Hung Out to Die (3 page)

I'm not sure who burst out laughing first—me or Sally. In any case, within a few seconds, Cherry started laughing, too. When we settled down again, Cherry and I joined Sally in taking out another load of clothes from the dryer. We all started folding.

“Um, Josie, I'm seriously wondering, though, what are you going to do Thanksgiving, with Owen gone, and all?” Sally asked gently.

I didn't even pause in midfold of a tiny blue T-shirt. “Oh, I'll be fine. I'll spend the morning at Stillwater, of course. Then, I'll, uh, I'll . . .”

I was looking forward, as always, to my visit with my cousin Guy Foersthoefel at Stillwater Farms. Guy is forty-four and a resident of a wonderful residential home, just fifteen miles north of Paradise, for adults with autism. The home is set on a renovated farm and the staff is wonderful.

Stillwater always holds a Thanksgiving breakfast—turkey omelettes! Yum!—instead of dinner, in consideration of families who have other places to go later in the day. I'd linger at the breakfast, until Guy got restless—adults with autism have an internal sense of scheduling that defies understanding at times, and Guy always let me know when he was done visiting by getting fidgety—and then I'd . . . I'd . . .

What?

Truth be told, I'd been putting off thinking about what I'd do after that.

Originally, my boyfriend Owen Collins and I had planned to have a romantic Thanksgiving dinner-for-two at my apartment. (The turkey breast was still in the freezer.) Then, maybe, we'd go over the plans I'd been sketching for converting the two apartments into one loft. My success in renting the second apartment has always been spotty at best—the most recent renters had just moved out to a small home on Maple Street—and I thought I could afford to turn my apartment into something more homey. Something that might have space for all the books I keep buying.

And then, as the candlelight flickered and we grew weary of looking at my plans, maybe we could . . .

I shook my head and told myself to focus on folding little boy T's and undies.

Owen had gone the day before to Kansas City to spend the week with his twelve-year-old, Zachariah, who lived with Tori, his mom, Owen's ex-wife. Because Owen had once served time for involuntary manslaughter, Tori had full custody of their son, and until a few months before, Owen had had no contact with Zachariah.

Owen was, understandably, excited about finally getting to spend time with Zachariah. And I was truly excited for him. Even if it meant that, by necessity, he'd also be spending time around Tori.

Dining on her turkey and dressing and pumpkin pie . . . no doubt in some cozy candle-lit eat-in kitchen of a white-picket-fenced suburban home. With a golden retriever named something like Old Pal snoozing in front of the glowing fireplace . . .

Not that I was jealous. Owen and his ex-wife were truly over each other, he'd assured me numerous times. He just wanted to see his son, and he was spending the week at a nearby Quality Inn Motel.

And of course I had no doubts that Owen, while enjoying time with his son, would long to also be with me, dining on turkey and pumpkin pie in the apartment over my laundromat. With a pothos ivy named Rocky dripping yellowing leaves from the windowsill . . .

For just a second, I hoped Tori's turkey was tepidly tasteless.

My older friend and the county's bookmobile librarian, Winnie Logan, had invited me for Thanksgiving dinner in years past, but her daughter in Chicago had just had her first child—and Winnie's first grandchild—so Winnie and her husband would be in Chicago for the holiday.

Sally always spent Thanksgiving with the Toadferns, and since I was “dead” to the family, I had no intention of haunting their holiday festivities.

Cherry had plans with her family and Deputy Dean's family.

I had other friends—none so close as Winnie, Sally, and Cherry, of course—and even customers I could have dropped a hint with, and readily been invited to Thanksgiving.

But, somehow, I didn't want to become some other family's sympathy guest . . . even though I knew no one else would see it that way.

Maybe I would just read, after my visit to Stillwater. Have the turkey and review my renovation plans by myself.

Or maybe I'd go up to Masonville and volunteer to serve at the city's annual feast for homeless and low-income individuals and families.

Yeah, I thought, starting to get excited, that could be a pretty neat way to spend the day . . .

“Well, really, Josie, Thanksgiving day is meant to be spent with family,” Cherry said, interrupting my thoughts.

