Hung Out to Die (18 page)

I took in what she was saying. The solution to my uncle's murder—not just the fact someone wanted my daddy blamed for it—might rest in my parents' past. And the only way to find out was to dig into their past. I shifted uncomfortably. Was I really ready to do that?

Mrs. Beavy's serious look suddenly disappeared, and she gave me her usual sunny, childlike smile. “More hot chocolate, dear?”

13

I stood just inside the doorway of Cherry's Chat N Curl and stared at the scene before me, unable to believe what I saw.

Was that really Mama, in Cherry's styling chair, preening as she gazed into a hand-held mirror, admiring her new ash-blond do—shorter, but spiffier?

Was that really Cherry and her assistants, Carson and Darlene, gathered around Mama, extolling her beauty? Telling her that her new makeup and hair really brought out the angles in her face? Which, by the way, round-faced me hadn't inherited?

And there was Mrs. Arrowood, who still manages the Happy Trails Motor Home Court, where Sally and her boys live. Mrs. Arrowood was laughing, too, something I'd never seen her do. Yet here she was, in one of her shapeless, baggy housedresses, and her thin graying hair pulled back in a stringy ponytail, telling my mama that the Sassy Salmon nail color she'd chosen for her manicure looked just perfect with her skin tones.

And Mama was smiling and laughing as though no one had ever complimented her beauty, and telling Mrs. Arrowood that she still had the fantastic cheekbones she'd always envied, and perhaps a cropped hairdo would bring them out, while Cherry said, yes, yes, she'd love to give Mrs. Arrowood a free makeover.

Somehow, my mama had managed to turn Cherry keeping an eye on her into a chick party at which she was the ruling chick. More amazingly, Cherry didn't seem to mind stepping out of the limelight for once.

Finally, Cherry noticed me standing in her doorway.

“Hey, Josie!” she called. “Don't stand there pouting. Come on over here. See what wonders I've wrought with your mama's hair—although she already was beautiful.”

“I'm not pouting,” I said, through gritted teeth. And I wasn't jealous, either, I told myself. Really. I was just in a bit of a hurry. I'd stayed longer than I'd planned at Mrs. Beavy's, then went back to my laundromat and struggled through a draft of my vinegar Stain-Busters column, and now we were going to be late to Mamaw Toadfern's.

I looked pointedly at my watch. “We're going to be late to Mamaw Toadfern's,” I said.

“Aw, why don't we just skip it?” said Mama. “Mother Toadfern always was such an old crow. Who wants to eat leftovers while the men are supposedly out hunting? They're out drinking, truth be told. Besides, after the turkey incinerated, what fun are the leftovers?”

Everyone but me laughed appreciatively, clearly understanding what Mama was referring to. I winced, realizing Mama must have told the story of the awful ending to the Toadfern Thanksgiving dinner. Irrationally, illogically . . . I wished she hadn't because I felt a sudden surge of protectiveness toward the Toadfern clan.

“Never once,” Mama went on, “in those first few years when I tried to go along with the Toadfern traditions, did the men come home with more than a bunch of empty six-packs.”

Again, everyone—besides me—giggled. Mama actually rolled her eyes, as if she were a teenager. I tried to remember that when she was actually a teenager, she suffered a great deal. Early marriage and pregnancy, the rejection of her own parents, the loss of a baby, a husband who acted out his anger and fear and immaturity with multiple affairs.

“What a dumb tradition, anyway,” Mama went on. “The women gathering round to pick over each other while picking over the leftovers.” She folded her arms. “The only Toadfern that turned out to be worth a lick—besides you and Henry, of course—is Sally. I say, let's skip the Toadferns and go with Cherry.”

Cherry looked sheepish. “I mentioned to your mama that Dean and I were going over to Sally's bar later tonight for a little dancing—”

“Which sounds like a lot more fun than going to the Toadferns',” Mama said. She waggled her finger at me. “And, really, you need to stop giving Cherry such a hard time about Dean. She showed me his picture. He's really cute.”

I wasn't sure who to glare at first, Cherry—for complaining about me to my mama—or my mama—for encouraging Cherry in romance over something as shallow as looks (although Dean really was cute), especially when she didn't know Cherry's heartbroken past like I did. So I glared in general.

