Dead to the World (17 page)

1972

Chet had a car, of sorts. An early sixties Plymouth Valiant that smoked and sputtered but still seemed to get the job done. Edgar didn’t have much to say – he couldn’t see himself regaling his son with tales of prison life. None of his stories ended well. Chet talked a bit. About his girlfriend who he’d just dumped because she’d caught him with her sister and said he couldn’t do that. Chet broke up with her because he thought she wasn’t being fair. Edgar understood completely. But then, Chet told him, the sister had decided she didn’t like the way he’d treated his girlfriend, saying he cheated on her.

‘Hell, man,’ Chet explained to his dad, ‘
I’m
the one who cheated? Shit, she was just my girlfriend! That bitch was her sister! She’s the one who cheated, donja think?’

‘Sure,’ Edgar said, staring out at the streets of Biloxi, marveling at how much the town had changed.

‘So I said, “Hey, bitch! I wouldn’t fuck you with a ten foot pole anyways!” And she goes, “Yeah, you and what army?” And I go …’ Chet said, while Edgar tuned him out, thinking, he might have my face, but he’s got his granny’s mouth! If ever there was a person who could talk your ear off it was that old bitch.

They got to the facility where Edgar’s wife was housed after a fairly short twenty-minute ride. It was weird to think of her as his wife – but as far as he knew she still was. Of course, it had been hard for him to think of her as his wife when he was living with her, too.

The facility was a large, state-run place, red brick and institutional, with an unmanned gate that they easily drove through. Once inside Edgar found himself in a no-frills room filled with patients milling about, some just wandering around, some talking to themselves, others sitting in chairs and staring out the windows. A couple of men played forty-two at a table in the center of the room, and three women appeared to be putting together a jigsaw puzzle at another table.

Chet walked up to a counter, behind which stood a nurse in a starched white uniform. ‘Hey, June,’ he said, grinning big.

‘Well, hey there, Chet!’ the woman said, smiling up at Edgar’s son’s handsome face. Edgar couldn’t help thinking, that’s the way women used to look at me.

‘Did your mom know you were coming?’ the nurse asked.

‘Nope. Surprise visit. This guy’ – Chet said, pointing over his shoulder at Edgar – ‘says he’s my dad. I wanna see if Mama recognizes him.’

The nurse his son called June looked Edgar up and down, then shook her head. ‘Rita always says you’re the spitting image of your daddy. I don’t see it.’

‘Me neither. But he says mom’s got a mole—’ He turned to look at Edgar. ‘Where’d you say?’

‘On the right side just under her belly button as you’re looking at her,’ Edgar said.

The nurse nodded her head. ‘Well, that’s true. She does have that. How come you don’t look like Chet?’ she asked Edgar.

He shrugged. ‘Got in an accident,’ he supplied.

She shrugged. ‘That’s a shame. The world needs more pretty men like Chet here,’ she said, coming around the counter and squeezing Chet’s arm. ‘I’ll go get your mom,’ she said, heading for a door.

‘You ever knock boots with that?’ Edgar asked Chet.

Chet made a face. ‘Jeez, are you kidding? She’s gotta be like thirty! Naw, not my type.
’
Sides, I like really big ta-tas.’

Edgar nodded his head. ‘Always been partial to that myself.’

Chet led Edgar over to a grouping of sofa, loveseat and easy chair, no two items matching, and they sat down. It took only a few minutes for the nurse to come back. And there she was, Rita, the pretty girl with the crossed eyes that he’d cheated on every chance he’d got. She was still cross-eyed, and, Edgar had to admit, still pretty – for an old woman. At least she didn’t look like her mother.

Rita saw Chet first and a grin spread across her face. ‘Hi, baby-boy,’ she said, moving toward him. Then she noticed the man standing next to her son and stopped short. Her mouth dropped open and she stood there for almost a full minute. Finally, she ran up to Edgar and threw her arms around him. ‘You’ve come back!’ she cried. ‘I always knew you would!’

BACK HOME

‘S
o it’s over?’ Logan asked as they all climbed back in the minivan.

