Nobody Knows Your Secret (13 page)

I
t just has
to be tied up with drugs, Hadley thought, driving to Ruth’s wildlife shelter. Beanie was weed-eating around the headstones at the cemetery today.

When she woke up that morning, Virgie Winthrop was on her mind. Kyle’s murder and Claire’s slow-suicide kept popping to the forefront of her thought like sizzling bacon grease. She knew that Claire’s death was not called suicide, but to Hadley it might as well have been. Accidental overdose, they said.

All those years of numbing the pain with prescription meds was tragic. And Hadley was certain it was just as much mental anguish that Claire was trying to numb as physical pain.

Incredibly sad and tragic, she brooded. A squandered life.

There was Skip passing her in his truck!

She waved. He drove right by her without noticing.

“That’s funny,” Hadley mumbled. “Not like that kid to give his favorite aunt the cold shoulder. Must be girl trouble.”

Hadley turned into the access road by the amusement park. She pressed the box and was buzzed into the gate. Hadley walked into the building and dropped her oversize purse on a table in the little break room beside of the room Ruth used for an office.

“Hey, friend,” Ruth said. “Where’s your sidekick?”

“Maury’s got a doctor’s appointment today,” Hadley said.

“Hope it’s nothing serious,” said Ruth.

“Annual physical,” Hadley said.

“Tell her all her friends, four-legged and two-legged, missed her sunny smile.”

“Who have we here?” Hadley asked.

“A porcupine,” said Ruth.

“If you’d have told me, I’d have worn my suit of armor,” Hadley said.

“Don’t need it,” said Ruth. “These little creatures are quite gentle.”

“Gentle,” said Hadley. “But what if I make him mad. He’ll launch those quills at me, and I’ll look like a cactus.”

“Not at all,” said Ruth. “That’s a misconception. A porcupine can have 30,000 quills.”

“Yikes,” Hadley said.

“He shakes the quills loose by banging their tail on the ground,” Ruth said. “The quills become lodged into a predator only by the predator’s actual contact with the porcupine.”

“Really?” Hadley said. “So, I won’t become a human dart board.”

“No,” said Ruth.

“What’s his name?” Hadley asked.

“Porgy,” said Ruth.

“Hey, Porgy,” Hadley said. “You are a cutie. You know that? Say, Ruth, I was expecting to see your handsome doctor friend around here somewhere.”

“Declan had to go back to New York. He just flew in to buy one of Hobie’s acoustic guitars. Since Anna and Stanley reopened that airstrip, he plans to come down as often as he can. When he found out Hobie and his band were playing Sunday, he decided to stay over.

He’s absolutely rabid about Hobie’s music.”

“We’re lucky to have such talent a stone’s throw away.”

“And lucky that Hobie is so down to earth and willing to play for a good cause like animal rescue.”

“Hobie Stricker could write his own ticket right out of here to any place on earth, yet he chooses to stay right here in these mountains.”

“You gotta admit,” Ruth said, “there’s something magical about this place. The waterfalls, the mountains, the wildlife.”

“Mmm,” said Hadley, venturing to pet Porgy, “this area of the country is like no other place on earth. If home is where the heart is, my heart beats through these forests and slopes and valleys.”

“Mine, too,” said Ruth. “Now, here’s what I need you to do today.”

She recited a long list of tasks that needed completing.

“I think I’m going to be pretty busy,” Hadley said. “Hey, Porgy. You got as many quills as I got chores.”

Porgy just nibbled on some dandelions and clover, ignoring Hadley.

H
umpty Eldon was making
his annual trip to his mother’s grave. It was something he made himself do. Like cleaning his toilet once a week, whether it needed it or not. It wasn’t that he hated his mother. To the contrary, Humpty and his mother had enjoyed a good relationship over the years.

But Humpty despised the thought of wandering around among all those dead people. Even six feet under and skeletons and dust, Humpty wasn’t so sure that some element of living matter from the cosmos did not still linger over their last resting places. And he wasn’t alone.