“Maybe you should run along with Josie, Mrs. Toadfern,” Cherry said, eyeing me nervously. “It may be a while before Dean and I show up at Sally's, anyway. After all, I have to give Mrs. Arrowood her makeover.”

Mrs. Arrowood rubbed her cheeks with her hands. “This old saggy baggy face . . . do you really think it's worth the cost?”

“This is on me,” Cherry said. “And with the right haircut and the judicious use of blusher . . .”

“Bone structure,” Mama intoned somberly. “You have magnificent bone structure. In the end, even death doesn't take that away, if you think about it.”

Mrs. Arrowood looked thrilled. I had to keep from blanching. Basically, Mama had just told Mrs. Arrowood she'd look great as a skeleton.

And Mrs. Arrowood was absolutely charmed.

Somehow, the charm gene had been obliterated in me by the blunt gene, which burst forth. “Mama, remember our deal? Well, we need to go to Mamaw Toadfern's. Now.”

Everyone else looked confused, but I could tell Mama understood. I needed to talk to Mamaw and Aunt Nora. Find out what happened after I left the flaming turkey carcass scenario. See if I could learn anything that would help me remove suspicion from Daddy as Uncle Fenwick's murderer. Assuming, of course, Daddy was innocent.

Mama sighed. “Oh, all right. But after that, we're going to Sally's.” She grinned at Cherry. “I want to meet this cute hunk in person.” Cherry giggled.

Dingbats of a feather flock together, I thought. “Fine,” I ground out through clenched teeth.

“Well, let's get started with Mrs. Arrowood,” Cherry said to Carson and Darlene.

Mrs. Arrowood looked terrified. But Mama hopped out of her chair and suddenly hugged Mrs. Arrowood, who hugged her back, fiercely. They didn't look all that different in that moment. In fact, I suddenly realized, they had a shared past, a friendship that was more like sisterhood. Maybe Mrs. Arrowood had seemed like family to Mama, when her own family and Daddy's family had deserted her.

They slowly released each other, although they held each other's arms.

“Now, you promise me you'll go on through with Cherry's beautifying makeover. Trust her, okay?” Mama sounded choked up, and I knew it was over something far more important than Mrs. Arrowood's lovely bone structure.

“I'll promise that . . . if you'll come see the results before you leave town.”

“I will.”

“You promise, this time?”

Mama let go of Mrs. Arrowood's arms and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I promise.”

What the hell was that all about? I wondered. I'd just witnessed a reality version of a Hallmark made-for-cable-movie moment, and I had no clue what it signified—context being everything for such moments.

Although it sounded like Mama had made a similar promise once, long ago, and not kept it.

Mama looked at me and sighed. “Let's go,” she said.

*   *   *

So once again, over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house I went, this time with my mama.

For the most part, we were quiet. Mama huddled down in her fur and stared out at the darkening twilight. I concentrated on driving. The snow had stopped and the county had done a nice job of salting the roads, but I was wary of black ice—slick spots so thin the black-topped road showed through, so it looked like there was no ice at all. You didn't want to go too fast over such spots. Worse yet would be braking suddenly on one.

But after a little bit, both the quiet and my curiosity got to me.

“I remember Mrs. Arrowood,” I said. “The wishing well in her front yard, where you had me drop coins.” And there was something odd about those coins, I remembered. They weren't coins that would work in laundromat or gumball machines. “Little bits like that. I guess you two were close friends.”

Mama didn't answer right off. Then at last she said, “We were like sisters, Josie. You make a family where you can. I know it hurt her that I left without telling her good-bye, but—”

That's when I saw it—the deer plunging across the field toward the road. I swerved and floored the accelerator, praying I wasn't coming up on black ice.

Mama screamed.

The deer dashed behind us.

Why do deer cross the road? Truly, I think it's just to get to the other side.

By the time we got to Mamaw's, Mama had stopped screaming, I had started breathing again, but by then the time had passed for Mama to tell me more about Mrs. Arrowood.

*   *   *

Supper was so quiet and somber, I found myself nostalgic for the flaming turkey carcass.

