Thoroughly 03 - Who Invited the Dead Man? (28 page)
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Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
BOOK: Thoroughly 03 - Who Invited the Dead Man?
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Ridd dropped by one Sunday afternoon to bring me some collard greens. He joined me for a glass of tea, and asked, “Are you taking care of the pool?” The swimming pool was in a high fenced enclosure behind our house. We didn’t swim between October and May, but it still needed looking after.
I clapped both hands to my cheeks. “Oh, lordy, I haven’t treated that pool since your daddy’s party. I padlocked the gate the day before the party, to keep small children from drowning, and then after Hiram got shot, I plumb forgot about it.”
We went to look. The blasted thing was a regular black lagoon, with a big turtle swimming around happy as a lark. I rested my head against the fence and bawled.
Ridd took my hand and led me inside. “Mama, you have got to hire more help. You need somebody to take care of the pool, to help Daddy bathe and dress, and to drive him back and forth to all these therapies. Walker and I are doing the best we can to help you keep the business going, but we can’t help out here as much as we’d like to. We’ve got jobs.”
“And families.” I pulled a tissue from my pocket to blow my nose. “I know, honey. You all have been so sweet. I know you can’t do more than you’re doing.”
“But you’re not Superwoman, Mama. You’ve got to admit it. You can’t do it all.”
“Where would I find somebody who could help Joe Riddley and take care of a pool? Hired help doesn’t grow on trees these days, you know.”
The next morning, I got an answer to a prayer I hadn’t even prayed. When we went to physical therapy, Darren wasn’t there. “He’s no longer with us,” is all they would say. The new therapist was a jolly woman who got Joe Riddley’s back up in one second by saying, “That bird will have to wait outside.”
“ ‘Take care of Joe’ is in my log,” he said, agitated. “I can’t do that if he’s not here.”
We were heading nowhere fast. “We’ll come back tomorrow without the bird,” I told her.
On our way home, Joe Riddley said, “I want Darren. I want Darren!”
“He’s not working there anymore, honey.”
“Where is he working? Take me there. Right now, Little Bit. You hear me?”
He was getting so upset, I went around the block and headed out to the apartments where Darren lived. It wasn’t hard to identify his unit. The little yellow bug was parked in front.
Darren came to the door in black jeans and T-shirt. He tried to grin, but his voice cracked with anxiety. “They say people don’t feel comfortable having me work with patients until this investigation is over. They didn’t fire me, just gave me a leave of absence.”
“How are you going to pay your bills?”
“I thought I’d ask the sheriff when my rent comes due.”
I spoke on impulse. “I don’t suppose you know anything about pools, do you?”
“Sure. I grew up in Miami. We had a pool all my life. What do you want to know?”
“Whether you’ll let me hire you. Ridd told me last night I need somebody to help with Joe Riddley—not with therapy, but driving him around, helping him bathe and dress. And I forgot to put chemicals in the pool for nearly a month, so it’s full of algae and a big old turtle.”
“That’s bad, but not impossible to fix.” He rubbed one hand across his hair. The blue had faded to gray, and the roots were half an inch long. “You sure you want somebody working for you who might have killed somebody?”
“You didn’t kill anybody. When can you come?”
He shrugged; his grin looked almost normal. “Oh, I might fit you in next year.”
“Want to start right now?”
“I’ll get my keys.”
Clarinda never had trouble stretching a meal for one more. Over dinner we agreed that Darren would pick Joe Riddley up after physical therapy each morning, bring him home, and help him exercise. I’d come home for dinner, but would get to put in a full morning’s work again. While Joe Riddley napped, Darren would work on the pool and do other jobs around the house. Then he’d drive Joe Riddley to occupational therapy, bring him home, and stay long enough after supper to help Joe Riddley to bed.
“I can’t remember another present that felt this good,” I told him as I left for work.
