Bracing for the Cold!

Hi, friends. It's been quite a while since I posted an update. Sorry about that! I thought I did one at the end of December, but I suppose not. Anyway, here are a few snippets of life lately.

I knitted this "rainbow" scarf for one of my grandson's for Christmas. He asked for it.

We did travel to Chattanooga for Christmas and got to visit with kids and grandkids. They were so sweet to shop and prepare for our arrival. Isn't their tree lovely? The grandkids were great and so much fun!

There are 3 grandkids we did not get to see this Christmas, which is sad. But we can't see everyone every year; we live too far apart.

I've been spinning and knitting in January. This is some wool (many various breeds) that I prepared (some from raw fleece), naturally dyed with plants that I picked here on the farm (like lichens, goldenrod, dandelions), spun on my spinning wheel, and now it is ready to make something with. But what? That's always the big decision!

Leo has found a sweet spot in my studio to snooze. Cats are skilled at finding the comfy, sunny, soft spots in the house.

Leo and Adam are becoming good friends. In the evening when it's time for TV watching, Adam calls, "Lee-Ohh!" and Leo comes trotting in and snuggles there by Adam's right arm.

I'm trying so hard to finish knitting this sweater. I have only the bottoms of the sleeves to complete. It's a bit wonky (as most of my knitting is!), but I think it will be very warm, cozy, and wearable. The right sleeve is now nearly done.

 And that's where we are right now. I'm sitting on the couch, waiting for cold weather and snow this week, and knitting away with brown wool. We will probably only get 2-4 inches of snow, but in the South, that's a lot, especially here on the coast. Adam will almost certainly have no school on Wednesday (hooray!) Now ... if we can only keep the house warm!

I hope all of you are warm, content, peaceful, and thankful right now. In the midst of life's sorrows and trials, it's often a Herculean effort to keep inner peace. May God, with his Holy Spirit, help us all to keep that peace.

The Appearance of Death, Chapter Twenty-Three

 (To read all previous chapters, please click on the book title in the header bar above.)

Chapter 23

My conversation the next morning with Harold Garvey was awkward. He could not fault me, technically, but I knew instantly when I told him that the body had been misidentified that he was beyond irked. He was angry.

“Well,” he said sharply, “so where is Anita Wagner now?”

“Mr. Garvey, I don't know. She never came to Peace Valley.” This was a tiny lie. “Desiree Steele was here as the only family representative. I do have their phone numbers, but I've had no luck getting them to answer or reply to my messages.”

“But Miss Steele did come for the urn?”

“Yes. Just yesterday.”

“And when exactly were you aware that the body was not Anita Wagner's?” This was, I felt, an unnecessarily pointed question.

“Not until my conversation with Miss Steele, Mr. Garvey.” This was also a tiny lie. “By then I'd already cremated the body.” This, thankfully, was true. I wanted to avoid any mention of the break-in and Anita's presence in the morgue.

“And you believe that the body you did cremate was that of the identical twin, Angela Steele?”

“I don't see how it could've been anyone else,” I replied. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Garvey, but we were all going on the certain identification of the body by Desiree Steele, and without the assistance of Myron Wagner, whose participation was explicitly prohibited in the burial instructions, we had no one else to ask, and no reason to think we needed to,” I explained. “Besides that, Willard Riggins affirmed his role as notary for those burial instructions. I had absolutely no suspicion of foul play.” This was true, and my guilty conscience was somewhat assuaged.

“Hmph,” he responded. “I don't like this at all, Mrs. Monson.”

“Nor do I, Mr. Garvey.” Thus ended our conversation.

I heard from Johnny Little that his wife's visits to Bobbie Dixon were becoming more frequent, that she was failing at last. He indicated in his gentle way that I might be welcome to see her again before she passed. As a funeral director, this made me squirm a bit. Seeing and caring for dead bodies was my business. But seeing someone alive, and then caring for that person's body only a few days later, seemed a strange thing. Still, I went with Nelda one morning a few days later when the sun was warming the lemony blossoms of the magnolias and the Bermuda grass was stretching its tendrils across the sidewalks. We walked there together. Nelda spoke lovingly of Bobbie Dixon along the way.

“She's such a dear,” she said, “never complains. She's been talking a lot lately of the old days, years ago. And Anita's name has cropped up often.” She was silent a minute. “I wondered if having you there might prompt her to clear her mind of old thoughts in that regard.”

“Does she seem disturbed about Anita?” I asked.

“We'll see,” Nelda replied. “We'll see what she says today.”

Bobbie Dixon was smaller, thinner, even shrinking into her bedclothes. Her bony hands held the sheet edge lightly. At first her eyes flitted around the room, like two tiny birds trying to light on something solid. Finally they found Nelda's face and rested there. She sighed deeply.

“Hello, Nelda.”

“Hello, Miss Bobbie. I've brought a friend.” I thought she was referring to me, but instead she pulled a plush tiger from her basket. She placed it between Bobbie's hands. Bobbie pulled it to her lips and brushed it against them.

“So sweet,” she said.

Nelda leaned in and whispered. “Bobbie. Ivy's here. Ivy who is Anita's friend.”

I felt this was a stretch. When I thought Anita was dead, I had a sympathetic attitude toward her, a woman I'd never met. After several angry interactions with her, I considered us much less friendly than before. But for the purposes of this quiet exchange over a death bed, I was content to be Anita's friend.

“Hello, Bobbie.” Her glazed eyes rolled toward me. Her mouth twitched in recognition.

“Anita's friend,” she whispered. “I'm Anita's friend too.” She rolled her head slowly from side to side on the pillow. “So sad,” she said. “She's dead.”

I did not contradict her. This was a time to listen, I could tell.

“We were all friends, we three,” she went on. “We took the baby and went on picnics. We went to the fair.” She smiled a little. “I took those two to get their nails done for the very first time.” Her voice hushed so that I could barely hear her. “So sad. She was so sad.” Then she was silent. At last I inquired.

“Who was sad, Bobbie? Anita? Was Anita sad?”

Her eyelashes fluttered but her eyes did not open. “No. Oh no. Not Anita. It was the other, the other one. The twin who came and left. Such sadness.” Her eyes opened again and sought mine. “That baby, you know. That baby – she didn't want it at first. She was --” Then Bobbie Dixon's mouth shut for lack of the word to say. She'd come upon a stumbling block. “I don't know. She … that mother of hers … the mother had married a man, a filthy man. He abused that girl, Anita's sister,” she said, and tears ran from the corners of her eyes into her hair. “She came to Anita pregnant with his child. She was running. She was running away.” Her voice choked in a cough and for a few minutes Nelda helped her recover, wiped her mouth and helped her sit up. Then Bobbie was weaker than before. With great effort she finished her tale. One hand drifted from the sheet edge to mine and she gripped my hand as tight as she could.

“There was a bond,” she whispered, “between those two. Unbreakable. Anita always felt guilty for being able to leave, to live with my family. When she saw Ange and what had happened to her all those years, down in that trailer in Opelika – oh, she could not conquer that guilt.” The intensity in her voice carried her along. “She wanted to help her, she would've taken that baby, if she could've. But in the end Ange went back to the mire and took the baby with her. That changed Anita. She was never the same after that.” Bobbie's lips closed together like a fist.

“That is sad, Bobbie. I'm so sorry.” I didn't know what else to say. She gave a long, deep sigh that rattled her chest, and she turned her head away from me. Soon she drifted into a shallow sleep. Nelda said it was time to go.

“Thank you,” she said as we went onto the front porch. “I think she's needed to tell that to somebody for a long time, but she couldn't. Not till now.”

The only other person to whom I told the whole story was Willard Riggins. I drove to Newberry a few days later and knocked on his office door. He welcomed me in again and served me lemonade laced with a bit of Pim's.

“What's this?” I asked, amazed at the beverage that had just passed my lips.

