Larceny and Old Lace (21 page)

I got the thin gray line treatment again for the next fifteen or twenty miles. It was just getting dark when Anita ordered me to make a sudden left turn.

I slammed on the brakes. “Where?”

“There, just past that stump.”

“But that's nothing but a logging road.”

“Turn.”

There was a forcefulness to her voice that was strange, even for Anita. I glanced at her and back at the logging road.

“I said to turn, and I mean it.”

She did, too. She was holding a gun.

“H
oly shit!”

Anita wagged the gun at me like a fat gray finger. “Don't swear.”

“Excuse me? What the hell is that doing in your hand?”

She cocked the pistol. “I said, don't swear. I mean it, Abigail. You swear again and I'll shoot.”

“Jeepers! And that isn't swearing,” I added quickly. “What on earth has gotten into you, dear?”

Anita extended the gun another couple of inches closer to my head. “I said turn left just past that stump, and I mean it.”

I turned left on the logging road and came to an abrupt stop. We both lurched forward in our seats, and I tapped my chest against the steering wheel. My purse went flying off the rear seat, nearly hitting me in the back of the head. Somehow Anita managed to hold on to her gun. In retrospect, I should have hit that damp stump and deployed the air bags. If I'm ever on a country road with a gun-toting looney again, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

“That's wasn't nice,” Anita said. With her free hand she patted her Holy-Roller do back into place.

I turned the engine off. “Excuse me! You pull a gun on me, and you say I'm not nice? What on earth is going on?”

“If you give me a chance, I'll explain.”

“Well, have at it, girl. Because this doesn't make a lick of sense to me.”

Anita actually smiled. “I want you to drive on this road, that's all.”

“Well, in that case, just put the gun down, and off we go.”

“Oh no, you don't, Abigail. You're not leading me into temptation. That gun stays right here in my hand, trained on your neck. Now turn off your headlights and start the car.”

I tried to start the car, I really did, but the engine just sputtered and died. It's my opinion that something happened in the quick stop to flood the thing.

“I said start it!”

I prayed first and spoke later. “It won't start, dear. It must be flooded.”

She was a hard woman to convince. After several more futile attempts I found the barrel of the pistol nuzzled against my neck. It felt pleasantly cool now that the air-conditioning was off.

“I am doing my best, dear. Look, why don't we trade places and then you start it yourself. You can even drive if you want to.”

She stared at me for an eternity. Maybe she was praying behind those vacant eyes, or maybe she was contemplating what a horrible mess a gaping jugular vein would inflict on her pastel dress.

“We'll sit quietly for a few minutes,” she said finally. “If it really is a flooded engine, it'll take care of itself in a few minutes. In the meantime, I suggest you get right with your Maker, Abigail. You're not really saved, you know, or you wouldn't be going to that Catholic church.”

“It's Episcopal,” I said, and then wisely clamped my lips together as tightly as a clam at low tide.

We sat and sweated in the growing dusk. I kept one eye on Anita and one eye on the rearview mirror. For at least five minutes not a single car passed by on the highway just behind us. Finally the heat inside that metal box got to be too much.

“May I try and start it now?” I asked politely.

“Too early. It's only been a minute.”

“May I at least roll my window down.”

“You should get used to heat, Abigail. It's a lot hotter
where you're going.” She raised her hand and pointed the gun at my brain.

I used to pride myself on being a fast thinker. Good mothers need to be, to stay one step ahead of their children, and my children were bright and very inventive. But nothing in my experience had prepared me for brainstorming with a gun barrel kissing my cranium.

“Well, in that case, may I turn on the overhead light so I can read that tract you gave me? I mean, I'd really rather not go to you-know-where.”

To her credit, Anita pondered my request, for a moment. I think she was on the verge of relenting, and giving my poor Anglican soul a fighting chance at salvation, when a pair of headlights whizzed by behind us. Whoever it was, was driving so fast, I didn't even have time to lean on the horn. In a few seconds they were a mile down the road.

“Now try and start the car.”

I turned the key, and my dammed car started purring like Dmitri when I scratch his chin.

“Now drive.”

