Hung Out to Die (14 page)

“Too busy for even that? Well, then, preview our stock on the Internet! Order a lamp, a tablecloth online! We're even working on a book we're going to self-publish and make available on our future Web site—
Vintage Chic in One Week or Less
! With updated links to available items each week.”

Mama waved her hand in a gesture that took in my office/storeroom. “You're a businesswoman now, Josie. You should understand this. You have a logo, a motto. So do we. We're in it for the money, sure, but we're offering a service. We even have a motto that says it all: ‘Get Historical! Fast!' Like it?”

I stared at her for a long moment. As tempting as it was, there was no point in debating her on the merits of Daddy's and her business scheme. There was no point in throwing in her face that she had no right to lecture me on life, on Paradise, on business, when she'd just up and abandoned me when I was a kid. A fact that made me surprisingly angry, considering all these years I'd told myself—and believed it—that I didn't care.

What I needed to do was lay it on the line for her, and get her and Daddy back out of Paradise—for good—as soon as I could. Then, I hoped, life in Paradise could go back to normal. A sleepy little town struggling to get by thanks to the industries of a pie company, the nearby man-made state lake and state prison, a gravel quarry, a few other businesses, and a dozen or so dusty, sleepy little antique shops, where true antique lovers could come and find a delightful treasure now and again.

“Mama, I'm only saying this once. You asked me last night to help you get Daddy out of jail, to help figure out who really killed his brother Fenwick. And I said no way. Well, I've changed my mind. I'm going to help you.”

Mama clapped her hands together, suddenly like a delighted little child. “Oh, thank you, Josie, thank you—”

“On one condition.”

She felt silent, clasped her hands in her lap.

“And that is that you and Daddy agree to drop this whole FleaMart deal.”

“What? The old orphanage is the perfect property! And believe it or not, this location is great. Folks can drive in from Cincinnati, Dayton, Columbus . . . really think they're going somewhere quaint and old-fashioned, coming here—”

I cringed, knowing that, in fact, folks in big cities did view our town that way—when and if they came for a visit.

“—and you know even if FleaMart puts the antique stores out of business, it will probably generate other support businesses. Maybe another gas station, another restaurant or two . . . although of course we will have a food court . . .”

I held up a hand. “I don't care. Promise to take your FleaMart idea elsewhere, far enough away that it won't impact Paradise's antique shops, and I'll help you.”

Mama frowned. “No. I can't do that.”

I shrugged. “Fine with me. I doubt you're going to be able to focus on FleaMart, anyway, with Daddy in jail. And apparently—from what the antique owners said and what you've said and what I picked up on at dinner last night—there's no way anyone is going to talk with you and give you the answers you need to help Daddy. So . . . fine. He can rot in jail.”

Mama looked at me, annoyed that I'd cornered her. “All right. No FleaMart—if you can help me find the answers we need to help get your Daddy out of jail.”

Did I trust her, believe her about that FleaMart promise? No. Not for a moment. Did I even really believe Daddy wasn't guilty of murdering his brother, Fenwick?

Of course, I didn't want to believe he had, but I had to admit the evidence, though circumstantial, sounded pretty damning.

On the other hand, helping my parents was my only chance to find out something, anything that would give me the leverage I needed to make them go away for good with the FleaMart idea. Not that I was curious about my parents for my own sake. Not at all. Just for Paradise's sake. Truly.

“Good,” I said. I went over to her, held out my hand. Mama looked confused for a moment, and then took my hand. How odd. Her hands had always seemed so big and strong to me when I was a little girl, when I watched her lift the wash up to hang on the line behind our trailer. Or make biscuits in our tiny kitchen. And now her hand was smaller than mine, thinner . . .

But still strong in her grasp, as we shook hands.

“What's our first step?” Mama said. “I want to go over to the jail, see your daddy. And I guess I ought to rent a car—”

“Oh, no,” I said. “We'll get over to the jail—but first we're going over to the Red Horse to collect your things. And you're going to have to promise to answer any questions I ask. Honestly.”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “All right.”