“That's how I'm spending the morning.”

“Well I know that Guy is family, but . . .”

“What she's getting at, Josie, is that you have a whole other side to your family,” Sally said. “You've kept the last name—”

“Habit!” I snapped. Which was true. Plus Toadfern was my legal last name when my aunt and uncle adopted me, and since they never saw fit to change it, neither did I.

“—but you barely know the Toadferns.”

“Not my fault,” I snapped again. I thumped down the T-shirt I was folding, at least as much as one can thump a T-shirt. A dryer buzzed. I started toward it, stomping my feet as I walked.

Sally turned and grabbed my arm as I walked by her, causing me to stop and whirl so that I faced her. I glared at her and jerked my arm away from her grasp.

“I know it's not your fault, Josie, everyone knows that. Believe it or not, I'm not the only one in the family who has appealed to Mamaw Toadfern . . .”

“Yeah, well, you're the only one, besides Billy, who has bothered to really have anything to do with me for the past twenty-two years. For pity's sake, I was two when Daddy ran off, and that bitter old woman we call Mamaw blamed my mama, and five years after that, when Mama ran off and I could have used some support, she totally cut me off from the family and scared most everyone else from having anything to do with me!”

My eyes pricked with tears. I was surprised by how much Mamaw's rejection bothered me, all of a sudden. I told myself it was just because I'd only driven Owen to the airport, up in Columbus, the day before.

“Now, you listen to me,” Sally said. “Mamaw Toadfern's had a change of heart. She regrets her decision to cut you off years ago. And . . . and . . . she wants you to come to dinner for Thanksgiving!” Sally finally blurted out.

I narrowed my eyes at Sally, partly to try to push the tears back. “If she wants me to come so darned badly, why hasn't she called me herself? Or come on down here to the laundromat? It's not like I'm hard to find. Practically everyone in the county knows who I am and where to find me.”

It was the God's truth. Sure, most everyone has a washer and dryer these days. But they don't always work. And out in the country, when the water tables are low, people come in. And home washers can't handle big comforters or throw rugs. Plus, there are still those who don't have a washer/dryer at home.

And mine's the only laundromat in the southern part of Mason County.

“Well, it's because Mamaw Toadfern is, well . . .” Sally actually paused to sniffle. I resisted an eye-roll. “She's just so unhealthy lately . . . something about her liver or her stomach or . . .”

I wasn't able to resist bursting out laughing.

“Now, Josie, that's not too kind,” Cherry said. “I know your Mamaw Toadfern hasn't exactly been the ideal grandma, but—”

“Oh, Cherry, I've heard rumors for years about Mamaw's illnesses. Someone'll come in here who knows her and start talking about how Noreen Faye Wickenhoof Toadfern has been having a bout with bronchitis, or ulcers, or backaches, and how she's sure it's her time to go meet her maker, and I'll start to feel all guilty that I've never gone to see the old woman to offer up an olive branch—even though
she
rejected
me
when I was just an innocent little kid—and then I'll run into her at the Corner Market or the Antique Depot or Sandy's Restaurant—and what does she do? She gives me this long, piercing glare, sticks her nose up and her scrawny little butt out, and struts away, and—”

I stopped. I was actually starting to choke up. What was wrong with me? I didn't care about what my old biddy Mamaw or other Toadferns who snubbed me thought . . . did I? Maybe it was the holiday season, the prospect of kicking it off without the company of Owen or any of my friends on Thanksgiving evening.

“She's having real problems lately,” Sally said. “Last time I went to see her, she told me she had bleeding ulcers.”

“I had a great-uncle who was kinda like your all's Mamaw,” Cherry said thoughtfully. “He was a hypochondriac, too, but even hypochondriacs can get sick for real, Josie. He only lived a few weeks after about the thirtieth time my mama called me to say his doctor told him he didn't have long to live.” Now she sniffled, too. “Always regretted not seeing him.”

“Oh, you two, please,” I said. “What is it about the Thanksgiving holiday and families and the guilties?”

“I don't know,” Cherry said. “But it sure gets to me every year when I go home for dinner and Mama says at the end of the blessing, ‘and God bless all our loved ones gone before us, especially Uncle Bubba, who no one believed was sick. Amen.'”

