Stand By Your Man

Chapter Ten

There was a crown on the sign in front of King's Gas and Go, but that was the only thing golden or regal about the place. The gas station was packed tight into a corner that had to see traffic all day and night long. In years gone by, Summit Avenue had been the hub of the cotton mill village that took up the southeastern edge of town. But now the mill was closed and the houses and businesses that had flourished with mill money were falling into disrepair.

Fast-food restaurants and used car lots had moved in. Summit Avenue was now a stopping point in a journey to somewhere else. Folks just didn't stick around to find out what was going to happen next, because something bad was always happening next on Summit Avenue. The cops had even set up a field station there so they wouldn't have so far to go between calls. At night, Summit became a drug-dealing, whore-peddling, one-stop-shopping opportunity. By day it merely looked dirty and hung over.

King's Gas and Go had been celebrating. Grimy red and white triangles like dragon's teeth spun their way down a thick white tape, framing the entrance to a new car wash that sat on a little hill to the right of the station. Nosmo King had packed every bit of his corner lot with money-making opportunities, leaving his customers to fend for themselves when it came to parking and maneuvering their way off of the tiny lot and back into oncoming traffic.

I pulled my VW up to the pump and took the opportunity to fill it up while I studied my approach. Bonnie was back at the salon, so I couldn't rely on her to bulldoze her way inside and run the interrogation. Anyway, this situation probably called for a softer approach. Nosmo King was dead, but the station still stayed open. I figured whoever was running it had to be a minor peon, but still, they might know something. I looked up at the dirty white building. The bay doors were open and an ancient pickup sat high atop a lift receiving some kind of care. The front window was mirrored with tinted glass making it impossible to see inside. On the whole, you couldn't tell that the owner had just been murdered.

Mama always said, "A potato's just a potato, until you start peeling." I figured that was true of King's Gas and Go too. I walked across the tiny lot and pulled open the tinted glass door. A bell tinkled and the dark-haired woman behind the cash register looked up for a second, then went back to poring over a huge black notebook.

My heart started beating faster, my skin prickled, and I just knew it had to be her. Dark hair, kind of curly. I walked down the aisle, looking at the potted meat and saltine crackers. I stepped to the window and pretended to study the rows of trophies that stood on display.

They were huge gold and silver monuments, the kind they give out to sports teams when they win championships, only these weren't sporting trophies. They were made out, in most cases, to Bess King. Grand Champion, Maggie Valley Clog-off, 1999; First Place, Georgia Nationals, Town and Country Cloggers. There wasn't a second place among them, and there were enough to completely fill the ledge. I began to peel the potato.

"Those trophies," I said, stepping up to the counter, "they're amazing. What is clogging?"

The woman looked up and favored me with a faint smile. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked as if she'd maybe been standing in the same spot for days. Her white cotton shirt was rumpled and stained with blue ink marks. Her hair fell in ringlets around her face. The little lines that women get in their late thirties had deepened with fatigue, and she looked almost relieved to see a stranger.

"You on pump one?" she asked softly. I turned and looked out the window. I was the only one at the pumps.

"Yep," I answered. She wasn't going to talk to me.

"Okay, that's eight dollars even," she said. "That gets you a free car wash. Here's your token."

She slid the brass coin across to me and I picked it up and turned to go.

"Oh, you wanted to know about the trophies, didn't you?"

I spun back around. "Yeah. I've heard of clogging, but I'm not sure I know what it is."

Bess King ran her hand through her hair and sighed. "Clogging is a form of dance, brought over to the Appalachians by our English and Irish ancestors. It looks a little like tap dancing."

I pointed to the biggest trophy, the Grand Champion, 1999. "Is that yours?" I asked.

"Yeah. Clogging's what keeps me going," she said. "You've probably seen my team, the Town and Country Cloggers? We dance all over Greensboro."

The potato was unraveling. "Hmm," I said, pretending to think, "I don't know." I looked up at her, as if an idea was slowly dawning in my head. "You dance to country music, don't you?" She nodded. "You know, I sing for the house band out at the Golden Stallion. How come y'all haven't been there to dance?"

