“I have a theory,” was the only thing Lillian would say as she drove us to her place off Cox Gap Road.
For the fourth time, as she unlocked the back door, I repeated my response, “let’s hear it.”
Inside, she motioned me to sit at the kitchen table and said, “I’ll be right back.” I did as I was told and wondered if she was playing some silly game.
I waited several minutes. She finally yelled, “Lee, come in here.”
I stood and shook my head whispering to myself, “is Lillian playing a new version of hide-n-seek?”
She was sitting at a makeshift desk in the spare bedroom, half piled with unloaded boxes. “What you got?” I asked as she pulled two folders from an opened box.
Without introduction or pretext, Lillian announced: “Ray’s been paying Rob and Rosa for years. Grab a chair.” She pointed back toward the kitchen. I returned and sat beside her before an unlevel platform constructed from a weathered door and three semi-squished boxes on each end.
“What in Heaven’s name makes you say that?” Lillian had placed one folder on the desk and was rifling through another one lying across her lap. I could see the documents were bank statements.
“I’ve long wondered what this $2,500 was for.” Lillian pointed to a line item on a July 1990 First State Bank of Boaz account, and the same amount on the October 2020 statement she had removed from Ray’s study on Monday.
“I’m lost. What makes you think this monthly disbursement had anything to do with Rob and Rosa?”
“Two things.” Lillian flipped the 1990 statement over, revealing an index-sized hand-written note taped to the back. It read, ‘It’s your turn. I no longer will pay for your mistake. Pay or sink, your choice.’ It was signed, ‘Dad.’
“I’m guessing Dad is Ray’s father.”
“Right, and this is where the $2,500 per month draft started.” Lillian returned the older statement to its place in the folder and stared at the one she’d just stolen. “See, it continues.” She reached for a highlighter and swiped across the disbursement.
“Sorry, I’m not seeing the connection, but you said you had two reasons. What’s the other one?” I was thinking Lillian was trying to see a non-existent pattern.
She laid the thick folder on top of the other one and started clicking at her laptop. She must have turned it on when she first came in. After a couple of screen changes, I could tell she was at First State Bank of Boaz’ website. Two keystrokes later she said, “look here.”
“Okay, I see a bunch of debits and credits. Ray’s account?”
“Yes.” She scrolled the screen, stopped, and pointed to two withdrawals. “This is Ray’s discretionary account.” One is for $150,000, the other $100,000. “This one was for me.” Lillian pointed to the larger amount.
“What about the hundred thousand?”
“I bet the Aviator it’s what Ray paid Buddy James. Look at the date.” It was the 25th of November, the day before Thanksgiving and two days before the Hunt House exploded and burned the interior to a crisp.
My feelings were mixed. I was happy Lillian had ongoing access to Ray’s online banking but was frustrated by her interpretation. I couldn’t see any connection to Rob and Rosa other than the obvious property-destroying fire. “You’ve got me where you want me.” I said. Our eyes met. She smiled and nodded.
Lillian reopened the bank statement folder and removed a single sheet of letter sized paper with a large paper clip at the top. “Union Central Bank.” She handed it to me and pointed. The sheet contained a copy of both sides of a much smaller document, one the size of a personal check. “That’s both sides of the $2,500 draft I copied. Notice the bottom picture.” It appeared to be a rubber stamp. It read, ‘Union Central Bank, Roanoke, VA.’
Now I was catching up. “That’s odd and interesting.”
Lillian interrupted before I could continue. “Earlier, after you got off the phone with Rosa, you mentioned the cabin being in Roanoke. I didn’t know that, but when you said Rob and Rosa owned the place, I remembered this monthly draft going to a bank in the same city. Don’t you think that’s more than a coincidence?”
“Not sure. I’m skeptical of your conclusion. It appears unwarranted.” Lillian slapped my knee.
“You damn attorneys, needing to read the entire book, twice, before you fathom the ending. This all fits with Ray being Kyle’s murderer.”
“How so?”
“Remember, I told you Ray does nothing for free or out of generosity. When Rosa told you about the extra funds he’d paid Rob for the Hunt House, he got something in return. Now, I believe he, and his father before him, have been paying Rob and Rosa for years and years.”
It was now my turn to interrupt. “For what, Shirley Holmes?”
“Let me answer with a question. What subject would be so important to Ray, again assuming he killed Kyle, to motivate him and his father to pay a shit pot full of money over all these years?”
Lillian had a point, but I was nowhere ready to reach her conclusion. But I could craft a hypothesis. “What if Ray has paid all this money to Rob and Rosa in exchange for their silence?”
“Good boy.” Lillian swiveled toward me in her chair and nudged my knee with hers. I won’t say how I felt. “And, let me say it for you, what would your in-laws know that would motivate Ray to keep the money flowing?”
My legal hat nestled downward around my head. “Here’s another question. Would my in-laws, for any amount of money, keep quiet for Ray alone? Do they, did they, have another reason to keep quiet?” Lillian’s leg pressed against mine, easy, but firm.
