Scrapped (6 page)
Chapter 13
Nothing like a good funeral, even if it was a couple of hours away in Jenkins Hollow.
Beatrice dressed in her Sunday best, a dark blue suit, and placed a strand of pearls around her neck. Real pearls, mind you, and it was getting to the point where funerals were the only occasions she could wear them.
Not that she liked to see grieving. But what Beatrice did like was to see a community come together in fellowship and offer condolences. A keen observer of humanity—or at least that was what she thought about herself—Beatrice loved to see the spectacle of clothes and food at many of the local funerals. Southerners always brought out the best for such events.
She’d missed Maggie Rae’s funeral as she had just had surgery to remove a knife from her neck. Vera was supposed to report back to her, but her observations were weak.
“What did Violet wear? The same black dress she always wears? She’s been wearing it for thirty years. I swear.”
“Well,” Vera had said. “Hmm. I can’t remember what Violet was wearing. It seems to me it was dark. Yes. Maybe it was black. Oh, Mama, who cares?”
Beatrice was not so vacuous that she cared only about what people wore. But she made note of certain individuals’ clothing and what it said about them. For example, Violet’s husband was one of the wealthiest men in the town, yet she didn’t appear to ever buy anything new. Her funeral dress was a black shirtwaist dress, her spring and summer “wedding” dress was a light blue silk, and her fall and winter, a red wool. The same dresses for thirty years. Or at least that was how it appeared.
So Beatrice wondered if Violet chose not to buy anything new or if her husband refused to buy anything for her. And what was that all about?
And then there was Mathilda Rogers, who always brought a “little” something to wakes. Damn little. Once she brought a plate of a dozen chocolate chip cookies to a wake. A dozen? Why did she bother? Why bring anything at all if she was going to be so stingy about it?
She mentioned it once to Vera, who said that maybe there was a financial problem.
“Humph. I don’t think so. She plays bingo like it’s going out of style, and I’ve seen her spending money at the hair salon,” Beatrice had said.
“Really, Mother, don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Don’t you ever notice anything about people? How do you function in the world?” Beatrice had said. Why couldn’t Vera be more like Annie, who noticed even more than Beatrice?
Vera had waved her off, as she often did, as if she were exasperated with her old fool of a mother.
Damn her.
Damn her.
A car beep sounded at the front of Beatrice’s house. She stood at the door with her purse slung around her arm. Ready to go.
She mumbled as she crawled into the backseat of the car, next to Annie, who was looking elegant in black, with chunky gold earrings and a lovely gray angora scarf around her neck.
“Hey,” Annie said.
“Hey back. How are you?”
Annie shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”
“I’m fine, too, Bea,” Sheila said, grinning, from the front passenger seat of the car.
“Who asked you, scrapbook queen?” Beatrice said, turning away from her. Her relationship with Sheila was one of consistent, but good-natured banter. Her mother, Gerty, was Beatrice’s best friend—she died several years ago from breast cancer. “Listen, Annie, do you think we can get some clues today?”
Annie started to talk, but Vera interrupted.
“Mama! This is a funeral. Behave yourself.”
“I’ve been going to funerals since you were a glimmer in your daddy’s eye. Don’t tell me how to behave at a funeral. I just thought it might be a good place to observe the family, see if anybody suspicious shows up,” Beatrice said.
Vera stopped the car at a red light. “Well, don’t go around questioning people.”
“I am on a story,” Annie said. “But I certainly would be very careful about who I spoke to and what I asked.”
“Oh, Annie, I’m not worried about you,” Vera replied. “It’s Mama. Sometimes I never know what’s going to come out of her mouth—or who she is going to try to shoot.”
Sheila laughed. Annie smiled.
Beatrice folded her arms and leaned them on her purse, where, they all knew, she kept her gun. She looked at Annie and shrugged.
Chapter 14
Even though it was the opposite of the Cumberland Creek Episcopal brick building—which sprawled over half a city block with its cavernous hallways—the white-clapboard, one-room Jenkins Creek Baptist Church still reminded Annie of the day she went to Maggie Rae’s funeral. Witnessing Maggie Rae’s family, most especially her children, dealing with her death was gut wrenching.
As the four women approached the church, a cold wind swept up and Annie pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. The sound of the creek chilled her.
Damn.
She had to find the bathroom.
Damn.
She had to find the bathroom.
“Bathroom,” she whispered just as they entered the church.
Vera pointed her outside, in the direction of an outhouse.
“You are kidding.”
Vera shook her head.
Annie shrugged. She had used worse places. She padded over to the outhouse, opened the door, and was pleasantly surprised to find a clean experience.
When she was done, she made her way back to the church, just as a hush was coming over the funeral congregation. She glanced around for her companions. There they were in the middle, of course.
Annie found her way to the pew, feeling as if everybody was watching her, and sat down as delicately as possible. Nothing like making a grand entrance.
