The Suspect List--Chapter Fourteen

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

How could anyone do that to a perfectly good house?

Zane’s parent’s place is ten miles outside of Mannon, on a hill with views of Mesa Verde, The San Juan Mountains and the city of Clover. A new-ish, two-story house it looks real nice, except for the paint job. Yellow with black trim. Reminds me of a bumble bee, which reminds me of getting stung. Not my favorite thing. I always swell up real bad.

I park behind Zane’s Prius and send him a text letting him know I’m here so I don’t have to knock on the door. We exchanged a few messages after he and Sherry left Mesa. Zane was worried that I felt uncomfortable with Sherry’s unexpected invitation to dinner and wanted me to know he’d understand if I backed out. I did feel put on the spot and I am way too tired for socializing, but I don’t want Sherry to think I’m flaky.

I want to make a good impression on Zane’s parents. I’m not sure how I’m going to do that with puffy eyes, unwashed hair and a small stain on my most ‘respectable’ pair of pants, but it’s too late to change any of that now. I’m hoping they won’t notice the stain. It is small.

Truth is, I’m more worried about the stain on my name.

What if the sheriff got a wild hair up his ass and decided to run my name through the system? I was a minor, and I did have my record officially expunged, but I read that law enforcement can still find it easily enough. What if Ward then called his sister to tell her about the barn fire and ask her why her son and his friend were at the Carlaw ranch last night? 

I’m not a worrier by nature and I don’t usually obsess over what others think of me. This is different. And it’s not just about the possibility of Zane finding out I was arrested once and rejecting me for it. If Sherry got wind of it she might feel an obligation to tell the manager of Mesa that I shouldn’t be working in a facility with vulnerable old people. What if my ‘by the book’ boss agreed?

I bitch about my job as much as the next person but that doesn’t mean I want to lose it. Part of me thinks it’s far-fetched, paranoid even, to worry I’ll lose my job over the barn incident, but is it? The sheriff made it clear that he wants us to keep our mouths shut. How far would he go to make sure that happens? 

When I see Zane emerge from the house I get out of the car and meet him on the stoop. He greets me with a tender kiss on the lips. “Hey.”

I feel a funky flutter in my mid section. I wish I could blame it on anxiety or leftover queasiness from a day spent dealing with more than the usual amount of old people’s bodily excretions but I can’t. It’s something else. Lust, for sure, but that’s easier to handle than a bad case of Like. I don’t want to like Zane too much, not this soon anyway.

“Hey yourself.” I step back, punch him lightly on the shoulder and immediately regret it. What am I twelve?

“How was the rest of your day? Any more explosive diarrhea?”

I regretted that particular text as soon as I sent it. What was I thinking? He’s not my bestie. I usually only send such messages to Fawn, who gets me, though she refrains from writing, or even saying anything too negative about the residents. “No more diarrhea. It was a rough day for sure, but nothing that could compare to JB stabbing himself in the face.”

Too blunt K, too blunt, you’re talking about his granddad. “Sorry.”

“No worries. I mean that’s what happened, right?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“What precipitated it?”

Precipitated is such a fancy word. Must be the journalist in him showing through. I feel like I’m being questioned but I bite my lip, determined not to make a possibly offensive/rude comment. “Like I said earlier, Rev and JB were talking about the horse one minute and the next, it uh, happened.”

He’s searching my face like he suspects I’m leaving something out. Or am I being paranoid because I am leaving something out? I’m not even sure why. Protecting Sherry was one thing, but I think Zane could handle hearing that JB asked Rev to shoot him. Demanded it, actually. “People with dementia don’t need a reason to do crazy things.”

“I suppose not. So Rev didn’t say anything about last night?”

“Nope.”

“Or why he chose today to visit JB?”

“Nada.”

Zane drifts off for a moment, like he’s thinking hard.

“Did you tell your mom about the bicycle? Ask her what she remembers about Abigail?”

“I tried.”

“And?”

Zane sighs heavily. “My mom is an expert at changing the subject. She wouldn’t talk about Abigail but she brought up Grandma Mary’s journals, pointed out that if they were in the storage barn, and we somehow missed them the day we searched, then they’ll be gone now.”

“Did she say why this mattered?”

“No, but she sounded relieved.”

“Do you think there was something damning in them? Some evidence that Mary wanted kept hidden?”

“It’s possible I guess, but if that was the case why put them in the barn where they might be found? Why not toss them in the trash?”

“Got me.”

Zane moves closer, lowering his voice even though we’re alone out here. “I think my mom knows a lot more than she lets on.”

“But why would she keep it from you?”

“Knowing Mom, it’s to protect me. Or to protect someone else in the family. Or, possibly both.” 

This makes perfect sense to me. 

“We should go in, before she comes looking for us.”

And overhears us talking about her.

Zane holds the door open for me. I step inside. “Wow.”

Oh shit, did I say that out loud?

Zane’s smile, tells me I did, and it’s okay. “My mom collects stuff.”

“I see that.”

The house is full of stuff. Loads and loads of decorative stuff. No empty spaces anywhere. Sherry owns a little boutique in Clover where sells the stuff she knits as well as other people’s handmade creations. She’s invited me to stop by sometime. I never have because I don’t have money to spare on useless crap like ceramic cows and lace doilies.

