Under the Skin (35 page)

“Maybe you could help me find something in Asheville, Sissy,” I heard myself saying.

“Do me a favor, would you, Lizabeth? Don’t you and Gloria go in to Asheville for a few days. Not till say … Saturday. I want to make sure Joss really went home and stayed home. I’ve been in touch with the sheriff down there—it’s a small rural town and he knows the parents. He said it would be no problem to verify that Joss had come back home.”

I put down the book I’d just picked up and stared at Phillip. We were in bed—we’d been going to bed earlier and earlier these days, just to have a chance for a little private conversation. Between the overhead fan in our room and Glory’s seemingly inexhaustible supply of show tunes, we could talk freely in slightly lowered tones. I’d been telling him how the wedding preparations stood as well as all about Glory’s plans for a shopping trip.

He settled against the pillows and stared back. “I’m serious, Elizabeth. That Joss—oh, he went without making any fuss but, I don’t know, he was so into the whole reunited mother-and-son thing—”

“He certainly
seemed
sincere,” I agreed. “I would have sworn … Now, though, I’m wondering. Was it some kind of a scam? Looking back, there are a few things—like that license of his, showing he was born the same day as Gloria’s child—I remember thinking it
looked awfully
new
. But Joss didn’t seem organized or … or street-smart enough to know how to get hold of a forged driver’s license.”

“What do
you
think, Sherlock?”

I landed a gentle punch on Phillip’s bare shoulder. He was grinning at me now and I had the sensation—the comforting sensation—of playing a familiar part in this slightly corny version of almost-married life.

Settling against him, I began to think out loud.

“I think Joss is a sad case. I think he probably really is an orphan looking for his birth mother and I think he truly believes—or truly wants to believe—that Gloria
is
that mother.”

Phillip put his arm around me and closed his eyes. “Go on …”

“I think … I think Nigel comes into this somehow. I mean, besides the fact that he told both Gloria and Joss about the séance weekend … and … Joss said that Nigel had some sort of vision of Gloria in a box … It was Nigel’s call that told Joss where to look for her. But I don’t see what …”

“If it was me, Sherlock,” Phillip’s deep voice rumbled softly in my ear, “and if I hadn’t been told in no uncertain terms not to pursue the question, what I’d be wanting to know is who put little Glory in that box in the basement? And I’d start by asking
why.
”

I
pondered that question as the busy week went on. At the time, the only reason I could imagine for Gloria’s abduction was that it was meant to frighten her. She wasn’t harmed and with a little determined effort, she could surely have freed herself. Or at least shouted. And that was another question that defied all my pondering:
Why hadn’t Gloria called out?

With Joss’s departure, Ben and Amanda’s hectic schedule mysteriously grew less full and they joined us for dinner most nights, lingering after the meal to sit on the porch with coffee, watching the fireflies winking in the dusk. Amanda’s initial reserve with Gloria gave way to an amused affection and she delighted my sister with behind-the-scenes stories from her brief career as a highly paid fashion model.

“… A really scary-looking black leather
bustier
that laced up the back leaving the edges about six inches apart … let’s see … and black and white checked tights with a short tiered skirt in a black and gray geometric pattern held out with black net crinolines. They’d skinned my hair back and pinned on a kind of crest of ruched black net—like a Mohawk—and the makeup girl did my face in dead white with slashes of red on each cheek. The white covered my lips and she painted a
black butterfly in the middle, like a little rosebud mouth. I looked nothing like myself—but that’s the point, when you’re a model. You’re the clothes hanger for the designer’s creation—nothing more.”

Gloria laughed with delight. At last, I imagined her thinking, a conversation that didn’t involve planting things. “Oh, I
remember
that look. I saw pictures somewhere—”

Amanda raised her hand. “But here’s the part I wanted to tell you: As I was waiting to step out on to the catwalk, the designer reached up to fluff my faux-hawk. She was really on edge—she’d just lit a cigarette even though there were signs posted everywhere. I started to warn her but just then the starter gave me my cue to go out.

