Dodging and Burning Page 11

  “You two need to go in and eavesdrop,” Jay said. “I can’t. Frank might have seen me the other night. Just sit near him and have a milkshake.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said. “Too dangerous.”

  In the rearview mirror, I saw Ceola roll her eyes, and before I could stop her, she hopped out.

  “Go,” Jay said. “Now.” I went after her.

  Glade’s was a hodgepodge—the sleekness of its chrome-fixtured, art deco design was cluttered, if not a little concealed, by gingham tablecloths, rustic trinkets, and local knickknacks. Between the windows hung dusty paintings of local landscapes—mountains, valleys, sunsets—and behind the register, nailed haphazardly, were framed clichés like, “As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” and, “Many hands make light work.” From the ceiling, a billowy, faded quilt had been draped like a canopy in an attempt, I imagine, to produce a cozy feel. The thick smell of bacon grease permeated the air.

  Before Ceola could rush to the open booth beside Frank Vellum and the other man, I grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. The softness of her small palm made me aware again of her age. She didn’t move to pull away from me, which I’d expected, and I felt a brief flush of tenderness for her.

  Although it was difficult to look at the two men without being conspicuous, I did note the mystery man wore grimy blue overalls, and, although he was young, perhaps mid-twenties, his face was creased and his eyes were dark, a mask of hard living, covering up something, some wound, some story.

  We calmly moved to a booth and slid across the cracked leather cushions. I had my back to the men; my eyes were on Ceola and hers on me, and we eavesdropped:

  “I haven’t come to talk,” Frank said. He was seething.

  “Why are we here?” the blond man said.

  “The police have asked you, and now I’m going to ask you—”

  “I don’t know where your daughter is. Sir.”

  “You do, Billy. Don’t lie to me.”

  The waitress arrived at their table, placing a coffee in front of Frank. Billy, who I assumed was Billy Witherspoon, had his coffee already. She attended to us, muttering something about the sausage and cheddar pie of the day.

  “Just a vanilla milkshake for her,” I said, “and coffee with cream for me.”

  “How about some breakfast, or maybe lunch?” she said. She was a large, frumpy woman, her curly hair fizzy and damp at its ends.

  “I’m watching my figure.”

  “Pancakes for the young lady?”

  “Just the milkshake and coffee. Thank you.”

  She frowned at us and left the table. Ceola and I stared at each other, acknowledging a bond of commiseration.

  Behind me, Billy said, “She wanted to get away from you, didn’t she? You were smothering her, locking her up.”

  “She came back here on her own,” Frank said. “You shamed her, and she needed me.” His voice was thin, even shaky. Ceola’s eyes grew wide, almost gleeful.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.”

  “And now you’ve kidnapped her. Haven’t you?”

  “Of course not. Why would I?” Billy’s voice squeaked.

  “I can see it in your eyes. I can see what you’ve done.”

  “You’re goddamn nuts. You’re trying to throw the blame my way, make me into the thug that did her in. You know more than I do.”

  “You’ve taken her, haven’t you?” Frank’s voice was shrill, desperate; heads around the restaurant stopped bobbing, forks went down. “Tell me, you son of a bitch!”

  There was commotion behind me—a rustle of fabric followed by the smashing of crockery, the clatter of silverware, and the sensation of hot liquid across my feet—and a scream. My scream? I’m not even sure now. Later I discovered that the coffee had scalded me through my nylons.

  From the corners of my eyes, I saw Billy fly across the restaurant and heard the bell over the front door jingle violently.

  From above me, a hand offered a napkin—it was Frank. I took it and, stammering a little, said thank you. He grimaced and said nothing in return. For an older man, he was handsome, weathered like the sheriff in a Western matinee, but his eyes were still watery with rage and his chin turned down in embarrassment. He seemed to be hiding behind his finely coifed gray mustache.

  “We got to go,” Ceola said. “Right now.”

  I glared at her incredulously, but her earnestness suddenly made me frightened, as if she knew something bad would soon happen if we didn’t leave immediately. I quickly dabbed my ankles and feet and threw some money on the table. We left in a flourish, not looking back at Frank, who was still standing, stunned, it seemed, by his own behavior.

  Jay was waiting in the driver’s seat when we arrived at the car. He asked what happened, but Ceola, bright-eyed with excitement and out of breath, just gasped, “We got to follow him!” She hadn’t been afraid in Glade’s; she just didn’t want to miss the action. She was still playing pretend.

  “What?” I said. “We’re not going to—”

  “Who?” Jay said. “Billy?”

  “Did you see which way he went?” she said.

  “A blond guy went that way.” Jay nodded to the west.

  “That’s him,” Ceola confirmed.

  Jay turned the key in the ignition, and we set out. We drove a block before Ceola spotted Billy. He was moving vigorously away from the center of town, and he was clearly still boiling with anger. To avoid giving ourselves away, we parked and hopped out and began shadowing him on foot. Billy crossed the cracked pavement under a latticework arch that spanned Main Street and announced in soot-streaked letters, Jitters Gap, VA, Pride of the Mountains. Billy then took a sharp left down a steep incline. We followed him to the bottom of the street and watched as he approached a filling station.

