Mourning Crisis

by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  “How many times do I have to say I don’t know what you and that loser are talking about. I told him that, too.” I walked toward the bathroom.

  “Now, where you goin’ missy?”

  “I need to use the ladies room.”

  He moved swiftly toward the bathroom and opened the door. He glanced in the musty smelling room with peeling wallpaper.

  “There’s no window. It’s not like I can escape.”

  “Don’t lock the door.”

  “Then don’t come in.”

  “Then hurry up.”

  “Gosh, I sure hope you never get married. You don’t know how to talk to a lady.”

  “When one shows up, I’ll talk to her right.”

  “I’m going to the bathroom, Boone.” I made an effort to make a little noise while I quickly pulled out my phone and tapped out a text to Christopher letting him know what was going on.

  “It’s Boone. He’s here. Come quick.”

  Then, I hit the voice memo on the phone and began recording. I put the phone on silent and put it back into my pocket, praying God wouldn’t let anything happen. I flushed, washed my hands and went back into my motel room.

  He poked me in the chest with his long, skinny forefinger as I walked out. “Now Miss Buckley, or do you like to be called Buck? Ain’t that the name you went by in New York? When you tried to be a big-time actor?”

  He’d done his homework. I gulped down breaths. I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. My hands were clammy, and my head hurt. I was dizzy. I thought I might pass out. I wasn’t acting scared. I was frightened. “I…I…”

  He used that finger and lightly trailed it down my arm. “You weren’t Buford’s type. Too classy for him. Knew that the first time I saw you. But me, I could do right by you. You ought to think about that.” He sauntered over to the bed, sat down and motioned for me to sit next to him.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  He stood then and walked around the room touching everything with his grimy hands. “We’re the same, you and me.”

  I had the sudden urge to shower and use steel wool to clean myself just from being near him. “Really? How is that?”

  “We’re both actors. You played Ivy Sawyer, the fiancée, and I played the dumb cousin, the idiot brother, and the stupid son, but really, I ain’t none of those. I’m the mastermind of this whole thing.”

  “And what thing is that?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” He leaned back on the bed. He was right. The dumb lug of a guy he’d been before had completely disappeared. In his place was a confident, devious, almost evil man. One that scared me bad.

  “Tell you what?”

  “What I did to my cousin.” He pushed himself to the pillows and crossed his feet. “Go on. I’m looking forward to hearin’ this.”

  Boone thought I’d figured it out, only I hadn’t, not entirely anyway. “I think you killed your cousin. Granted, I didn’t know it was you until just now. I figured you were too dumb, but obviously, you had me fooled. I know he didn’t die from a wasp sting.” I knew it had something to do with his allergies, but I didn’t know what. “You did it to get the money for the truck. I thought it was to get money for your momma’s medicine, but I’m not so sure. You’re fooling yourself though if you think Tucker’s going to sell the truck for more money and share the money with you.” I tried to sound like I knew something he didn’t, so I laughed. “Good luck with that.”

  “You’re only half right. Tucker’s just acting like he’s buying the truck. I’m brokering the deal, not Tucker. I’m paying him to act like he is, and that’s it.”

  “So you did kill Buford.”

  He nodded. “You might could say that. Not my fault the boy’s got allergy problems. That’s why he stopped staying at Momma’s. You saw her place. Ain’t nobody in their right mind would want to live there. Heck, even the pig we used to own ran away. The dust in there got so bad, he couldn’t stop sneezing, and when she got sick, the only thing she could eat for a while there was peanut butter. Didn’t know he was allergic till he nearly died from it one day. Had to start living in his rig after that.” He laughed.

  “You know even the tiniest bit of peanut in the air can kill someone that’s allergic? If you got an allergy to it, you gotta do is touch something that’s got peanut on it and you could die. It ain’t actually murder if it’s an allergy now, is it?”

  “It is if you intend to kill someone with it.”