“She likes to shop after work.” Zane leans close to whisper in my ear, “It drives my dad crazy.”

“I bet.”

Zane’s warm breath in my ear is enough to drive me a bit crazy but in a whole different way.

We find Sherry in the kitchen pouring some kind of a pink drink into a large pitcher. On the counter are three salads–green, red potato, and fruit. A yellow ceramic bowl is filled with white rolls, and a matching plate is loaded with cookies. Someone has spent hours preparing food. I’m guessing it was Sherry and not Zane’s dad who I can see through the sliding glass doors–a tall, thin man with black-framed glasses and very little hair–manning the barbecue.

My mom doesn’t entertain much because she has no desire to serve food—or even be around people—on her day off, but right now I’m hearing her voice in my head lecturing me for not bringing a dish to contribute. “I should have brought something.”

“Of course you shouldn’t have,” Sherry smiles at me. “You’ve been working all day, and you had a late night.”

I’m pretty sure she’s referring to my misadventures at the Carlaw ranch and not the hours I spent rolling around on my too- small futon with her son, trying to get an orgasm from him, and still I feel my face heat up. “It was a bit wild between the storm and the fire and everything.” 

“What you need is a cold glass of watermelon juice.”

Watermelon juice? That’s a thing?

Sherry fills a glass with the pink liquid.

Zane slides the glass across the counter to me. “Try it. It’s refreshing.”

I take a sip, find it a bit bland. “This would be good with vodka.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Sherry’s brow furrows. “I’m not a drinker.”

“Oh, me neither. I mean I don’t drink often, not anymore.” Oh fuck. I can’t believe I said that. I probably sound like an alcoholic now.

I glance at Zane to gauge his reaction. Busy shoving a cookie in his mouth he misinterprets my look and hands me a cookie.

I take it, but when I see the frown Sherry shoots Zane I ask, “Is this okay? I mean they’re not for desert are they?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Her smile seems a little forced. “I have cheesecake for dessert.”

There’s going to be more food?

“I love cheesecake. I just realized how hungry I am. Low blood sugar makes my brain a bit fuzzy. Lack of sleep doesn’t help either.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Sherry says.

I’m glad to have come up with two reasonable excuses for any other blunt or dumb comments I might make.

The cookie is oatmeal with butterscotch chips and the best thing I’ve tasted in awhile. I wait until my mouth is no longer full to tell Sherry as much.

“It’s Grandma Mary’s recipe isn’t it?” Zane asks.

“It is.”

This seems like a good time to bring up Mary’s diaries, see if I can get anything interesting from Sherry, but before I can, she asks me about Jabez, if there were any more incidents today.

“No, I mean nothing major. He slept most of the afternoon.”

“Medicated sleep?”

“Uh, well yes. Under the circumstances…”

“I know, I know.” Sherry sighs. “I want him to be as calm and comfortable as possible, but I just know my dad would hate being on meds. He’d never even take aspirin, not even when he was in real pain, like the time he dislocated his shoulder.”

“Not the dislocated shoulder story.” There’s an eye roll in Zane’s voice, but he’s mature enough not to actually roll his eyes. 

“Well, I haven’t heard the story.”

This earns me a smile from Sherry. “It happened during a cattle drive. Jabez’s horse was startled by a snake and it bucked him off. His shoulder was clearly out of its socket and he was in terrible pain, but rather than have someone take him to a hospital he made Ward, who was a teenager at the time, help him put it back in place.”

“Ouch. That must have hurt like hel—heck.”

“Jabez wasn’t one to let pain hold him back. I don’t think I ever once heard my dad say the words ‘I’m tired.’ He worked from sunup to sundown every day. That’s just how he was. He had a strong work ethic and high expectations for everyone around him.”

“And he expected his sons and grandsons to be as macho as him.” Zane takes a drink to wash down the cookie before adding. “The message we all received was crystal clear–the worst thing a man can be is soft.”

My first thought is x-rated–there was nothing soft about Zane last night–but what I say is, “So he was big on the whole real men don’t cry thing?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t quite as simple as that,” Sherry says. “Your granddad wanted you all to be strong, but not just physically. It was about being resilient.”

“He believed that the only way to build someone up was to first beat them down.” Zane says.

“Like a drill sergeant?” I ask.

“Exactly like that.”

“His ways were old fashioned but his intentions were good,” Sherry says.

Zane’s expression tells a different story. “We were all afraid of him, even Mary.”

“Did she tell you that?” Sherry’s eyes flash with anger.

“No, but–”

“I assure you, my mother was not afraid of her husband. Jabez was far from perfect but he’d never hit or abuse a woman and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying.”

For several seconds the only sound in the room is the ticking of a wall clock. I look around and spot it near the sliding glass doors. It’s yellow and black and there are little bumble bees all over the face.

The glass door opens and Zane’s dad cheerfully announces that the chicken is cooked.

I let out a relieved breath, and not just because I’m hungry.

(Hi friends,

I hope you are well.

It’s going to be a challenge getting the next chapter done in two weeks. My daughter and grandson are coming tomorrow to stay for a week, and if all goes well we’ll be moving into a new house the week after that. I’ll write when I can. I’m excited for what happens next!

Happy reading! And writing if it’s your thing!)