  The hollowed-out body of a Chevy truck sat out front, propped up on cinder blocks and tangled in Virginia creeper; beside it, another junked car was unrecognizable under the layers of rust. The door to the garage was open, and yet another car—a glossy black two-door Ford—was up on the platform, mid-repair. Across the wide window to the front office, the owners had stenciled witherspoon fill and fix in bold red letters. Billy entered the office.

  “That’s where he works,” Jay said. We stepped into the doorway of a derelict storefront to regroup.

  “That explains the overalls,” I said.

  “What happened back there at Glade’s?” Jay asked.

  “Mr. Vellum swung at Billy across the booth and tipped a waitress’s tray over,” Ceola said. “Bunny got splashed with hot coffee.”

  Jay looked at me with concern.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “But the two of them. They were really steamed at each other. Frank wanted to kill Billy.”

  “Really?”

  “Billy’s hiding something,” Ceola said. “You can tell.”

  “But there was something about Frank … ,” I said. “I don’t think he’s telling the truth, either.”

  “We need to know more.” A slim smile crept onto Jay’s face.

  “What?” I said. “I don’t like that look.”

  “Follow me.”

  He led us back to the car. When I asked him again what he was up to, he didn’t respond. He just popped the trunk, located my father’s toolbox, rummaged for something—a wrench, I would come to find out—and stooped beside the front left tire. I heard the hiss of escaping air and gasped.

  “What are you doing?” I said. I was ready to push him down and take the car keys from him. “How will we get home—especially over that mountain?” I could hear the high, unpleasant anxiety in my voice.

  “We’ll be fine. There’s a filling station around the corner, didn’t you know?” Jay just smiled.

  “Oh no,” I said. “It’s dangerous. We can’t. We mustn’t.”

  “You two don’t even need to get out of the car.”

  “You’re taking this too far.”

  “Billy was really mad,” Ce
ola said, a tremor in her voice. “If he’s the murderer, he could’ve seen you in the woods when you found the body.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “He could be looking for you. You can’t show yourself.”

  “We’re going to have to do something,” he said, raising his eyebrows at me. “The tire’s flat now.”

  “This is absurd,” I said.

  We piled into the car, but before Jay started the engine, I insisted we come up with a plan. First, Ceola and I had to conceal our identities. We didn’t want Billy recognizing us from the restaurant. I put on my straw hat and sunglasses—the picnic apparel that had served as part of the cover story for our trip—and I made Ceola use one of the gingham napkins, which Mother had packed, as a kerchief for her head. Of course, she looked ridiculous, but I didn’t know what else to do. I made Ceola promise to stay in the car with me while Jay sorted things out with Billy. Since he had put us in this position, he should be the one to take the risk, I thought, and after all, he was the most able to defend himself. I made him promise to keep his interactions with Billy all business.

  We drove slowly down Main Street and made a left, the car tipping forward at an awkward angle as we rolled down the steep grade to the bottom of the hill. We swung into the station, the bell chiming to alert an attendant.

  For what felt like hours, we saw no one, heard no one. Several cars passed by on the street, but none of them stopped for gas like I’d hoped they would. The potential witness would help keep everyone safe. I imagined Billy lurking in the undergrowth, watching Jay stumble on Lily’s corpse, his dark, carnivorous eyes roiling with venom. I felt certain we were being watched now. I looked over at Jay but said nothing.

  “Let me see what’s going on,” he said, and swung the car door open. I almost made to grab him and pull him back, but I knew I couldn’t stop him. “Hello,” he called. Still nothing.

  Just as he was about to return, Billy appeared at the edge of the garage door. He’d rolled the top of his overalls to his waist, exposing a clean white T-shirt underneath. He was more muscular than I’d imagined, biceps thick and leaden in his sleeves, and a neck like a telephone pole, but this bulk, besides being intimidating, made him seem squat and dwarfish, a caricature.

  “What you need?” he said. “Fill ’er up?”

  “The left tire. It’s lost some air.”

  “It’ll be a buck to use the compressor—that includes labor.” That was price gouging. He must have sized up the Olds and figured we had money.

  “Fine.”

  Billy disappeared into the garage, switched on the compressor, and then reappeared with a thin red hose. As he approached the front of the car, he noticed Ceola and me, squinting a little and giving us a polite nod. I don’t think he could quite make out either of us. Perhaps it was the glare on the windshield.

  “Nice weather, isn’t it?” Jay said, making small talk. He was leaning against the fender, feigning nonchalance.

  “Yep, suppose so,” Billy said, seemingly uninterested.

  Jay smiled faintly at him.

  I heard a click and the smooth whistle of air entering the tire. Immediately, I felt better. This would all be over soon, and we’d be on our way.

  “Witherspoon,” Jay said loudly. “That name seems familiar to me.”

  My heart leapt. What was he doing?!

  “Does it?” Billy said.

  “The newspaper—that’s right. It was about that missing girl. Lily Vellum.”

  “That’s none of your business, sir,” Billy said.

  “Wasn’t someone named Billy Witherspoon suspected of doing it? Of taking her?”

