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- Author: Lynda McDaniel
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“I’m sorry. Yes, thank you for all of this. You know I love it here.” I paused just long enough to be polite. “But I can’t get this off my mind. I found that girl.”
He nodded, as though he understood. But then he said, “I’m pretty busy. Some papers and magazines are willing to give me another chance.”
“That validates how good you can be,” I said, honestly glad his talents weren’t going to waste. “But I think you owe me.”
He frowned and sipped more port. Finally, he broke the silence. “I’ll do what I can, Della. I did a story about rural crime last year—in-depth, with a national focus. You may not realize how many bad guys are doing business in your Mayberry.”
“I want to make you a copy of the notes,” I said, ignoring his comment and searching through my purse. “And I brought along a drawing of the tattoo I saw on that guy’s arm in the woods. I don’t know why, but I remember it vividly. Adrenaline, I think. That afternoon, it raced through me.”
“I’ll check LexisNexis and see what else I can find for you. Not much to go on, but I’ve started with less before. We can make copies at my home.”
“You mean the one that used to be mine, too?” I asked. I felt foolish before the last word was out of my mouth. I was more on edge tonight than I’d anticipated, even after all the wine. But being back in D.C., and in one of my favorite haunts, brought up a lot of old issues. “Never mind me,” I added, waving my hand as though I could clear the air. “I’d like to see it again.”
“You won’t recognize it. I finished the restoration we started.”
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We’d bought a Victorian townhouse ten years ago, when prices in Georgetown were lower. I loved the high ceilings and spacious rooms with strong natural light throughout. Alex had completed some of the work himself, and he brought in a crew to finish. I felt nervous walking up to the house, but once inside, I recovered quickly. To be honest, it had been borderline dumpy when I lived there, and I wondered why Alex hadn’t had the work done then. Of course, I could have shared that responsibility, but we were both busy with work. Always work.
We went upstairs to his office and made copies of the tattoo and the two notes. While they were slowly spitting out, Alex started kissing my neck. That used to work, but that evening, all I could think of was finding him in the next room with his editor. I told him that, and the effect was like watching a flower wilt in the heat, or some such thing.
“Okay, but why not stay here—in the guest room?” he asked, dejected.
“I think that might hurt worse than leaving.” I suddenly felt so damned sad. He nodded and called a cab.
“What are you doing tomorrow? Didn’t you say your train doesn’t leave till six o’clock?”
“I’m going to take trip down memory lane. I plan to catch my favorite bus, the 42, and go down to the Mall. The National Gallery has a Matisse exhibit I want to see.”
“I don’t suppose you want any company?”
“Another time. I really have enjoyed my visit, our evening together.”
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The next day at the National Gallery of Art, I explored the galleries like a pilgrim touring Lourdes. The Matisse exhibit was everything I’d hoped, and I spent time in the permanent collection, as well. I treated myself to a late lunch in the museum’s Garden Café, where I buzzed with yet-to-be-understood excitement. That happened to me every time I visited the museum, as though the creative energy from the artwork radiated throughout the marble and limestone building, whispering encouragement and inspiration to anyone who’d listen. Sitting there, breathing it in, I could feel my brain getting sharper and clearer. Of course, nature inspired me too, but something about the museum—manmade and replicable—spoke to me in a different way. I paid my bill and emptied the dregs of the teapot into my cup. As I sipped the bitter brew, I knew what I needed to do. I took one more look around the grand building and left for Union Station.
Chapter 22: Abit
Della seemed different when she got back. It was kinda hard to describe, but it was like she was both relaxed and hepped up. I didn’t see her drive in—her train had some weird schedule that got her in at two o’clock in the morning. And then she still had to drive more than an hour to get home. That would either wear you out or make you crazy with the coffee fidgets, which was probably why she seemed out of sorts. By the time I got down to my chair, the lights were already on in the store, in spite of her late night. I started tapping so she’d know I was there, and sure enough, she came out.
“Howdy, Mister. I missed you.”
I still wudn’t used to anyone missing me. “You too,” was all I could think to say. She smiled at me.
“Well, I wish we could sit around and drink coffee, but I’ve got to get things organized in the store today.”
“Did Billie leave things a mess?”
“No,” she said, laughing. She always saw right through me. “But there are some things I need to take care of. We’ll have a good talk later.”
