Not Quite Fixed

by Lyla Payne

  “Thanks,” I tell Helena as she slows down and checks her phone.

  “No problem. It was good to see you.”

  We part ways at the nurse’s station as she heads down a hallway to the right, identical to the one she pointed me toward, which stretches straight ahead. Victoria is nowhere in sight, thank goodness. No need to delay my evening further. I’ve said my piece.

  Helena’s willingness to let me in, no questions asked, is yet another perk of living in a small town. They all just assume I’m not here to murder poor old Orrie McElroy.

  I mean, I’m not. But I could be.

  The door to room 422 is open. There’s an old man sitting in a recliner, his feet propped up and his legs covered by an afghan even though I’m sweating from the walk down the hallway. He’s watching tennis on the television. I guess it is time for the Australian Open, but I have no idea what happened to the month of January.

  Time flies when you’re almost getting murdered, I guess.

  He looks up and sees me. I don’t think he heard me, but maybe those giant hearing aids behind his even bigger ears give him super hearing. I’m sure now that I’ve never met him, not even in the distant past. The way he’s squinting at me says he’s thinking something along the lines of, Who is this woman I’ve never seen before and why is she in my room after dinner?

  “Well, come on in, girl. Weren’cha ever taught that it’s rude to lurk in doorways?”

  “I mean Ursula said something to that effect, but I wasn’t aware she was the be-all end-all of doorway manners.”

  He gives me a look that I know well—one that wonders whether I’ve gone plum out of my mind. I guess he’s a little old to get a reference from Disney’s The Little Mermaid.

  I scoot out of the doorway and into his room. It’s not big, but it would be bigger if he didn’t have a roommate. A second old man is propped up in bed, and he glares at me as I walk past him to get to Mr. McElroy.

  “Who are you?” Orrie asks, not necessarily in a rude way. It’s more in an ‘I’m old and might die before you get around to explaining yourself’ way.

  “That’s Crazy Graciela Harper, Orrie, you fool,” the other man hollers. He must not have the best hearing aids, because I’m pretty sure the people two rooms down are now aware of my visit.

  I give him a second look, lingering this time, and identify him as a man I may have met on the occasions when my grandmother managed to guilt me into driving her to Sunday morning services.

  “Mr. Woo?” I hazard, wondering how I could possibly pull that name out of my ass. Then again, he’s one of a handful of Asian people in Heron Creek, so maybe it’s not that odd.

  “Why do you look so surprised? I’m eighty-two years old. Where did you think I’d be?”

  “Um…how are you?”

  “Dying. How else would I be?”

  I don’t remember him being so grumpy. He reminds me of the redheaded lady in the movie Pollyanna. Like the optimistic young Haley Mills, I’m not quite sure how to respond to such blatant negativity.

  Orrie McElroy is clearly used to people feeling awkward around Mr. Woo, because he leans forward and says, “Don’t mind him, darlin’. He hasn’t figured out how to get his panties out of a twist since he set foot in this place two weeks ago. It’s a real problem.”

  “You just shut your yap, ya old goat.”

  “He thinks calling me old is an insult.” Orrie’s expression turns conspiratorial. “I keep telling him it’s just a fact.”

  “I keep telling that nurse that I want a new roommate, but no one listens,” Mr. Woo grumps under his breath. Sort of.

  “He hasn’t learned that no one cares about old people’s complaints, either.” Orrie McElroy shrugs.

  I feel a bit like someone who wandered into a ping pong match. A quick shake of the head helps my marbles fall back into position, reminding me of why I’m here. And the fact that Mr. McElroy and I haven’t been properly introduced.

  “I’m Graciela Harper,” I tell him, sticking out a hand, painfully aware that I’ve left off the ‘crazy’ tag this time.

  He doesn’t mention it, or maybe he didn’t even notice. I like him, regardless of whether his behavior is the product of dementia or good manners.

  “Orrie McElroy.”

