Hung Out to Die (24 page)

“Cut that out!” I snapped. “You're not making sense. Lassos and jump-roping have nothing to do with Uncle Fenwick's murder! Or the rest of this mess!”

“You still don't get it, do you,” Mrs. Oglevee said, chortling, and not losing a bit of breath while she kept jump-roping. If she suddenly doubled and did double-Dutch with herself, I was going to close my eyes and poke my fingers in my ears until I woke up.

“When is a clothesline not a clothesline?” Mrs. Oglevee asked.

“Don't you dare turn that thing into a snake,” I hollered, eyes narrowing, fingers ready.

But Mrs. Oglevee laughed, while still jump-roping. “Ah! Now you're getting it! One thing can have many uses. But sometimes, a clothesline is not a clothesline because—”

She stopped suddenly, and held half of the clothesline in each hand.

“How did you break that in half in midair?” I know, I know. It was just a dream, and anything is possible in dreams, but it was still a remarkable image.

But Mrs. Oglevee ignored my question and finished, “—because it's two clotheslines.”

I stared at the clotheslines in each of her hands. “Two . . . two clotheslines?”

“And sometimes,” Mrs. Oglevee went on, “a clothesline is not a clothesline, but a noose.”

The clothesline in her right hand suddenly flew from her hand, snapped itself into a noose, hovered over her head for a brief moment, like a perverse halo, and then dropped down over her head and tightened itself around her neck. Her face turned purple immediately, her tongue stuck out, and suddenly she was dangling and kicking and gagging.

I squeezed my eyes shut and stuck my fingers in my ears. “Stop it!” I cried. I knew she was already dead, of course, and couldn't really hurt herself, but the image still bothered me. “I know someone tried to hang poor Uncle Fenwick before stabbing him—”

“Answer A
and
answer B, Josie,” Mrs. Oglevee said, her voice quite normal—though a little distant-sounding, since my ears were plugged.

The comment frustrated me enough that I unplugged my ears and opened my eyes. “You gave me an F for that,” I hollered. Then I stared at Mrs. Oglevee. She was back to normal—well, as normal as she could be for an apparition of my subconscious . . . or of wherever (I'd never quite decided where I thought Mrs. Oglevee ended up in the afterlife), except that she had the clothesline(s) back into a lasso, which she was spinning with the coins and clothespins.

“Wait,” I said. “Answer A and answer B . . . you mean Uncle Fenwick tried to kill himself . . .
and
someone killed him? Finished him off instead of trying to stop him?” I shuddered. The idea was horrendous. But still. Answer A and answer B, both right . . .

Mrs. Oglevee just shrugged. Suddenly, the clothesline lasso, coins, and clothespins all disappeared. I thought maybe that meant she was going to disappear, too, but instead, she suddenly made another coin appear out of her cowgirl blouse sleeve, just like the clichéd magic trick.

“Is this something only Josie can figure out . . . or does she need the help of others?” Mrs. Oglevee said, staring at the coin. “Heads, only Josie; tails, help of others.” She flipped the coin, and I watched as it spun impossibly high up into the whiteness of my dream. Then she caught it perfectly in her right hand, and slapped it on her left forearm.

She moved her hand away, and stared at the coin on her forearm. “Hmmm,” she said.

“Well, which is it?” I asked anxiously. “Heads or tails?”

But Mrs. Oglevee just smiled, and did her usual Chesire-cat-like disappearing act, all the while saying, “Answer A and answer B, Josie. Heads and tails. A and B . . .”

“. . . heads and tails, A and B, heads and tails . . .” I woke up mumbling—and then sat bolt upright in my bed. I jerked open the drawer in my nightstand, grabbed my dream journal, and quickly began jotting notes. I'd started the dream journal after Halloween, when I realized that Mrs. Oglevee probably wasn't going to go away and that even without her, I often had vivid dreams.

So, in this dream, what had Mrs. Oglevee been trying to tell me?

Uncle Fenwick had committed suicide . . . and been murdered.

Only I could figure this mystery out . . . and I had to solve this with other people.

I tapped the pencil against my teeth—a habit that had annoyed Mrs. Oglevee in school, but she wasn't here to stop me—and tried to think.

