Authors: Lorena McCourtney
“Yes, she’s told me about her magnolias.”
I liked the fact that he didn’t make some sly joke about Magnolia and her magnolias. “I understand you and Magnolia and Geoff met out in Arizona?”
“Yes. Last winter. I was working on an article about a ghost town in the Bisbee area. Magnolia was checking out names on tombstones. Are you into genealogy too?”
“Much to Magnolia’s annoyance, no.”
Our smiles were mildly conspiratorial. We moved out of the ebb and flow of people milling around the tables and nibbling on chips and salsa. “Are you in this area looking for interesting travel article ideas?”
“I’m always on the lookout. But I prefer little-known places over the big tourist attractions everyone already knows about.”
Would that include a country cemetery of unique tombstones?
I wondered.
“Or sometimes I write about unusual celebrations. Such as the annual Rooster Crow Contest in southern Oregon. Or crab races on the California coast. The Junk Sculpture Festival in Texas. A turnip-eating contest . . . somewhere. Anyway, if you hear about a do-something-strange or eat-something-yucky contest, I’m interested.” He smiled.
There was something gently self-deprecating about the comment, and I liked him for that too. He wasn’t claiming literary lion status with his travel articles. Not a guy who took himself too seriously.
“You stay on the road in your motor home full time because you’re a travel writer?”
“I’d say it’s more that I’m a travel writer because I’m on the road full time.”
His slightly mysterious flip of my assumption interested me, but a female voice interrupted.
“Oh, Mac, I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you! You don’t mind, do you?” The woman wagged a turquoise-ringed finger at me. “You mustn’t monopolize our famous guest, you know.”
I placed the woman as Willa somebody; her usually elegantly coiffed blond hair was now done in a farmer’s-daughter style ponytail draped across the bare skin above a Daisy-Mae blouse. I vaguely remembered that Willa and her husband spent winters in Florida in their RV.
Willa turned her attention to Mac. “You see, I’ve written this fabulous children’s story. It’s all about these three kittens that live in the woods? And they talk to each other? My grandchildren just love it. I’m thinking you could take a look at it and tell me which publisher might be interested.”
Mac took a small step backward. “I’m afraid children’s books are out of my area of expertise. I’m strictly a travel writer.”
“But you have grandchildren, don’t you? Don’t you read to them?”
“Well, yes, but—”
I felt half disappointed, half gleeful that Magnolia’s matchmaking plans had been so quickly derailed. It was obvious, as I looked over the crowd, that Magnolia had invited only couples, so no predatory lone woman could sabotage her scheme and snatch up Mac MacPherson. Unfortunately, she hadn’t counted on the wiles of would-be writer Willa.
Geoff gonged his bell to announce that the barbecued chicken was ready, but this did not deter Willa. She latched onto Mac’s arm and herded him into the buffet line, her patient husband trailing behind. I heard her say, “And then I’d like to do a sequel in which the kittens take a trip in a canoe . . .”
I stepped into line a half dozen people behind them. My meals had been irregular lately, and I was hungry enough to chow down on anything that didn’t move. Geoff forked a chicken leg and thigh onto my plate, and I added mounds of coleslaw, three-bean and potato salads, tomatoes, cucumbers, and warm cornbread. I found a seat at a picnic table beside the Roharities. They were a lively couple still going strong in their eighties, excited now about an RV caravan to Mexico this winter.
They were telling me about the calving area for whales that they planned to visit on the west coast of the Baja peninsula when I heard Magnolia’s indignant hiss in my ear.
“Ivy Malone, what are you doing letting that woman cut in on you?”
“They’re talking shop. Willa hopes Mac can give her some professional advice about the children’s book she’s written.”
Magnolia frowned, apparently torn between a dilemma of conflicting loyalties and responsibilities. Help friend Willa with her book? Or help friend Ivy snare a man? She didn’t settle it. She just wailed, “But Mac is only going to be here a few days. There’s no time to waste!”
