Gone With a Handsomer Man (12 page)

“You poor thing. But listen, you’ve got to be strong. We’ll need to arrange the funeral.”

“Funeral?” I shuddered.

“We just better hope Eileen doesn’t show up,” Miss Dora said.

“Who?”

“Bing’s sister. She got kicked out of the Jackson family. I wouldn’t put it past her to kill Bing.”

This was the first I’d heard of a sister. But now that I thought about it, my lack of information summed up our whole relationship.

“The Mount Pleasant police issued a warrant for my arrest,” I said. “I might need your help with bail.”

“Arrest?” she cried. “For what?”

“Because I went to his house and violated probation. They’re claiming I trespassed.”

“Those bastards! Don’t you worry one little bit. I’ll be happy to help you. The only thing is, I’m still in Savannah. But I’m leaving right this second. I’ll call when I get home.”

“The police took my cell phone. Let me give you Coop’s number.”

“Who?”

“Cooper O’Malley. My lawyer.”

“Why didn’t you call Alvin Bell?”

“Couldn’t remember his number. I’ll explain later.”

After I hung up, I set the phone on the console. “She’ll post bail,” I said.

“If there’s bail.” He chewed the inside of his lip.

We drove in silence over the Ravenel Bridge into North Charleston. I was going to the Big House, where they took bank robbers and child touchers. When Coop pulled into the detention center parking lot, I turned away from the ugly brick building and looked up. The South Carolina flag snapped in the breeze atop the metal pole.

Coop’s hand slid across the console, and he touched my arm. “Teeny, the police will interrogate you again. They have the right to do that, but if I’m not present, don’t say a word. I don’t care what they say or promise, wait till I get there.”

I nodded.

“One more thing,” he said. “The booking process is demeaning. Being in jail is worse. But I’ll do my best to get you out. You’ve got to trust me.”

“Okay.” I reached for my lemon purse and pushed it into his hands. “Can you keep this? I’ve got money and stuff in there. I only need my inhaler.”

“Sure. The medical staff will keep your inhaler.” He tucked my purse into the backseat.

I climbed out. The heat from the pavement pushed through my shoes. We stepped into the building, cleared the checkpoint, and passed through electronic doors. A lady cop escorted me to the restroom and patted me down. I changed into a striped jumpsuit, then the woman led me to the same processing room where I’d been booked the night of the naked badminton game. For a second time, I was photographed and fingerprinted. The cop who took my picture said, “You back here already?”

“Didn’t like the first mug shot,” I said. “Thought I’d try again.”

When he asked my name and address, I hesitated. Then I gave the Bonaventure address. He led me to an interrogation room. Coop stood next to a wall with a huge grid map of Charleston. The Mount Pleasant detectives sat at one end of the table, and a new cop sat at the other.

“I’d like to speak with my client alone,” Coop said.

The woman cop shuffled out, with the detectives following. The door slammed.

“Teeny, there’s a problem,” Coop said, helping me to a chair. “A woman is claiming you sent her a threatening text message around the time of the murder.”

“What woman?”

“Natalie Lockhart.”

“She’s Bing’s girlfriend,” I said. “I didn’t text her. I don’t even know her number.”

“A text message was sent from your phone to Miss Lockhart’s at 9:42 a.m.” He slid a photograph across the table. It was a picture of a cell phone. The display read,
You’re next
.

“I can prove I didn’t send it. The English is too perfect.” I tapped the photograph. “If I’d done this, I would’ve texted
Ur Next
. Check Bing’s phone. See if he kept any of my messages. He used to go wild over my bad grammar.”

“I’ll mention it to Detective Purvis.”

“After I was knocked out, maybe the murderer texted Natalie from my phone.”

“They’ll check for prints. But Teeny, this doesn’t look good.” He glanced at my throat. “I’ll get photos of your neck and show them at the arraignment.”

“Let me take a lie detector test.”

“A polygraph isn’t admissible in court.” He wrote something on the legal pad, then looked up. “I got your bail hearing moved up to tomorrow. But you’ll have to spend the night in jail.”

I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. “Are they charging me with murder?”

“No. Criminal trespass and violation of a restraining order.”

“Trespass? But he texted me.”

“That’s the law, Teeny.”

“I’ve never had a speeding ticket. The first time I saw a real courtroom was the night I got arrested for throwing peaches.”