Bess King grinned quickly. "Haven't been asked," she said. "It's not like we charge a whole lot, either. We dance for donations, we dance for food, sometimes, we just flat-out dance!" Her eyes sparkled, and for an instant I saw why Vernell had been drawn to her. She looked alive and happy. But the curtain of fatigue and pain quickly dropped back into place.

"My name's Maggie Reid," I said, and watched her reaction. Her head shot back up, and her eyes studied me, a startled expression on her face.

"Maggie Reid?"

Vernell had told her about me. I could see that as plain as day. I decided to hit it head on.

"Vernell's my ex-husband," I said. "Your husband was found in his car last night."

Bess King made no more pretense of looking at the papers in front of her. "You're Vernell's ex?" she asked.

"That's why I'm here. I need to find him."

Bess's eyes narrowed. "Why did you come to me? What makes you think I'd know where he is?"

I hated to do it. She seemed like a nice woman under an incredible amount of strain, but I didn't know her. What if she'd done something with Vernell? What if she were lying to me and hiding him? Worse yet, what if she'd killed her husband?

"I'm coming to you because you were the last one to see him, Friday morning, at the Twilight Motel." I said it hard, like maybe she had some explaining to do.

Bess King's face crumpled. "Go away," she said softly.

"Where's Vernell?" I demanded. "Your husband's dead. You were fooling around with Vernell, and now he's gone. So far, honey, you're looking like the missing link."

Through the door leading out to the bay, I could hear the sound of the impact wrench, loosening tires. She wasn't alone on the lot. If she needed reinforcements, all she had to do was call out.

"You don't know anything," Bess said, her voice tight and angry. "Vernell Spivey is the kindest man to ever walk the face of this earth. If it weren't for him…" Her voice trailed off and tears filled her eyes. "If it weren't for him, my life would've stayed the living hell it's been since I met Nosmo King."

I stepped back toward the counter. Her hand jumped instinctively to a shelf just beneath the cash register. She was reaching for a gun.

"Hey," I said, softly, raising my hands, palms up. "I don't think you understand. I'm just worried about Vernell." I smiled a little. "I guess I'm like his second big sister nowadays. I worry about him. His daughter is worried sick about her daddy. Vernell didn't make payroll this week, and that's just not like him." I edged a little closer. "I just want to know if you've seen him, but I guess you haven't."

I dropped my hands slowly and looked at her. "I don't know what you and Vernell had going on, and frankly, I don't really care. If you're good to him, that's fine. But you gotta admit, finding your husband dead in Vernell's car looks bad for you and Vernell."

Bess stood there, watching me, tears slowly rolling down her cheeks.

"I was hoping you'd be able to help me, or at least talk to me woman to woman, but I guess you're not the kind, and I'm sorry for it."

With that I started to walk away. My hand was actually on the door handle when she called out.

"Wait! I just didn't…" Her voice trailed off and I turned back. "I wasn't sure I should talk to you, that's all. I wasn't sure how you'd feel, or what you'd think."

"All right," I said. "Let's talk."

Bess closed her thick notebook with a sigh. "I'm trying to make heads or tails of what's going on with this place," she said. "I need to know if I can cover the funeral, but I guess that's a joke. From the looks of it, I could buy Nosmo his own cemetery. Who knew a gas station in this part of town could make that much money?" She looked past me, out at the pumps. "Shoot! Look at that! Now that's just what I don't need. That man's turning into a real pest." A familiar unmarked sedan was pulling into the parking lot. Marshall Weathers was rolling in on us like a thick fog. If he found the two of us talking, there'd be no telling what he'd think.

"Well, he sure doesn't need to find me here," I muttered.

Maybe he wouldn't notice my car. Old white VWs were common. Maybe if I slipped out the side door and drove around to the car wash, he'd come and go.

"Listen," I said, "I'll go wash the car and check back. If he's gone we'll talk, if not, I'll ride back by in a few minutes."

Weathers was getting out of his car, staring right at me, as if he could see my face through the tinted windows. I turned and fled just as he stepped up onto the stoop and put his hand on the door.

I could hear the bell on the door tinkle as I made a quick dash to my car. I slunk down into the driver's seat, started her up, and pulled up the incline and around back, out of Weathers's sight, to the car wash entrance. I pushed my token into the slot, hit the button, and lined the car up with the automatic tracks.

