Buried in a Book (10 page)

“He still needs to be held accountable.” I felt strongly about that point, even though I wished it could all just go away.

“Oh, I agree. And so did the bigwigs at the meeting. But they’ve agreed to drop the charges against Trey if he helps with the cleanup.”

Relief flowed through my veins. “Like community service?”

“Yes, but without an official court record. Of course, you’ll be required to cover the costs of the damage. They’re going to call you today to set up a meeting with you and Trey.” He touched my hand. “But I wanted to tell you the good news right away.”

His fingers were warm on mine. “Thank you, Sean.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what’s going on with that boy.”

“Could his father help with this? Sometimes a man has better rapport with…not that you don’t…” He scratched his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“No, you were right to ask,” I assured him. “My ex isn’t in the picture. I haven’t laid eyes on Bill since I walked in
on him in bed with Miss Tobacco Leaf. I was pregnant with Trey at the time.”

“Hold on a sec, Lila. Miss
Tobacco Leaf
?”

My cheeks flushed. Even now, after all these years, the memory still affected me. “Bill was an advertising executive and was very involved in the community. His lifelong goal was to run for public office. As a result, he was often asked to judge contests. For years, he judged those creepy toddler pageants, and then he began to serve as a head judge for the Miss Tobacco Leaf pageant.” I took a sip of coffee. “I guess he took his role as interviewer
very
seriously, because he brought one of the candidates home.” I paused. I’d come to the part of the story that made me ball up my fists, even though I’d told it a dozen times by now.

“It’s okay,” Sean said gently, obviously sensing that I was struggling to continue. “The fool hurt you. That’s all I need to know.”

I held out my finger. “Just wait. You’ll never hear a version of cheating spouse like this one. Let me earn my coffee.” I toasted him with my cup. “Basically, I came home early from an assignment, kicked off my shoes, and headed upstairs to change out of my work clothes. There was Bill, lying naked on the bed. His wrists were handcuffed to the bedpost, and he wore a blindfold made of what looked like a pair of black lace panties.”

Sean’s eyes grew round. “Uh, oh.”

“It gets better,” I promised. “So I’m standing in my bedroom like a deer in a shotgun sight when this redhead with big hair and heavy makeup struts in from the bathroom. All she had on was her Miss Tobacco Leaf sash. It didn’t cover much. She was
very
well endowed.”

Sean squeezed my hand, but I could see that he was fighting back a grin.

“Go ahead, it
is
kind of funny.” I smiled, too. Somehow, in Sean’s presence, Bill’s infidelity didn’t sting as much. “But that’s all in the past. Trey and I have been fine without him. My son will be going to college in the fall. I have a new job. We’re doing okay.”

“Speaking of your job, it seems like Bentley Burlington-Duke is a bit of a cold fish, taking off with a dead man in her office.” He stroked his chin. “Somewhat suspicious, I might add.”

Did he truly suspect that Bentley had anything to do with Marlette’s demise? “Have the medical examiners established it was murder?” I asked. “I keep thinking about poor Marlette.”

A look crossed his face that resembled a gate closing. “Lila, I know I just brought up the topic by commenting on your boss, but I can’t discuss the case with you. If we’re going to be friends”—his cheeks dimpled as he smiled—“then details about this case can’t enter our conversation. Deal?”

I nodded.

“Unless I need to bring you in for questioning.
That
kind of conversation would be official,” he added, a flicker of steel in his eyes.

I finished the rest of my coffee and grimaced. It had grown cold.

I SPENT THE REST OF THE WEEKEND PACKING. AFTER
telling Trey to load the things he couldn’t live without from his room into suitcases, I carefully wrapped framed photographs and fragile knickknacks in newspaper. Upon leaving the café where I’d had coffee with Sean, I stopped by the UPS Store to pick up supplies and then, while eating lunch, read an informative article on the Internet about preparing one’s house to be put on the market. The author recommended removing all personal items and clearing surface areas of clutter so prospective buyers could picture themselves putting their own possessions in the house. I followed this advice by boxing photos, books, and various keepsakes. I also emptied the closets of clothes, coats, and shoes, frowning at the scuffmarks on the walls and the dust bunnies that had been hiding behind my winter boots and galoshes.