  That’s all he says, and I suppose it’s my turn to explain why I, a complete stranger, have intruded on his evening. Though it seems like pretty much anyone would be a welcome respite from living with Mr. Woo.

  “I…” I slide a glance toward the crotchety old man. It’s not that I care what he thinks about me—he already believes I’m crazy. My hesitation is more about Leo; I don’t want him finding out that I’m looking into his dad’s death behind his back.

  I take a moment to think it through, but while everyone in Heron Creek is connected in one way or another, I’m pretty sure there’s no direct line between Mr. Woo and the Boones.

  “Spit it out, girl. I don’t have enough time left to waste it on unsaid words.”

  That sinks in slowly at first, but it finds its way to the bone, the way true things do. And although Orrie McElroy might have said those words because he’s ninety-seven and definitely has more days behind him than in front, the sentiment applies to me, too.

  After all, none of us truly knows how much time we have. I came pretty close to death a couple of times in the past several months. I would have left far too many things unsaid had things not gone my way on any given day.

  Maybe someday my life will slow down enough for me to unpack why Orrie’s turn of phrase brought an image of Leo straight into my mind. For now, an old man is staring at me, one impossibly wiry gray eyebrow cocked as he awaits an answer. And probably reconsiders the reason behind the “crazy” part of my attribution.

  “I wanted to talk to you about a story you wrote for the Creek Sun a few years ago.” Now that I’m staring at him, it’s pretty amazing that he’s still writing, even just editorials. Not that it’s all that strenuous or anything, but geez. Surely our paper isn’t that hard up for reporters. “I’m hoping you remember it.”

  “Nothing wrong with my mind, girl. Which one?”

  “It was about how Harlan Boone’s death was being investigated for possible foul play. The article I found said there would be a follow-up story, but I couldn’t find one.”

  I hold my breath, hoping he really does remember, and that he’s got more details crammed in that ancient head of his.

  “That’s because there wasn’t anything to say, except that the case was officially ruled an accident. Seeing that his family lives in town, everyone had already heard about it by the time I could have gotten it into print.” He shrugs. “Damn shame. Good man.”

  My own memories of the man tell the same story, in my head and in my heart.

  “The case never felt right to me,” he continues unbidden. “Even after they closed it. Mind you, I don’t think his boy had anything to do with it.”

  “You mean Leo.” He nods, and I forge ahead despite the twist of guilt in my chest. “What didn’t feel right?”

  “Harlan was an experienced contractor. He wouldn’t have been on a job site alone if he was doing anything that could be considered hazardous.”

  “But he was alone.”

  “It was early evening, too—at a time of the year when sunset comes early. Not when a contractor would normally be working. They said he slipped while he was working on a broken pump in a water feature.” Mr. McElroy purses his lips. “It seemed strange he’d do that sort of thing himself.”

  “You’re saying they would have called a…landscaper? A pool guy?” I have no idea who works on ornamental ponds, obviously.

  “Someone. Then again, maybe that someone was there.”

  The insinuation is clear enough—he believes Harlan’s death might have been foul play. “You think someone else was there. But not Leo.”

  “That boy doesn’t have a violent bone in his body.”

  I would tend to agree. I’ve seen
Leo shoo geese out of the road while they hiss at him like he’s the devil himself. I’ve seen him trap spiders and toss them out the front door instead of killing them, and once caught him sobbing over a dead mouse in a trap when we were kids. His heart might have an outer crust, but the core is as gooey as they come.

  To say nothing of his love for his family, which, until recently, I would have considered unshakable. Maybe it still is.

  “You don’t have to convince me. There’s no way Leo did it.”

  “Why the questions?”

  “I don’t know. I just ran across your story and it got my curiosity up.”

  “But if you’re friendly with the Boone boy, why not ask him?” There’s curiosity in Mr. McElroy’s eyes, but not the gossipy kind. The lonely kind, perhaps. He’s enjoying the conversation, I think.