“Without lights?”

“It's not that dark. I said ‘drive.'”

“What if I hit something? A cow, or deer, or something?”

“The Lord will protect me, Abigail.”

You don't really have much choice when there is an armed madwoman sitting beside you calling the shots. If I hadn't been wearing a seat belt, I would have flung open the door and thrown myself on the mercy of the dark. Most people are lousy aims, especially if startled, but thanks to the state law, and common sense, I was trussed like a chicken. A virtual sitting duck. By the time I undid my belt and flung open the door, I would be wearing my brains on my shoulders.

Some car manufacturer needs to invent a seat belt release on the door side. That way I could have been steering with my right hand while my left hand surreptitiously undid the strap. On the other hand, maybe not. Anita Morgan had eyes like a hawk, adding credence to her theory that eye makeup is bad for one's vision, not to mention soul.

I drove slowly. On either side of us there were walls of
second-growth pines. Fortunately the road, which was really two dirt ruts, was easy to follow by feel. But a couple of times there were sudden jogs that thrust me out of the ruts and damn near the trees. Of course at my speed, and due to the fact that pine wood is relatively soft, we wouldn't have been seriously injured—not that it made a damn bit of difference, since I was probably going to die anyway. On the other hand, I would much rather die in an undented and unscratched car, wouldn't you?

I took a deep breath. “There isn't enough room for a snake to turn around on this road, dear. So, you can put the gun away. I'll continue to follow it as long as you say.”

“You think I'm crazy, don't you, Abigail?”

“Of course not, dear,” I said generously. Stark, raving mad was probably not the answer she was looking for.

“I'm not, you know. You weren't even a part of my plan, until you butted in.”

“Excuse me?”

“Eulonia is gone to her eternal reward, Abigail. It really isn't your business who helped her along.”

“I can't believe I'm hearing this.”

“I had no intention of involving you, I really didn't. After all, you at least go to church, even though it's not the right one.”

“So, it wasn't this Penny woman? It was
you
?”

“I had to do it, Abigail. I really did.”

“You had to murder my aunt?”

She gave me a swift little tap on the noggin with the gun barrel. “Killing is against the Ten Commandments. Carrying out God's will is not.”

“God's will for what? Are you saying God wanted my aunt dead?”

“Your aunt had to die, Abigail. That was the easiest way to do it.”

“Do what?” I came close to screaming, and Anita rewarded my emotion with another tap on the head.

“God does not suffer homosexuals, Abigail. They are an abomination unto the Lord.”

“Aunt Eulonia was not gay.”

“But that Rob Goldburg is.”

“So?”

“So, he has to be punished, and he would have been, too, if you hadn't butted your nose into it. I had it all set up to look like he killed your aunt.”

“Why didn't you just kill him directly? Why involve my aunt?”

She snorted again. “Killing was too good for Rob Goldburg. Not unless we could do it like in the Bible. You know, stone him?”

“Stone him?”

“They stoned homosexuals in the Bible, Abigail. Adulteresses, too.”

“I have never slept with anyone besides Buford,” I said quickly. You may think it's sad, but it's true.

Anita sighed. “Too bad the law don't allow stoning anymore. But, the way I figured it, life imprisonment was the best substitute.”

“But what did my aunt do? She did not have an affair with Tony D'Angelo, and I can prove it.”

“Your aunt had to die because the Lord doesn't suffer fools, and your aunt was a fool. Your aunt had something valuable that the Lord could use to further his work here on earth, but she wasn't doing anything with it. Besides, she had lived her three score and ten years, like the Bible says. Now that your aunt is gone, I'll be able to put that precious treasure to the Lord's use. You understand, don't you?”

“It's as clear as mud, dear.”

“Are you mocking me, Abigail?”

My head was too sore to suffer a third blow. “No, dear, I'm not mocking you. However, I have a hard time under-standing how the Bible justifies what you did.”

“You read the Old Testament, Abigail?”

“You mean the Psalms?”

“I mean Leviticus. It's very clear that God hates homosexuals.”

I let that go temporarily. “But little old ladies with messy shops?”

