It was the first night I’d spent away from Lillian since the end of November. That night, she’d come to Kyla’s, scared of Ray after learning he had a powerful motive to kill the two of us.
It was also the first night I’d stayed alone at Lillian’s cabin on Cox Gap Road. There were two reasons I had awakened this Sunday morning at her house, in her tiny bedroom, on her squeaky king-size mattress. The first was Lillian’s decision to go to Gatlinburg, and the second was yesterday’s frustration at Kyla’s nosy intrusion into mine and Lillian’s business.
I activated my iPhone. It was 6:00 AM. I eased out of bed and peeked through the window blinds. The sky was gray, but at least it wasn’t raining. I slipped into the jeans and sweatshirt I’d worn yesterday. After a pit stop at the bathroom, I walked to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and succumbed to the temptation to go back to bed. At the last moment, I changed my mind and took Lillian’s advice. Before she and Stella had left for Gatlinburg, my dearest had declared, “if you want to stop missing me so much you should go to my house and grab Grisham’s latest novel, A Time for Mercy. It will keep you mesmerized and intrigued. It’s lying on my desk, next to the bookcase lined with every novel he’s ever written.”
I needed something to occupy my mind. I walked inside the spare bedroom she’d converted to an office and instantly saw the book where she said it would be. Instead of grabbing it and heading to the pier as I’d intended, I sat in her over-sized chair and turned to Chapter 1. The scene was intense, ending with sixteen-year-old Drew shooting his wife-beating stepfather. Interesting as it was, I wasn’t in the mood. I sat the book aside and pondered calling Lillian. It was nearly 7:30 in Gatlinburg. Surely, she was up, or at least awake. Finally, I dialed, needing desperately to hear her voice. But her phone went straight to voicemail. I continued to sit, gazed left to right at the clutter, and recalled she’d said her mind was more organized than her scribbled meanderings.
After Friday’s groundbreaking ceremony, Jane and Stella had asked Lillian to join them on their annual trip to the Smoky Mountains. They somehow persuaded Lillian she needed a respite from her stressful life. The planned departure time was early yesterday morning, but a bug Jane blamed on Taylor’s Tacos had delayed the trio. Why Lillian had agreed to go without Jane and with Stella had everything to do with her crime reporter brother. “Baby, you know I’d rather stay here with you, but this might be our best chance to learn what Nick knows.” Lillian had said this to me in a whisper before she and the ICU nurse departed in Lillian’s Aviator.
As to the second reason I was alone at the small but rustically appealing cabin just off Cox Gap Road, my dear sister had spent every opportunity yesterday advising me to marry Lillian as soon as her divorce was final. Kyla’s chief argument was that an honest beauty like Lillian didn’t come along every day, especially one with a half-billion dollars. By twilight, with the goats fed and my impatience firing, I’d packed a bag and headed to Lillian’s vacant oasis.
I made a round-trip to the kitchen to top-off my coffee. When I returned, my iPhone vibrated. It was a text from Lillian: “Glad I came. Stella is opening up. Nick says another search warrant is in the works for Ray’s properties, including his office. Will call later tonight, hopefully with the smoking gun! Oh, BTW, Jane wasn’t sick at all. What’s up with that?”
It was refreshing to hear the news about the search warrant. Maybe Ray wasn’t Teflon Man after all. Lillian’s last statement confirmed I was on the right track. Jane was playing both sides to the middle, as the old saying goes. I activated my iPhone, and the Spytech APP. Jane’s Equinox was sitting in her driveway. It hadn’t moved since late Friday afternoon after the ground-breaking ceremony. I wondered what made Lillian conclude Jane hadn’t been sick. I’d be sure and ask her tonight when we talked.
Hearing Lillian’s voice, although written, made me miss her that much more. I wish I had gone with her and Stella. I stood and started stacking the scattered papers on her desk, hoping this would somehow bring me closer to the one who had transformed my heart.
After sorting the household bills and bank statements, I stacked two dozen letter-size sheets, all containing Lillian’s scribblings. I noted each was a half-page quote from one of Grisham’s books. Lillian had simply rewritten his words. I guessed she liked the language and hoped that someday she could return to college and learn to write as well.
To the right of her closed laptop was a wooden stacker containing four shelves. Lillian’s custom stationery and envelopes filled the bottom two. The next-to-the-top contained several monthly statements for an account at Wells Fargo Bank. The balance on the most recent one was $158,768.43, a small sum for a woman who was about to receive half-a-billion dollars. The top shelf contained two legal documents: a deed and Lillian’s Last Will and Testament, both prepared by Micaden Tanner. I couldn’t resist reading, although I should have. If Lillian had wanted me to know the details, she would have told me.