I hated to do it, but I had to point out that she had a rather lengthy streamer of toilet tissue trailing from one of the metal appendages attached to her boots.
Magnolia’s aplomb was seldom rattled, and it wasn’t rattled now. She picked up the streamer and rolled it into a ball while murmuring absentmindedly, “I wonder if cowboys find this a problem?”
“Magnolia, this is a wonderful barbecue. You went to so much trouble, making your special cornbread and everything, and I really appreciate it. I also appreciate your trying to set me up with Mac. But—”
“No buts. I want you to get over there and talk to him. Turn on some charm. Scintillate. I’m worried about you now that Thea is gone. You never used to sleep all day,” she added darkly, as if this were an ominous vice I’d developed.
Agreeing seemed easier than arguing, and I wasn’t ready to explain my nighttime sleep deprivation just yet. Also, Mac seemed personable and pleasant. I doubted if I was up to
scintillating,
but it wasn’t as if talking to him would be a hardship. I also caught him looking at me once, and I thought I detected an appeal for rescue.
Okay, when it came time for dessert, I’d do it, I decided. But before then another guest came around with a digital camera. One of those jokesters who delight in catching people at unflattering moments. He snapped me gnawing on a drumstick, not exactly as I want to be remembered for posterity, but that concern vanished as another thought struck me.
Photographs!
I’d told Detective Dixon I didn’t have a photo of Kendra, and that was true. But I was almost certain there
was
a photo.
I hesitated, momentarily uneasy at the thought of digging around in Thea’s things. I banished that qualm by reminding myself that Molly had told me to do whatever needed doing around the place. And Thea certainly wouldn’t mind my poking around.
Another hesitation. I’d promised Magnolia I’d talk to Mac again . . .
I didn’t have to search for the photo tonight, of course. I could do it after church tomorrow.
Yet now that I’d thought about the possibility of the photo, I was excited about checking it out. It wouldn’t take long. I could be back to the barbecue in plenty of time to do my duty by both Magnolia and Mac. I might even try to scintillate. No one would even know I’d been gone.
* * *
My nerves prickled when I let myself into the back door at Thea’s house. I hadn’t been here at night since Thea was gone, and the house felt . . . different.
I also felt a certain dismay as I made a quick tour of the living and dining rooms. This might take longer than I’d anticipated. I was so accustomed to seeing Thea’s clutter of photos that I’d forgotten how many there were. Except for bare spots where plants had been removed, photos covered every available surface, lined every windowsill, crowded bookshelves and an antique walnut hutch. Square frames, oblong frames, oval frames. Hinged frames, chains of frames, silver frames, gold-tone frames. Many snapshots were simply leaned against other photos, sometimes two or three deep.
I peered at the faces, like a parade from the past. Our old Madison Street friends, Thea’s husband, daughter Molly and friends from kindergarten to college, Harley and me and Colin too.
Thea had not, unfortunately, felt any need to organize the photos according to date or relationship. Portraits of long gone relatives, stiff and formal, were mixed with friends and later generations of relatives, many of whom I was certain Thea had never met. Graduation and wedding photos. Informal snapshots of unnamed babies, children, and animals. Unidentified celebrations, events, and occasions.
I was rubbing my back, stiff from bending over, by the time I concluded the photos I was looking for were not on display. Which did not mean they didn’t exist. I cautiously opened a bureau drawer in the bedroom. Photo albums filled it to the top, like fossils stacked in a museum. Another drawer held loose snapshots. I poked hopefully at the upper layer, thinking that newer snapshots would surely be on top.
Wrong. The first photos I picked up were of a grade-school birthday party for Molly and friends. Near that was a photo of a one-eyed cat that had died years ago.
I was about to give up when a fresh thought occurred to me. Was it possible Thea had never had that recent roll of film developed? I’d never actually seen the photo I thought existed. I opened more drawers and finally found the camera among a haphazard clutter of old eyeglasses, binoculars, and Walter’s electric razors.
I opened the leather case and checked the window on the back of the camera. It showed film still inside, twenty-two photos taken.
