Читать книгу Murder in Mayberry - Jack Branson - Страница 24
ОглавлениеFriday evening, as Jack and I were getting ready for bed, I was developing those aches, pains and a scratchy throat that can only be described as an “all-over sick feeling.”
“I think I’m coming down with something,” I told Jack.
“It’s probably the stress,” Jack assured me. But when the alarm buzzed on Saturday morning, January 18, I was immediately aware that I had a full-blown cold.
I struggled out of bed, overcome with grief, exhaustion, a sore throat and a head cold. Chills ran up and down my fevered body. Then I remembered that I’d be outdoors at the graveside service. My satin-lined leather coat was perfect for the coldest Georgia day, but it would feel like tissue paper in the aftermath of the Kentucky snowstorm.
I swallowed and gagged as my swollen throat rejected even saliva. I staggered the twenty steps to the bathroom and put my head down to rest from the exertion. Gathering courage to face the mirror, I raised my head to see puffy cheeks and nostrils that looked as if someone had smeared red lipstick on them while I slept. I coughed and my chest fought a vise-like grip just to draw another breath. At that moment, I understood how Job felt when physical ailments were added to his already grief-stricken spirit.
In the kitchen, Jack, Iva Ray and I moved as if we were walking underwater. With the same eerie resistance you feel when you move your limbs while at the bottom of a pool, we reached for milk and toast and juice. We heard each other’s voices with the echoed distortion of scuba divers communicating under the water’s surface. This was a day we wanted behind us, but that closure would come only after hours of small talk and endless lines of mourners.
Pumped full of extra-strength cold medicine, I dressed in my floor-length black velvet skirt and matching top, sprinkled with bright pink roses. Everyone should wear their brightest florals in honor of Ann, I thought.
Ann savored life, and her clothing conveyed her extravagant intensity. Once, when she and Iva Ray took a cruise and their luggage was delayed, Ann pulled an elegant nightgown from her overnight bag—a nightgown that probably cost more than my wedding dress—dressed it up with heels and diamonds, and dined at the captain’s table with no one the wiser.
And Earl said she wouldn’t have worn the old pants and sweater to church.
As I was fastening my pearls, Jack’s hands reached over mine and he connected the clasp.
“Happy birthday,” he whispered close to my ear.
“I’d completely forgotten,” I answered.
We drove to the funeral home with Iva Ray. Armed with a lace handkerchief for show and a wad of tissues for survival, I tried not to talk and spread germs in the car.
“Tom and Connie invited everyone to their house after the funeral,” Iva Ray told us. Jack and I glanced at each other, and quickly affirmed that neither of us was up to this gathering at his cousin’s house.
“I think we’ll skip that,” Jack told his mother. “Mary’s not feeling well, and it’s her birthday.”
Iva Ray put her hand on her mouth. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. We just didn’t remember when we scheduled the funeral.”
“We delayed it too long, anyway,” I reassured her, trying not to project my voice and its accompanying germs. “I forgot it was my birthday, too.”
We were barely inside the funeral home when a family member I hardly knew approached me. “If there’s anything—anything at all—that I can do to help you all…I worry so much about Iva Ray. She’s so frail.”
“As a matter of fact, there is something you can do,” I responded. “Next time you’re making soup or vegetables, take a little dish over to Iva Ray. I’m afraid she eats mostly junk food.”
The family member nodded, then asked: “What’s going to happen to Ann’s personal belongings? I know that will be a real job, cleaning all that out.”
“I believe that’s taken care of,” I replied.
“Well,” she said. “I told my kids that when I die, I didn’t want anyone going through my underwear drawer! I’ll be glad to take that job off the immediate family. You all have so much more to worry about.”
I took a breath and answered. “Ann designated who was to receive every personal item. But thanks for offering to help.”
The family member looked toward the crowd.
“Oh, I see someone I need to say hi to,” she said, moving away without making eye contact.
I breathed a raspy sigh of relief and wiped my now-raw nose just as Judy approached. “I heard you were sick. That little coat you had on last night won’t keep you warm at the cemetery. You can wear mine.”
I hugged Judy, being careful not to turn my runny nose toward her. I appreciated her gesture, but I told myself. Keep your guard up. No one’s eliminated as a suspect.
For the service, the immediate family was ushered into a separate room just off the main one—Janet and David, Iva Ray, Grace, Earl and his family, his daughter and granddaughter, Ann’s fiancé Bob and me. I sat on the back row, along with Bob.
From the family’s room, we could see the ministers and musicians and the first few rows of mourners. We watched as the pallbearers made their way solemnly to the front row. Janet and David’s sons had just flown in from California and Ohio, dressed in pricey suits befitting their professional positions. Equally well-dressed were Russell and Jack. Earl’s daughter’s boyfriend was dressed in a more modest suit. Brenda’s brother wore dark cotton pants, shirt and tie and a navy-colored outdoor jacket.
The pallbearers were stone-faced, as their assignment demanded. Inside the family room, we could weep in private. But the atmosphere was quiet and stoic.
As the minister spoke, I watched Jack’s face, knowing that behind the steely stare was a broken, grieving heart. No one but me noticed his slightly set jaw and the rhythmic tapping of his clenched fist against his thigh. Knowing how he was hurting, I told myself that the other family members were hurting, too. And yet, one of them could be the killer.
As the service progressed, Bob began to sob quietly. I wanted to comfort him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so.
After the service, we filed by for a final look at the body—first, the hundreds of mourners in the large room and then the family. Bob walked in front of me, bent over and sobbing. Seemingly from nowhere, Connie appeared at his side. Draping her arm around his frail shoulder, she audibly comforted him.
The snow made for treacherous driving, so Jack drove his mother and me to the cemetery, quickly joining the other pallbearers when we arrived. He walked with his mother and me up the snow-covered knoll to the open grave, then hurried back to the hearse. Snow flurries blurred the pallbearers’ vision as they trudged up the small hill to the grave.
At that moment, I was especially thankful not to be a man. Not to have to lift a coffin which contained someone I loved. Jack had done this many times, but today I knew the burden was especially great. Loved ones had died of cancer, heart conditions and other natural causes. Never had we lost someone to a violent crime.
The gray, cloudy sky and scattered snow flurries added to the somber feel of the graveside service. The closer relatives sat in folding chairs under a small canopy beside the open grave. In spite of my cold, I decided not to sit under the shelter—the blood thing and all. There would be one or two who would whisper, even if just inwardly, “What’s she doing sitting with the family?”
While the others went to Connie and Tom’s, Jack and I snuggled up on Iva Ray’s couch, eating leftovers from well-wishers and nursing my now fully developed cold.
Iva Ray was animated when she returned from Tom and Connie’s.
“The family wants to go in on an investigator,” she told Jack excitedly. “You say you have someone?”
“I’m already scheduled to meet with him Monday afternoon,” said Jack. “I’ll tell him to work through Earl.”
