Brightleaf (10 page)

23

Sleuthing

Everyone is present and accounted for. The regulars at least: Vanessa, Winslow, Chauncey, Eleanor, Mavis, Jimmy and his under painters, Baby George and Phil. Terry and Doyle are here, too. I asked Doyle to please make a special appearance. As much as his lazy eye bothers me with its probing, inquisitive way, I’ve softened when it comes to him. I’ve gotten to know him enough to believe he wouldn’t use his powers for selfish purposes.

Everyone picks a seat in the circle, and I say, “I know it’s only Monday, so I appreciate ya’ll coming out to discuss this Ned thing.”

Winslow fiddles with an unlit cigarette and says in his deep, slow voice, “From what I know of Ned, he stuck to himself, but was not necessarily introverted. And I do not believe he was murdered.”

“I don’t either,” I say.

“You don’t?” asks Eleanor. “Then why do the police think that?”

“I’m not sure why the police think that.”

“Maybe it was suicide!” says Jimmy. “Or accidental suicide. Like mistaking rat poison for sugar or something.”

“I didn’t know Ned well,” says Terry, “but he’d have to be sleepwalking to mistake rat poison for sugar…isn’t it blue?”

“Sleepwalking! Didn’t Ned sleepwalk?” asks Eleanor. “That night he turned on the TV after he went to sleep? Remember? He told us about it.”

“You think he was really sleepwalking?” I ask. “Maybe. What was his dream about anyway?”

Baby George leans back on the sofa and says, “The ghost of the Fonz turned on his TV.” Baby George’s clothes are splotched with dried paint from the neck of his shirt down to shoes.

Phil says, “That was
me
. I have a ghost in my truck.”

“Phil, it’s your liquor bottle that’s haunted,” says Winslow.

Jimmy says, “Baby George remembers right. Ned was having a dream the Fonz saved him from Evil Otto or something.”

Mavis wrinkles her forehead, making it look like a topo map, and says, “What’s a Evil Otto?”

Chauncey says, “Evil Otto is a video game villain. He’s pretty scary.”

“Sounds Nazi,” says Terry.

“That’s the funny thing about Evil Otto,” says Chauncey. “He’s terrifying, but he’s just a smiley face.”

“That’s hardly scary,” says Eleanor.

“I don’t know,” says Winslow. “Smiling villains are pretty disturbing.”

“Exactly!” says Chauncey.

“I think the police should explore the sleepwalking a little more,” says Winslow. “That should be in his file.”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” says Terry.

I turn to Doyle, who’s been quiet this whole time.

“Do you remember what you told Ned the night of the grocery reading?”

Floyd is fast asleep on his lap. Doyle absentmindedly strokes his fur. I take a close look at his hands. Doyle’s fingers and nails are truly angelic, as Mavis said. What I wouldn’t give to be in Floyd’s place right now.

Doyle’s good eye looks at me, but the lazy eye seems to be recollecting. He says, “I vividly remember the detailed grocery list of each person present that evening.”

Apparently the lazy eye has a photographic memory.

That eye casually rolls towards Terry and lands, searching. Good thing Terry doesn’t notice because he might get all hot under the collar and stomp out again.

It bothers me I don’t know what Doyle saw in Terry’s receipt. A tingling runs up my arm, and I start studying him, looking for whatever mysteries Doyle may have uncovered. Terry is leaning back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. He has a cup of coffee in one hand, and his other idly runs through his hair. He sure is handsome. And seems so nice. He looks at me and smiles. I hope to God that is not an Evil Otto smile because that smile could easily lure me down a dark alley.

Doyle returns his gaze to me and says, “I warned the young man about a certain video game obsession, but the presence of frozen spinach on his receipt indicated that he could, if desired, live a productive life.”

“Why frozen spinach? I ask. “Why not canned?”

Doyle says, “The same. I explained that evening, yet not in depth. The presence of any form of spinach signifies a higher consciousness making decisions for the betterment of the individual, thus overriding the baser, more carnal desires created by a lower level body-mind agreement.”

“Whatever,” says Jimmy. “That is why I exclusively eat my own organic free-range boogers, instead of the steroid-infused boogers of body-builders. It’s my higher consciousness leading me to imbibe such purity.”

