Jilted (19 page)

“So why did he leave?”

“Neil lied to him.”

“But why did Hoby believe him?”

My teeth ground against each other, and I deliberately relaxed my jaw, knowing I'd end up with a headache if I didn't calm down. “Apparently Neil kept my letter, too.” I smiled at Clyde so I wouldn't cry. “When Ruthie was seven, he showed it to Hoby and told him I had just sent it. He told Hoby I'd been unfaithful and that Ruthie was his child, not Hoby's.”

Clyde's head jerked as he looked at me.

“But I still keep all the letters. Isn't that moronic? Neil ruined my marriage with a letter, yet I cling to its twin like a crazy woman. It doesn't make any sense,” I whispered. “I torture myself with them.”

“It makes sense.” Clyde pulled me against his chest. “They're like some kind of psychological token or something. You're scared to live, Lyn. You're scared of the risks, and those letters are your excuse to keep hiding.”

Clyde dropped me off at the diner, promising he'd be waiting when I got off work. Even though I still regretted my
wife
slip, my anxiety had eased tremendously, just since breakfast. The speed at which my life was hurtling through the various stages of my comfort zones was enough to give me motion sickness, but all I could do was hold on tight and hope for the best.

“You doin' all right?” Dixie's chin jutted forward cautiously.

“I'm fine, Dix.” I tied my apron. “Been a strange week, though.”

She frowned, seeming to evaluate my honesty. “Well … it's good to have you back.” She flipped sausage patties on the griddle. “I'm about ready to thrash that new girl. She doesn't know the difference between tater tots and hash browns, and when I asked her to work an extra shift, you'd have thought I was forcing her into slave labor.”

“She'll get the hang of it soon enough.”

“Actually, she won't.” Dixie's eyebrows lifted like two hot-air balloons. “She got all huffy last night and quit on the spot.”

“That right?”

“I say we're better off without her. Might take a few days to find a replacement, though.”

I squirted soap in my palm, then paused before I turned on the tap. “Put me down for extra shifts till you hire someone.”

“Aw, Lynda. You sure about that?”

“It'll be good to stay busy right now. Too much to think about.” Clyde would say I was hiding—and Clyde would be right—but he would undoubtedly agree that hiding at my workplace was an improvement from hiding in my house.

He knew me well, and I felt like a teenager with a crush. Last night when Clyde cooked dinner at his house, I had still felt awkward with him, but when we went to the wind fields after dark, his gentle ways put me at ease. And during breakfast this morning at his property on the Cap, I had felt like I was returning home after a long absence. It was ridiculous, really. Less than twenty-four hours after our enchiladas and guacamole, I couldn't imagine going a day without seeing him. But I wasn't ready to tell him that. I was ready to do some other things, though.

Like change.

Like grow stronger.

Like become the person a wife should be.

The cowbell on the door jangled, and I glanced into the dining room to see the same three Rangers who had been in before. This time they had twice as many eager-eyed Scouts with them, banging chairs and pulling tables together. “Better put on more sausage,” I called to Dixie.

I pulled a mixing bowl down from a shelf and began cracking eggs into it. I would add a touch of milk plus salt and pepper, then whisk it before scrambling them. I wondered how Clyde cooked eggs. All I ever did in the kitchen was exactly what Dixie had taught me the first week I started cooking for her. Never once did I consider changing her recipes or trying something new. I had no inclination to do that at all, but it was different with Clyde. The man had a knack for cooking, and he didn't even seem to try. I reached for the salt.

“Hey, there! Lynda, isn't it?”

I startled so badly, I dropped the shaker in the bowl of eggs.

The Ranger with the raccoon tan around his eyes was leaning through the pass-through window. A spray bottle of vinegar water sat on the Formica ledge, and he scooted it over so he could lean on his elbows. “Where you been hiding?”

With my thumb and forefinger, I fished the plastic shaker out of the runny mess, wondering what made the idiot think he was welcome behind Dixie's counter. “Oh, you know … here and there.”

“You working all day?” The way he was leaning caused his shoulders to bunch around his ears like a turtle.

Dixie bustled to the window and stood protectively between the two of us, her eyes level with his, since the man was leaning over. “Looks like you boys have a crowd working with you today,” she said.

