A Teeny Bit of Trouble (7 page)

Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe the masked guy had gone back to her house. Maybe he’d squeezed her neck for four minutes. He could have tossed her body into the truck of her car. Serial murderers did this all the time. Still, he’d picked a strange place to dispose of her body. The land between Charleston and Sweeney was filled with wetlands. Wouldn’t it have been easier to dump her in a marsh?

I almost blurted my theories, but I stopped myself. I couldn’t tell him about Bill Clinton, not without discussing it with Coop. Not without incriminating my damn self.

“I’ve got to plan my wife’s funeral,” Lester said. “Please tell Mr. O’Malley that I pulled a few strings for the DNA test. Georgia Genetics will swab Emerson tomorrow morning at my drugstore. The problem is, I don’t have time to fetch her tonight. I’d send my mother, but she’s in a tennis tournament. Can Emerson spend the night with you?”

“Why, of course.”

“I knew I could count on you. Just bring her to the pharmacy at seven thirty in the morning. We’ll need Mr. O’Malley’s saliva, too. One more thing. Don’t tell Emerson about her mother. Or the test. She’ll run away. She’s done it before.”

“I won’t.” My feet prickled, as if ants were biting my ankles. The sensation spread up the backs of my thighs, changing into a pants-on-fire burn. I kicked out my leg. No ants. No bites. Nothing but nerves and shock.

I didn’t remember hanging up the phone. The air turned grainy, swarming with tiny black dots, as if the ants had sprouted wings and were flying out of my ears and mouth. Had Barb really and truly killed herself?

A sick feeling waved over me. Bile hit the back of my throat. I darted to the sink, yanking the phone cord behind me, and spit into the stainless-steel bowl.

The screen door creaked open, and warm air blew into the kitchen, smelling of hickory smoke. Red gripped a platter of hamburger patties, each one scored with grill marks. He set the dish on the counter, then he turned his pockets inside out. “You seen my handcuffs?”

Coop stepped around him, carrying the buns. “You probably left them in the van.”

“They were right here.” Red squinted at me. “Sheesh, are you okay? Your face is green.”

Coop put the buns on the table and glanced at me, his brow puckering. “What’s wrong?”

“Barb’s dead.” As I repeated my conversation with Lester, Coop leaned against the counter, looking a little green himself. The screen door opened, and Emerson skipped into the room, trailed by the dogs.

“If I eat a mad cow burger, will you take me to McDonald’s?” She tossed the water pistol onto the counter and twirled around.

No one answered. Red piled lettuce and onions on his hamburger. Coop rubbed his face.

“Sure, we’ll take you,” I said.

“Pinkie swear me.” She hooked her little finger around mine. “Break your promise and I’ll take a contract out on you.”

Coop lowered his hands. “Teeny doesn’t break promises.”

“You should bronze her. When y’all finish eating, come get me.” She grabbed a burger and ran back outside with the dogs.

Red lifted the mustard jar. “Poor kid. She don’t know what’s coming.”

Coop walked to the door and shut it. “I can’t believe Barb killed herself. Maybe we should call the Sweeney police department.”

Red nodded. “Good idea, Boss.”

I handed Coop the phone book, then I left the room. I didn’t want to know the details of Barb’s death. I wanted to believe that she had regained consciousness and decided she’d teach everyone a lesson. Then maybe she’d driven to Sweeney and mixed pills with alcohol, an accidental death.

I put one hand on my stomach. I felt jittery inside, like I’d swallowed tadpoles. I forced myself to think of practical matters. Emerson was spending the night in an icky house. I had three bedrooms: one downstairs, and two on the second floor. I needed to dust, put clean sheets on the beds, and crank up the other air conditioners.

I ran up the stairs and pulled linen from the hall closet. I passed by the hall window and saw Emerson run across the backyard, her braids bouncing on her shoulders. I thought about pushing open the window and telling her about the birding hot spots. The orchard was home to the endangered red-cockaded woodpecker. She’d like that. But I couldn’t pull in a breath. My throat was no bigger than a saffron thread. Emerson thought her mama would come back to her. Tomorrow she would learn the truth from Lester. Until then, I could only offer soft words, a feather pillow, and a Happy Meal.

Gripping the sheets to my chest, I walked to the end of the hall, past Mama’s old art gallery. I stopped in front of a giant replica of
The Last Supper.
Mama’s Jesus bore a strong resemblance to Elvis Presley, with Colonel Parker and Joe Esposito as disciples. Scattered on the table in front of them was fried chicken, cheeseburgers, mashed potatoes, peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches.

