Excerpt
Emory tapped the bell on the counter in the lobby of Willow
Springs – senior living spaces converted from a nineteenth century Italianate
house. Sounds of a mountain forest from overhead speakers pacified the air, and
silk flowers sprung from every available surface. This place doesn’t seem so bad. It’s peaceful.
A scream rippled through the
tranquility. Emory leapt over the counter and pounded through the door behind
it. His eyes darted about in search of danger, but all he found was a fiftyish
woman clutching her chest with a horrified look. Before her was an open drawer.
Inside was a chicken-bone doll with a bird’s foot attached as if grabbing at
the heart. The woman saw Emory and pointed frantically at the drawer. “Get it
out of there! Get it out!”
That’s
odd. It looks kind of like the one from Corey’s office. Emory threw the
doll into a nearby wastebasket. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The woman’s breathing
ticked down from asthmatic. “Okay, I’m fine now. Thank you.” Her
chest-clutching hand dropped to her side, revealing a company badge hanging
from the collar of her purple polyester blouse. “Can I help you?”
Emory found himself staring at her
swept-back, brittle hair – a patchwork of brown shades given a yellow luster
from the fluorescent ceiling light. She
must color it herself. He pulled his eyes away, glancing at the name on her
badge before offering her a smile. “Hi Lucy. I’m here to see Mary Belle
Hinter.”
“Ms… Ms. Mary Belle?” Her hand
returned to her chest. “Are you a relation?”
“I’m Emory Rome. I’m investigating
the death of someone she knew.”
“Oh good heavens. How awful.” Lucy
fanned herself with her hand. “She’s on the veranda. The door down the hall to
your right. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” Emory pointed toward
the wastebasket. “By the way, how did that thing get in your drawer?”
The woman placed a hand over her
heart. “I can’t rightfully say. I imagine someone confiscated it from… one of
our residents. We’re a Christian establishment.” Emory started toward the door
when the woman stopped him. “Em’ry, you don’t believe she had something to do
with that death, do you?”
“No, I just need to talk to her.”
Lucy pursed her lips. “Are you
sure?”
That’s
an odd question.
Lucy continued, “I don’t mean to
speak ill of the misfortunate, but that woman is a hellion straight from the
loins of the devil!”
“Thanks for the warning.” Emory
left Lucy to her shudders. That’s twice
I’ve been warned about Mary Belle Hinter. Who is she?
When Emory stepped onto the
veranda, he was greeted by a stifling warmth, in spite of the weak winter
sunlight slavering through the glass roof. I
wonder which one is her. Among the tight scattering of more patio heaters
than were necessary, he saw about two dozen elderly denizens – some sitting
alone and others playing cards or board games. One small woman with wild silver
hair, however, was kneeling in front of a tree and digging in the dirt with her
hands, just beyond the veranda’s wood-slat flooring. Emory smirked. Lord, don’t let it be the crazy one.
A thin fortyish man in scrubs
approached him. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mary Belle
Hinter.”
The man scanned the area before the
tips of his mustache reached for his chin. “There she is digging at that tree
again.”
Emory’s shoulders slumped. Of course, it’s her.
The attendant hurried toward her.
“Ms. Mary Belle, what have we said about messing with the foliage?”
Either she didn’t hear him or she
ignored him altogether because she broke off a small offshoot of the horse
chestnut tree’s root and pulled it from the ground.
“Don’t put that in your mouth!”
Before the attendant could grab it,
she sure enough stuffed the piece of root into her mouth and sucked on it as if
it were hard candy.
The attendant threw his hands up in
the air and turned to Emory. “She’s all yours.”
Emory nodded and extended a hand to
the old woman. “Ms. Mary Belle, could I help you to your feet?”
She looked up at him and rasped
through cracked lips, “If I’d a wanted on m’ feet, I’d be on ’em.”
“Fair enough.” Emory crouched on
the ground next to her.
“Ms. Mary Belle, I need to talk to
you about Corey Melton. Do you know who that is?”
“I know who he was.” She looked at
him with jaundiced eyes and pointed an arthritic finger at his face. “Who’re
you?”
“I’m Emory Rome.” He handed her a
business card. “I’m an investigator. You said you knew who Mr. Melton was. Why
did you say that?”
The old woman buried Emory’s card
into one of the oversized pockets of her brown tattered cloak. “I ain’t ne’er
forgit a name or face.”
“No, why did you use the past
tense?”
Ms. Mary Belle’s lips curled toward
her withered cheeks. “I know why you’re here.”
“And why’s that?”
“You’re askin’ ’bout a feller I
knew but for one reason. The curse musta met its intention.”
Emory clenched his jaw. Here we go. “Curse?”
“The thief stole m’ prop’ty! So I
hexed ’im. Hexed ’im good.”
Yep,
she’s crazy.
Ms. Mary Belle laughed so hard, the
root fell from her mouth. “When God closes a door, Death opens a window.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Ne’er did. Coward wrote me a
letter! Sheriff done his dirty work. Cursed ’im too.” Her last statement added
a proud glimmer to her eyes. “He still wit’ us?”
“As far as I know.”
“Well, give it time. Give it time.
Oh me…” Without warning, a flash flood of tears washed away Ms. Mary Belle’s
self-satisfaction.
Emory placed a hand on her
shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“That prop’ty’s been my family’s
for gen’rations. From when I came ta ’wareness as a girl, I knowed I was gonna
die there.” She looked over his shoulder as if she could see her erstwhile land
from where she sat. “Summer’s always m’ fav’rite. Dancin’ ina black willer
seeds that’re floatin’ ina wind. Cooling off ina crick. Course, ’tweren’t deep
enough ta swim in, but it’s fun all a same. Ne’er did learn ta swim. And the
taste o’ the sassafras trees.” Her tongue poked through her gummy smile to lick
her crackled lips. “You e’er had a place like that?”
Emory shrugged. “I can’t say I
have.”
Ms. Mary Belle wiped her eyes and
focused them on Emory. “So you fixin’ ta ’rest me?”
“What? No, I’m not going to arrest
you.”
“Takin’ pity ona ol’ woman.” She
patted the back of his hand. “You’re a good young’un.”
“Thanks.”
“Can you he’p me get m’ prop’ty
back?”
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing I
can do about that.”
“Sweet sassafras, you an inves’gator!
Inves’gate how ta git back what’s mine.”
“I’m sorry.” Emory shook his head.
“It’s not that simple.”
“I got money. I can pay.”
“It’s not that. It’s just too late
to do anything about it now. It’s out of our hands.”
“Our?” The old woman’s pitiable
fragility evaporated, leaving behind a desiccated grimace of anger. “You
workin’ wit’ ’em! You all in cahoots!”
“No, I meant there’s nothing you or
I could do.”
“Stealin’ what’s mine!” Ms. Mary
Belle clawed at the back of his hand, drawing blood. As Emory recoiled from
her, she sucked the tiny bits of his skin from her fingertips and then spit in
his face. “I curse you! No moment’s peace ’til your reckonin’, whena cold handa
death’ll come a beckonin’!”
Emory jumped to his feet and backed
away, almost tripping. He wiped the spit from his face and glared at her in
disbelief.
Ms. Mary Belle screamed, “Git out!”
followed by incomprehensible words.
Emory could feel his arm hair
shrieking to attention as he retreated to his car.
