Chapter Thirteen
“Keisha….”
“You know what I been thinkin’?”
We both spoke at once and then laughed. “Okay, you first.”
“I been thinkin’ we’ve been to a lot of funerals at the Methodist church lately.”
“Keisha, you’re psychic! That’s just what I decided. Somehow that church may hold the clue to the serial killer.”
“Whoa, now! The two victims of the serial killer were buried out of that church, but we can’t count Jim Guthrie. His is a separate case.”
“I guess so,” I said, “but I think there’s something there.”
She whirled back to her computer and kept talking while she typed. “Your mama’s been talkin’ about joining a church.”
“Oh,” I said far too airily, “she’ll go to the big Methodist church downtown.”
Keisha grinned. “I hear they have an active singles group, all ages.”
I couldn’t keep a giggle from my voice. “Cynthia O’Connell is not looking for a man. But wouldn’t that be funny if she met someone?”
“Not the way she talks to me. She’s interested. And if she met someone, life would be a whole lot easier for you and me.”
I agreed with that. Mom wasn’t demanding or overbearing since she’d been here, and she didn’t wring her hands over the girls and their safety nearly as much as I’d expected. But I was always aware that she was there in that house alone, day after day. It wasn’t so much the serial killer I worried about—it was Mom being bored and sad. She read, she cooked a lot, and we benefited from that because she and Keisha often brought dinner to my house. Occasionally we went there, which Mom enjoyed.
Mom bought a car, a new Prius which I thought was silly since she never drove on the highway and she was worried about money, but I knew she could afford it, and I kept my mouth shut.
But, bottom line, Mom needed some activities and some friends. A church home would be good for her, though then I’d have to listen to why I should be a better churchgoer and raise my children in the church.
I wasn’t surprised one Sunday night shortly thereafter when Mom came into the kitchen where I’d put together a salad. Mike was outside grilling salmon, a splurge that was on sale. Mom looked…well, younger and brighter. She wore a peach-colored sweater set over kind of cream pants, and she brushed her hair back a new way—or had she cut it? Maybe I didn’t look close enough at Mom very often.
“I’ve begun to talk about membership at a local church,” she began. “And I’ve joined the Women’s Circle.”
“Great,” I said, intent on chopping the cucumber for a Greek salad. “You go to the Methodist church downtown?”
“No, I went to the small one in the neighborhood.”
“Mom!” I didn’t mean it to come out quite so sharply, but her announcement startled me in light of my conversation with Keisha. “I mean, you’ve always gone to a big, city church. This is so different. Do you like it?”
Mom took a seat at the kitchen table and twisted a napkin in her hands. “I do,” she said. “That nice Ralph Hoskins invited me to meet him there Sunday, and then after church we went to Luby’s for lunch. I liked that too.” Then in a hurry, she added, “but I think after all my years attending a large church, I’d…well, I’d like a small congregation. More like family.”
I almost dropped my knife, and the last comment about the size of churches went right over my head. I was stuck on Ralph Hoskins, specifically the combination of him and my mother. I knew we’d joked about it the other night, and I’d come near the giggles, but I never thought it was serious. And now he took my mother to lunch? I was dumbfounded. All I could think about was Mike had to know this latest development. “Well, that’s nice,” I managed to stammer.
Later that night, after Keisha and Mom left and the girls were in bed, Mike sat up in bed reading. Usually, his bare chest would have called to me to jump his bones, but tonight I just slunk into bed next to him.
“You okay?” he asked, turning a page of the magazine he read.
“Yeah, just tired.”
He put the magazine aside. “Come on, Kelly. First you didn’t eat your dinner. I thought maybe I’d overcooked the salmon. And now you’re tired…as in lethargic. Are you getting sick?” A hand went to my forehead, but I brushed it away.
“You can’t tell fever like that, and I don’t have one,” I said, turning away from him. I’d wanted all evening to talk to him, and now I blew my chance.
He sighed and sat straighter in the bed. “Okay, we’re not going to sleep ’til we get to the bottom of this, so start talking. After I get back with a beer. You want anything?”
I shook my head.
Mike came back and perched on the edge of the bed by me, beer in hand. “Okay, give.”
The whole story came tumbling out, how I thought the clue was at the Methodist church, how I didn’t trust Ralph Hoskins—okay, he already knew that, and how now Mom went to church and Luby’s with the man I thought was…well, annoying, to say the least.
“What if he’s the serial killer and he’s setting Mom up?”
Mike took me in his arms. “Bring that bridge right on up here and cross it, Kelly. Come on. The serial killer did not ‘set up’ any of his victims, let alone court them at church and Luby’s . Maybe he’s just lonely—if he and your mom could have a good thing together, why not? We’ll be watchful. Let’s invite him for Sunday supper soon.”
I put my hands on his chest and pushed away. “No, definitely no. Not yet.”
What was he thinking? He’s the one who doesn’t like Ralph Hoskins.
Mike sighed, crawled into his side of the bed, picked up his beer and his magazine and began to read. We slept with a wide gulf between us that night.
My mood didn’t improve when I got to the office the next day and found Keisha was late. She waltzed in about fifteen minutes later and deposited Krispy Kreme doughnuts on my desk. In gracious response, I said, “You’re late.”
She gave me a startled look and then turned to check her hairdo in the mirror over the coffee pot. Every hair of her short electrified cut seemed to be in place, so she turned back to me. “Excuse me?” with exaggerated politeness. Keisha was dressed to the nines today, a swirling bright fiesta skirt in turquoise, gold and brown, and a matching brown top.
