Chapter Six
The Oaks of Stableford Manor. That's the name of the neighborhood Vanessa and Charli live in. Pretty la-di-da, if you ask me. I mean, it's just a bunch of regular cookie-cutter houses, sitting a little too close together, all clumped around a crummy little park and community pool. Charli says it has a great 'location', and that it's 'classy'. Personally, I'd go with boring. But, then, what else do you expect from people whose lives revolve around oak-bark mulch and fertilizer?
The houses come in two or three basic designs and look like those paper dolls you cut out of a folded up piece of paper. You cut out one, unfold the paper, and, ta-da, you've got a whole bunch of little clones, all lined up in a row. Sure, they're nice houses, but they sort of give me the creeps. I'm always tempted to change the sign to 'The Oaks at Stepford Manor'.
It took us about five minutes to get there from the park. Vanessa's house is one of the 'custom presidential colonial models' -- a four bedroom, two bath, brick and frame two story with a family room, garage, and a swing set in the yard. Charli lives on the street behind her, in a 'custom executive ranch home'. Their backyards touch at one of the corners.
I left the Mustang on the street in front of Vanessa's house. Mom parked in her driveway. The house needed painting and one of the shutters was hanging crooked. Poor Vanessa; I should talk Tim into coming over and helping her out. The Oak's Neighborhood Alliance Group, ONAG for short, frowned on things like crooked shutters.
I punched the doorbell several times. No answer. Mom was standing beside her car, searching for scratches.
"Maybe they're around back," I said. "Vanessa mentioned something about the backyard."
No one was back there.
"Probably over at Charli's. She must be home by now." I went to the corner where the lots meet and peeked over Charli's privacy fence. Vanessa's two kids and Charli's three were playing on the swing set. I could see Charli peering out her kitchen window at them.
Mom and I headed toward the front of Vanessa's house to get our cars. Even though the yards touched, it was one of those 'you can't get there from here' situations. All those privacy fences made it impossible to go through the yards. When I got to the front corner of the house, I stopped short. Damn!
Mom ran into me. "Ouch! Why'd you stop?"
I shushed her and pointed toward the street. A Channel Forty-two news truck was sitting next to my car. We flattened ourselves against the house and peeked around the corner at them.
"That didn't take them long, did it?" Mom whispered.
"They probably followed us."
I didn't want to talk to anyone from the media, but especially those Channel Forty-two folks. They're into local scandal and gossip. In fact, they'd made the story of Ricky Ray ditching me before our wedding their main news topic for several weeks.
Every time I'd turned on the TV there I was -- coming out of the station, coming out of my apartment, coming out of Pilazzo's. Always looking my worst, of course. To this day, they never mention Ricky Ray without showing a really lousy picture of me and talking about the breakup. And they talk about Ricky Ray a lot. The jerks.
"Of all the TV stations in the Valley, they would be the ones to show up," Mom said.
"I know. And, I can see it now, 'Dumped DJ Finds Disaster in the Dumpster, story at six, eleven, and for as long as we can come up with a snappy new headline'."
Giselle St. James, the perky little reporter who, in my opinion, suffers from a major brain deficiency, (she doesn't have one) was peeping into my car. I did a mental inventory to see if I'd left anything embarrassing lying out in the open. Did I mention that Giselle and I have hated each other since fourth grade? Well, we have.
"I think we should climb over the fence and go in Charli's back door. They'll never figure it out," I said.
Except for a wobbly looking swing set, Vanessa's back yard was bare. No ladders, chairs, or anything else we could stand on.
I chinned myself up so I could see over the fence. "Psst! Hey, Kevin," I said, "go get your Mom."
Kevin caught sight of me. "Aunt Marty!" he shouted, loud enough to be heard all the way over in Roanoke.
I finally convinced him to shut up and go get Charli. She brought us her kitchen step ladder and pulled a chair up on her side of the fence. Mom was straddling the fence, her skirt hitched up almost to her waist, when Giselle came tearing around the corner of Vanessa's house, her cameraman in tow. Charli grabbed Mom's arm and yanked, pulling her on over, but not before Giselle's cameraman got a good shot of Mom's rear end.
Giselle stuck her microphone in front of my mouth and suddenly the camera was on me.
"Miss Sheffield, would you care to comment on the grisly discovery you made today?" She had on about twelve pounds of makeup and I saw a little red streak of lipstick on her teeth.
