Dance On His Grave

Chapter One

“What on earth are you doing?” Sidra Smart yelled over the sounds of an electric drill boring a hole in the bottom of the eye sign.The wizened man on the ladder glanced down at her standing there with her fists crammed into her hips, then switched off the drill. “Mornin’ ma’am.” His voice sounded like a rasp pulled across a two by four. “I’m hangin’ this here sign.”
She chuckled at the old man, but her irritation didn’t budge.
“I can see that. But who authorized you to do that work?” She slammed her car door and stepped up to the sidewalk, squinting in the bright morning sun.
“Why, Mr. Chadwick did right after hurricane Rita messed up the old one. I just had a lotta work piled up. Told him I’d get to it when I could. Today, I could.”
“But didn’t you hear that my brother—Mr. Chadwick—died in a car accident?”
Died. The word felt glib on her tongue, didn’t anywhere near match the pain squeezing every drop of blood out of her heart.
“Yes’m, but ain’t somebody else gonna run the business for poor Mr. Chadwick? Figured I’d jus’ get it ready for ’em.”
“No, somebody isn’t. The business is for sale, or will be as soon as I can list it. I wish you’d checked with me before—before hanging a new sign.”
“Yes’m, but...” The old man reached a finger into the hole he’d made and swiped out sawdust. “I reckon if he bought and paid for it, least I could do is finish the job, God rest his soul.” He freed one hand, crossed himself then switched on the drill and made another hole, and in short order had the grotesque sign swinging in the breeze.
Beneath a giant blue eye, the sign read, The Third Eye, then in smaller letters, Intuitive Investigations.
“What the world is intuitive investigations?”
“Beats me,” he shrugged. “They order it, I paint it.” He climbed down, tossed the ladder and toolbox into a jalopy-ofa pickup then wiped his neck with a red kerchief and stuffed it
into his pocket.
With a bow, he touched his fingertips to his forehead and smiled. “Demoiselle, with your permission I take my leave.”
While Sid stood with her mouth open, he climbed into the truck and with a blast of exhaust, backed out and rattled off. She watched the truck until it turned the corner, taillights disappearing behind a building.
She sucked in a deep breath, turned and stared at the office door, her stomach a stampede of cattle charging over a cliff.
What had Warren been drinking—to leave her this business?
She’d made it clear to him years ago—no way, Jose!
She reached in her pocket and pulled out the keychain his lawyer, slash, executor, had given her the day he’d read her the will. After several false attempts, she found the right key and unlocked the door.
It creaked open.
Stale, moldy air accosted her before she crossed the threshold.
She ran her hand across the wall, flipped the light switch, and spied a can of air freshener on a desk. Grabbing it, she sprayed, shook the can a couple of times then dropped it in the trash basket.
A clay pot with a few brown sprigs of mint sat in the front window. She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a partial bottle of Evian and dumped the water into the flower pot. A sudden whiff of mint rose from the almost indestructible herb. At least something
of Warren’s still lived. Feeling more an intruder than the new owner, she explored the office like an alarm might go off if she touched the wrong thing.
Or land her in Oz.
One thing for sure, she certainly wasn’t going back to Kansas.
Some Baptist preacher’s wives might spend their whole lives totally happy following along in the tight, narrow shadow of their husbands, but she wasn’t one of them. She’d spent thirty years in the deep, deadening rut of being the perfect, submissive, unambiguous preacher’s wife. Thirty years being pulled, stretched, molded like Play-Dough.
Just thinking about it made her ill, literally nauseous. She slumped onto the hearth of a small fireplace and waited for the queasiness to pass, forcing herself to think of something different.
The Third Eye—she remembered the day Warren had called, excited about the name he’d chosen for his new business, how it matched his philosophy of working with the whole person. She guessed that was why he’d added the wording to the sign.
Intuition—if she’d ever had any, it was long gone. Her first job, the lawyer had advised, was to pay Warren’s overdue bills. She forced herself into action. Rummaging in the
desk, she found the checkbook and pulled it out. After sorting bills from junk mail, she stacked the bills, latest on bottom, oldest on top, and spent the next half hour writing, licking and sealing.
By the time she finished, she was pleased the balance wasn’t red, not black either, more a medium gray. But not nearly enough to keep her head above water until the business sold.
Next, she went through the huge pile of junk mail, tossing some, stacking others. At the bottom, she found a postcard addressed to Warren, but with no return address. She flipped it over.
Scratchy tight letters, strung together, made one short sentence.