At supper that night, he and Joe Riddley chatted about baseball like two old cronies. When Joe Riddley talked about a pass instead of a throw, and a touchdown instead of a home run, Darren took it in stride. When it was bedtime, he got Joe Riddley to bed without a single grumble while I sat in the study recliner with my feet up, reading a novel. I hadn’t read a book in so long I felt like a parched woman taking a long, cool drink.
Darren tiptoed in and whispered, “I’m off now to see Alice.”
“Looks like you two would be tired of each other by now.”
He came in and perched on the edge of the love seat. “I couldn’t have made it through this without her. When I get down, she reminds me they can’t have a speck of evidence against me. She knows what it’s like to suffer, too. Do you know her story? She’s had a really sad life.”
That’s probably what made her so attractive to him.
I punished myself for that thought by saying, “Tell me about it. All I know is that her sister drowned before she came to work for Gusta.”
“That’s just the last part. First her mom and dad got married and had two kids, a brother and Alice.”
“I thought it was a sister,” I objected.
He held up one hand. “Wait. They had a boy and a girl, and Alice was the younger. When she was not quite one, her daddy and her brother were both killed in an automobile accident. A year later her mother married her stepfather and they had her sister. She and Terri were about three years apart. Her stepfather treated them both alike, and she adored him. He was in the Air Force and they lived all over the world. But when she was ten—no, thirteen, I think, somewhere around there—he was killed in a freak military accident. A lot of people said her mother ought to sue the Air Force, but she wouldn’t. She worked at Kmart the whole time they were in junior high and senior high, and Alice had to take care of herself and her sister all that time. From what she says, her sister panicked easily and was scared of a lot of things.”
“That’s how she died, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. They were scuba diving, and she caught her foot and panicked. Alice says they could have gotten her out if she’d left on her respirator or breathed with a buddy, but she was too scared. Before anybody could stop her, she’d ripped off her mask and taken in too much water. Alice said watching her sister die without being able to help her was the hardest thing she ever went through. Their mom died a couple of years ago—a bad heart, I think. Now she’s really alone, except for that aunt in Jacksonville. Have you ever heard a sadder story?”
“Not many,” I admitted. I could imagine one, though: a young man convicted of a murder he didn’t commit.
Alice didn’t look sad, though, when I saw her on my way home from the beauty parlor Saturday. She and Darren were running, and both wore wide smiles. His hair gleamed freshly blue in the sunlight, and hers was blowing alive and free around her face. That was the first time I’d seen her hair down since her first day in town. She sure was prettier that way. I wished she could loosen up a little overall.
Sunday night around nine, Ridd and Martha surprised me with a visit. “Bethany’s home with Cricket,” Martha told me, “and my hunk here brought his tape from this afternoon’s golf match. He’ll watch it and listen out for Pop if I can persuade you to go out for pie.”
Were two children ever more thoughtful? I grabbed my pocketbook. “I can always be persuaded to go for pie.”
Going in to Myrtle’s, we ran in to Maynard and Selena coming out. “We ate all the chocolate pie,” she teased me. “You’ll have to settle for coconut.”
“Myrtle generally keeps a piece in the back with my name on it,” I informed her.
As we settled ourselves at a table, Martha sighed. “I wish those two would go on and get married. If ever two people belonged together . . .” She broke off and her eyes widened. “Don’t look,” she said softly, “but Jed’s in the back booth with Gusta’s lady-in-waiting.”
I did look, of course. Alice sat in the last booth by the window, facing the door. Her hair was down, electric around her face. She wore a bright red sweater that actually fit, and when she lifted her head, I saw she was wearing mascara, blusher, and lipstick.
Jed looked spiffy, too, in a navy blazer, khaki slacks, and a white shirt open at the neck. They were eating pie with ice cream, and Jed was leaning across the table and waving his spoon around. He must have been cutting up, because she threw her head back and laughed.
“He brings out the best in her,” Martha said in satisfaction.
“Poor Darren,” I murmured.
“Yeah, but if Meriwether doesn’t want Jed, and Darren killed Hiram . . .”
Fortunately Myrtle slapped down large wedges of chocolate pie before us right then, or I might have spoken sharply to Martha for once in my life. We each took a bite and exchanged the conspiratorial smiles of women who aren’t counting calories right then.