“Oh, that's something the English drink,” he said nonchalantly. “It hasn't taken off over here yet, but I'm trying.” And he laughed.

When I told him that Anita Wagner was alive and well, albeit of unknown location and not likely to be seen again, he smiled a knowing smile.

“You're not in the least surprised,” I said to him. His blue eyes twinkled in delight.

“She came by to see me at my house night before last,” he said. “Now then – I was shocked. But I was so pleased that she felt she could trust me, that I was someone she wanted to know that she was alive.” He stroked the perspiration on his icy glass with one finger. “That I was not among those from whom she was escaping.”

I laughed a little. “Well,” I said, “I'm afraid I am one she'd prefer not to see again. Our few exchanges of words were not kind ones.”

“You had a job to do, Mrs. Monson, and I think you did it well.” Then he added, “Emery Plott would be proud of you.”

After another long sip of Pim's, I said, “Anita Wagner had a very difficult life. I don't blame her for what she did.”

He shook his head. “No, my dear. Angela her sister was the one with the difficult life, indeed the horrible life. How I wish they'd both been put into foster care together. How different things would have been. But as it is, one sister seems to have surrendered her life to give the other a fresh start.” He held up his glass of Pim's toward mine. “May she make the most of it!” And we toasted to this wish.

Sam came for his visit to Peace Valley in late May just after the boys got out of school for the summer, so emotions were high and celebration was in the air. I agreed to dinner at the Mexican restaurant, El Rancheros, a few blocks down from Rick's coffee shop. Sam and I sat at opposite corners of the table, a tactical ploy on Rick's part to ensure maximum comfort and peace during dinner. Thankfully, Sam seemed to focus his attention on Jeffrey, who sat beside him. They inspected their burritos together and played with the chips and salsa. Karen had a voracious appetite.

“You're hungry tonight,” I observed.

“I'm hungry all the time,” she said. “It's ridiculous. I suppose it's some leftover effect of the chemo, but I'm not sure. My last treatment was ages ago.” She was stuffing chimichanga into her mouth. “Before, it was ice cream and donuts, if you recall.” I nodded. “Now it's anything spicy.” She dribbled tomatillo sauce on her food. “This stuff is fabulous.”

After dinner Rick drove Sam back to the B&B while Karen and I walked home with the boys. It was a long walk, but the night was perfection, the boys were happy, and Karen was chattering away as daughters sometimes do. This was what I'd come to Peace Valley for, I thought. For family. For Karen. For a community where walking home along the dusky sidewalks with little boys is normal and your neighbors – even the ones you've never met – greet you and wave. Some of these people I will be burying someday, I thought to myself. But the thought didn't scare me. It was a service that someone had to render to them, and it was the one I'd chosen.

“Mom,” Karen said quietly. The boys had run ahead.

“Yes, honey.”

“I'm not sure. I'm probably wrong. But I think maybe I'm pregnant.”

We both stopped. I looked at her.

“What? Pregnant?” I squeaked. She stared at me, waiting for more response. I in turn wondered how she felt about this development. “I mean – is that okay?” Somewhere in my fuzzy memory was a vague impression that Rick had said she wanted a baby. But did she want one now?

My daughter broke down in tears, standing on the sidewalk under the street light.

“Oh, honey, it's okay. It's all gonna be okay.” I held her and stroked her head. I could hear the boys squealing and chasing each other around a tree. “Don't worry. I'm gonna be here to help.” Karen sniffled in that way she does, and pulled away.

“Mom, I'm glad. I've wanted another baby so much. It's just Rick. I don't know if he wants a baby.”

I slipped my arm through hers and we turned to walk ahead. The boys ran back to us and then ran away again.

“A baby is a happy thing. Rick will be delighted. You'll see.”

The street lights flickered on as we walked and the little boys danced beneath them. Under the magnolia and live oak trees, we walked arm in arm to the house and rested in the rockers on the darkening porch until Rick came home.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, Chapter Twenty-Two

 (To read all previous chapters, please click on the book title in the header bar above.)

Chapter 22

“Wait,” I said slowly. “Wait a second.” My mind was spinning in more confusion, if possible, than it had spun in a long time. “Anita? You think that's Anita?” I pointed to the frozen image on the screen, the red, bloated face turned upward, the bright auburn hair glowing under the fluorescent lights of the morgue. “That's Anita Wagner? But she's dead! She was identified, examined, autopsied, certified.” I looked in despair at Patty.
“Patty, I cremated her this morning.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You what?”

“I did,” I replied. “I'd waited as long as I could. I had no excuse to delay further.” I stood up, pacing the room. “Honestly, I was sick of it, the whole situation, as you know. You were sick of it too!” I turned to her. “You thought I should've put her into that retort last week!”

Patty nodded. “Yes, I did. I can't blame yeh. But oh my word, that's bad timing.”

“You said it.”

I sat down heavily in Beau's chair by the front door and put my head in my hands. “I think I've got your headache,” I said. I slouched in the chair and implored her, “What do we do now?”

Patty walked across the office and locked the front door. Then she leaned against her desk, stretching her long legs out and piercing the carpet with her sharp black heels. “We figure this out, once and for all,” she said. She wagged one lethal fingernail toward the morgue. “If the woman walkin' around in there last night was Anita Wagner, then who exactly was the woman you cremated this morning, huh?”

I gulped. There was only one option. “That was Angela Steele.”

“Yup. It was. We've been holding Angela Steele's body here all this time.”

“And that explains why some things about her didn't seem right,” I added, “like the smoking you smelled on the body --”

“But not the clothes,” she interjected.

“Right,” I agreed. “They'd changed the clothes. And her feet – the toes and the bunions – those were Angela's feet. Like everybody said, Anita would never have had feet like that.” I paused, my mind racing. “But they kept the high-heeled shoes.” I looked at Patty. “They had to keep the shoes, because that's what made her fall down the stairs!”

“And,” Patty added. “They also had to dye --”

“Her hair,” we said together. “Angela's hair must've been gray!” I exclaimed. “And the dead body had a new dye job. But when I went to Alabama, Angela's … I mean Anita's … hair had a gray part down the middle.”

“Ahhh!” we both said.

Patty's face was troubled. “So are you sayin' they killed her? They lured Angela up here from Opelika and pushed her down the stairs out there at Anita's house?”

I began pacing again. “No, no,” I told her. “Angela died at her own house in Opelika. I saw it myself. She fell down the attic stairs. Oh!” I exclaimed, and ran to my office to retrieve the gem stone. I showed it to Patty. “See? I found this on the attic stairs at Angela's house. It was ripped out of her shoe when she fell there. I think she was drinking in the attic.”

“Drinkin' in her attic?” Patty asked.

“Yeah, probably hiding from Desiree. I think she had a real drinking problem.”

“And they brought her body up here?”

“I suppose. And tried to pass her off as Anita,” I said. “Though Lord knows why.”

“I know why,” Patty said ominously. “Anita wanted to escape, and bad! She wanted to get away from that nasty piece of work they call a husband, that's what. She found out her twin sister had died, and this plan popped into her mind, and she took her chance.”

I shook my head. “That was a big risk. And now she's caught.”

That afternoon I put Angela Steele's ashes into a small urn, tallied up the total expenses concerning the handling of her remains, and went to the bank for payment from her account. This proved to be a seamless operation, and I was satisfied that at least I would not be out any money for all my trouble. All that was left was handing over her ashes to the family. I called Desiree Steele's phone number, which directed me straight to her voice mail.

“Ms. Steele,” I said, “I have the ashes in an urn and would like for you to pick them up at the funeral home as soon as possible.” Click. Perhaps that would lure her back to Peace Valley.

