Wedding Bell Blues (18 page)

I must have hit the pillow hard, eyes already closed and the rest of me close behind. Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits all night long.

 

Chapter Twenty-eight

I woke with a start, damp with sweat. The clock read six a.m. I pulled myself up, feeling creaky as a hundred-year-old. I pulled on yesterday's jeans and a clean T-shirt and in breakneck speed went to the kitchen. I brewed coffee, telling myself, “Think, think, think. If you were a rabbit where would you be?”

Where there's food, of course. If Robert Redford was like Sherman, he thought food first thing in the morning until last thing at night. Food, food, food. Pellets. Rabbit chow. Robert Redford couldn't live on fresh clover forever. He'd come home!

Of course. But I had looked under every leaf and limb and shrub in Verna's yard. I'd looked under her house,
in
her house as much as I could, and there was not a trace of Robert Redford. But if he came home, or had come home, he wouldn't be able to get in. He couldn't open the front door, and though there were steps to the back porch, I couldn't see him hopping up them to push in the screen door.

Finding Robert Redford was not the most important of my worries, but a nagging one that kept my mind off being paranoid about Mrs. Butch Truck Driver Rigsbee and her threats on my life. I still felt safe in Littleboro most of the time. I had family (Ida Plum was close as family) and Scott and Malinda. And if Littleboro was the kind of place Reba could sleep outdoors and wander the streets any hour of the day or night she took a notion, then I could shake off my concerns for my own safety.

Reba! If Reba was in and out of Verna's house, she might let Robert Redford in, but I couldn't quite see Reba under a roof, any roof, for very long, even if she did have cake to eat and a plush antique canopy bed to sleep in.

I left a note for Ida Plum to put the coffee cake in the oven and pour the juice, put out the fresh fruit, that I was going “rabbit hunting.” I'd set the table the night before. I didn't have to tell Ida Plum what to do, but I felt better leaving the note, acting as if I were in charge of things. Going into Verna's could be dangerous. Stuff was piled so high there was only a narrow path through rooms and there was always a chance something could topple and avalanche, bury me under six feet of collected crap. This way, at least if I didn't come back in a reasonable amount of time, Ida Plum would know where to look and order some steam shovels, bulldozers and bucket trucks to dig and claw their way in to find my body.

I even thought about taking a rake or shovel with me. This was not a jungle so no bush knife was needed unless I ran into vermin. A hard hat might have been nice, and I should have remembered to bring a flashlight. Though it was daylight, old houses tended to be really dark inside.

At the front door of Verna's house the first thing I checked was to see if it was locked. No. The knob turned, the door opened, and I was in, which meant Reba was probably out. Roaming? Gone back to her tree. That's the first place Ossie would go looking.

I called, “Reba?” No answer. The whole house was quiet as a tomb. Not an easy or good metaphor.

I eased my way into the hall and bypassed the living room, not that I could have gotten in it anyway. The French doors had stuff piled next to them so close I knew I'd never get the doors open. The dining room was the same way.

I squeezed myself down the path. At least I could see the ceiling, which looked as if it needed painting and replastering. The huge patches of lattice showing through where the plaster had fallen looked worse than the ceilings at the Dixie Dew, missing pieces of miniature scrolls and swags and swirls, before Scott and his crew remolded and repaired the plaster and painted them with beautiful creamy white paint.

On the path to my left was a sort of den, I supposed. Somewhere behind stacks of newspaper, magazines and books there was probably a fireplace. On the far wall there was probably a window or two now covered with “stuff.” I might not be the neatest person in the world, but I knew for sure I could never live like this.

Two bedrooms across the hall looked as if nobody had been in them in years. The beds were covered with clothes piled to the ceiling. The floor was wall to wall with boxes of shoes. My Lord, there must be a couple hundred pairs. Some boxes were stacked on top of each other, some were open, and shoes were scattered like some big department store fire sale. Hell had to be a shoe department with every pair on sale and when you found the perfect shoe that fit, you couldn't find its mate. Digging and digging through hundreds of shoes to find one that matched.

