The Cabin on Souder Hill Page 17
“I saw your shoes under the coffee table in the living room,” Pink said, and went to retrieve them. When he returned, Michelle was slumped on the floor at the foot of the bed, sobbing silently into her knees, her shoulders jerking. Pink heard the siren coming up the hill as he knelt next to Michelle and placed his arm around her shoulder. He’d never been much of a nurturer, felt awkward even pretending, so he tried to remember how he’d seen men do it in movies. They always did it without words. But it was hard not saying anything.
*****
Death grip. That’s what Loudon called it. Told Pink he had to break the husband’s fingers. “Had to snap ’em like twigs,” Loudon explained to Pink. “That’s why I had you take her inside. Couldn’t have her seeing that.”
Michelle had not struggled when Slider escorted her to the cruiser. She sat in the back seat staring out the window, like a damn puppy headed to the pound, Pink thought. There wasn’t anything he could do for her. Even so, something purled in his chest at the sorry sight of her.
Loudon went back in the house and called Emerson to come fetch the body.
“Oh, shit, Loudon,” Pink said, following behind. “Tell Emerson to bring Lulu’s ashes with him. I plumb forgot ’em this morning.”
After Loudon relayed the message, he grimaced and handed the phone to Pink. “What is it, Emerson?” Pink said, jerking the phone to his mouth. He didn’t want to talk to Emerson or listen to whining about proper procedures.
“Well, Mattie didn’t pick out an urn or anything. What should I bring them in?”
“Bring ’em in a dang baggie for all I care. They’re ashes, for Christ’s sake.”
Loudon shook his head. “They’re the remains of your mama’s beloved friend, Pink.”
“Shit, now I’m getting it from Loudon too,” Pink said, turning his back to Loudon. “What do you put ashes in when folks ain’t got much money?”
“A plastic container with their name on the outside,” Emerson said. “Containers come in brown, tan, and green, although not many folks choose the green ’cause it kind of looks like mold and I guess folks don’t want their loved ones remembered that way. Then I put a nice label on the end with the name of the loved one and the name of my funeral home in case—”
“Brown box’ll be fine. Thanks. And hurry. This body up here is thawing and it doesn’t look good.” Pink hung up the phone without waiting for Emerson to answer.
“You have a hard way about you, Pink,” Loudon said, gathering up Michelle’s purse and personal items. “See if she has a trash bag in the pantry there, one of those white kitchen deals to put these clothes in.”
A hard way? Pink thought, taking offense at Loudon’s statement. Well, if that ain’t the grounds calling the coffee black, he was about to say, but went to the pantry instead and found a yellow box full of Glad kitchen bags. Loudon was looking through Michelle’s purse when Pink came back. “That ain’t legal, is it?” Pink said.
Loudon shifted his eyes toward Pink then continued stirring the contents with his pen, setting a few items on the kitchen table. One of them caught Pink’s eye. He picked it up and studied it.
“That’s one of those pentagrams, isn’t it?” Loudon asked.
Pink nodded. “Isabelle had one like it years ago. Used to wear it around her neck all the time. My mama gave it to her when she was thirteen.” Pink palmed the pendant, the chain dangling from his closed fist as if his concentration alone might reveal the source of the jewelry. Getting nothing but blanks, Pink popped his fingers open suddenly to have another peek.
“Looks just like it,” Pink said, shaking his head.
Loudon grabbed the pendant and dropped it in the purse. “Must be thousands like it, Pink. I see kids wearing them all the time.”
“I never have,” Pink said.
“You wouldn’t, unless it happened to be draped across a girl’s low-cut tank top, or swinging from her rear end over a tight pair of jeans.”
“That’s just mean, Loudon,” Pink said. “But I like how you think.”
Loudon shook his head, taking the gun he’d removed from the husband’s hand and putting it in a clear plastic food bag. “I got to run a check on this. Wish to hell Emerson would get here so I could get back to the station. I gotta get the coroner on this to make sure it was a suicide before I let Mrs. Stage go back to Atlanta.”