The following three days were delightfully calm. My little grandsons were happy that the end of school was approaching and played outside each afternoon in the creek, catching tadpoles and playing with them in the mud puddles. They took chocolate chip cookies into their tree house, and I told them stories of pirates and the high seas. I spent more hours at home. Karen's diet improved as I sneakily rid the premises of ice cream and donuts, replacing it with homemade yogurt, fruit, and buttered wheat toast. She was not amused but didn't complain too much since Beau stopped throwing up under her bed.

I felt calmer too. Patty and I started chatting at the office, learning about each other. She introduced me to Skip-Bo, a ridiculous and highly-addictive card game. I showed her the wonder of dipping French fries in a Wendy's Frosty, plus the many delights of Haagen-Dazs ice cream. I was shocked to discover that she also enjoyed sappy Hallmark Christmas movies, although I drew the line at her affection for Air Supply. That was a band whose sound I could never appreciate. When I first saw Patty Goyle, I'd never have thought we could be good friends. I found her fingernails off-putting. Peace Valley was teaching me lessons in understanding and acceptance.

Karen informed me that Sam was indeed coming for a visit.

“But he's only staying one night, Mom,” she explained hurriedly. “And he'll stay in the B&B, and we'll see him there with the boys. You won't have to see him at all,” she continued.

I thought about this for a few minutes, and realized that inside myself, I had no fear or apprehensions about seeing Sam again. I had no inclinations toward him, no desire to reunite. And although I still loathed his infidelity, I had worked hard at forgiving him as much as I could – forgiveness is an ongoing work in progress. Nor was I afraid of his possible advances toward me; I felt strong enough to repel and discount them.

“It's okay, Karen,” I told her. “I don't mind seeing him or eating a meal with you all. I would appreciate not staying in the same house though.”

Her face brightened and her smile glowed at me. “Mom, that's great!” She hugged me. “That makes me so happy! Plus, it's really nice for the boys to see that you can be together without fighting.”

I nodded. It was good to try to be together without fighting. We would see if it was possible yet.

The fourth day after my message on Desiree Steele's voice mail, she showed up at the office. She looked horrible, exhausted, dragged down and rung out, as we used to say. Her eyes were sunken and dull, her hair as stringy and oily as ever, and her clothes wrinkled as if she'd been sleeping in her car – or, Anita Wagner's car. I wondered how readily her aunt had relinquished the car to her as part of the ploy to fake her death. She put her baggy purse down on Patty's death.

“I'm here for th' urn,” she said to Patty.

Patty fiddled with some papers on her desk. I'd asked her to delay Desiree, to keep her in the room. She put a few folders away in her desk drawer and picked up the phone to call me in my office, where I was listening carefully for all her signs.

“Mrs. Monson,” she said loudly, “a representative of the Steele family is here to collect the ashes of Anita Wagner.”

I opened my desk, took out the gem stone, picked up the urn and an accompanying page of condoling statements from the funeral home, and went out to Patty's office, picking up the plastic bag of Angela Steele's clothes and shoes on the way.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Steele,” I said.

“Hey,” she muttered.

I handed her the bag. At this point Patty got up from her desk and walked toward the front door, behind Desiree. “Here are your aunt's effects that were on her body at the time of death.” Then I handed her the urn. “And here are her ashes, in a simple brass urn with some mother-of-pearl inlay.” She mumbled something in reply. “And a sheet from the funeral home.” By this time her hands were full, as she picked her purse up from Pattys' desk as well. “And this is a gem stone that I believe fell out of one of her shoes.” I held the stone between my thumb and index finger. It sparkled in the light. At that moment I heard a sharp intake of breath from Desiree, and juggling all the other items in her hands, she tried to extend her palm to receive the tiny item.

I dropped it just left of her extended palm so that it hit the floor under Patty's desk. I pretended not to see my miss, instead beginning some comment to Patty Goyle while Desiree looked at me helplessly, wanting the gem stone but unable to bend over to pick it up. Finally she placed the urn and the bag on the desk and got down on her hands and knees, reaching under the desk. I looked at Patty, who was studying the bottoms of Desiree Steele's feet, on display in a pair of cheap Wal-Mart flip-flops. Patty squinted at her feet, tilted her head, and then gave me a thumb's-up. The matching tattoo – the heart-shaped mark with “A” and “D” inside – was on her right foot also.

Before Desiree could stand up again I'd retrieved the urn from the desk. She stood up, momentarily confused to see it in my hands.

“Please tell your aunt,” I stated coldly, “that I don't appreciate the charade she's attempted to play on me. I don't appreciate the lies you told me yourself, young lady,” I added, using my best displeased mother voice. Her face turned red and terrified, her eyes looked away from me. “I'm releasing these ashes to you, but I want you both to know that I know whose remains are in this urn, and I think I could easily prove it, if needed.” I wasn't sure, but I thought Desiree might have begun to cry. “Tell your aunt to stay out of my funeral home, stay away from my morgue, and give up breaking-and-entering.” I put one finger under her chin and raised her eyes to meet mine. “Do you understand?” I asked, giving her my coldest look. She nodded. “I have not given this information to Myron Wagner … yet.” At this, her eyes widened and she nearly exclaimed some expletive. “Hush!” I added. “I understand your aunt's fears. But tampering with a dead body, and especially transporting it across state lines, is illegal in some states, and I think Alabama has especially strict laws regarding this.”

Desiree began to cry openly now, and her head dropped again.

“I didn't want to do it. I only helped. It was Aunt 'Nita's idea,” she murmured.

“I know,” I replied. “I thought as much.” I sighed and continued. “Unfortunately, I have no option but to tell the whole sorry mess to the county coroner, Mr. Garvey. You remember him?”

She nodded again.

“I will put it in his hands, and he'll have to determine what he will do with it. I will do that first thing tomorrow morning.” She nodded. “Tomorrow, Desiree.” I placed the urn back in her hands. “Drive back to Opelika and tell Anita all I've said. Tell her she has until tomorrow about 10:00 in the morning, okay?”

Desiree Steele looked up at me. Suddenly she understood. She took the urn, the gem stone, the plastic bag, and stared at me for a moment.

“Thank you, ma'am,” she said. “I don't know how --”

“It's okay, Desiree,” I replied. “Just go.”

As she walked out the door, I realized I had one more question that remained unanswered, an answer that I had to have. I ran to the door.

“Desiree!” I called. She turned. “I wanted to know – the tattoo. How did you make the tattoo appear the next morning?”

She smiled, just a little. “That was Aunt 'Nita's idea,” she said. “She had some big ole bandaids from the hospital, somethin' skin-colored. Just made it disappear.”

“Ah,” I responded. “And you broke in here overnight and took it off?”

Again, she looked down, ashamed, and nodded.

“Why?” I asked her, stepping closer. “That made no sense to me.”

She sighed. Her shoulders slumped. “She's my ma. I understood Aunt 'Nita's desire to use her body, to do the swap. But it was hard. That tattoo --” If Desiree had had a hand free, she would've wiped the tears from her cheeks that fell freely now. “I wanted her buried with that tattoo showin', after it didn't matter no more.” She sniffed loudly. “It was special. To her and me.”

She loaded her belongings in the car and drove away. I felt for the girl, I did, but I hoped I'd never see a member of that family again.

To read the last chapter, please click here.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, Chapter Twenty-One

 (To read all previous chapters, please click on the book title in the header bar above.)

Chapter 21

Karen was waiting for me on the front porch. She peered at me over the top of a package of Fudge/Marshmallow Pinwheels. I think she might've scowled at me and said something snarky, but the pinwheel currently stuffed into her mouth prevented her.

“Hiya!” I said. “Sorry to be gone so long.” I stepped onto the porch. “What do you want for dinner?”

“I don't feel so good,” she replied gloomily.

I took the half-empty package of pinwheels from her lap and laughed. “I wonder why?” I said. “Pinwheels are not a good precursor to a healthy dinner, you know.” I smiled down at her. “Salad? Stir fry? Fruit yogurt?”

Karen rolled her eyes. “I think Rick's picking up KFC on his way home. I'm eating all the mashed potatoes though.”

