Cemetery Silk (7 page)

I had not expected whole-hearted approval of my choice, but I also never imagined I would be verbally tarred and feathered. Mother peered cautiously out the library doors.

“Paisley! Why, that is you. Oh dear, you haven't had a wreck have you?”

“No, Mother, I'm terrific. Meet my new Jeep!”

She raised her elegant eyebrows just a millimeter. “Couldn't you find something a little less tasteless? Really, dear, that is the ugliest thing on four wheels I have ever seen. And lose those silly boots, dear. You look like a clown.”

She turned and went back inside. I had been dismissed.

I was mad now, and determined that someone come and play with me and my new toy. I honked the horn madly and was a bit dismayed to hear something that sounded more like a wounded goose than the macho basso profondo I had expected.

Cassie came bouncing out of the back door with a big grin thinking she would see some friend or other, since I had just sounded the teenage siren. The bounces died down and the grin faded as she approached and realized that somehow the Jeep and I were together.

“My God, Mom! What are you doing with that monstrosity? What a horrible color! You look positively bilious just standing next to it. Where is our real car?”

That was it! I started laughing. Rafe, with all his Latin dignity, hated it when I laughed at him, and Cassie liked it even less. She looked at me with fire in her eyes and actually stomped her foot. I laughed even harder. She picked up a big handful of wet mud from the edge of the driveway and flung it at the front door of my truck. I lay across the hood and laughed hysterically.

I heard her slam the back door. I tried to control myself, but it was another five minutes before I could wipe my eyes, blow my nose, and hiccough my way into the house.

Mother was standing by the kitchen sink looking out at my vehicle.

“Really, Paisley, whatever possessed you?”

“Look, Mother, I never liked that little red death trap. You used to call it that, remember? This is much safer, and besides,” I finished lamely, “we can carry things.”

She looked at me suspiciously. “What sort of things?”

“Well, I don't know, farm things.”

I searched my mind desperately for something.

“Antiques! You always see things you want to buy when we go to those flea markets but you don't have a way to get them home. Now you do!”

“Paisley, that's just the excuse I give rather than hurt someone's feelings by saying, ‘I wouldn't have that if you gave it to me.'”

“Oh.”

She looked out the window speculatively.

“Now, if you bought that thing because we need to blend into the scenery when we go about foiling the schemes of evildoers, I think with a little more mud on the fenders you may be onto something.”

She turned and grinned at me. “Paisley, is the game afoot?”

I gave her a quick and grateful hug. “Yes, Mother! The game is definitely afoot! Let's go get muddy. You want to drive or shall I?”

“I'll give it a go.” She winked and looked down at my feet.

“Do they have those boots in my size and maybe a more discreet color?”

Chapter Seven

As Mother got ready for our first adventure in the Jeep, I went to seek out Cassie. I banged on her bedroom door like I was the teenager. She would not answer me at first but when I mentioned the possibility of new footwear my beloved little brat finally condescended to open up.

“Do they have to be cowboy boots?”

“No, they have all kinds of boots.”

“And leather jackets?”

This could end up costing me more than I planned.

“I can't afford leather jackets right now, but when we get the book published you can have twenty.”

“I don't want twenty. I just want one, black, with pants to match.”

“Okay.”

“And a vest.”

Thus, as any mother worth her salt, I allowed myself to be neatly blackmailed for daring to want something for myself.

“Now, put on something dirty. We are going to go ride in the mud somewhere to complete our disguise.”

“Disguise?”

“Yeh, mud. It was your idea, Cassie.”

And so we spent a lovely afternoon driving in the fields by the pond, then by the bigger artificial lake by the cliffs. Everything was still wet and muddy from the rains last week and our camouflage was complete in no time at all.

Cassie and Mother fell in love with my mean green machine once they saw where it would go and what it could do. We unanimously decided to name it Watson and christened it with a cherry slushy at the Dairy Queen.

I brought a map and we sat at one of the tables in front of the DQ and planned our assault on the unsuspecting Mr. Dibber.

William and Abigail had lived in Lanierville, a coal-mining town full of strip malls and fast food emporiums. It was a sad and dreary little place to live and a worse place to die. And now that we knew they could have lived anywhere in the world, it seemed especially tragic that Lanierville was their final resting place. It was, however, the place we decided to start our quest.

Mother was the one who knew the route and planned our trip. She also had a list of Abigail's friends and wanted us to call as many as we could. As she said, “You never know what someone may or may not know.”

Criminology was hard work, so we rewarded ourselves with hot fudge sundaes and promised each other our next meal would have fewer fat grams.

Cassie begged to drive home. I agreed even though I feared driving with her under the influence of chocolate. We piled into the front seat of Watson, hips touching a little more than before, and headed back to the farm to prepare for the morrow.

Mother was up at the crack of dawn preparing low-fat pimento cheese sandwiches, which I insisted was an oxymoron, and a big jug of sweet iced tea for our road trip.