Jimmy, Baby George, and Phil fall all over one another laughing.

Baby George gasps for air, then says, “Yeah, we only put the finest USDA boogers in our burgers.”

“Ya’ll is stupid,” says Vanessa.

I ignore them, as does Doyle, and say, “I guess he never ate it.”

Eleanor says, “Ate what?”

Baby George and Phil bust up laughing again.

“I guess I’m wondering if Ned would still be alive if he’d eaten his spinach. Or maybe he did eat it and died anyway.”

I’ve just about dozed off when Mavis knocks on my door.

“You ‘sleep yet?” she shouts in a really loud whisper.

I’m quiet for a few seconds, making believe I’m out cold. Then I hear her say, “Sorry, Doc, looks like she’s already asleep. Call in the mornin?”

“Mavis,” I say in a groggy voice. “I’ll take it.”

Mavis tiptoes into my room and hands me the phone. I click on the lamp and murmur into the phone, “Is everything okay?”

“Hey, Mary Beth. I didn’t think you’d be in bed yet. We can talk in the morning.”

Terry has never called this late. It might be important. If I tell him to call back tomorrow, I doubt I could get back to sleep; I’d toss all night, wondering what he wanted. Wondering if he needed to inform me that he’s one hundred percent sure that Floyd is Champagne. Or maybe he remembered something about Ned. Even more unlikely, and I shouldn’t think about it…but I wonder if he really thinks I’m beautiful, like he told Marcelle in front of the whole group.

I say, “No, no, I’m awake. What’s up?”

“I would have waited to call in the morning, but for some reason I felt like I should let you know sooner rather than later.” He pauses.

Maybe Terry is moving away. If he’s moving I’ll wish I’d been nicer to him while he was here.

Deciding to take the concerned approach, I say, “Whatever you have to tell me, I’m here for you.”

“I thought I should tell you that my ex-wife is moving back to Brightleaf.”

“Your ex-wife?”

Come to think of it, I’d forgotten Terry was once married. It’s hard for me to imagine Terry married. I try to picture the former Mrs. Terry Dorrie. The doctor’s wife. Probably all glamorous and tan. Probably the owner of seventy-five pairs of shoes, hostess of fabulous galas, and fluent in French. The thought of her and the fact that
she
left him, makes me mad
.

“Why would you need to tell me?” I ask, trying to sound upbeat and less tired than I really am.

“She’s moving in with me.”

This is the last thing I expected to hear. Even more unexpected is the effect his words have on my being; the world seems to stop.

“Oh,” I say. “Are ya’ll getting remarried or something?”

“There is no way in hell I’m remarrying my ex-wife.” The New Jersey in him is totally coming out. “It’s just that she recently returned from Germany and wants her dog. I told her the dog ran away, but she thinks if she’s in town Champagne will come back. Champagne, that’s the dog.”

“Your ex-wife is coming to
live
with you because she can’t find her dog?

“Yes.”

“Does she have to live with you?” I ask. “I mean, why can’t she rent a house?”

“Why not live with me?” he says. “We get along fine, and I’ve got plenty of space. Also, technically she still owns half the house. We have some unfinished legal business, even though it’s been three years since we lived together.”

“If you get along fine, why did ya’ll get divorced in the first place?”

“I meant, it will be fine.”

“She can stay at the Rapturous Rest, if she wants. We’ve got an extra room or two.” Then I catch myself and realize if Terry’s ex lays eyes on Floyd, she will instantly recognize her dog, blue or no.

“Mary Beth?” Terry hesitates. “This isn’t about love…or anything.”

“I didn’t think this was about love,” I say, my voice rising an octave higher than normal. I lower my voice and say as calmly as I can, “I’m going back to sleep now. Thanks for the heads up.”

I lay in bed looking at the ceiling. What’s not about love? I’m certainly not in love. I barely know the man.

24

The Plot Thickens

I’ve just dropped off the toddlers. I mosey on over to the police station to check on any new developments. I ask for Detective Metz and flip through a worn copy of
Redbook
while I wait. The cover advertises an article called
Must-Have-Sex-Tools
. I turn to the page to find out what they are. I’m a grown-up. As I flip through the magazine, I change my mind about women being perverts. There must be such a thing. If I based my knowledge of women on
Redbook
alone, we’re a big bunch of sexaholics.