It was a simple Will with me named as executor and primary beneficiary. Kyla was the second in line for both positions. This was shocking. For two reasons. What had compelled Lillian to prepare a new Will, now? Why hadn’t she waited until the court issued the divorce decree? Or after we moved to New Haven and married?
The deed was also a surprise. On the same day she’d signed her new Will, Ray conveyed to Lillian the house I was sitting in, including the surrounding ten acres. I pondered the date of both documents, January 6th. That was two days after Lillian and Micaden had traveled to Huntsville for the quasi-mediation session with Ray and his attorney. Apparently, Micaden had used his experience and skills to persuade Ray it was in his best interest to show good faith even before Lillian’s deadline for accepting or rejecting his offer. Shrewd indeed.
I slid the legal documents back inside the stacker’s top shelf and walked to the kitchen. My iPhone rang while I poured a bowl of cereal. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello.”
“Lee, this is Randy, Randy Kern, your brother-in-law.” I knew his voice.
“I know who you are. How are you? What’s going on?” I tried to remember the last time I’d spoken to Rachel’s brother. I recalled how disappointed Rob had seemed when he and I, and Rosa, had breakfast at Bella’s last November.
“Mother wanted me to call and ask you to come see her.” I felt guilty. It had been over a month since I’d paid her a visit, although I had called once a week. And I still needed to return her book, The Cost of Discipleship.
“Okay, I’ll go this morning.”
“She’s on the third floor, Room 323.” Third floor? There wasn’t even a second floor at Bridgewood Gardens, much less a third. Plus, I remembered the numbers 188 on the sign at the top left of her door.
“Uh?”
“She’s in the hospital, Marshall Medical Center South. They admitted her Friday night. Celia and I arrived this morning, maybe an hour ago.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Double pneumonia. A nurse just started her on the last antibiotic available. If this doesn’t beat the infection, well, you know.”
“Oh boy. Your dad and now your mom. I can’t believe this is happening.” While Randy and I talked, I returned to the bedroom and remembered I didn’t have any decent clothes. I’d have to swing by Kyla’s before heading to the hospital.
“That’s life. The good thing is they both lived a long and happy life. Well, mostly.” I felt Randy was meaning more than his words were conveying. I figured he was referring to Rachel and her suicide. Either way, he seemed a little too nonchalant.
“Will I see you there?”
“No, if you’re coming right on. Mother wants to talk to you alone, so Celia and I will eat breakfast and hang out at The Shack. I’ve wanted to try it since Dad’s funeral.”
“Okay, I should be there in thirty or forty minutes. Take care.”
I thought the call ended, but Randy semi-yelled, “Lee, you there?”
“Yeah.”
“I almost forgot. Mom wants you to bring the book. She said you’d know which one.”
***
It was 9:00 AM when I walked inside Room 323. What I saw shocked me. Rosa was lying on her back with an oxygen mask across her face. Her gray hair was all disheveled, something I’d never seen. Her face was gaunt and almost as pale as the closed curtains on the far wall. I walked to her bedside and stood staring. She was asleep and labored to breathe.
As I retreated to a nearby chair, Rosa pulled off her mask and announced, “I’m glad you came.” Her eyes were sunken and dark. Foreboding was my first impression.
I stood and held her right hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier.”
“Raise my bed.” She untangled our hands and fumbled for the controller.
“Here, let me do that.”
“Thanks.” Rosa smiled and her eyes froze on Bonhoeffer’s book I’d laid on the mobile food counter at the foot of her bed. “I see you finally returned my book.”
She nodded when I situated the bed like she wanted. “All I can say is I’m sorry. I don’t have a good excuse.”
“You’re not the only one who is sorry, but mine is for good reason.” Rosa motioned toward the book. “Hand it here. Please. And hand me my glasses.” She nodded her head towards the table beside her bed.
I did as instructed. She used her stiff and twisted fingers to put on her glasses. She struggled to turn the pages. “You want me to find something for you?” I figured she was looking for a favorite passage or two.
“That would help.” She handed me the book. “Turn to Chapter 11, the last page.” I took the book and turned to the Table of Contents. Chapter 11, “Truthfulness,” Chapter 12 was “Revenge.” I turned to the latter and backwards one page to 155.
“Okay, I have it.” She or Rachel had highlighted several lines. There were also two notes in the margins.
Before I could read them, Rosa said, “read the highlighted sentences. Out loud. Just the first one to start.”
It was in the third paragraph from the end, “‘Complete truthfulness is only possible where sin has been uncovered and forgiven by Jesus.’”
“Stop there. Lee, I wasn’t exactly truthful with you when you visited me a month ago.” Rosa glanced at me but didn’t continue. Instead, she looked down at her folded hands, then closed her eyes. “My sin, and Rob’s, goes back half-a-century. We’ve been living a lie, and now Rob’s dead. And my time is fast approaching.”