An eye for an eye. Weird. She tucked it in her pocket.
But the storage closet gave her the creeps. Crime scene kits, cameras, recorders, binoculars, polygraph equipment, and listening devices—all these reminded her that it was an ugly business.
Yet, she didn’t have to run it, she told herself. She had no idea how to use any of the equipment and didn’t care to learn.
Damn Warren. She slammed the closet door.
Despite the lingering odor of air freshener, she still smelled Warren in the room. That bothered her more than anything. He seemed so near she thought she felt his hand on her arm, urging her forward.
But, dear sweet brother, I don’t want to go there, she thought.
She’d wither and die in a town like Orange, Texas. Besides, private detective wasn’t a job for an ex-preacher’s wife, at least not one her age.
Okay, what should she do? Sell the business? Burn the building to the ground?
Or busy your butt learning the detective business!
She had no idea where those words came from, but she quickly shoved them out of her brain, for that was not an option.
She’d noticed another PI office on Sixteenth Street. Perhaps the owner would buy Warren’s caseload—if you could sell such a thing.
The front door opened, but preoccupied with her misery, the squeak didn’t register in her brain until after the woman spoke.
“Excuse me Ma’am. Can you help me?”
Sid whirled around, startled. “What?”
A young woman, seven shades of white, stood so close to Sid she felt the woman’s fear prickle the hair on her own arms.
“Are you okay?”
“He killed her! I know he did!” The blonde woman came at Sid like she was the sole flotation device between breathing and drowning. Instinctively, Sid stepped back, half-expecting an attack.“
Do you work here? I’m looking for Mr. Chadwick.” The woman patted her heart while she talked. “Is he in today?”
Sid grabbed the woman’s elbow, deposited her in a chair, and asked again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
The woman nodded. “It’s just that coming back to this town scares the hell out of me.”
“I’ll get you some water.” Sid yanked a paper cup off the water dispenser, filled it and offered it to the other. She waited until the woman drained the cup before answering her earlier question.
“No, I don’t work here.”
The woman’s expression tumbled further than Sid thought possible.
“My name is Sidra Smart, yours?”
“Jewell Stone.” She offered a limp hand.
When Sid hesitated, a sickly smile played across Jewell’s face.
“Yeah, I know, but it’s not an alias, honest. I married into the last name. At the time, I took it as a sign.” She shrugged and a short, sad laugh slipped out of her throat. “I guess it was.”
Sid looked away. Of late, her own roller-coaster-life left no energy for another person’s problems. “It’s Sunday, you didn’t have an appointment with Mr. Chadwick today did you?” She hoped her question sounded aloof. She wanted to keep her distance.
Jewell’s words erupted like rapid-fire ammunition. “Not an appointment, but I was hoping to catch him. He told me he often worked weekends. I’m a new client of his. I used to live here when I was a kid.” She glanced out both windows before turning her gaze back to Sid. “I live in Goose Creek now.” She pointed south with a bright red fingernail that had a thin white stripe painted diagonally across it.
Jewell stood and paced the room. “But, if you don’t work here,”
she turned back to Sid, “where the hell is Mr. Chadwick?”
“He’s dead—” Sid paused, half-expecting the young woman to feign sympathy, but none came forth.
“Dead? Oh. I hadn’t heard.” Jewell’s face crumpled, tears welled in her eyes. “What happened?”
Sid got the distinct impression Jewell’s tears were for herself, more than for Warren. “My brother was in a car accident.” She cringed over the words, hating them more every time she said them. “Let me see if I can find a file on you.” She strode over to a metal file cabinet and tugged on the top drawer. Thumbing through several records she located a folder with Jewell’s name.
“Here it is.” She pulled out the file and with a push of her hip, the drawer banged shut.
Flipping through several pages, she looked up at Jewell. “It looks like he’d barely gotten started, just your contract, intake form, that sort of stuff.” She closed the file and dropped it on the desk. “I’ll reimburse you the retainer. There’s another detective agency on 16th Street. You might try them.” The desk drawer screeched open as Sid retrieved the checkbook, opened it, and grabbed a pen.
“I don’t want my money back, I want answers. Why can’t you help me?”
Speechless, Sid stared at her.
The woman stared back while tears ran down her cheeks and dripped off her jaw. After a moment of visual standoff, Sid marched to the door.
“I truly am sorry, Ms. Stone, but I don’t know anything about this business. You’ll have to find someone else to help you.” She held the door open. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...”