  “Ain’t my fault if something with peanut on it got misplaced in his rig. Maybe a little too close for comfort, and maybe he was sleeping and had taken something to help him sleep. You know, Buford, he was known to do that ‘cause of those back problems of his. Seems to me his fiancée ought to know that, right, Ivy Sawyer?”

  I pressed my lips together. I’d totally forgotten about Buford’s back problems, but to use his weakness as a means to kill him was incomprehensible to me, and it was far beyond any IQ level I thought Boone had. “You murdered your cousin by manipulating his allergies? I didn’t think you’d be smart enough to figure that out.”

  He laughed. “That’s the best part of it all.”

  “You have everyone fooled, don’t you?”

  “I ain’t as dumb as I look.”

  Oh, Boone, I thought. If you only knew the truth. I kept my arm as close to my chest as possible, worried I’d move too quickly and my phone would flop out of my pocket, and I’d be toast. I wanted everything he’d said on the recording. I knew there was probably some law against recording him, but it wouldn't matter when my life was in danger, and I wasn’t a reporter or anything, so there had to be some exception to the law anyway. It didn’t matter. If he did kill me, at least my family would know I fought, because if it came down to it, I would. I’d fight hard.

  Mayme Buckley wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  “You give me what I’m looking for, and I won’t have no need for killing you, Mayme Buckley.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “I don’t have anything you want, Boone Mableton.” My tone was curt, my voice steady, even though I didn’t even believe myself.

  “I think you do, or you wouldn’t have gone and hidden the rest of Buford’s things. Where’d you hide them, Mayme? I’ve got Tucker over at your dad’s shop checking things out for me, but you might could make it all easier by just telling me where the needle is.”

  My eyes widened, and my heart sank. My dad would be at his shop already. “What’d you do to my Daddy?”

  “Gimme the needle, and your daddy’ll be just fine.”

  I clenched my hands and pounded them into the sides of my legs, and then I took a deep breath and recalled a role I’d played in a small play Off-Broadway back during my first year in the city. It wasn’t a big hit, and I couldn’t even remember the name of the play then, but I knew the part well because it gave me my start, and I’d been forever grateful. A young girl had been accused of killing her mother. She’d ground a dozen sleeping pills, put them in her glass of champagne, and then drawn a bath for the depressed woman. When her mother was on the verge of slumber, the sociopathic girl gently shoved her mother’s head underwater and held it there until the bubbles stopped, and her mother died. All without blinking an eye. All without raising her heartbeat, without feeling any angst or fear. I channeled that character. Her stoic expression, the hollow, emptiness of her eyes, the blankness of her soul, the soullessness she’d felt inside.

  I relaxed my shoulders and sighed. “What is it with you? Sure, I can understand Tucker Hyut. I mean, really, that man is not my type, not one bit, but you?” I gave him a long, slow once over, letting my eyes trail over his body like it was a one pound Hershey candy bar Daddy and Momma used to leave in my Christmas stocking.

  “If I had something that was anything of value, do you really think I’d hide it from you?” Of course, I would. Why did I even say that? I casually walked back toward the bed, trying hard to act like I didn’t have a care
in the world. I glanced down at my pocket to make sure my phone wasn’t visible.

  He cut the distance between us. “Now Mayme Buckley, or wait, is it Buck? That’s the name you used in the big city, now ain’t it? Too bad that didn’t work out for you. I hear busting through the floor ain’t the way to make it in the movies.” He laughed. “Are you making a move on me?”

  I tried not to cringe, but I just couldn’t stop my face from doing what it naturally wanted to do. “It wasn’t movies, Boone. It was theater.”

  He waved his hands near his chest. “Oh, excuse me, ma’am. I’m so sorry I got that wrong. Miss High Society over here, she’s offended by my mistake.” He straightened his stance and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “Tell ya what. You gimme the needle, and we’ll call it even. I’ll get what I need, and your dad’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t have any needle. I don’t know what you’re problem is, Boone, but I’ve had enough. Now you need to leave before I call the police.”