“I was halfway down the catwalk when all this commotion broke out—
People are digging this outfit
, I thought. Cameras were flashing so that I could hardly see but I kept on with that weird slouchy walk we were all doing that year. It wasn’t till I made my turn that I felt the heat on my head. And, at that same moment, I saw one of the stagehands running toward me with a fire extinguisher. Then the audience
really
went crazy.”

“Oh, no! The thing on your head was on fire?” Gloria squealed. “And it was the designer herself, her cigarette—right? She must have been
devastated.
”

Amanda smiled and stood. “As a matter of fact, that incident made her reputation. Most of the audience thought the whole thing was planned. And the picture of me swaggering down the runway with my head on fire made all the trade papers.”

She leaned against the railing where Ben was perched. “I never knew if the designer had done it on purpose or not. I wasn’t burned. But that was when I realized I had to get out of the modeling game.”

Ben reached out to put an arm around her. “Lucky for
me you did.” Amanda turned to him with a smile of such breathtaking intensity that I felt like an eavesdropper on some private conversation.

Gloria, however, was hungry for more tidbits. “Didn’t I hear that you’d worked for Versace once? Tell me, do you know if …”

I left them on the porch chattering away as Gloria pumped Amanda for more stories of the designers she’d worked for. I was lost amid the welter of names—
Pinar, Donatella, Tani, Samil
—but happy that Gloria and her son’s girlfriend seemed to be enjoying each other’s company at last.

A lot had changed with Joss’s departure. Gloria, instead of darting off into Asheville every day on some pretext or other, began to relax, ever so slightly, into the routine of the farm—at least, the less strenuous, cleaner bits of that routine. She seemed to enjoy making wreaths and I was happy for her help and her company. We spent hours in the comparative cool of the fragrant workshop, filling in the blanks of our respective lives for each other and learning to enjoy and appreciate each other, warts and all—a quantum leap for both of us.

“Let me fix dinner tonight. I’ll come with you to the grocery store and pick up some salmon,” Gloria said Thursday morning, as we talked over our plans for the day while I made out my grocery list. “Salmon is one thing I know how to cook. And you’ve got asparagus in the fridge. That and some little new potatoes—what do you think?”

I thought it would be wonderful and told her so. Though I’m fond of cooking, it’s a true luxury to eat a meal I had nothing to do with.

“Oh good!” she exclaimed. “And we can take my Mini. The poor thing’s probably feeling neglected.”

Cocking an eyebrow at me, she went on. “It should be
safe now, right? Now that all the baddies are accounted for.”

I hoped they were.

Phillip had told me only the night before that Joss’s arrival in the little town near the coast where his parents lived had been confirmed. Even better was the news about the Eyebrow who, as Phillip said, in best detective fiction style, had “sung like a canary.”

“Those outstanding warrants I told you about—there were enough charges to keep him off the streets for a very long time. Finally his lawyer convinced him that a little cooperation might shorten his sentence and pretty soon they couldn’t shut him up. Evidently he and Gloria’s husband had a falling-out so the Eyebrow decided to get even by making Gloria think Jerry was trying to do her in.”

Suddenly things began to fall into place. “So that’s it! She was never in any real danger—because if something had happened to her, Jerry would have inherited her money. What the Eyebrow wanted was for her to leave Jerry—”

“And it was working. But now that the Eyebrow’s looking at major time, he’s spilling every last detail of Jerry’s business dealings. I got a real feeling old Jerry’s going to end up a guest of the state too. Probably one of those country club facilities for white-collar criminals. From what my buddy down in Tampa could tell me, Jerry stayed clear of the rough stuff—defrauding widows and orphans was more his style.”

I had to admit Gloria’s Mini was a hoot. Spinning along so low to the ground was quite different from my big Jeep. Though, as I quickly reminded myself, the Mini would be useless for my usual shopping trips which generally involved a week’s worth of groceries
and several fifty-pound bags of one kind of feed or another.

As we scooted past Miss Birdie’s house, Gloria glanced at the tidy yard and the immaculate little garden patch where Birdie herself was wielding a hoe, scratching up invisible weeds. Always alert to every passing vehicle, the little woman turned her head in its protective sunbonnet toward the road and raised her long-handled hoe in a salute.

