Bone Dance (5 page)

To Lex's annoyance, Charlene broke from the script
completely and went to kneel down beside Loretta. Now what? he thought. Although, he had to admit, it looked good, the purity of Loretta next to the obviously shop-worn Charlene. Maybe he'd leave that bit in. The Saint praying with the Sinner. Yeah, he liked it. Gave everybody a good feeling, he could see that. Those in the crowd who were watching the little tableau were nodding and crying happily.

And it seemed to make them all feel generous, too. Lex noted with satisfaction that the offering baskets coming back to the platform were full to overflowing. He'd never seen it this good.

It was time for Gloria to open up all the stops. The auditorium reverberated with the militant strains of “Onward Christian Soldiers”, Lex raised his hands in a final blessing, and it was over. Wearily, he made his way to the back of the platform behind the backdrop and slumped into a chair. From his inside pocket, he dug out the mini flask and took a long pull.

It had been a rough night.

He could hear Joe working the floor in front of the platform, helping people back up, giving them a small bible and a handful of tracts and encouraging them before he sent them on their way.

“Uh, Boss, we have a little problem here.” Joe's voice at his elbow roused him.

Lex looked up distractedly. “What is it, Joe?”

“That old guy on the end?”

“Yeah. What about him?”

“He's dead.”

The auditorium was darkened and cold. Hours had passed
since the body had been removed, and only the white chalk outline and the yellow police tape were left to show that anything amiss had taken place.

Lex longed for a drink, but he was all too aware of the detective's skeptical eyes watching his every move. God, what a mess! he thought. Murder! The worst possible thing that could happen. He slumped back into his seat. He wasn't sure how he was going to pull out of this one. It was the kind of news that made headlines anyway, but by happening at a Revival, it was going to be top tabloid fodder. He rubbed his hands wearily over his face and felt the beginning of stubble on his chin. He'd look like hell on the front pages when the press, already ten deep outside the police cordon in the parking lot, got through with him.

“So, just to tie up a few loose ends, sir, could we just go over the details one more time?” The detective lounged in a seat in the front row.

Lex dragged his attention back to the present. “Certainly, detective. Whatever I can do to help you in this tragic, tragic event.”

“Now, about Miss Danvers. Did you know that the deceased was her father?” the detective asked.

They'd already taken Loretta away. Lex still couldn't believe it. “No, no, I had no idea. None at all.”

“Did she seem unusually upset tonight?'

Lex hesitated. He pursed his lips as if trying to remember. “Well, she was a little distracted, but I didn't think anything of it.” He had a momentary flash of Loretta's strained and white face, her eyes fixed on the man in front of her.

“Did you see the gun in her hand?”

“No. She had palm flashlights. I don't know how she'd hold a gun.”

The detective sighed. “It's a very small calibre gun, only good for close range. It is possible to hold it and pull the
trigger, even with a palm light.”

Lex replayed the scene again. Loretta pointing at the old man and his falling like a sack of potatoes.

“Did you hear the discharge?”

“No. It was hard to see or hear anything. You know, lots of flashing lights and the organ really pounding out the music.”

Loretta had shot the old guy in cold blood, straight through the heart. God! Lex shook his head in disbelief.

“Did the deceased say anything to Miss Danvers before the incident?”

“No. He was just there in the front with the others. I never saw him before tonight.” Lex suppressed a shudder as he thought of those cold, dead eyes looking into his own.

“Did you know that Miss Danvers possessed a firearm?”

“No.” They'd found it in the pocket of Loretta's gown. Loretta had protested that it wasn't hers, that she'd never seen it before, but the fact remained that it was in her possession. Lex wondered what else she'd kept from him.

“Well, I think that wraps it up for now, sir. You'll need to stick around for the next week in case anything else comes up, but for the meantime, you're free to go back to your hotel.” The detective closed his book with a small snap and hauled himself up out of the chair. “Please call the station and let us know if you're planning on leaving town for any reason.”

Lex waited until the detective closed the door behind him, then blew out the deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and pulled out the flask. He took a long drink, feeling the liquor burn its way down his throat and into his stomach.

From the shadows behind the platform, Charlene sauntered over and sat down next to him. She reached for his flask, took a swallow and said, “Are they gone?”

“Yeah. Helluva thing, isn't it?”

“Well, Lex honey, don't worry, the show will go on. You still got me'n Joe and Gloria.”

“Yeah. But it won't be the same without Loretta.”

“Sure it will, honey.” Lex could feel Charlene's hand on his knee. Somehow, it felt comforting. “We'll just go on as we always have. Only now, I'll use some of Loretta's stuff. Dye my hair black. Spout the Bible. I can do that, honey. You'll see.” Her hand moved up his thigh. “It'll be just like it always was. The four of us.”

Lex put his hand over hers and squeezed. Good old Charlene. He could always count on her in a pinch. They went back a long ways, he and Charlene, all the way back to their carny days when he was a barker for her Annie Oakley show. Yeah, they'd make out okay. They were survivors, he and Charlene.