Beanie Fugate felt the same way. Of course, Beanie’s perspective on things was a little this shy of vertical since his accident at the pulp mill, but, still, Beanie wasn’t a total idiot. He was wise in many ways, if you could read between the lines and figure out what Beanie meant, minus how he said things.

While weed-eating around the innumerable headstones, Beanie had time to mull over some of Life’s toughest questions. If Milo Rex hadn’t fallen into that well hole he was digging for Mozelle Novella, would his wife, Jettie, ever have found out that Mozelle and Milo had been carrying on a love affair that had lasted over 40 years?

Why did Oran Merton buy eight extra burial plots just so that his wife’s kin would not lie within spitting distance of Oran and Delphine? This all occurred before 1927, as the Mertons and Delphine’s family, the Clodfelters, were all interred in one of the cemetery’s oldest sections. Beanie did not have the privilege of personally knowing Oran, Delphine, or any of the Clodfelters, but he wished he had.

Beanie would have given his eyeteeth, if he still had them, to ask Oran what the Clodfelters did to make him want to be isolated like that. Did Oran love Delphine so much that he wanted to keep her all to himself for eternity? Did Oran’s feet stink so bad that he wanted to wall himself and Delphine away so none of her family would have to smell foot odor? Dead was forever, and that’s a long time to be holed up in a tiny grave inside a rotting coffin with foot odor filling the nose holes of your skull.

These questions ate at Beanie as he took care of the quiet lodgers in Memorial Gardens. The headstone markers were fantastic works of art to a man like Beanie Fugate who had never done much of anything except eat, sleep, and work hard his whole life. The inscribed messages on some of the stones were comical, tragic, sad, or simply indecipherable.

Memorial Gardens was constructed during the times when many mountain folk buried their loved ones on their own land. Bucking tradition, the cemetery had, nevertheless, been quite successful because it offered its clientele perpetual maintenance and an ornate headstone at half the going rate within 250 miles.

Bargain basement prices on headstones that were large and intricate enticed many to chose the Gardens as their final resting place. There were urns in stone, trees in stone, life-size angels in stone, a cow, a cabin scene, a still – anything imaginable in stone could be found there. It was like having your own blank chalkboard to summarize whatever was important.

A person could leave a message behind for his loved ones, describe his life in stone letters, or babble about nothing. It could be in three dimensions or two. His message could be rendered on any creation the stone mason could model. It was totally up to the buyer what design the headstone held or what inscription was rendered on it. Scrape up the cash and get creative. That was the cemetery owner’s philosophy. And many of the customers took him up on his offer.

Beanie marveled at the creativity of the deceased, or at least of their remaining living relatives. Some chose to put only their names in ridiculously tall letters. Others chose the more traditional name, birth date, death date, and a short inscription, trite, but often used. Others were struck by inspirational epitaphs. Beanie loved to read these as he worked.

One grave was marked with a granite sculpture of prized hunting dogs treeing a raccoon. There was the small boy sitting on top of the stone with his arm draped over a lamb. There were several versions of angels, some life-sized with wings draping over the stone or heads hanging low in grief. There was a granite bench with a naked woman lying on it, hair draped over the side covering all the strategic places that would otherwise offend.

Beanie liked to think about what these last bursts of creativity were meant to convey. Dogs liked to bark at raccoons; lambs made good pets; the angels were sad because these people had moved on to heaven instead of staying out of their hair on Earth, and reclining on benches killed you if you forgot to wear your clothes.

So many messages.

So much to think about.

It made the caretaker’s mind spin.

And the stones bore as many varied epitaphs as there were people.

G
one but not forgotten
. Well, yes I am, and I am rottin.’

H
ere lies Gus
. Blown away by a blunderbuss. No fuss. No muss, for Gus. And the little bit that’s left of him is now at rest, we trust.

B
uster Fanny and Pat Fanny
. Best Fannies in the valley.

N
eoma was a friendly sort
. Not quite a tart . . . but not for lack of tryin’.