‘I guess so,’ Alicia said.

‘Who’s the daddy?’ Bess asked.

‘What does it matter?’ Megan said. ‘As long as she’s no longer accusing Logan, it’s all good, right?’

Alicia, who was driving, said, ‘Jeez, Megan, are you
not
E.J. Pugh’s daughter? Don’t you want to know the truth?’

‘After what looking for the truth in all the wrong places has done for Mom? I don’t think so! She and Dad almost got divorced over this kind of thing! Besides, there’s no murder here,’ Megan said. ‘Just a girl lying.’

‘You didn’t look in Tucker Benton’s eyes, did you?’ Bess insisted. ‘There was murder in there! He would have killed Logan if we hadn’t been there!’

‘No, now, Bess,’ Logan started.

Bess interrupted. ‘Don’t you side with them! That guy was out to beat the crap out of you! If we hadn’t been there—’

‘I know, I know,’ Logan said and heaved a great sigh. ‘Three girls saved my ass. I know. But he wasn’t going to kill me. And besides, I need to know
why
she lied about me. I mean, there could be a real crime going on here. What if whoever knocked Harper up was like some old guy, you know? What if she was like raped or something? I mean, why else would she lie about me?’

‘Because she’s a bitch and she wanted to get you into trouble?’ Bess asked sarcastically.

Logan turned his head and looked out the window. Bess crossed her arms over her chest and looked out
her
window.

‘Logan’s right,’ Alicia said. ‘There could be something bad going on here! I just read online about this rapist who’s suing his victim for custody of the child she had because of the rape! Can you believe it?’

Megan shook her head. ‘That’s seriously gross.’

‘I know!’ Alicia said. ‘First time I was alone with that guy, I’d gut him like a chicken!’

‘Alicia!’ Bess said from the back seat.

‘Well, wouldn’t you?’ Alicia demanded, turning in her seat to look at her sister.

Bess appeared to think about it for a moment, then said, ‘Then pour rubbing alcohol all over him so it would burn.’

Megan laughed out loud. ‘Damn straight!’ she said.

Logan stared open-mouthed at the three girls, then said, ‘Back in the olden days, armies used to throw their prisoners to the women. Now I understand why.’

Looking at the straight-razor in front of him, Chief Cotton said, ‘Too bad neither Hammerschultz or Lovesy died from a cut throat.’ He turned the razor around in his hand, seeing the glint of the forty-watt bulb reflect off its sheen. ‘Then we’d have us a murder weapon.’

‘That would make a good one,’ Willis said. ‘Even as old as it is. Look how worn the steel is.’

‘Wait!’ I said, staring at it. ‘There was someone with a slit throat, remember?’

‘Who?’ Chief Cotton said, raising an eyebrow at me.

Willis looked at me, grinned, and said, ‘Miss Hutchins’ mama.’

‘Oh, fer Christ’s sake!’ the chief said. Then he stared at the razor. ‘And I just got my fingerprints all over it.’

‘Look!’ I said, pointing at the barely discernable initials on the heft of the straight-razor. ‘NMH,’ I said. ‘Norris Hutchins?’

Gingerly he put the razor back in its sheath. ‘If we find Norris Hutchins’ fingerprints on this thing, I’m quittin’ and movin’ to Florida,’ he said.

BACK HOME

As they turned on to the main road out of the library, Megan noticed Mrs Benton coming out of the library. She had her cell phone to her ear and was walking rapidly toward her car, the one they’d seen Harper driving the day before. On a pretty, sunny day in April, the windows of the minivan were down and they distinctly heard the woman say, ‘Call nine-one-one! I’m on my way!’

Alicia put her foot on the brake, stopping the van in the middle of the road, alienating the cars behind her. ‘Nine-one-one?’ she said, turning to the rest.

‘Could it be the baby?’ Bess asked.

Alicia pulled the van to the side of the road and they watched as Mrs Benton got in her car and rushed out of the parking lot. ‘Follow her!’ Megan said.

