Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

“Your memory seems rather keen on the details,” Candace said, not unkindly.

“My dear,” Miss Ludey answered with a dose of asperity, “how many times do you hear two relatives discussing a black girl who is about to steal one’s man? It wasn’t a conversation I was likely to forget.” Candace was quiet, glancing at me.

“You said this was right before your mother’s birthday, Miss Ludey. How long before Hurricane Althea was that?”

“Barely a week.” Miss Ludey answered without hesitation. “I found it a trifle disconcerting that Wanda and Ivalou had that discussion about Rennie and then the poor child ended up dead.”

“You didn’t think one of them-” Candace began.

“When Ivalou said she wasn’t going to fire Rennie, Wanda stormed out of that office and shoved right past me without even saying hello. She had the fire of hell in her eyes. And when I walked into Ivalou’s office, she looked downright icy. I asked her what Wanda had her panties in a wad about, and Ivalou just said it was business she- meaning Ivalou-would have to take care of for Wanda. Ivalou didn’t know I’d heard as much as I had.”

“But Rennie Clifton died in a hurricane, Miss Ludey,” Candace said. I shook my head at her. Some people are still clinging to outmoded notions in Mirabeau.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Miss Ludey said. “Our whole family had decided to wait out the hurricane together at my brother Ralph’s house, and Ivalou and Wanda both didn’t show up until after the storm was over. Ivalou got there about an hour after the storm had passed, and Wanda showed up about three hours later. Ralph was frantic about them both. But all I know is, Rennie Clifton was dead, and Glenn Wilson broke up with Wanda less than a week later. I sometimes wonder if that poor boy didn’t suspect.”

I bit my lip thoughtfully. Candace was not so trusting in Miss Ludey’s veracity.

“And why didn’t you say anything twenty years ago?” she demanded.

“Well, dear, one doesn’t like to think that one’s relatives could be murderers,” Miss Ludey said. I could well understand her attitude, having been caught in that same moral dilemma in recent days. “And everyone said that Rennie’s death was an accident. I didn’t have any proof. I still don’t.”

“Yet you’ve decided to speak up now?” Candace pressed. Note I didn’t intervene in her investigating.

“Well… I don’t want to sound selfish. Ivalou and Wanda are my closest living relatives, and they want to put me in a nursing home. Honestly! Me, and I’m as sharp as the day I was born. They just think I’m nuts ’cause I don’t care if my clothes match and I like to papier-mache my walls.” Miss Ludey snorted derisively at this lack of perception among her kinfolk. “I figure if those two got skeletons in the closet, now’s the time to air ’em out. I don’t think they could put me in a nursing home from prison, do you?”

I stuck my face in my hands. How much of this Ludeyesque tale to believe? She’d just frankly admitted to a strong motive to belittle Wanda and Ivalou and claimed detailed memories of conversations that were two decades old.

“So why don’t you tell this to the police?” Candace demanded.

Miss Ludey gave my beloved a disapproving look. “The police aren’t investigating Rennie Clifton’s death. Jordan is. Do try to keep up, dear.”

“Is there anything else you remember, Miss Ludey?” I asked, not looking toward Candace for fear I’d crack a smile.

She thought. “No, except that Wanda suggested that if Ivalou didn’t fire Rennie, maybe Ivalou could get Hart Quadlander to fire Rennie’s mother to teach ’em a lesson.”

“What sway did Ivalou think she had over Hart?”

“My dear. Ivalou has been chasing unsuccessfully after Hart Quadlander for years. Hart is kind to her but doesn’t encourage Ivalou in her pursuit of him.”

I shuddered. “Yuck. Neither would I.”

“You haven’t painted a very kind picture of Wanda, Miss Ludey.” Candace crossed her arms. “You must not care for her at all.”

Miss Ludey stiffened. “I didn’t choose to be related to Wanda. And I don’t mean to shock. But it’s not a lie to say I consider her and her mother most unlikable.”

The phone rang. I dove for it. A thunder of feet on the stairs told me Mark was coming down. He peered expectantly at me from the staircase.

I listened to my sister’s voice, holding my breath. I told her I’d be right over.

“It’s Junebug,” I told the others. “He’s awake.”

He lay in a tangle of wires and tubes. Machines bleeped at his bedside, monitoring vital functions. A massive bandage covered one side of his shaved head. I leaned close to his bristly face, peering down into his angry eyes.

“Shot me,” Junebug whispered at me. “Son of a bitch shot me.”

“Yes, I know.” I leaned closer. “Who?”

“Jordan, don’t tire him,” Barbara Moncrief ordered. “He doesn’t know who it was, and that’s what’s making him mad.”

I’d gotten to the hospital to learn Junebug had been conscious for nearly an hour, had started speaking coherently in short order, and after being repeatedly fussed over by doctors, had seen his officers, his mother, and my sister and had asked for me. (Sister was of the opinion that he wished to make sure I was not in trouble.)

I was surprised that the physicians, who tended to hover and speak in acronyms, allowed me to see him. But in a small town, being police chief counts for a great deal. Lord knows it wasn’t me wielding the frightening scepter of being town librarian that got me in among the IVs and glowing screens to see my friend.

“You,” I said, “have scared the living hell out of me. You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?”

He grunted at me. “Have to be-keep you out of trouble.”

“Don’t tire him, Jordy,” Barbara repeated. “He’s so weak.”

“Bullshit, Mama,” Junebug murmured, but he closed his eyes.

I felt a vast flood of relief. He would be okay now, surely. Barbara certainly seemed to be optimistic. I wanted to find a doctor and get a definitive report. Or find Sister, I thought. No doubt she had wrested an opinion from every medical practitioner in Bonaparte County.

“Arlene-” Junebug whispered.

“She’s just outside, dear,” Barbara assured him. “Dr. Meyer doesn’t want you having too many visitors at once. But I want you to tell her to go home and get some rest. She’s been by your side nonstop.” She smiled at me. “Arlene’s a good woman.”

“Told you so,” Junebug said, a faint smile on his face. “Mama, go get some coffee. I want to talk to Jordy alone for a minute.”

Barbara dithered at this request, but finally acceded. I leaned down close to him.

“You want me to bring you in some books on tape when you’re feeling better? Or shall I have Miss Ludey come in and read to you?”

He managed another smile. “Oh, that hurts. No. Want to talk to you.” The smile faded. “Trey and Clevey-the funeral-I’m sorry I missed it. Should have been there-”

“Gee, coma’s about the worst excuse I ever heard.” I tried joking. “Please, don’t worry about that, of all things!”

“Arlene. Needed-to be there for Arlene. I know now- she couldn’t have hurt Trey. She would never have hurt me. Tell her-”

I put my mouth near his ear and quietly told him what had happened between Sister and Trey. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I should have left it to her; but I wanted him to know he was right. And telling him about the scrap of fabric from her pants made me feel immensely better.

“You still got that fabric?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Throw it away. It’s just litter.” He closed his eyes again. “Listen, before my mother comes back-”