The word “Hell” made me think of fire and how this place could go up in minutes. Old timber, heart-of-pine flooring, plus Verna's collection of stuff. This place was a fire hazard. If I reported it to some town department, could it be declared a fire hazard? Condemned? Would Verna have to move? Where would she go? As far as I knew she had no family. No sisters, therefore no nieces or nephews. Cousins? Cousins didn't usually take cousins in.

I was getting more depressed the longer I stayed in this house, but I kept going until finally, in a small room at the back of the hall, I saw a recliner chair and some quilts. There was a tiny TV on a table close by. This must be where Verna spent most of her time, perhaps even sleeping in that chair. The bathroom was just around the corner.

I felt awful that I had not checked on her, but I'd been up to my ears with all I had to do to get the Dixie Dew Bed-and-Breakfast up and running and try to get The Pink Pineapple tearoom off the ground. Not that I'd had that many events yet, just the occasional call for a tea or two with sandwiches, which I could whip up in no time. And I always had scones in the freezer, some cakes of various kinds. I could have made the time.

In the kitchen I already knew what I'd find: all those plastic containers from frozen dinners that Verna had washed and stacked in rows on her counters. Plus the boxes they came in, all neatly stacked on the table by the window where the curtains hung heavy with dust and gook from a thousand days and nights.

Verna's kitchen had one of those old porcelain sinks with the drain board, and, miracle of miracles, there wasn't a dirty dish in it. Sparkling clean. Underneath the sink was not a cabinet but a sort of skirt. The fabric, a print of pansies, gathered and strung on a wire, concealed the dark underneath.

I had to get out of there, but I couldn't go without one more attempt at finding Robert Redford. I couldn't figure out how to call a rabbit. For cats you call, “Here kitty, kitty.” For rabbits, do you call, “Bunny, bunny, bunny”? That didn't sound right, so I whistled. I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled. I was so out of practice the sound came out more a sputter and a lisp.

But what do you know? The curtains under the sink parted and two pink eyes sparkled up at me.

“Robert Redford?” I stepped back in utter surprise.

He hopped out and I swear he grinned at me as if to say, You found me. Okay, you're
it,
your turn. Now you go hide. I swear that rabbit smiled.

I looked behind the curtains and saw a huge bag of rabbit chow, a water dish and his litter box. Self-contained rabbit hutch. Reba must have outfitted him and said, “Now rabbit, you stay there. Be home,” then gone off and left him.

She had told me she hadn't seen Robert Redford when she helped me tack up posters. She may have meant she hadn't seen him that day, or she could have said it with her fingers crossed behind her back to cancel out the lie. All I knew was at this moment I had found Robert Redford. I hugged up that rabbit and even kissed his warm pink nose, laughing and crying a little.

“Oh bunny, honey, you're all right. You're all right.” I held him close, felt his little heart racing right up close to mine. He was all warm and fuzzy and really sweet, nuzzling my neck and chin. He was all right.

He was going to stay all right, too, and I was going to know where he was because I was taking him home with me to the Dixie Dew.

 

Chapter Twenty-nine

Robert Redford was kicking, trying to wiggle out of my arms. He still had on his red harness and leash, so I put him down and let him walk—hop—to the Dixie Dew's front steps, where he let me pick him up and carry him inside.

Inside we were greeted with cheers from Ida Plum, Scott and Malinda, who had stopped by on her way to work and said, “Today's got to be a better day than yesterday.” She did the thumbs-up victory sign.

Ida Plum just gave us a puzzled look and took Robert Redford in her arms.

Miss Isabella and Miles Fortune smiled, looked up from their breakfast, but kept eating as if they were enjoying these odd locals, who had such strange customs of shouting and cheering when someone came in the door carrying a big rabbit. Odd, but harmless in a quaint way.

Robert Redford got passed around for hugs and petting as I told his tale of adventure. Not that I knew all of it, but I simply guessed that he'd hopped home after Verna was taken to Moore County Medical. After eating his fill of clover and spending a night out in the dark and dew he must have been on the porch when Reba broke out of jail and came to Verna's house for asylum. She'd let him in.

“And cake,” Ida Plum said taking her turn with the rabbit again.

“Cake?” Scott's eyebrows raised. He looked at Ida Plum.