I laughed. “Well then!” I exclaimed, and went inside, slamming the screen door behind me.

“Grammy!” both boys squealed together. “Grammy Grammy! We missed you! Beau ran away again and we found him in the creek!”

The evening was delightful. I cut up some fruit salad to accompany our fried chicken. Since Rick declined to tell him what they were, Jeffrey tried chicken gizzards for the first time. Karen and I ate all the cole slaw. Then Rick pulled out the desserts – toffee sundaes for the boys, and Oreo Krushems for the adults. By 7:00 the boys were swinging on the tire hung from the oak tree in the front yard while Karen, Rick, and I rocked slowly on the porch. Rick was on his phone.

“I have to go back to the coffee shop,” he said, closing his phone. “We've got somebody coming to the B&B upstairs. I'm gonna go welcome them and make sure everything's good there.” He stood up. “Be back in a bit.”

Karen and I put Jimmie to bed, and I helped Jeffrey with his phonics. Karen was wiped out in bed by 8:00, so I returned to the porch and put Beau in my lap. His little body shuddered in relief at being with me again. “I'm sorry, big guy,” I whispered to him. “It's been a rough month, I know. But it'll be better now, don't worry.”

The scent of the blooming trees drifted past us on the porch on a fickle breeze. Beau fell sleep. A chorus of spring peepers in the creek added a dreamy, rhythmic feel to the evening, so I closed my eyes. I don't know how long I was asleep before Rick's feet clomped up the steps.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, yourself.”

“Is Patty working tonight?” he asked.

“I don't think so. She doesn't stay at the office past 5:00. She's particular about overtime.”

He sat down and lifted a beer from a cooler behind his chair. “Well, I thought I saw somebody there. I couldn't tell who in the dark.”

“They put in a surveillance system this morning, because of the break-in before,” I told him. “I'm not going down there by myself. I'll call the police, and then we'll watch the video in the morning and see if there's anything on it.” I pulled out my cell phone. “Let's hope it was nothing.”

I told the police officer what Rick said and asked him not to call me back that night unless he found evidence of a break in – a bashed window or maybe a broken lock. I received no calls by 11:00, so I went to bed and slept well. A steady rain all night long helped my rest. The entire household seemed to sleep deeper, longer that night, waking up groggy and befuddled in the morning. Jimmy stumbled into my room rubbing his eyes. He collapsed onto my bed.

“Grammy,” he mumbled.

I rolled over. Thunder rumbled outside. Without bright morning light streaming through my south window I couldn't tell what time it was. I stroked Jimmy's tousled hair.

“What's up, buddy? You sleep okay?”

“I think it's late, Grammy.” He climbed into bed with me and curled up sleepily. “The bus drove by.”

My brain registered his words in about five seconds. The bus! It was late. If I were a younger woman, I would've leapt out of bed. As it was, I struggled with the bedclothes, cursed my arthritis, and tried to get my feet in my slippers. Bus or no bus, I had to visit the bathroom first.

“Jimmy! Get ready for school, honey!” I called to Karen on my way to the bathroom. “Karen! The boys are late! The bus has run already. Jeffrey's still in bed!”

The house erupted in its usual morning chaos. We were late for school more mornings that we were on time. Beau barked at us. Rick ran out the door to the coffee shop. Karen moaned with a head-ache while the boys shoveled Cheerios into their mouths.

“I'll drop them off,” I offered. “I'm heading to work anyway.”

The office was quiet when I arrived. Southern summer heat was beginning to work its way into the hours of the day, and I was glad for the air conditioning. I plopped Beau down by his food bowl and poured some Purina in. When I checked my phone, there was a message from Patty.

“Headache,” it said. “Be a little late.”

After Rick's warning the night before of an intruder on the premises, I carefully inspected Patty's office, my office, all the adjacent rooms and work rooms, the chapel, the crematory, and the morgue. Nothing looked disturbed. The locks were secure. Even the stoop at the back door, surrounded by cedar trees and deep shade, was as green and mossy as ever. No one seemed to have stepped there.

I opened the morgue and slid Anita's body from its positive temperature cabinet. Decomposition had proceeded, albeit slowly. She no longer looked like her sister. Changes in skin tone and tissue structure were significant. I would cremate the body later in the morning; this was my last chance to view it, to study it. It seemed, at last, to want to give nothing away. As I rolled Anita's body away from the cabinet, I glanced at the bottom of the feet, at the offending tattoo that had caused all this trouble. Such a simple thing – a heart, two letters. A loving symbol, but hidden where no one would see it. A secret symbol of affection between aunt and niece – why? Then I wondered, did Desiree have a matching tattoo on her foot? Wouldn't that make sense, especially for a secretive, private expression like this, that both parties would have one? I shrugged my shoulders and assumed that was one fact I'd never be able to find out.

It seemed a good time to cremate the body at last, to put an end to all the questions and frustrations. Anita Wagner had not specified the container she wished to be placed in for cremation, so I selected the simplest cardboard cremation container. Before placing the lid on the container I looked at the tattoo one last time, as if to imprint it on my mind. Ashes to ashes, they say. Dust to dust. What does one tattoo matter on a body, when we're all reduced to dirt sooner or later?

Anita Wagner's remains entered the flames at 9:45 that morning. I returned to my office and made a record of the event, adding it to all the notes I'd written on Anita Wagner's funeral arrangements from the beginning. I intended to add to it the photographs I took of the tattoo, once I had hard copies made at the local CVS. I closed the file. It was done. What had Emery said to me that day?

“Do not return until you have some sort of satisfaction concerning that tattoo.”

He also said, “You know that the only person who would've had cause to tamper with the body was Desiree Steele. She must be compelled to answer you on the subject.”

I looked at Emery's urn, sitting small and elegant on its ledge in its niche, glowing under a small recessed light that also fell beatifically on Beau's head.

“I failed, Emery,” I said aloud. “You would've been tougher. I let her hide behind her mother, and I got no answers.”

“You did not fail, Ivy,” he answered clearly. “You were fabulously successful. You returned with something better than answers from those recalcitrant women.”

I was baffled. What had I returned with? I'd brought back nothing and the body was in the crematory. The tattoo had disappeared, and I'm sure Angela and Desiree would be thrilled to know it.

“The stone,” he said softy. The stone.

Where had I put that tiny gemstone? I'd forgotten all about it. Instinctively I felt my pocket, but of course I'd changed clothes this morning. Where had I put it? I'd worn my green slacks the day before. They were in the laundry now, which I knew Karen had not thought of, much less made an attempt on. I stood up, about to return home upon Emery's suggestion when I remembered: I'd put the stone in the car, in the change holder in the console between the seats. It should be there now, where I'd parked out front.

“Go,” he said. “Go now.”

I'd locked the car, a habit I'd yet to change from all my years in Atlanta, although no one else in Peace Valley ever seemed to lock their cars. The stone was still there, and I held it in my palm again. This little gem stone had stunned Angela Steele as she stood by my car window. This stone had canceled her anger and made her afraid. I turned it over in my palm. Anita Wagner's personal effects remained in a plastic bag in a storage closet near my office. No one had come to claim them. I returned to my office with the stone in one hand, the bag in the other. I opened it and dug through her clothes – the black leggings and orange shirt, and found the shoes. I set them both on my desk. A double row of fake, clear gem stones ran in a band across the top of each shoe. The right shoe was missing the last stone on the outside, the prongs that would have held it in place pried open and splayed out. I placed the gem stone from my hand in the middle of those prongs. It was a perfect fit.

I disliked this development intensely, as I'd just congratulated myself on finishing this distasteful death. “This means nothing,” I told myself. “I'll forget it.” I dropped the gem stone into the pencil tray in my desk, slid Anita's shoes into the bag, and put it back in its dark storage closet, from whence it would be tossed into the trash dumpster next Friday by Patty, never to be considered by me again. I wanted badly to dust my hands together in a movement of finality and self-congratulation.

