thirty

Tuesday morning sunlight blasted into my room. I put on a black J’adore t-shirt and tucked the necklace inside. Then I slipped into a blueberry-and-chocolate taffeta skirt. It had a built-in crinoline petticoat that made the skirt fan out like a bell around my ankles. The pockets were good and deep, too, perfect for tucking away candy, peaches, and my inhalers.

I tiptoed past Dot’s room and crept down to the kitchen. I’d just finished making cheese grits when she walked in. “I had the most wonderful dream,” she said. “Leonardo DiCaprio kissed me. Do you think he’d do that in real life?”

“Why not?” I smiled.

“Maybe he’d like me better if I got breast implants.” She stared at her sunken-in chest.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You look like a Vogue model.”

“Speaking of fashion, I love your outfit.” She bent closer. “But you’ve got a tumor on your chest. It’s poking through your shirt.”

I lifted the necklace and held out the ring.

Dot’s eyes blinked open wide. “That’s the biggest diamond I ever saw.”

“Too big.”

She cupped her hand against my cheek. “Coop doesn’t fit your life. But Son Finnegan does. I hope he’s not a murderer. If he’s not, you should go after him. Me and you and DiCaprio can double-date.”

I turned back to the stove. “Have some coffee and grits.”

“Smells wonderful, but I’ve got to get home. I’ve got to feed my budgies and face my fears.”

After she left, Zee wandered into the room, wearing a long Garfield the Cat nightshirt. “I don’t want to worry you,” she said. “But Asia saw a man creeping around your house around three a.m. We chased him, but he got away.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall. Long blond hair.”

My stomach pitched. Son Finnegan had been snooping?

The phone trilled. Zee answered, and her brow tightened. She lowered the receiver. “It’s some old lady named Miss Emma.”

I took the receiver. “Hi, this is Teeny.”

“Child, I’ve been trying to reach you,” Miss Emma said. “I called Irene’s and a man told me to call your farm. He was very rude.”

“What’s going on, Miss Emma?”

“I wrote something on my wall,” she said. “And you need to see it.”

*   *   *

Miss Emma stood on her porch, a black beret perched jauntily on her head. She led me into the sunroom. In the center of the wall, she’d painted a giant spider. Above the insect, she’d written two names, Barb and Uma.

I stepped closer to the wall, my taffeta skirt rustling. The spider was the size and color of a coconut, but with legs. “Who’s Uma?”

“It was just on the tip of my forked tongue,” Miss Emma said.

The nurse walked into the room, holding a tray. “Uma Cox,” the nurse said. “She’s a tarantula breeder. She lives across the street from the Philpots. A few months ago, Uma and Barb had a falling out.”

“Over what?” I asked.

“Landscaping,” the nurse said. “Barb was into flowers, and Miss Uma likes the scorched earth policy. You can’t miss her house. It’s the only one in town without grass.”

I drove straight to Musgrove Square. Two police cars were parked in front of the Philpots’ house. Had they come to arrest Norris for attempted rape? I squinted, hoping to catch a glimpse of Emerson, but all of the windows were shuttered.

My truck backfired, and I parked in front of Miss Uma’s house, which was made out of brown stucco and sat in a patch of dirt. The yard was littered with holes, as if a giant hand had descended, yanking out the shrubbery and trees. I rang the doorbell, and an elderly woman let me in. She was dressed head-to-foot in white: shoes, socks, pants, blouse. Even her walker had been painted white. I couldn’t help but smile a real smile, because this woman fit my image of the perfect grandmother. She had a hump on her back, as if someone had dropped a cantaloupe down the back of her blouse. Her thick eyeglasses magnified watery blue eyes.

“Are you Uma Cox?” I asked.

“Why, yes,” she said. “Are you here to buy a tarantula?”

“No, ma’am. I just have a few questions.”

“I’m always happy to discuss arachnoids.” She smiled, and her face dissolved into deep furrows, the skin red and puckered like a baked apple. “Prospective tarantula owners rarely come to visit,” she added. “Mainly I deal with pet stores. But I can give you a discount.”

I stepped into a warm, dark hallway. A green smell rushed up my nose, making me think of forests and wet stones. In the distance, I heard crickets.

“This way, dear.” Her walker scooted over the floor. I followed her into a large, gloomy parlor. White sheets covered the furniture. The windows were covered with mossy, polka-dotted draperies. Framed certificates hung on the wall: Arachnoids of the South, National Tarantula Club, The Georgia Spider Society.

She saw me looking and smiled. “I’m the vice president of the ASS. That’s the American Society of Spiders? They’re having a convention this year in Las Vegas, but I can’t go. I can’t find a house sitter. Nor can I find a repairmen. They’ve stomped on many a prize-winning specimen. Even I myself have to be careful. That’s why I wear white.”

I felt a ticklish sensation on my ankle, and I whooshed my skirt from side to side. When I didn’t see a brown, furry object, I relaxed.

Uma led me into an alcove where aquariums sat on iron stands. Each tank held several inert brown objects.