“Reba found her own wedding cake in my freezer and stole it,” I said, taking back Robert Redford, who now wanted to nip at my hair. We headed toward the kitchen.

As I walked through the dining room I saw something that almost made me stop in my tracks. An empty place at the table, Debbie Booth's. Miss Isabella and Miles Fortune calmly continued their breakfast and gave small, indulgent smiles as the troop of us passed by. Where was Debbie Booth? I needed to check on her.

First I had to put out a water dish for the rabbit on the mat beside Sherman's own yellow bowl, then pour him a portion of cat chow in another bowl. Sherman moved over and the two of them sat eating side by side as though they'd been doing things this way for years. “Good kitty,” I said and patted Sherman's black head.

“Good rabbit.” I patted Robert Redford's white one.

Back in the dining room I got down to the panic of the day, Debbie Booth's place at the table. “Debbie Booth? Anybody know what's keeping her?” I tried to keep the concern out of my voice.

Ida Plum and Scott shook their heads no. “I'll bet she just wanted to sleep in. Recover from seeing and tasting all those green bean concoctions. I know I would,” Ida Plum said. She brought in more coffee and nudged me toward the kitchen.

“What?” I asked as I watched Scott pick up his retractable ruler from the kitchen table, flick it in and out. “I got work to do.” He grinned. “That is if you want a gazebo anytime soon.”

Did I? Did I? Just the word “gazebo” coming from his lips gladdened my heart. So there was hope, but was it possible in time for the wedding? I could have kissed him soundly and more than once but first I had to see the real thing sitting in my back garden. I'd been hoping for the gazebo long before this green bean thing came upon us and had the whole town going ditsy. The fact was Mayor Moss had deep pockets and I didn't. Scott had a business to run. The gazebo he'd have to build for love and delayed payment until my bank loan came through. Miz Mayor had tied up Scott to build a fashion runway, fair booths, shore up the Agriculture Building and who knows what else. That model solar convenience facility? Was that his idea, too? All this he had done for the mayor in addition to a big restoration project he had going in Pinehurst.

Back in the dining room I refilled coffee cups. Neither Miss Isabella nor Miles Fortune seemed concerned about our missing Debbie Booth. They ate in companionable silence and seemed intent on their personal plans for the day.

Maybe they saw Debbie Booth as one of those self-sufficient types who gets into a situation and lands on her feet, perky and smiling, waving both hands in the air as if to say, What was all the fuss about? I am fine. I am perfectly fine. But I knew she had not been in good health last night. My question now was whether to wait a bit and see if she came down to breakfast looking a bit peaked but otherwise upright. Or what? It was early yet. I debated whether I should wait or play busybody and go upstairs.

I decided I couldn't dillydally any longer. I almost raced up the stairs. Ida Plum heard me and came behind me, hard on my heels. We screeched to a halt outside Debbie's door. There, just as I had left it last night, was her cup of tea and plate of toast. Untouched. Not a good sign.

“Debbie,” I called. “Are you all right?”

No answer. Nothing. Not a sound.

I knocked. Waited, knocked again.

“Debbie!” I called louder.

Ida Plum opened the linen closet to get the master key so we could unlock Debbie's door and go in. But when I tried the door, it was unlocked. We tiptoed in. What I saw made me gasp and reach back for Ida Plum's cool hand.

Debbie Booth, so young, so curly haired and cute, lay flat on her back in bed, her skin the color of wax. She wore green polka-dotted baby doll pajamas and had a few curlers in her hair. Curlers. This was a revelation. I had thought her hair was naturally curly.

I froze. Ida Plum stepped closer, checked Debbie's breathing, then her pulse. She held out her arm to stop me from coming closer. She pulled the sheet up—
all
the way up and over Debbie's head—and we left the room.

“911. They'll call Eikenberry,” Ida Plum said. “Then I think we better call Ossie on this one.” She closed the door and made sure it was locked.

I was near panic, gasping for air, couldn't believe I'd seen what I'd seen. Not again. Not in my precious Dixie Dew. Two. Two dead people in one house.
My
house! First Miss Lavinia Lovingood and now Debbie Booth. I grabbed my middle and Ida Plum grabbed me. “Don't you pass out on me now,” she said. “Or scream. Or anything else.”