I opened the door to Mama’s door and turned on the air conditioner. Musty air kicked up the plaid curtains. I’d only spent eight years with Ruby Ann. Most of that time had been unbearable for us both, yet her loss had been palpable, a living thing, like a benign tumor that grows just beneath the skin, hard and inoperable.

No, Teeny
.
Don’t think about that
.
Think about all the food you’ll cook
. The peaches were ripe and juicy, brimming with sweetness, just begging to be made into a salsa. It’s an easy recipe. Peel and chop peaches. Add chopped red bell pepper, diced onion, minced garlic, and jalapeños. Chopped cilantro gives a fresh zing. Mix ingredients with oil and vinegar. A pinch of salt brings out the flavor. Serve with pork-and-pepper tacos.

Dust swirled up as I stripped Mama’s walnut bed. The filaments drifted past the wall mural that featured PG-rated sketches of the King. Emerson couldn’t sleep here. I hurried across the hall, into my old room. It was the same as ever. Twin beds with white ruffled pillow shams and log cabin quilts. Bookcases stuffed with cookbooks. Mama’s paintings hung on the walls, normal pictures of layer cakes and meringue-topped pies.

I made up the beds, then I ran down to the kitchen. Coop was still on the phone, but Red filled me in. “Nine thirty this morning, a maid found Barb’s body hanging from the shower rod. I don’t know the actual time of death. But we should hear something soon. The Sweeney coroner is fast-tracking the autopsy.”

“Why?” I sat down at the table and folded my hands.

Red shrugged. “Apparently the coroner has a golf game.”

Emerson burst into the kitchen. “Someone take me to McDonald’s right now or I’ll do something bad.”

I didn’t want the dogs roaming around the house until I’d scoured the rooms for toxic items. When you own a pet, you have to dog-proof, because ordinary things like raisins and onions are fatal to canines. If T-Bone or Sir found my ancient stash of chocolate, I’d never forgive myself. I lured the dogs into the parlor. It was a cozy, old fashioned room. A carved settee. Piano. Old hi-fi. Nothing that could hurt a dog. I firmly latched the pocket doors, hurried onto the porch, and locked up.

Ten minutes later, Red angled the van into the McDonald’s parking lot. Emerson dove into the backseat and grabbed Coop’s arm. “Daddy, will you sit next to me?”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I was fixing to ask you the same thing.”

A lot of guys wouldn’t be this accommodating to a bratty kid, even one who’d lost her mother, but Coop wasn’t just any guy.

Emerson scarfed down two Happy Meals and a vanilla shake. In between bites, she quizzed us. “Which animal is
not
in the Bible?” she asked, dangling a fry over her head.

“Hamsters,” Coop said.

“Y’all need to go to church. Cats are the
only
animals not in the Bible.” She dropped the fry into her mouth.

“What about mountain gorillas?” Red asked.

*   *   *

On the drive home, Emerson kept yawning. When the van pulled up to the farmhouse, she flung open her door and jumped into the gravel.

“Wait, honey, the door’s locked,” I called, fumbling in my purse for the key.

She ignored me and sprinted toward the porch. Coop helped me out of the van, and a gust of wind filled my striped skirt, shaping it into a bell.

Emerson pushed open the front door and ran inside. The dogs trotted onto the porch and shot down the steps. T-Bone loped in circles, but Sir waddled over to me and rubbed his flat face against my legs.

Red pointed at the door. “I thought you locked up, homegirl.”

My stomach tightened. “I did.”

“Maybe the wind blew it open,” Coop said, draping his arm around me.

It was indeed a blustery night. The trees moved against the dusky sky, the heavy branches whispering like ladies in church. T-Bone’s ears perked and he gazed off into the shadowy orchard. I looked, too. A ripple of light cut through the tall buffalo grass. T-Bone padded into the clearing, his fur bristling.

“Don’t you go chasing rabbits,” Coop told him.

Red’s hand dropped to his holster. “That’s no rabbit.”

Way off in the shadows, the light bobbed. A grainy shape darted between the trees. It was a man. And he was running toward the creek. T-Bone sprinted into the weeds. Sir was right behind him, but I drew him back. “You’re no match for a burglar,” I told him. Just saying that word made me sick.

Red pulled out his Glock. In the distance, a human howl rose up. The light zigzagged violently, bouncing against the trees, then it dropped and went still. A few seconds later, the beam levitated from the weeds and moved toward the house in a quivering dazzle.

