Gone South (29 page)

“You mean somebody cheated her out of her house? Right after her husband and daughter died?”

“It was probably legal, even if it wasn’t kind or honorable.”

Mel shrugged. “What goes around, comes around. He wasn’t exactly honest himself, was he?”

“Apparently not.”

Mel set down the empty yogurt cup, crunched into her apple, and leaned toward the computer again. “So that’s Letitia’s writing? It’s pretty.”

“It’s called Spencerian penmanship. A whole generation of schoolchildren grew up learning that style.” Tish scrolled down the page to show Mel the closing lines. “Can you make it out? The writing is so small in the actual letters that they’re easier to read on the screen, zoomed in.”

Mel squinted at it and shook her head. “Read it to me.”

“Monday next,” Tish read, “abandoning our loved ones to their graves in this hostile land, young Nathaniel and I shall leave for Ohio and your faithful affection. My dear Mother, you have never ceased to keep the door open for us. Lord willing, we will see your face soon, and you shall embrace your grandson for the first time amid the gentle landscapes of home.”

“It sounds like she was really homesick. I know how that feels.” Mel made a face. “At least her mother wanted her back.”

“Maybe yours does too.”

“Ha!” Mel glared at the sewing machine, picked up her empty yogurt cup, and walked out.

Tish stared out at the trees and wondered about Suzette Hamilton and Mel. Ann Lattimore and Letitia McComb. Barb Miller and Tish McComb. Mothers and daughters, of all people, should try to stay connected.

Tish made awesome stir-fry. She left out the yucky vegetables like broccoli but added plenty of pineapple chunks and crunchy water chestnuts. It was so good, Mel didn’t mind getting stuck with the supper dishes, even without a dishwasher. Not that she should’ve minded anyway. She had a roof over her head and a comfy bed and hot showers and even somebody fun to talk to. Sure, sometimes Tish acted like an old-maid Sunday school teacher, but she was nice. Mel wanted to make her proud, and George too.

She hung up the dishtowel and did a happy dance around the kitchen. She had a job, a real job, and her boss was cool even if he was old. He wasn’t like Rocky, who’d groped her, or old Mrs. Howard, who’d called her a moron and a liar. George wasn’t exactly a friend, but he wasn’t an enemy either.

With everything drying on the rack, Mel walked into the living room and looked up the stairs. She wished she could sneak up there sometime and use the computer, but a computer was a personal kind of thing. Besides, she hadn’t been online in so long she couldn’t remember her user names or passwords for anything. She’d have to start fresh. That wasn’t a bad idea anyway.

Tish came up behind her, carrying a laundry basket full of neatly folded towels that smelled like fabric softener trying to smell like flowers. “I went into your room and opened the window this morning,” she said. “Just to air things out. And I noticed your sleeping bag smells like smoke.”

Mel’s chest froze, squeezing her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. “You didn’t wash it, did you?”

Tish studied her for a long, scary moment. “No. I’m not your mom. You do your own laundry.”

“Yeah. Sure. I’m sorry, that’s not what I—yes, I’ll wash it.”

“You can start it right now. This was my last load.” Tish headed up the stairs. “After I put the towels away, I’m going to run out to the garage and say hello to George.”

“Say ‘hey’ for me.” Mel hurried into her room, shutting the door behind her. Her heart raced as she grabbed her sleeping bag from the floor and unfolded it on the bed.

Of course her treasures were right where she’d left them. She slid them under her socks and underwear in the top drawer of the dresser. They’d be safe there, temporarily, but she’d have to think of a better hiding place, especially because she’d be at work three or four days a week. Tish probably wouldn’t snoop, but there was no way to know for sure.

She sniffed the sleeping bag. It did smell like smoke—and made her crave a cigarette, but she didn’t want to make Tish mad. Wadding it up into a big, slippery armful, she took it into the laundry room and set the washer for an extra-large load. She poured detergent in. While the water ran, she spread the sleeping bag across the floor and squirted stain remover on the mud stains.

“Poor old sleeping bag,” she said, her voice drowned out by the noise of the water flooding into the machine. They’d been through a lot together.

Most of the mud came from that ditch in Florida. She’d been caught in the rain plenty of times too, with vehicles speeding past and splashing her with dirty water. The yellow fabric had been bright and pretty when her folks gave it to her for her sixteenth birthday, but that was almost five years ago. She would buy another one someday.

She crammed the puffy, bulky bedding into the washer and tried to figure
out how much money she’d earned so far. Shoot, a day’s wages wouldn’t buy one little corner of a good sleeping bag. Clothes were more important right now, though—and groceries. She’d promised to help with groceries.

Maybe she could find a baby-sitting job. Nah. Nobody would trust her with their kids.

She heard Tish’s feet coming down the stairs. A minute later, the back door slammed. It wasn’t an angry slam, just the kind that happened when a door didn’t want to latch and needed some encouragement.

Mel wandered back to the kitchen, craving a dessert. A bowl of ice cream would work, with fun stuff sprinkled on top. Banana slices. Chopped peanuts. Chocolate syrup. It could be an upside-down banana split, with the bananas on top. She pulled out a bowl, found the ice-cream scoop, and created her masterpiece.

She’d just sat down to eat when a horrible racket burst from the laundry room, as if the washer wanted to fly through the wall. Mel ran into the dinky room and yanked the lid up. The tub kept spinning, off center, but it slowed and finally stopped.