Cassie came bopping into the kitchen already dressed and ready to go before I had finished my first cup of coffee. They were both as giddy and excited as little girls going to their first circus. I took my second cup and my grumpy old self off to a nice hot shower so they could have their fun uninterrupted by my morning meanies.

While I was toweling off, I heard them outside in the driveway loading a big cooler into the back of Watson. I peeked out the bathroom window and watched as they circled the Jeep and kicked the tires. Cass actually rearranged some mud on the front fender and then began to argue with Mother over the advantages of mud on the license plate. Finally they agreed to put just enough to obscure the county name. I was impressed. I was also tickled. This promised to be fun.

How could I have been so wrong? Ninty-four minutes of bickering and nit-picking later, I wanted to throw them both out. I finally spied a rest area and swung in without warning my combative passengers.

“Paisley! What are you doing?”

“Mom, I have to pee,” complained Cassie.

“We have no time to ‘pee,'” remonstrated Mother. “If you expected to have to urinate, you should have done so before we left home.”

“Gran, if you don't get out and let me go PEE, I can't be responsible for what happens next!”

Mother scrambled out as gracefully as she could. She gave my progeny a withering look that bounced off like a rubber band.

I allowed myself a stifled scream and uttered a string of particularly vile and disgusting oaths in Spanish. My sisters-in-law had educated me well.

“Why, Paisley, whatever is the matter? I don't know what you said but it sounded really nasty. Remember what your father used to say: only the uneducated need to express themselves with curses. The wise man has the whole English language at his command.”

I looked at her in disbelief. “Then bloody hell! You and Cassie have fought and argued for the last one hundred miles, and you want to know what's the matter?”

“We were not fighting. We were just having a spirited discourse.”

“Spirited discourse, my hind foot! You were fighting over the route, the gas station, the color of the cars, the weather, when to eat.…”

“Hey, Gran,” Cassie said as she opened the back door, “how about a sandwich?”

“Why of course, darling.” Mother gave me a sugary smile. “Be right there.”

I banged my fists against the steering wheel. Why didn't I ever learn? I knew I could never beat them, so I might as well join them.

“Pass me a sandwich, please,” I begged humbly.

“Sure thing, Mom. I hope you can relax now and enjoy the rest of the trip like Gran and me. Want some tea?”

Full stomachs made us all more even-tempered and the last few miles of the trip went by quickly. We were almost in Lanierville when Cassie made another announcement.

“Mom, I have to pee again. It's Gran's fault, all that iced tea.”

Since we had to stop and use the facilities, as Mother called them, we decided to pick a place in Lanierville where the town folk might congregate and chat. After a few passes up and down Main Street, we settled on Molly's Steak and Coffee House. It looked clean and neat and had three big windows in front. Cassie tried to peer in all three and check out the food, but frilly green and white checked curtains blocked her view. She did manage, however, to attract the attention of every customer in the place. Our entrance, therefore, was far from unobtrusive. To make matters worse, a little bell over the door signaled our entrance with a merry little “ting-a-ling.”

Molly herself, according to the nametag adorning her ample bosom, saw us to a table in the back. I guessed the window booths were reserved for regulars.

When Cassie ordered a cup of coffee and apple pie, Mother and I decided to follow suit, and I added a bowl of vanilla ice cream for a la modes. We must have done the right thing because Molly was all smiles. It was like ordering the right wine at “21.”

Mother followed Cassie to the ladies room and left me alone at the table. I stretched and relaxed back against my chair and looked around the room. Only two of the front booths were occupied. Two old codgers wearing overalls and denim jackets sat in the one closest to the door. On closer inspection I realized they were not that old, just worn and weather-beaten farmers.

Another waitress, a skinnier, younger version of Molly, was having a quiet flirtatious conversation with a young man sitting in the second booth. He was wearing jeans, a chambray shirt, and a Braves baseball cap. The girl twirled her impossibly blonde hair in her fingers while he fiddled with the long ends of his mustache. She had really lovely ankles and nice legs and kept crossing and uncrossing them to keep his attention. Every time she made this maneuver Molly would frown and grunt in her direction.

I heard Cassie and Mother returning to the table. So did the Braves fan whose attention was suddenly focused on my daughter. The skinny little waitress almost fell off the stool trying to get him back by gyrating her lower limbs. When he asked her for something from the kitchen without taking his eyes off of Cassie, she flounced out to get it with a sour expression on her face.

The pie was delicious, a perfect flaky crust with just a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon in the apples. When we complimented her, Molly was ripe for the picking. We asked her to join us for a second cup of coffee.

“Let me send some of these folks on their way, and I'll be right back,” she smiled. I watched her smile turn steely as she approached the young man.

“Bobby, I reckon your kids is gettin' off the school bus right ‘bout now. Bet Mary Jo could sure use some help from their daddy while she's lookin' after the baby and cooking dinner. What say?”