To say that she was pretty would be lyin’. Painted lady. Morals shady. Flip her often while she’s fryin’.

I
f anybody
out there gives a flyin’ fig, they say that it was me, but it was Clint who stole that pig.

S
uch words graced
the many headstones that dotted the gently sloping hill for as far as the eye could see.

Humpty Eldon’s mama, Hazel, insisted that Humpty lay her to rest among the lovely stones that decorated Memorial Gardens. Humpty had wanted to put Mama in the backyard by the chicken coop and pig sty. He liked to keep the fertilizers all in one area of the farm, but Mama wouldn’t hear of it. She pitched a fit.

“I done done without all my life, Humpty Eldon,” Mama Eldon said. “I don’t mean to linger the Here After knowing I’se planted out there in the hog pen.”

“But Mama, I ain’t plantin’ you in the pen. Jes’ ’long side it,” Humpty said.

But Mama Eldon would not listen to reason.

“Naw, suh. Uh-huh. I want me some finery to look up at as I lie on my backside for however long the Earth lasts. You hear me?

“The sky is nice, but I want something good and nice to read while I while away in that pine box I done bought ’n’ paid fer with the egg money.”

A broad smile flashed across Mama Eldon’s face, and her eyes grew misty just at the thought it.

“A nice big stone, Humpty. You hear me. Don’t you dare scrimp. I mean it. If you do, I will know it. And I will haunt you, Humpty Eldon. From the grave and beyond. I will. I mean it. I want something nice to mark me when I go out so’s when folks come visitin’ they’ll know I was ‘a somebody.’”

The day of Mama Eldon’s passing came. Humpty made sure that she was buried in grand style. The only problem was that when it came time to pay it for all, the grand burial was a little more expensive than Humpty had budgeted for.

Humpty’s savings were quickly being depleted. But Mama Eldon’s words burned in his brain like Lady Liberty’s torch. And he was scared. Mama Eldon was a strong-willed woman. If anybody could come back and torment a son’s soul, it would be Mama Eldon. Strapped for cash, he still ordered the biggest stone available. Humpty would do anything to keep his mama happy and in the ground where she belonged. The marker would be delivered two weeks after Mama Eldon’s burial.

It was a fine stone, the largest in the cemetery. But even with the deep discount from the Memorial Gardens CEO, Humpty could afford only a short engraving.

That was why Mama Eldon’s great big old stone was engraved with only her initials.

HE
for Hazel Eldon.

Not even periods to separate them.

Humpty couldn’t afford it.

Forever and ever and for as long as the Earth lasted, Mama Eldon lay in her earthen bed looking up and watching the birds fly over, the clouds float by, the occasional flash of lightening, feel the raindrops and read
HE,
and
HE
only.

One little word.
HE
. And Mama Eldon was a she. The irony must have been incredible to Mama Eldon as she lay there.
HE
. Not even
HE HE HE
. Just
HE
. Two solitary letters etched onto a mesa of polished stone as large as the Grand Canyon. Humpty prayed that because he had not planted her by the hog pen or near the chicken coop, Mama was satisfied. She had her stone, but little else.

Humpty could only hope that for Mama – being
stoned
was enough.

Nothing to read and while away the time as you watched the clouds pass overhead and the stars pop out in their mantle of infinite darkness. Nothing to read but
HE
. But Mama never read while she was alive. Still, that was all the old lady talked about during her last months on earth. Why had Mama gotten some ridiculous notion like reading stuck in her craw?

Humpty broke a sweat remembering the steely look in his mother’s eyes when she talked of her final resting place. Haunting. Haints. Spirits. Ghosts. Bad omens and a mother’s curse upon the rest of her son’s mortal days. Humpty shivered.

He took his mother’s threats seriously. That’s why he only dared visit her grave once a year. His nerves couldn’t stand any more face time with
HE
than that.