"Hi, Giselle. Moon any State Troopers lately?" (In high school Giselle was caught mooning people on the way home from a field trip. I always knew that information would come in handy.)
She was momentarily stunned. I scrambled over the fence and we dashed toward Charli's back door. The kids thought we were playing a game. They followed us inside, whooping and screaming like a bunch of wild animals. It was sort of fun. I let out a whoop or two, myself.
I peeked out the window once we were safely inside and saw Giselle standing on the kitchen ladder looking over the fence and yelling at Robbie, her camera guy.
"What if they play that on the news tonight?" Mom said. She was examining her skirt. It was streaked with black and gray dust and had a small rip in it. She'd broken the heel off one of her shoes, too.
"Don't worry, they won't." Actually, knowing them the way I did, they probably would.
"Now I know how those famous movie stars feel when they get cameras shoved in their faces all the time," Mom said.
I dropped the wooden slat of Charli’s “plantation” shutter mini-blind back down and flopped onto her family room sectional. "Mom, I hate to tell you this, but, it wasn't your face he was interested in." I patted her rump as she walked by.
She looked horrified.
"I'm teasing."
"Well, it's not funny. Maybe I should call over there and talk to the station manager."
"Won't do any good. He's got a sadistic streak bigger than Herb's." Herb is my boss. Imagine a cross between Danny DeVito as Louie DePalma and a pit bull. That's Herb.
Charli brought us big glasses of iced tea. She was about to pop to hear the rest of the details of the murder. I briefly told her what had happened.
"Warren Turner! Dead! This is just incredible. Nothing like this ever happens in Glenvar! I'd have just died if it had been me that found the body. Goodness, Marty, what on earth made you open that trash can?"
"Jaelyn pooped and I had to change her." I gave her an accusing look. "You know Charli, if you hadn't gone on that idiotic shopping trip, I wouldn't even have been at the park. I guess that means it's all your fault!"
Charli carefully sat her glass on a coaster. "My fault? You're the one that opened the trash can. You should have left well enough alone."
"Well gee, next time I'll remember that. Maybe I can get the city to start putting signs on the trash totes that contain corpses. They could say 'CAUTION - dead guy inside' or maybe 'open at your own risk - corpse contained'."
"Girls, please. This is without a doubt one of the most ridiculous conversations I think I've ever heard," Mom said. "Why don't we talk about something else. Like how I’m going to get my hands on that video Giselle and Robbie took?"
Charli and I glared at each other. Finally, I got bored with it. "Sorry, Mom. You’re just going to have to suffer, I guess.” I glanced back over at Charli. “By the way, where's Vanessa?"
Charli was busily rearranging the magazines on her heavy oak coffee table. "She had to run a couple of errands and then she was going over to be with Beth. I'm watching her kids until she gets back."
I looked at the anniversary clock on Charli's mantle.
Damn. It was getting late. I really wanted to talk to Vanessa before I had to go to work. I needed to take a shower and change clothes before I went in, too.
Mom said, "I guess they've told Beth by now. Poor girl, I can't imagine how she must feel."
"Neither can I," Charli said, as she stood up. "Speaking of kids, I better go check on them. They're being way too quiet."
After she left, Mom swished her ice around in her glass. "Do you want some more tea?" she asked.
"No, I'm fine. Thanks anyway." I rubbed my temples.
"I'm going to get some more." She looked at me with concern. "I think I better call the doctor and ask him about your head, too. Be right back."
I listened to the clock tick and tried to imagine living in Charli's house. Charli inherited Mom's taste in decor, too. The French doors that we'd come in through were next to a massive stone fireplace. The furniture was picture perfect, a tasteful leather sectional and matching chair, everything perfectly accessorized, and looked like something you see in a magazine. It was all very soothing and peaceful, if you like that sort of thing, I guess. I tend to prefer modern stuff. Of course, being a poor, struggling DJ, my decor is more along the lines of 'early yard sale'.
Mom came back in and sat down next to me on the sofa part of the sectional. I'll bet it cost a fortune.
"The doctor is going to call me back," she said. "You know, I just can't help thinking about the Turners and Poor Warren. He graduated with you, didn't he?"
I nodded. The bobbing caused my head pain to increase. "He's a year older, but I think he flunked a grade before they moved here."
"They moved here? When was that?" she asked.