“The downside to the vampire phenomenon is that men think biting is sexy,” a voice behind me says.

I jump and drop the magazine.

“Vampire phenomenon?” I ask.

“Page 75. I read it a few days back on my break,” says Detective Metz.

“I wasn’t reading it. I was only flipping through out of boredom. I never read trash like that.”

Detective Metz laughs and asks me what I do read.

“
People Magazine
. That’s about it.”

“Oh, so less trashy.”

“Detective, I was just hoping to find out how things are going with Ned.”

“Mr. Hillman’s family has taken him back to Virginia for the funeral.”

Ned’s family. I hadn’t really thought about Ned having a family before, which is pretty dumb of me. I wish I’d thought to meet them. To tell them their son was wonderful. I knew Ned to be an honest, kind, and dependable renter. I wonder if his family was aware of his break-dancing skills. I should write them a letter.

“So the autopsy must be complete,” I say.

“We have no plans to dig him back up, so you can safely assume, yes. I’m not at liberty to discuss the autopsy; however, we’ve determined what we believe is the cause of death.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’ve been questioning people? And why you’re acting like Ned was murdered?”

“I never said Mr. Hillman was murdered. It was just that we found some fishy things at his apartment, and the coroner’s office has given us some interesting information, as well. Not everything makes sense. The case is still open.”

“Still open? What doesn’t make sense?”

“Ms. Green. As pretty as you are, I’m not allowed to tell you those things.”

It’s good to know I’m working the pretty angle. I hold myself up a little straighter and square my shoulders. Then I say, “Detective, you’ve questioned everyone who lives in my house, including me, so I think I have a right to know if I’m living among murderers.”

“I can’t be one hundred percent positive you’re not living among murderers.”

“What?”

“I don’t know the probability of a boarding house owner living with a murderer. Aside from that, I’ll tell you this one thing: We found a substance in his apartment, and it tested positive in his blood.”

“I don’t find that surprising. He probably smoked anything not nailed down.”

“I guess one could technically figure out a way to smoke anything,” says Detective Metz. “But…”

“But? It’s gang related, isn’t it?”

Gangs are taking Small Town America by storm. I know it.

Detective Metz looks annoyed. “Listen, we’re talking about your friend. You want to know how he died. I’m telling you what I’m not supposed to be telling you, so listen.”

He quietly says, “He had yohimbe in his system.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“Well, then look it up. But I will say that it has been connected with some dark situations, including voodoo ceremonies.”

“Voodoo? Ned was dancing around campfires with bloody chicken heads? That doesn’t sound much like him. But then again, like you said, everyone has a skeleton in the closet. A secret.”

“Also, we found a diary-type book on the floor next to his bed. It’s hard to tell which parts of it are actual experiences and which parts are made up. He had quite an active imagination. But I doubt we’ll find any secrets in it.”

“I think you found his dream journal, Detective.”

I start getting energized because we were just talking about Ned’s dreams in Share Group.

“Clark,” he says.

“What?”

“Call me Clark.”

“Clark. Like I said, Ned regularly told us his dreams. It was Winslow’s idea that he journal them. It’s really interesting you mentioned that because just last night, we – the Share Group – were talking about how Ned may have been a sleepwalker. I don’t know. It seems like sleepwalking factors in with dreams.”

“Interesting,” says Detective Metz. “Others investigating the case are looking into the journal. Personally, I think it’s a waste of time.”

“But I’m asking if you think it’s possible that he ingested something or more of something than usual,
while
sleepwalking. It’s just that I thought you should know that sleepwalking could have figured in.”

“I’ll make a note of it, Ms. Green. Anything else?”

“That was the main thing I wanted to tell you,” I say. “I was also wondering if there was any spinach in his freezer. Did you happen to notice what was in his freezer?”

The detective stands, and I stand with him. “What does spinach have to do with anything?” he asks.

I don’t want to get into cryptic spinach meanings. Then I’d have to tell all about Doyle, and it would sound dumb. So I say, “Ned was big into thinking if he didn’t eat spinach he would die. That’s all.”