Alicia did. Mrs Benton led them straight to Codder County Memorial Hospital where she pulled up under the emergency portico – reserved for ambulances – and bailed out of her car. Alicia let everyone out of the minivan and went to park in a proper spot.

Walking back, she noticed Mrs Benton had left the driver’s side door standing open and the keys in the ignition. Being the person she was, Alicia hopped in the car, started it up and drove it to a proper parking spot, right next to the minivan. She pocketed the keys and headed into the emergency room.

After being dropped off, Megan, Bess and Logan followed Mrs Benton inside the ER waiting room. She went straight to the counter housing the ER nurse, said something they couldn’t hear, and was immediately taken back behind closed doors.

The three looked at each other then back at the locked doors that led to the bowels of the emergency room. ‘What now?’ Bess asked the other two.

Logan shrugged and Megan said, ‘We wait?’

‘For what?’ Bess demanded.

Megan’s turn to shrug. ‘I dunno. Alicia?’

‘You rang?’ Alicia said, coming in the door behind them. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Harper’s mother went in and we don’t know what’s going on,’ Bess said.

‘We don’t even know if it
was
Harper the call was about!’ Logan said. ‘For all we know, Tucker could have been in a car wreck or something.’

At that point the ER doors swung open and a man came running inside and up to the counter. Megan elbowed Bess in the ribs. ‘That’s Coach Robbins!’ she stage-whispered.

The coach yelled at the ER nurse, ‘Harper Benton! Where is she? Is she OK?’

‘Oh my God,’ Bess whispered.

‘Daddy’s here,’ Megan said.

‘How long will it take to get DNA?’ Willis asked the chief as they took their booty downstairs.

‘Weeks,’ he said.

Willis and I looked at each other. Part of me was thinking, weeks in this bucolic little town? Sleeping late and eating Miss Hutchins’ food? Wandering the antique shops and lazing in the Bishop’s Inn’s garden? Then the practical part of me remembered that my husband was self-employed and we were already losing money on this Monday morning. He’d had to cancel three appointments with potential clients. And I had a deadline approaching on my latest bodice ripper.

And then, of course, there were the kids. I figured they were doing OK though without us. They sure seemed to be the few times we’d talked. There was always the chance somebody would notice three teenage girls on their own – but I could call Luna, and Vera, my mother-in-law … Then I thought of another salient point: waiting weeks could mean that this killer could kill again – or leave town and we’d never find him.

‘We don’t have weeks,’ I gently reminded the chief.

‘We can get the fingerprints back pretty quick-like,’ he said. ‘I’m taking this,’ he said, indicating the sheathed straight-razor, ‘back to the shop now. Mary Mays is our fingerprint expert. She went to the academy in Austin to learn all about it. I’ll give it to her.’

And with that, the chief was out the door and Willis and I were once again on our own. I could smell good smells coming from the kitchen. Lunch! I thought and smiled. Then sobered. One, my jeans were getting tight, and two, was now the time to mention to Miss Hutchins that someone was definitely in her attic but it was a live someone, not her daddy’s ghost? Then we went into the dining room and I saw the steaming tureen of some creamy soup and a platter of breads and cold-cuts. Maybe after lunch we’d talk about it, I thought.

Lunch was even better than that first glance had promised. The soup was homemade cream of mushroom, thick with mushrooms, bacon, onions and other goodies I didn’t recognize. It was ambrosia. The breads – white, wheat, and sour dough – were homemade, as was the mayo and the mustard. How this old lady had time to do all this, I’ll never know. The only store-bought items on the table were the cold-cuts, and they certainly weren’t the packaged kind. These obviously came from a meat market and were cut thick – ham, turkey and roast beef. I kept myself to only one sandwich, but allowed myself two bowls of soup – and of course some of the fruit salad Miss Hutchins had so lovingly provided. Even so, by the time I stopped eating, I had to unbutton my jeans and suppress an unladylike burp. I also rethought my scenario about telling Miss Hutchins about the person in the attic. I was afraid on such a full stomach it might give me indigestion. I had no idea how she would react, and, truthfully, right now I didn’t want to know.