“That will help our case. Right now, all the police have is motive and opportunity. Even their circumstantial evidence—like the text message—is pretty shaky. They’ll need physical evidence to convince a jury, like gunpowder residue or an eyewitness. Without a murder weapon or forensic evidence, it won’t happen. The DA can’t prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you killed Bing.”

“Because I didn’t.”

There was a knock at the door. The Charleston detective cracked it open. “Y’all about finished?”

Coop waved them inside. The Mount Pleasant guys sat down, but the Charleston detective stood against the wall with his arms crossed. Detective Noonan started quizzing me about the text message but Coop cut him off.

“My client denies sending that message. When she arrived at the murder scene, she was attacked from behind. I want photographs taken of the marks on her neck.”

The Charleston detective left the room. Noonan leaned closer. “Did you have an altercation with Natalie Lockhart at the Spencer-Jackson House on Rainbow Row?”

I nodded. “She put a ‘For Sale’ sign in front of the house. It wasn’t that big of a fuss.”

“Is it true your fiancé gave you twenty-four hours to vacate the Spencer-Jackson House?”

“My client has no comment,” Coop said.

“Were you in a relationship with the late Aaron Fisher?” Noonan asked.

Coop looked at me and gave a short nod.

I looked at Noonan. “Yes,” I said. “A decade ago.”

“Mr. Fisher was a student at Clemson?” Noonan asked.

I nodded.

“He died there?” Noonan asked.

“Yes.”

“Were you with him when he died?”

“No.”

“Where were you?” Noonan blinked.

“At home with my aunt. In Bonaventure, Georgia. But—”

“What’s your aunt’s name and phone number.”

“Bluette Templeton,” I said. “She passed away.”

“Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts when Mr. Fisher died?”

“No—”

Coop cut me off with a terse “My client has no further comment.”

The Charleston detective returned with a camera and took pictures of my neck. When he finished, Noonan said, “I guess we’re done. Bail hearing is at 11:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

“Coop, would you call Miss Dora?” I asked.

“I will,” he said.

I wrote down her number and he tucked it into his folder. The Charleston detective opened the door, and a policewoman stepped into the room. “Lydia, show the arrestee to her new home.”

sixteen

My jail cell was the size of a walk-in pantry. The other inmates watched as the door slammed behind me. The air reeked of pine disinfectant. The inmate in the next cell sat on her cot and scratched her head.

“Hey, Barbie doll,” she said. “What you in here for?”

I ignored her and put the sheet on my bed. I lay down, trying to calm myself with recipes, but the thought of food made me nauseated. I barely made it to the toilet. The stench of disinfectant made me sicker.

“You ain’t got nothing catching, do you?” the inmate asked.

I ignored her and shuffled to my cot. I drew my knees to my chest and listened to the inmates’ chatter. I’d just have to get used to it, because if the judge denied bail, I’d be stuck here awhile. A tear slid down the side of my face and hit my knee. All my life, I’d followed the law. I’d always stopped at yellow traffic lights; even if a U-turn was legal, I wouldn’t do it.

My moral compass had formed when I was eight years old, the night Mama beat the crap out of Donnie and stole his station wagon. While we drove to the Georgia coast, Mama sang Elvis songs. She was bruised up, but she didn’t complain.

We stopped at Cracker Barrel and she put a little pancake makeup on her face to hide the bruises. We took a seat next to the window and ordered catfish platters. She tipped the waitress extra and bought me a sack of hard candy, counting bills from Donnie’s billfold.

When we got near Savannah, she started talking and couldn’t stop. “I’m ready for a true blue romance,” she said. “A man with a college degree and a sweet temper. He’s out there, Teeny. I’m getting close to finding him, I just know it.”

She sighed. Her breath smelled like peppermint. She always kept a Life Saver in her mouth because you never knew when you’d meet the love of your life, and you sure didn’t want to have sour breath.

We drove to Tybee Island and Mama found a boarding house. She wouldn’t tell me how much it cost a day. “Stop worrying about money,” she said. “Look, our room faces the marsh. Isn’t it pretty?”

“No,” I said and burst into tears. All I’d known was the farm. I missed the sound of peaches tumbling on the conveyer belt, the smell of browned piecrust wafting from the kitchen, the mournful sound of whip-poor-wills calling out in the woods.

