Читать книгу The Cradle Robber - E. Joan Sims - Страница 11

Chapter Eight

Mother sat with Horatio on the concrete bench in front of the courthouse while he enjoyed her superlative soup and she enjoyed watching the passers-by. It was the cool of the evening—that lovely time in a summer’s day just before nightfall, when the breeze picks up and the first stars begin to twinkle above a golden sunset.

Mother wasn’t the only one glad to be out and about. Lots of folks had been unable to leave their homes after the storm. Now with some trees cleared from streets and driveways, they were free to stroll around town and exchange their storm experiences with friends and neighbors.

I had lingered for a moment by Mother’s side and chatted with Horatio before I crossed the street again and climbed into the car to examine the photographs of the dead man who had been found on our farm.

Horatio hadn’t given me permission, but he had deliberately left the envelope in the front seat of the car when he helped Mother out. I slipped the pictures from the envelope and held my breath when I saw the full horror of the gaping wounds. I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t eaten any of Mother’s soup as I choked back the sour taste in my mouth. The photographs were in living color, and Horatio had made certain from every angle that not a single gruesome detail was left out.

The dead man appeared to be a foreigner, although it was difficult to tell. His facial features were distorted, flattened almost. He had dark hair and eyes and a thin mustache over full lips. He could have been Asian, or Hispanic, or anything in between. It was hard to imagine what he had looked like when he was alive. What was easy to deduce was the cause of death. He couldn’t have lived very long with his throat cut wide enough to expose his cervical vertebra.

I didn’t know much about forensic science, but as I flipped from one picture to another in the waning light it seemed to me that the dead man was oddly deformed. His joints were hyperextended and his limbs—even his feet—were at odd angles.

I banged my head painfully on the steering wheel when Horatio startled me by opening the car door.

“Ouch! You scared me.”

“Sorry, my dear,” he said as he slipped in beside me.

“Where’s Mother?”

“Mavis Madden.”

“Oh.”

Mavis was an erstwhile friend of Mother’s who talked a mile a minute about absolutely nothing but everybody else’s business. Mother tolerated her out of good manners and as an investment against becoming a target for her considerable venom.

“I’m afraid we should stem your morbid appetite, my dear,” Horatio observed. “A pretty young woman like you should…”

“Thanks for the ‘pretty’ and the ‘young,’ Horatio, but I’m a mystery writer. I need to keep things authentic. For some time now I’ve been meaning to ask you to let me view some of your, ah, clients, especially ones who have come to a violent end. Leonard’s always coming across dead bodies and sometimes I’m at a loss to describe them.”

“Oh, dear, why couldn’t you have found your muse in pastoral verse? That’s such a lovely occupation for a Southern lady.”

“For God’s sake, Horatio! You don’t really mean that, do you?”

Even in the deepening twilight I caught a glimpse of the amused twinkle in his eyes. We both shared a companionable chuckle as he tucked the photographs of the dead man back in the envelope.

“By the way, what was wrong with his arms and legs? Did he have some kind of congenital defect?”

“Velocity and gravity, my dear,” answered Horatio dryly.

“What?”

“I think this unlucky gentleman was the object you saw falling from that airplane the other afternoon.”

Horatio bade us “goodnight,” and went to make another attempt to see Andy Joiner. I was more than ready to head for home, but Mother reminded me that we had never made our trip to the grocery. I mumbled and grumbled as I lobbied against it, but she won. We tore her long grocery list in half and each set off with a basket to fill.

Ordinarily, I loved going to the grocery. There was something so wonderfully American about the bright and shiny display of good food in such abundance. In San Romero, even those who could afford the vastly inflated prices for imported, or even domestic foods, suffered the seasonal shortages of the most basic items. My friends and I had often complained that we were reduced to the level of primitive man. We were the Cro-Magnon females, the hunter-gatherers for the tribe, running from store to store in search of toilet paper and mayonnaise.

The colorful packages and attractive displays held no interest for me tonight. I was bone tired. I rounded the aisle of the bread section where a slovenly woman with three dirty-faced children blocked my way. I stood aside and waited while they manhandled every package of Twinkies and sweet rolls on the shelf. When the woman started moving again, I tried to go around her, but she stopped in front of the honey buns.

I wanted desperately to tell her that three kids hopped up on sugar would be the last thing I would want in a storm-damaged house without electricity, but I bit my tongue.

The woman didn’t appear to be in any hurry, and I knew Mother would be waiting, so I left my cart and walked around her and the kids to get to the bread.

“My! Someone’s impatient, ain’t they?”

“I din’t do nuttin, Mama,” whined the older one of the children.

“I don’t mean you, honey,” said the woman pointing a finger at me. “I meant HER!”

“Excuse me?” I said turning to face her.

“You! You’re being impatient!” she spat.

The woman’s face was mottled with anger. Bright red patches blazed on her cheeks. The blouse she had tucked hastily into her skintight jeans was rumpled and dirty, and buttoned wrong. I longed to tell her that, too. I grabbed my two loaves of bread and made a move to get back to my cart.

“I’m talkin’ to you!” she shouted as she blocked my way. “You’re impatient, ya know it? You need to learn some patience! Ain’t that right, kids?”

The three little children hovered around their mother—one holding on to her ample waist and the other two grabbing at her knees. They all looked at me with wide frightened eyes. I shook my head. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Neither could they. They knew their mother was losing it.

“You’re crazy,” I said. “Please move.”

“CRAZY? You called me crazy in front of my kids! I’m gonna have you arrested!” she screamed.

I pushed past her and pitched the bread in my grocery cart. A second later a small box of raisins hit me in the shoulder. I didn’t look back. I kept moving as box after box of dried fruit sailed through the air, knocking over jars of minced garlic, pickles, olives, and other condiments in flight. The sharp smell of vinegar filled the air as I dodged in and out the aisles like a hunted animal. By the time I reached Mother at the checkout line, I was shaking.

Cassie had locked herself in her room by the time we got home. After we put the groceries away, Mother excused herself and went to bed. I was too charged up to even think of sleeping. I grabbed an open bottle of Chablis out of the fridge and headed out to the patio.

Cassie had done some yard work. The walkway and half the patio were cleared of the smaller limbs and branches. I flopped down in the chaise lounge and popped the top. Relishing the fact that Mother wasn’t here to see me and complain, I swigged the wine straight from the bottle. It went down great—even the little pieces of cork.

I lay back and looked up at the night sky. It was so clear I could see the broad fuzzy band of the Milky Way against the velvet blackness. Fireflies danced over my head and vied with the twinkling of the stars for my attention. It was beautiful—as long as I kept looking up and not around me at the damage the storm had done.

I mourned a while over the ruin of my moonlight garden. I could still smell the sweetness of the crushed lilies and the blooms on the dying gardenia bush. It had taken two years to plant everything and create exactly the look I wanted. It had been a fairy garden—all white and dainty. I wasn’t sure I could do it again.

The tears ran down my cheeks like two little cold wet snails. I wiped and sniffed and wiped again. Then I turned myself loose and cried big. I boo-hooed and whah-hahed for at least fifteen minutes until I slowly began to feel a little better. I found myself wishing the Raisin Lady was within reach and discovered my anger. I wanted to tackle the bitch and hold her down while I slapped her puffy fat face. When I realized how foolish that was. Mother was right, yet again. The crazy lady and I were both showing the effects of post-traumatic stress. I started laughing and couldn’t stop until I was exhausted enough to go to bed. I knew my heart problems were over. I was back to being me – Paisley Sterling.