Of course, there were no turkey sandwiches, and that's the best part of Thanksgiving: turkey with extra salt between white bread slathered with mayo. I wasn't going to get that at Mamaw's or at my home. My apartment would smell like burned turkey until Christmas.

And in fact, there were no Thanksgiving dinner leftovers. Mamaw said that without turkey, there was no point to the leftovers, so she'd frozen everything to use with a roasted chicken some Sunday. And to have room in her freezer to store everything, she'd made a meal of frozen pizzas (still cold in the center), lima beans, chicken dumplings, and coconut ice cream (freezer burned).

Ugh.

I couldn't catch a Thanksgiving meal, even from leftovers.

After we ate, the women were supposed to keep the meal warm for the men, whenever they got back from hunting.

Mama, I realized, was right. This was not only boring, but annoying. Couldn't the men reheat their own damned dinners when they returned from hunting? Wasn't that what microwaves were for? I realized some of my grumpiness about our pointless servitude came from my hurt and anger at Owen.

Mamaw, Aunt Suzy, cousin Fern, and Sally's sisters-in-law stayed in the kitchen to tend the food, in denial about the microwave right there on the counter. Sally was already at the Bar-None, getting ready for the Friday-night rush, while her sons spent the night at Mamaw's with their cousins, aunts, and uncles. Aunt Nora had never joined us. She was resting in the trailer, Mamaw had said.

Mama and I sat in the living room. Mama pointedly read a
Hunting Today
magazine, which featured on the cover a deer that greatly resembled the one who had tried to commit suicide-by-vehicle with my minivan. Of course, if you've seen one deer, you've seen them all. Maybe Mama was plotting revenge.

I occupied myself with the kids, playing an impromptu game of charades.

They were all gathered around me, while I stood in front of the fireplace with my hands behind my head, my fingers above my head, antler-like. I had my eyes bugged out and I stood very still.

“A tree!” hollered Larry. Creative answer, I thought.

“A mohawk haircut!” That was one of Sally's brother's kids.

“Rudolph!” shouted Barry. My heart warmed. I couldn't help it. I really did feel like a doting aunt to Sally's kids, even though they were cousins-once-removed. And like any good, doting aunt, I knew without doubt that my darling “nephews” were smarter—not to mention handsomer and more talented in all ways—than other kids.

I bugged out my eyes to help my nephews-of-the-heart along.

“Ooh, ooh, I know!” shouted Harry. “It's a—”

“Deer in the headlights,” said Mamaw Toadfern from the door.

Harry looked disappointed, because Mamaw was right, and he'd almost had it. Mama gave me a look that said, “See. Spoilsport. Old crow.”

I put my hands down and rubbed my eyes, which were a wee bit strained from all that bugging-out.

“Actually, I was charading a grasshopper having a bad-hair day,” I said.

Mama smiled and went back to
Hunting Today.
Harry giggled, forgetting his earlier disappointment.

“Grasshoppers don't have hair, silly Josie,” he said.

I looked perplexed and crossed my eyes at him. “They don't? Well, the ones I hang out with must wear wigs, then.”

All the kids giggled.

Mamaw sighed loudly. “Josie, I have to talk to you. Privately.”

Well, there were a few things I wanted to ask her, too. Privately.

Still, as I followed her out of the room and up the stairs, I thought . . . spoilsport.

14

Mamaw and I sat on the end of her bed and contemplated the quilt she had shown me the day before. She stroked the square that had come from Uncle Fenwick's jersey. At least on the day after—perhaps as part of her mourning ritual—she'd laid off the Youth Dew perfume. She was also dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck.

“Poor Fenwick,” she said. “And poor Henry. I always knew it would come to this—one of them killing the other. They fought so horribly all the time as kids. They were always so competitive. You always hear about twins being close. Well, if that's the case, then they were the exception that proved the rule.”

“You really think Daddy killed Uncle Fenwick?” I knew that was a possibility—the circumstantial evidence certainly pointed to him—but I didn't want it to be true.

“It surely looks that way,” said Mamaw.

“Someone called the police and told Chief Worthy about the fight and the knives. It had to be one of us from dinner. Who do you think it was?”

Mamaw looked surprised. “What? I didn't know that.”

“Then why do you think it looks like Daddy's the killer? Just because he and Uncle Fenwick always fought as kids?”