Apron Strings (17 page)

“Mind if I use your phone, then? Gotta call the sheriff.”

“No, go ahead. It’s down the hall.”

Two mysteries! The shock of Lance’s death and the unexplained flat tires on Daddy’s car battled for dominance inside my head. I hardly knew what to think. I nudged Gordy in the ribs with my elbow and indicated with my head that we should go somewhere else. “Ya’ll git on outta here now,” Ethel spoke up. “Ya don’ need to be seein’ all dis. Go on, now.” Daddy patted each of us on the head as we left the kitchen.

“I don’t want you two to worry,” he said. “Nobody is going to hurt you. Promise.”

The thought of being in danger hadn’t occurred to me, but there was one thing I knew—when a grown-up told you not to worry, you had
better start. We ran up to the third floor and flopped down on Gordy’s bed.

“What do you think?” I asked. “Poor ol’ Lance. Gosh. What a horrible, low-down thing to do.” Now that the excitement was subsiding, I began to feel queasy. I thought about Lance’s crushed head and how the vet was taking his body away, and that I would never get to pet him again. Suddenly, tears sprang to my eyes and I buried my head in Gordy’s mattress and cried. Gordy’s eyes were already raw and he was hurting even worse than I was, but his big brother impulses seemed to take over. He started patting me on the back.

“There, there,” he said. After a while I dried my eyes and went in search of Helen and Stuart to tell them the story. Finding neither, I returned to Gordy’s room expecting to see him bawling again. But he surprised me. Once he got the crying out of the way, he got mad; snarling dog mad.

“I’m finding out who did this,” he declared. I don’t believe I had ever heard Gordy make a declaration before. That had always been my field. “You gonna help?”

“What can I do? Or you? What are you gonna do about it? Go out and arrest somebody?”

“I dunno. It was bad enough that somebody dumped nails in our driveway, but ya can’t just let someone kill your dog. Ya gotta do somethin’. I think the same person that dumped the nails killed Lance.”

“Why would someone do that? Kill our dog and dump nails in our driveway? It doesn’t make any sense,” I said. Gordy shrugged his shoulders.

Daddy read Sherlock Holmes mysteries to us whenever he got the chance, so we mulled over our mysteries, wondering what Holmes and Watson might do. And I had my extensive knowledge of Nancy Drew’s most intimate thoughts on mystery solving at my disposal. I noticed cars pulling into the driveway. “Whoa, Gordy, there’s Stuart and a police car outside.”

His eyes got big as dinner plates. “Let’s go check it out,” he said.

We crept down the stairs, peering over the banister from the second floor. We could see Daddy holding Stuart, who was crying, while the sheriff’s deputy stood in the doorway shifting nervously from foot to
foot. After removing his hat, the deputy stepped into the house, and adjusted the gun belt around his ample belly. I tingled with the excitement of seeing a real live gun for the first time; and in my own house, no less. Gordy poked me and pointed. “Yeah, neat huh?” I whispered back.

Stuart, still weeping, started for the kitchen, then turned and ran past us on the steps. “Lance is dead,” Gordy whispered. Stuart didn’t stop. She headed straight to her room and slammed the door after her. I could hear her sobbing. Gordy and I looked at each other, but the scene below had captured our imagination.

Daddy and Big-and-Beefy, the deputy, disappeared from view. Gordy and I inched our way down, step-by-step. We were careful not to make the slightest noise until we reached the spot on the stairs where we could see into the kitchen. We peeped through the rails that separated us from the action. The door leading to the porch was open. It was an awful sight. Ol’ Lance lay splayed out on the floor right at the sill. I tried not to look, but couldn’t help it. Once I did, I started sniffling again. Gordy shot me a warning look, but I could tell he was on the verge of tears, too. The locker that killed Lance had been pushed out of the way. We couldn’t hear what was being said. The deputy and Daddy picked up the body then carried it through the porch and down the stairs. Ethel followed a safe distance behind, wringing her hands in a dishtowel.

We decided to seize the opportunity, so we tore down the stairs. Since the deputy came in the front door, we figured his car must be parked out front. We scurried to the back door, pulled it open slightly, and squeezed through it. Once outside—enthusiasm unbounded—we ran around the corner to position ourselves in a spot that would give us a clear view of the unfolding drama. The trick of good detecting is not to be detected. Ethel, half hidden in the bush herself, shushed us as we plowed into her. “Cain’ hear what they sayin’. Hush!”