  “What’s it to you?” he said, standing up. I could still hear the air seeping in. Faster, I thought. Faster. He glanced our direction again and stepped closer, craning his neck to get a better look at me. I tilted my head forward, the wide brim of my hat shielding against his gaze. Why was he looking at me? I thought of those predatory eyes, leering at Jay from the woods.

  “We’re just passing through, pal. Visiting family,” Jay said.

  Billy sneered at him but didn’t make a move. Something clicked, and Billy returned to the hose. The tire was finally full. Thank God.

  Jay fished a dollar out of his shirt pocket and walked around the front of the Olds. When Billy stood again, Jay held it out to him. “You’re the one they suspect,” he said. “Did you do it? Did you kill her?”

  Billy dropped the hose and grabbed Jay by the collar, shoving him hard against the side of the car. The dollar fluttered to the ground. “Who the fuck are you?” he said. “Did Frank send you?”

  Jay didn’t respond. He seemed oddly serene, considering the damage a man like Billy could do.

  “That man better watch himself,” Billy said.

  “Why?” Jay said.

  Billy jerked him up by the shirt and flopped him against the hood of the car. I could tell it hurt Jay, especially his leg.

  “You tell him I don’t know a damn thing, and if he comes asking again, I’ll—” And he bounced Jay again, making it clear what he would do. Jay’s back landed hard against the green metal, and his face flushed with pain. I didn’t know what to do, so I slammed my hand on the horn. The blast confused Billy, and Jay slid down the hood and slithered out of reach. He swung around the front of the car and pulled the driver’s door shut just as Billy—face glazed with sweat and teeth bared like a rabid fox—collided with the outside of the door. He beat his fists against the window, leaving star-shaped grease marks and even a smear of blood on the glass. Jay started the engine, and before Billy could crack the window and break in, we were off, screeching across the street, nearly ramming a hay truck.

  On the drive back over the mountain, after Jay had recovered a little, Jay and Ceola launched into a mania of questions and hypotheses: What if Billy really doesn’t know what happened to Lily? But he has the best motive, doesn’t he? She was pregnant after all. Why does Billy think Frank knows more than he does? Does he have a motive? And what about the other people in the letter—George and Aunt Kathy? What, if anything, does Bernice Hersh, the pharmacist’s wife, have to do with this?

  I said nothing. I didn’t understand how they could go on spinning circles in the air with their wild suspicions. Jay had been reckless. He had blithely thrown himself in harm’s way, first by jumping fences at the Vellum house and now by getting assaulted by that horrible thug. Even if he didn’t care about himself, he should have cared that he was placing us in danger. Wasn’t it real for him? Or was it just a game? More than ever, I wanted to read Robbie’s journal. It was my right to know why Jay wanted it. I’d earned that privilege by undergoing this ordeal.

  What a goddamn fool I was.

  5

  A DATE WITH

  DEATH

  The Phone Call

  The first morning at her aunt’s house, Sheila walked the estate. Her mood lightened as she followed the trails that wound in and out of the woods and switchbacked down the side of the mountain. When she and Kenneth had been in love, they’d taken weekends in the country. One day in particular came back to her.

  It was fall, and they were visiting the Adirondacks. They had slept in, and after a big breakfast, they decided on a hike. The sky was blue and the leaves were in full color, and Kenneth held her hand in his. As they crossed a wide field, he looked back at her from time to time, a warm smile on his face. Suddenly he let go and started running, his scarf unwinding from his neck. “Weeeee!” he screamed. He headed for a large mound of leaves that a tidy farmer had gathered. Like a schoolboy chump, he flopped into the center of it, expecting a fluffy cushion. He came out cursing and stomping, covered in muck and dead leaves. It was compost.

  When their eyes met, she began laughing. “You’re a queer one, aren’t you?” she said.

  He wanted to be mad, it seemed, but he began laughing too. Then he started chasing her, his arms outstretched. “Give me a kiss, sweetheart. A big kiss!”

  Eventually, she got a muddy smooch. She
had wanted that moment to last forever.

  As black rain clouds thickened in the west, Sheila became lonely again and headed back to the house. After lunch, she took a nap in her aunt’s dayroom. She awoke to the patter of rain on the windowpanes. Slowly she became aware that the sleeves of her blouse were wet, and her shoes were soaked. She gasped and shook the dampness from her arms and her feet. She searched for a leak in the ceiling but found none. She felt the sofa and the carpet, but they were bone dry. Like the evening before, it didn’t make sense. She touched her neck. It was still sore. What was going on?

  She made a cup of coffee and spiked it with whiskey to steady her nerves. As she sipped the bitter black liquid, she watched it rain. She couldn’t wait to get back to the city, to her little apartment, cheerful despite its dinginess. She had no desire to live in this house. She would visit a real estate agent tomorrow. She began to cry softly.

  She dabbed away the tears and snatched up the telephone receiver and immediately slam-med it back in place. After a sip or two more of her concoction, she plucked the receiver from the cradle and dialed. The operator connected her, and it rang several times before Kenneth answered, “Hello.” She didn’t respond immediately. “Is anyone there?” he asked.