“Well,” I backtracked, “you’re late, and I wanted to talk to you.”
“And I was supposed to know that
how?”
Okay, I knew I was being ridiculous. “By sixth sense,” I said.
Keisha burst out laughing. “Baby, I got sixth sense, but you ain’t transmitting on that channel.”
I grinned, and she poured me a cup of coffee. “Okay. I’m worried about Mom, and you haven’t said a word to me about this.”
“About what?”
“Her going to church and lunch afterward at Luby’s with Ralph Hoskins?”
“She done that?” Keisha’s eyes grew big.
I nodded, and Keisha laughed again. “Well, good for her. She’s got more spunk than I credited her with. Tonight I’m gonna tell her, ‘You go, girl!’”
“Keisha! He might be the serial killer. You know we talked about that.”
“We talked about what an odd man he is. But, Kelly, anybody could be the serial killer. We don’t know anything specific about him. And if he were planning on killing your mom, I doubt he’d take her to church.”
That made sense. I just didn’t want to admit it. Fortunately I got a call from someone who wanted to list a property, so off I went to explain once again that property in Fairmount didn’t move these days and the seller could expect a wait.
****
We didn’t hear from Claire for over a week after Jim Guthrie’s services. Then one day she called the office and asked if she could take me to lunch. My calendar was way too empty, so we went to Nonna Tata, where it was nice and quiet and we could talk.
Claire was her usual self, turned out in a velour pantsuit with a hooded jacket, both in a honey blonde color that matched her hair, which was caught at the back of her neck in a cluster with a brown and gold scarf. She slid into the booth where I sat waiting—for more than fifteen minutes—breathless with apologies. Her face was serene—you’d never have known she had a trouble in the world.
“Sorry. I was on the phone with Terrell Johnson and couldn’t get him off,” she said, smiling. “I think the trial won’t ever happen now that Jim’s dead. It’s a great relief.” No sign of remorse.
Did she know that would be the case before Jim’s death? My suspicious mind began to whir.
“Claire, will there be an investigation into Jim’s death?”
She eyed me. “Yes. Buck Conroy thinks someone might have slipped him a Mickey Finn. Someone as in me. Conroy’s determined to get me one way or another.”
“Angus Mitchell took your case, didn’t he?”
“Yes. And it will probably drag on forever. I’m not worried about it.”
I wondered how she could be so casual about what might be a murder charge. Was she bluffing or was she, indeed, innocent?
“Lunch is my treat,” she waved a generous hand in the air. “Order steak, whatever you want.”
“Thanks,” I laughed. “I’ll just have tea and the pasta carbonara. So, how are you?”
“That’s why I wanted to meet you for lunch. To tell you I’m okay, and I wouldn’t be if you didn’t help me. Kelly, I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept quiet.
“Liz has sort of come around. We’re in a truce stage and co-existing in the house in peace. It’s not hers for four more years, so that’s a long time to see what happens. Meantime, she’s turned sort of pleasant, not wonderful, but tolerable, and I’m taking it a day at a time.”
“And Megan?” I asked.
“Megan’s fine, likes her classes at the community college. I think she’ll get that scholarship to TCU next year. She wants to go to their college of nursing. Now tell me about you. I miss all of you so much.”
I filled her in on the fact that there wasn’t much to fill her in on. I didn’t feel like going into the Mom/Ralph Hoskins/church thing, so I bypassed it.
“Kelly, if I bring some of the dinner, can the girls and I come to Sunday supper some night. I’d so love that.”
“Of course,” I said. “Let’s make it this Sunday. I’ll see what Mike wants to cook and get back to you.”
We chatted then about nothing much. There was no neighborhood news, which we both agreed was a good thing. Claire still did public relations for a bank which suited her. Real estate didn’t sell in Fairmount, and she sympathized with me, said she felt sure the murders would be solved soon. We parted with hugs and a promise to see each other Sunday night.
“Call and tell me what I can bring, besides wine,” she said.
I watched her walk away to her Lexus and thought if anyone ever brought bad trouble on herself and come out on top, it was Claire Guthrie. Maybe she was one of those people who always landed upright. Of course, in my mind, there was still the question of Jim Guthrie’s death, but everything else—the assault charges, Liz’s anger—seemed to have worked itself out.
Claire,
I thought,
you are one of the world’s golden people. And I don’t know if it just happens or you make it happen
.
When I told Mike late that night she and the girls were coming for dinner, he frowned and said, “You can cook whatever you want.”
Thank you, Mike.
I fixed lasagna Sunday night. Okay, I didn’t really. I bought a couple of prepared lasagnas at Central Market, tossed a huge salad, made garlic bread out of a baguette, put a bottle of good Chianti on the table, and called it dinner. Claire brought an Italian cream cake for dessert, so rich I knew I wouldn’t sleep that night but I couldn’t keep myself from eating a large piece. To my shame, she made it from scratch—I didn’t have to ask. I could tell. Even Mike ate heartily and was jovial, talking mostly to the girls, who responded to his jokes about boyfriends and the like.
Megan talked about her studies at the community college and her chances for a scholarship, which she thought were good. Liz proved to be amiable, funny about high school and all the competition for grades and scholarships, and realistic about herself.
“I’m an okay student, but I’ll never set the world on fire. Dad left enough for me to go to TCU,
if
I can get in. We’ll just have to see.”
“If not, Sis,” Megan said, “you can go to TCC with me. It isn’t the end of the world.”