A Teeny Bit of Trouble (13 page)

“So? Did you check the shelves? Or do you have X-ray vision, girlie?”

“The stockroom door opened. I saw plastic pumpkins.”

“But no Bill Clinton mask, right?”

“Let’s go to the store. I’ll keep Norris busy and you can look through the stockroom.”

“Are you nuts? If Norris catches me, I could be arrested.”

“But if we find that mask, it could mean that Lester was at Barb’s house that night.”

“No, it won’t.” Red shook his finger in my face. “If you find that mask, you got nothing—except a lawsuit.”

“My gut tells me that Lester wanted her dead.”

“You’re gut is wrong, girlie.”

I folded my arms. One way or another, I’d find a way into Lester’s stockroom. The mask didn’t hold the answer, but it was a piece of the puzzle. The puzzle that lay behind Barb’s death.

eleven

The bells at Our Lady of Perpetual Succor Church tolled four times as Red steered the van toward Eikenberry’s Funeral Home. The sprawling yellow clapboard house sat on the corner of Arkansas and Locust—Corinthian columns, mint green shutters, and a deep front porch. It was the nicest place in town to say farewell to the dead. But Eikenberry’s had another purpose: it was the birthplace of gossip.

Red turned into the shady parking lot. It was empty except for Lester’s Mercedes. Emerson’s eyes got big, but she didn’t say a word until we’d climbed out of the van.

“Did you know that lizards bob their heads before they attack?” she asked us.

“I thought it was courting behavior,” Coop said.

“They’re trying to scare off the other lizards.” Emerson drew her hand into a claw. “It’s a power play.”

He smiled but didn’t comment.

“I’m more interested in rats,” she said. “You can flush a rat down a toilet and it’ll live.”

“You tried it?” I asked.

“No, but if Mr. Philpot was smaller, I’d flush him.” She strode to Lester’s Mercedes, her dress fluttering like crow feathers, and kicked the front tire.

When we stepped through the rear door of the funeral home, a blast of cold, rose-scented air rushed up my nose. The décor was just as I remembered: Persian rugs, antique tables, and crystal chandeliers. Coop and I turned into a corridor, where a framed Confederate flag was draped on the wall, next to photographs of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson. A portrait of Josh Eikenberry hung on the opposite wall. The picture had been made a few years ago, before a ski accident had left him paralyzed.

Emerson walked ahead of us, swinging her arms. I glanced into a kitchen, where the counters were heaped with foil-wrapped pans. Red nudged my arm. “Does Eikenberry’s serve meals?” he whispered.

“No,” I whispered back. “Just cookies and coffee.”

He gave me a questioning look, but I turned away. I didn’t want to be overheard in this gossipy place. Nor did I want to explain that the foil packages were for Josh. Because then I’d have to mention the ski accident, and Josh didn’t like anyone to bring that up. Not the church ladies who fussed over him. Not the unmarried women who brought him homemade chicken and dumplings.

I stepped into the wide foyer. It was lined with doors; each one was named after a Civil War general. I dreaded seeing the room where Aunt Bluette’s coffin had been displayed. Before her death, she’d requested that Eikenberry’s handle her funeral arrangements. Josh had met me at the front door in his wheelchair, a sympathetic smile on his face. He’d greeted me warmly, as if he’d never groped me on that long-ago date. He’d helped me select a funeral package. He’d also arranged to have a peach tree planted in Azalea Park in my aunt’s honor.

Coop’s hand slid around my waist. “You okay, Teeny?”

Before I could answer, Josh steered his wheelchair toward us, the low whine of the motor echoing in the chilly foyer. The chandelier shone down on his thick, auburn hair, turning it the color of new pennies. The dial of his Mickey Mouse watch caught the light as he adjusted a blanket over his legs.

“I see you’ve brought the young lady.” Josh smiled at Emerson. “What a cutie pie.”

She lifted her pigtails and sketched something that looked suspiciously like an F and a U. I hoped she’d written
funeral
, but then she drew a C.

Josh pointed to a room with double doors. “Little Miss Philpot, your daddy asked me to escort you to the Stonewall Jackson Room.”

His chair scooted forward, leaving two deep tracks in the carpet. As he steered toward the room, Red bolted forward. “Here, I’ll get the doors.”

“No, no. I’m fine.” Josh pushed a button on his chair and the doors sprang open.

“Like magic,” Emerson said.

