A Teeny Bit of Trouble Page 16

  “What letters? She didn’t throw away any letters.” But maybe she had. To get me away from Son, she’d sent me to Chamor Island, a tiny island off the Georgia coast. It was shaped like a bear claw pastry, but it smelled of sulfur. Wild horses ran down the empty beach, crocodiles bellowed from the swamp, and mosquitoes drank my blood. Inside the brown wooden house, Aunt Bunny played with her Ouija board, and my cousin Ira built talking Jesus dolls. But Ira made up sacrilegious things for Jesus to say: Thou shalt eat oysters during an R month. Thou shalt not kill doodle bugs. Thou shalt not spit on the floor.

  “I tried to find you, but I didn’t know where you’d gone,” Son said. “I had to go back to med school in September. But I wrote you letters. I used a fake return address. I used an alias, Parker MacArthur. I named it after that song you loved. ‘MacArthur Park.’ I mailed the letters from Atlanta. I bet your aunt burned them.”

  Now my throat felt bigger than the Atlantic Ocean. Yes, I’d been fond of Son, I wasn’t denying it, but now, everything was different. I was different.

  From the bedroom, my bulldog howled. Son bent closer and brushed his lips against my ear. “You may think you love him, but he’s wrong for you. I speak your dialect. We’re country people, you and me. We don’t put on airs. We don’t try to be something we’re not.”

  I couldn’t argue with him. These same worries rang in my head all the time, a warning sound like a buoy in a storm.

  “I’ll always be waiting for you, Teeny. And if there’s one chance in hell that I can be with you, I’m taking it.”

  Behind me, the floor creaked. Then a familiar voice said, “What’s going on?”

  eighteen

  Coop stood in the doorway, his arms loaded with flowers and a sheaf of papers. Son and I broke apart. A burning, scalding pain spurted out the top of my skull. “I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, rubbing my forehead.

  “Who can hear anything over Def Leppard?” Son said.

  I introduced the men, but they ignored me and glared at each other. A muscle jerked in Coop’s jaw. He set down the bouquet and the papers, which looked like mail. He turned his blue, bottomless gaze on me. “Why didn’t you go to my folks’ house? What’s he doing here?”

  “I asked him to check on Kendall.”

  “Are those medical records?” Coop gestured at the stacked charts. He turned to Son. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act?”

  “HIPPA?” Son asked. “Sure.”

  “And you still brought private medical records into this house?” Coop spoke quietly, but his voice was shaking. “These patients could sue.”

  I tried to ignore the thrumming pain in my scalp. “I asked Son to break the rules,” I said, emphasis on rules. “And he did.”

  Coop pulled a Pepto-Bismol bottle out of his hip pocket, wrenched off the cap, and drank.

  Son tucked the charts under his arm. “You don’t have to defend me, Teeny. But I appreciate it. If you need help, you know where to find me.”

  I sank onto the chair and the toes of my boots pointed inward.

  Son turned into the hall. “See you around, Counselor.”

  The screen door clapped against the frame. Sir’s barks echoed, as if he’d fallen into the bottom of a well. I wanted to climb in with him. Coop took another long swig of Pepto-Bismol, and the chalky smell drifted over to me. He capped the bottle, tucked it under his arm. As he lifted the mail, his hard gaze swept over my trembling hands.

  “You didn’t need Finnegan’s help. I told you my dad would check on Kendall.”

  “She died.”

  “Oh, no.” He looked down at the floor. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  I started with Kendall’s wreck and ended with Son’s visit. “I feel responsible for what happened to her. See, she wanted to show you the printout. But I told her she’d need more proof. She went looking for evidence. That’s when she wrecked.”

  Coop’s eyes softened. “Stop blaming yourself.”

  “Don’t blame Son for coming over. I was upset about Kendall. I asked for his help.”

  Coop’s foot tapped the floor. “Why him? A guy you barely know.”

  “I didn’t say I barely knew him.”

  Coop’s eyelashes fluttered. “Is he an old boyfriend?”

  “We dated eight years ago. Briefly. Then we broke up.”

  “What happened in between?”

  “The usual. I was twenty-one years old. What were you doing at that age?”

  “Point taken.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I’m just trying to understand why you asked for his help. Why didn’t you ask me?”

  “I called you. Twice. Both times you told me to go to your mother’s house. I wanted to know why Kendall died, and Son found out.”

