  “Maybe she’s returning your tools,” Tori said.

  “Yeah, and maybe the library books will grow legs and walk back into the library tonight.” I opened the door and smiled. “Hey, Mama. We were just sitting down to watch a movie. Do you want to join us?”

  My mom, Edwina Trudell Becket (Mama Eddy to my friends), matched me in height. She was neither exceptionally short nor exceptionally tall. But that was where the comparison between mother and daughter ended. Unlike me, everything else about my mom was exceptional. She had platinum blonde hair that didn’t have a spot of gray, despite celebrating her fifty-eighth birthday this year. She never stepped foot out of the house without a full application of makeup. And through even the leanest of financial times after the divorce, she managed to keep her wardrobe filled with the most fashionable dresses by saving every spare penny and scouring secondhand shops.

  Even by our southern town’s high standards (which had produced more than our fair share of Miss South Carolinas), my mom was considered quite an uncommon beauty. A little more than a year after the divorce, an artist visiting our town to paint lakeside landscapes had stopped her on Main Street. He’d been so taken with her refined features, he’d begged her to let him paint a portrait.

  It’d happened on a weekend night in the summer. The street had been crowded with locals and tourists. The residents had talked about it for weeks. I’d been an awkward preteen at the time. Her stunning beauty awed me. People noticed her. I’d dearly wanted that for myself.

  Her beauty still awed me. And although I’d long ago accepted that I’d never be considered beautiful, I still secretly ached for someone to see me and be inspired.

  Tonight, Mama Eddy was dressed in a pale purple silk pantsuit with a white silk scarf artfully wrapped around her neck. She swept into the house and brushed a kiss on my cheek as she passed by. She took a few more steps into the living room before coming to an abrupt st
op.

  Her attention zeroed in on the pizza box propped open on the coffee table.

  “Pizza?” She crossed the room and snatched up the box. Only after she had it in her clutches did she remember her manners. “Good evening, Flossie. The yellow in that sundress is a lovely color on you, Tori. Um, hello, I don’t know you.”

  Charlie jumped to his feet. “I’m Charlie Newcastle, ma’am. I only recently moved to Cypress.”

  Mama Eddy, who has helped teach the local cotillion classes for the past fifteen years, was clearly impressed that Charlie had showed proper manners. He stood up before speaking to her, for instance.

  She quizzed him about his parents, because that’s what people did around here. You might be a decent person, but we still needed to find out about your family before we could pass judgment. He must have come from somewhere that was similar, since he didn’t seem to find this line of questioning odd.

  “Y’all stay here and enjoy the movie,” Mama Eddy said, once she was satisfied she knew enough about Charlie’s past. “I’ll go whip up some proper dinner food.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked as I followed her into the kitchen.

  Before I could stop her, she smashed the pizza box, with the remaining pizza still inside, into the trash can. “Do you know what all that fat will do to your veins? You can’t eat dairy or saturated fats. No one in our family can. Uncle Frank has had two heart bypass surgeries and is heading for a third. Do you want to be like him? Or do you want to be like Grandpa Phil? You know, dead?”

  “Phil was your grandfather,” I reminded her. “And if he were still alive, it’d be a miracle since he’d be well over 110 years old.”

  She wasn’t listening. “Do I need to remind you how he had a heart attack and died while playing water polo?” she said.

  “He was ninety-seven years old and playing water polo. I hope to be that lucky.”

  “That’s beside the point, and you know it. He had a heart attack. And you will too if you keep eating garbage like this.” She sucked a dramatic breath through her clenched teeth. “Or this.” She pointed an accusing finger at the tower of chocolate cake sitting on the kitchen table. “You shouldn’t allow anything like this into your house.” She rummaged around in the cabinet next to the stove and pulled out a large frying pan. “I’m going to make all of y’all a nice, healthy meal.”

  “M-om-ma.” I drew out the word, hating how I sounded like a whiny teen. “Please, my friends are all here. This isn’t even your house.”

  She jerked as if I’d struck her. “Oh? So I’m not welcome here? But your father cooks you dinner on Wednesday night, and you don’t complain?”

  “It’s not like that.” For one thing, he hadn’t appeared at my door unannounced, or tossed out my pizza.

  “You’ve always loved your father more than you loved me.”

  “Okay,” I said, calmly. “This isn’t about the pizza. Or my having dinner with Dad.” And that worried me. “What’s really going on? Why are you here?”

  She turned to me and took both of my hands in hers. Tears swam in her eyes . . . a second reason for me to worry. She made it a point to never cry since it messed up her makeup.

  “My beautiful daughter,” she whispered. She started to say something else, but she seemed to notice something on my face. She touched my cheek. “You’re . . . you’re wearing makeup?”

  “I put on a little,” I admitted.

  She gave my hand a squeeze. “At least you’re doing something right. Makeup is a woman’s best armor,” she said with a sob in her voice. “Always remember that.”

  “What’s going on? Why are you so upset?” She was seriously starting to scare me now. “Are you sick? You can tell me. Just spit it out.”

  She shook her head. “It’s—”

  Dewey chose that exact moment to spring into the kitchen. With a sharp meow, he went straight for my mom’s legs and started to rub against them in what I was starting to recognize as a kitty hug. Mama yelped.