It was possible that Uncle Fenwick had started to commit suicide, and then had his deadly work finished for him.

But how could only I solve this mystery, yet solve it with other people?

Apparently there was something only I could know, or find out, but I'd also need others' help. I'd already, in fact, enlisted others' help. All I'd really learned was the whole sad saga of my parents' past. Everyone else seemed to know them far better than I did. What could I know about that no one else did?

And there was something else, too, in the dream . . . two clotheslines, just like two answers to a question . . .

I shifted in bed. Something plunked out and onto the floor. I peered over the edge of my bed.

The bag of coins.

I was distracted from thinking about two clotheslines. There was something only I knew about the bag of coins? Or maybe something only I could find out about the coins. Something only I could ask my parents . . .

I listened for my mama stirring, but didn't hear anything. I looked at my nightstand clock, which said it was just after six in the morning. I frowned. I realized I'd been writing in my dream journal—but I hadn't turned on a light. There was enough light seeping through my bedroom curtains for me to write by, which meant it had to be fairly late in the morning.

I threw back the covers on my bed, horrified that I'd overslept, and then felt the chill. I looked at the clock again. Its digital second hand wasn't ticking along as usual.

And suddenly I was shivering.

Damn. I hopped out of bed.

The electricity in my building was off.

Electricity and heat out in the middle of a cold spell is no fun for anyone, but it can be downright disastrous for someone whose business is water based. I'd already dealt with water damage at the end of October from burst pipes in the street outside my laundromat. I sure didn't need to deal with pipes bursting inside my laundromat because the heat was off. I'd have to turn off the water to the whole building.

I pulled on socks, stuffed my feet into boots, pulled on my coat, dashed through the living room, hollering, “Mama, don't start a shower or coffee! I'm going to turn off the water!”

Then I hurried down the exterior stairs, as best I could considering the steps were still icy, let myself into the back of my laundromat, went to the water shut-off, and turned off the water to the whole building. Then I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I'd woken up in time to turn off the water and keep the pipes from freezing and bursting.

I went to my desk, and wrote
CLOSED DUE TO POWER OUTAGE
with laundry marker on a spare manila file folder, and then trotted into the main part of my laundromat. I taped up the sign, right under the smiling toad, which I'd painted on the plate glass front window along with my slogan,
ALWAYS A LEAP AHEAD OF DIRT
!

Then I started back up to my apartment. It would soon be too cold to stay in the apartment. Maybe, I thought, Mama and I could go to Mamaw Toadfern's house. Or better yet, Mrs. Beavy's. Or Sally's, or Cherry's.

I smiled, pleased that I could come up with a list of places to go on such short notice. I'd have included Winnie on the list if she was in town. I started to think of Owen, and then told myself to stop.

“Mama, get up,” I said to the lump on the couch. Mama was, I figured, nestled deeply under the comforter on the couch. She didn't respond. “Get up,” I said again, and poked where I thought her shoulder would be.

Mama wasn't there. I whipped back the jumbled-up comforter. No Mama.

I looked around my living room. Her suitcase was still next to the couch, but her fur and purse were gone. I opened her suitcase. Her clothes, Daddy's clothes.

I went into the kitchen. Her cell phone was gone, but her connector was still plugged into the outlet.

I went into the bathroom. Her satin pajama bottoms and my night shirt were dropped on the floor. Her makeup and hair-styling supplies were piled up on the metal shelf over the sink.

Mama had left sometime in the middle of the night, and apparently in a hurry. It was also apparent that she'd planned on coming back because most of her things were still in my apartment.

But where could she have gone? She couldn't have driven anywhere. I couldn't imagine her walking very far in the snow—not in her stilettos.

I trotted back out to the exterior landing and gazed down at the small parking lot next to my building. I hadn't noticed before, because I'd been in such a hurry to shut off the water, but now I stared at the two sets of footprints, in the night's new snow, leading around to the front of my building. One set with a pointy toe and a dot for a heel—Mama's trademark stilettos. Another set looked like hiking boots. They stopped by the street. Tire tracks in the road were indistinguishable.

Who had she left with?