  “He broke the law, Teeny.”

  “But he’s never lied to me.”

  Coop jerked back, as if I’d shoved him. I couldn’t pull in a full breath. My breastbone ached all the way through to my spine, like I’d fallen on the sharp end of a meat thermometer.

  Air. I needed air. I ran to the kitchen, snatched my inhaler, and sucked in the bitter fumes. A floorboard creaked, and Coop stepped into the room. He dumped the flowers, the mail, and the Pepto-Bismol bottle on the table. His eyes circled my face. “You’re upset.”

  “I’m perfectly calm.” I took another hit of Ventolin.

  “A paradigm of serenity.” He glanced at the counter, where I’d lined up empty Styrofoam containers. His mouth opened, then clamped shut.

  From the bedroom, Sir let out another howl. I moved toward the hall, but Coop caught my arm. “Stay. You need another dose of Ventolin. I’ll get the bulldog.”

  I set my inhaler aside. I’d already had two doses; I couldn’t take another for six hours. I buttoned my skirt. Then I lifted the phone out of the drawer and put it in the cradle. I heard the staccato sound of bulldog breath, and a second later, Sir bounded into the kitchen.

  “Why was he in solitary confinement?” Coop spread his arms in the doorway.

  “He bit Son.”

  Coop laughed. He bent down and patted Sir’s head. The tension between us seemed to lessen. “Where’s T-Bone?” I asked.

  “With Red.”

  “Are you hungry?” I asked. “Let me fix you a sandwich.”

  He glanced at his watch. “We’ll get something to eat at Mother’s.”

  “It’s too late.” I wasn’t referring to time. It was too late for Kendall. Too late for Barb. Maybe too late for me and Coop. “I’m staying here tonight.”

  “What am I going to do with you, Templeton?”

  I shrugged. He opened the back door and walked into the dark yard. He put his hands on his hips and gazed up at the stars. His shoulders slumped, as if the whole sky had fallen on him. I felt so guilty. He’d driven all these miles to make sure I was safe. He’d brought flowers. And I’d eaten fried okra with Dr. Botox. I started to go after Coop and put my arms around him. I wanted to tell him I was frightened. And when a Templeton gets frightened, we try to act brave. Never mind that we take bravery too far. That’s what I’d done. By trying to do the right thing, I’d done the wrong thing.

  I put the flowers in a vase and set them on the counter. The phone rang, and I lifted the receiver. An unfamiliar, whispery voice said, “Itheeyou.” It sounded formal, Old English words, I thee you. No, not Old English. A lisp.

  “Norris?” I said. “Is that you?”

  There was a decisive click, and the line went dead.

  * * *

  I flew in and out of dreams, ugly winged nightmares that stung me over and over, leaving a nagging pain in the back of my mind. I awoke with my fists knotted in the sheets. Morning light fell through the windows; bright shards cut across the floor and slashed over the bed.

  Coop sat in a chair, lacing his shoes. His hair was combed, and water marks outlined his brown curls. I fumbled on the nightstand and grabbed my inhaler.

  “Hey, you’re awake.�
�� He stood. “You and Sir have to go to Mother’s right now. I’ve got to be in Charleston by noon. I’m meeting Red. He’s setting up surveillance.”

  Part of me wanted to stay in Bonaventure so I could be near Emerson, but the other part wanted to be away from Son Finnegan. “I’m going to Charleston.”

  He shook his head. “The police are looking for you.”

  “Your parents live only a few miles from the Philpots. I don’t want to be that close to Norris. I know he called me last night.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “Yes, I am. He broke into my house and left my phone. And dirtied my—” I took a puff from my inhaler. I wanted to believe Norris had worn that mask. Otherwise, I’d always be scanning faces and thinking, Is he the one?

  Coop sat down on the bed. “Red talked to a Charleston detective. A witness saw Barb having a drink with a tall, rangy guy the day before she went missing. They were acting pretty cozy.”

  I drew a stick figure on the sheet. “Norris Philpot is skinny, just like the guy in the Bill Clinton mask.”

  “Or she could have picked up a guy in the bar. Maybe he noticed her jewelry. He could have followed her home, intending to rob her. That would explain the mask.”

  “But he had a key to her house.”