Charlene heard the musical cue and got ready to take her place on the platform. She gave the black wig one last pat, pulled the white veil up over it and sucked in her stomach.

It felt good to be back in the spotlight again.

And all because of a chance meeting with a bitter old man. He'd come looking for his daughter, acting on a rumour he'd heard from some member of his small-town congregation, but he'd bumped into Charlene first.

Under Charlene's gentle prodding, he finally admitted that he'd brought a gun with him. He told Charlene that his death would be worth the sacrifice if he could save the soul of his only daughter. He would pay the penalty for the great sin of murder, he knew, but he was willing to forego his place in heaven for her.

It didn't take Charlene long to convince him that there was
a better way. He would have heaven and his daughter would have time to repent before she stood before the heavenly throne.

As she said to him, “It's better far for her to rot in prison than to rot in hell.” That argument clinched the deal.

When the time came, Charlene had no qualms about shooting the crazy old coot. Slipping the gun into Loretta's pocket was a simple flick of the wrist.

Charlene smoothed the blue fabric over her hips, took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I have come with a message tonight,” she began.

When
Pat Wilson
's not “on the road” delivering seminars, she's busy writing and is the author of numerous non-fiction books. Her
Living in Excellence
work is a best-selling motivational audio cassette program. She now writes in the “empty nest” she shares in Nova Scotia with her husband Gerald, two cats and a dog
.

I didn't like the way they sang,

And told it to their face,

The heartaches, and the done-me-wrongs

And the dreadful brooding pace.

I ridiculed their thinning hair

And the non-electric bass

And their oh-so-dull outfits—

They were so sadly out of place.

I screamed at them from the bar stool,

“Country singing isn't hot!”

My heckling killed the audience,

What killed
me
was how they shot.

Joy Hewitt Mann

Father leaned against the wall of my room. Home in Buenos Aires on a five-day pass from his posting at an army prison in the northern Argentine pampas, he'd insisted on spending his leave closeted in our apartment—unwilling to meet old friends, go out for meals or see a show.

“I only want to be here and spend my time with you and your mother,” he said when I suggested we go to a tango competition.

For five days Father never let Mother out of his sight for more than a few minutes. He sat with her on the balcony of our Recollect District apartment, held her hand as they watched television, slumped in a kitchen chair as she prepared meals. He looked ill—gaunt with dark-circled eyes and gray skin; and he acted depressed—quiet and withdrawn.

That he'd come to talk to me while he waited for his ride back to the north seemed like a positive sign.

“We're losing the war. The Generals should have known the British would never give up the Malvinas,” he said.

“Will that be a good thing?”

“It'll mean the end of them, of the Generals.”

“Father, what's the matter?”

Although his expression remained impassive, he stared at
me with a frightening intensity. “Paula, you've always been a good daughter. I have something important I want you to know. First, you must promise not to tell your mother; she's been sick, and I can't burden her. Also, you must not act until the Generals are gone.”

The hunted look in his eyes and the urgency of his words frightened me.

Mother stepped into the room. “Enrico, they're here—it's time to go.”

Father enveloped me in a bear hug. “Never forget how much I love you,” he said in a normal voice and then whispered, “The tiger—remember when you were a little girl?”

The tiger! What could a tiger have to do with anything?

After he'd gone, Mother prepared two cups of
maté
that we took to the balcony, where we sat amid a jungle of greenery inhaling the spicy fragrance of geraniums.

“Mother, I can understand why he's so thin. It's happened since the army moved him north to the pampas. The heat and humidity must be terrible, and the food's probably rotten. But it isn't just his weight. He's so withdrawn and different than he used to be.” I reached over and clasped her arm. “What's wrong with Father?”

“It's his job. Something about it is destroying him.” Mother gently laid her hand over mine. “But he refuses to talk about it. He says it's better for me not to know.” Tears slipped down her pale, papery cheeks. “I pleaded with him to set up an appointment with Dr. Rodriguez. Even if the doctor didn't think Enrico was sick, and I can't imagine that he wouldn't conclude immediately that he was, he's an old friend and would provide Enrico with a certificate saying he was unfit. If he had that, he could apply for a medical discharge.”

“What did Father say?”

“That there was no point seeing Franco Rodriguez because they would never allow him to leave the army: there was no way out.”

“When's his next leave?”

“When I asked, he said he wasn't sure and, if he didn't come back, to remember how much he loved us.” She sobbed and reached in the pocket of her printed green skirt for one of her embroidered handkerchiefs. “I knew he wanted to say more, but he was afraid.”

I wondered if I should bring up his cryptic reference to the tiger, but I didn't think she'd heard his remark, and I decided it wouldn't be helpful to tell her. Reluctantly, I went off to classes at the Catholic University.

During my lectures and long after I should have slept, I puzzled about his reference to tigers, but I couldn't relate tigers to anything important in my childhood.