When you walked in the senior center, you went directly into one large room divided into sections. The fellowship hall had an attached kitchen, which was now used to prepare hot lunches for the seniors who came there. For some, it was their only hot meal of the day; for others, it was their
only
meal of the day. It was also out of this kitchen that Meals on Wheels operated.
The area closest to the kitchen had long tables set out for lunch; there was another area of round tables stacked with games and puzzles. When we walked in that afternoon, there was a round table with five women who appeared to be closing in on the century mark in age playing canasta, and another round table with two very old men playing something that required them to beat the table with their fists a lot. In this area was a Ping Pong table with an elderly man playing Ping Pong with a teenage boy. Toward the back of the large room, bringing together the two sides, was an area of couches and easy chairs facing a stage with a large-screen TV. Volunteers were still clearing the lunch tables and we could see more volunteers in the kitchen cleaning up.
‘Carolyn will be in the kitchen. She’s a volunteer.’ Of course she was. As far as I could tell, no one under ninety actually used the facility. All the volunteers looked to be in their seventies or eighties. And seemed as fit if not more fit than either Berta or myself. Well, maybe me six months ago.
The kitchen was separated from the fellowship hall by a wall with a cut out for coffee service, and a doorway with only a saloon-style swinging door. Each was topped with a valance of western-style material – horses and cowboys and cows. We went through the swinging doors and into the kitchen.
A large woman was at the sink. She was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and knee-length shorts with very sensible shoes on her feet. She turned when she heard the swinging door, whose hinges definitely needed a few minutes alone with some WD40. She had steel-gray hair and a beautiful face. Being on the chubby side, her face was mostly devoid of wrinkles. If she lost a few pounds, believe me, they’d come rushing back. She had big blue eyes, a cherub nose, and a smile that made you want to smile back. This smile was now aimed at Vera.
‘Vera Pugh, how you doing?’ she said. She started to reach for my mother-in-law, but then said, ‘Now wait, I want a hug, but I’ve gotta dry off!’ She dried her hands while Vera laughed, and then the two hugged. ‘How come we never see each other anymore?’ she asked Vera.
‘You’re usually doing lunch and I don’t usually drive the bus anywhere ’til late afternoon or evening,’ Vera said.
‘Well, that’s the truth of it. This your daughter-in-law?’ she asked, showing me her hand. I shook hands with her and she said, ‘I know it’s you ’cause Vera’s mentioned your pretty red hair.’ She leaned in as if to whisper in my ear and said, ‘I love your smutty books! They remind me of my youth!’
‘It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,’ I said. Indicating Berta, I said, ‘This is my friend, Berta Harris.’
‘Y’all just call me Carolyn. Why don’t we go in the dining room so we can sit down.’ She turned her head and said, ‘Alice Ann, I’m taking a break.’
Alice Ann called back and said, ‘I’ll finish up. You go on.’
Carolyn Gable waved and ushered us out to the dining area. We took chairs on either side of the long table, Berta and me on one side, the older two on the other.
‘Now what can I do for y’all?’ Carolyn Gable asked.
‘I understand you used to be the nurse at Bishop Byne High School, is that right?’ I asked.
She grinned. ‘Yep. From 1965, straight out of nursing school, until the place closed ten years ago this past June.’
‘And I understand you’re one of those people with an incredible memory.’
She frowned. ‘More like total recall. You wanna tell me what’s going on?’
I pulled out the pictures of the four teenagers and younger kids. ‘Could you tell us the names of these two boys and the younger girl?’
She looked at the pictures, then up at me. ‘I could, but I won’t necessarily do so. Not until you tell me what this is about.’
I looked at Berta and she nodded her head. So for the second time in less than an hour, I was telling Berta’s story. ‘So we’re hoping to find one of these boys to find out what kind of relationship Berta here – or Rosalee, if you prefer – had with her mother.’
Carolyn reached out a hand to Berta. ‘I’m so sorry, honey. What a terrible burden.’ She pulled back and said, ‘The dark-haired boy is Ray Thornton. A real piece of work. Don’t know the girl he’s with,’ she said, pointing at Kerry. ‘Ray was in trouble a lot, drinking, wrecking cars, that sort of thing. Don’t know if any of his people are still around. His daddy died before I knew Ray, and his mama liked hanging out in bars and bringing men home, leastwise that’s what I heard. The younger girl there, that’s Ray’s little sister, I’m pretty sure. She went to Bishop Byne, too, but I didn’t know her much. What was her name? Betsy? Patty? Patsy? Something like that. The red-headed boy is Timothy Quartermyer. He was a very good student until his junior year when he met up with Ray and started hanging out with him. I don’t know this girl either,’ she said, pointing at Rosalee.