So I went upstairs and took a nap. I do some of my best thinking while asleep.

BACK HOME

‘Coach?’ Logan called out.

Coach Robbins whirled around, staring glassy-eyed at the three kids, with no recognition on his face. Logan walked up to him and the coach seemed to shake himself.

‘Logan? You OK, man? What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘I’m asking you the same thing!’ Logan said, his fists clenched at his side. ‘Why do you care what’s going on with Harper Benton? How did you even know she was here? And who the hell do you think you are, you sick son-of-a-bitch!’

And then Logan took a swing at the coach, who blocked it easily with a big, meaty paw covering Logan’s fist. ‘Whoa, boy!’ the coach said, just as the doors swung open again and a small woman came running in.

‘Is she OK?’ she said, rushing up to the coach. ‘Can we see her? The baby? Is the baby OK?’

Coach Robbins let go of Logan’s fist and Logan backed off. ‘This is my wife, Cathy,’ the coach said.

All four kids were now totally confused. If the coach had raped or otherwise had carnal knowledge of Harper Benton, why was his wife involved? Unless these people were really, really sick.

‘You better tell us what’s going on,’ Alicia said, walking up to the coach.

All four had been in one class or another of Coach Robbins over their four-year high-school careers. He’d been Logan’s basketball coach for the past three years; Bess had taken sophomore biology from him; he coached Alicia’s girls’ volleyball team; and Megan had dabbled for a semester in his wood-working class. And they all knew that Harper had been on the same volleyball team as Alicia – the one led by Coach Robbins.

‘You kids need to get out of here!’ the coach said, his teeth gritted. ‘This is none of your business!’

‘Our next-door neighbor is a lieutenant with the Codderville police department,’ Bess said. ‘I’m thinking this might be her business!’

The coach, big and beefy and outweighing his much smaller wife by at least one hundred pounds and standing a half-foot taller, took a step toward the assembled teenagers, hands fisted by his side, but his wife stopped him.

‘Honey, don’t,’ she said, a small arm out to restrain him. It did the trick. He stopped and just stared at them.

Then the door to the bowels of the ER opened and Mrs Benton came out. She saw the coach and his wife immediately, but didn’t even glance at the kids. They weren’t sure whether she saw them or not.

‘She’s OK,’ Mrs Benton said, her hand on Cathy Robbins’ arm. ‘And the baby’s fine.’ Mrs Robbins wrapped her arms around Mrs Benton’s neck and burst into tears.

‘Thank God!’ the coach’s wife finally said.

‘You’re sure the baby’s OK?’ Coach Robbins asked, grasping Mrs Benton’s arm.

‘The doctor said everything is just fine. He said the cramps were probably brought on by stress’ – and at this point, she turned and glared at the kids, which led them to believe that maybe she had noticed them – ‘and they’re going to keep her overnight, but everything’s fine. They’ve got the monitor on her now, if you want to go in and see the baby,’ she said, smiling at the coach and his wife.

‘Oh, yes!’ Mrs Robbins said, her face almost bursting from the smile displayed on it.

‘Yeah, definitely,’ the coach said, and Harper’s mom went to the nurse who buzzed the door open and the Robbinses went in.

Once they were inside, Mrs Benton turned on the four teenagers. ‘What in the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she hissed at them.

‘What’s going on?’ Logan demanded. ‘Was Harper having an affair with the coach?’

Mrs Benton stopped cold, stared at Logan, then she laughed. ‘Oh, my God! No!’ She put her hands on her hips and looked at each in turn. ‘Could you people be any more clueless?’ she said.

But then the doors to the parking lot opened once again and Tucker Benton came rushing in. And Mrs Benton stopped laughing.

We had a clue – a real live clue. But I had to agree with Chief Cotton – if the fingerprints on the straight-razor came back to Norris Hutchins, I’d move to Florida with him. Norris Hutchins was long dead, of that I was positive. Mostly. Ghosts and goblins and things that went bump in the night were all well and good on the big screen, or even the little one in the living room. They were even OK when written by a Steven King or a Dean Koontz. But they didn’t fit well into reality.

