Authors: Lorena McCourtney
Although, when I tried to get up, I had to admit I’d stretched the truth about how I was feeling. Definitely not as fine as before I’d started squirming around on hot asphalt.
The saleswoman rushed to help me to my feet. She brushed my backside. I scraped at what felt like permanently embedded asphalt in my elbows.
“You’d better come inside and rest for a few minutes,” she said.
I started to decline the offer but changed my mind. Perhaps a few minutes with Tiffany, the eager young woman I’d talked to who did “receptionist stuff,” could prove profitable.
The saleswoman solicitously walked me inside and handed me over to a young woman with exuberant blond hair and curves. This was a Tiffany if ever I saw one.
“Oh my, are you okay?” The young woman guided me to a chair by her desk. “My grandma fell like that once and broke her hip, and it was just awful. Oh, and it looks as if you have a stain on your pretty blouse.”
With unexpected efficiency she produced a spray can of something and worked on the back of my blouse with a paper towel. “Would you like a Mountain Dew or bottle of spring water? I can get one from the machine right over there.”
“A plain glass of water would be nice.” Do young people know plain old tap water exists anymore?
She brought a paper cup of water she’d located somewhere. “Do you feel faint or anything?” Little furrows of concern appeared between her baby-blue eyes.
“No, I’m fine.”
“You know, your voice sounds so familiar,” she said. She perched on the corner of her desk, her short skirt revealing unexpectedly sturdy legs, and studied me. “I’m very sensitive to voices. I’m taking acting lessons, so I try to listen to everyone I hear to catch the nuances of voices so I can use them myself.”
I was surprised that she knew what a nuance was. And then I felt guilty for making a prejudgment about her just because she was young and cute and bubbly. “That’s very interesting.”
“This is my southern voice.” She slid off the desk and draped her hand on a jutted hip. “‘Ah don’t mind makin’ a fool of ma-self ovuh you, Brick.’ That’s Maggie the Cat. You know, from
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
?”
I recognized the title, if not the quotation. A word I thought might be appropriate came to mind. “Awesome.”
“Hey, now I remember where I heard your voice. You’re Kendra’s friend. You called up and asked about her when she quit!”
I was astonished. And impressed. This really was rather awesome. Also a bit unnerving. I’ve never been inclined toward anonymous crank calls, but I’ll certainly think twice before making one if my voice is that identifiable. Although probably few people shared this voice-sensitive talent of Tiffany’s.
“Ummm . . .” I demurred.
Tiffany didn’t wait for me to confirm or deny her identification. “I’m the one you talked to that day, Tiffany, remember? And now Kendra’s dead,” she said. “Isn’t it terrible? That anyone could
do
something like that to her? Or to anyone. I suppose her body has been sent to her family somewhere for a funeral?”
“I believe there’s been some . . . delay there.” I thought about mentioning that the Corolla on the lot looked like Kendra’s, but I decided to be more circumspect. “I was looking at a nice little Corolla out there when I had my . . . incident. I notice it has no license plates. I was wondering what that meant.”
“Oh, some of our cars come from wholesalers in other states, but when they’re sold here they have to have new license plates from this state.”
If this was Kendra’s car, it shouldn’t be lacking Missouri plates. But still, it looked so much like Kendra’s car. “Could you find out where this particular car came from?”
“Kendra probably could have done it on the computer. She knew how to do all that stuff. But I don’t.”
“Has someone taken Kendra’s place now?”
“Jessica Holt is Mr. Retzloff’s assistant now. She’s no Kendra,” Tiffany added with a roll of eyes.
“You mean she isn’t as competent?”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s competent enough. She’s been working at some big new car dealership on the other side of town. I think we’re just a bunch of used-car peasants to her.”
I stood up and thanked Tiffany for the water and the clean-up on my blouse. Then I remembered something. I dug in my purse and pulled out one of the photocopies of the snapshot I’d found in Kendra’s apartment.
“Is this anyone you know?”
Tiffany studied the black-and-white copy. “No, but I wish I did. He looks . . . nice.”
The word was generic, but the hint of wistfulness in her voice impressed me. No oohs and aahs about the guy’s hunky good looks or the snazzy convertible. I could appreciate a young woman attracted to a man because he looked
nice.
“Is there some reason I should know him?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe. Kendra may have known him.”
“I could make a copy of this and show it around.” Tiffany motioned to a copy machine in the corner. “I haven’t been here long, and maybe somebody else will recognize him if he used to work here.”
“You can keep this one. And give me a call if you find out anything.” I scribbled my phone number on the back side of the photo.
Tiffany put the photocopy in her desk. “Did you come in a car?”
“No, but—”
“You shouldn’t be walking in this heat. How about if I drive you home?”
“Mr. Retzloff would just let you leave?”
She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I’m entitled to a coffee break.”
I declined the offer, but again I was impressed with Tiffany. Willing to use her coffee break to take me home. A very nice young woman. It was none of my business, but I asked her where she lived.
“I’m still at home with my folks. My sister was killed in a car accident last year, and I think they need me at home for a while yet.”
Yes. A very nice young woman.
* * *
It wasn’t until I was back home that it occurred to me that putting my phone number on the back of the photocopy wasn’t a wise idea. If this guy had put a bullet in Kendra because she’d found him, how would he react if he realized I was on his trail?
Too late to do anything about it now, however. And probably nothing to be concerned about anyway. The guy obviously wasn’t working at Barney’s now, so there was no reason to think he’d find out I was asking about him.
