Photo, Snap, Shot (10 page)

“Any word yet about the biopsy?” I asked Bama after I’d gotten Mr. Gibbes and Gracie settled in the backroom.

“No. Horace said he’d call, but she’s probably still in recovery.”

I told Bama about the book club meeting. “Understandably, there wasn’t much talk about the homecoming pages. Today folks should be receiving a school bulletin through the Internet with info about the layouts. Maybe we’ll get a response tomorrow morning. How’s your night class coming?”

“Pretty good. Most of my students want to write family histories. I have plenty of information about safeguarding old photos and creating shadow boxes, but I could use help getting them to write more. They tend to forget current history. Any ideas?”

I had lots of them. I pulled out a form I’d created for people to use while interviewing family members. Bama and I went over it, and she was impressed. “This is great. Can I use it?”

“Of course.” Then the green-eyed monster struck me. My face telegraphed my concern.

“You’ll get credit. Your name and copyright are on the bottom.”

I blushed. A thought: “You know, maybe we shouldn’t give this away. Maybe you should teach a class on family histories. That’d mean more income for the store and for you, right?”

I saw her calculating. She cocked her head. Today she was wearing a boatneck sweater with a chiffon scarf at the neck. Bama always dressed artistically. “You have the journaling ideas, the basic scrapbooking know-how, and I have the calligraphy and artistic techniques. Why not work together? We could test what we do as a class and later turn it into an e-book.” She went on to explain how that would work. “The only problem is … if we do it on Dodie’s time, it would belong to her, really.”

I thought about this. “She’s always been very fair about giving me the lion’s share of what I bring in. Couldn’t we approach her about this?”

Bama high-fived me. I’ve never seen my co-worker so animated.

We spent the rest of the day waiting on customers, jotting notes about our family history class, and generally tidying up the store. Dodie was training Bama to place orders, which meant my co-worker needed time to do quick inventories and send e-mails to vendors. Bama could be a bit prissy about her newfound responsibility, but I had to admit, Dodie had chosen the right person for the job. Bama was more mathematically inclined than I (which wasn’t much of a trick), and had some bookkeeping background. Since she’d taken over the ordering, we rarely ran out of basic supplies and a steady flow of new papers arrived.

“If I can bug out of here at three,” I said to her. “I can drop my kid and her friend off at golf and swing by CALA. I’ll come back by for the dogs. The moms will be planting mums for homecoming. I could pass out more brochures for our pages.”

Bama nodded. “Sounds good. Or I can drop off Gracie and Mr. Gibbes for you, later.”

I was, to put it mildly, stunned. I had noticed Bama warming up to Gracie, and she particularly seemed interested in Mr. Gibbes. She’d picked up the dog and stroked his curly fur with relish. This was the first time Bama had ever offered to do anything out of her way for me. I fought the desire to tell her no, but I remembered what Nana once told me, “People like doing favors for each other. Don’t deny someone else the pleasure, Kiki, just because you can’t handle feeling obligated.”

“That would be very kind of you. I appreciate it.” I gave Bama an extra key to my house in case we missed each other.

___

Anya seemed her usual self as she hopped in the car. Tilly was also talkative, but she paused long enough to thank me for the ride—even though she sat in the back with her clubs half on her lap. I’d consulted the schedule for golf and was relieved to see a local course was the practice location. It was only a few blocks from CALA. We swung by Bread Co., got the girls turkey sandwiches and lemonade, and I dropped them off at the course. I hated to spend the money, but the girls were clearly famished. They lit into their food with gusto. Now that post-meatloaf soup would have to last three days. Ugh.

“Don’t forget to pick up all your clubs when you get done,” I reminded Anya. She’d been very forgetful lately. The last time Maggie had picked up the girls, Anya had left her backpack in my friend’s car. We’d spent half the evening tracking Maggie and the books down.

I drove directly back to the school to help with the planting. This would give me a good chance to talk with Connie. I hoped I wouldn’t learn she was inside the school or even on the grounds when Sissy was killed, but if she let slip that she was, I’d pass the information along. At least we’d be making progress.

I parked and walked up the winding drive in front of the main admin building. I was running a bit behind, but not all the flats of flowers had already been planted. The majority of helpers were inside the gym helping decorate for the homecoming dance. I stepped inside and passed out brochures from the store. The festive ambience reminded me of the Opera Theatre function where I’d been introduced to Detweiler’s wife, Brenda. She’d tried to contact me several times afterward, and I’d managed to avoid her calls.

As far as I was concerned, I had nothing to say to her. I hadn’t known Detweiler was married. Like many cops, he didn’t wear a wedding ring. Yes, he’d kissed me once, but otherwise, nothing had happened. I, too, was an innocent victim of his misbehavior. And all that had stopped.

Except for now, when I needed his help to keep my daughter safe.

With those “cheery” thoughts, depression descended on me like a bad cold. I was working hard not to talk to Detweiler about what I really wanted to talk about: why had he led me on? In fact, there was no one I could turn to. Mert had made it clear she was disgusted with the man. Dodie was having health problems—and she and Horace had a perfect marriage. Clancy had been involved in an acrimonious divorce after her husband cheated on her.

No one in my circle of friends could hear my concerns. I couldn’t share the pain, the questions, the emotional tug of war inside me. I trudged up the asphalt, while studying my feet. On my back was a load of worries: fear for my daughter, concern for Dodie, guilt about my feelings for Detweiler.

Of all the jobs I could have chosen, digging in the dirt seemed most appropriate.