  “You’re trying to build a case against Norris, but you’ve only got conjecture.” He smoothed my hair. “Let me protect you, Teeny. My parents’ house is the best place for you right now.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “Whoever broke into your house is a damn coward. He doesn’t want an audience. My mother and grandmother will be there. There’s a cook and a housekeeper. With all those people around, you’ll be safe. I’ll be back tonight.”

  “That’s too much driving. Your truck is in worse shape than mine. It’s a six-hour round trip. You could wreck.”

  “I’d walk over a thousand scalding hot french fries to get to you.” He paused. “I see that smile, Teeny. You can’t hide it. Come on, give me another one.”

  A long while later, we got dressed and went downstairs. The kitchen door stood ajar, letting in a blast of heat. Emerson sat at the table, surrounded by the mail that Coop had brought last night. A blue envelope had been opened.

  “How did you get in?” I cried.

  “I’ve got my ways. You can’t get rid of me.” She lifted her arm. A chain stretched from her wrist to the chair. “Unless you’ve got the key to these handcuffs.”

  nineteen

  Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, glinting on Emerson’s cuffs. She still wore the black taffeta dress that Kendall had bought. She was waiting for Coop and me to say something, but a snug band had wrapped itself around my chest.

  Coop knelt beside her. “Where’d you get those cuffs, princess?”

  “It’s a secret.” She smoothed her free hand down her stained, wrinkled dress. One edge of the stiff petticoat hung down, beggar lice stuck to the netting. Hadn’t the Philpots noticed that she’d worn the same outfit for the last two days? Weren’t they taking care of her?

  A wedge of light hit Coop’s face, outlining the edge of his jaw. “How did you get into the house?”

  “I used Mr. Philpot’s Visa card. The lock popped open.” She glanced down at the handcuffs. “I got these from Red. They’re the icky, old-fashioned kind. I prefer the twist-tie ones.”

  I thought Coop was going to lecture her about theft and delinquency, but he folded his arms. “I hope you stole the key, too.”

  “Maybe.” With her free hand, she lifted a stained paper bag from her lap. “Anybody want a funeral cruller? I brought éclairs too.”

  The strap around my chest loosened. If she’d swiped the doughnuts from the Philpots’ kitchen, then she hadn’t been roaming the countryside for days.

  Coop pushed back his hair, the way he always did when he was flustered. “Teeny, where’s your phone book? I’ve got to call Helen Philpot. She’s probably frantic.”

  “She’s not.” Emerson lifted her chin.

  I peeked under the table. Her ankles were crossed primly; her shoes and socks were coated with Bonaventure County’s sandy loam, perfect for growing onions. “Why are you still wearing this outfit?”

  “I didn’t have nothing to change into. My stuff is still in Red’s van.” She pushed the doughnut bag aside and lifted the blue envelope. “Is this your mail, Daddy? ’Cause you got a letter from Mrs. Philpot. She mailed it from South Carolina.”

  Coop stopped looking for the phone book. He crossed the room in three long strides. He tried to snatch the envelope, but she pushed it into my hands. The seal had been ripped open, and a blue paper jutted up. I glanced at the postmark: Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, Saturday August 9. I recognized Barb’s handwriting—boxy, all capital letters. She’d addressed the note to Coop’s house on Isle of Palms.

  “Go ahead and open it,” Emerson said.

  I pulled out the blue paper and spread it on the table.

  SEAPORT COED,

  EMAIL RUB INTO. CLAMEL TOAD DEUCE

  FOYER MANAGE TRASH. ALIEN WILL PIX.

  A BUSHEL FETCH NEUTER

  CHALET OWES NULL

  CLOUDS FOURTEEN

  **SUICIDE SOLEMNER**

  VALOR EBB

  XXOO

  Suicide solemner? Manage trash? I glanced at Emerson. “What’s this? A joke?”

  “No, silly. They’re anagrams.”

  A muscle twitched in Coop’s jaw. “She used to write me letters like this back in high school. She sent them after we broke up, too. I couldn’t decode them. I never got past Seaport Coed.”

  “It means Dearest Coop,” Emerson said. “Valor Ebb is Love Barb.”

  “You and your mother just happen to have the same talent for solving anagrams?” I asked.

  “No, she teached me,” Emerson said. “After every lesson, she gave me ice cream.”

  “But I thought you were never around her,” Coop said. “You went to that school.”

  “The Philpots made me come home for holidays. I had to crack anagrams to find my presents on Christmas morning.” Emerson wrinkled her nose. “So do you want me to decode the letter or not?”