"Fourth grade. I'll never forget it either. Poor Wart was real short and real fat and, bless his heart, his Mom dressed him in all these really bizarre outfits. She made him wear a burnt orange polyester leisure suit and a lilac shirt with a green and yellow striped tie that first day."
"Poor kid!" said Charli. She came back in and sat in a matching leather recliner.
"I know. And, to make matters worse, he had a flat top and thick, black, horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like a miniature accountant who had dressed up like a pimp for Halloween, instead of a ten year old kid. I'm ashamed to say that we teased him unmercifully. In fact, by the end of the day, the boys were all calling him Warren the Warthog."
"Marty, you should be ashamed! Kids can be so cruel, but I thought I taught you better than that," Mom lectured.
"I am ashamed, Mom. We were pretty cruel. But, you know, I don't think it bothered him. In fact, I don't think anything bothered him. He was such a mean little guy. He was always looking up girl's dresses and cussing and talking back to the principal and stuff. I think he had detention every single day in sixth grade." I took a sip of tea and looked up at the portrait over the fireplace. Charli's perfect family smiled back at me.
"When we got to high school, things just got worse. He got into fights all the time, got suspended three or four times every year. Supposedly, he was selling drugs, and there was a rumor that he was the one that set the fire that burnt down the old Carson place, but he didn't get arrested, so I don't know if it was true or not. Probably was. Anytime there was trouble, you could pretty much count on Wart being involved. He was a real head case."
"I always wondered what Beth saw in him," Mom said. "I mean, she's so pretty and smart. They just didn't fit."
"No, they didn't. They looked so weird together, too. I mean, she must have been six or seven inches taller than him. Of course, almost everybody was taller than Wart. Except Charli, of course."
Charli stuck her tongue out at me.
Mom said, "He wasn't really a bad looking man."
She was right. He was actually pretty nice looking: light brown hair, grayish-blue eyes, and strong features. But he was a real shrimp. I'm five-four and about one-twenty. Wart was at least an inch shorter than me and I doubt he even weighed as much. He'd lost all that baby fat by the time we got to ninth grade.
As far as I can remember, he never had a girlfriend or even a date during the first three years of high school. He mostly hung around with a couple of other guys who were delinquents too. Then, our senior year, he met Beth Brown.
"Beth must have seen something in him, something beyond that roughness," Mom said.
"Or maybe she just couldn't get anybody else," Charli said. "I mean, Beth's got to have the world's worst personality."
"Donna Charleen! What a tacky thing to say!" Mom said.
The telephone rang, saving Charli from a lecture.
"It’s the doctor," Charli said, as she handed the receiver to Mom.
Mom talked on the phone for a few minutes.
"Yes, okay. Thanks for calling back." She hung up and turned to me. "He said that you should be watched closely for about twenty-four hours to make sure you're all right. I want you to stay over at our house tonight. No arguing," she said, sternly.
Of course I argued. "Mom, I'm twenty-four years old, not a baby. I can take care of myself."
"I said no arguing and I meant it! For heaven's sake, you've taken a serious blow to the head. You shouldn't be alone."
"But what about Delbert? He can't stay all by himself." I knew she wouldn't let him stay at her house. Mom is deathly afraid of cats; she had a run-in with a rabid one when she was a kid. I think Delbert knows this. He always singles her out for his most obnoxious behavior.
"Marty, you spoil that cat rotten. It isn't going to kill him to stay alone for one night." She wiped a fictional tear from her eye. "Is it so wrong for me to want to protect you? To look out for you? To try and keep you safe? My God, Marty, I'm your mother, I was in labor for fourteen hours with you. Fourteen hours!"
I know when I'm licked. "Oh all right. I'll be over at midnight."
"Midnight! Well that just won't do. It's entirely too late. Your father has to go in early again tomorrow. Besides, you don't need to be running around at all hours like that."
"Mother, midnight is not late. I won't wake Daddy. Look, I'll just go home. It's not that big of a deal. I can get Tim to stay over."
"No! Do you want another scandal? That just wouldn't look right. People might talk."
I rolled my eyes. “Mother, the only person who would give a rat’s patootie about Tim staying over is you. No one in their right mind would think there was anything going on between us.”
She sighed her 'why me' sigh. "I guess midnight will be fine. I'll leave the door unlocked."
That battle a draw, I got up to leave.
"Marty," Mom called, "you know, you really should do something with your hair before you go to work."
Geez, the things I have to put up with sometimes.