Once I’d removed everything from the kitchen counters,
including my English cottage cookie jar, the ceramic canisters for flour, sugar, and tea, my rotating spice rack, and a pottery utensil jar, I took all the magnets off the refrigerator and tossed them into the garbage.

That afternoon I fielded a phone call from a member of the school board. We scheduled a meeting to discuss remuneration for the damages Trey inflicted on the football field, and I jotted the date and time in my day planner.

On Sunday, I vacuumed, dusted, and polished until my arms ached. Trey had just finished mowing the lawn and weeding the flowerbeds when my mother arrived. The rumble of her pickup’s engine preceded the old truck. While Trey and I sat drinking sweet tea on the stoop, the 1970s C-10 came into view.

My mother had bought the truck for a song ten years ago and driven it straight from the used car lot to a detail shop in Raleigh where it had been painted a custom turquoise reminiscent of the waters off the coast of Fiji. She then slapped a magnetic sign to each door advertising her services as Amazing Althea, Inspiration Valley’s famous psychic.

Now here she was, laying on the horn to announce her presence as though the sound and hue of her truck could somehow be missed. Trey began to mumble a torrent of complaints about how bored he’d be living in the sticks.

“She doesn’t have cable or Internet access,” he groused. “How am I going to check my email or download new tunes?”

I pointed at the nearest box and told him to carry it to the truck. “Maybe you’ll land a summer job at a company that has Wi-Fi.”

“Right.” Trey rolled his eyes. “Like all the losers flipping burgers and delivering pizzas are booting up laptops during their breaks.”

I was too tired to get into another argument with him, but my mother saved the day by throwing her arms around Trey and saying how happy she was that he’d be living under her roof. “It’ll be like the sleepovers we used to have when you were a little tyke,” she said, beaming. “Remember that time we painted the room with all those wacky creatures from
Where the Wild Things Are
? And then we pretended the bed was a boat and we had to catch Swedish fish for our supper? Oh, I’m tickled just thinkin’ about those magical nights.” She reached way up and ruffled his hair.

He immediately shook his long bangs back into place over his brows. “That was fun, Nana, but I’m not a kid anymore.”

My mother studied him carefully. “No, you’re not. You’re caught in that place between boy and man. Can’t decide whether you should be flexin’ your wings or hidin’ under the covers until the tough times pass on by. But bein’ away from Dunston will do you a world of good. This town is as worn-out as my favorite pair of boots. You need to breathe fresh air and be around young folks who know exactly what they want, like those
interestin’
people up on Red Fox Mountain.” She looked at me, her eyes alight with mischief. “That’s where Marlette lived, you know.”

That got my attention. As my mother and I carried boxes to the truck, I asked her if it was a long hike from her place to the co-op.

“Not at all, sug. Anytime I need to refill my spiritual well I take the path through the back woods leadin’ right up the mountain. The co-op folks are lovely. We trade things fairly regular. I’ll read their cards in exchange for goat’s milk soap
or one of their cute hemp shoppin’ bags. Mighty strong, those bags. Can hold two bunches of bananas and three bottles of my leadin’ man, Mr. Jim Beam.”

I slid a heavy box onto the truck bed and wiped my slick forehead with my shirtsleeve. “And Marlette lived among these people?” I couldn’t picture him coexisting with a bunch of goat farmers and weavers. He seemed too much of a recluse to enjoy the constant company I imagined would be prevalent at the Red Fox Mountain Co-op.

My mother shook her head. “No, honey. Word has it he had some run-down cabin near the creek. I don’t know where, but I have a feelin’ you’re gonna find out.”

