Cause of Death

11

To get to Edwards Mills I have to drive through Cooper, where Heart-in-Hand is located.

I’ve been there only once before, about two weeks ago, when I drove out to Kennesaw Mountain, which isn’t a mountain at all but steep enough for a good bike ride.

The charity is a large strip-mall storefront — a former drug store, Pax once told me. Also here are a Chinese restaurant, a pizza place, a nail salon, a vaping store. I drive past the mall now, and picture Pax’s car in the parking lot.

I recall a conversation, a month ago. Pax was brushing her hair, every night one hundred strokes. We were in the bedroom and she was looking at me — off and on — in the triptych of antique mirrors on her dressing table.

“I’ll be a companion, sort of. I’ll do wellness checks, take clients to doctors’ appointments and make grocery runs if they can’t drive. That sort of thing. Make meals sometimes.”

“For two days? You’ll have to stay overnight?”

“Sometimes. It’s a hike. But that part of the state is way underserved. They need people to help.”

I was silent for a moment. “I’ll miss you.”

“Honey, just a couple of days a week.” She put the brush down and turned toward me. “I need to do this. It’ll keep me sane.”

She said this fervently, and I believed her.

Soon I am well past Heart-in-Hand and am cruising through a densely wooded part of the county. The road curves quite a bit here through hills similar to Palmer Mountain, switchbacked in some places. And because of that I’m not sure if I’m being followed, though I’ve caught glimpses of a car. Dark, maybe black — like the Man in Gray’s. Maybe a different shade. I think too of Detective Bragg’s unmarked cruiser.

Every accident investigation, we have to do a report for the state...

After two turns he, or she, continues to follow. No, that’s not accurate. Not in the sense of pursuing intentionally. Historians should be precise. The car behind me is taking the same route that I am. That could be coincidence or it could be intentional.

Soon the geography turns suburban and more highways and streets appear. Before I can get a good glimpse of the car, it turns.

Paranoia.

Though it’s hard to forget Terry’s warning about hornets.

Soon I’m parking across the street from R. Johnson Framing and Art. It’s a spacious and tidy shop on the main street of Edwards Mills, a small town known for autumn-leafing expeditions in the fall and for being the home of a real covered bridge, red and rickety.

I’m in front of a bakery that exudes — through design, I’m convinced — concentrated scents of cinnamon and baking bread. I’ve been peering into the framing shop every few minutes, as I pretend to make phone calls.

I’m looking around me too, on the street. There’s no sign of the Man in Gray.

Inside the framing store is the owner or manager, a woman in her early thirties, her dark hair pulled into a ballerina kind of bun. She wears black slacks and a purple top. I think she has a tattoo on her upper chest, but it might be a birthmark or a dark cameo on a thin chain. She’s helping a customer.

Go learn something, I tell myself. Which is an expression I often close my lectures with. Apparently it’s become my catchphrase around campus.

I climb from the car and step into the sweltering air. New England can get as hot as the South. The woman behind the counter is still with the customer and when I walk in, she smiles and says, “I’ll be right with you.”

I smile in return and peruse the many wares. The business seems to be half framing and half art gallery, some of the for-sale pieces quite good. Local artists mostly. There are sculptures, pottery, paintings, sketches. Some fabric too — needlepoint and stitching and other forms of cloth-as-medium.

The famed covered bridge has been the inspiration for a dozen artists.

Finally the customer’s transaction is rung up and she leaves.

“Can I help you?”

“Like to pick this up.”

I hand her the receipt from Pax’s desk.

She takes a look, drops it and, with an “Oh, my God,” breaks down in tears.

“I read about it in the paper. I was devastated. The only number I had was her mobile and no one picked up.” Rachel Johnson dries her abundant tears. “I sent you a letter in a card.”

Ah, sitting in the stack — to be read or, more likely, pitched without opening.

She now squeezes my arm. “I’m so sorry. Such a terrible thing.”

The Open sign has been turned to Closed and we’re sitting on either side of the counter. The print that Pax had ordered framed, a scene of New Orleans — inexpensive, mass produced — rests beside us. We both have tea. Ginger something. I see a photo on the wall behind her — well framed, of course. It is of Rachel, recently taken, and two children, a boy and girl, about seven and ten. The dark shape beneath her throat is not a cameo but a black stone, onyx maybe.

It seems that she and Pax met coincidentally and became friends in the space of just a month. I cannot recall Pax mentioning her. But, then again, this is hardly surprising. She made friends readily. Of the couple, she was the extrovert, I was the opposite.

The “R” on the receipt is for Rachel, and the “XOXO” was not added for the reasons I thought it might have been.

“We hit it off right away. You know how that happens? I went through a nightmare of a divorce about six months ago. Prince of Darkness. Mean, abusive. Claimed he was ex-military and, you know, had the PTSD thing. I wanted to fix him.” A shrug. “All a lie. His diagnosis was he was an asshole. Thank God, I got full custody, plus maintenance, which pretty much tells you everything you need to know about him. Oh, I’ll add a coda. He stole my engagement ring and gave it to his twenty-two-year-old girlfriend.” She smiles. “Sorry. I’m going on and on, just like I did with Patience. I bent her ear more than a few times.”

“No worries. I’m curious. Where did you meet her?”

“The bakery, across the street. She was in town seeing a client for that charity she worked for.”

“She never mentioned jobs in Edwards Mills.”

“She wasn’t always here on business. Just a few times. She’d bring the pictures for framing and we’d have coffee and talk. Just gal talk.”

“Pictures?” Emphasizing the plural. I’m nodding toward the New Orleans print. “There were others?”

“I did five of them, I think. Gave her a group discount.” A sad smile.

I’m quiet for a moment. “She didn’t bring them home.”

“Oh, they were gifts for clients.”

Rachel tells me that once a week Pax would bring another print in to be framed. “I think she found them every so often in antique stores,” she goes on. “They weren’t great prints. But they were cheerful. Colorful. She said most of the people she called on lived in pretty drab places, without much decoration. She’d help them mount it on the wall. Sweet of her.”

I look around. “It’s a nice shop you have here.”

“I like it. In Edwards Mills, I’m Apple, and Betty’s Framing and Gifts, up the street, is Microsoft.”

“By yourself?”

“CEO and shareholder and the board of directors and the labor pool.” Her eyes sparkle as she gives a little laugh. “I have some help in around Christmas when the creepy elves and gingham reindeer sell like hotcakes but it’s pretty much me the rest of the time.”

I pay for the framing job and tell her it was nice meeting her. Then I pause and deliver the lines I’ve made up and rehearsed a dozen times. “Oh, I have a question. Patience had a friend in this part of the county. He came to the funeral and gave me his number but I lost it. I’d like to get in touch. He’s six feet one or two, blondish hair, pretty good shape. Wears aviator sunglasses. Was she ever here with him?”

“No, she was always alone.”

As I reach for the frame, Rachel throws her arms round me and hugs hard. “You’ll get through this. I know you will.” She hands me one of the store’s cards. “You need anything, Jon, just let me know.”