“Strange,” says the detective.

“I know. Anyway, I don’t want to tie you up any more.” I pick up my pocketbook.

“Ms. Green, you can tie me up any time.” His smile unsettles me, and he extends his hand.

I don’t want to touch it. So I nod and say, “Thanks,” pretending he didn’t just say that.

Detective Metz asks, “Are you going out with anyone?”

I look at him like he just spoke Elven. I wish Detective Metz would act like most policemen, with that comforting, practiced, robotic air. I want him to be by the book instead of
Call me Clark
. It’s disappointing to see his professional veneer crumbling before my eyes. I hate that I know he reads
Redbook
on his lunch break. However, I’m pretty happy to have the information on Ned. Maybe next time I see the detective, I should borrow something from Marcelle’s closet. Lord knows how much info I could squeeze from him then.

It’s Wednesday night again. Share Group is over and people are trickling out. Mavis, Eleanor and I push the furniture back in place, click off lamps, and gather coffee cups. Terry is hanging around to help. I know his ex-wife Jeanine has already moved in, even though no one mentioned it.

I drove by his house the other morning and saw a bunch of signs stapled on trees that read,
Have You Seen Me? My name is Champagne. I’m a white poodle, 12’ tall
. Then there’s this picture of Floyd from when he was still white. I doubt Jeanine realizes she described Champagne as a twelve-foot poodle. I was tempted to knock on Terry’s door and tell her but didn’t want to look into her eyes, in case she’s like Doyle and can read people by their hairdos or something. I imagine it would go:
Longer than shoulder-length on a person over thirty-five is a sign the person wearing the hairdo is trying to act younger than they truly are—deceptive. Blonde means you probably bleach your hair, which is also misleading.
I drove on.

I ask Terry how things are going with his ex-wife and all. He tells me about her putting up signs and how weird it is to have her living with him again.

“It’s strange,” says Terry, “to come home from work and find Jeanine cooking dinner.”

“For both of ya’ll?”

He nods and says, “She’s a great cook.”

“How great?”

“So great that I feel guilty. She goes to so much trouble. Cooking has always been one of her favorite pastimes.”

Always been one of her favorite pastimes. It’s sinking in that Terry shares a past with Jeanine. They know one another in ways no one else could. Terry knows her fears and what she cannot abide. He knows her weaknesses and things that will set her off. There are passages in their lives that no one knows are there but them; they are locked doors to everyone else. To me. I shake myself out of this depressing revelation and say, “Oh really? Jeanine is that good of a cook? I’m impressed.” More intimidated than impressed. I can’t remember anyone ever saying much about my cooking. “What did she make?” I ask.

“This incredible lasagna.”

Lasagna. Big deal. We eat that on Italian night at the Rapturous Rest every week
.

He says, “Homemade pasta, layered with scallops, wild mushrooms and champagne sauce.”

“Oh.”

Terry smiles at the ceiling, like he’s remembering every bite then turns a serious gaze on me. “You need to come over and eat with us sometime.”

“Thanks. Tell her to make it for three next time.”

“And the wine was out of this world. It was dry yet fruity, light yet loamy…perfect with the scallops and pasta.”

He’s talking with an expression on his face like he had the gastronomical experience of his lifetime and that he might just let himself die now. I do not know what to say. He’s talking about his ex-wife’s cooking, for Pete’s sake.

“Wine, huh,” I say. I rarely drink. Still, I’m jealous because it sounds like Terry and Jeanine are having a regular old home week, eating the meals and drinking the wine that doctors and their wives normally enjoy. Living the life they thought they’d live when they were first married. Next week they might host a fabulous gala.

I smile and nod. I love gourmet cuisine like the rest of them, but it’s more sensible, budget-wise, to plan meals economically when cooking for a big crowd. I think of the only things Terry has ever eaten at my house: chicken tetrazzini, broccoli casseroles, spaghetti, Hungry Jacks, sweet tea. Beef Stroganoff. Nothing exotic. No wine. Terry must think I’m a regular Country Comes To Town.

“Glad things are going okay,” I say.

“Yeah, me too.”