“At various time God's people have been commanded to
kill many little old ladies. Children, too. God has plans, you know, and your aunt was just a part of one.”

“Killing my aunt was part of God's plan?”

She gave me a pitying laugh. “If you Episcopalians read your Bible, you would know exactly what I mean. Of course, now it looks like you won't be getting a chance to read it at all.”

“I do read my Bible.”

“The King James Bible?”

“There are other good translations.”

“There is only one real Bible, Abigail, the one God dictated to his people. The one you call King James.”

“Did God dictate it to King James, in English?” I asked. I wasn't trying to be a smart-ass; I was trying to stall.

She snorted angrily and I cringed. “Of course not. God dictated the Bible to the disciples and the apostles, and of course it was in English. Sure it's a little difficult to read, but if you spent more time with it, you could sort it out.”

I racked my brain, trying to recall one of my college courses. “What would you say if I could prove that English didn't even exist until a thousand years after the apostles?”

“Get behind me, Satan!”

“Okay, let's say you're right and the Bible was dictated in English. I don't recall any passages about—”

“I said, ‘Get behind me, Satan.' I will not have you tempting me, Lucifer.”

I drove on in silence, a prayerful silence. I don't remember how long it took, but I saw in the rearview mirror that the moon was beginning to rise above the trees behind us, and I took that as an answer to my prayers. I know this is going to sound silly, but I don't want to die in the dark. Not the pitch blackness of a pine forest, at any rate.

After I'd driven about a mile following my moon sighting, Anita tapped me on the head one last time.

“Stop right here.”

“And you stop hitting me,” I screamed. “Shoot me if you want to, but quit hitting me on the head with that goddamn thing!”

“My, aren't we touchy! I was just about to do the Christian
thing, Abigail, and offer you a chance to pray. But, since you took the Lord's name in vain, I think I'll pass.”

“I'm sorry, Anita. I'll take that chance to pray.”

“It's God you have to apologize to, Abigail.”

“I'm sorry, God. I really am.”

We sat in silence while God and Anita mulled my apology over. A pair of barred owls hooted, one on each side of the car. I remembered old Westerns I'd seen as a kid where the Indians, who were always on the warpath, and who were always sneaking up on settlers, hooted like owls to communicate with each other. The settlers were always fooled. Maybe the hoots I heard were really Indians and not barred owls after all. I would rather take my chances at the hands of a handsome brave than remain in the clutches of a crazed woman with a beehive hairdo who was on a religious warpath.

“The Lord says you have to get out of the car, Abigail. He wants you to kneel when you pray.”

“Fine.” I was anxious to do God's bidding and immediately reached to undo my belt.

The gun nuzzled, rather than tapped me. Anita was learning.

“Don't you get any ideas, Abigail. I'm an excellent shot.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You think I'm kidding, don't you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“I used to practice shooting at trees. Shotguns, rifles, handguns, I learned to shoot them all. Every day I'd practice until I was as good as my brothers. I can hit a squirrel three hundred yards away.”

“In Charlotte?”

She cackled. “No, here. Right here. This here was my Daddy's land. All of it—all these woods we've been driving through. We used to live in a cabin up the road a piece, until Mama died. Then Daddy sold the land to a lumber company and moved us all to Charlotte. I was fifteen then.”

“This land's been reforested since then, hasn't it?” I asked casually.

“Ha! Don't you be getting any ideas, Abigail. The trees have changed, but the land hasn't. I know this place like the back of my hand. If you try and get away from me, I'll shoot
you like a squirrel. Only I won't skin and eat you.”

Suddenly I was content to stay where I was. “I've never eaten squirrel,” I said brightly.

“Then you've only lived half a life, Abigail. City folks think country folks eat squirrel because they're poor. Truth is, it's right tasty.”

“I had rabbit in a French restaurant, once. It was good.”

“Rabbit is okay, but nothing can beat squirrel, unless it's possum.”

“I had ostrich Wednesday night.”

“Ostrich?”

She sounded genuinely interested so I decided to run with it. “Ostrich casserole. Tasted a little like beef. Maybe more like veal. Very low in cholesterol, you know.”

“Where?”