“No.” Josh chuckled. “Just modern technology. The funeral home has Wi-Fi. There’s even a complimentary computer in the refreshment room.”

“Woopy doo,” Emerson said.

I looked past Josh, into the viewing room. White wooden chairs were lined up in tidy rows. Lester sat in one, not too far from a mahogany casket—it was huge, the size of a sideboard. I almost expected to see its glossy surface covered with silver serving pieces.

Emerson tugged Coop’s jacket. “Aren’t you and Teeny coming?”

He looked so sad, but he just patted her shoulder. “We’ll be right here if you need us.”

“But I do need you.”

I squeezed my hands, wishing he’d tug her pigtails and say something about rats. Even a “you can do this” smile would have been helpful.

He kept on patting her shoulder. “You need a moment with your mom,” he said. “Just you and her.”

Emerson shook her head. “Don’t make me go in there. I’m scared of dead people.”

I tried to hold still, but my scalp twitched as if fire ants were crawling through my hair.

“Little Miss Philpot?” Josh called from the doorway. “Come on. Let’s get this over with. You can have a cookie afterward.”

“I don’t want your damn, dead cookie,” she said.

Coop led her to the door. He squatted beside her and whispered something. She nodded, folded her arms, then stepped into the room. Josh clicked a button, and the doors closed.

“Why’s he in the chair?” Red asked.

“Last winter he wiped out on a double black diamond trail in Aspen,” Coop said. “He’s paralyzed from the waist down. He was making progress in rehab, but his father talked him into coming home.”

At the other end of the foyer the door to the Longstreet Room opened, and Josh’s uncle stepped out. Amos Eikenberry lifted a bony hand and smoothed three gray hairs on his scalp. His deep-set blue eyes blinked compulsively. The locals called him Mr. Winky, but he was so good natured, he referred to himself that way. He glanced over his shoulder, smiled at me and Coop, then turned into the Beauregard Room, where Aunt Bluette had been laid out.

“Who’s the blinking dude?” Red asked.

“Mr. Winky,” Coop said.

“Like the Winkies in
The Wizard of Oz
?” Red began to hum. “
Oh-E-Oh, Yo Ho—”

He broke off when a muffled screech came from the Stonewall Jackson Room. “Let me go,” Emerson cried. “You poo-poo head!”

I grabbed Coop’s arm. “What are they doing to her?”

“Think I should go in?” He cast a panicky glance at the doors.

I nodded and gave him a little push. Another screech rose up. “I won’t kiss a dead lady. Ack, I’m choking! Quick, somebody do the Heineken Remover.”

I heard Lester’s low, humming voice. Then Emerson said, “Shut the freaking lid or I’ll sue.”

The double doors creaked open, and Josh’s chair shot out of the room. His eyes were rounded, as if he’d just spotted a typhoon.

“I’ll cuss if I damn well please,” Emerson cried. “It’s the only way I can make grown-ups listen.”

Josh’s head bobbed violently, making me think of those lizards Emerson had mentioned. Lester stepped out of the room, dry-eyed and calm, as if he were experienced with funerals and dead wives. Emerson ran after him, swinging her arms from side to side.

“Stop!” she screamed. “I command you to answer my question. Why aren’t there any flowers?”

Lester tugged the edges of his jacket. Without looking at Emerson he said, “I requested donations to the Prostate Cancer Society.”

“But that’s
your
favorite charity,” she said. “Mrs. Philpot would’ve wanted beaucoup flowers.”

Josh looked surprised. “Why, Lester. I didn’t realize you had cancer.”

“He doesn’t,” Emerson said. “But he worries all the time about getting prostrate cancer.”

“It’s pros
tate
,” Lester said. “Not pros
trate
.”

Josh wheeled closer to Coop. “Are you and Teeny staying for the viewing?”

Lester gave the undertaker a malignant stare. “I’m sure the lovebirds have other plans.”

And leave the birthplace of truth and slander? Miss all the gossip? “No,” I said. “We don’t have plans.”

Emerson spun around, her lips spread into a smile.

“You’re a precious little girl,” Josh said. “And lucky. You’ve got two daddies. I wish I’d had me a spare.”

She stopped spinning and glared. “Too bad you’re not a starfish,” she said. “Then you could grow new legs.”

“Emerson!” Lester cried.

“It’s quite all right,” Josh said. “She’s just a child. She knows not what she does.”