I knew as well as I knew my own name that Diamond Lovesy and Humphrey Hammerschultz were frauds, out to take Miss Hutchins for every dime she had. But that didn’t tell me anything about who might have killed the pair. If you take the reality of what they were up to into consideration, really the best suspects would be Miss Hutchins or Willis and myself. Miss Hutchins’ daddy, if alive, could be a suspect, if you considered a man near one hundred years of age as viable. I didn’t. Besides, he was dead. Miss Hutchins had the letter from the War Office and her father’s dog tags to prove it.

And then I sat straight up in bed, the need for an after-lunch nap totally forgotten. What Miss Hutchins didn’t have was any proof of the death of her father’s youngest brother – Elmer, Edgar? Something like that. I jumped out of bed, disturbing my husband who was lying next to me with a book on his chest and his newly acquired reading glasses on his nose. I appeared to rouse him from a deep sleep.

‘Wha?’ he said.

‘I have an idea!’ I said, slipping my shoes back on my feet and heading for the door to the hall.

‘Is it a good one?’ he asked.

‘Let’s find out,’ I suggested and headed out the door for the stairs.

Miss Hutchins was nowhere to be found in the common rooms of the house. I figured she’d followed my lead and gone to her room for a nap. Instead of disturbing her, I went to the shelf where she kept her family’s picture albums. I’d noticed one of those albums had loose papers shoved in the back. She’d shown me one – the letter from the War Office about her father’s death on D-Day. I took that album back to the sofa and sat down, Willis next to me.

‘What now, Nancy Drew?’ he asked.

I gave him a withering look, then said, ‘We have proof of Norris Hutchins’ death, right?’ I said.

‘Right,’ he answered.

‘But what about his younger brother? Elmer?’

‘Edgar, I think.’

‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘Miss Hutchins said he died in the Pacific. Let’s see if we can find anything in here that proves that.’

‘You think Edgar’s still alive? He’d have to be in his late eighties at least, right?’ Willis said. ‘So how’s an eighty-year-old running up and down two flights of stairs, sleeping on a bedroll in the attic and doing all this so silently we barely hear him?’

‘We did hear him!’ I insisted. ‘Dragging whatever it was down the hall that night.’

‘Whatever was being dragged down the hall was heavy, E.J.,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘I doubt it was some eighty-year-old geezer.’

‘You’re an ageist!’ I accused.

‘No, I’m a realist. Mom’s in her late seventies. Can you see her doing any of this shit?’

I had to consider that. No, I couldn’t see Vera, Willis’s mother, climbing up two flights of stairs and/or dragging large pieces of furniture or whatever down the hall and down a flight of stairs. And she was very fit for her age. Hell, I couldn’t see myself doing any of those things either. I’m not saying I
couldn’t
do it – only that I probably wouldn’t want to.

I ignored him and went through the papers in the back of the photo album. And there it was – another letter from the war department, this one addressed to Clayton Hutchins at an address other than that of the Bishop’s Inn. Possibly the father of Norris and Edgar? And Herbert, of course. Can’t forget Uncle Herbert.

‘There goes that theory,’ Willis said, glancing at the letter.

I read it through. ‘No, now read this! It just says he’s missing in action. This is
not
a death notification!’

Willis pointed at the letter. ‘In the Philippines in 1943? It’s as good as a death notification. Ever hear of the Bataan Death March?’

Vaguely, I thought. I wasn’t the World War II buff that my husband was. Rosie the Riveter was my WWII hero and about as far as I got into that particular part of history. The rest was too awful to contemplate. ‘Does that mean no Marines made it out of the Philippines?’ I asked dubiously.

‘No, of course not! But if he was missing in action, then chances are about ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent that he’s long dead. Just like his brother,’ Willis said.

I stood up and took the album back to the shelf where I’d found it. Turning to my husband, I said, ‘That gives me point zero one percent that I’m right,’ I said. ‘I’ve worked with less.’