“Here are my best sellers—Grammostola rosea.” Uma pointed a gnarled finger at a tank. “Better known as the Chilean Rose. They’re quite docile. Though if you want something feisty, I have some Costa Rican Zebra spiderlings. Don’t be frightened. The tarantula has been maligned by Hollywood. They rarely bite. But if they do, it’s no worse than a wasp sting. Rarely fatal.”

“That’s good to know.” My “oh shit” smile slid into place.

“Sorry about the heat,” she said. “I keep the thermostat on seventy-nine. My darlings don’t like direct sun. But other than that, the G. rosea is an easy pet. I prefer them to dogs. No barking. No vaccinations. No housetraining.”

I nodded. Aunt Bluette had been just as passionate about her orchard. “And spiders don’t need daily exercise,” I said.

“Oh, no. You can walk them,” Uma said. “I know a lady who makes little bitty leashes. The cutest things you ever saw. They come in assorted colors. So you can match the leash to your outfit.”

While she talked about arachnoids, I scanned the room. The polka dots on the draperies rearranged themselves. I blinked. Yes, the dots were moving.

I turned back to her. She brushed something out of her hair. A furry body plopped onto a sheet-covered chair and scurried away. “A lot of people don’t see the value of owning a tarantula,” she said. “But I hope you will.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Years ago, Edgar Eikenberry bought a Costa Rican Zebra for his son. It bit the boy, didn’t hardly leave a mark, but Edgar threatened to sue me.”

I could totally see the Eikenberrys doing this.

“And last year, one of my escaped Chileans bit a plumber. I didn’t get my faucet repaired, and I had to pay for his medical bills. I’ve been sued many times—once for slander.”

The word slander made my saliva turn into cement. I still hadn’t discovered the connection between Uma and Barb. But if I didn’t leave, and soon, the heat would set off my asthma.

I pointed at the windows. “When I drove up, three police cars were in front of the Philpots’ house.”

“Humph.” Uma steered her walker over to the window and parted the curtains, then her lips moved. “One, two … I’m counting four cars. Wonder if that little girl ran away again?”

“Did the Philpots ever buy a spider for their daughter?”

“Barb tried. But I refused.”

“Why?” I felt something crawl up my foot. I looked at my shoe. Nothing.

“She called my yard an eyesore. I have a time getting someone to mow my lawn. I can’t do it anymore. I’m eighty-three. I can’t tend to flowers or shrubs. So I had everything dug up. The grass, too.”

A dot fell off the curtain and scuttled up her arm. “This spring, Barb got a petition against me. She dropped it when I threatened to tell her husband about her lover. Not that I’m a voyeur or anything. But my bedroom window looks straight into hers.”

Uma gently lifted the tarantula off her arm and set it back on the curtain. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. So I used binoculars.”

“I guess you saw plenty,” I said.

“I hated to watch,” Uma said. “But I was afraid Barb would hit me with a new petition. So I videotaped her and Dr. Finnegan. It was this position, that position.” Uma flicked her hand. “And when they weren’t doing gymnastics, they talked. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but it looked like they were plotting a terrorist attack.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “You’re sure it was Son Finnegan?”

“He’s my plastic surgeon. He took a mole off my shoulder. All he did to Barb was take off her clothes. She was a nasty woman. I hope Dr. Finnegan didn’t catch a disease.”

On my way out of the house, I promised Uma that I’d read up about the G. rosea. I hurried down the sidewalk, trying not to gawk at the police cars.

When I got home, the driveway was empty. I unlocked the door and Sir ran over to me, sniffing my shoes. I blinked down at him. “Do I smell like a spider?”

Definitely, his eyes said.

“Where’s Asia and Zee?” I asked him.

Sir looked toward the door and sighed.

“They’ll be back,” I said. The petticoat was itching my skin, making me think spiders were crawling up my leg. I jerked up the skirt. No spiders. Just nerves. But I was sticky hot, so I ran up to Mama’s room. I left on the J’adore shirt, then I stepped out of the skirt and put it on a hanger. I put on shorts and ran down to the kitchen.

Emerson burst through the back door, pigtails flying, the stuffed hedgehog dangling by one ear. She dove against me, smelling of sweat and dirt. I put my hand on her head, smoothing her damp hair. I thought of the police cars I’d seen at her house. “What’s the matter, honey?”

“The test came back,” she said, her voice muffled against my shirt. “Nobody’s my daddy. Not Mr. Philpot. Not Coop. I’m nobody’s child.”

I knew she was waiting for me to speak, but my knees buckled as the full force of her words swept through me. She lifted her face, eyes brimming. “I want to live with you and Coop.”

“I wish you could.” I wanted to say more, but I held back.

“Will you talk to Mr. Philpot? Ask him if I can be your child.”

I pulled her against me, feeling her fragile bones. I held her the way Aunt Bluette used to hold me.

“You bet I’ll talk to him,” I whispered.

“Promise?”

“I pinky-swear you.” I held out my hand.

A sob tore out of her throat. She clasped her little finger around mine, then she pushed her face into my stomach again. I draped my arms around her, the stuffed hedgehog trapped between us.

“Are you gonna make me go back to the Philpots’?”

“No, but I need to call Helen. I’ll ask her if you can spend the night.”