The deputy grabbed Lance’s body by two legs and tossed it into the trunk of his car like it was some litter he’d found on the road. Then he stood with his hand on the trunk hood, his back to us. We couldn’t hear a word. Daddy and the deputy looked off down the drive as if they thought that was where the poisoner had come from. Every once in a while one or the other would indicate a direction with his hand. Gordy
turned to me and whispered, “What ya think? Maybe it was that old lady that lives on the corner. They’re pointing that way. Ya think? Or those guys in that car.”

“That ol’ lady ain’t poisoned nobody’s dog,” Ethel said. Gordy and I shot each other amazed glances. We had not counted on a coconspirator. We immediately plied Ethel with questions. “I thank it’s that mean ol’ man down next to the doc’s house,” she volunteered. “Ya’ll know the one I mean?” Neither of us did. “Lives ‘round the corner over behind Mattie Bruce’s people.” I detected some impatience in her voice. Then she said, “What guys in what car?”

“Mr. Gentry? No, he didn’t do it,” Gordy said. “I cut through his yard all the time. He’s as nice as can be.” I couldn’t tell if he was purposely avoiding Ethel’s question. If so, he was brilliant because it worked.

“Wha’ ya’ll doin’ down there? Ya’ll ain’t s’pose ta be crossin’ no streets. I better not catch you doin’ that again. G’on git on outta here. I got work ta do.”

“Look,” Gordy said pointing, “maybe Mr. Dabney did it. He’s watching Daddy but he looks like he doesn’t want us to…”

“Don’ lemme catch ya anywhere near that man, ya hear me?” She glared at Gordy then me. Ethel’s vehemence took, us off guard and scared both us a little.

“Yes, ma’am.” We said in unison.

We wandered away toward the swings. “Phew, she sure got mad about that,” Gordy muttered. Walking aimlessly, but for Ethel’s benefit feigning otherwise, we kicked at clumps of wet leaves as we discussed our next move.

“She’s gonna be watching us like a hawk now. Why’d you have to mention that car? And Mr. Dabney.”

“I got us out of it, so quit griping. Let’s go over there and see if we find anything.”

“Ethel just said not to.”

“Do you wanna find out who killed Lance or not?”

“Well I…”

“Gord-eee, Sal-leee, git in this house afore ya’ll catch yo’ death o’ cold,” Ethel called.

“I don’t want to go back in there,” I moaned. “Out here I at least feel like…well, I don’t have to think about what happened to Lance.”

“What?” He looked at me like I had two heads.

I groped to explain myself. “I mean the adventure and mystery…Oh, never mind. You’re so stupid you wouldn’t get it even if I could…” Then the tears started and there was no holding them back. With both of us crying, we bid Ethel’s command.

As our search for clues to the mysteries continued, we routinely crept about the house honing our detecting skills. If we had learned one thing growing up with our parents it was that you never knew what adults weren’t telling you. The days following Lance’s death were wet, cold, and dreary, matching our moods. So snooping around the neighborhood was out of the question. Since I was stuck inside, I did the only thing I could do: I tried my best to spy on my parents and Ethel, even though I’d promised my mother I wouldn’t. Thinking I was so clever, I positioned myself in the broom closet one wet afternoon to see if I could pick up any information. Ethel hummed her way to the kitchen, and I quickly closed the door then perched on the vacuum cleaner.