She didn’t know what to do. If she’d broken the washer, she’d have to pay for it. She couldn’t afford to, though. Tish would kick her out.

About to panic, she remembered her mom sometimes stopped a load to move things around. She reached in and shifted the heavy, sopping-wet sleeping bag so it filled the tub evenly. With a silent prayer, she banged the lid shut. Then she restarted the washer and held her breath while the spin cycle worked up to speed. This time, it sounded right.

Back in the kitchen, she sat down at the table. The ice cream had started to melt around the edges, and it didn’t look yummy anymore.

Her dad always liked chopped peanuts on his sundaes. She did too. It made her miss him, and that was crazy because he was a jerk. He didn’t love her. He never would. It was hopeless.

She picked up her spoon and ate a bite of her upside-down banana split. It didn’t taste as good as she’d hoped.

Tish peeked around the camellia bushes in the twilight. Daisy was sprawled on the garage floor, lazily gnawing on a roll of duct tape, and George sat at the wheel of his Chevelle with the windows rolled down. He was humming.

Would he remember the way she’d ended their last conversation by dumping the dog and running inside? Of course he would, but awkward or not, she had to talk to him about Mel.

She stepped out of hiding. “Hi, George.”

He stopped humming. “Hey, Tish. Want to check out my ride?”

“Sure.” First, though, she took the duct tape away from Daisy and put it out of reach on the big red toolbox. “That can’t be good for your digestion, baby.”

She walked around to the passenger side, and George reached over to help her open the incredibly heavy door. “My dad would have loved this car,” she said, climbing in. “He always raved about how solid cars used to be.”

“He would have liked your Volvo, then.”

“Nope. It’s an import, and he was a GM man all the way.” She settled back in the cushy bucket seat. “I love the old-style gauges and knobs. Everything’s so big and chunky.”

“What? No, it’s sleek and sporty and classic.”

She decided not to argue. “How’s the project coming along?”

“Slow as molasses. I’ll drive Calv to the brink of insanity before we’re done. He gets discouraged when I break things or buy the wrong parts.”

“You don’t get discouraged?”

“Nah. It’s all part of the process.” George ran one finger around the steering wheel. “He’s making another run to the parts store. Said he’d rather not have me there to complicate things.”

“I’m glad you’re here. I need to talk to you about a couple of things. Starting with Mel.”

“Did she tell you she’s learning how to count change, finally?”

“Yes, but I’d like to hear it from you too. I’m not sure I understood what she meant.”

He laughed. “It’s hard to explain. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. The first time she rang up a customer, instead of counting back from the amount of the sale, she gave back the amount of the sale. Counted the purchase price right into the customer’s hand—and then she counted the change from there.”

“You mean … in effect, she was giving away the merchandise?”

“Exactly. The customer was a sweet old gal who didn’t even notice. Fortunately, it wasn’t a big sale.” George shook his head. “With Mel’s crazy method, the drawer would always come up short. Her employers assumed she was stealing. Actually, the customers were the bad guys if they noticed but didn’t speak up.”

“Are you sure this theory makes sense?”

“It makes perfect sense. She worked at a produce stand and a gift shop here in town. The woman who ran the produce stand didn’t even use a register—just an adding machine and a cash box—and the folks at the gift shop used a vintage register I sold them.”

“Do you think the register wasn’t accurate?”

“It worked perfectly, but that’s irrelevant. The issue is that an antique register can’t tell you how much change to give back, and Mel couldn’t figure it out.”

“Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t? What if she faked it? Maybe she’d rather be thought stupid than be thought guilty of stealing. She might have deliberately miscounted, right in front of you, to give herself an excuse for any missing money in the past. Or in the future.”

“Why are you so suspicious all of a sudden?”

Tish hesitated, remembering the night George had said Mel was a character
from the police blotter. “Tonight when she thought I’d thrown her sleeping bag in the wash, her face went absolutely white. Like she had something to hide.”

“Hmm. That doesn’t sound especially good.”

“No. Has she ever used drugs?”

“Not that I know of, but even before she skipped town, some of her friends were on the wild side. And God only knows what kind of friends she made in Florida. She worked at a fine establishment called Fishy’s, managed by a gentleman named Rocky.”

Tish smiled at George’s deadpan wit. “It sounds terrific.” Then she sighed. “You think she even has a chance of making it? Not just eventually being able to pay her own way, but reconciling with her family?”

“It won’t be easy. Dunc kicked her out the second time someone accused her of stealing. And then she left town with her grandfather’s gold watch. Stu told me Dunc won’t take her in again until she returns it. She must have sold it already, though, at the first pawnshop she ran across.”

“How can he hold that over her? How can he demand something she’ll never be able to give him?”

“He’s that way. In public, of course, he’s Mr. Congeniality.”

“I’d better get back inside and make sure Miss Innocence is behaving herself.” After finding the door handle, she heaved the door open, shut it, and leaned over to speak through the open window. “Sometimes I worry about my valuables, but I don’t want to spend any money right now on a safe or a locking cabinet. If I had extra, I’d buy a lawn mower instead.”

“If it would help you sleep at night, you can leave your valuables in my safe at the shop.”

“You might laugh at my so-called valuables. I’m talking about vintage costume jewelry from garage sales and flea markets. Anyway, I hope Mel won’t swipe anything. I want to believe the best about her. Really, I do.”

“I do too. She’s like a kid sister to me. A troublesome kid sister.”

“But her own brother ignores her?”