Scene #39
“Katherine Ann Hawk! Where the
heck have you been all morning?”
I’d discovered at age four,
when someone called you by your full name, hell wasn’t far behind.
“Good morning to you too, Grams.” I gave her a quick peck on
the cheek. “I was over at the Olmstead’s. They’re cooking in the
ground today and I wanted to see just how they do it.”
“Good
Lord, like you’re ever gonna roast a whole pig--much less in the
ground.”
“You never know. Besides, knowledge is power.”
“Knowing how to cook in the ground ain’t gonna get you far in
life.”
“No, but it might just save our lives one day.”
“Oh,
geez. Here we go again with that ‘end of times’ baloney.”
“I
prefer to call it ‘disaster preparedness’.”
“Call it what you
want. It’s still nutty.”
“Whatever.”
I poured a cup of
coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. Grams followed suit.
“While you were getting your culinary instructions from the
Olmstead’s, Deputy Dog called. Five times. I don’t know why you
have a cell phone if you never turn the dang thing on.”
Heck,
I’d forgotten my whole purse this morning, trying to get out of the
house before she woke up.
“Don’t call Clay ‘Deputy Dog’. You
know I hate that,” I said.
“Yeah, well….”
Grams and Clay
had a Rhett Butler-Mammy relationship. A red taffeta slip finally
won Mammy over. An olive branch to Grams would have to be an Uzi or
AK-47.
“What’s with you? You’re crabby as all get out,” I
said.
“It’s a perk of being an old woman.”
“You’re not old.
You’re aged, like a fine wine.”
“And you’re full of crap.”
“Nice language.”
“Another perk. And stop rolling your eyes
at me,” she said.
“Is smoke coming out of my ears, because you
are wearing on my nerves?”
Now she rolled her eyes at me.
“What did Clay want?” I asked.
“Jenny Todd was found dead in a
vineyard this morning.”
“Holy Moly!”
“That’s what I said.”
“Did he say how she died?” I asked.
“Strangled, drug over
dose. Who knows. Personally, I’d go with the bullet in the back of
her head.”
There were days when I felt like doing a little
strangling myself. But the family would never forgive me for
sending Grams to the Promised Land before her time.
Then
again….
“So why did he call me?”
“Seems you were the last
one to see her alive—except, of course, for the killer. Plus, there
was a note crammed in her mouth with your name on it.”
My
name?”
“Yep. Don’t you feel special?”
“A little too
special.” Now I knew why she was so ornery this morning. Fear.
Fear for my safety.
“What did the note say?”
“Don’t know.
They have it down at the sheriff’s office, running tests on it.”
“This doesn’t make any sense. Jenny was one of the nicest people
in town. And a damn fine hairdresser, too. No blue-haired old
ladies ever came out of her shop,” I said.
“You’re right. She
was a good person. Always toting food and blankets and what not to
the poor folks. She’d even go to your house to fix your hair if you
couldn’t get to the shop.”
We sat silently for a while, letting
the impact of Jenny’s death soak in, as well as my implication in
the whole nightmare.
“Guess I’d better call Clay,” I said.
“Guess so.”
I didn’t move. Maybe if I didn’t call him, this
mess would go away. I’d always had a problem with wishful thinking.
“I wonder if he’ll give you 24- hour protection.”
“Naw,
it’s not that serious,” I lied.
“Ask him anyway. It’s about
time he was good for something.”
Just as my shaky hand reached
for the telephone, it rang. We both jumped. Caller I.D. showed it
was Clay.
“I’ll get it,” Grams said.
My heart pounded. My
palms were sweaty. My breathing shallow.
“Now you listen to me,
Clay Barnett …”
Oh, Lordy, here we go.