The lights came on, water started squirting out from every possible surface of the interior walls, and the brushes began to whir. I reached up to crank the handle and close the sunroof as the car began moving forward. I turned and turned, moving the panel slowly forward, but just as the hood touched the front water jets, the handle came off in my hands.

"No!" I yelled. I tried furiously to reattach the handle, but there was nothing for it. The screw was stripped. I was headed into a deluxe hot wash and wax with my sunroof open a good four inches.

I reached up and tugged on the panel. It groaned and moved slowly forward, one inch. There was no budging it after that. The water moved slowly up the hood of the car, smacking into the windshield, suds foaming up like billowy clouds. I reached into the glove compartment, hoping for a map or something to cover the opening, but remembered too late that I'd cleaned the entire car out only a few days before. I leaned back and moaned. There was nothing I could do. Not one thing. I was about to have the complete works, all three minutes' worth, wash, wax, and dry.

Water started streaming through the opening in the sunroof, hitting my hair and raining down across my face.

"Oh man," I sighed, "is it my karma? Have I ticked somebody off?"

That was when the hot wax light sprang on and little squirts of slippery thick liquid began hitting my head. I learned something then. When hot moist air hits the cooler interior air of, say, a car, it begins to form a cloud. A misty fog thickened as I rolled forward, covering my windshield and the side windows.

The fuzzy sweater I'd thrown on as I left the house began to clump up and resemble a wet alley cat. Little beads of wax stuck to it, clinging like sequins. There was nothing to do but sit and wait for the blow dryer to begin its job.

A huge gust of wind from the dryer blew through the sunroof, whipping my hair into a red tangle. The cloud began to clear and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. I was almost through. With a final blast of air, the car wash pushed me out into the late afternoon sunlight, leaving me poised at the top of the little hill, overlooking the parking lot. At my angle I couldn't tell if Weathers was gone.

But that wasn't really the issue. As I started to roll forward, down the hill, water that had been blown back into the sunroof's housing came rushing forward, like a waterfall, raining down right on top of my head.

I screamed, slamming on the brakes instinctively. The car stopped at the bottom of the hill as the last gush of water escaped and covered me. Another cloud billowed up, and I leaned forward to rest my head on the steering wheel.

"Why me?" I muttered. "I was only trying to help."

I sat there for a moment, remembered Weathers, and sat up. But of course, it was too late. He and Bess King had left the Gas and Go office and moved outside to see what kind of idiot would run her car through the car wash with an open sunroof. Bess's eyes were wide-open dinner plates. Marshall Weathers, on the other hand, was smirking.

He left the curb and sauntered up to the driver's side. "I was wondering how you did your hair," he said. "You know, so it always has that wild look about it. I never dreamed the lengths a woman could go to for beauty."

I opened my mouth to say something smart, but he stopped me. "I'm sorry," he said, "I couldn't help it. Tell you what," he said. "I don't live too far from here. Give me a minute to finish up, and we'll go to my place. I reckon I can help you clean out your car before you start mildewing." He peered up at the roof. "Reckon I can take a look at your sunroof too. I mean, it is broken, isn't it? You didn't just elect to do the wash-and-dry job on yourself, did you?"

He didn't wait for an answer, just turned his smirky self back around and walked over to Bess. I wanted to tell him to go jump in a lake, but a chill was starting to set in, and the way I figured it, this was no time to get huffy.

The mechanic had wandered outside to take a look at the cause of the commotion, and while Marshall Weathers talked to Bess, he stood staring at me. He was a thin rat of a man, with greasy coveralls and thickset eyebrows. When I looked right back at him, he began to smile. The guy was actually trying to come on to a woman who had just been hot-waxed. I couldn't believe it. I winked and pulled one lock of my hair straight out from my head. It stuck there, and I believe that's what finally convinced the guy that I was not his type. He turned away, an ill-at-ease smile in place, and walked back into the garage.

Of course, Marshall Weathers turned back around just in time to see me pull out another strand of hair and stick out my tongue at the retreating mechanic. It was just one of those days.