Jewell didn’t budge. Instead, she tapped her forehead with her fingertips. “This photoflash keeps going off in my head, but I can’t see the picture. It’s like—when you have a dream, and the next day you can’t quite get your mind around the details, but the sense of it keeps going off in your brain. But it isn’t a dream.
It’s a memory—I know it is! Something I know, but I don’t know how I know it, or even what the hell it is!” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Sid eased the door shut, took a couple of steps back into the room.
“My family has always had this big fucking secret no one will talk about. I’ve got to find out what it is because it’s driving me crazy.” Jewell raised her head and shoved her thick, curly hair out of her face. “I see this naked woman flashing in my mind. I think my dad killed her because—”
As Sid stood in the middle of the room staring at Jewell, wondering what the hell she should do next, a soft blue flame appeared above Jewell’s head. Sid’s breath caught in her throat.
She blinked, convinced her eyes played tricks, and sure enough, the flame disappeared. Or had it been there at all?
“Something happened, though, when…” Jewell stopped mid sentence and looked at Sid. “Is everything all right? You had a funny look on your face.”
Sid shook her head. “No, no, I’m okay, go on.”
“Something happened when we lived here in Orange. That’s what I want to know. What?”
Sid resumed her seat and waited, uneasiness crawling up her backbone.
“Whatever happened, it made my mother sick, and then the next thing I remember we’re living with my grandparents. They always protected my mom. Any time I asked about my dad, Grandma shushed me up and shooed me out of the room. ‘You’ll make your mother sick’ she’d say. Sometimes my mom sat on the floor in the living room pulling her hair and screaming, ‘don’t kill them, Roy,’ over and over.”
“Is Roy your father?”
Jewell nodded. “Roy Manly.”
“You’re afraid of your father?” Sid’s last word squeaked out.
Jewell nodded. “A house burned down—I believe a woman died in it.”
Sid stiffened. “Your house?”
“No—I don’t know whose house it was.”
“How do you know that?” Now Sid was the one leaning forward.
“I have no idea. No one ever told me, but I know my father had something to do with it.” She flung her hands out in front of her, palms up. “I can’t explain, I just know it.”
Sid opened her mouth, decided against interrupting, shut it.
“The old house had a lot of junk in the yard,” Jewell continued,
“and I see this doll’s head stuck on top of a fence post.”
“You sure this isn’t a nightmare? It sure sounds like one.”
Jewell shuddered and sat up straighter. “It might sound like one, but I know I didn’t dream this. That’s why I hired Mr. Chadwick. I have a little savings, plus I got a settlement in my divorce last year.”
“I see.” Sid stalled, wondering how in the world she could get out of this.
Jewell smiled for the first time during their meeting. “So you’ll take my case?”
“Oh no! I can’t, Jewell. I’d be cheating you. I don’t know diddly about this business. I’m not an investigator. You need someone experienced. I wouldn’t even know how to start.”
Not to mention the story scared her witless.
Jewell stuck out a trembling lip. Without another word, she grabbed her bag and stomped out the door, head down, shoulders slumped.
As Sid watched her go, guilt and fear seeped into her heart.
Dammit Warren, she thought, what’d you expect me to do?
She put her head on the desk and fought back tears. Chiming bells off in the distance reminded her it was Sunday. She knew the tune—Count Your Blessings. She lifted her head, listened a moment, and then snorted at the idea. For years she’d stood in church, sung every song, word for word, without needing a hymnal. Lately though, she’d made an agreement with God. She wouldn’t go to church, and God wouldn’t bug her about it.
What she needed, more than counting any blessing, was a margarita on the rocks, the rim loaded with salt. She glanced at her watch. Twelve noon on Sunday seemed a perfect time for her first-ever alcoholic beverage. She grabbed her bag and keys and climbed into the rental she’d leased shortly after the divorce. It still galled her that Sam had gotten the Avalon. As professional clergy, the lawyer argued, Sam needed the nicer-looking car.
Bullshit!
She’d passed a quaint place earlier, now she backtracked her way down Green Avenue, past the carillon still chiming atop a pink granite church. With stubborn determination she forced her eyes on the road, but old habits die hard. Her eyes wandered up to an opalescent glass dome and stained glass windows. Somewhat of an expert on church buildings, she recognized the modified Greek Revival architecture. She pushed her foot harder on the accelerator.
Capistrano’s restaurant looked like it had been around as long as the old San Juan mission she’d seen in pictures. The beige plastered building hunkered alongside a railroad track.