Ignoring her twinkling eyes, I handed Trey the last of the boxes and settled onto the Chevy’s bench seat with a weary sigh. Despite my fatigue, I watched my house recede in the rearview mirror with a stirring of hope. Sandwiched between my son and my mother, I knew that my little family could make it over this bump in the road. As my mother began singing along to Patsy Cline, Trey did his best to suppress a smile over her off-key notes. Suddenly, I was aware this was one of those moments when I should count my blessings, so as we left Dunston behind, that’s exactly what I did.

This burst of optimism carried me all the way to Inspiration Valley, but when we passed the sign announcing the town limits, I realized that I needed to be at Novel Idea by nine the next morning. I didn’t have a car, I hadn’t finished reading my quota of query letters, and I’d have to spend Monday night meeting with both a real estate agent and the school board. Afterward, I’d have to haul more of my belongings to the shed behind my mother’s house.

“Cheer up,” my mother said, sensing my shift in mood. “
Least your life’s more excitin’ now. Shoot, I know ladies in the old folks’ home who’ve got more goin’ on than you’ve had for the last twenty years. Now you’ve got a mystery to unravel, a fascinatin’ new job, and good-lookin’ men droppin’ from the sky like cherry blossoms in April. And don’t argue, because I have a clear sense that you’re workin’ alongside a few fine specimens.”

I considered her words as we bounced along the narrow gravel lane leading to her house. She lived in a refurbished tobacco barn three miles outside of town. Painted cardinal red, the façade was Shaker plain, but the inside more than made up for the exterior’s simplicity.

To say that my mother was a pack rat was an understatement. Her definition of decorating was to bring home any object that she deemed interesting and to find a place for it somewhere. Anywhere. Her kitchen, for example, closely resembled the interior of a T.G.I. Friday’s. Rusty signs, painted placards, framed movie posters, flags, pennants, and photographs all vied for space on the lavender walls. She even had an illuminated exit sign affixed to the ceiling and a working traffic signal perched on top of a massive open-shelf pine cupboard. I could only imagine what a real estate agent would say upon entering this room.

It was in this chaotic space that Althea met with her clients. She sat them down at the farm table, brewed a fresh pot of coffee or tea, and served them a slice of fresh-baked chocolate banana bread. I was convinced that my mother had a long list of clients because of her banana bread. If there was anything magical about my mother, it was that bread.

She’d been making it as long as I could remember. Some
of my earliest memories were of being hypnotized by her graceful movements in the kitchen baking this bread. Using slightly overripe bananas and chunks of rich chocolate, she folded them into the batter with such infinite gentleness, singing a soft lullaby all the while, that I used to fall asleep before the pan reached the oven.

While the bread baked, the entire house would be redolent with the scent of buttery dough, bananas, and chocolate. It was Althea’s secret weapon, for no client could keep quiet about even their most intimate desires as they nibbled her bread and sipped her strong brew. While they savored each bite, Althea laid out their cards, already aware of what they wanted to hear.

I wasn’t impervious to the smell, either. As soon as the three of us stepped into the kitchen, it settled around me like a shawl. I inhaled gratefully and noticed that Trey did as well.

Dropping my purse into a chair, I turned to my mother. “Let’s walk up Red Fox Mountain right now.”

Trey checked his watch and groaned, “It’s almost dinnertime.”

“Don’t worry, sweet boy. We’ll eat at the co-op. Grab that case of beer outta my fridge and we’ll make ourselves a trade for a fine vegetarian feast.”

“That’s just great.” Trey scowled but obeyed his grandmother.

My mother collected an exquisitely carved walking stick leaning against the porch post, and we set off. “The members of the Occaneechi tribe gave this to me,” she said as we struck out through the field behind her house. “I helped one of their seers get over a bad case of blocked vision.”

“How nice,” I said, casting a covert glance at the entwined snakes carved into her stick. They were so lifelike that I half expected them to wriggle right up the wood onto my mother’s hand. I turned away, preferring to focus on the tall grass strewn with yellow buttercups and the benevolent shadow of the mountain rising before us.