  “What is that?” she squeaked.

  “Come on. You’ve seen cats before. Stop stalling and tell me what’s bothering you. I’m seriously concerned.” Terrified, really.

  She shook her head while keeping her gaze glued to Dewey. “Did one of your friends bring it over with them? That’s not very polite. Those things get hair all over everything without even trying.”

  “I found Dewey at the library. I brought him home today. He needs to put on weight. But he’s a cute little guy, don’t you agree?”

  She dropped my hands. “You have a cat now? Who said you could get a cat? Your father?”

  “I didn’t discuss this with Dad. Besides, this is my house,” I gently reminded her. “I am an adult. Been successfully living on my own for more than fifteen years.”

  She wasn’t impressed. “I don’t think you’re ready for a cat. Taking care of another life is a huge, thankless responsibility.”

  “And I do thank you for taking me on,” I said. “Please, forget about Dewey for a moment. Tell me what’s wrong.” Did she have cancer?

  She looked away from the little stray tabby. Her teary-eyed gaze met mine. She whispered, “You. I’m worried about you.”

  She frowned at Dewey again.

  “Me? What? I’m fine,” I said.

  “Are you? Everyone is talking about the town manager’s demise. He was well liked, you know. Affable. Came from a good family. His great-grandfather owned a mansion in Charleston.”

  “I may have heard something about that,” I said with a great deal of confusion. What did Duggar’s great-grandfather have to do with anything? “His murder is shocking. Things like that don’t happen in Cypress. But you don’t have to worry about me. Despite what happened, the library is a safe place to work. I promise. It’s safe.”

  She grabbed my hands again. Her grip tightened so much, I was worried she might snap a bone. But I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t until I made her understand that she didn’t have to be upset.

  “You had dinner with your father on Wednesday night,” she said. This was the second time she’d mentioned it, which was odd. I’d never seen her act this jealous over the time I spent with my dad.

  “I’m sorry if that hurt you. We can have dinner next week.”

  “That’s not what’s wrong. But, yes, I’d love to have dinner with you next week. I hope I’ll be able to.” She took a shuddering breath. “Your father, you know, was always the passionate one, the impulsive one. That’s why things didn’t work between us. I needed someone to be my rock.” She stifled a cry of distress. “I . . . I should have never let you spend so much time with him when you were young and impressionable. You’d always come home from his house acting even more impulsive than he ever had. And now, now, the day after you had dinner with him . . .” A fat tear tumbled down her cheek. It traced a line in her carefully applied foundation.

  “The day after I had dinner with Dad . . . ?” I prompted.

  I had dinner with Dad on Wednesday, which was two days ago. Yesterday was Thursday, the day Duggar was—

  Oh!

  She didn’t think—?

  “You don’t think that I, that I—?” I stammered.

  My own mother thinks I’m capable of murder?

  “That’s what everyone is saying, dear.”

  “What is everyone saying?” Tori asked as she entered the kitchen with several empty plates balanced in her hands. “Oh, you tossed out the pizza. Why am I not surprised?” She gave her head a rueful shake. “Mama Eddy, you look even younger than the last time I saw you. Are you using a new beauty cream?” Tori set down the plates, peeled Mama’s hands from mine, and gave her a great big Tori hug, which is awfully like a bear hug—only bigger . . . and longer.

  “Don’t Mama Eddy me,” Mama said, not falling for Tori’s charm. She wiggled out of the embrace.

&nbs
p; Tori gave me a look and a shrug as if to say, “I tried.” She then poked at the cabbage my mom had dug out from the back of my fridge. “You’re not seriously going to cook that. It’s Friday night. Certainly, cabbage is a Monday or Tuesday night dish.”

  “It’s the only healthy piece of food my daughter has in this place.” Mama Eddy opened the refrigerator and grabbed what was left of the double fudge pudding cups I’d bought earlier in the week. She waved them around in an accusing manner.

  “It’s been a stressful week.” I pushed the bags of candy bars that were sitting out on the counter behind the bread box.

  Of course she noticed. “When you’re stressed, you need to be even more vigilant about your health.”

  “I’m going shopping tomorrow,” I said.

  “In your daughter’s defense,” Tori said, “it was a veggie pizza. And I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear this: she even had a man come over. He came to visit Dewey. But it’s a start.”

  “A man?” That news did cheer Mama up. Goody. “Who?” she demanded, not of Tori (who had no reason not to be reckless with information) but of me (the one who had to endure her badgering). She was determined to nag me into marrying soon and presenting her with not one, but a passel of grandchildren.

  “Jace Bailey. You remember him? Back in high school I was his English tutor.” Not that my lessons had made much of an impression.

  “That Bailey boy? Isn’t he the one who just moved back from serving on the NYPD?”

  “Yes, that’s him,” I said.

  “He’s a police detective. You let a police detective into your home?” Mama’s voice kept rising in volume. “Without a warrant?” She’d once dated a retired police officer. After the experience, she considered herself an expert on police procedure. Watching police dramas with her was . . . not fun. “You know he can use whatever he sees in here as evidence against you?”