Gone to Ground (10 page)

Marks Mill continued until 1908 when, unable to compete with the Big Four, it stuttered to a halt. Still, Amaryllis managed to hang on while nearby settlements such as Acme, Waldrup, and Paulding faded away due to the lumber mills' eventual demise. Bradmeyer Plastics, the factory that today employs almost a fifth of the town's working citizens, wasn't built until the 1950s. In those lean in-between years, Amaryllis lost many people but clenched its teeth and hung on.

It is that same tenacity and will to survive that has fueled its citizens in the past three years since the Closet Killings began.

Thank heaven for Fridays—the one work day I give
myself a two-hour lunch. After cleanin houses all week, my ol bones needed the rest. Especially after doin the big two-story McAllister house Friday mornin. It had been almost a year since I pulled the pink thong out from under the McAllisters' bed. Verna McAllister and I ain't spoke of it since. But tell you one thing—she give her husband a lot colder eye than she used to.

At my kitchen table before I left for work I'd read Trent's latest news story on Erika's murder. He kept his word and didn't use my name, givin "anonymous" information bout Erika eatin brownies, and how the autopsy report backed that up. Erika was killed with the same "precise stab wound to the neck" that the other victims suffered. Course, I already knew that. What hit me hardest was the estimated time a the murder—somewhere between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. I had to stop readin for a minute when I saw that.

Erika mighta died just one hour after I left her? What if I'd stayed longer?

That guilty thought stuck to my insides like a big burr. I had to beg Jesus' help to pry it loose. Then it hit me. Maybe this is why the Lord put me in a position to solve this terrible crime. He was givin me a way to find justice for Erika.

"Oh, Lord, help me do that." I gazed toward heaven. "And Ben, you keep close to Jesus up there the next few days. I'm gon need all the help I can get."

Heart heavy, I left to start my work day.

As I cleaned the McAllister house my thoughts kept churnin. What if Mayor B got rid a that evidence in his drawer before I could get to it? And on the night Erika died, did he leave his house just before 11:00, tellin Mrs. B he needed to go to the factory and check on somethin as the second shift ended? She wouldn't think anything bout it. Then after Erika was killed and the mayor said he was home at the time, Mrs. B just kept her mouth shut, never dreamin her husband coulda done it.

If only I could talk to Mrs. B about Tuesday night. But I couldn't figure how to bring up the subject without puttin her on guard.

At 11:30 I drug myself home and ate some leftover turnip greens. The pot liquor from the greens tasted mighty good on a piece a corn bread. Then I turned on my little laptop computer, a Christmas present from my son and daughter two years ago. Hardly used the thing. Now it would be my savin grace, along with the camera they got me the year before. Crazy notion my kids have, that I need such things. Maybe God was behind that too.

Sittin at the kitchen table, I took a picture a my refrigerator, covered with photos a Donelle and Lester, and all the grandbabies. Then I pulled that cable connector thing out a the camera bag and stuck it in the computer. Now how in the world did I get the pictures from one place to the other? I stared at the camera and all its buttons.

Ah. That dial right there.

Up on the computer came a beautiful sight—the program to get the pictures. I fussed with it awhile, slowly goin through the steps. And lo and behold, I ended up with that lovely refrigerator photo on my computer. Saved and safe.

Cherrie Mae, you ain't such a dummy.

I leaned back in my padded kitchen chair and rubbed my top lip.

Monday I could wear a pair a loose pants and drop the small camera in my pocket. The trick would be to get Mrs. B out a the house. Five minutes is all I'd need. But five minutes could be hard with Mrs. B. That woman had a mind a her own.

Did
she know her husband had left their house Tuesday night? Surely she did.

I pushed to my feet and made for the phone to dial Cory, Pastor Ray's wife. As much as I didn't want to say nothin to anybody, I had no choice. At least Cory knew how to keep her mouth shut.

She answered on the first ring.

"Cory, it's Cherrie Mae."

"You okay? It's the middle of a work day."

"I'm on a lunch break. Listen, I wonder if you'll do me a little favor. Ain't this comin Monday mornin when our church weeds at the cemetery?" Our Baptist church and the Methodist church took turns the fourth Monday each month. Saved the town some money, and besides, we all wanted the graveyard lookin right. Everbody had at least one loved one buried there.

"Yes, it's this Monday. I'll be there. With the warm weather now, there'll be lots of work to do."

Thank You, Lord.
"You know if I didn't work I'd be right there beside you."

"I know that, Cherrie Mae."

"But I was thinkin, with it bein spring and all, you could use some extra hands. You need to call Eva Bradmeyer, see if she'll put in an extra day to help you."

"But her church's month isn't till May."

"I know. But Mrs. B'll be willin to help."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I just figure."

Cory was silent for a minute. "Don't you work at the Bradmeyers' on Mondays?"

"Yes, ma'am, Thursdays too."

"You working there this coming Monday then." It was a statement, not a question. I could hear the tone buildin in Cory's voice.

"Mm-hmm."

Cory made that little sound she do, with her tongue hittin her top teeth. "Why do you want to get Mrs. B out of her house?"

I looked at my camera. "Cory, this is somethin you don't want to know."

"Do tell."

"Ain't lyin to ya."

I could practically hear the wheels turnin in her head. As a pastor's wife Cory had to know when to keep a confidence, but that don't mean she don't have curiosity like the rest a us.

