Your Cheatin Heart

Chapter Six

In my dream I was floating on a yellow raft somewhere in the Caribbean. The warm waves gurgled beneath me and felt warm. I flipped over, onto my stomach, and looked at the water below me. It was so clear that I could see the sandy bottom, fifty feet away. Brightly colored fish swam by as I watched, floating in and out of a clump of black seaweed. As I watched, the seaweed swayed with the movement of the water, then left the sea floor to float toward me. The black weeds changed shape and became Jimmy's body, arms and legs swollen pink logs, the eyes eaten away.

I screamed, instantly awake, panting, struggling to sit up and unable to move. For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was. Then it all came flooding back. I was in Jack's house, on his waterbed, and Jimmy was dead in my house. I tried to hop out of the bed but I couldn't. Whenever I moved, the waterbed seemed to surround me, resisting my attempts to leave.

I finally settled for rolling to the edge, grabbing the wooden frame, and sliding off onto the floor. I could hear soft music coming from the floor below, and smell the faint trace of old coffee.

"Jack?" No answer.

I grabbed my boots and walked to the edge of the half-framed wooden stairway. There was no sign of Jack anywhere.

I had no idea what time it was, but from the way the sun hit through the trees, touching the window, I guessed midafternoon. I needed coffee and I needed a plan. I wandered in a stupor into the designated kitchen area of the big open room and started searching for coffee. A note from Jack and a garage door opener lay beside a dirty white carafe.

"Gone to see Evelyn. Here's your opener. Make yourself at home. There's coffee in the, carafe. It'll be all right. Jack. P.S. Sparks wants us at the club early. 8 P.M."

I glanced at the clock on the stove. Three o'clock. I reached for a broken-handled mug and poured the still-hot coffee.

"All right, girl," I said into the empty warehouse air, "what was it Mama always said? If you keep your chin up, your mouth won't bring you down." Something like that.

I reached for the phone and tried Sheila's private line at Vernell's palace. No answer, just her cheery voice instructing me to leave a message.

"Sweetie," I said, "it's Mama. Honey, pick up if you're there." No answer. "Sheila, when you get this, call the shop. We need to talk." Before Vernell and Jolene poisoned my baby against me.

I jammed my feet into my cowgirl boots and took a few quick swigs of coffee. First things first. Stop by the Curley-Que and cash a check. Then on to the house to grab enough clothes to get me by for a few days. I had a purple denim and rhinestone outfit hanging in the back of my closet that I'd been saving to wear for New Year's Eve at the Golden Stallion. I figured that tonight called for something special, something that made me feel good about myself no matter what people said about me. In a town the size of Greensboro, Jimmy Spivey's death was gonna be big news. People would be flocking to the club, just hoping to get a good look at the woman the police were surely labeling as their prime suspect.

Somewhere out there lived Jimmy's killer. He knew and I knew that I hadn't killed Jimmy. The cops didn't care. They had their suspect. I crammed the garage door opener into my purse and headed out. The metal grated against the track, screaming in protest as I opened the garage door. It was clearly up to me to find Jimmy's killer.

Big doin's were happening when I walked into the Curley-Que. It was Saturday afternoon, our busiest time of the week. The 'Que hummed with activity. The air was filled with the familiar stink of ammonia covered over with perfume, and everywhere you looked women sat patiently in pink smocks, waiting to be beautified.

The two new girls we'd hired when I went to full-time singing were doing customers. Bonnie was apparently heading off a crisis. She stood facing me, but unaware of my entrance. Her entire attention was focused on a short, white-haired woman.

"What do you mean, Maggie's not here?" the woman was saying, "Maggie always does me."

"I'm sorry, Neva," Bonnie said calmly, "not today. Your appointment is for next Saturday."

"Cain't be," Neva said, her voice a petulant whine. "My granddaughter's coming to take me to early church in the morning. I know I made my appointment so's I could have fresh hair when I went."

Bonnie touched her arm gently, as I'd seen her do many times with her children.

"Honey," she cooed, "I'll do you. It'll be fine."

I stood watching for a moment. Neva Jean Riddle would never stand for it.

"Nope," she said, stamping her tiny foot. "Maggie knows just how I like it. She knows about my cowlick and ever'thing." From where I stood, I could see Neva's jaw working a plug of chewing gum.

Bonnie's face was slowly flushing, and she pushed a strand of brown hair back over one ear. I could almost hear her dunking, Maggie don't pay me enough for this.

"Neva," I cried, stepping up and tapping her on the shoulder. "Let's get a smock on you, sweetie. I'll be right along. Isn't your granddaughter coming to get you tomorrow?"

Neva whirled around, a relieved smile on her face. "There you are! This 'un said you wasn't coming." She gestured toward Bonnie, who stood gaping, looking at me as if I were a ghost.

"Well, sweetie, it isn't your regular day, but I'm here, so let's get to work."

Neva toddled off toward the changing room and Bonnie practically flew toward me.

"What in the world are you doin' here?" she demanded. "And where have you been? Did you not see the paper? I've called your place a million times!"

The busy shop had come as close to a standstill as possible, given the whirring dryers. Everyone was slowly looking up, drawn like soda crackers to soup by their curiosity.

"Keep your voice down," I said.

"Whatever for?" she asked. "It ain't as if there's a soul left on this earth that don't know what's what. It's on TV, it's on the radio, and it's all over the paper. The phone's been ringing off the hook with folks looking for you."

"Like who?" Tasked, catching sight of Neva out of the corner of my eye, emerging from the dressing room swathed in a faded pink smock. I motioned to Lotus the shampoo girl to go ahead and do Neva, then turned back to Bonnie.

"I don't know. They aren't leaving names whoever they are."