* * *
That evening, the newspaper reported a surprising development in the vandalism case at Country Peace. The subdivision developer who was worried about vandalism spreading to his equipment, a man named Drake Braxton of Braxton Building and Development Corporation, had offered his construction crew to dig up each of the graves, all thirty-six of them. He’d then donate a quarter-acre on the back edge of his subdivision in which to have the bodies reinterred, and he’d supply a secure fence as well. The cemetery could then be turned over to some appropriate organization for maintenance, and donations could be accepted to furnish a bronze headstone for each grave.
“I think we all want to see these loved ones where they will be safe,” the reporter quoted him as saying. There were two photos, one of the desecrated cemetery and another of the proposed new site on the far side of his subdivision.
An expensive undertaking, and a most generous offer to rectify an unpleasant situation. Mr. Braxton was surely to be commended.
Yet I didn’t really like the idea of scrunching all the graves into a quarter acre of ground. The spaciousness of Country Peace was part of its charm, as if each gravesite had a country place of its own. And it would be a shame if all those wonderful, individualistic headstones were replaced by flat look-alikes.
On impulse I sat down and wrote a letter to the editor thanking Mr. Braxton for his generous offer but suggesting that some local organization take over restoration and maintenance of the cemetery where it was now located. I pledged a hundred dollar donation toward the project.
* * *
That evening I scrubbed more asphalt stains out of my elbows and set out clothes for church with Detective Dixon the following morning. Navy blue skirt and matching heels, pale blue, bow-at-the-neckline blouse, diamond stud earrings Harley had given me.
But church with Detective Dixon was not to be.
Actually, I did go to church.
The location was in the triangle of a three-point intersection, and the sign stuck on a minuscule plot of grass identified this modest brick building as Tri-Corners Community Church. People clasped my hand and asked my name, and the congregation claimed an eclectic mixture of young and old, suits and jeans, pearls and funky earrings.
The music was a mixture too, old hymns and lively praise choruses, and yes, one voice definitely boomed off-key. Made me feel wonderfully at home. The message, delivered by a lean young pastor who looked as if he might run marathons in his spare time, was from Romans 10:9. As I listened to the sermon, I noted the image of Christ centered on the lone stained glass window behind the pulpit.
I also made mental excuses for Detective Dixon all through the service. Car trouble. Sudden illness. Police emergency. But by the time I was back in the Thunderbird, my ears still tingling with invitations to return, it was obvious he wasn’t coming.
I sat there with disappointment puddling around me. Some of the puddle was simply because he’d stood me up, of course. I’d looked forward to this morning with him. In spite of murder being our connection, he lifted my spirits. The bigger disappointment, however, was for Officer Dixon himself. Apparently his interest in church was merely a passing impulse. I pictured him sleeping late, snoring off a late night out, and thought of the conversation Magnolia and I had shared about where the world was headed in a hand-basket, young people leading the pack.
Detective Dixon called that evening, and in thirty seconds I was mentally thrashing myself for being negative, judgmental, ageist, and unfair. And for jumping to conclusions with more agility than my grandniece Sandy doing backflips.
“I’d have called earlier,” he added, “but it took a long time for the anesthetic to wear off after the surgery this morning. And then they’ve kept me dopey on pain pills all day. I hope you didn’t have problems finding the church. And that it didn’t turn out to be unpleasant or weird?”
Here he was, lying in a hospital bed, leg smashed by a bullet, and he was apologizing for not meeting me at the church, worried that it might have been unpleasant for
me
.
If Detective Dixon was any example of the younger generation, put that handbasket in reverse.
I discarded an irrelevant point I’d wondered before—
What is a handbasket, anyway?—
and said, “Tell me again so I’m sure I have this straight. You went to this house about a murder—” A dismaying thought occurred to me. “Did this have something to do with Kendra?”
“Oh no. This was a stabbing in a bar. But when we got to the house we discovered an illegal meth lab, and the guy running it tried to escape out the back way.”
“But this wasn’t the guy you were looking for? This was another crook?”
“Right.”
My head felt like the spinning light on a police car, going round and round with stabbings and shootings and drugs. To me, Kendra’s murder was a once-in-a-lifetime horror, but Detective Dixon dealt with killings every day.
“Fortunately he stumbled just before he pulled the trigger,” Detective Dixon added.
Or he’d have hit what he was no doubt aiming for, Detective Dixon’s head or heart. A cold shudder shot down my back. “Is your leg going to be okay?”
“They got the bullet out. Now the doctors are having committee meetings about what to do next.” He sounded disgruntled.
“I’ll pray about it.”
“Couldn’t hurt, I suppose,” he muttered.
“How about if I come visit you?”
He consulted with someone and then came back to say he could have a visitor the following afternoon. “I’ll tell the guard you’re coming, but you’ll have to bring identification.”
“You have a guard?”
“Just a precaution for a day or two, until they nab this guy.”
I had second thoughts. “Do you want me to come?” I didn’t want to barge in on a room full of family and friends.
“Well, yeah, I do want you to come, Mrs. M. I really do.”
Mrs. M. I liked that. I knelt and said a prayer for Detective Dixon and his leg right then and there.
* * *
I didn’t know if they were restricting what Detective Dixon ate, but I figured a homemade oatmeal cookie never hurt anyone, so I baked up a batch and took them along.
The guard at the hospital checked my ID and patted me down. Me, I got patted down! I felt rather flattered that he thought I could have an AK-47 concealed in my pants leg or a bomb strapped to my Wal-Mart bra. He wouldn’t accept a cookie, but Detective Dixon grabbed one as soon as I held out the paper plate.
He was in a hospital gown, no gun. No machines were attached to him, which I figured was a good sign. I didn’t know exactly what to talk to him about, so told him about the friendly people at the church, the strong message, and the invitations to return. I asked him about family and learned his parents were divorced and lived on opposite coasts, and his brother, in the navy, was in the Middle East. Which meant he wasn’t going to be overloaded with family visitors.