Red looked as if he’d just stepped into a gopher hole. But the poor man had only seen the barest glimpse of Bonaventure. Weird, shimmery vibes were as normal as the church bells that gonged in the distance, calling the faithful and the fanciful—not to prayer service, not to Bible study, not to confession, but to the weekly bingo game.

*   *   *

Mr. Winky unlocked the plastic thermostat covers and cranked up the air-conditioning. “Hurry up, Vlado,” he called to a short, blond man. The duo turned into the hall and vanished.

Minutes later, Josh parked his chair beside the front door and directed people to the appropriate viewing room.

I sat in the middle of the Stonewall Jackson Room, squished between Coop and Red. The Philpots were up front, but I couldn’t see Emerson because there were so many people between us. All around us, mourners perched in the white chairs, their voices rising and falling like musicians tuning their instruments in an orchestra pit. The chandelier dimmed for a second, and the voices gathered strength, building into an overture.

Bonaventure’s finest rumormongers had gathered in front of me, and they were warming up, tweaking and plucking words, tuning the language.

“… strangled herself with Hanes pantyhose.”

“… control-top L’eggs.”

“… crotchless tights from Frederick’s of Hollywood.”

The conversation snapped off when Kendall McCormack stepped into the room. Her hair was spiked into the Statue of Liberty style, a local favorite on prom night. She lurched down the aisle on four-inch heels, her black minidress grazing the tops of her thighs. Her glossy black fingernails picked at a long strand of pearls that hung around her neck. When she spotted Lester she released the pearls and tottered over to him. She whispered something. His head wrenched back, as if she’d thrown a Rocky Road Pie in his face. He snatched her arm, his fingers sinking into her flesh, and he escorted her back up the aisle.

“This is less than six degrees of separation,” Red whispered. “You and Coop. Coop and Barb. Lester and Barb. Lester and Kendall. In an indirect way, all of you have boned each other.”

My gaze drifted to the far side of the room. Norris rose from a chair and slithered toward the casket. He was quickly surrounded by four elderly, bespeckled men, who kept gesturing at their eyes. An old woman joined them and smacked her cane against Norris’s leg.

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I touched Coop’s arm. “I’m going to the powder room.”

I ignored his worried look and squeezed past him, into the crowded aisle. When I got to the vestibule, it was jammed, too. The front door stood open, letting in a blast of warm night air. I eased my way to the porch. City crickets shrilled from the oak trees, as if shocked by human beings and their strange death rituals.

A blond man got out of a rocking chair, his ponytail streaming over his shoulder, and stepped into the light. His eyes were dark green, the exact color of champagne bottles, and thickly lashed. He wore a beige linen jacket, tight jeans, and scuffed brown cowboy boots.

“Teeny Templeton?” His voice was deep and clear, one hundred percent pure swamp rat.

God no. Not him. Not tonight. Not Son Finnegan.

I stepped back. The crickets fell silent, as if waiting for my response.

“Don’t act like you don’t remember me.” He laughed, but his eyes said,
Peter the Denier.

Hell, yes, I remembered every overendowed part of him. Son, not a nickname for Sonny or a misspelling of the sun. When he’d been born, his mama, Cissy Finnegan, hadn’t been able to think of a suitable name, so she’d written
Son
on the birth certificate.

“When did you get back in town?” I asked. Did he still have washboard abs and a gorgeous ass?

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” he said. “But since you beat me to it, I’ll go first. I’ve been in Iraq. I moved home this past spring. I tried to look you up, but I heard you’d moved to Charleston.”

“Iraq?” I said. “You looked me up? I haven’t seen you since I was twenty.”

“Yeah, those were good times. Just me and you working together in the orchard.”

My brain went on a fact-finding mission. There had been some scandal about Son’s dad.… The file dropped into place. His daddy had died in the state penitentiary for cattle rustling, and his mom had taken in laundry and cleaned houses.

“I was an army surgeon,” Son said. “I clocked a lot of hours reconstructing faces. Now, I’m tweaking. Eyes, noses, Botox.”

I cut my gaze at his broad shoulders and sharp green eyes. All those years ago, we hadn’t been able to keep our hands off each other. He’d been an older man, twenty-six, in his last year of medical school, and he’d given
roll in the hay
an all-new meaning. Son and I would meet in my aunt’s barn after the pickers had left for the day. Hours later, we’d emerge, our bodies gleaming with sweat as if we’d been swimming. Just when I’d started to feel something for him, Aunt Bluette had put an end to the budding romance.