“Can’t we just call Aunt Bluette and tell her we’re okay?” I begged.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” she said, twisting her fingers together. “Promise.”

Mama spread the
Savannah Morning News
on the floor and read our horoscopes. I sat next to the window, fretting over the stolen car and Aunt Bluette. I’d told so many lies since Mama had gotten married, I couldn’t stand myself. Late at night, I dug out my falsehoods like they were fish bones, each one transparent and sharp. There were so many of them, I knew I’d never get to heaven.

The next morning, Mama went job hunting. She didn’t want to squander Donnie’s money on gas, so she walked to town. I spent the day luring ants with crushed vanilla wafers. I had farms on the brain, and I was trying to build one with ants.

Mama came home with blisters on her heels. She stood in the yard, running the water hose over her feet. A woman in a purple tent dress walked by with her Chihuahua. She gave Mama a side-eye look. “Y’all in some kind of trouble?”

“Heavens no.” Mama laughed. “We like to keep to ourselves. And we really don’t like dogs, so just keep moving.”

“Why don’t you apply for food stamps? There’s a whole slew of government handouts you can get.”

Mama ignored her and said, “Get in the house, Teeny.”

“Your little girl is cute. You really shouldn’t leave her alone all day. Don’t worry, I won’t report you. But somebody will.”

After she left, Mama stared down at her feet. They’d sunk into the ground, water lapping around her ankles. We waited till dark, then we packed the car and drove up to Myrtle Beach, using a big chunk of Donnie’s money. We passed the seedy part of the strip and turned into the Wayfarer Motel. It looked deserted. We didn’t have money for a room, but it was 102 degrees, and we couldn’t stay in the car. We walked on the beach until it got dark. I found loose change on the sidewalk, and Mama bought us two candy bars.

“Eat up. It’s good for you,” she said. “There’s a ton of protein in nuts.”

We headed back to the station wagon. “I’ll take the front seat,” she said. “You get the back.”

“We’re not sleeping in the car?” I cried.

“You got a better idea?” Her face scrunched up like she was trying not to cry. “Look, it’ll be fine. You stay in your half of the car; I’ll stay in mine.”

That night, the motel came to life. Skinny women in short skirts came out of their rooms and leaned over the rail, flicking cigarette ashes into the oleanders and watching the cars cruise down Ocean Boulevard.

We lived in the station wagon for the next week, washing ourselves in the Burger King restroom. Mama made friends with a busboy from a steak house, and he brought us bags filled with food that people had sent back to the kitchen. He even brought leftover wine. Mama drank while I stuffed myself on onion rings and T-bones that were too rare or too done. The wine made her cheerful and she started singing “Milkcow Blues Boogie.” Then she quoted Proverbs 30:30 and gave me a recipe for a strawberry-peach shake.

Her motormouthing hurt my ears, so I held out an onion ring. “Here, I saved you one,” I said.

“Eat it yourself, Possum Head. God, it stinks in here.” Mama cracked the window to let the smell of food blow out.

“Mama? Are we going to live in this car forever?”

“How the hell do
I
know?”

“It’s just hard to see in the dark.”

“I’ll buy you a damn flashlight, okay?”

“Don’t say that, Mama.”

“What are you, a little preacher?” she cried. “Lay off me. I’m doing the best I can.”

The skinny women knocked on our windshield. They found Mama a job and moved us out of the car, into a room on the second floor. Mama put clean clothes and my inhaler into a bag and steered me to a room on the bottom floor, where an old woman with frizzled white hair sat in a metal chair.

“Teeny, this is Mrs. Phelps. She’s babysitting you tonight.” Mama thrust the bag into the woman’s hands. “If my baby gets winded, she’s got medicine. I’ll pick her up in the morning.”

Night after night, Mama teased her hair and brushed on three coats of mascara. If Mrs. Phelps couldn’t keep me, Mama would go to the motel next door and barge up to families. “Can you keep my little girl?” she’d say.

One morning when she picked me up, the station wagon was packed with our things. I didn’t ask questions. I was glad we were leaving the Wayfarer. She drove down Highway 17 until it split.

We stayed in Charleston for a day and moved down to Beaufort, parking at Memorial Hospital. We’d go into the hospital cafeteria and fill Styrofoam cups with hot water, then we’d make soup by adding catsup.