"Will you do it for me, Cory?"

"I can't lie."

"You don't
have
to lie. You done tol me there'd be a lot a extra work."

"I know, but . . . I've never called Mrs. B with that kind of request before. She'll think it strange."

Not half as strange as her husband bein out the night Erika Hollinger got killed. "Do it, Cory. We been friends a long time. You know if I'm bringin this up, it's got to be important."

"What if she says no?"

"Who could say no to you? You one a the sweetest women in town."

"I don't . . ."

"Please."

She sighed. "Will I ever know what this is about?"

"Most likely. But in the meantime I got to remind you that you cain't say nothin. And I mean even to Pastor Ray."

Silence. I waited her out.

"Okay, Cherrie Mae." Defeat touched her words.

Yes!
"Thank you so much. I'm mighty grateful. Call her now, all right? And lemme know what she say."

"You are full of mischief, you know that?"

Better that than full a somethin else. "Thanks again, Cory. I look forward to hearin back from you." I hung up before the woman could change her mind.

I sank back in the chair and lowered my chin. A long shudder took hold a my shoulders. I was really gon do this.

The clock on my wall ticked. The phone didn't ring. I got up and washed out my plate and fork. Ate a couple chocolate chip cookies.
Come on, Cory, where you at?
Maybe Mrs. B was out.

Five minutes before I had to leave, my phone went off. I liked to jump five feet. I snatched up the receiver and saw the pastor's ID. "Hi, Cory?"

"It's done." She didn't sound happy.

"She give you a hard time bout it?"

"No, not at all. Said she'd put in an hour or so late morning."

"Thank you!"

"I have no idea how I'm going to explain to the rest of the women why I called Eva Bradmeyer."

"Don't tell em. When she show up, jus say, 'Eva! So glad you could help us out on your month off.' She'll say, 'Glad to do it.' And that'll be that."

"Cherrie Mae, for a Christian woman you sure got a lot a cunning in you."

If she only knew
.
"'The games one plays are not the games one chooses always.'"

"You quoting somebody again?"

"Maxwell Anderson."

"Who?"

"Cory, thanks for your help."

As I drove off to clean the Trangells' house, I prayed Mayor B didn't touch that horrible file a his this weekend. And that, come Monday, I'd still find the courage to do what I had to do.

I lugged myself through the day, one cut and style
blendin with the next. At my short lunch break I drove down to Stevie's and banged on his trailer again, beggin him to let me in.

A glutton for punishment, that's me.

"Get outta here, Deena!" he hissed through the door. "You knock one more time, I'm comin after you."

He meant it, too. I heard it in his tone.

If I got into his trailer, and he found out . . . I didn't want to think what he'd do to me.

Back at work and frustrated, somehow I had to wash and style Norma Dodderman's hair without diggin my fingernails into her scalp. She wanted two inches cut off—a radical thought for her. Fortunately, Norma's one person in town who can yak even more than me. She had all kinds of wild theories about the Closet Killer—everything from the cemetery ghost to some Mississippi Bureau of Investigation policeman who'd hated workin with Chief Cotter and now wanted to get back at him.

That last idea didn't seem so far-fetched.

Patsy, at her own station, was cuttin Tom Leringer's hair. He was one of the checkers at Piggly Wiggly. Patsy was tall, rail-skinny, and bleached blonde. She had a crazy laugh that would cut off in the middle, like she had the hiccups. Not that she was laughin much at this conversation. Tom was short and squat, and had hair about as black as you could get. Mutt and Jeff had nothin on the two of them. Both were also talkers and put in their own two cents. All I had to do was clench my jaw shut and mutter
uh-huh
once in awhile.

I liked Tom, even while I distinctly disliked his sister, Letty June. Now
that
was another person who never set foot in my shop. She treated Stevie about as badly as anyone in town. Had ever since she and Stevie went to school together. The ugly woman clearly had some mighty poor self-esteem goin on, and tried to raise herself by belittlin the weak. It didn't help that she worked Stevie's shift at the factory. My brother did his best to steer clear of Letty June. I felt sorry for the woman's husband. How he stood her, I didn't know.

I'd just got through with Norma around two o'clock when the phone rang.

"Go ahead and get it, Deena." Norma dug cash out of her purse. "I'll just put the money on the counter."

"Thanks." I grabbed the receiver. Betty Frederick, the neighbor between me and Stevie, was on the line.

"Deena, you better get over here. The cops are at your brother's house."

I froze. My own frightened eyes stared at me from the mirror.

"You hear me?"

"I hear. Thanks." I punched off the line and whirled toward the back room for my purse.

"What happened?" Patsy's voice filtered behind me.

I rushed back through the salon, nearly slippin on Norma's two inches of hair on the floor. My mind churned out questions. Why were the police there? Where was the uniform? Did they have a warrant?

Stevie, why wouldn't you listen to me?

In my car I flew up Main, barely slowin to turn right on Second Street. As soon as I hit Maxwell I could see two police cars parked in front of the trailer. I skidded up behind the last one and carved to a stop. Ran up Stevie's cracked sidewalk, leavin my purse and keys in the car. The trailer door stood open, Chief Cotter's broad backside straight ahead in the tiny front room. I jumped inside and spotted John on the left, hands on his hips as he faced Stevie. All three men snapped toward me. My brother looked scared to death, one hand thrust in his hair.