“She won’t let me.” Emerson rubbed her nose, smearing dirt across her cheek. “Don’t make me go back. Helen’s like a viper. Resistant to her own poison.”

“You’ve got half of Georgia on your feet,” I said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She held still while I ran a wet cloth over her face and neck. Then, ignoring her pleading glances, I called Helen. It hurt my heart to dial that number, but for once I was going to do things by the book. I didn’t want to give the Philpots a reason to keep Emerson away from me.

Helen answered with a high-pitched hello.

“It’s Teeny Templeton,” I said. “Emerson’s at my house.”

“Your house?” Helen cried. “I didn’t know she was gone.”

“She’s welcome to spend the night at the farm.”

“No,” she said sharply. “I’ll send someone to fetch her.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can bring her,” I said, but Helen had already hung up. I set the receiver in the cradle.

Emerson pulled out a chair and sat down. “Helen didn’t know I was missing, did she?”

“She sounded upset.”

Emerson drummed her fingers on the table. “You can’t imagine. She went wild when the police found a cooler full of eyeballs in Norris’s car. Everybody was screaming. So I ran to you.”

All the air left the room. I couldn’t process her words. I pictured the eyeballs trapped in small plastic pouches like the boiled eggs in the Publix deli. “Was he arrested?”

Emerson shook her head. “The police tried, but he runned away. Helen was crying. She says Norris was framed.”

I remembered the three unsolved anagram in Barb’s note. I found a pad and pencil in the drawer, and I wrote down A Thousand Livers, Anal Fink Berm Jinn, and Cede Nephritis Ion Up. I set the pad in front of Emerson. “Can you solve these anagrams?”

Emerson traced her finger under A Thousand Livers and pursed her lips. “A Dative Hurls Son? No, that’s not it.” She gave me a sly look. “Vlado the Russian?”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Mama’s friend.”

My chest tightened. “Did she have any other friends?”

“Dr. Finnegan.” She yawned. “I’m hungry. If I don’t eat, I’ll shrivel up like a doodlebug.”

“What about the other anagrams?” I asked.

“Anal Fink Berm Jinn is Benjamin Franklin.” She pushed the notepad away. “That’s all for now. I’ve got to eat.”

While I made grilled cheese sandwiches, I glanced at the pad. Vlado the Russian hadn’t been Barb’s friend; he’d been an employee. As for Benjamin Franklin, Barb was probably referring to a Cayman Island bank. But what was hidden in a lock box? What about Cede Nephritis Ion Up? Could it be the name of a surgeon, or several surgeons?

I glanced at the notepad and picked out Son. Or maybe it was Noris with one R?

Emerson wolfed down the sandwiches. She wouldn’t solve the other anagrams until I’d combed her hair. I gently ran a brush through it, but it was so knotted, I was afraid I’d hurt her. She gripped the hedgehog between her knees, wincing each time I hit a tangle.

“I’m sorry, honey.” I bit my lip. “I’m trying to be careful.”

She tipped back her head, her eyes filling poignantly with tears, and dropped her hedgehog. It bounced on the floor.

“That’s okay, Teeny. You can pull all the hairs you want. Just keep me. Don’t let me go.”

I smoothed the brush over her snarls. The rhythmic movements jostled something that I’d forgotten. When I’d snooped in Lester’s bedroom, the rug had been missing. Kendall had said she’d vacuumed a rug. What had happened to it?

“You sure do have a lot of rugs in your house,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“What happened to the rug in Lester’s room?”

“Green food coloring accidentally got spilled on it. And some red coloring too. So Helen paid a man to haul it off.”

I didn’t ask how the dye had gotten there. But I said, “The rug couldn’t be cleaned?”

“Helen’s decorator told her to get rid of it. They were all set to buy a new one. Then this trouble with Norris happened.”

I kept working on Emerson’s knots. Sir eased under the table and bit into the hedgehog. I started to grab him when the phone rang.

“Yodelaheho,” Red said. “I got news.”

“I know about the eyeballs.”

“How’d you hear that, girlie?”

“The peach trees have eyes.”

“Then I guess you heard about the man in the wheelchair? Somebody poured acid on Josh Eikenberry. And Norris was spotted at the Savannah airport. They’ll get him, homegirl.”

I let out a huge breath. But I couldn’t resist a dig. “So the only person who’s missing is O’Malley.”

“He’ll call you tonight. Hey, I gotta go. Irene and Dr. O just got home, and we’re going out to dinner.

“Moo,” I said.

“Baaa,” he answered.

I hung up. Sir raced past me, gripping the hedgehog in his teeth, and bolted into the dining room. Emerson popped out of her chair and ran after him.

“Give it back!” she shrieked.

I hurried into the dining room. Sir crouched under the dining room table, biting the hedgehog. Emerson plunged under the table, grabbed the hedgehog, and yanked. Sir growled, tugging in the opposite direction.

“Drop it,” Emerson yelled.

Sir’s jaws clamped down harder; he shook his head from side to side. The hedgehog burst apart. Bundles of money tumbled to the rug, each green pile stamped with Benjamin Franklin’s portrait.