Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) (39 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

The next morning after checking the fishing regulations on the Minnesota Natural Resources website, I entered the kitchen, surprised to find Lyle already up and sipping his coffee at the table. “Well, the early bird,” I said pouring myself a cup. “You beat everyone.”

“Yeah.” He wrapped his boney hands around his Johnny Cash mug, the one giving the finger. “This is gonna be a good day.”

I smiled and secretly prayed that I wouldn’t screw up his song, although I’ve never held much belief in prayer except when I prayed with Papa Karl because he believed in it. “Can I do anything for you before I meet Roddy at The Drink to set up?”

“I’m good. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I got one more practice after breakfast then I’m gonna take a hike.”

“A hike?”

“Nothin’ special. Thought I’d drive out to Carver’s then walk to Kingdom Lake.” He saw my reaction. “Sorry, that has bad memories for you.”

He didn’t know the half of it. But I’d camouflaged my work at Carver’s pretty good, and he never was one to poke around scary places. “Driving, walking? You strong enough?”

“It’s a short walk, I’ll be fine. Beautiful there, peaceful. That week I worked for old man Carver I’d take my breaks at the lake, just to get away from all the dead parts.” Again he winced. “Sorry.”

We did have some things in common. “You want to wait till I get back?” Out the window to the northwest, dark clouds gathered over Thief River. Another quick temperature drop could bring rain or another tornado. “I could go with you.”

He lingered on his reflection in the coffee. “I’ll be fine.” He wanted to be alone, and if anything happened to him it’d be better out there in the open, amongst the comfort of the trees and next to the water, than in the house. But I wanted him to know that I’d gladly walk with him. “You’re sure?”

“Sis, I’ll be fine.”

And even as he smiled and zigzagged laboriously to his room, I knew I was going to miss him, that another hole was going to be left in my heart.

***

Before leaving the farmhouse I paused in the vestibule, feeling for the incoming weather. Nothing struck me as imminent though I smelled the potential for rain. I hoped against it. I wanted no excuses; I wanted that small room packed for Lyle’s performance.

On the drive down to Bemidji I cast an occasional eye toward the Thief River clouds, which thankfully seemed painted in one place and lacking intention. I hoped that would be true of the police as well. If they jailed me before Lyle’s event I would be letting him down, like I’d done to so many others.

When I arrived at Bemidji Funeral Home & Cremation Service, there wasn’t a car in the lot. But the door opened and I went to the front desk. “Hello,” I called out. No response. A little bell sat on the counter, the kind you’d find in a dry cleaning establishment or the post office. So I tapped it.

“Be right there,” came the voice from out back. And in a moment I stood face-to-face, and alone, with Victor King.

“This is your place?
You’re
the uncle?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you the owner?”

“What do you need, Eunis?” He was all business.

“I came to sign for the body. For Atara’s body.”

“You! Mr. O’Brien spoke to us, but I had no idea.” I saw the wheels turning. He sniffed. “This is highly irregular.”

“Melissa doing well, I hope? She seems like a lovely woman. Not just beautiful, but a nice person.”

“She’s great, yeah. What did you say to her?”

“I said nothing.” Beauty was most vulnerable to other beauty, especially beauty perceived to be equal or greater.

“And the police?” He lifted an errant pen off the counter and dropped it into an open drawer.

“Not much
to
say. I just found her.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been arraigned.” He slammed the drawer shut.

I didn’t flinch. “Yes, I’d heard rumors, don’t know where they started, but I don’t run, I swim.” A slightly befuddled expression crossed his face. “Do you like to fish?”

“No, I don’t have the time.” His mouth tightened, fed up. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, Detective Sullivan does; likes to fish. You ever see the largemouth bass mounted on his wall?”

“What?”

“It does seem like someone wanted me to look guilty. Maybe someone knew how regular I am in my patterns. I am rather systematic. But the thing is, I checked. Little Bass Stump
is closed to fishing till May 23. Has been since April 1st. Seems they spawn now, the bass, I mean. What were those fishermen fishing for if they couldn’t legally catch fish?”

“Fish. Not everyone abides by the rules.”

“With their radio blasting? I think someone sent them there. Maybe just told them to take a day off at Little Bass. Gave them permission.”

He shook his head. “You make this stuff up as you go along.”

“I think someone knew that I’d move on to Kingdom Lake if I couldn’t swim naked at Little Bass.”

Victor remained stony-faced.

“Anyway, I was never attractive enough for you.”

“What does that mean?!”

“Anyone with an eye for beauty, like you,
like your wife
, would know that you wouldn’t waste time with me. Certainly not a whole evening, till late. And then night after night.”

His face lost some of its color.

I pressed on. “What I thought was providential was how much you and Atara had in common.”

Impassively, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mermaid tattoos. I guess it’s a universal fascination.”

He instinctively reached for his groin. “How do you—?”

I smiled. And then it must have resonated, because his mouth hung open, his eyes fled mine.

“I don’t have time for this.” But he didn’t move. At the very least he knew he really was vulnerable. As was his wife, Melissa.

“Jealousy can get so ugly.”

He swallowed. “I’m going back to my work.”

“I’m sure you and Melissa will be very happy for many more years. Children need the mother’s touch, don’t you think?” The irony didn’t escape me. “Anything you can do as Mayor to explicate me from Detective Sullivan’s consideration, well . . . it’s a shame Atara went into
that
water. Colder than she was used to, no doubt.”

He’d turned pale grey, like the charred powder that came out of his furnaces.

“Please have it delivered on Monday, without fanfare. Here,” I said handing him the directions. I walked out, my legs strong, my body upright, my gait nimbler.