“Christ, Loudon, you think the woman shot her husband, then superglued the damn gun in his hand?” Pink laughed, but Loudon didn’t share the humor, intent on staring at the door like a housebroke dog. Pink dug in his pocket and brought out his keys. “Take the Suburban down and leave it at the bottom of the hill. Elmer must have gotten the squad car towed out by now. I’ll help Emerson with the body then ride down with him.”
Loudon squinted with concern. “Well, this probably isn’t the best idea I’ve heard all year. But thank you, Pink,” Loudon took the keys. “And don’t touch anything. It’s not your house anymore.”
“Yeah, right, but I been thinking about buying it back since it’s going on the market. Isabelle doesn’t seem to want to sleep under the same roof with me anymore anyways, and I’ve always loved this place. Built it with my own two hands. Even did the wiring and plumbing.”
“You’re right handy, Pink. No one would argue that.” Loudon jangled the keys and let himself out carrying Michelle’s things.
When Pink was sure Loudon was gone, he rummaged through the dresser drawers and closets, the kitchen cabinets, the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, curious how Michelle and her husband lived. In the back of his mind he was certain she owned a vibrator, something Isabelle would never tolerate in the house. Pink had bought one at the Lion’s Den years ago. Isabelle could barely stop laughing. “That’s not going inside me! If you want me to cram that up your ass, I’ll be glad to. I’ll use a damn hammer if you want.”
Pink searched the cabinet under the bathroom sink, making it okay in his mind by telling himself if he was going to list the house, it was best he knew as much about it as possible.
“What you doing there, Pink?” a voice said.
Pink shot up from the cabinet, hitting his head on the edge of the countertop. “Damn, Emerson! You wearing cotton shoes? Make a damn noise when you sneak up on somebody!”
“You gonna help me with the body. Curt didn’t come in today.”
“Who the hell is Curt?”
“That young kid I got working for me. Up from Valdosta, Georgia. Trying life with his pa for a while. Boy isn’t much use, but I need the help.”
“Well if he ain’t much help . . . how can he be any help?”
“I don’t even know what you’re trying to ask me, Pink, and I don’t have time to figure it out. Got to get this body loaded and skedaddle. Got a bereaved family coming up from Buncombe at two, and I haven’t even suited the dearly departed yet.”
Pink followed Emerson out to the deck. Emerson unzipped the black bag and spread it out next to the body. “Sure is a mess,” Emerson said. “Closed casket for sure. Can’t hardly patch a hole that big and make it look natural.”
“Christ, Emerson. Save the shoptalk for Curt when he comes back to work. Let’s get him in the bag.”
They rolled the body into the sack, then wrestled the limbs in, and zipped it shut. “Let me get the gurney,” Emerson said. “That way we won’t have to carry him so far.”
Pink watched as Emerson tried to force the gurney through the snow in the driveway. “Hell of a storm, hey, Pink? Bad as ’93.”
“You and Loudon,” Pink said. “Can’t nobody remember ’93 was worse? Way worse. Twice as bad.”
“This one’s pretty bad too, Pink. Had a hard time getting up the hill.”
“Let’s get this thing on the damn gurney so I can get the hell out of here.”
They lifted the bag onto the table, the metal zipper clattering when they flopped it do
wn. Pink helped Emerson guide the gurney through the snow. They lifted it into the back of the camper shell.
“Whose pickup is this?” Pink asked.
“Kelsey’s. My brother-in-law. I knew the van wouldn’t get up the mountain, so I asked Kelsey if I could borrow his truck. He’s giving me a hand down at the mortuary with Curt gone and all. Kelsey doesn’t do much, but I need the help.”
“Right. Good luck with . . . whatever,” Pink said.
“Yeah, we’ll see you later, Pink.”
Emerson was pulling out of the driveway when Pink ran after him yelling, pounding his fist on the camper shell. When Emerson stopped, Pink jerked the door open and threw himself into the cab. “Loudon took my truck down the hill,” Pink said, out of breath. “I need a ride.” Pink looked down at the plain brown box on the seat next to him then pushed it closer to Emerson to make more room for himself.