  “That’s okay,” Coop said. “I can look up the anagrams on my iPhone.”

  “It’ll take you thirty minutes to type in the phrases on those tiny keys. I can decipher it in a flash. Let’s cut a deal.”

  Coop shook his head.

  “But the clues lead to a treasure. Don’t you want to find it?” She snatched the letter and began to read out loud. “‘Dearest Coop. I am in trouble. Call me after you decode the anagrams. I will explain. Love, Barb.’”

  Trouble? I shook my head. “I’m confused.”

  Emerson sighed. “Give me a pencil and scrap paper and I’ll make you a cheat sheet.”

  I found an index card and a pen in the drawer. I set them in front of her. She lifted her free hand and began to write.

  SEAPORT COED = DEAREST COOP

  EMAIL RUB INTO = I AM IN TROUBLE

  CLAMEL TOAD DEUCE FOYER = CALL ME AFTER YOU DECODE

  MANAGE TRASH = THE ANAGRAMS

  ALIEN WILL PIX = I WILL EXPLAIN

  VALOR EBB = LOVE BARB

  A BUSHEL FETCH NEUTER = CLUES BENEATH THE FUR

  CHALET OWES NULL = CLUES ON THE WALL

  CLOUDS FOURTEEN = CLUES UNDERFOOT

  SUICIDE SOLEMNER = MORE CLUES INSIDE

  Emerson tapped A Bushel Fetch Neuter. “This means clues beneath the fur. Chalet Owes Null means clues on the wall. And Clouds Fourteen means clues underfoot. And so on and so forth.”

  “Yes, I can see that. But what does it mean?” Coop asked. “What’s underfoot? Which wall was she referring to? What kind of trouble was she in?”

  “She never said.” Emerson set down the card. “But it’s real clear that she wanted you to find something. Maybe we can find it together?”

  I remembered the printout and sat up straight. Did Barb have a fur coat? If so, she might have lef
t a note in the pocket.

  Coop gave her a stern look. “How do I know that you’re telling the truth? Maybe you didn’t solve these anagrams. Maybe you’re making up phrases.”

  “Take the letter to a cryptologist. Then I want a full apology and a double order of fries.”

  “You can’t stay here, princess.” Coop shoved the letter back into the envelope, along with Emerson’s cheat sheet. “I’m going back to Charleston this morning, and Teeny is staying with my family.”

  “Can I stay with them, too? Because your people are my people.”

  “My mother isn’t good with children,” Coop said. “And if I don’t leave right now, I’ll be in trouble with my boss.”

  Emerson reached into the doughnut bag, fished out a tiny brass key, and unlocked the handcuffs. After they drove off, I found the envelope on the floor. It must have slipped out of Coop’s pocket. I stuffed it in the silverware drawer. What clues had Barb meant? Would they prove she’d been involved in a chop shop? Was she reaching from the grave to implicate the Philpot brothers?

  I massaged my forehead. I always thought better in the orchard, so I grabbed a basket and walked outside. Clouds drifted low over the trees. A mockingbird swooped down the row, its shadow rippling over the grass. The wind kicked up, bending the weeds. I took a breath.

  Peaches. This was the smell of home, of a childhood that had been bruised in places but was still whole and mostly sweet. But I missed Charleston: the bells of St. Michael’s, horse drawn carriages, and the way afternoon light cast a rusty sheen over harbor.

  I loved Bonaventure, too. Emerson had given me a new reason to stay. I’d promised Coop that I’d go straight to his mother’s house, but I wasn’t quite ready to face Irene. So I lingered in the orchard a few minutes longer.

  She needs a little sweetness, Aunt Bluette’s voice whispered. Take Irene some peaches.

  I smiled. Maybe I could fix an I’ll-Make-You-Like-Me Fruit Salad, with oranges, cherries, apples, peaches, and passion fruit. Make a sugar syrup and pour over fruit. A touch of lemon juice gives backbone to the syrup.

  I loaded my basket and walked back to the house. The phone was ringing, and I snatched it up, praying I’d hear Coop’s voice. You’ve got heartburn, and I’ve got a burning fear in my heart, I’d say. Let’s make it stop. We’ll book a guided tour in Ireland. A stone cottage, an iron bed, a snapping fireplace. The name of the tour will be the Ring of Kerry Meets the Ring of O’Malley.