And today was the day he would have to visit. Another year had already passed. You would think that Time would not fly by so quickly. It was cruel. It was wicked. Humpty had done the best he could. But he knew in his heart he had let Mama Eldon down. Now, it was time to face the old lady and hope her wrath had cooled.

As he drove to the cemetery, the butterflies took off in his stomach. His shirt was ringed with sweat stains. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Mama was going to haunt him for sure if it was the last thing she ever did. Humpty could feel it in his bones.

Humpty saw her in his mind as he stood in front of the massive stone and laid a single red rose down on its pedestal. He wanted to scream that
HE
was all he could afford.

Wasn’t the massive headstone enough?

It was as big as a semi. In a graveyard full of massive rocks, Mama’s stone stood out like a skyscraper in a backyard full of outhouses. But Humpty knew Mama, and he knew she was ticked. She was on a slow burn, Humpty imagined. Hers was an anger beyond reason. Humpty’s empty pocketbook had made her the laughing stock of all her neighbors in the graveyard.

Beanie Fugate felt Humpty’s pain. He knew something was eating Humpty. The man only visited once in a blue moon, but even then, Humpty wore his discomfort all over his face. He always looked ill whenever he dropped by to pay his respects. Beanie might not be the shiniest bean in the pot, but he wasn’t the dullest either.

So, Beanie made sure to work that section of the cemetery, rain or shine, whenever he saw Humpty Eldon’s beat-up, old pickup turn under the large, wrought iron arch entrance to Memorial Gardens. Hadley was a smart woman. She’d been to college. She had lots of book smarts, Beanie knew, but some things were just common sense. Like this thing about ghosts.

No matter how many times Hadley Pell tried to tell him there were no such things as ghosts, Beanie would never be convinced. Ghosts were real. It was just a fact of life. Like old Linnie Clay who was always passing gas and denying it.

It’s why no one would ever find Beanie working past dusk. Ghosts came out at night, when folks slept, when slithering things roamed the Earth, and evil spirits danced a jig on the clock tower of the courthouse on Main Street.

Roses are red and violets are blue. If you’re caught out after dark, then the spooks will get you.

There were some inexplicable things in this world that just
were
because they just were. No sense wasting brain power trying to solve them. Riddles. Like the sphinx.

Like some of the old hags who visited Lou Edna’s. They went to the beauty shop for some beauty. Did you buy it buy the ounce? Beanie didn’t think so. Pots of paint and buckets of hair dye couldn’t turn those prunes into good-looking women, no matter how hot and heavy you poured it on.

Like he said, they were because they just were.

And anyway, Beanie thought, why risk it? Hadley Pell might be right. There may not be such things as ghosts. But there were always two sides to every coin. And she could be dead wrong.

There were plenty of folks, from believers in these back hills to the educated intellectuals, who would agree with the second vein of thought. They believed ghosts were real. There were TV shows about ghost hunters. They may have seen them or felt their presence or something. Beanie’s head spun when he pondered such matters.

He may be dumb. Ghosts may not be real. But until he has some kind of proof he could hold in his hands, he would err on the side of caution.

Beanie wondered if this wasn’t Humpty Eldon’s problem. Beanie had a sixth sense about things like that, a hypersensitive radar that picked up on a person’s discomfort, embarrassment, or distress. Since the pulp mill accident, Beanie had had lots of practice being the butt of cruel jokes and others’ impatience at his slowness. Those things had honed his sense of empathy for others to a fine point.

So when Humpty’s rust bucket of a pickup rolled under the arched entry, Beanie made sure he’d be somewhere nearby Mama Eldon’s humongous monolithic memorial.

It was a big stone, thought Beanie.

The biggest on the lot.

It looked impressive sitting there. Kind of like the Titanic before she left port for sea. Beanie didn’t notice the
H
letter or the
E
letter. They were so small as to be almost invisible.

The shadow that the headstone made when the sun was low in the sky on a hot summer’s afternoon was awfully nice. When Beanie needed a break, he headed over to Mama Eldon’s giant sunshade headstone. That long purple shadow was the perfect place for a picnic lunch.