“And it's working me up that Mamaw said to me just last week when I was over to her house to fix a squeaky door. ‘Now Sally,' she says, ‘there's something I need to tell Josie and I know you're the only one who can get her to come to your poor old sick Mamaw's for Thanksgiving . . .'”

“No,” I said.

Sally glared at me. “Josie, aren't you the least little bit curious about what Mamaw wants?”

“No,” I said, lying. But I wasn't about to give in to emotional blackmail.

“Then go to make my life easier,” Sally said. “Mamaw'll never let me hear the end of it if I don't convince you—”

“No,” I said again. I pointed to the stack of clean laundry. “I already
am
making your life easier, anyway.”

“You're going to go, Josie,” Sally said.

“No, I am not.”

“Josie Toadfern, you'd better get your sorry ass over the river and through the woods to Mamaw's house for Thanksgiving, or else your ass will really know what sorry is, after I give you a whipping you'll never forget!”

Now, that was enough—really it was—for me to just toss Sally out of my laundromat—at least as soon as her last load finished drying—and tell her there was no way I was about to let her bully me into going to Mamaw Toadfern's house for Thanksgiving.

In fact, I was just mad enough that I was ready to boycott the Bar-None, at least until after Thanksgiving.

But I never got a chance to tell Sally off. Just as I opened my mouth to tell her . . . well, I can't quite remember what I was going to say, but I'm sure it was quite clever . . . there was a tap at the front door of my laundromat.

It drew my attention from Sally, and then I saw who was standing on the other side of my big pane glass window—just to the left of my logo (a toad on a lily pad bearing the phrase
ALWAYS A LEAP AHEAD OF DIRT),
and whatever wittily devastating response I had in mind for Sally and why I would not go to Mamaw Toadfern's for Thanksgiving dissolved to dust.

And I was left staring, gapmouthed, at the woman standing just outside my laundromat window.

“My Lord,” said Sally. “I thought she swore thirteen years ago she was going to Massachusetts and never setting foot again in this godforsaken town. At least that's the phrase I heard she used for her valedictory speech at her high school graduation.”

“Would you look at that? Her hair . . . it's so damned perfect. And her figure is so trim,” Cherry said, a pouting note of jealousy in her voice. “You'd think she'd have at least had the decency to have gained ten pounds and gotten split ends.”

I said, “She's probably still nice, too. And happily married. With two kids, a dog, and a big old house.”

Then we all sighed with undisguised envy, while Rachel Burkette—the smartest, prettiest, nicest young lady ever to grow up in and then leave Paradise—stood outside waving at us.

I started toward the door.

“Wait, Josie, you're closed, remember?” said Cherry.

“Cherry!” Sally and I said in unison.

Rachel was perfect thirteen years before. She was probably perfect now. We all wanted to hate her for it, but we couldn't, because she'd be so perfectly understanding about it.

The only imperfect thing she'd ever done was her outburst at the commencement, which we'd all heard about, even though she was two years older than us and we hadn't actually been at the event.

And it gave us all the perfect excuse to heave a sigh of relief when she left town.

But now she was back and so, of course, I opened my laundromat door to her.

I swear, if it hadn't been for her showing up like that, I wouldn't have gone to Mamaw Toadfern's for Thanksgiving and the reunion, and then—maybe—the murder and all that followed wouldn't have happened.

But I did open the door.

I was only being polite.

3

Half an hour later, we were all across the street at Sandy's Restaurant, eating our very late breakfasts. No one asks for “brunch” at Sandy's. “Brunch” is something served at fancy hotel restaurants up in, say, Columbus. At Sandy's—which is actually a double-wide trailer converted over to a faux-wood-paneled restaurant, with the back half for a kitchen and dining counter, and the front half for booths—only breakfast, lunch, and supper are served. And you can get breakfast anytime you want. But ask Sandy for brunch, and she will cross her arms across her black T-shirt emblazoned with
WHO ASKED
? across the chest, and glare at you from under the brim of her Nascar ball cap until you apologize and rephrase your request to breakfast.