“Oh yeah. Almost forgot. Them’s Lulu’s ashes,” Emerson said. “I think the brown was a good choice, even though tan seems to be the most popular. I think folks like the tan because it looks like fine oak wood or something. You know. The brown, well, it just looks plastic.”
Chapter 24
His mother handed Pink a shovel and broom and asked him to clear snow from the circle. When he set the plastic box with Lulu’s ashes on the coffee table, her eyes grew bright for a moment. Burrito yapped at his ankles then darted over to Mattie and shook until she bent over and picked him up.
“You okay, Mama?” Pink said.
“Yes, yes. Please shovel the circle for me, Pink.”
Pink strolled to the back door and tested his way down the hill through the snow, using the shovel and broom like walking sticks to keep his footing. The snow was deep, and Pink wasn’t even sure he could find the ceremonial circle—the fresh powder was disorienting—until he tripped over the stones marking its edge.
His mama’s rituals were a mystery, and Pink didn’t really buy into this sacred circle business, but there was something about her, about what she did, that was powerful. He was certain of that. She’d prepared tinctures and elixirs for folks over the years, and sure enough, eventually they’d heal. Everything from asthma to worms. She had shown him how to prepare “Melissa” when Isabelle was down with stomach flu, but he’d grown impatient when she told him to grind the herbs between his palms. “Can’t we just use the coffee grinder?” he’d asked. To release the most potential from the herbs, she’d told him, it was important to “connect” with them and meditate on what you were doing. The day they were to prepare the “Melissa,” she’d had him arrive at five in the morning on a Thursday. “We have to start preparing it immediately after sunrise,” she’d told him. The day of the week, as well as the hour, were crucial to the tincture’s potency and success in treating ailments. When she’d explained about planetary influences and salt level charts, he’d felt his brain go numb, then headed for her refrigerator to find something to eat. That was the last time she’d asked him to help.
After Pink shoveled the perimeter of the circle, he swept the last of the snow out with the broom, down to grass. He removed the snow beneath the arched trellis that served as the entrance to the circle, then cleared a path back up to his mama’s house. By the time he reached her back porch, sweat soaked his jacket. His shirt, undershirt, and undershorts were drenched. He hated working this hard. If he was going to sweat, he wanted it to be for a good reason. Pink suddenly pictured Claire’s breasts tolling like bells as she rocked on top of him in the front seat of his Suburban. If Kenny had known how amenable and horny his little game of bridge-jumping had made Claire, he’d no doubt perfect hundreds of new death threats.
“Thank you, Pink,” Mattie said, appearing at the back door. “Would you help me carry these things down?” She set a clay chimenea on the deck, along with a box filled with gold and red silk scarves.
“How about some breakfast first?” Pink said, leaning the shovel and broom against the railing.
“Isabelle called,” Mattie said. “She sounded angry. What’d you do?”
“Nothing. You have any eggs and ham steak going to waste in that refrigerator of yours?”
“Come in and warm up. I’ll fix you something.”
Pink threw himself in a kitchen chair as Mattie bent over to fish a frying pan from the bottom cabinet. Pink could tell she was crying, even though she was trying to hide it. His stomach had been growling since seven that morning, and he didn’t want to sidetrack her from cooking the ham and eggs by asking what was wrong, but he did anyway, hoping it wasn’t about Isabelle or Claire.
“I miss her so much,” his mama said, directing her gaze toward the living room, toward Lulu’s ashes sitting on the coffee table. “She was like a grandmother to you and a mother to me. And a best friend.”
Those were the last words Mattie spoke before turning away to cook his breakfast. Pink was thankful for the silent interlude; it gave him time to think about Claire. Over the past few years it had grown harder to remember how Isabelle had been before she took sick, how beautiful she’d been, how funny, how affectionate, how strong. He’d fantasized about coming home from the office and finding Isabelle dead, so he and Claire could take up together after she dumped Kenny. Then he and Claire could move somewhere new. A fresh start. Folks did it all the time, though not many from Ardenwood seemed to. The fantasy floated him, gave him prospects, even though being with Claire wouldn’t be a swim in the punch bowl either. But Claire was simpler, not nearly as bright as Isabelle. He’d be able to sneak a lot past Claire.