Rosa’s breathing looked difficult. She needed to lie back and relax. “Mom, you don’t have to do this. Let me help you put your oxygen mask back on.” I reached for it, but she softly slapped my hand.
“Please, this may be my last chance at complete truthfulness. Now listen and do what I say.”
“Okay, I will.” I concluded Rosa needed to get something off her chest, something more painful than the lack of oxygen.
“Let me have it.” She reached both hands upwards for the book. When I let go, it fell in her lap, but she quickly saved the place. “‘There is no truth towards Jesus without truth towards man.’” Rosa took two deep breaths and continued. “Here, Rob and I failed. We should have gone to the police and told the truth. All I can do now is tell you. It’s too late for Rob.” I wondered why she hadn’t summoned the DA or some other law enforcement person if she’d wanted to confess. Of course, I really did not know what Rosa was about to say. I might not relate it to what I thought it was. She paused for quite a spell, like she was fighting the temptation to remain untruthful as opposed to what Bonhoeffer was advising.
Finally, I said, “has this got something to do with Rachel?”
Rosa nodded but returned her gaze to page 155. “We cannot follow Christ unless we live in revealed truth before God and man.”
“You’re feeling the need to confess something, something you’ve concealed, as you say, for half-a-century? And, that truth that you failed to tell me at your apartment?” I felt Rosa needed some nudging.
“Yes.” I wasn’t expecting her next words. “Ray Archer didn’t kill Kyle Bennett. Rob did. With Rachel’s help.” I thought I was going to faint. With both hands, I grabbed the metal railing on Rosa’s bed. I closed my eyes to gain balance and composure.
“Mom, I’m confused. There have been too many trails since reading Rachel’s journal entries, all attempting to describe that awful night.” A question popped into my head. Could I trust Rosa? I was just about to ask whether I could believe her, even now at what could be the last time we would ever talk. But I kept quiet.
She handed me the book. “Read the two notes.”
The first one, scrawled in an upward direction along the left side of the page, read: “I guess I’ll have to take my chances.”
As though she knew which one I was reading, Rosa said, “That one’s by Rachel. She knew she could never reveal the truth because it would destroy her daddy.”
I nodded and then read the second note, the one on the right edge with a faint pencil line connecting it back to Rachel’s note. It read, “I hope you are wrong Mr. Bonhoeffer.”
“The one on the right is mine. I wrote it many years before Rachel wrote hers. I’m sure you could say I haven’t been a true disciple, a loyal follower of Christ, since I’ve kept this horrible sin buried.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I asked a question instead. “Mom, please tell me exactly what happened to Kyle.”
Rosa talked for several minutes until a nurse came in and checked her temperature and pulse. After the grossly overweight woman left, Rosa summarized: “In a nutshell, after Rachel returned home that night, she shared what her and Ray and Jane had been up to and that they couldn’t go through with it. That’s when Rachel and her father left the Hunt House. Several hours later, they returned. When Rob and I finally went to bed, probably three or four AM, he said, ‘It’s done. Rachel’s safe. So is Ray. Kyle won’t ever say a word or ever be discovered.’”
I don’t know how long I would have stood there in silence if Randy and Celia hadn’t walked in. For me, it was the worst timing ever. There was much more Rosa knew, answers to questions I had on the tip of my tongue. Things like: What was Rachel’s motive? (Although I guessed it had something to do with her pregnancy, Sharon’s death, and clearly, Kyle’s knowledge); How did Rob kill Kyle? (Shot him with Roland’s 38 caliber pistol?); How did Rachel help Rob kill Kyle? And on and on.
After exchanging pleasantries, I made the mistake of asking Randy how life was out on the road. This triggered the retelling of a frightening experience when he and Celia were in Hackberry, Louisiana last August. Five minutes later, his too-long story about Hurricane Laura was still gaining steam. Contrary to my usual style, I faked an iPhone notification, announced I had to run, kissed Rosa goodbye, and exited Room 323. Randy had never been my favorite brother-in-law, albeit my only brother-in-law, thanks to Kyla’s celibacy.
To my amazement, before reaching the elevator, I received a call from Attorney Tanner.
“Hello.”
“This is Tanner, can you talk?”
“I can listen for now. I’m leaving the hospital.”
“Sorry about Rosa. I wish the Macrolides had worked.” Micaden not only knew my mother-in-law was in the hospital but that the antibiotics of choice weren’t effective in treating her pneumonia. Obviously, the man has eagle eyes and bat ears.
“Thanks.” I eased to the rear of the elevator behind two older women. They, too, were headed to the ground floor.