“Ivy,” he said.

“Shut up, Emery,” I replied.

Patty had left the instructions for the surveillance system on my desk, so I spent the next hour reading its headache-inducing complications. This seemed a good activity while Patty was recovering from her head-ache. She'd written a note to me about my responsibility, which was simply to view the tape on my desktop computer when I needed to. The software had been installed and it was ready to go. I made a cup of coffee, dug into Patty's snack stash, and settled into some light morning viewing of nothing at all – nothing at the back door, and nothing in the morgue.

The surveillance cameras were set up with motion-sensing technology also, which assisted by noting on the video stream the moments when motion occurred. In the morgue – hopefully – this was not an issue, as nothing at all should be moving in there. But by the back door, in the dark of a summer night by the trash dumpster, the activity was higher than in day time. I saw a few raccoons, a few possums, and one feral cat creeping across the steps.

Bored to tears by this activity at 10:30 a.m. in a quiet office, I drank three cups of coffee and listened to Led Zeppelin while the footage kept rolling. I don't listen to Led Zeppelin in front of other people because it destroys their perception of me as a ditsy old grandma. But the truth is that Led Zeppelin was important in the music of my youth, and in moments of private boredom, it keeps me going. I was returning to my desk with my fourth cup of coffee doused with vanilla creamer, rounding the desk corner to view my computer screen, when something caught my eye. A shadowy figure was crouched over the back door, fiddling with the lock. He was there a long time, his entire body obscured by a huge black hoodie, long pants, and dark gloves. After several minutes in that position, finally he stood up, gingerly opened the back door to my funeral home, and stepped in. It was 10:02 p.m. the night before.

I stood there, cup in hand, shocked. I felt invaded, violated. I was instantly angry and slammed the coffee cup on the desk, causing a horrible mess. This was too much! This would try the nerves of the calmest funeral director on the planet! My hands were trembling, but I sat in the chair and switched to the second camera, the one in the morgue. I had to know. I forwarded the time to 10:05, assuming the intruder would need a couple of minutes to finagle the lock on the morgue door. Sure enough, at 10:08, the same dark figure entered the windowless room, switching on the light. He walked to the wall of cabinets and tried one after another, searching for Anita's body. Was this Myron, I wondered. Was he enraged that he was prevented from managing his wife's remains? What would he do?

The intruder found Anita's cabinet at last. He unlatched it, rolled the stretcher out, and tenderly lowered the plastic sheet from her face. From the gentleness of movement I felt it could not be Myron, not from what I'd heard of him. Was this someone from the Gillespie family? His hands moved down slowly and then lifted the plastic from Anita's feet. He lifted the plastic there as well and cradled her right foot in his hands, the foot with the tattoo. This was what he came to find, to see, to touch. His hands were small, delicate, and then I realized it was a woman. It must be Desiree, come to say good-bye one last time.

Her shoulders began to shake in weeping, and she put her hands to her face. Even on a surveillance video, the wrecking emotion in the woman's form was painful to observe. She leaned forward against the cabinet wall, placed her hand on the body, and then jerked them away. She covered Anita's body again in its plastic sheeting and, covering her mouth with one hand, slid the stretcher in and closed the cabinet. She lay one hand on the door in a gesture of good-bye. Then she cried much more, and the hood fell from her head. The bright auburn hair was unmistakable. It was Angela Steele.

I gasped. This, I had not expected. The hardened woman, the angry woman, had been weeping in my morgue only twelve hours before. She followed me here – drove those miles simply to see her sister's body. Why didn't she come before? Why didn't she come with Desiree and take charge of the funeral, plan a memorial, pay her respects in a proper way? Why this breaking-and-entering in the dark, this private grieving in a cold morgue? It made no sense to me. As with all this family's behavior, it made no sense at all.

On my computer screen, Angela Steele turned around, her face red and swollen with crying. She wiped it with her hoodie sleeves and stood clearly in front of the camera lens, unaware I would be watching her. Her shoulders and chest shuddered with grief and loss that had in no way been assuaged by viewing the body moments before. Her expression – how can I describe it? – was not what I expected. It was the face, not of a woman ending something, but of a woman only beginning. She was beginning something long, exhausting, unwanted, but necessary. She was setting her stubborn self to the terrible task and moving forward. I recognized that face; I'd worn it myself after I left Sam, after I'd decided to start a new life for myself away from him, away from Atlanta.

Suddenly the room went black and I heard the morgue door shut and lock. The remainder of the video was blank. I sat at my desk pondering this woman's actions: her anger in Maude's room at the nursing home, her rage at my car window, the sudden deflating of anger when she noticed the gem stone in my car, the long drive to Peace Valley, the risky breaking-and-entering at the morgue, the overwhelming passion of grief at her sister's body. There was one more emotion I'd seen in her face, simmering low under the rest. She felt guilt. Somehow, she felt guilty about Anita. There was a look of weary responsibility in her eyes that was misplaced for a woman who had nothing to do with Anita's death and was not responsible for the funeral arrangements.

A tiny thought struck me then, as I sat musing in my office. Why exactly did Anita Wagner leave her niece in charge of her funeral? If she had a sister, a sister that devoted to her, why choose the niece? Why had Angela Steele been so absent in the entire event, until last night in the morgue? Had Anita Wagner considered her twin sister so inept as to overlook her for the task, choosing instead a niece who was utterly negligent? Again, I felt frustration rising inside me.

The front door opened. I heard Plato meow. He scurried into my office to sniff Beau and say good morning. He ignored me, of course, as cats always do because I wish they wouldn't.

“Good morning, Patty,” I called. “I hope you're feeling better?”

She coughed. “Not much. That Myron Wagner gave me this headache yesterday.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. I walked to her desk. “Pull up the surveillance video from last night, Patty. I've got something to show you. Put it around 10:00 last night.” I perched on the edge of her desk. It groaned a little and I shifted my weight. “We had a visitor.”

Patty shot me a look and quickly pulled up the video. We watched together as Angela Steele jimmied the back door lock. Patty was stunned. “We're gonna need an alarm system next!” she exclaimed.

“Switch to the morgue camera now,” I said, “and watch this.”

Patty was silent as Angela Steele broke into our morgue, handled a dead body, and wept her agony all over again against the hard metal of the cold chamber. I could feel the resentment and disgust wafting off my secretary's body as I hovered over her shoulder. Then Angela turned to face the camera, wiping her face again, looking up. For a few moments her face was clear on the screen. Patty gasped. She clicked the keyboard to pause the video, and Angela's face froze on the screen.

“That's not --” Patty said, startled. “That's – I don't know.” She shook her head. “That's not what I expected.”

“I know!” I responded. “I thought it would be Desiree! But it's Angela, the twin sister! She never even came up here after Anita's death, and now she shows up on our surveillance video!”

Patty swiveled her chair around and looked at me. “No,” she said. “That's not what I meant.” She pointed to the screen. “I can't be sure, I really can't be sure,” she said, “but that woman in the video, the woman who broke into the morgue, I think that's Anita Wagner!”

To read the next chapter, please click here.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, Chapter Twenty

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Chapter 20

I packed my little bag and checked out, utterly dissatisfied. It was useless to stay here, useless to engage Angela Steele again. She was hard as iron and unwilling to open up, even the smallest bit. All funeral directors know that some families will be uncooperative, some funerals will not go well, some situations will be unpleasant. To be honest, I was professionally affronted by their reticence, their lying. What would Emery Plott have done in my place? I wish I were in the office to have another quiet conversation with him.

As I approached the interstate I saw a sign for the road where Maude Prescott's nursing home was located. I had nothing in particular to ask her and no reason to revisit our conversation, but I found myself driving in that direction. My heart was pounding. I felt resentment. I knew I was going to see her again simply because her daughter had told me not too. It was a bit early to show up at a nursing home, but the girl at the front desk remembered me from the day before and smiled, waving me down the hall. So I went.