Mattie rattled a plate from the cabinet and swept the ham and eggs onto it with her spatula. “Do you want coffee, sweetheart?” she asked, twisting toward him. He nodded, speechless at the sudden and unexpected kindness in her voice. She was like an ebbing tide, one second gruff, the next pleasant. She set the plate and coffee in front of him. After practically dropping the fork, knife, and ketchup bottle on the table next to Pink, Mattie dropped into the chair. She let out a sigh and deflated like a balloon with a fast leak. She wiped her eyes as she glanced across at him. “I’m sorry I was so cross with you this morning, Pink. Lulu’s death is hitting me hard.” She shifted her eyes toward the living room and shook her head. “And Emerson. How could he put Lulu in such an awful thing? I told him I’d pay for everything and he puts her ashes in a plastic box the color of rubber dog poop. I don’t understand it.” Pink speared a fat piece of ham and slid it past his lips, not about to confess that the box was his idea.
“Did you have trouble getting up the road,” she asked, turning the bottom of her apron in her fingers.
“Not a bit,” he said, chewing a mouthful of food.
“What took you so long? Isabelle said you left the house over two hours ago.”
“Gave Loudon a lift up the hill. Some feller shot himself, and Loudon and Elmer—”
“Shot himself? Like a hunting accident? Is he all right?”
“Blew his own dang head off. Don’t think it was no accident.”
Mattie recoiled, covering her mouth, and Pink heard a feeble whimper squeeze from her throat, not much more than a squeak.
“It was them folks from Atlanta that bought my cabin,” Pink told her.
“The man whose wife ran off and got lost in the woods a few weeks back?”
“How’d you know about that?” Pink asked.
“Loudon told me. Pink, that’s awful. Was she there when it happened? Is she okay?”
“She found the body. She’s a little loony herself, so I’m not sure it fully registered in that cobweb brain of hers.”
“That’s an awful thing to say, Pink. She was probably in shock.”
Maybe she was, he thought. He’d never seen anyone in shock, didn’t really know what that meant. He forked the scrambled eggs until the tines were covered. Mattie’s head was shaking of its own free will, Pink thought, her eyes roaming the floor.
Pink referred to Michelle as Mrs. Stage when he told about her coming to his office, about how she’d lied about wanting to sell the cabin so she could talk with him, about her husband coming up from Atlanta to take her back. As soon as he finished, he could tell by his mama’s vexed expression that he shouldn’t have said a word.
“What business she have with you? And couldn’t she just pick up the phone and call you?”
“Mama, it ain’t nothing. Just something about the property, and—”
“Don’t lie to me, Pink. Are you fooling around with that woman? What’s going on?”
“Ain’t nothing going on. Hellfire, Mama. Why’s everything gotta be a dang scandal?”
Mattie eased back in her chair, freezing him in her gaze.
“You have any pie?” he asked, not enjoying the contest.
“Isabelle was very angry when she called this morning. There’s something going on, Pink. Is it about this Mrs. Stage? How are you involved with Mrs. Stage?”
Pink sucked at the threads of ham caught in his teeth, trying to floss his bicuspid with the tip of his tongue. “It ain’t nothing, just some crazy notion took up residence in that woman’s confused head.” He told his mother everything Michelle had told him, about Cliff disappearing, how she’d gone to look for him, how Loudon had searched and found nothing, about taking Michelle to the Hilltop, feeding her corn liquor. “Then she said Louden told her I killed Isabelle and disappeared, like a damn ghost or something,” Pink said. “Can you beat that?”
While relating the story, Pink had been careful not to address his mother directly, letting his eyes dance around the fan blades above them as if he’d been talking to the ceiling. When he let his eyes fall back to her, he could tell she was disturbed. But more than that, she was scared, scared as if she’d swallowed some kind of slow-acting poison and knew it.