I took a deep breath, not quite believing myself what I was about to say next. “And you're staying with me. I don't want you out of my sight.”

Mama nodded with a knowing look. “Ah. Safety in numbers. Whoever accused your daddy might come after me . . .”

“Something like that,” I said.

Truth be told, I was more concerned at that moment with protecting Paradise from my mama.

10

While Mama went into her and Daddy's Red Horse room—an end unit farthest from the office—I sat in my minivan and started a list.

Mama had whined at me about having to pack and carry out their luggage all by herself. I reckoned that was usually Daddy's job. But I didn't budge. Mama was just in her early fifties and certainly fit enough to carry her own luggage. I didn't want to give her the notion that I was going to be willing to cater to her, like I guessed Daddy did.

Besides, I really did want to make a list. I'd stumbled into murder investigations in the past. But this was the first one I was purposefully deciding to stick my nose into, right at the outset, and I wanted to be organized about it.

Before we left my laundromat, I'd put next to my register a tent card that said,
JOSIE'S OUT FOR A BIT,
followed by my cell phone number. Normally when I knew I'd be out, such as to the meeting up at Stillwater later that day, I hired Chip Beavy, the Widow Beavy's grandson, to fill in.

But the Friday after Thanksgiving was so slow, I figured I'd only get one or two drop-ins. And I trusted my fellow Paradisites to not pilfer more than one or two sample-sized boxes of laundry soap. Although—after grabbing my column-idea notebook from my desk—I did lock both the door to my office/storeroom and the back door.

Then Mama and I headed over to the Red Horse Motel. The snow had finally stopped, and both the sun and the county salt trucks had come out, so the drive was easy enough.

My van was still warm from the drive over, and my fleece hat and coat were toasty. I took off my gloves so I could write at the top of a page in the middle of my notebook: “Uncle Fenwick's Murder.”

Then I started a list of questions and notes:

1. Who would be angry enough to kill Uncle Fenwick?

I chewed on the eraser end of my pencil, sorry to have to make the following notation:
Daddy, of course. But possibly all of his siblings. No one seemed to like him, except Mamaw and Aunt Nora. If his family feels this way, what about colleagues? Employees? Neighbors? See if can get Mamaw and Aunt Nora to talk tonight . . .

2. Assuming Daddy didn't do it, who would/could pin the murder on Daddy?

First, obvious answer: Another family member who resents Daddy and Mama's return anyway. After all, everyone at the dinner had seen Daddy brandishing the pearl-handled hunting knife.

Then I thought about that morning's visit from Paradise's antique dealers. None had let on that they knew of Uncle Fenwick's murder. Of course, probably by noon everyone in Paradise would know. But what if one of the dealers already knew about the murder and about the hunting knife (I favored Lorraine McMurphy) and made the anonymous phone call, hoping to thwart FleaMart?

So I wrote down:
Anyone against FleaMart.

Then the uneasy thought sidled through my brain . . . what if pinning the murder on Daddy had something to do with why Daddy left in the first place? There had to be some reason each of my parents took off and then met up again. Maybe it was as simple as restlessness and coincidence, respectively.

Or maybe, I thought, there was some darker reason one or the other, or both, of them left—something to do with someone else in town. And, now, accusing Daddy of his brother's murder was a form of revenge.

So then I had to write down:
Or anyone who had a reason in the past to hate my mama or daddy.

I shivered. And it had nothing to do with the heat seeping out of my van, and the cold seeping in.

I rubbed my hands together and made a few more notes:

See if Aunt Nora or Mamaw knows about the broken promise that Daddy and Uncle Fenwick shouted about.

Follow up with Rusty and Lorraine about caller ID. Maybe whoever called them also called Chief Worthy.

I sighed and my breath came out in a white puff. What was taking Mama so long? I stared at my list. I'd come to the conclusion that just about anybody—including my daddy—could have killed Uncle Fenwick, and the only real ideas I had were to look into Mama and Daddy's past and the caller IDs.