Connie looked up from stacking empty plastic pots. Her face broke into a wide grin when she saw me. I think the woman enjoyed my company at school events because she was pleased to have a companion with a mutual interest in writing, even if mine was mainly limited to family stories. She’d told me in a roundabout way our friendship was a welcome break from hearing moms talk about problematic teachers, homework battles, and the notoriously rotten school food for which CALA was famous. Money can’t buy you love and at this school, it couldn’t buy you a decent lunch either.

“Didn’t expect to see you here. Sorry we didn’t get to talk at book club. You a gardener?”

“Nope. I’m depressed and I need a way to work it off.”

“Lordy,” she said. As a South Carolina transplant, Connie had a vocabulary all her own. Her genteel manners and gracious ways were perfect accessories for a headmaster’s wife.

“Some days I’m not sure whether I want to shoot myself or someone else!”

I stopped, shocked at what I said. “Oops.”

“It’s absurd. It’s sick, but I can’t help it. I said something similar in anger to Elliott, and someone overheard and reported me to the police. The police! You know they tried to push me into admitting that I killed Sissy? ’Cause of a durn fool offhand comment. And a spat I’d had with my husband. Pathetic.”

“What’d you tell them?”

“I looked them straight in the eyes and said, ‘Heck, no, I didn’t want to kill Sissy Gilchrist. The person I wanted to shoot was my husband!’ Anyway, I wasn’t even around the school on Monday morning. I was online researching my new work in progress all morning. If they push it, I’ll let them take a gander at my computer.”

“You wanted to kill poor Elliott?”

She nodded. “Ever feel that way about your George?”

The whole world now knew my husband had been cheating on me before he died. “Yeh,” I admitted. “But someone else got to him first. Saved me the trouble.” Immediately after the words popped out, I covered my face with my hands. “I can’t believe I said that!”

Connie laughed. “The question I ask myself is how could a grown man be so stupid? What kind of an idiot hires a woman who plants herself on his desktop like a lounge singer? I walked into his office unannounced and nearly fell over in a faint. And I’m not the fainting type.”

Connie pulled off her sunglasses and wiped her eyes on a tissue that had been stuffed up her sleeve. “Sissy was leaning over and shaking her ta-ta’s at him. And I thought my husband was a leg man. I told him: ‘Elliott McMahan, your brain must have turned to mush. You aren’t smart enough to be a school headmaster.’ Why on earth would an intelligent man offer a teaching position to a woman like Sissy Gilchrist? Grits for brains, that’s what he has.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said,” and Connie drew herself up, tucked her chin down as though looking over reading glasses, and put one hand on her hip, “he said that he was thinking like a good Christian and giving a sinner a chance at redemption.”

“Redemption is for Green Stamps.”

“Amen, sister. I told him that Jesus may have forgiven the prostitute, but he surely didn’t invite her to come help minister to the little children.” Connie gestured to the ground, and we dropped to our knees to get back to the matter at hand. That’s what I love about being a woman: no matter what happens, in the end we’re brought round to sanity by life’s demands. We are nothing if not eminently practical. Straying husbands, sleezy bimbos, stupid choices, none of it mattered. The flowers still needed planting. Back home, clothes would need washing. Dinner would need to be cooked.

Life goes on when you’re a woman. And the force of knowing your work never ends carries you along, refusing to let you mope for too long.

Connie and I worked side by side. She handed me a trowel, and I dug holes for the mums. She squeezed and rapped the plastic pots to loosen the root balls. She plunked plants into the hole, and I tucked them in tight. We worked steadily for nearly a half an hour, distracting ourselves with talk about books we’d read, author interviews we’d heard, and other bookish topics.

My thoughts circled round to Sissy Gilchrist. “Connie, was she really as bad as all that?”

“Every bit. It’s all about essential nature. That’s what I’m talking about.” Connie asked me if I knew that cats were exempt from the leash laws in many states. I admitted I didn’t. Cats are exempt, she explained, because it is not part of the essential nature of a cat to be domesticated. Nor was it Sissy Gilchrist’s nature either. Therefore, to Connie’s way of thinking, expecting Sissy to act like a role model was going against nature.

“Elliott knows better. The man’s an educator! How many times have I heard him lecture parents about trying to turn a child who’s a social butterfly into a scholar? Or a shy retiring child into a performer? All of us have to work within a God-given framework. Sure, you can stretch the limits, but there’re still there!”

Despite his wife’s objections, Elliott hired Sissy because her father, Quentin Gilchrist, had offered to donate enough money to remodel the lunch room. The irony wasn’t lost on either of us.

Connie nodded solemnly. “That’s right. She may have been beaned with a brick her daddy paid for. Horrid, isn’t it?”

I directed the conversation back to why Quentin was so desperate to get his daughter a job at CALA. Especially considering what an obvious mismatch it was. I couldn’t imagine a parent setting a child up for failure. On the face of it, Quentin Gilchrist had done exactly that—and paid for the privilege.

“Sissy was going to move out of state. She wanted to get as far as possible from that cop she’d been married to. Take her son along with. Can’t say I blamed her there. Quentin and Paula were desperate to keep their little girl in town. Quentin told Elliott that if CALA would hire his daughter, he’d give the school enough for the new lunchroom expansion in brick, plus double his daughter’s salary every year.”

I dusted the dirt off my knees and stacked the empty plant flats. I was trying not to miss a word and to commit everything she said to memory so I could share it later. Connie misunderstood my reflective silence. “That shock you? About the donations?”

Heck, no. The lion’s share of Elliott’s job was stewardship. He was charged with protecting the school’s assets, both tangible and intangible, and increasing them. “ ’Course not, Connie. I may have grown up in the sticks, but after I fell off the watermelon truck I managed to learn a thing or two.”