“One more weekend out here.” Raccoon Man stretched to peer at me before focusing on Dixie. “We're making a last-ditch effort to find the rest of those bones, or a grave, or something. Without the rest of them, there's no murder case, I reckon. They can't make a positive ID leastways, even though the sheriff has his suspicions.”

I walked to the sink, out of sight of the window, and rinsed my hands. The egg felt slimy on my skin, and I tossed the shaker in the trash instead of washing it.

Dixie continued to probe for information. “How will it make a difference? I heard there wasn't enough DNA because the bones were too old.”

He chuckled, and from the sound of it, I imagined him thrusting out his chest like an overconfident wild turkey, just before a hunter fills him full of shot. “We've got an anthropology team down in Austin, and if we find the skull, they'll be able to extract DNA from the teeth.”

“But don't they have to have something to match it to? Hair from a hairbrush or something?”

“Oh, they've got something to match it to, believe me.”

“No kidding?”

“Now, see there? You made me tell a secret.” His voice lilted, and I realized he was flirting with Dixie now, regardless of their age difference. “They're just figuring it to be the fella that owned that truck in the lake. Most likely a suicide, but I speculate his old lady could have knocked him off. Like maybe she got him good and drunk, then sent his truck off that cliff with him in it. But that's just between you and me, 'cause—”

Dixie snatched the spray bottle from the ledge and squirted the Ranger full in the face. “You best get on back to your table, young man.”

He coughed and sputtered. “What the—”

She sprayed him again. “Go on now. Git!”

Suddenly I wasn't so glad to be back at work.

Dixie slammed the bottle on the counter and glared through the window. “Don't pay him no mind, Lynda.”

From where I stood at the sink, I was hidden from the dining room, but if I took a step in either direction, I would be exposed, and that man would be talking about me—even if he didn't know I was the
old lady
. I felt cemented to the sink, unable to move in either direction. Maybe others in the dining room had already heard his accusation.
Am I a suspect?
Would they arrest me just on suspicion? I didn't know what was reality and what was drama from the television shows I watched.

I rinsed my hands one more time, wishing I could wash away the grime of gossip that seemed to taint me no matter what I did, and then I slapped them against my thighs to dry, trying to mask how badly they were shaking. “Another day, another difficulty.”

“The man's a cockroach,” Dixie growled.

“Clearly.” Returning to my scrambled eggs, I did my best to go about my work as if nothing had happened. A lot of good it would do if I crumpled into a frazzled mess right there in front of my boss. I considered tossing the eggs and starting over with a fresh batch that hadn't been tainted by a salt shaker, not to mention my hands, but when I remembered they would be going to the Rangers and Scouts, I changed my mind. The eggs were good enough.

I poured the thick liquid onto the griddle and busied myself, stirring with a spatula.

“Are they really saying I killed him?” I asked Dixie.

“Most people are banking on suicide.” She lowered her voice almost apologetically. “But I reckon a few people around town have wondered as much.”

Maybe Dixie had wondered as much.

I scraped the eggs and flipped them over, but without thinking, I kept slicing and chopping until they looked more like rice than eggs.

“Dixie?” A tentative voice called from the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. “My cinnamon rolls ready?” Pamela Sanders stood in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room.

“Sure thing, Pam, come on back.”

“I don't want to bother you girls, but …” She came at me with palms outstretched, giving me a thorough hug. “Lynda, I didn't know you were back at work. Good for you, girl.”

I smiled. At least it felt like a smile.

Dixie pulled the cinnamon rolls from the oven. “Say, how are things over at the Trapp Door?”

“Couldn't be better.” Pam stuffed herself into a corner near the dining-room doorway, settling in for a talk with her old friend. “Just got the coffee bar going yesterday, and last night I programmed the Keurig to start this morning, so when I open up at ten o'clock, the place should smell like hazelnut.” She giggled. “Corky Ledbetter and a few friends have planned a mothers' get-together, and they asked me to pull out all the books I've got for preschoolers. Won't they be surprised? Coffee and cinnamon rolls.”

For a moment I mentally abandoned my scrambled eggs and the humid kitchen of Dixie's Diner, where everyone might or might not have been talking about me. Instead, I was sitting on the soft couch in the back room of the Trapp Door. The scent of hazelnut coffee blended with the mustiness of the old books, and I bit into a warm cinnamon roll. I decided Pam might be onto something.

My cell rang in my pocket. “Sorry, Dixie, I forgot to turn it off.”