“She looks like something from another time,” Gloria remarked as we returned the greeting and sped on toward the bridge. “I’d like to go visit her again. You know, seeing her just now, it reminded me of this workshop I did once about the Feminine Divine. Miss Birdie is like—and don’t laugh at me, Lizzy—the Mother Goddess. ”

“No arguments from me,” I said, remembering the instant connection that had happened between my sister and Miss Birdie. “Tell you what: Birdie loves all sorts of exotic fruit but won’t buy it for herself. Let’s get her a fresh pineapple at the store—we can stop in on our way back.”

And lay our offering at the feet of the Mother
. The thought sprang unbidden but I resisted saying it out loud, lest Glory think I was laughing at her. Somehow, it sounded entirely appropriate.

As we turned onto the bridge across the French Broad, I caught sight of my old friend the great blue heron winging his stately way down the river.

“Pull over and stop for a moment, Glory. I want to see where he’s going. They probably have a nest somewhere nearby.” I was straining my eyes to follow the heart-stoppingly lovely bird—the immense wings, pale gray bordered in deeper steely blue-gray, the elegant curve of the neck, and the sweetly absurd trailing orange legs.

We leaned on the concrete railing, enjoying the fresh
breeze, the sunlight glinting on the fast-moving water. Far down the river a gaggle of rubber rafts were negotiating a series of rocks and rapids called the Maze. A few squeals drifted back to us.

“They sound like they’re having fun.” Gloria’s eyes were hidden by her sunglasses but her voice was wistful. “Sometimes I wonder … if Mother hadn’t—”

She stopped and we both turned at the approach of a work-worn black farm truck that slowed and then pulled over to park in front of the Mini. I took a deep breath as I saw Harice Tyler get out and come toward us, a lazy smile on his face.

“Lizzy!” Gloria’s whisper was full of alarm. She had stiffened at the sight of Harice, who, in farm-dirty work clothes, was, I’ll admit, enough to start the
Deliverance
banjos playing. I could only guess what Glory might be thinking. And she didn’t even know about the snakes.

“You all right, Miz Goodweather?” Harice spoke to me but his eyes were on Gloria, no doubt taking in her sleeveless blouse, bare legs, gold jewelry—all forbidden to the women of the Holiness Church he pastored. “Thought maybe that little roller skate you uns is driving might have give out.”

When I assured him that we didn’t have car trouble, he gave Glory’s legs one last odd look—disapproving approval?—and sauntered back to his truck. I watched him go, wondering why I had ever imagined myself attracted to him. The words of the old hymn
I once was blind but now I see
formed on my lips as I watched that conscious swagger of his that went over so well with the female part of his congregation.

As he pulled out and headed toward Bear Tree Creek, Gloria released the breath she’d been holding.

“Who was
that
? Those
eyes
! Clean him up and he could—”

“That,” I said, looking down the river again, “was the pastor of a snake-handling church in Tennessee. Dang! I should have introduced you—he’s between wives just now.”

“You uns come up in the shade and get you a chair. Aye, law, what have you got in that big poke?”

Birdie’s black and white dog Pup came wagging to greet us as we approached the porch where my neighbor was enjoying the virtuous rest of one with laundry drying on the line, a freshly mown yard, and a weedless garden patch.

“Gloria brought you a pineapple and some mangoes, Miss Birdie. If you don’t care, I’ll take them to the kitchen and cut them up for you while you and Glory visit.”

“Well, what about that!” Birdie peered into the brown paper bag. “You know I do like them pineapples. My, I can smell it just as good … and these here—I like them things awful good. They put me in mind of a peach but they ain’t peaches. What did you call ’em—something like banjo, ain’t it? Why you girls is like to spoil me!”

In Birdie’s cheerful kitchen I tracked down a cutting board and located a knife sharp enough to deal with the pineapple, as well as a couple of plastic containers to put the fruit into. As I stood by the sink, I could hear snatches of the conversation on the porch, just beyond the kitchen window.

“… been thinking about what you told me … your babies that died … your angels …”

Gloria was telling Miss Birdie about her own lost baby—the stillborn girl she’d never seen. I could hear Birdie’s comforting murmur and it seemed to me that Gloria was crying very softly.