‘That’s me,’ Berta said.
‘Well, weren’t you the pretty thing?’ Carolyn said. ‘Now, Timothy did have a girlfriend at Bishop Byne – Cynthia Douglas.’ Carolyn Gable frowned. ‘Now that I think of it, maybe Cynthia became a nun.’ Then you could tell a light went on behind her eyes. ‘Oh my God! I just now put it together! I went with my daughter last week to her church in Black Cat Ridge! They just got a new priest! Last name Quartermyer! How many could there be? I think that’s why Timothy and Cynthia probably went together: both knowing they were joining the church and neither, you know, trying to, um, tempt each other? Know what I mean?’
We all knew what she meant.
‘So the red-headed boy may be the new priest at the Catholic church in Black Cat Ridge?’ I summed up.
‘That’s what I’m saying,’ Carolyn said. ‘Although I gotta say I don’t remember the priest having red hair.’
‘Red fades some when people get older,’ Vera said. ‘Except for this one,’ she said, pointing at me.
I sighed. ‘OK, Vera, I colored it. Are you satisfied?’
‘I knew it!’
‘What happened to the dark-haired boy?’ Berta asked, getting us back on track and again trying to take care of Kerry.
Carolyn shook her head. ‘He didn’t even graduate. Left school close to the end, just left town, no one, not even Tim, I believe, knew why or where.’
I looked at Berta. ‘Think we have time to stop by the church in Black Cat Ridge?’
She nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but Vera beat her to it. ‘I’m going with y’all,’ she said, and by her tone there would be no arguing.
‘Well, y’all are gonna need me for introductions,’ Carolyn said. ‘After all, I’m the only one who knows him – except maybe Rosalee here?’
Berta shrugged. ‘I guess,’ she said, her voice timid.
I invited Carolyn and Vera to ride with me, but Carolyn said, ‘Ah hell, you’d just have to bring us all the way back to Codderville, when y’all will practically be home.’ She and Vera headed to an antique Shelby Mustang convertible, got in and peeled out. I could only hope to catch up.
I called Vera on her cell phone. ‘When you get to the church, don’t go in. I want to see Tim’s reaction to seeing Rosalee. I don’t want y’all telling him beforehand.’
‘OK,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think it’s fair!’
‘Vera—’
‘OK, OK! Jeez!’ she said and hung up.
Luckily I knew where the Catholic church was in Black Cat Ridge. Our Lady of the Vines was toward the back of Black Cat Ridge, well into the woods, and had the same funky parking lot as the Episcopal Church where Berta’s ‘memorial’ had been held. There were very few cars in the lot so it was easy to find the Shelby Mustang in front of a part of the complex that had a sign over it proclaiming ‘office.’ I parked next to the two old ladies and we all got out.
I moved in front as the two older women barreled toward the door. ‘Now, listen, ladies,’ I said, hands up like a traffic cop, stopping them in their tracts. ‘Please let me do the talking. Carolyn, you start by reminding him who you are, then introduce me.’
Hands on hips, head cocked, the formerly sweet lady from the senior center said, ‘And just who would that be?’
‘Someone investigating the death of Kerry Killian,’ I said.
‘Should she say Kerry Metcalf? He’d have known her by that name,’ Berta said.
I shook my head. ‘No, Kerry Killian.’
The three women looked at each other and I thought I was going to have a mutiny on my hands. Finally, Carolyn nodded. ‘OK, let’s do it.’
And we headed into the office, not unlike the Americans lining up to meet the German tank officer toward the end of Willis’s favorite movie,
Kelly’s Heroes
. I could hear the strains of the theme song to
The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly
in my mind.
MEGAN
I swear Donzel wouldn’t leave me alone. He told me a thousand times how good I looked in my swimsuit (and it’s not even a bikini, which is what I wanted, but my
mother
said no, I was too young! I have breasts! They need to be seen, for gawd’s sake!), and followed me around like a puppy dog. Actually I did look really good in this dumb one-piece. It shows off all the good parts, like my beautiful breasts, and my nice butt. And when I wear my hair down, guys do get a little weird, if you know what I mean. I can’t help it. It’s fun to make guys weird.
