Encounters

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER FORTY-three

            Nelson left the diner and walked to the Sheriff’s Office. When Mrs. Matheson welcomed him with a questioning look, he said, “Waiting for the sheriff to call me. It’s chilly outside.”

            She smiled and said, “Sit down. Take a load off,” and motioned him toward a bench reserved for those waiting for an appointment. She continued to watch him after he sat. “Waiting for something important?”

            “Afraid so,” Nelson said.

            “Please don’t let it be another tragedy,” she said. “We’ve had way too many lately.” She signed a paper and moved it to a stack. She looked at Nelson. “What’s happening to our little county?”

            “Evil things,” Nelson said. “They have a tendency to pop up anywhere.”

            “I was hoping any more of them would wait until the sheriff retired.”

            “I’ve heard he was going to” Nelson said. “From what I know about him, he deserves a rest.”

            “Not much chance of that,” Mrs. Matheson said. When it appeared that Nelson didn’t understand, she said, “His wife.”

            “His wife?”

            “Don’t you know?”

            Nelson shook his head. “I know nothing about her except that he kids you about her from time to time.”

            “Oh dear,” she said. “It’s a pitiful story.” When Nelson didn’t respond, she continued. “She’s younger than he is by six years. He always calls her his ‘trophy wife’ and he worships her beyond belief.”

            “She’s lucky,” Nelson said.

            “Not so lucky,” Mrs. Matheson said. “She’s well into early onset Alzheimer’s.”

            Nelson drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “I had no idea,” he said. “The sheriff has never mentioned it.”

            “He wouldn’t,” she said. She laid her pen on her desk. “He wouldn’t.”

            “How does he take care of her and do his job as well?”

            “A young woman who lives in town stays with her when he’s away,” she said. “Consuelo. She’s excellent with her. She takes good care of her and we all pretend that Louisa, that’s her name, is okay, but she’s not. Far from it.”

            Nelson stared at the floor and Mrs. Matheson continued. “It would break your heart,” she said. Then she looked hard at Nelson. “Do you go to church?”

            “No.”

            “Neither did Sheriff Love before he married Louisa. He hasn’t missed a Sunday since, at least not when he is in town.” She stopped and drew a breath. “Louisa was the best seamstress around,” she said. “She swept all the ribbons for sewing at our little county fair each year and even lots of them at the state fair in Little Rock.”

            “Can she still sew?” Nelson asked.

            “Hardly, and it’s worse than that. She always sewed the most beautiful outfits you can imagine for herself. Needless to say, she was the best-dressed lady at the First Methodist Church. She made smart stylish outfits that matched perfectly.” She stopped, drew a tissue from a desk drawer, and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh heck,” she said. “I’m boring you.”

            “Far from it,” Nelson said. “Please go on.”

            “Once,” Mrs. Matheson said, “Louisa asked the Minister if she was guilty of the sin of vanity by wanting to dress so well for church.”

            “And what did he say?”

            “It was a she,” Mrs. Matheson said, “and she said ‘far from it. Having such a well-adorned lady in the audience was like having one of God’s beautiful orchids there, and it inspired everyone in the church to greater glory.’ That’s why it breaks our hearts so.”

            “What does?”

            “To see her now,” Mrs. Matheson said. She dabbed her eyes again. “He still brings her every Sunday, only he has to dress her. Doesn’t allow another person to help. God knows we’ve all offered to, but he has to do it himself.” She began to cry.

            Nelson waited.

            “See,” Mrs. Matheson said, “she still has all those beautiful clothes she sewed, but she doesn’t know it. She doesn’t know anything.”

            “But he still brings her to church,” Nelson said.

            “Every Sunday. After he gets her ready and dresses her.”

            Nelson waited, maybe knowing what was coming next.

            “The sheriff has many fine qualities,” Mrs. Matheson said “but good taste in dressing his wife is not one of them. And besides … he’s colorblind.”

            Nelson nodded and tried to respond, but didn’t.

            “So she sits there beside him every Sunday morning dressed in the most pitiful arrangement of mismatched clothes you can imagine, staring straight ahead with that little smile of hers. But she doesn’t see anything.” She stopped and sniffed once more. “Louisa would die of shame if she could only recognize herself. Instead, she just smiles and holds his hand. She remembers that much.”

            The most merciful event of Nelson’s morning occurred when his cell phone rang. He punched, drew it to his ear and listened. After a moment, he said, “Yes, I know where it is.” He listened. “I understand,” he said. “I’m on my way.” He paused, listened, and shook his head. “I’ll tell her.” He punched the phone and returned it to his pocket. He looked at Mrs. Matheson and said, “Sheriff said he may not be back until late.” She nodded in agreement as he turned and hurried out.

            Twenty minutes later, he reached the Anderson house. He parked alongside a large black SUV in the driveway, emerged slowly from his truck, and went to the door. Before he could knock, it opened and a tearful Cappy Anderson stood before him. She held a tissue to her face and simply nodded, then motioned for him to enter. Easing by her, he turned to see Dale Underhill seated on a couch, a drinking glass in his hand. Each man stared at the other for ten seconds before Underhill spoke. “Deputy Nelson. Would that we were meeting on a more blessed occasion.”