As Myrtle poured each of us a cup of coffee, she glanced toward her door. “Uh-oh,” she grunted. “Now we’ve got trouble.”
If you grew up in the South, those words always spark an instant of fear that somebody is about to do something stupid related to race. But this time it was Meriwether, coming in with Slade. He looked like a model in white jeans and a yellow cotton sweater, and while I don’t generally like a man in gold chains, his looked real good. Meriwether didn’t look so bad herself, in a green corduroy pantsuit that probably cost twice as much as my Sunday best. She’d pulled her hair back at her neck with a green-and-gold silk scarf, and even had on green high heels. I do like to see a woman’s shoes match her dress.
She didn’t notice Jed and Alice, because she came straight across the restaurant to greet us. Slade took the booth next to Jed’s and ordered two pieces of cake. Over her shoulder, Meriwether called, “I want pecan pie with ice cream. Nobody makes pecan pie like Myrtle.”
“Hi, Meriwether!” Alice called from their booth, raising her spoon. “That’s what we’re having, too.”
Meriwether turned with a smile, but when she saw Jed, her expression would have frozen a polar bear. “You know, honey,” she called to Slade, “I’m not real hungry after all. Why don’t we go back to my place?”
Slade hesitated, then slid from the booth. “Sure, sweetie. Anything you say.”
“Anything you say, sweetie,” Jed mimicked. “Or anything your grandmother says, or your daddy says. . . .” He shook his head and heaved a big sigh.
Meriwether stomped over to the booth and glared down at him. “My father is dead, you scum. I’ll ask you not to mock him.”
“Oh.” He exhaled like she’d punched him. “When? I didn’t know—”
Martha and I exchanged stricken looks. I hadn’t taken the time to write Jed that Garlon died. Apparently nobody else had, either.
Meriwether obviously didn’t believe him. She turned to Alice with a pitying smile. “How you can go out with this unfeeling, childish oaf is more than I can understand.” She would have swept out, but as she turned, she caught her skinny heel in one of the many holes in Myrtle’s linoleum. Instead of making a grand exit, she wrenched off her heel and pitched to the floor with a yelp of pain.
Martha, being a nurse, rushed right over, followed by Myrtle—avoiding my eye. Jed was already on his knees beside Meriwether. By that time on a Sunday, Myrtle’s floor wasn’t going to do his pants any good, but he didn’t seem to care. “How bad are you hurt? Do you want me to call a doctor? Poor honey! Where does it hurt?”
“I twisted my knee.” I couldn’t tell if Meriwether’s tears were from pain or anger. Probably a little of both. “I don’t think I can get up.” He bent his head and she put one arm around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Before he could help her up, though, Slade—who was hovering like he didn’t know what to do—tapped Jed on the shoulder. “Pardon me, buddy, but this is my date.” I noticed he squatted so his white jeans didn’t touch the floor.
Meriwether took her arm off Jed and Jed backed away. But though he spoke to Slade, his eyes were still glued to hers. “Then you take real good care of her. You hear me?”
Meriwether’s lips trembled, and I was afraid she was going to cry. Instead, before anybody knew she was going to do it, she’d scooped up a blob of lettuce just dripping with salad dressing that somebody had dropped on the floor. She hurled it at Jed and hit him smack in the middle of the throat where his collar lay open. “This is all your fault,” she told him, her eyes glistening with tears.
I fully expected him to yell at her. Who could have blamed him if he had? Even the pain she was in didn’t excuse those manners. But Jed sat down hard in his booth, dug the disgusting blob from his throat, and wiped it on his saucer. Then he picked up a piece of pie crust off his plate and threw it at her, hitting her on the shoulder. “Maybe it’s all your fault.”
“Stop it, you two!” Myrtle’s knees popped as she bent to pick the pie crust off the floor. “I don’t allow food fights in here. You oughta know that.”
Martha gently probed Meriwether’s knee. “Does that hurt?”
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