About five o’clock that afternoon, she had a big powwow with Cleva, which kinda pissed me off. It didn’t feel good getting mad at people I liked, but she’d promised to have a talk with me. Before long, though, I felt bad, because she invited me in to join her and Cleva.
They trusted me with the fact that the so-called suicide note was a forgery. I couldn’t even tell Mama, which was fine by me. She’d probably have pooh-poohed it, anyways, especially if I told her. And the fact that the guy Della met with was a forger. I can hear Mama saying, “Imagine trusting the word of a criminal!” I thought he sounded cool.
Then we got down to business and talked about Lucy. It got kind of confusing—Cleva calling me Vester and Della calling me Mister, but ending up saying Abit half the time. You know, I didn’t mind that name so much anymore. I didn’t think about how it came about; it was just my name—that nobody else had!
Anyways, nobody had reported a missing daughter or girlfriend or sister to any of the cops in the area, and our stinkin’ sheriff didn’t give two flips about who she was. All he cared about was a quick closed file and off for a few beers at the Whippoorwill.
I told Della and Cleva what I thought—that Brower wouldn’t budge, and maybe we should put a notice in some of the local papers to see if we could stir up some tips. I’d probably been watching too much TV (no probably about it), because when I offered them five dollars toward the ads, they both went quiet and gave me a funny look. I reckoned it was a stupid idea.
Chapter 23: Della
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Cleva said, after she caught me wiping my eyes with my shop apron.
“Oh, Cleva, that boy just gets to me sometimes. He’s so beautifully human. I see so much potential, but it’s going to waste.”
“Well, I know what you mean, but you’ve been a big help to him. He used to be so much more withdrawn.” She patted my back and added, “What’s brought this on?”
“Oh, I’m just tired, I guess. I got in so late last night. Hell, this morning. But it kills me the way people diminish him—and yet he won’t let them win. I don’t know if he even realizes how much spirit he’s got. He just keeps at it, learning and growing, and that’s a beautiful thing to see in anyone, but especially him.”
“I’ve taught a lot of kids over the years, and I’ve got a good feeling about that boy. Look at that idea he came up with. He’s a thinker.”
“I know. That’s what got to me. Imagine him offering five dollars when his savings account can’t have much more in it. Yet.”
“What’s that mean—yet?”
“Well, it’s getting to the point that I need more help in the store, and I may even revive the rolling store.” That made Cleva’s face light up. A lot of folks missed the old school bus that used to roam the backwoods, selling canned goods and fresh produce. Gradually, though, as they increasingly owned their own cars and could come to town whenever they needed, it became a financial liability. But I had plans.
It was almost six o’clock, so I asked Cleva to join me for a glass of wine. We opened a cold, crisp pinot gris and tucked into a couple of new cheeses. That plus a fresh ciabatta and some of her sour pickles, and we were both happier than we’d been all day.
Chapter 24: Della
“I can’t do that,” Gregg said. I’d given him a call to check in; we hadn’t spoken since he’d brought me flowers. “I can’t be just friends with you, not the way you want.”
“But we’ve been friends that way for a year now,” I said, stunned by his sharp tone and over-the-top anger. I was truly sorry to have to tell him I didn’t want any romantic entanglements, but after his reaction, I was relieved I had. Just to end the conversation with a modicum of civility, I added, “You know, I wouldn’t have gotten through The Day without you.”
“I’m glad I could help, but let’s just leave it at that. Besides, I’m seeing someone.”
“Oh. Well. Good. I hope that works out for you, Gregg.” Silence. Dammit, this wasn’t what I’d expected.
“Me, too. And take care, Della. I’ll see you around. And I’ll still shop at the store, now and again.”
Well, great. That and fifty cents would buy me a cup of coffee, I thought, feeling the same pain of rejection he must have felt earlier.
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The next morning, I got up with what felt like a hangover, even though I’d had only one glass of wine with Cleva. That call with Gregg lingered like an unwelcomed guest, and I hadn’t slept well. My upcoming—and dreaded—trip to Brower’s office didn’t help either.
When I got there, Brower was on the phone. Lonnie said it was something to do with county business. I stifled a laugh when he used air quotes on “county business.”
“I’ll just wait, if you don’t think he’ll
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