The minister, a much younger man than what Annie had expected, approached the pulpit and began to pray. She tuned him out. She was here to check out the crowd—except she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She glanced around and saw what must have been Rebecca’s family, finally seated at the front of the room. While everybody’s heads were bowed, Annie took the opportunity to turn around quietly—and there he was, Zeb McClain, Tina Sue’s husband, who was not praying, but was instead looking directly at her. Zeb had been implicated in Maggie Rae’s case, but the Jenkins Hollow community had provided sound alibis for him.
He was dressed in Old Order Mennonite clothing, hiding his well-sculpted physique, for which Annie was grateful. She’d already seen too much of the man. His steely blue eyes, square jawline, and full lips were all a part of the man that visited her in her nightmares.
Her stomach twisted. She turned her face quickly, feeling the hot creep of embarrassment mixed with anger.
Damn.
Of course, he would be here. This church was on the outskirts of Jenkins Mountain proper. But even though he stood there, dressed in plain, dark Mennonite clothing, he was not praying. He was watching her!
Damn.
Of course, he would be here. This church was on the outskirts of Jenkins Mountain proper. But even though he stood there, dressed in plain, dark Mennonite clothing, he was not praying. He was watching her!
He wasn’t the only one watching her.
Detective Bryant sat two rows in front of her. His head wasn’t bowed, either. He turned and caught her eye. Nodded. She pursed her lips. Beatrice elbowed her. She didn’t miss a thing.
The piano started to play “Amazing Grace,” and a large woman stood and began to sing.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .”
Annie didn’t know the song as part of her culture, but she still found it incredibly beautiful and moving. The sunlight was beaming in through the window, and it lit a corner of the piano and the singer. Twisty, bare branches visible through the window reached across the blue sky.
“To save a wretch like me . . .”
Wretch.
Now that was an interesting word. She sighed and supposed that most of those gathered here today would agree that she fit the bill.
Wretch.
Annie smiled to herself. She turned to see if Zeb was still looking at her and was startled to see that his icy blues were refusing to leave her. She gave him her harshest stare. Who did he think he was? Beatrice elbowed her again. She turned back around and lifted her eyebrow.
Now that was an interesting word. She sighed and supposed that most of those gathered here today would agree that she fit the bill.
Wretch.
Annie smiled to herself. She turned to see if Zeb was still looking at her and was startled to see that his icy blues were refusing to leave her. She gave him her harshest stare. Who did he think he was? Beatrice elbowed her again. She turned back around and lifted her eyebrow.
“What?” she mouthed.
Beatrice motioned to her purse, opened it, and gave her a glimpse of her gun.
Annie waved her off. Beatrice and that gun were going to get into trouble one day. She hoped it wasn’t today. But then again, that gun could come in handy if the big brute of a man suddenly came at her. Annie decided to stick close to Beatrice.
Zeb, sitting at the edge of his pew, was one of many people in that section of the congregation who were dressed in the plain clothes of Old Order Mennonites. Annie flashed back to Maggie’s Rae’s funeral. Zeb was sitting in front with the rest of the family. But Annie distinctly remembered another group of Mennonites standing in the back. Seeing people dressed like it was 1900 always left an impression on her. She didn’t see such things while she was growing up in Bethesda, Maryland. The first time she remembered seeing anything like it was in Amish Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She realized some people equated their garb with a peaceful, simple life, but it unsettled Annie. She was aware of the “romantic” notions the public held about Mennonites and their “peaceful,” simple lives. Maybe she was too cynical and world weary, but she would not be surprised to learn of more stories like the one she’d just read about Mary Schultz. She was a young Mennonite woman who recently murdered her father with an axe, claiming he’d abused her. Now her lawyers were claiming she was mentally unstable. And who wouldn’t be after years of abuse? Annie knew that was one hell of a story—a story the woman was not telling and one the courts were also keeping under wraps.
Annie glanced around the church and noted how different it was than the Episcopal church in town. No statues of Jesus on the cross, no stained-glass windows, and no carpeting. It was austere and simple. Annie felt okay about being in this space, whereas the bigger town church made her uncomfortable.
She shifted around in her seat; Bryant looked back at her. God, that man annoyed her. He could certainly be more helpful. Annie felt another set of eyes on her; she looked across the aisle at a young woman, who smiled shyly. She was blonde and pale, with a large mole on the side of her face, and looked to be about eighteen or nineteen. She wore the white prayer cap of all the young Mennonite women. She must have known Rebecca and maybe even Sarah. Annie made a mental note to try to talk to her during the wake.
A wailing sob came from the front of the room—Rebecca’s mother—and her husband placed his arms around her. They looked in the direction of the simple wooden casket, which was closed, of course. Their daughter had been hacked to pieces, covered in flour, with rune symbols carved into her. How would they ever get over this?