“I wanted to give you an update. Connor spoke with Orin Russell after he caught a DUI. He, Ford, is pretty sure Orin has defected, but he unintentionally divulged a good tip.” I’d heard Orin liked the bottle.
“What would that be?” I allowed the two women to exit, then followed at a distance, all three of us headed to the main entrance.
“Your friend Barry Clausen.”
“I’m not following.” Other than him being married to a woman Ray had often bedded, it seemed, according to Jane, he was the one who’d traveled to New Haven, ransacked my home, and stolen Rachel’s diaries.
“The deputy who stopped and arrested Orin said he had delivered a Rylan’s leasing packet to Barry and had stayed long enough to consume two beers. That caught Connor’s attention. It made little sense. The kid must have been delivering something else.” Lillian had said Barry was retired but spent his time managing his investments. Maybe he was interested in retail.
I exited the hospital and walked to my Hyundai while Micaden was semi-whispering with Tina, his assistant. “I can talk now. So, Connor payed Barry a visit?” I said, speculating but believing that’s where our conversation was leading.
“He did, and it was fruitful, potentially a motherlode. Connor can be persuasive. Clausen folded, or so it seems.”
“How so?”
“After a call to the DA and her strong indication she would cut Barry a break, he revealed his relationship to what he referred to as the ‘Grease monkeys.’ That’s a slang term for a burglar with entry skills, someone with a slight build. Apparently, they don’t hold tightly to the size characteristic.”
“Interesting. I guess that makes sense given Barry and my home burglary.”
“You’ll find this interesting. Clausen said there were three main grease monkeys, the others were underlings. Buddy and Billy have obviously cleaned up, sorry for the dark humor, which leaves a preacher named Alex Mandy as the head greaser. He’s the James brother’s nephew.”
“Dang, it’s a small world. If it’s the same man, he recently preached a revival at Gadsden First Baptist Church. Jane and Lillian attended the Friday night service.”
“Two other things Connor learned before I have to go.” I wondered why Micaden, and Tina were working on a Sunday.
“The underling monkeys are Eric Snyder and his brother Ethan.” Micaden paused. I heard him rustle some paper. When he restarted, I could tell he’d eaten something. “Of course, you know Eric died in the Hunt House fire. Oh, are you sitting down?”
“I am, please don’t give me any bad news.”
“I’d say it is possibly good news, for where it can lead.”
“Okay.” I backed out of my parking spot and headed for the exit.
“Jackie Frasier. He’s known amongst his Grease Monkey friends as ‘the tag thief.’”
“Oh, my gosh. You are talking about the hundred-and four-year-old that everyone-loves?”
“The same. That might explain his new garden home.” Micaden said, continuing to munch on something.
“This is unbelievable. I’m now thinking it might be why Ray didn’t eliminate Jade Frasier, instead of paying for her silence.”
Micaden paused and rustled some papers. “I agree, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. All we know is Ray paid her $25,000, if we believe the photos Jane took of Ray’s ledger. The twenty-five grand might be a donation for Jade to have correctional surgery.”
“I doubt that.”
Micaden interrupted before I could continue. “There’s one other thing before I have to go. Derrick Hart and your Walmart attack. You know, the ‘God4USA’ tag.”
“Yeah, the case that got lost. The one I’ve been calling about for nearly eight weeks.”
“The tag was stolen. Most likely, by Jackie, but I’m speculating who stole it.”
I quickly posed a question. “Do you have any idea how Jackie got entangled with Ray Archer?” The connection seemed impossible. Jackie, Jack, as he was known, had a stellar reputation. Everyone loved him. His story was inspiring. For decades, the man had worked three jobs. Why did he need a fourth?
“We don’t know for sure. Might just be that Jackie loves money. But that’s a guess. One thing seems certain, according to Conner, is the connection between Ray and Alex Mandy, the preacher.”
“Don’t tell me it’s their love for the Lord Jesus.” Micaden belted out a thunderous laugh.
“That’s close, but not like you’re thinking. It’s a woman named Becky Brownfield from Albertville. Apparently, she was both men’s plaything. At some point, she recommended Mandy to Ray. You can figure out the rest.”
What Micaden told me was refreshing, hopefully helpful, but I had that nagging feeling it wouldn’t amount to much. Ray had too much Teflon in his blood. He was slippery as an eel. He would somehow wiggle out of all his crimes. I turned left on Bruce Road. “I hope you’re right that Connor found the motherlode, but I kind of doubt it.”
“Keep the faith, my friend. It ain’t over till the skinny girl jumps.”
“Uh?”
“See you later. The fish are biting.”
Our call ended. I couldn’t help but envy Micaden. Hopefully, someday, he and I will become good friends. I’d love to hear his story.
The Pencil Driven Life 