She was asleep. Slits of light filtered into the room as before. The clock ticked on the bedside table. One of her hands twitched and rustled on the sheet but otherwise she lay still. I approached the bed slowly, observing her troubled, sunken face, so riddled with the scars of a life of fear and sorrow. How many regrets did she rehearse in her mind each day? Did she now wish, after so many years, that she'd never given Anita away? I bent over her head and wondered who had ever comforted her.

Then I heard a movement behind me in the dark, a step coming from the shadow behind the door. “What are you doing here?” the woman hissed. “I thought I told you to leave my mother alone!” Angela Steele's form appeared before me and even in the dimness of that room I could see – I could feel – the fury in her face. I was afraid and backed away from her. “Get out!” she said fiercely.

Her mother stirred. She struggled to sit up in the bed. Then behind Angela I saw Desiree appear as well. They'd both been there, hidden across the room from the bed, before I came in. Maude Prescott's body shook with the effort to right herself and see what was happening in her room.

“Anita?” she said, shakily. “Anita? Is that you?!” She peered at the woman at the foot of her bed. Then she fell back and began to weep. “I thought you was dead, Anita!” The sobs shook her body. “I thought you was dead!”

Angela struggled past me to her mother's side. “Mom, it's Ange. It's me, Ange. Anita's not here, Mom. She's not here. She died up in South Carolina weeks ago.” And the daughter stroked her mother's head with such gentleness I would not have recognized her as the same woman. Whispers of tenderness and comfort issued from one woman to the other.

Desiree Steele gripped me by the elbow. “I think it's time you left, lady,” she said. Her voice was like ice. “We don't need none of yer help here anymore.” She pulled me toward the door. “You need t' go back up to yer town and take care of what my aunt asked you t' do, and stop causin' more grief here than you know.”

The mother's sobs and the daughter's soothing whispers made me wonder if Desiree's words were true, and I found my way outside. It was time to go home, time to give up this charade, time to cremate the body and move on. I sat in the car, my hands trembling on the steering wheel. I didn't trust myself to drive yet. I needed to calm myself, to make sure I would not cry in frustration while 18-wheelers barreled past me on I-85. I tried the breathing exercises I'd used ever since childbirth classes all those years ago. Breath in for four seconds. Hold. Breath out long and fully for four seconds. Hold and relax.

Tap! Tap Tap! My eyes flew open and I looked up at the driver's side window. Angela Steele was there, her face still red with fury. I didn't want to hear what she had to say. I certainly didn't want her that close to me, angry as she was.

“What?” I asked, putting on a face of assertive confidence that I didn't feel.

“Roll down the window!” she yelled. She'd wanted to yell inside the nursing home, and now she could. “I want to talk to you!” In the brilliance of the morning sun her auburn hair was shimmering and only a thin thread of gray shone along her part. Her blue eyes were livid with rage just inches away from me.

I frowned and shook my head. “This will do just fine. You're too angry,” I replied through the glass.

“You bet I'm angry!” she retorted, and slapped the car with her palm. “I'm telling the nursing home staff to prohibit you from visiting my mother. And I'm contacting your professional organization to lodge an official complaint!” Her voice rose with each sentence and her wild eyes flitted from my face to the trees overhead to the inside of my car. “If you ever --” she railed again, but her voice broke off. Her eyes had fallen on something in my car, and seeing it had stopped her in mid-sentence. Her face fell, softened, and all intensity drained from it. Her lips came together, and slowly she backed away from the car. But still she looked at me, differently now, a wash of fear coming over her face. She backed further away, at last folding her arms across her chest and around each other like a child protecting itself. One hand gave a small flip as if to dismiss me. I stared at her, trying to understand what had just happened. Finally, I drove away.

Five hours of driving alone through Georgia is a long time to think. Concerning Anita Wagner's case, my mind was a blur of confusion and chaos, and I could not order my thoughts. After breathing deeply and listening to some James Taylor on the CD player, I attempted to rid my brain of her death, her family, her tattoo, anything about her. I turned my thoughts instead to Karen and Rick, Jeffrey and Jimmy. Of Beau and how he must be missing me. Of the meals I should be cooking for them and the cleaning and chauffeuring and playing and long talks on the porch at twilight I should be enjoying with them. Why had I allowed my work to consume me so? As I drove along, whenever the tiniest wisp of thought concerning the funeral home tried to wiggle its way into my mind, I'd beat it back, focusing on my family, my life, my own dear concerns. Who cared about Anita Wagner? Why should I care more for her than her own family did?

By the time I'd reached Atlanta my heart rate had calmed itself a little. I stopped at the Dwarf House Chick-Fil-A, always a comfort. Instead of a chicken sandwich, I got a Hot Brown and some sweet tea. North of Atlanta I stopped for a Krispy Kreme jelly-filled donut to top off my sugar intake. By the time I reached the South Carolina line, I had ordered my head again and righted my world. I decided that, first thing in the morning, I would proceed with the cremation of Anita Wagner's remains and be done with that huge headache. Patty Goyle and I would find a new normal at the office, and all would proceed in Peace Valley, at least with the care of the deceased, unruffled and boring. I needed boring. I wanted desperately to sit quietly in my office with Beau whiffling quietly on his chair and Patty gently scraping away at her fingernails with a file. I wanted to sit with Karen on her bed and eat ice cream. I wanted never to see Angela Steele again. I wanted to be done with Anita Wagner's death.

I got to the office about 3:00. Patty looked up as I came through the door.

“So,” she said. “How'd it go? Find any skeletons lurkin' in any closets?”

I groaned loudly. “I don't even want to talk about it!” I moaned at her. “Those people in Opelika are crazier than anybody I've ever known!”

“That bad, eh?” She smacked her gum in such a way that demonstrated decades of practice. It had just the right amount of sassy crack in the back of her mouth. “Well, it ain't nuthin',” she went on, “compared to the hullabaloo we had here yesterday.” She gazed at me from eyes narrowed into slits. “Myron Wagner's back in town. And he's hell-bent on destruction, lemme tell yoo.” She nodded. “He's gonna have sombody's head, and I think it might be yours.” She swiveled her chair around and crossed one scrawny knee over another.

“Whatever!” I replied. “I don't care. I've just been two rounds with Angela Steele, and he can't have anything on her. That lady's wackadoodle!”

Patty, whose face had been grim the moment before, burst into peals of laughter. She slapped her desk and had to take her reading glasses off her nose before they fell on the floor. She guffawed until Beau, who must've been sleeping soundly in my office, stumbled from the hallway and gazed at me lovingly. I think he was surprised at Patty's uncharacteristic silliness.

“Beau!” I exclaimed, and held out my arms to him. He grinned for a moment and then remembered that he was supposed to be grumpy at me for leaving him, at which point his face turned sour, his mouth turned down, his tail drooped, and he slunk back into my office.

“Oh, good grief,” I said. “Even my dog's treating me bad.”

“He don't like it when yer gone,” Patty noted. “And that girl of yer's been callin' me this mornin' too, wonderin' when yer comin' home.”

“I've got a cell phone,” I replied. “Why didn't she just call me?”

“She don't want to disturb you, I 'magine,” Patty answered. “She knows this case is driving you near crazy. Although why, I can't imagine.” Patty returned her focus to her fingernails and looked away. “You just outa forget that there tattoo, cremate that body, and move on. Ain't no sense in disturbin' yer life over it.”

“I agree, Patty,” I said. “That's exactly what I'm gonna do, first thing in the morning.” I walked to my office, put my purse on my desk, and took off my shoes. Emery's urn sat on the shelf. “I'll get back to you later,” I said to him. “We have things to talk about, you and I.” Why oh why couldn't Emery Plott have lived just a few weeks longer, and handled all this?