***

Roddy was already at the Drink ‘n’ Dive when I arrived, setting up, his back to me. The gloomy windowless room and the bleached barroom smell overpowered my ability to focus, but I was finally drawn to a tabletop screaming with yellow and gold tulips, a large basket with a note rooting Lyle on: “Be the boss, hugs from Ruthie, Brytney, Vinnette, Anthony, Simone and Anthony Jr.” A natural oasis and reassuring fragrance. I could see their faces.

With Roddy’s back still to me, I tried to reconstruct
his
face and calibrate the disconnect between what I saw and what Carly and Momma saw. The empirical criteria had seemed to fit. Yet the divide was too great. I thought I was immune to such things. Perhaps I’d ask Mae when she came in, but by then the invited would already be streaming in leaving me no time to attend to research. And Mae was in her eighties. How would that twist the results?
Focus
.

I stood watching Roddy. He pulled inverted chairs from tables and arranged them. Why had I thought he was handsome? I suppose I shared that view with Elizabeth. Already I sensed myself recalculating his attractiveness. Another study gone awry.

And what about imperfections? Could they be what set off a face as beautiful? That little mole on an otherwise unblemished cheek? Or the straying eye on an otherwise perfect canvas? The scar? The tilted nose? The errant eyebrow? The cleft chin? The crooked smile? Perhaps that was the factor that turned a face beautiful, made it more appealing. He had none of those.

I didn’t make a sound — barely breathed really — yet he must’ve sensed me because he turned and, seeing me, smiled. “Hey,” he said.

I refused to be fooled again, a researcher examining and evaluating her subject, nothing more. “Hi.” I smiled. “You didn’t need to get here so early.”

His eyes: cerulean, reasonably symmetrical, although his right eye was perhaps a fraction lower than the left, with a hint of puffiness that suggested poor sleep. His skin quality: a bit wrinkled, yes, with some sun/age spots, but the
color
of his skin was a perfect blend of brown and white.

What would others say?
The ratios, from eyes to nose to mouth, weren’t squished together, like Harold, or too distant from the forehead, like Gordon. His nose was a bit large, but not outside the “average” for the population, its skew only marginally to the right.

“I’m happy to help.” He reconfigured the space between two chairs. “You okay? You’ve been under a lot of strain.”

Smell, a definite factor in attractiveness according to the research, often correlated back to the facial proportions. The more balanced the face, the more enjoyable the body odor. At this, I inhaled the scent memory of him and decided I’d found my researcher bias. I could no longer be objective, his odor clearly an aphrodisiac — if I was honest with myself — that couldn’t be resolved in my study.

“I’m fine.” I walked as slowly as I could toward him to extend my calibrations a few more seconds. His face was masculine, though the research was splintered on the effect. Women may marry neutral-faced men but want to have sex with the masculine-faced male for his genes, aware that such men are more aggressive and less faithful. Then there’s the suggestion that, when the woman is in a weakened position, say pregnant or nursing, that she prefers the smell of a man that replicates those of her closest relatives. Lyle, Carly,
Momma!

“This place smells awful, doesn’t it?” he said, his nose lifted. “Maybe we can do something about it before tonight. It’s like sitting in a urinal.”

“Yes, it is,” I said, charmed that he somehow read my mind. “I feel like I’m being pickled.” Mr. Carver would have said
preserved
.

Roddy coughed out a small laugh, set down another chair, and came to hug me. I was disinclined, but not because I was unenthusiastic about pressing my body next to his. I tried not to breathe him in, and he noticed.

“Breathe,” he said, misunderstanding my motivation. “This will all go fine, you’ll see.”

We finished organizing the tables and, finding some large floor fans in the storage room, set them on opposite sides of the stage and turned them on full to blow away the malaise, though the smell of
him
was still with me. The shrill tin sound of the fans drove us into the main barroom, mostly empty at this hour, where we scooted into the booth in the corner, the same one in which Sparky and I had conversed.

“How is he?” he asked.

“Oh, he seems particularly upbeat this morning. He was up early, says he’s going for a drive and a short walk.” I removed my hands from the tacky tabletop and searched for the hand sterilizer in my coat pocket. “Was this a mistake?”

“The performance? You just said he’s upbeat.”

“But this place . . . I’m not sure what’s up or down anymore.” I tipped a couple of drops of hand disinfectant onto my palm and massaged my hands together.

“If he’s happy, you’re doing all the right things. What can I do?”

“Nothing, he really likes you.” I offered him the small bottle of sanitizer. He mouthed
no thanks
.

“And you?” he asked.

Meaning do I really like you?
The question flustered me. “What do you mean?”

“Is there something I can do to help you?”

I sat back.

“I mean, with Lyle or the house or your research?”

“Oh, everything’s taken care of.” I was relieved and hoping the one waitress on duty would see us in the corner and bring us some water. My mouth was a desert; lips bonded together as if grout had been layered in. Probably the coffee.

“So you’ve come to conclusions about beauty? Because I’ve got questions galore.”

“Just a lot of research and nothing final.” I didn’t want to cross-reference him against additional criteria, at least not in that moment.

“Well maybe you can explain; like if someone has a beautiful face and a mangled body, are they still beautiful?”

“Scientists have been working on those solutions for years. I don’t take that on. I’m interested in offering facial beauty from the get-go. Getting it genetically right at inception.”

“But?”

“But defining what that is, is more difficult than I thought.” I signaled the waitress, who waved back.

“I’m not surprised,” he said perhaps smug. “Different cultures, like you say, see beauty differently. I’ll bet even climate plays a part.”