This had to be it! I’d get the film developed tomorrow afternoon at that one-hour photo developing place. Having to wait that long was frustrating, but right now it meant I could go back to the barbecue.
Unexpectedly, as I conscientiously wrote a note for whomever it might concern that I had the camera, I now found myself looking forward to talking to Mac again. An interesting and, yes, an attractive man.
Yet when I got outside I was surprised to see that cars no longer lined the street. The Margollin’s house was dark, only a faint light still showing in Mac’s motor home. Surely I hadn’t been at Thea’s that long . . .
Yes, apparently I had. My watch, when I held it up to the dim streetlight, showed almost midnight.
Oh, dear. Magnolia was not going to be happy about my disappearing act. I also felt a huge rush of guilt. Maybe I hadn’t particularly wanted Magnolia’s matchmaking, but she’d done it out of love and concern for me, and I’d been appallingly rude to both her and her guest.
Too late to do anything about it tonight, but tomorrow I’d make amends, I vowed. I’d invite Magnolia and Geoff and Mac MacPherson over for dinner, and I’d do it up right with those ham roll-ups Magnolia was so fond of.
It was also long past time for my stakeout at the cemetery. I was briefly tempted to skip tonight. But I hadn’t been there last night, and I didn’t want to miss two nights in a row. This was also Saturday night, the night I thought most likely for the vandals to come out and do their dirty work.
* * *
Muggy clouds had moved in, and the night was sultry and sticky. I yawned from my now familiar hiding place behind Aunt Maude’s fallen tombstone. In spite of the excitement of finding the undeveloped film and an attack of the Killer Mosquitoes, I was having difficulty staying awake.
I tried my usual mind games. Naming the books of the Bible backwards. Counting by fourteens. But thoughts of Mac intruded. Was he divorced or widowed? He’d acknowledged grandchildren. How many? Where were they? Had he liked my cobbler? Why did he have a tattoo of a motorcycle on his arm? Did this suggest other colorful body decorations, perhaps a fire-breathing dragon or talon-baring eagle hiding in some less visible area?
Yet neither mosquitoes, numbers, or mild curiosity about Mac MacPherson had any effect on my sleepiness level, and I finally resorted to physical movement to stay awake. Can I still touch my toes? After a half dozen tries, yes indeed. Squats. Lunges. I tacked one hand on top my head and did eight side leg raises. Now jumping jacks. Oops. Not so good. My left knee twisted, and I had to grab for Aunt Maude’s tombstone to catch my balance again.
And a good thing, because at that moment a vehicle that looked as if it was driving past the cemetery suddenly cut its lights and turned under the arch. I ducked behind the tombstone and carefully lifted my head so only my eyes cleared the rounded surface.
The cloudy night was too dark to make out the vehicle clearly, but it didn’t appear to be car shaped. A pickup or van? It paused about halfway up the hill, lights off but engine still running.
Now the vehicle was turning around. I didn’t rush to the next tombstone. I didn’t want to find myself sneaking up on someone making a pit stop, like that other night. More movement. No, this was no emergency pit stop. The engine growled and tires crunched on rough ground as the vehicle backed off the cemetery road.
This was it. The real thing. Lights, camera, action!
I ducked low and scooted down the hill to the cover of the next tombstone. It was too dark to see figures getting out of the vehicle, but I heard the muffled slam of a door. Another dash, and I was two tombstones closer. A big pickup, I could see now. Engine still running. I paused to catch my breath and consider strategy. They’d backed onto the hillside, so they must be planning to attach chain or cable to the rear of the vehicle to do their dirty work. Missouri vehicles had plates on both front and back, so I wouldn’t have to sneak up to the end of the pickup where they were working. I could circle to the front and grab numbers off that plate while they were busy around back.
Yet I could already see a big flaw in my amateur stakeout technique. With a night this dark and all the vehicle lights out, including the ones that illuminated the license plates, I couldn’t possibly see the plate well enough to read the numbers and letters. Defeat, after all these nights waiting for this?