“It ain’t the prowler,” Red said. “The light is too low.”

A blinding radiance cut through the buffalo grass. T-Bone ran into the clearing with a flashlight in his mouth. He dropped it at Coop’s feet.

“Sheesh.” Red shoved the Glock into the holster.

Coop snatched the light and aimed it at the trees. No movement. Nothing.

Sir twisted around, trying to escape. Coop passed the beam over the orchard again. “Teeny, you ever had prowlers before?”

“Someone broke in last December. Aunt Bluette was in the hospital.” I let go of Sir and stood, brushing dirt off my skirt. “A guy stole her pain pills and a portable TV.”

“I’m checking the backyard.” Red waved at the house. “Y’all go in and see if anything’s missing.”

My heart pounded as I followed Coop to the porch. The dogs padded behind us, their nails scritch-scratching on the cypress planks. Coop bent down to examine the door. The lock was intact, and the wood didn’t have gouges or scratch marks.

“You’ve got a spring lock,” he said, and pointed at the knob. “A credit card could pop it open.”

We went inside and checked the rooms. Nothing was disheveled. Aunt Bluette’s Hummels and Precious Moments figurines were lined up in the curio cabinet.

“Maybe he didn’t come into the house,” Coop said.

“Yes, he did.” I pointed to the pocket doors. I’d closed them before we’d left and now they stood ajar.

“I bet T-Bone nudged them open,” Coop said. “He’s an escape artist. I should’ve named him Houdini.”

While Coop circled through the rest of the house, I went upstairs to check on Emerson. She sat on my old bed, unbraiding her hair. The stuffed hedgehog lay on the ruffled pillow. I glanced around the room. Either the prowler was a neatnik or he hadn’t entered this room.

“Why was T-Bone barking?” she asked.

The truth would scare her, but I didn’t want to lie, either. I felt my “oh shit” smile snap into place. “He was chasing something.”

“Stupid dog.” Emerson sighed. “I’d love to chitchat, but it’s been a long, crappy day and I’m sleepy.”

I knew she wanted me to go, but I lingered in the doorway. “You want a glass of warm milk?”

“Ick, no.” She turned on her iPod and reached for the earphones. I wanted to put my arms around her and hold her the way Aunt Bluette had held me, but all I said was, “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

“As if.”

I found Coop in the kitchen. “Emerson’s fine,” I said, though he hadn’t asked.

“But you aren’t,” he said. “You’re shaking all over. Should I get your inhaler?”

“I’m fine, really.” Our eyes met. The air between us was spiked with electrical charges, and we stepped toward each other. Coop wrapped his arms around me. The heat from his body radiated through his thin cotton shirt, flooding me with a warm sweetness. I rested my cheek against his shoulder. It felt just right, solid and sheltering. And I knew that I’d already forgiven him for not telling me about Barb. Like Aunt Bluette used to say, “Nobody’s perfect. When you forgive others, you forgive yourself.” I think maybe she got that from Dr. Phil, but it was true.

Footsteps clapped in the hallway. Coop and I broke apart. Red strode into the kitchen, his cheeks flushed. “You missing anything, Teeny?”

“No. Everything’s fine.”

“I bet it was a kid. He probably thought the house was unoccupied.” Red’s voice sounded blunt, as if he’d sanded the edges of each word. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and twisted off the metal cap. “Big day tomorrow. What happens after the DNA test, Boss? You and Teeny gonna stick around and wait for the results?”

I walked to the sink and folded a tea towel. I wished I could be more like Red, moving effortlessly between prowlers and practical matters.

I felt the pressure of Coop’s hand on my elbow. “What do you think, Teeny? You want to stay in Bonaventure?”

“That would be nice.” I wasn’t in a hurry to get back to Charleston. I had plenty to think about. If Coop was Emerson’s dad, would I be a part of her life? Would she ever warm up to me? If so, I shouldn’t buy The Picky Palate Café. If Coop needed my help, I’d be there. Just deciding this made me feel calmer.

Red took a swig of beer, then he sniffed his armpits. “Does this house have a shower?”

“Upstairs,” I said. “First door on your right. Your bedroom room is across the hall. Hope you like Elvis. You’re sleeping with him.”

“You got ‘the King’ hid in the closet, girlie?” He winked. Then he went upstairs.

Coop put his arms around me. “Your heart is beating so fast. Are you still worried about the prowler?”

“No.” It was the truth. My pulse always went haywire when I smelled pine, cotton, and Aqua di Parma.