Any other angles? Yes! I rubbed my hands together and jotted down:
Winnie's back on Sunday . . . have her check into Mama and Daddy's business, maybe through the real estate company owned by Rachel, and into Uncle Fenwick's company.
Winnie was an awesome researcher. And if I needed the information desperately, I reckoned I could call her at her daughter's in Chicago . . . but how much could happen before Sunday, that being Friday morning?

Looking back, I should have known better.

A tap at my window startled me, and I quickly closed my notebook before looking up. I reckoned I'd see Mama standing at the truck window, surrounded by luggage, glaring at me because I hadn't helped with the packing up and checking out.

But it was Luke Rhinegold, who, along with his wife, Greta, ran the Red Horse Motel. He was heavily bundled up, and hugged an armful of mail to his chest.

I rolled down my window quickly. “Hey. Everything good? How was Thanksgiving? I thought I'd come by next Wednesday instead of Tuesday for the linens if that's okay . . .”

“Everything's fine. Checked out your mama and daddy. Saw her go into their room. As much luggage as your daddy toted in, she's gonna be a while. It's cold out here. Want to come in for some coffee?”

It was getting cold in the van. I could leave the back unlocked so Mama could lift in her luggage.

I hopped out and followed Luke in, slowing my pace to match his careful shuffling across the snowy, icy parking lot, and felt a jolt of concern at his gait.

I loved Luke and Greta like family, like grandparents, really. It hit me that, over the years, I'd put together a makeshift family.

I'd have to ponder that later, I thought. Because it struck me also that Luke and Greta had owned the Red Horse Motel for years before I was even born. And they might be able to tell me something about my parents' pasts.

In the Red Horse Motel's office, just behind the check-in counter in the lobby, Luke made us mugs of hot chocolate from powdered mix in paper packets and hot water from the coffeemaker's carafe. We tossed our coats, hats, and gloves on a spare chair, and sat on a turquoise and chrome couch that looked like it had been ripped from the backseat of someone's 1950s Chevy, but that Greta swore was a 1930s Art Deco couch she'd picked up for a great price at the Antique Depot. The couch was surprisingly comfortable.

I asked Luke about Greta, and he looked sad but made himself smile as he said she was napping more these days and that she'd become a bit more forgetful than usual. They had a doctor's appointment set up for the following month.

I expressed my concern and good wishes and then we fell quiet. That happens, sometimes, when I linger over a cup of coffee or hot chocolate after delivering freshly washed linens, but this time, an uneasiness welled up between us.

We were both, I knew, thinking about my mama and daddy.

“You know,” I finally said, “I don't remember much about my parents. I was wondering what you could tell me about them.”

Luke swirled his mug, watching the marshmallows, before saying, “Well, why don't we start with what you do remember about them?”

The brief bits of memory—the smell of Daddy's soap, Mama and the wishing well—flashed through my mind. “Not much,” I said. “Uncle Horace never said anything that I can recollect about my mama, although she was his only sibling. I asked Aunt Clara once or twice about my parents, and she would just say they were funny-turned.” That was her old-fashioned expression for different or odd. Not many people use it nowadays, but I knew Luke would know what I meant.

He smiled. “Sounds like your Aunt Clara. Taciturn.”

I nodded. Then, with a jolt, I remembered something else. “She gave me a box—an old hat box—a few months after I moved in with her and Uncle Horace. It held a few of my mama's things, she said. A hair barrette, I think. Some old coins. Photos.” I shook my head. “It's somewhere on my bedroom closet shelf. I'd actually forgotten it until now.” I shrugged. “Truth be told, after a while I didn't think about my parents much. Uncle Horace and Aunt Clara were my parents, really.”

“They were good people,” Luke said, sounding a wee bit sad. “And good friends.”

I didn't remember him or Greta coming around our house often, but then Uncle Horace and Aunt Clara didn't entertain or go out much. What with the laundromat and Aunt Clara's job at the Breitenstrater Pie Factory, and taking care of Guy, they didn't get much of a chance. What social life they had revolved around the United Methodist Church.

“They were good people,” I agreed. “And good parents.”

“God rest their souls,” Luke said.

We were silent a moment, thinking of them, as we sipped our chocolate.