Chapter 15
Vera knew that it was expected that she attend funerals—even as a child, she went along with her mother. Beatrice had always said it did no good to shield children from death. It was a part of life. But Vera did not think she would want Elizabeth anywhere near this place.
She heard a baby cry and turned to watch the mother scuttle off during the service. Maybe she had nobody to keep the baby. Her eyes met the other woman’s, and she made a connection with a sympathetic smile. Mothers knew what it was like to have a crying baby at a church service or concert. She was still amazed at how becoming a mother had opened her heart. Other mothers. Other children. Babies. She only wished that she could have more children—her heart was so full.
She brushed some lint off her black wool slacks. Her mother had rolled her eyes at her when she saw she was not wearing a dress. But Vera didn’t care. It was cold, and these days pants were every bit as appropriate as a skirt. She stood with the rest of the crowd as the family exited the room to go to the basement, where the food was already laid out, awaiting the bereaved family and other mourners.
Vera could not help but wonder if the murderer was in the crowd. She looked over those gathered. There was John DeGrassi, from the only Italian family she knew, a simple, hardworking shopkeeper. He owned the only general store in Jenkins Hollow. His eyes were heavy with grief, she decided. He was not a killer.
Then there was Shelly Martin, dressed in a dark floral dress, whose daughter, Christy, had recently gone off to school to study physical education. She was one of Vera’s best dancers but had decided against a career in the field. Smart cookie. Shelly had always had a bit of a dark side. She dyed her hair platinum blond and sported several tattoos. But could she kill someone?
Detective Bryant glanced toward Annie. He was watching her. Annie received much male attention everywhere she went. She was beautiful in a unique way—dark skin, high cheekbones, large brown eyes, thin, tall. Damn, she could have been a model. But she was too smart for that—you could see the brightness in her eyes.
Sheila’s arm bumped into Annie as she pushed her glasses back up onto her nose. Sheila had actually put some more make-up on this morning than her usual smear of lipstick. And she looked great in that navy blue suit. Sheila had the body of a twenty-five-year-old. Vera sighed. It was all those years of running, which Vera hated. How could anybody get excited about it?
“It’s not exciting,” Sheila had told her one day. “It’s that monotony that is a blessing. One foot in front of the other. That’s all I need to think about at that moment.”
The four women walked down the stairs together quietly—not much could be spoken, just felt. A young woman heinously killed. Her family was at a loss. You could see it in their eyes. All of them looked hollow.
A stab of fear shot through Vera. What if something like this were to happen to Elizabeth? How could she manage to survive? To go on living?
The service was over, and the crowd meandered to the basement of the church. Long card tables were jammed full of the usual wake food—pies, pasta salads, cakes, shrimp, a meat tray with ham and roast beef, several cheese platters, several types of chicken (barbecued, fried, baked), corn pudding, and turkey.
The wake was usually Bill’s favorite part of a funeral, but he was keeping Elizabeth and so he wasn’t here. The last funeral they had attended as a couple, they were still married, happily, or so she’d thought.
“Oh, look at that red velvet cake,” Beatrice said quietly as they moved into the food line.
“I can’t believe all this food,” Annie said, looking as if she were shell-shocked.
“Oh, this is nothing,” Vera said. “You should have seen the food at Maggie Rae’s funeral.”
“It’s part of our tradition,” Beatrice said.
Once all their plates were piled high, they were able to find seats together at one of the tables.
“How’s the scrapbook queens?” a male voice said behind Vera. She recognized it.
“Detective Bryant,” Sheila said. “We are fine. And you?”
“Just keeping an eye on things,” he said, looking at Annie. “How about you?”
Annie nodded after taking a bite of red potato salad.
“Don’t worry. I have her covered,” Beatrice said.
He laughed, his blue eyes lighting up and his dimples deepening. “Now, that worries me, more than anything.”
“You don’t look bad once you’re cleaned up a bit, Detective,” Beatrice said.
“Mama! For heaven’s sake,” Vera said.
He waved them off and then walked away. He was dressed in the same blue suit he’d worn for all the other recent funerals—it was probably custom-made. He was so broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, Vera imagined he couldn’t buy directly off the rack. His sandy hair was combed nicely for a change, she noted.
Vera bit into a perfectly seasoned piece of barbecued chicken. Now, these mountain folks knew how to barbecue a bird. Annie shoved a piece of shoofly pie, chock-full of molasses and brown sugar, into her mouth and chewed.
She grimaced. “Ahh,” she said. “What is this? It looked good . . . but—”
The next thing Vera knew, Annie was running outside for fresh air.
“Shoofly,” Beatrice said, smacking her lips after another bite of red velvet cake. “Someone should have warned her.” Sometimes it took a while for outsiders to develop a taste for this toothsome molasses and brown sugar pie. Not only was it sweet enough that it could make your teeth ache, but it also had a surprisingly spicy bite. Some folks just couldn’t handle it.
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