His hat blocks the light, casting me in dismal gray. I stand, an overworked sponge gripped in one hand, and meet his eyes. They lack the usual sincerity I have come to admire. “Sure.” I strip off my cleaning gloves. “Be right there.”
He nods and steps away, letting the sun back in.
I peek at myself in the mirror, a disheveled mess of flyaways and unbuttoned sleeves, my cheeks a ruddy tone from the chilland zealous scrubbing. I’d put myself together but there’s no time, and it’d only make me look more obvious. The best I can do is button my cuffs as I step outside.
Myrtle is already waiting.
Regis exhales, keeping his eyes on the ground, a thumb hooked in the front of his belt. “I have some bad news, ladies.”
Myrtle uncrosses her arms, pretend shock stealing across her expression like ice forming on the water.
He looks at me, then her. His reluctance is palpable, a watershed of resistance. When the words come, they are heavy with implication. “We found Ed.”
“You did?” Myrtle places a hand over her heart.
“We were too late.” He blinks slowly, lips sucked in. “He’d already passed.”
She lowers her gaze like a shade being drawn, a vision of misfortune sinking in, fingers white-knuckled.
“I don’t understand,” I tell him, following her lead. “He was fine when I saw him yesterday.”
He draws a long breath. “Looks like an animal attack.”
“An animal?” I glance to the trees, my unease playing as alarm. “What kind of animal?”
He shrugs. “Hard to say. Bear, maybe. Or moose. The coroner will be able to tell. In any case, I’d stay out of these woods for a while.”
I open my mouth to breathe like a cat in shock.Coroneris not a word we were hoping to hear.
“Is that necessary?” Myrtle speaks up. “He’s got no one but us. I hate to see him sliced up over semantics.”
Regis’s nostrils flare like he’s picking up a scent trail. “Not semantics, Myrtle. Not when we’re dealing with the safety of this community. It’s important to identify what kind of animal did this so we can be sure it doesn’t happen again. Can’t go out there shooting at anything we see. We need to be certain.”
The notion of guns so soon after last night causes me to rock back on my heels. “I’m confused. Who said anything about shooting?”
Regis looks at me as Myrtle frowns. “They may want to put it down,” she tells me. “If a bear did this.”
My stomach drops. Another life lost on my account. I can’t abide it. “Surely that isn’t necessary?”
“It’s my property,” Myrtle argues. “And I’d just as soon leave it be. Can’t have you all out here scaring off my customers with gunshots.”
“I’m afraid that’s not your decision to make, Myrtle. I’ve got the ME on the way. They’ll haul him out and get him down to the morgue. Meanwhile, keep people out of the forest. No spontaneous hikes today, you got it?” He squares his shoulders and tilts his head back, looking down at her. There’s no room to protest. He’s invoking the full mantle of his authority.
It doesn’t sit well with my aunt. “You don’t have to tell me twice,” she says before stomping back into the café, swinging the door open and closed a little too hard.
I swallow as he regards her, narrowing his gaze. His scrutiny stings. “You’ll have to excuse her. She loved Ed like a brother. Anger is just her version of tears.”
His gaze slides to mine. “Keep an eye on her,” he says before walking away.
The words fill me with an ominous buzz, like stinging insects. They ring inside my head the rest of the day. As I slop mayonnaise onto sandwiches and pour glasses of water and empty the café dishwasher, even as I lean against the sloping metal roof of the A-frame, trying to grab a breath.Keep an eye on herpunctuates my every move like the tempo of a metronome. I catch myself stealing glances at her throughout the day. It’s not until dusk when they finally roll a stretcher out of the woods, the white sheet draped over it rising and falling with Ed’s contours, that I realize it’s not his words that have unsettled me, but his tone when saying them—clipped, flat, ringed not with concern but command.
Keep an eye on her.
Regis isn’t worriedforAunt Myrtle. He’s worried because of her.
MORE THAN TWENTY-FOURhours pass without a word. Somewhere they have Ed’s body on a steel table in a cold room, one of those scales hanging over it like you see in the produce department. He will be inventoried like back stock, every piece accounted for. Like it or not, I am also in that room. I wonder how I’ll be accounted for—in the necrotic liver tissue, the engorged veins, the mess of internal bleeding? The anticipation is unbearable, a slow, tortuous grind that wears away at me like an acid dip. I am lowered inch by excruciating inch into the vat, unable to either grease or stick the gears.
Myrtle is exceptionally quiet. She avoids my questions, throwing herself into cooking like we’re expecting a state convention to descend on us. She bakes muffins in the morning and fries up grilled cheeses for lunch, with real home fries on the side. As if one casserole isn’t enough, she makes two for dinner—one with chicken, another with pike. She follows that with a chocolate silk pie and a giant bowl of pistachio pudding. All washed down with pitcher after pitcher of tea, even though we’re past the summer months when people ask for it.