Then my phone rang. I made the mistake of not checking the caller ID before answering.
‘Oh my God, Megan?’
‘Yes?’ I said, stretching out the word because, really, who was this person calling me at the
pool
?
‘It’s Trisha McClure! I need you to come over immediately! I have an emergency!’
If I hadn’t been trained from
birth
to be ‘respectful’ of my elders, I would have said something like, ‘You need to wax your eyebrows?’ or something equally catty. Instead I said, ‘Mrs McClure, I’m not at home. I’m at the pool.’
‘The one on Taylor?’
I frowned. I didn’t like where this was going. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I’m on my way to pick you up. You and the girls can come with me and you can watch them in the clinic lobby—’
‘But Mrs McClure—’
‘I’ll pay you a hundred dollars!’ she screeched.
‘Well, you better hurry up then.’ Now I sorta wished I had something to put on over my bathing suit.
We hadn’t made an appointment, so it was just luck that when I asked to see Father Quartermyer that the secretary said, ‘Have a seat.’
When he came out of his office to greet us, I could see the red in his hair. It had faded even from the old pictures we had of him, but you could still see red under the fluorescent lights of the office. He had freckled skin – face neck and hands – eyes as green as an Irish valley, and was tall and lanky. On seeing him, I felt like I do whenever I see a very appealing gay guy: girls, we lost another one.
‘Hi,’ he said, holding out his hand to Carolyn Gable, who shook it and said, ‘Father, may we speak privately?’
‘Certainly,’ he said and led us into his office. He pointed to his two visitor chairs, and Berta and I insisted the older ladies take them, then Carolyn spoke up.
‘Father, you may not remember me, but I was the nurse at Bishop Byne when you attended. Carolyn Gable.’
A smile broke out on the priest’s face. ‘Mrs Gable! I’m surprised I didn’t recognize you! You haven’t changed a bit! How nice to see you!’ he stood up from his desk and walked around it. ‘I’ve got to have a hug!’ he said. Carolyn obliged by standing and hugging back. Now more casual, the priest leaned a hip against his desk and crossed his arms. ‘To what do I owe this honor?’ he asked.
Pointing at me, Carolyn said, ‘This is my friend, E.J. Pugh. She’s investigating the death of Kerry Killian on behalf of her husband.’
Tim Quartermyer stood and again held out his hand, which I shook. ‘I heard about that tragedy, although I never knew Mrs Killian or her family,’ he said.
‘Oh, but you did, Father,’ I said. ‘You knew her as Kerry Metcalf.’
He was very still for a long moment, his face a blank. Then he frowned. ‘What is this? I haven’t seen Kerry Metcalf in fifteen years!’
‘Does this face ring any bells?’ I asked, indicating Berta.
The priest bent down and looked into Berta’s face. ‘Rosie?’ he said, incredulous. ‘Rosie Bunch?’
Berta raised her hand and fluttered her fingers. ‘Guilty as charged,’ she said, then grimaced. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say that?’
‘Maybe not right now,’ I said. To the priest, I said, ‘Rosie has been charged with killing her mother the night before she disappeared. I have a feeling that you all were together that night, as it seems y’all were together a lot. Can you recall?’
‘What night was that? Rosie, do you remember?’ he asked.
‘That’s the problem, Father,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember anything.’
I then went into Berta’s story yet another time.
‘My God,’ he said, going back around his desk to sink into his chair. ‘You have no idea what happened to your mother?’
‘I have no idea what I had for breakfast the day I was run over,’ Berta said. ‘You seem to be the only one left around out of the old group. I was hoping you could tell me something about my relationship with my mother.’
His face turned red again and he looked to his desktop, his hands busy with a rosary sitting there. ‘Why hash up that old stuff now, Rosie? Let it lie—’
‘I can’t, Father—’
Timothy Quartermyer looked up at Berta/Rosie. ‘
Please
don’t call me Father.’ He smiled. ‘You used to call me Timmy. You’re the only one who ever did. You knew it piss— Sorry, made me angry.’
‘So we were friends?’ Berta asked.
‘Good friends. Not boyfriend-girlfriend, just friends. Sometimes that’s stronger – at least, it can last longer.’
‘Do you remember anything about the night Rosie’s trailer blew up with her mom in it?’ I asked.
He looked back at his desktop, his face turning red. ‘No, I sure can’t recall that. I found out through the grapevine that Mrs Bunch was dead and Rosie had taken off.’