  He charged me then, all of his six foot plus, probably two hundred and fifty or so pounds of anger and frustration came at me. I had nowhere to go, nothing to protect myself with, and an overwhelming desire to bolt before his big burly body landed on me, crushing me and any chance of my survival. His sweat flew off him like rain flicking off a car windshield from the fast speed of the wipers. I yelped, knowing my life’s end was imminent.

  Seconds before Boone Mableton’s looming, sweat-smelling mound of clammy thick bulk collapsed on top of my notably smaller and softer frame, the door to the cheesy, one-star motel room crashed open, and Christopher Lacy aimed his gun directly at my head. It might have been aimed at Boone’s head, but tears clouded my view, and I’d been screaming like a crazy woman, so things weren’t all that clear in the heat of the moment, and maybe my memory was a tad bit off. Either way, both me and Boone froze, per Christopher’s direct order of, “Freeze, or I’ll shoot.” I was ninety-nine percent sure he meant that for Boone, but a girl should never take chances when a detective pointing at gun her direction yells something like that.

  Two uniformed officers pushed past Christopher and threw Boone Mableton, face first, onto the bed, grabbed his arms and cuffed them behind him. One of them read him his rights while Christopher wrapped me in a hug and asked me no less than one hundred times if I was okay.

  “I’m fine.” My entire body shook, and my teeth chattered as I spoke, but otherwise, I was good to go. And by go, I meant get as far away from Boone and the rest of the Mableton’s as I could, and fast. “What about my daddy? Have you checked on him?”

  “Your dad is fine. He’s at the station, your mom’s with him. I’ll take you there. I’ve got officers at his shop now. He’d already called in a break-in, but nothing was taken except the one bag we’d left. I’m assuming those were Buford’s and not yours. The years’ worth of magazines with scantily dressed women on the covers.”

  “Obviously you haven’t seen women’s magazines at the grocery store checkout line lately.”

  He smiled.

  “I want that needle,” Boone screamed. The two officers dragged him out by his armpits, and his heels made this digging, scrunching sound on the old, tattered carpet. “If you give me the needle, we can just forget this ever happened.”

  Christopher eyed me. “Yeah, that’s the way this thing works, Mableton.”

  “I was right,” I said.

  We left the hotel room as they crammed Boone into the police car kicking his long, gangly legs and screaming all kinds of inappropriately foul words as they did. He was so belligerent, he smacked his head on the top of the door frame.

  I flinched. “Ouch, that had to hurt.”

  “Happens a lot. It’ll hurt more when they tack on the resisting arrest charge though.”

  10

  Daddy and Momma were at the police station waiting for me. Daddy wasn’t any worse for the wear, but Momma looked like something the cat drug in, batted around for a few hours, chewed on, then spit out. When I saw her, knowing something was going on but not knowing what, I ran to her and hugged her for dear life. “I’m so sorry, Momma. I shouldn’t have taken this silly job.”

  “Honey, what is wrong with you?” She pushed me outward, her hands on my shoulders, her arms straight and examined me with her stern Momma’s eyes. “Did that good for nothing criminal drug you or something?”

  I laughed. “No, Momma. I’m fine. I’m worried about you. Your tests. What’s going on?”

  She laughed. Really, laughed, like an honest to goodness, belly laugh. Momma rarely laughed like that. “Oh, that silly mess? I’m fine sugar, don’t worry about me, those tests all came back fine like I said they would. This old lady is sticking around for a long, long time. And besides, you just about got yourself killed solvin’ a murder. You’re going to be the talk of the town. There’s already a reporter wanting to interview you for cable TV.” She hugged me. “Can you believe it? My daughter on TV.”

  My contract prohibited me from discussing my gig, but I didn’t bother explaining that to Momma. I was too happy to know she was all right.

  Daddy interrupted. “The tests came back fine honey. I’ll tell you about it later. As for the reporter, she’s waiting for you in the conference room.” He group-hugged us. “My Princess, a killer-catcher.”

  Christopher chimed in. “We’ve got some follow up to attend to with your killer-catcher, Mr. Buckley. After that, she’s all yours.”