“Welcome to The Cap,” the burly man said as he ushered her across the dining room, weaving his way between well-worn tables and chairs. The place rang of a camaraderie that natives love about familiar haunts. A few couples reminded Sid of the dinner-after-church crowd, distinguishable from the alcoholics by suits and ties, high heels, panty hose, and attitude. Sid hoped she looked like neither one as she slipped into a small booth in the corner and ordered her drink.
When the margarita came she sipped it slowly, waiting until the tequila dulled her misery.
A blob of dried ketchup stuck to the wall. She flicked it with her fingernail and wiped her hands on the moist cocktail napkin under her glass. A jukebox blared out some song about a perfect world gone awry and lost love. At least it wasn’t a hymn.
Her perfect world had certainly fallen away. Like a baby bird inside an eggshell, growing until the exact, perfect moment when the shell no longer fit. When one tiny peck led to another, and then another, until its world cracked and shattered in a heap.
She’d been so compliant, accepting without question Sam’s belief that he was superior. Until a vague discontent dislodged the anesthetizing sleep-dust he’d sprinkled in her eyes, and one peck led to another. At least she’d just divorced, instead of shooting him, like the pastor’s wife in the news had done.
She touched her tongue to the salty rim.
Nothing tastes like salt, but salt.
A Bible verse popped in her head unbidden. But if the salt has become tasteless, how will it be made salty again?
She felt tasteless.
Okay, enough alcohol. She sat the glass down and ordered a cup of coffee and a Creole chicken sandwich.
Tomorrow she’d take her own advice and visit the owner of the detective office on 16th. Hopefully he could tell her how to go about selling The Third Eye.
When the food came, she nibbled it then ordered dessert and a second coffee before heading back to Houston and home.
Sam had moved out of the parsonage temporarily, but the deacons hadn’t been happy about that. They pushed him to set a time limit on Sid moving out. Her fast-approaching deadline, like water torture, had dripped on the middle of her forehead for weeks. An hour and half later, she turned onto her street and there sat Sam’s car parked at the curb in front of the parsonage. Every time she saw him, she felt like a marionette jerked around
by its strings.
She turned into her drive, punched the garage door opener and drove in, refusing to glance his way, irritated at the unbelievable control her ex-husband still held over her gut. More accurate— it pissed the hell out of her.
Her stepping to the other side of the Baptist line had been more than Sam could live with. It called into question his authority over her—over everyone. But he had been hurt, and the sight of him still ripped her heart out.
By the time she exited, he stood just outside the garage door, waiting. “Christine called and told me Warren left you his private detective business,” he called out, pain evident in the ruts across his forehead, around his eyes, the stiff line of his mouth.
“That’s right.” If she’d had hackles, his words would have raised them. She hadn’t asked Christine or Chad not to tell their dad about her recent inheritance, now she wished she had. Sam was all about mind-control. He’d been jealous of Warren, of any one that might dilute the power he held over his wife. It still pissed her off, the way he’d looked down on Warren, tried to keep them apart—as if Warren cavorted with Satan.
“You don’t want to get mixed up in that world, Sid.” Sam’s words pulled her back to the present. “It’s all crime, killings— working with heathens, infidels!”
Still handsome, despite the grief of the last few months, he pushed his fingers through gray-sprinkled brown hair. “As a Christian, you’re supposed to separate yourself out from the world—that is if you still call yourself one! Besides, how’s it going to look, my wife—okay, ex-wife—running with the dregs of society?” He slung his hands out in front of him. “Please don’t do this, teach school or something—anything respectable.”
Always about Sam. Everything.
“I don’t plan…” She swallowed what she intended to say, that she planned to sell the business. Full realization hit her, The Third Eye was her baby now, her decision, not Sam’s. A smile stretched across her face.
His face crumpled, along with his shoulders. He turned on his heel and headed to the Avalon. She watched as he climbed in and drove off, shoulders slumped. She felt like shit, but it boiled down to him or her, and she’d sacrificed her all her life. She had nothing left to give him.
She punched the garage door closed, walked into the kitchen and stood on the doorjamb, speechless. The room looked like a gang of thugs had been inside. The cabinet doors hung open, empty; the contents lay on the floor broken to smithereens. Flour, sugar, coffee, macaroni, potato chips, and crackers, everything she’d had in her pantry was broken open and spread around the room. Tomatoes were squashed on the wallpaper, eggs thrown everywhere.
Trancelike, she stepped through the mess and closed her refrigerator, where, on its white door, someone had written two words with a black magic marker.
Sam’s Delilah!