Patty appeared in the doorway. “Yeh talkin' to somebody?” she asked. “Y'know, he'd a been mystified by this one too, Ivy. He would.” She picked Beau up and sat in his chair, setting him delicately in her lap. “By the way, yesterday after you left, Herbert Plott came by. He sat and visited the longest time. I told him we'd had a break-in, so he went right out and got a security camera and had 'em put in this mornin'.” She pointed with a polished aqua-colored nail out my office door. “One's in the morgue, and one's over top o' the back door.”

I nodded. That was a good idea, although it did us little good now.

“And he installed a better dead-bolt on the front door. It was busted and I hadn't been usin' it in the longest time.”

At 5:00 we closed up shop and I drove home with Beau nestled in my lap under the steering wheel. I decided then and there that I'd never travel out of town again to hunt down information concerning a funeral, no matter what. If the family did not care to fully inform the funeral home on any matter, I would tell them to have the body transferred to a different facility, and I'd send them a bill for whatever services I'd already rendered. I sighed deeply, smiled a little, and tapped the steering wheel along with “Copacabana” on the oldies station. My stress was ever so slowly subsiding as I neared home.

To read chapter 21, please click here.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, Chapter Nineteen

 (To read all previous chapters, please click on the book title in the header bar above.)

Chapter 19

I'd made a reservation at the Opelika Holiday Inn Express for the night, but after the stressful, quiet aggression of my conversation with Angela Steele, I felt a need for better spoilage. I went instead to a lovely Bed and Breakfast on College Street in Auburn. There a mild-voiced hostess soothed my distress, and I laid down my bulging overnight bag and my quivering anxiety in a small cottage on the back of the property. I stretched out on the bed, closed my eyes, and pondered what to do next. If anything, my intuitive suspicions of the Prescott family were more intense, my inner warning buzzers going off – something was awry, somebody was deceptive. But what? And who?

My mind kept returning to the two women, standing in a semi-dark house in full cleaning gear. It didn't look like a house that was habitually deep-cleaned. Why were they both cleaning house on a Monday afternoon? Do neither of them work? And why was Angela Steele adamant that I not speak to her mother? What was she afraid I would be told?

My room dimmed as the afternoon progressed and the shade of the live oak trees deepened. I drifted into sleep. I woke at nearly 6:00 p.m., hungry and wondering what to do next. I knew I wanted to talk with Mrs. Prescott again; her daughter's warning had only peaked my interest. And although it made me scared to think it, I wanted to see inside that house, to roam around and find out more about Angela and Desiree, who together were preventing me from doing my job and putting the woman they said they both loved, to rest.

I stopped in Sonic and ordered a burger and fries and a lovely, creamy Chocolate Hazelnut milkshake for supper. Loud college students buzzed around the place, lively and fun-loving. I wondered about somber Desiree. Did she ever have this fun life? She seemed only to have been at her mother's beck and call, and perhaps her aunt's. Did she long to escape, as Anita had failed to do, to get away from the despair of such a sad family? And why – oh, why – did a family feel so compelled to lie to me, a funeral home director whose only desire was to help them?

A stubbornness grew in me as I nibbled on my French fries. I would not let them win, would not let them conceal and deceive. I wrapped the remaining hamburger in its foil cover, tucked it into a bag on the passenger seat, mourned the melting of my shake, and backed out of Sonic. Only the fries were finished one at a time as I drove out to Angela Steele's home once more. Perhaps I needed to be more direct. Perhaps I should be more aggressive, even accusatory.

But there was no need. When I arrived at the house no one was there. The Toyota Camry was gone. After parking Simone two blocks away under a spreading pecan tree, I returned and approached house. I walked around the house boldly, knocking on each door. I peered into some of the windows. Nobody was home. When I found the front door locked, I went around to the back again. There must be a key hiding somewhere. I tried all the flower pots, most of which were broken and cradling dead vegetation. A few loose bricks revealed nothing when overturned. Then my eye glanced on the windowsill beside the porch where I was standing. It was a bit of a reach, but I could just touch the key lying there. I inserted it in the lock and turned. The door opened silently.

As I entered the porch and laundry room a memory flashed into my mind, a memory of Desiree Steele's words to me on the phone. “I ain't got no car.” She's used that as the reason she couldn't come to the funeral home to speak with me. “I ain't got no car.” But certainly her aunt's car had been at the house in Peace Valley. The Toyota Camry was there, and then it was gone, and I'd assumed Desiree had driven it away. Then it appeared here, behind the house in Opelika. Did she drive it or didn't she? Was it her car or Anita's? Why tell me she has no car to drive, and then proceed to drive it all the way to Alabama?

The Steele women were frustrating me more and more. I stumbled my way through the dark kitchen, afraid to turn on any lights. Why were they cleaning today? What would two women want to clean the most? I examined the kitchen first. Angela Steele was nothing like her tidy sister. This home was disheveled and neglected. Most of the cabinet shelves were bare of food, with only a scattering of canned goods and plastic dishes. The refrigerator contained spoiled milk, a tub of hummus, some shriveled garlic and onions that had turned soft and begun to grow, a plate of hard pizza, and some mayonnaise. The milk smelled. But from the light of the open refrigerator I could discern the food crumbs and dirt in the corners and under the cabinets, the filthy dish rag hanging on the stove, the splatters of food encrusted on the counters, the sink full of days' old dirty dishes.

This was not a house that had been been deep-cleaned that day. What were those women cleaning? Certainly not the kitchen. I walked through the shadowed living room, past the front door, and down the dark hall. As I entered the bathroom on my right the aroma of bleach overwhelmed me. If Karen hadn't taught me how to transform my cell phone into a flashlight, I'd have seen nothing in this room. I held the beam of light in front of me and began a slow inspection. New towels hung straight and fluffy on two racks on the wall. The shower was pristine – not a stain, not a hair, its curtain scoured white. The toilet had been scrubbed, a new roll of paper hung unused, and the entire unit wiped down, although no cleaning wipes were in the trash can, which held a new plastic bag but no trash at all. The floor in particular was utterly unsoiled, as if someone had scrubbed every grout line with a toothbrush. I leaned over and shone my phone light in the crevices and had to admire the cleaning skills of Angela and Desiree Steele.

The sink and mirror were the same. There was nothing to find here, and everything. A bathroom this clean must have needed it, and badly. A woman who kept a bathroom this clean and a kitchen that dirty was either deranged or had something in her bathroom to hide from prying eyes. I was more determined, more intrigued.

The hallway was lit somewhat by ebbing sunlight shining through the windows in the front door. I walked its length, past one messy bedroom, another tidier one, and a third at the end used for storage. This seemed promising, so I roamed around, reading the hand-written labels on the boxes and bags. Clothing, out-grown clothing, linens, yard-sale items, Mrs. Prescott's belongings and childhood keepsakes were bagged and boxed in this room. Tired now from my adventure in crime, I sat on a large plastic tub and foraged through a box of family photos.

Maude Prescott was easy to spot; she looked much the same. She smiled nervously holding a baby, helping a toddler ride a bike, tying a sash on a prom dress, then holding a grandbaby. The family didn't have many photos, and most were Polaroid or Instamatic shots, faded and curling around the edges. I found no pictures of Desiree past infancy, with a few photos of Angela, who looked much younger but thin and anxiety-ridden like her mother, holding the baby awkwardly on her bony hip. She couldn't have been older than fifteen. The backgrounds of these shots were always weedy lots, decrepit cars, or falling-down trailers. It showed a family life full of hardship and stress.