  My parents and Christopher Lacy chatted for a bit while I sat and watched the three of them engage. I’ll admit, I imagined them at our dining room table over Thanksgiving, Christmas and even Easter, and I might have imagined Daddy handing Christopher a cigar as Momma held our baby girl wrapped in a pink blanket with a pink ribbon tied in a bow on her cute little headful of blond curls. That one had me blushing all sorts of cherry red, so I shook it off before I got further carried away.

  Three hours later I’d finished answering at least a quarter of a billion questions from Christopher and a handful of other law enforcement officials and was too exhausted to handle anything else, so I headed straight home.

  “What about your interview?” Christopher asked. “The reporter’s been waiting this whole time.”

  I’d had no plans to discuss anything with a reporter. Regardless of my contract, what had happened with the Mableton family was tragic, and more importantly, personal. They didn’t need any more of their dirty laundry on display, and I certainly wouldn’t be the one to display it. When I explained that to Christopher, he nodded and scooted me out the back entrance and provided me with a personal escort home.

  “Our moral compasses do point in the same direction, Mayme. Not surprising, though, if you ask me.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Atticus Mableton and I sat on a park bench near the pond inside Happy Trails Trailer Park. “So, you’re not really Buford’s fiancée?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry for being dishonest.”

  He gave me a sad, half-hearted smile and shrugged. “If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t have ever known the truth.”

  “I guess. I would have liked things to have been different though.” Like maybe, if Buford’s fate was that he had to be murdered, couldn’t it have been Tucker or Billy John? I know that was horrible to think, and I shouldn’t wish ill on anyone, but they weren’t all that kind, and I felt terrible for poor Atticus. He didn’t deserve to spend the rest of his life without his mother, with his brother in prison, his cousin dead and knowing it all happened around him when he was only trying to do right by everyone. And there I was, deceiving him the whole time. And I had no idea why. I’d wanted to contact Grace Lester. I had her phone number, but I didn’t feel right about it. I’d signed a contract with Exit Stage Left, and the contract said I had a particular job, to follow the dossier, to mourn the loss of Buford Lester, to act as his fiancée and when that job was finished, to return the file and move on. “Here.” I handed him a piece of paper with Grace’s
number. “I think you should call her. I have a feeling it will do you and her some good.”

  He took the number and put it in his pocket.

  I’d done my job to the best of my abilities, only in the process, I’d unintentionally discovered the deceased didn’t die accidentally, and I’d practically been held hostage by his killer. That realization hit me hard. I lost my breath and pressed my chest, trying hard to suck down air. “I…I…breathe…”

  Atticus jumped up and faced me “You okay? What’s…I…Ivy er, uh, Mayme?” He shook me, which didn’t help one bit. My entire body jiggled like a jellyfish flopping around in the sun, just waiting to dry up and die. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  An image of how crazy we must have looked, this monstrous hulk of a man shaking my loose-limbed, smaller—by comparison–body, my arms and legs flailing around like those two-story tall blow-up things you see blowing in the wind at car dealerships. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed so hard Atticus probably thought I was choking or something all over again.

  I held my hand up. “I’m…I’m okay.” Barely able to cough the words out in more than a whisper, my voice harsh and low, I repeated myself twice before he figured out what I’d said.

  Atticus stared at me, wide and crazy-eyed, his mouth dropped open in something halfway between shocked and angry. “What in the devil is wrong with you?”

  I pressed my hand into my chest again and let out a sigh so long and breathless I must have lost ten pounds of stress with it. “I’m sorry. None of this is funny, I know that. I’m not laughing at any of it. Well, except for how silly we just looked. And I am so sorry for deceiving you and your mother and everyone that cared for your cousin, but my intentions weren’t dishonorable. I mean that. I needed an acting job, and none of the community theaters would hire me, so I had to take what I could get.” I glanced up at the pond and stared off into the distance, taking stock of the weight of what I’d done. “And a professional mourning was the best option I had.”