“I say you mind your own business, Molly,” he snarled.

But he got up and fished some coins and a crumpled dollar bill out of his jeans pocket. Molly opened the cash register but he slammed his money down on the table and stormed out leaving the little bell over the door jingling madly.

Molly paused at the other booth, spoke to the two farmers for a moment and warmed up their coffee. Then she stepped behind the counter and picked up a fresh pot and another cup and came back to our table.

“Where you folks from?” she asked with a tired smile.

I decided to let Mother field Molly's questions.

“Well, my daughter here has been living up North for a while,” she made it sound like I had been serving a prison sentence, “but my granddaughter is going to school in Atlanta. I had some people here in Lanierville, and we came over to visit.”

“Well, that's nice. Who are they? I guess I know just about everybody in town and for about ten miles around. Been here since I came with my husband in 1970. Bought this little cafe and worked it together for thirty years ‘till he died last spring.” She stopped for a gulp of black coffee.

Mother jumped in. “The truth is my cousin died last spring, too. And her husband just recently passed away.”

Molly straightened up like she was ready to answer a question on Jeopardy. “The Roths, Mr. William and Miz Abigail! They were your people? Why, Miz Abigail was laid out the same day as my Hector. What do you know,” she added. “It sure is a small world.”

Suddenly she was our new best friend, related to us by a cruel twist of fate. We had shared sorrow and that made us both friend and confidant. She scooted her chair up to the table and leaned in closer. It was an amazing act considering the size of her bosom.

“Weren't it a crime what those funeral home people charged? Not that my Hector didn't leave me well provided for, and money for his funeral, too.”

She shook her head without disturbing the lacquered hairdo even the slightest. “Poor Mr. William! I ain't inquiring to be nosey, but he must'a had a hard time puttin' away Miz Abigail. What with them only livin' on the social security.” She whispered, “I heard she was buried in a borrowed dress.”

I could feel Mother's blood pressure rising even though her mouth maintained the same sweet smile. I took over to avoid bloodshed.

“Did they come in here often?”

“Oh, you couldn't say often, what with them being so careful ‘bout money and all. But Mr. William, he used to meet a couple of his friends here once a month for coffee and pie. And sometimes when they went for his checkup over to the clinic they would stop by here afterwards for some ice cream. Miz Abigail loved my rocky road. Mr. William couldn't abide chocolate. He always had vanilla.”

“You make your own ice cream?” Mother, ever the gourmand, was intrigued enough to forgive Molly for her remarks about the dress.

Molly beamed proudly. “Sure thing! Used to make fifteen flavors when Hector was alive, but now I'm doing good to freeze just the chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. All the help I got is that no good child of my sister's and her creepy husband out in the kitchen. Boy, that was a mistake. We should'a sold out and went to Florida instead of letting them come and work for us when Hector took sick.”

She leaned closer across the table, bosom splaying out dangerously. “Between you and me, he's drunk half the time and she sleeps around.”

Mother was beginning to look aristocratic and offended by the slatternly behavior of the peasants. Cassie just looked comatose. I decided to get what I could out of Molly before they gave the game away.

“What friends did William meet? Did you know them?”

“Know them? Don't I know everybody? Let's see. Sometimes it was just him and Mr. Vern Callaway and old Joe Parks. Other times that Dibber man joined them, although he's a lot younger. And well, he's just not like the others, not as genteel, ya know? He always made it so somebody else had to pay his bill. Mr. William even had to pick up the tab for him sometimes. I always thought that was like stealin'. Never did like that man. Glad he's gone.”

Cassie came back to life in an instant. “Gone? Dibber's gone? Where's he gone?”

Molly got a little funny look on her face. For the first time, I could see suspicion in her eyes.

“Why do you care about Ernest Dibber? I thought you was interested in the Roths?”

Cassie had turned a bright, neon shade of pink. It was amusing. I had not seen my self-possessed daughter embarrassed in a long time.

“It's just an interesting story, that's all,” she offered lamely.

I could not let it end here. We needed just a little more from Molly. The niece had been staring out the window after Bobby while we were talking. She finally gave up on him and sat behind the counter filing her nails.

“Your niece sure is pretty. You all are a good-looking family. Is your sister pretty too?”

Molly patted her stiffly sprayed hair and grinned.

“Hector always said she was the best lookin' and I was the best cook. But I was the one got Miss Firecracker July 1964. Hector was always proud of that. Betty did have pretty legs though and so does.…” She inclined her head in her niece's direction.

She continued in a hoarse whisper, “Wish she'd keep ‘em closed, if you know what I mean. That Dibber, he was one of the first to come pantin' after her. Here every night, he was, almost from the first. That's when he started spending his own money. Leaving her big tips. I'd always come up behind him an' ask about Sue, even though I could never abide that woman.”