Daddy . . .

Oh, Lord, I thought. Somehow, Daddy had broken out of the jail, stolen a car, picked up Mama, and they'd taken off again. Then he'd come by here, told her, don't worry, May, just leave this stuff, we'll replace it later, and they took off.

I paused before going inside. How would I feel if they really had taken off again?

A little relieved, I had to admit.

There was one way, I suddenly realized, that I could be sure if Mama had left for good, on her own volition.

I got out the area phone book—thinner, in my neck of the woods, than the weekly cable guide—and looked up Mrs. Arrowood's phone number.

“Um, I'm sorry, did I wake you?” I asked—then immediately felt foolish. I knew from her voice I had. It was still early.

“Who is this? What do you want?”

“Mrs. Arrowood, it's Josie Toadfern.”

Silence on the other end.

“May's daughter.”

“Oh, yes. Would you tell May that Cherry did a wonderful job! I look—and feel—ten years younger, and of course I'd never have had the courage without May . . .”

“Mrs. Arrowood, I was hoping that maybe Mama had called you or dropped by to see you—maybe sometime in the night? Or very early this morning.”

Silence again.

“She's left again,” Mrs. Arrowood said, her voice deflated with disappointment.

“Yes. But she said she wouldn't leave without coming by to tell you good-bye this time,” I said. “She sounded sincere.” I took a deep breath. “Mrs. Arrowood—do you think she was sincere?”

More silence. Then, “Yes.” Mrs. Arrowood's voice was suddenly firm with conviction. “Yes, I know she wouldn't have left this time without coming by—not of her own free will.”

I finished the conversation with Mrs. Arrowood. Mama hadn't gone by to see Mrs. Arrowood. Which meant either she was still in the area or hadn't left of her own free will.

I picked up the phone again and called the Paradise Police Department.

A few minutes later, Jeanette, the dispatcher on duty, sounded amused as she said, “Of course Henry Toadfern is still here. I just served him breakfast. He asked for cappuccino—again. I explained we have the standard coffee. His tastes sure have gone upscale since I knew him back in high school. Back then—”

I tuned out Jeannette's rambling. If Daddy hadn't broken out to take Mama, then who had picked her up?

Lenny Burkette immediately came to mind. Mama had protested that she didn't have any feelings for Lenny, but I didn't completely believe her. I'd seen how they'd looked at each other the night before at the Bar-None.

And where had Mama gone after the disastrous Thanksgiving dinner, while Daddy and Uncle Fenwick were out walking? My guess, to see Lenny.

So, if Mama had left voluntarily with Lenny, that wasn't a matter for the police. But I didn't know for sure that that's where she was.

And I still needed to talk to Chief Worthy. I thought I'd figured out who'd killed Uncle Fenwick.

“Look, I still need to talk to Chief Worthy,” I said, interrupting Jeanette's chatter. My request didn't come out as smoothly as I would have liked. I was shivering, even though I had on my coat, because I'd had to do without a hat or mittens to use my cell phone.

“He's busy,” Jeanette snapped, clearly displeased that I'd interrupted her trip down memory lane.

“Then I need to talk to whoever else is in charge!”

“Everyone's out on patrol, checking on the elderly to make sure they're okay. There's been a power outage in about half the town—ice on the lines—”

“I know that! My power is out, too! I just need to talk to someone in charge!”

“That would be the power company, but they're well aware—”

“Not about the power!” I shrieked. “I need to talk to someone in charge at the police station!”

“Well, Chief Worthy is busy, and that means I'm in charge, I guess. How can I help you?”

I pressed my eyes shut. “You can tell Chief Worthy I'm coming down there, now, because I've figured out who really killed Fenwick Toadfern.”

I hung up. I looked over my dream journal notes, thought through again the conclusions I'd come to. I'd only glanced at the dream journal when I came into my bedroom to get my cell phone from my purse, but that glance was enough to trigger an important realization about the two clotheslines.

I left the journal on my nightstand, and pulled on my hat and gloves. I gave Rocky—my pothos ivy—a sympathetic look as I passed through the living room. Rocky was already looking droopy in the cold room. “Good luck,” I said.