            Nelson only responded with a nod. Underhill continued, “News travels fast in Connorville, particularly bad news.”

            Nelson looked at Cappy Anderson. “So you know?”

            She nodded.

            “We don’t know any details yet,” Nelson said. “Sheriff Love wants you to know we are working on it and will keep you informed.”

            She nodded and took a breath. With a noticeable effort, she lowered her eyes to Nelson’s and spoke. “Why?”

            Nelson shook his head. “Was she supposed to be in school?”

            Underhill interrupted. “She was,” he said, adding, “maybe I can help.”

            Nelson turned to listen as Underhill stood. “She came to me during noon-hour,” Underhill said, “at the church. She was deeply troubled about something and asked me to help her.”

            Nelson cocked his head slightly. “Help her what?”

            “She didn’t say at first,” Underhill said. “She just had a good cry and asked me to pray for her.”

            Nelson waited. “That’s all,” Underhill said. “I had Pastor Glover take her back to school. He bought her something to eat and got her back before they even missed her.”

            “But she wasn’t on the school bus yesterday afternoon,” Cappy said.

            “You mean she didn’t come home?”

            “It wasn’t the first time. She would always go to her father’s house.”

            “You called to check?”

            Cappy looked at Underhill, then back at Nelson. She shook her head. “I don’t call him unless it’s absolutely necessary,” she said. “I just assumed …,” She broke into convulsive sobs.

            Nelson looked at Underhill. “Did she indicate to you that she might go the dad’s house?”

            Underhill thought. “Matter of fact,” he said, “she did mention it. Something about seeing if he would pay for swimming lessons.”

            Nelson cocked his head. “Swimming lessons?”

            “She seemed quite adamant about it. Someone had promised to teach her to swim, but that was never going to happen now and she wanted to see if her dad would pay for private lessons.”

            Cappy Anderson broke into the conversation. “She could have asked me, but she didn’t. I could have signed her up for lessons at the club.” She broke into sobs again.

            Nelson looked at Underhill. “I’ll need to talk to your assistant again,” he said.

            “Most certainly. I’ll let him know.” He smiled. “You can expect cooperation.”

            As Nelson started to speak, the front door of the Anderson home flew open and a leggy figure swarmed through the entry-way and into the living room. It was a woman in her late 30s, with a strikingly beautiful and tanned figure. She wore a pearl-colored blouse and a short skirt designed to show her figure to its best advantage. Long, straight, blond hair cascaded over her shoulders and a gold necklace swung from side to side with her rapid movements. Cappy Anderson was a beautiful woman, but the newcomer put her to shame.

            She ignored Nelson and Underhill and rushed to embrace Cappy. They stood entwined for a moment, then the newcomer spoke. “Baby, baby,” she said. “I came as soon as I heard.” She leaned her head back from the embrace and ran a hand across Cappy’s brow, brushing aside hair wet from tears. “Are you okay?”

            Cappy nodded and pulled the woman closer. Looking across a shoulder, she said to Nelson, “This is Irena Dillahunty, my friend,” she said. Nelson nodded.

            The woman released Cappy and turned, taking her time, to face the other two. She nodded at Underhill. “Dale,” she said. He smiled. Shifting to face Nelson, she eyed him from hairline to shoes, then asked, “Who are you?”

            “Special Deputy Gideon Nelson, ma’am, of the Armistead County Sheriff’s department.”

            She looked him over again. “You don’t look so special to me,” she said. “Where is your uniform?”

            “I’m on assignment for Sheriff Love,” he said.

            “That fat fool,” she said. “Is he still around?”

            Nelson ignored her and turned to Cappy Anderson. “I’ll come back when you’ve had a chance to rest from the shock,” he said. “Could you perhaps give me the phone number of Bonnie Sue’s father?”

            Cappy nodded, reached for a note pad on a desk next to her, and began to write.

            “What is the Sheriff and you goons doing about this?” Irena Dillahunty asked.

            Nelson ignored her again. Before she could speak, Dave Underhill interrupted. “Mr. Nelson is one of the good ones,” he said. “He’s been investigating the murder of that poor colored girl.”

            “I rely on you for spiritual guidance, David,” Irena said, “not for social guidance.” She turned to Nelson again. “I asked you what you are doing about my friend’s daughter,” she said. “I could care less about some dead gang-banger.”

            Nelson continued to ignore her. The silence became uncomfortable. “I think you met Irena’s husband,” he said to Nelson. “He’s Don Underhill of ‘Don’s Almost Free Things.’ He and Irena are two of our most faithful members.”

            Nelson took the phone number from Cappy. She dabbed her eyes. “And I’m not,” she said. “I try to be, but I’m not.”

            Another uncomfortable silence followed. Nelson broke it. “I sure we all do our best,” he said to Cappy. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to deal with your loss.”

            Cappy nodded. Nelson turned in a clockwise manner so he didn’t have to face the other two. He walked in measured steps to the front door. As he reached it, he heard Irena Dillahunty speak in a stage whisper. “I don’t know how much that son-of-a-bitch earns working for ‘Old Lardass,’ but he won’t have a job after Don hears how he insulted me. You saw him.”

            Nelson let himself out the front door and was soon leaving the Anderson home. As he turned onto the main highway, he scratched the back of his neck.