Charlaine Harris - Poppy Done to Death

“Anything you want is fine with me,” I said. “Here’s a key to the house. You may need it tomorrow.” I put it out on the counter, making sure they couldn’t miss it in the morning.

“You’re being so kind,” Sandy said, and her eyes overflowed. “Everyone is being so kind.” Marvin had put their suitcases in the bedroom, and now he put his arm around his wife. They went into the small room I’d prepared for them. I heard the door close.

I stared after them, the memory of the misery I’d plumbed after my husband died yawning wide at my feet. I would be useless the next day if I let myself step over the brink back into that awful time. With all the will I had, I wrenched myself back into the here and now. My brother’s alarmed face was staring at me. He really did look only fifteen at that second.

“Phillip, everything I told them-coffeepot, muffins, if you need me-I would have told you before we went to bed. Anything you want to ask?”

“Is there anything in the refrigerator you don’t want me to eat? Anything you’re saving for supper tomorrow night or something?”

“No, feel free. Eat me out of hearth and home.” I could tell he was trying to be a great houseguest, and that touched me.

“What do we do tomorrow?” he asked.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to have to do stuff connected with poor Poppy dying,” I said. “And I have to work, too. In fact, I have to get up early in the morning and go to work. I’ll leave a note here with my phone number on it. Why don’t you use the computer in the study to send your folks an E-mail? The password is on a slip of pink paper in the drawer.”

“The study? The room with all the windows and books?”

“Right. Sometimes Robin works in there, if his apartment gets to feeling too small. So don’t rearrange the piles of books.”

He snorted, as if that was ludicrous. “I’m not that much of a reader,” he explained. “That book of Robin’s was the first one I’d read in months. I’m not much on school, either.”

Meaning, I gathered, that the day he touched books voluntarily was a day that should be marked on the calendar. I suppressed a sigh. It was hard to believe a brother of mine wasn’t a reader. I had never been able to figure out what non-readers did . Maybe, during Phillip’s stay, I’d find out.

I knew he had other pastimes. I was thinking, of course, of the condoms, and I thought about health issues. I tried to smile at him. “Tomorrow, you and I are going to talk about some stuff.”

His smile faded. “Uh-oh.”

“It won’t be as bad as all that,” I said. I hugged him, and just when I was about to let him go, I pulled him tighter instead. “Phillip, I’m so glad to see you. I was wondering if I’d ever get to see you again. I’m sorry you’ve been having a tough time. I’m happy you’re here.”

He patted my back awkwardly and made some indeterminate noises. I’d embarrassed the hell out of him, and he was fifteen and didn’t know what to do about it. After a second or two, I realized he was crying. I could only guess at the correct response. I remained still, my arms around him, rubbing his back gently. He wiped his eyes on the shoulder of my sweater, a childish gesture that somehow won me over completely.

“Good night,” he said in a clogged voice, then retreated to his room so quickly, I only glimpsed a reddened face.

“Good night!” I called after him, keeping my voice low so I wouldn’t disturb Marvin and Sandy Wynn.

The silence sank into my bones. With a deep sense of relief, I went into my own bedroom. It had been a very long day, maybe twice as long as my days usually were, at least in terms of emotional content. Either Poppy’s death or Phillip’s arrival would have given me a full slate of thoughts and feelings, and to have both at one time had sent me into overload. I needed to sleep more than I needed anything, and the only thing that would have made my bed look more welcoming would have been a shock of red hair on the other pillow.

I sat on the side of the bed and realized that what I missed was not Robin exactly, and not sex exactly. And it wasn’t missing Martin, either, though still at rare moments I felt I was being stabbed, the flash of grief was so intense. What I was missing at this moment was the state of being married. I missed having someone there to share the little moments of my day. I missed having someone someone to whom I was the most important person on earth. I missed being part of a team, whose job was always to back each other up.

Even the least perfect marriage has moments that are wonderful, and mine had been far from the least perfect.

I made myself go into my bathroom and begin my nightly routine. I was being ridiculous. My sister-in-law had died an awful death this morning, and here I was, blubbering about not having anyone to sleep with tonight. I was a ridiculous human being. I should know better, I told myself. There were far more terrifying things in the world, and one of those things was very close.

Somewhere in our town, tonight, a person was talking, or brushing his teeth, or making love to a spouse. Yet that person knew he-or she-had committed murder. That person had knocked Poppy down with vicious blows. That person had watched the life drain out of one of the most vital women I’d ever known… and done nothing to help her.

Now that was something to brood about.

I woke up when my alarm went off the next morning. It was 6:30, and the glass doors onto the patio showed me it was a beautiful day. I felt wonderful for about thirty seconds, until I remembered the events of the previous day, which had been a Monday.

The rest of the week wasn’t going to be good.

Look on it as a challenge, I told myself briskly. Something rebellious within me muttered back that it was sick of challenges.

But I was now an official Uppity Woman, and I would not let a bad Monday ruin the rest of my week.

This new point of view got me through my morning shower and my simple hair/makeup/clothes routine. After I’d made my bed, I went out to see what I could do for my company before I left for work. I was only a part-time employee, but today I had to work six hours, and tomorrow, too.

A glance into Phillip’s room told me he was still asleep. The Wynns were already up and gone, their bedroom door left half-open. They’d positioned a note where I’d left the key, telling me that they were going out for breakfast, then over to my mother’s, and probably from there to the police department.

John David should be with them, and I hoped he had realized that, too. I wondered if the police were going to let them into the house anytime soon. I also wondered if they had arranged for anyone to clean up the mess in Poppy’s kitchen. I knew there were professional crime-scene cleanup teams in Los Angeles and other big cities, but there sure wasn’t one in Lawrenceton, and I didn’t think there was such a company in Atlanta. But if there was, would they come out to Lawrenceton? Wouldn’t such a service cost a great deal?

I poured myself a cup of just-perked coffee and buttered my slice of toast, so deep in my thoughts that I hardly noticed what I was doing. I was really hooked on the idea of getting that house cleaned.

I decided I would be willing to pay the fee as my way of easing the burden on my mother’s family. How could I find out? My Atlanta telephone book was an old one, scrounged from a friend in the city who’d been about to toss it. I wasn’t sure what the Yellow Pages listing would be under. I would call SPACOLEC and ask Arthur if he’d heard about any such service. I wasn’t real excited about initiating any contact with Arthur, in case he had a relapse into thinking he was in love with me, but it was probably the quickest way to get that information. I looked up the general number and punched it in. It was very early, but with a murder case going, Arthur would be at his desk, I was fairly sure.