"Bon, the police think I killed Jimmy. My gun is missing. Someone put Jimmy's credit card in my car. Someone's trying to make me out to look like a killer. I'm not a killer!"

Bonnie's face softened. "I know, honey."

"I'm going to make the police believe me."

Bonnie nodded.

"But I can't go home right now. I'm staying with one of the guys in the band until things calm down and Jimmy's killer gets arrested."

Lotus was slowly leading Neva back to the shampoo station. Bonnie's customer was shooting her impatient looks from the chair where Bonnie had temporarily abandoned her. Time was running short.

"Listen, Bon, I need a cash advance, about two hundred dollars."

"Well, Maggie, shoot, you don't have to ask. It's your business."

"I know, but can we spare it?"

Bonnie grinned and looked around the packed Curley-Que. "You ever seen us do this much business on a Saturday?" I had to admit the place did seem more crowded than usual, even for a Saturday.

"I reckon we'll make two hundred extra today alone," she said. "Just keep in touch, all right?"

I nodded. No sense worrying Bonnie. Jimmy's killer had gone to a lot of trouble to set me up. I figured it had to be someone I knew pretty well, someone who knew how to get into my house and get to my gun. I wasn't going to waste a lot of time telegraphing my next moves.

I wandered over to Neva and started my routine. She was a pretty simple job, curl and comb-out, then once every three months, a trim. I got into the rhythm quickly, winding little pink curlers around her thinning white hair.

Neva seemed to be the sole resident of Greensboro who had not heard about Jimmy, so she prattled on about her children and her granddaughter Felicia. It was the sort of one-sided conversation that required only a nod or a murmured "uh-huh," so it took me by surprise to hear another voice impatiently calling me.

"Mama, Mama! I'm talking to you!"

I dropped the curler I was holding and turned to see Sheila standing right behind me, her brown eyes pools of concern.

"Sheila! Baby, are you all right? I would've called you, but I didn't want to talk to your daddy."

Sheila's eyes were rimmed with dark circles and bloodshot. The poor kid must've been worried sick. I pulled her to me and hugged her tight. Her head folded onto my shoulder and her arms wrapped around me. In her chunky high heels, Sheila dwarfed me, favoring her daddy's side of the family for height. At least she had my red hair.

"Mama," she whispered into the side of my neck, "everybody says you killed Uncle Jimmy."

I pushed her back off my shoulder and looked her square in the eye. "Well, every one of them is wrong. I didn't." I narrowed my gaze, focusing on her tell-all brown eyes. "Did your daddy tell you that?" I asked.

"No, ma'am," she said softly, her eyes darting away from mine. Someone close to her had.

"Jolene!" I said.

The eyes sunk down to the floor. That scheming bitch. Poisoning my own daughter against me!

"Look at me, young'un" I said, tipping her chin up with one hand. "Have I ever once lied to you?"

"No, ma'am," she replied softly.

"Then why would I start now?" Neva had fallen asleep in the chair. From across the room I saw Bonnie watching us, a worried expression on her face.

"You wouldn't, Mama."

"That's right, I wouldn't." I forced myself to smile and look her straight in the eye. "I don't know how Jimmy came to be at the house, or what happened after he got there, I'm just sick about the whole thing, especially Uncle Jimmy's death."

Sheila's eyes welled up with tears. "Me too, Mama," she said, her face turning paler as she spoke. The child was making herself ill.

"Now, Sheila, I don't want you to go worrying about me. The police will get things all sorted out. They'll find Uncle Jimmy's killer."

Sheila didn't say anything, which worried me more than anything she could've said. When I caught up with Jolene the Dish Girl, there was going to be hell to pay.

"Sweetie, you look terrible. Does your daddy know where you are?"

"No, I'm supposed to be at home, but I couldn't stand it, Mama. I had to know what was going on."

"Well, baby, scoot on back to that brick palace, hold your head up, and remember what your Grandma always said in times of trouble: a clear conscience and a pure heart will lead the brave to truth and the guilty to justice." Neva snorted softly in her sleep.

Mama'd never said any such thing. It was more like Mama to say, if you spend all your time chasing honey, you'll likely end up with your head in a sticky mess and your butt in a sling. It was one thing for Vernell to marry a prize bimbo, but it was another for her to slander my good name to my own daughter.

I scribbled Jack's phone number down on a piece of scrap paper and stuck it in Sheila's hand. "Here's where I'll be if you need me, baby," I said. "Let's just keep that information between me and you, all right?"

Sheila nodded and I hugged her close again. "This ain't nothing I can't handle, baby. You go tend to your daddy. He'll need you close for awhile."

"All right, Mama," she said, her voice the little girl voice I remembered from years ago. I was gonna pay Jolene back for making my daughter doubt me-that day would come-but first, I had business to attend to.

I put the finishing touches on Neva's do, sent her to change, and then walked up to the counter to draw two hundred dollars from the till. The salon was in a frenzy of Saturday activity when one of the girls shoved the cordless phone into my hand.

"For you," she said, breezing past. I started to hang it up without answering. After all, it was probably a reporter, but on the other hand, you just never knew.

"Maggie Reid," I said.

The voice that answered me was muffled and indistinct, neither male nor female, young nor old. "Say your prayers," the voice rasped, "I'm coming."

The line went dead. After a few moments, someone took the receiver from my hand. Bonnie.

"Maggie, what in the hell is wrong? Who was that? A reporter? You shouldn't have answered the phone!"

The salon noise covered the sound of my heart, muffled Bonnie's voice, and saved me from answering. After all, what could she do, call the police? And what would they do? Believe me? When they'd believed nothing else I'd said?

I grabbed four fifties out of the drawer, mumbled something, and ran out the door. The caller'd said they were coming. Well, they'd have to find me first.