“No worries.” Dixie sounded funny, as if she could undo the weirdness of the Ranger's comments simply by raising the pitch of her voice to a level of fake.

I pulled my phone out to silence it but then noticed it was Velma. I glanced at Dixie.

“Sure, hon.” She waved a pot holder. “Go right ahead.”

Lifting the phone to my ear, I asked briskly, “Hey, what's up, Velma?” My sister rarely called me in the mornings anymore, since Ansel stayed home now, keeping her company.

“Can you come?” she asked quietly. “I need you to come.”

“Um …”

Pam's eyebrows bunched together as she listened to my side of the conversation. She mouthed the words “Everything okay?”

I shrugged. “I'm at the diner, but I can come by when I get off.”

Velma didn't answer, but Pam waved her hand and bounced a little, as if she needed to go to the bathroom.

“Velma, do you want Pam to come over and sit with Ansel for a while?” I cut my eyes toward Pam, and she gave me a thumbs-up.

“Pam?” Velma asked. “Pam's a sweet girl.”

Through the doorway, I noticed the Boy Scouts crowding around one table as two of them arm-wrestled. Chairs scraped against the floor, creating a momentary ruckus. I shoved my finger in my opposite ear and lowered my head so I could hear her. “Velma, is something wrong?”

“Ansel's gone.” Her voice held a tinge of a whine.

“He's what?” Surely I hadn't heard her right. “What do you mean he's gone? Where did he go?”

The noise level increased as a skinny boy outwrestled a stocky one, and then there was a quiet lull.

“He's dead,” Velma said.

I pressed my fingers to my lips, and Pamela and Dixie came to stand in front of me as I swallowed a sob.

Velma whimpered on the phone. “I don't know what to do, Lynda.”

A mere twenty minutes ago, I had told myself I wanted to be more brave and bold, but now I changed my mind. Velma didn't know what to do. My sister, who had raised nine children and easily managed a farmhouse at the same time, was suddenly at a loss.

She sounded calm but deceivingly so. “He's just …
here
.”

The room seemed to close in, darkening around the edges like an old photograph. Ansel couldn't be dead. He had doctors' appointments scheduled. And treatment options to consider. Home health hadn't even scheduled a preliminary consult.

“I'll be right there.” I pulled my phone away from my ear and held it at arm's length. I stood dazed before Pam and Dixie, my eyes focused on Pam's concho belt. “She said Ansel's just
there
, and she doesn't know what to do. But of course she doesn't know what to do. It's a dead body … probably lying in the recliner … and it's
Ansel
.”

I couldn't think or reason or move, but then Pam's gentle arm went around my shoulders, pulling me into one of her side hugs, but this time, it didn't bother me nearly as much as before. “Shh. It's all right, Lynda. It's natural.”

I shivered. “It's not natural for me. And not for Velma.”

“I know, sweetie. Dixie and me? We'll call nine-one-one, and the volunteer fire department will meet you there. They'll know how to handle it. They'll tend to Ansel, and you can take care of Velma.”

“Okay, Pam.” I wiped wetness from my cheeks, and my gaze swept the kitchen. “I can't leave the diner. The new girl quit.” The statement sounded absurd yet sensible at the same time.

“I'll help out here.” Pam's head jerked toward Dixie, who nodded firmly and pulled her phone out of her apron.

“But Corky's coming to the Trapp Door,” I mumbled.

“That's not your worry, hon,” Pamela said. “I'll call Corky, and she'll call the other mothers. They'll understand.” She squeezed my hands. “Go take care of Velma. She needs you.”

It felt as if I had rusty gears in my brain that wouldn't allow my thoughts to flow, but in spite of it, I knew I needed to get to Velma, and I needed to hurry. I stumbled toward the doorway, pulling at my apron, which seemed to be knotted.

Dixie talked into her phone, telling the dispatcher that Ansel Pickett had died out at his home place. Pam walked with me toward the front door, patting me and speaking soft, soothing words. The Boy Scouts kept arm wrestling as if the world hadn't just ended.

Ansel couldn't be gone.

My feet stopped working before I got to the door, and I turned to Pamela, hating the tears that streamed down my face. “I don't even have a car,” I said. “Clyde dropped me off.”

Pam thrust her keys into my hand. “You can do this, Lynda. You can.” She waved me away, wiping the tears in her own eyes. “Go, now,” she said. “Just go.”