  Mr. Woo’s fallen asleep, if the obnoxiously loud snores from his side of the room are any indication. At least we’re alone.

  “Leo doesn’t like to talk about his dad,” I say, which isn’t a lie at all. “And I worry about him.”

  “His family still isn’t speaking to him, are they?” It’s not a question, and the expression in the old man’s eyes turns sorrowful. “Doesn’t get much sadder than that.”

  “No…” I want to tread carefully, using the same strategy I used with Knox. If he suspects I don’t know all of the details, he might think I’m the one looking for gossip, not the other way around. He might clam up.

  I would.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think they really believe Leo killed Harlan. But they still blamed him for their daddy’s death.”

  “And his mother did, too.”

  “Grief does funny things to people. And you can never predict how you or anyone else is going to react until you’re staring it in its ugly face.” He sighs, clicking off the television. “They weren’t expecting this. They needed someone to blame, and even if young Leo had nothing to do with what happened, he was the reason Harlan was at that house to begin with.”

  “Your article said he and Leo were working together.”

  He nods. “Started a business flipping houses, and Darla wasn’t none too happy about it from the beginning, way I heard told. Harlan worked as a laborer and did other odd construction jobs for years, and Leo was working on his contractor’s license. Big business around here, with all of these old homes. Getting bigger, too. They had the right idea at the right time. Darla would have come around, I think.”

  And now he can’t settle on a thing, right or wrong. My heart hurts for him.

  “So, the police didn’t suspect foul play, but then they did?”

  “The first officers on the scene ruled it an accident, but then someone reviewed the evidence or the autopsy—I’m not clear on that part—and thought there was enough reason to at least look into the possibility of murder.”

  “That’s when they talked to Leo.”

  He nods. “They talked to a few other men who were in and out of the project, too, but it was my understanding that everyone had alibis. Except Leo.”

  “But they decided not to pursue anything.”

  “You’ve got it. There aren’t really any more details, I’m sorry to say. Not that I’m privy to, at least.”

  I wish he knew more, but there’s still one more question I’m hoping he’ll be able to answer for me—something that’s been burning a hole in the back of my brain.

  “Did you interview the Folly Beach officers who were on the case?”

  “Of course I did.” His tone of voice suggests that he’s insulted I had to ask. “What kind of investigative reporter would I be if I didn’t talk to the people investigating the case?”

  “A bad one?” I venture.

  “And I am not a bad reporter, even if they did treat me like I was Jessica Fletcher when I showed up looking for a statement and more information.”

  Trust the hundred-year-old man to compare himself to the heroine of Murder She Wrote.

  “Okay, so your report said an Officer Raynard was in charge. Any relation to Clete Raynard?”

  “You noticed that, did you?” He gives me an appraising glance, one that quickly turns suspicious. “But what would a nice girl like you know about Clete Raynard?”

  “I’ve heard of him, that’s all. Who hasn’t?”

  “Maybe, but most people wouldn’t put two and two together so quickly… Wait a minute. Harper? You related to Martin?”

  So the mystery officer is related to Clete.

  I swallow, and answer Mr. McElroy. “He was my grandfather.”

  “Then you’re Felicia’s girl.” He snorts. “Like mother like daughter, I suppose.”

  I’m used to hearing people speak of my mother in a disdainful tone, and usually it doesn’t affect me—it’s the same tone I hear in my own head, after all—but it rubs me the wrong way to hear it come out of a stranger’s mouth. I do my best not to let it show, though, because this conversation is getting more interesting by the minute.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Oh, I think you do, but I’ll clarify anyway. Your mama broke her parents’ hearts running around town with that piece of trash excuse for a human being. And if you’re familiar enough with him to pick up on that last name, maybe you caused Martin that pain all over again.”

  “I loved my grandparents. More than anything. My mother and I weren’t close, but Clete has…let’s just say we’ve helped each other out of a sticky situation here and there.” I pause, wondering whether I owe him any more of an explanation, then decide I don’t. “I didn’t know he had relatives who were cops, though.”