“Let’s continue this discussion on the couch. This chair is hurting my butt.” I stood and caught the scent of lavender. Funny, I hadn’t noticed it before.
***
I followed Lillian to the den and to the couch. Just as we sat, she quickly stood and headed for the front door. “I’m expecting a package.” She walked outside and immediately yelled, “Lee, come here.”
The near pungent smell dominated the air. “Wow, I haven’t smelled chicken litter in a while.”
“Burning rubber?” Lillian reached for a small box seated in a rocking chair.
I looked across Alexander Road to the neighboring house. There was a streetlamp on the far side, maybe half a football field away. Smoke was circling the pole like a swarm of bees. “I don’t know if it’s rubber, but something is burning.” I pointed to the ghostlike figure.
“Oh yeah, I see. Let me grab my phone to call Neva. Do you think we need to walk over there?”
“We can.” I wasn’t too interested, given the cold. The wind had picked up, and the temperature had plunged since we arrived an hour earlier. At least it wasn’t raining.
Lillian was in and out of the house in no time. “Come on, I’ll call while we walk.” Again, I trailed along, wishing we’d grabbed our coats.
By the time we reached the far side of the Clifton’s house, we heard a fire truck’s siren, and saw the flames. Nestled between a detached garage and a six-bay clean-up shop was a large barn. They had stacked round hay bales three high as far as I could see. The fire had engulfed the far-right corner of the half-sided pole building.
“She’s at the fire,” Lillian said, pulling me forward. “Tony’s in Atlanta and Neva’s spraying water.” I marveled at how quickly Lillian had met her new neighbors. She’d already entered Neva’s phone number into her iPhone’s contacts.
The firetruck arrived as we rounded the corner at the clean-up shop. “There she is.” I saw a woman standing thirty feet from the barn arching a pencil size stream of water from a garden hose onto the chaotic flames.
Neva and Lillian exchanged a few words as the firefighters positioned their truck, and the heat from the growing flames grew.
“Stand back,” a big burly man with a thick gray beard said, unfolding a hose in our direction. I retreated toward the shop. “Ladies, please move.”
I grabbed Lillian by the elbow. “Come on, they’ve got this, and I’m freezing.” Once we circled the firetruck, I felt a shy hand engulf my own. Oddly, I seemed to forget the knifing wind and numbing cold as we scurried across the neighbor’s yard to the home of the woman who had broken my heart half-a-century ago.
Strangely, I did not disconnect hands during our entire walk. Lillian did that when we stepped onto her front porch, and she reached for her package. “Hurry, let’s get inside.” I opened the door, allowing her to go first. She set the box on the coffee table and hustled to a wall mounted gas heater I hadn’t noticed before. “I’m so glad I had AllGas install this. My central unit sucks.”
I asked for details. With no response forthcoming, I complied with Lillian’s head motion, ‘come here and warm.’ I stood beside her while we both held our hands close to the welcoming heat. In a minute, she pivoted her body to warm her backside while I continued to massage my hands.
I’m not sure how it happened. We both had pursued a pivot-and-warm routine at least three times. The last one was defective since we made it only halfway. Now, face to face, our hands reached out and pulled the other one close. I must admit I’d considered this moment since I’d laid eyes on Lillian two weeks ago at Old Mill Park. What had started as a fantasy had evolved into reality.
As Lillian laid her head on my shoulder and clutched both hands behind my back, she was the first to talk. “Lee, I’m so sorry. Please know I have always regretted what I did. Can you forgive me?”
I normally didn’t enjoy plowing the same ground more than once, but I sensed her seriousness and need for affirmation. I nuzzled my mouth close to her ear. The lavender scent grew stronger, triggering feelings I feared. “I know, and I forgive you. Ask me tomorrow and I’ll tell you the same.” I gave her a squeeze.
Lillian popped her head back and said, “are you being a smart ass?”
“Maybe, but a serious one.” She smiled and returned her head to my shoulder. Our bodies couldn’t have gotten a hair closer.
Without thinking, I brushed back her hair with my hand and kissed her neck. Once, twice, three times, each time exploring a unique spot. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.
By now, I was sweating. I manipulated us both a yard away from the heater. “Whew, I’m on fire.” Secretly, I laughed at my involuntary statement.
“Me too, for several reasons.” We untangled ourselves and what started quietly transformed into a knee-slapping roar. Finally, Lillian returned to the heater and dialed it down from HIGH to LOW.
Just as quickly, she returned to me and pulled my head to hers. The kiss was intense, inciting, and irresistible, a one-way ticket to her king-size bed.
It was after ten when we reassembled our clothing and exited her back porch. We said little during the drive to Kyla’s. Tonight, for me, was something I’d never experienced with Rachel. It really wasn’t the sex, although it was the most passionate I’d ever experienced. It was the time, touch, and talk we’d exchanged under the covers. This new road was going to be a leap into love or a stumble into the abyss. I hoped it was the former.
Richard L. Fricks 