She turned on the water and started a new hymn, one I had never heard before. I pushed the door open a crack to see what she was up to. She sat at the kitchen sink polishing silver. Ethel picked up a fork and rubbed it hard with silver polish, then placed it in the sink half full of water and picked up another one.
This is just great
, I thought.
I’m gonna be stuck here while she polishes silver. How am I gonna get outta here?
I had almost decided on a story I could tell when I heard someone move. Right next to the crack in the door was Daddy. He was so close, I could smell his woodsy-soap, tinged with blood and body heat.. Holding my breath, I sat stock-still. Daddy stood in the doorway watching Ethel. He leaned up against the frame, resting his head on his raised arm. His knuckles on his right hand were scrapped and bloody. He just stood there watching for a long time. Every so often he’d sigh. I could tell Ethel didn’t know he was there. She was singing softly to herself. The door to my hideaway was cracked and I didn’t want to close it for fear of being detected. As good as I was becoming at making up stories for why I was in strange places, I
didn’t get the feeling that anyone would be too happy finding me in that closet. Ethel hummed and then stopped. She picked up another fork, started to hum, and then stopped again. No one said a word. My breath roared in and out as I tried to control it. She looked up sharp, right at me. I was sure she saw me looking at her. Then she said, “Lord, Mista Joe, ya scared me! I didn’t hear ya come in. You feelin’ all right? Ya look ‘bout low as a snake belly. Lord, Mista Joe what you done ta yo hand?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, turned to leave, and then stopped; but he didn’t say anything. Finally, he went into the kitchen and sat down at the table behind her. Daddy pushed the chair back, got up, went to the refrigerator, and opened the door. He took out a beer, and then another one. Squeezing by Ethel, Daddy opened and shut drawers until he found the can opener. He pried two triangles into the tops of the cans. One of the cans he sat down beside Ethel. Without saying a word, she dumped out the contents of a tin cup into the sink and poured the beer into the empty cup. Sliding off the stool, she lumbered over to the trash. Instead of tossing the empty can in, she placed it very precisely down the side of the trashcan and covered it with a scrap of paper.

He watched her, smiled a sad smile and asked, “Do that often?”

“No, sir, but ain’t no use axin’ fo’ trouble. You know good as me that Miz Ginny would have a fit if’n she saw me drankin’ a beer.” Back at the sink, Ethel took a long pull from her tin cup, “Goes down mighty fine,” she said, smacking her lips. “Be times when a beer just hits the spot.” She continued her polishing.

Daddy grunted as he nursed his beer. Neither said anything for a long while. The vacuum cleaner was digging sharply into my left thigh no matter which way I squirmed. After what seemed like an hour, Ethel said, “Ain’t like you to be home this time of day. Want me to fix ya some lunch? Miz Ginny out playin’ cards, but I kin make you a sandwich if’n you want one.”

“No, I’m not hungry. Thanks.” He sat at the table, his head down, leaning into his beer. “I just don’t know.” The telephone rang. He got up to answer it, leaving his half-finished beer on the table. I dozed off waiting for Ethel to finish her polishing. I woke with a start when she
bellowed her summons to come home out of the back door. After checking through the crack to see if the coast was clear, I carefully pushed the door open enough to get out undetected.

“Where’d you come from?” she asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Upstairs reading,” I lied.

“Hmmmm,” is all she said.

The living room, dining room, and hallway clear up to the third floor were painted a warm deep green; the kind of color you get when you squint hard while looking at trees on a sunny summer afternoon. My daddy said that color “had balls.” My mother seemed pleased that men liked it. “Handsome,” is what she called it. A banister started in the front hall and wrapped itself around twice until it ended on the third floor, right at Gordy’s door. You could stand outside Gordy’s bedroom and see clear to the first floor.

Two days after Lance died, Stuart must have been feeling really low because she hadn’t come out of her room once. She asked Helen and me to leave her alone every time we knocked, but had a steady stream of grown-up visitors. My mother stopped in often, and from what Helen and I could tell there was none of the usual shouting. Daddy spent hours with her at night. Ethel brought food up regularly. I heard the springs groan as Ethel sat on Stuart’s bed. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but I heard soft murmurs. I could just imagine Ethel stroking Stuart’s head and patting her gently like she did me when I was sad.

When Stuart finally emerged from her room, she taught me how to slide down the banister sidesaddle instead of straddling it and going down backward. It was much faster and more fun to see where you were going. She and I practiced on the staircase coming from the second floor. It wasn’t as steep, and there was more room to land in the wide front hall. The first couple of times I thought I was going to go straight through the front door when I got to the bottom.

“Right off the bat you have to control yourself at the end, because if you’re not careful you shoot right off,” she said. She held on to me until I found my balance. I didn’t care if I never learned to slide down the banister the way Stuart did. Stuart spending so much time with me
was so wonderful, nothing else much mattered. But I wanted her to be proud of me. It took a while to learn how much pressure to use. “It’s subtle,” she said. “You have to find your own way—like riding a bike.” It took the whole afternoon for me to learn how to stop myself at the end of the banister and hop off like the tightrope walkers do. I was so excited to show Daddy my new accomplishment that I’d go to my room every few minutes and check out the front window to see if his car was coming up the drive. Then I’d go back to have another slide, perfecting my skills in order to impress him all the more. He never came home that night.