  “Not very good ones, it shouldn’t surprise you to learn. He was the one who first ruled Harlan’s death an accident.”

  “So he’s not the one who closed the case?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that. I don’t know how involved he was after that point.”

  “What kind of…” I trail off, unsure of the question I want to ask. Or maybe just how to ask it. “Did Clete grow up in Folly Beach, then?”

  “From what I understand, they lived in North Charleston. His momma ran off and left him before he could see colors, and his daddy was never worth much. In and out of jail, like Cletus would be if they could catch him.” He levels me with a serious look. “He’s not worth your time, young lady. You keep your head down, be a good friend to those who love you, and do your grandparents proud.”

  “I’d like to think I do, sir.” My voice is a little thin, but that’s just what happens when people tell me what to do. Especially people who act like they know me when they don’t. Then again, despite how Clete has helped me now and then, my own gut says staying away from him and his dealings is the smart course of action.

  “Thank you for talking to me.”

  “I never mind talking about my work.” He pauses, glancing over as if he, too, is making sure that Mr. Woo is asleep. “But I think you should be careful who’s around when you ask these questions.”

  No matter how many ways I ask him what exactly he means, Mr. McElroy refuses to say one more word.

  Chapter Eight

  It feels really good to get home and find Amelia awake and Jack sleeping peacefully in his bassinet upstairs. He’s clearly been out of commission for at least a little while, because my cousin’s hair is wet and she’s snuggled into a corner of the couch in clean pajamas. There’s a glass of wine next to the baby monitor on the end table, and one of her favorite cheesy movies on the television.

  “Hey,” I say, dropping my keys softly on the coffee table and falling onto the opposite end of the couch.

  I eye her wine, but decide I’d rather stay put than have a drink. It’s not until this moment that I realize how long my day has been. It feels amazing to put my feet up. Better than wine, I’m a bit surprised to realize.

  “Hey,” she says. “How was your day?”

  “Not bad, but long. Interesting, for sure. How about yours?”

  “Great, but not inte
resting. Amuse me.”

  That makes me laugh, and Amelia gives me an easy smile. She seems at ease, so much more so than the other night, with no pain lurking in her eyes. I want to ask if she talked to Brick, and how it went—but not as much as I want to stay relaxed.

  “Well, I saw Mel. She’s good, and Mary is as cute as a button. I think she likes me.”

  “You’re great with babies, Grace. You’ll be a good mother once people stop trying to kill you.”

  I snort. “Yeah, I don’t think it’s the only thing that has to change, but it would be a good start.”

  “What else? How was your visit to Shady Acres?”

  I shrug. “Made me miss Gramps.”

  “I miss him, too. I see him in Jack, and think about how much he would have loved having a little boy around.” She smiles at me, then sips her wine. “But what about the reporter?”

  We talked earlier, when I told her not to expect me to bring home supper, and I gave her the basics on the newspaper article I’d found. Sadly, there’s not a whole lot to add.

  “He said that he thought Harlan was too experienced and too responsible to be out there working on something dangerous alone at that time of day, and it’s unlikely he would have taken on a water feature repair to begin with.”

  “So he doesn’t think it was an accident,” she surmises.

  “I think he has his suspicions. But he doesn’t think Leo was involved, either.”

  “We know he wasn’t,” my cousin says firmly, and I love her for it. “I can’t even believe the police put him through the questioning,” she adds. “My heart hurts just thinking about it. Ugh.”

  Not for the first time, Millie echoes the feelings banging around in my own chest.

  “Well, if they suspected foul play, they had to talk to everyone who had access to the crime scene. And Leo is the one who found him.” My throat threatens to close up despite my attempt to play the part of the objective observer. Everything I said was true, but it doesn’t matter. I still want to fight the people who made things harder for my friend. “Anyway, they closed the case and ruled it an accident.”