In the bottom of the box, which I had to inspect using my phone light, I found at last a small booklet of photographs, including a few of the twin girls about thirty-five years earlier. They were identical with curly blond hair and round faces. In the photo, they'd been propped on a brown, tattered couch, one baby leaning on the other. They wore red bibbed rompers frilled around the thigh, and chunky leather Mary Janes. Scribbled under their feet on the photo's edge were “Anita” and “Angela.” Angela, whose face was wrinkled in anxiety and anger, was leaning against Anita and clutching at her romper. Anita's face was placid. She was the bigger of the two, but a thin plastic tube ran from her nose, across her cheek, and disappeared into her hair. I remembered that Maude Prescott had given away this baby because her medical needs were beyond the family's ability to cope.

Other photos of the twins showed them swaddled together in a metal bassinet, cuddled in a stroller on a brilliant, sunny day, sleeping on a hospital baby blanket laid on matted shag carpet. Maude's hands were always on the girls, holding them, keeping them together. In one photo Anita, whom I could now recognize by her larger size, was noticeably blue and languid. She looked unwell.

I didn't know how much time had passed since I entered the house, and a sudden dread of panic overwhelmed me that I might be caught here by the women. I closed the box, stood up, and exited the room. The setting sun shone even more strongly down the hallway from the front door as I walked its length. Something – I don't know what – caused me to turn around one last time and look at the hall. That's when I saw my footsteps quite distinctly on the carpet there, my paces as I returned from the back room, only those returning steps. They were darker than the surrounding carpet. I stood and studied them, mystified. What could that mean? I walked slowly back down the hallway, avoiding the dark footprints. They started just outside that storage room, in the middle of the carpeting. I stood and looked at that first footprint I'd made. Then I bent over and touched it. I touched all the carpet around it and found that a portion of it, right in the middle of the hallway carpet, was wet.

This was something to ponder, but I felt I had no time to ponder. Anyone could look in the front door of the house and see me, standing there, staring at the floor. Why was it wet? On my knees, I inspected with my hands and found a round portion of the carpet, about eighteen inches by twelve inches, to be damp but not soggy. It was carpet that had been cleaned and blotted dry, but not spilled on and forgotten. At last, in addition to the pristine bathroom, I'd found another place in the house the women had cleaned. But why? What stain was here?

My knees hurt, so I sat my bottom on the carpet and rested for a moment. Getting back up would be a challenge, as it always was. I'm 5'6” tall, and comfortably over 200 lbs., and getting my body up or down any distance, for any reason, is quickly becoming a least-favorite activity. I put my hands behind me on the carpet, rolled my head around to stretch out my neck, and found myself looking up. Above me was the familiar rectangular panel of a pull-down attic staircase, its string dangling far over my head.

The damp carpet circle was exactly where the bottom of the attic stairs would be, when lowered down. I sighed. Something had come down those stairs, something requiring cleaning. I couldn't turn back now; I knew what I had to do. I clutched the pull-string in my hand and lowered the stairs. They made the metallic, musical creaking that such stairs do as I lowered the bottom set of rungs down to the hallway floor. As I studied the carpet now, it was clear the soiled portion was at the base of the stairs. Again, I pulled out my phone light and examined them before I ascended.

The thin wooden treads were scraped and scuffed and several had splinters ripped from them as if heavy trunks had been hauled up and down. Probably, they had. I didn't know what I was looking for as I crept up the stairs one at a time. Blood? Hair? Skin? A weapon? I rolled my eyes at myself at that thought – why would there be a weapon here, when Anita Wagner's body was found unassaulted two states away? My mind was running away with me! I placed one hand on the rickety railing and then the other on the upper ledge of the attic opening, slowly raising my line of sight into the pitch black heat of the space overhead. I raised my phone light to illuminate all my fears, but there were none. The attic was nearly empty. A battered plastic Christmas tree leaned drunkenly against the sloping roof line. Its tinsel trailed across the floor to me. Several smashed glass decorations lay around, along with stacks of newspapers and a few old magazines. I climbed through the opening and sat on the edge of the floor, my feet dangling onto the steps below. What had fallen from this space, down these stairs, and caused a stain on the hallway carpet?

I turned slightly and noticed a cardboard box behind me, positioned perfectly for someone who might sit just where I sat, legs dangling just as mine were. The box was full of partially empty liquor bottles: gin, vodka, rum, a little whiskey, and a small glass. I reached behind me and picked up the rum. Cruzan Black Strap Molasses. I unscrewed the cap. A fine sweet aroma wafted out. So – someone sat here, drinking privately. Angela? Who was she hiding from? Desiree? Or perhaps it was the other way around? That seemed more likely. What had caused the stain? A bottle, fallen down the stairs and smashed at the bottom? That answer was within reason, but then why were both of them cleaning it up, if one had wanted to hide the drinking from the other?

I sighed and looked down. On the end of one of the stair treads, wedged next to the metal hinge that allowed the stairs to lower, something flashed at me as my phone light passed near it. I reached down and felt an object, small and hard. It was a rough, clear gem stone. I held it in my hand, turning it over like a coin. It was cheap, a decoration on a tiara perhaps, or a dance costume. Or even a dress or shirt, I thought, as I weighed it in my palm. A bit heavy for a bodice. But, I mused, it would be perfect on a shoe. Then my mind raced back to another house, another set of stairs, and a shoe perched jauntily at the top of those stairs just as I sat perched here. Only at that house a dead body had lain at the bottom of the stairs instead of a smashed bottle of liquor.

A meaningless coincidence, I thought. My mind was racing into illogic and drama again. I gazed at the simple piece of cheap plastic in my hand. How could it be significant? It wasn't. But … but, I thought. I can't be sure. I can't be absolutely sure until I compare it to Anita Wagner's shoes back at the funeral home in Peace Valley. The gem stone slipped into my skirt pocket. I went down the stairs one at a time on my bottom, closed the contraption up again into the ceiling, flipped off my phone light, and turned to leave. On a whim, I crouched down again to look at the damp area. I leaned over as far as I could and smelled it. They'd done an amazing job. Liquor is a strong aroma, but it was entirely gone. Rather I detected only a scented rug cleaner, probably Resolve. I pressed my fingers into the pile and a few faint bubbles rose to the surface. They hadn't quite completed the rinse. And as I knelt there at the foot of the stairs a strange, disconcerting feeling twinged in the pit of my stomach, a tingle, a feeling I was beginning to recognize in myself that I disliked intensely. A hidden, native instinct in me knew that this was a place of death – this little spot in a hallway. I drew my hand away quickly and stood up. If the soul could smell, there was a whiff of spiritual decay in that place.

I made my way gingerly through the house, onto the porch, and out the door, replacing the key in its hiding spot. There seemed nothing else to see. The back yard was vacant of trees or shrubs or flower beds, a sagging chain-link fence the only ornament along a far border. The only other object in the back yard was a battered trash can next to the stairs where I stood. The thought then occurred to me that people throw away things they intend to conceal, assuming that when the item is in the trash it has then effectively disappeared. I looked around; no one looking out a neighbor's windows could see me here. I lifted the lid of the trash can and untied the bag on the top.

The first thing I found was a can of Resolve carpet cleaning spray. Under it was an empty bottle of bleach, some Pine Sol, a worn-down scrub brush, and many wet paper towels. Beneath that was another plastic grocery bag, tied closed. I worked the knot open and revealed the contents. Under more wet paper towels, stained brown and red, was a box and some plastic containers. The box read: Clairol. Natural Looking. Nice 'n' Easy. Light Warm Auburn.

I sat in my car for a good half-hour pondering all I'd seen. I suppose it wasn't a stretch to assume both Anita and Angela might use the same hair color. But for them both to have colored their hair within a week of each other? Perhaps. And the gem stone? And the shoes? And what about the tattoo? Had anything I'd seen today helped me uncover my conundrum concerning the tattoo?

As I drove back to my Bed and Breakfast I discovered I was exhausted. I didn't even want to eat dinner, so I knew I felt awful. I returned to my snug cottage, drank a little can of V-8 juice from the mini-frig for dinner, and fell into a dead sleep on the bed. I did not wake until 6:30 the next morning.

To read chapter 20, please click here.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen