Page 24 of The Bane Witch

24

Autopsy

Of course, it is Regis who responds to Myrtle’s call. I feel childish for not having anticipated it and twice damned for the role I’ve played in this calculated drama. Somehow, it seems more sinister with him here, less straightforward. I can barely look him in the face, our stolen hours in the night still creeping over my skin like lingering kisses. But this is Sheriff Brooks, not the Regis of last night, and there is a wary tilt to his chin, a quiet reserve that says this may not go down as smoothly as we’d hoped.

I feel a fervent and misplaced hope that he won’t find the body. The proximity of Ed’s death to the one in the café is enough on its own to make any law enforcement officer do a double take. There is no way to explain that I killed Ed out of kindness. In the harsh glare of the morning sun, I realize my questionably good deed may not go unpunished.

He stands outside the café with stiff shoulders, hiding his assumptions behind the mirrored rounds of his inscrutable sunglasses, a hand resting on each side of his belt. “You say you tried calling?”

“His phone is dead,” Myrtle explains. She is presentable as ever, hair neatly plaited down her back, face scrubbed to a high shine. Even the whites of her eyes seem brighter, every inch of her polished. “It was still ringing last night. Maybe up until around midnight. I found Bart outside of my cabin this morning. That’s when I figured I better call you.”

“If he wasn’t answering as late as midnight, why didn’t you report this then?” he questions as I bite my lower lip. I resent that I can’t see his eyes, as if he is deliberately keeping them from me.

Myrtle lets loose a mocking laugh. “Come on, Sheriff. You know Ed as well as I do. Man could drink himself into a ditch at night and be up bright and early for coffee come morning. There hasn’t been a day that he didn’t turn up at these café doors for opening since that time I found him sweating out a fever in his cabin three years ago.”

I watch Regis press his lips together until the pink disappears. He believes her. Or at least he believes he should believe her, but something about it doesn’t sit well with him. There is an undercurrent of suspicion that ripples off him in waves like a bad smell. “Which one of you saw him last?”

“I did.” I step forward, hoping to ease Regis’s doubts. I want to believe that what exists between us when there is no one around will protect me. That a trust has formed like a ridge of bone, linking us together. “He said he was going to take care of some downed limbs yesterday.”

“Did you look for him in the woods?” He addresses this to Myrtle. The rebuff offends me, like spit in the face. I try to focus on the fact that the less I say, the better I feel.

“Wanted to,” she tells him. “But you had my niece detained till well after dark. Didn’t seem smart to wander out there on my own, what with this Strangler business going on.”

“No,” he agrees, checked. “Of course.” He scans the woodland behind us, the measured oscillation of his face the only giveaway. I wonder if he expects to spot Ed there on the brink, like one of those pictures where you have to find the hidden images— Do you see the mitten? The teapot? —as if he’s been there all along, just waiting for someone to bother looking. “Let me call in some help. We’ll get out there and take a look. Probably sleeping it off under a tree somewhere.”

Myrtle smiles, sweet as cream, as if she fully expects this to be true. “I’ll put the coffee on,” she says, throat raspy. “I’m sure he’ll need it by the time you drag him back.”

Regis heads toward his patrol car when Myrtle goes inside, leaving me standing there, a nonentity on the edge of their conversation. Impulsively, I reach out to stop him. “Wait.”

I don’t know what I intend to say. I can’t stand the thought of Ed’s body lying out there during this charade, as if he is refuse dropped on the ground, forgotten like last year’s leaf fall. I can’t tell Regis anything of substance, but maybe I can at least point him in the right direction. I also just want him to see me.

He stops, face still obscured by the sunglasses.

“Can you take those off?”

He slides them from his nose, and when his eyes meet mine, they are as apprehensive as a stray cat backed into a corner. I almost stumble over the unexpectedness of it. “You got something to add, Ms. Lee?”

I clear my throat, unsure of the words trying to fill it. “Regis?” It’s me, I want to say, but it’s not my voice he’s familiar with, it’s my body.

The edge of his gaze softens, and he drops it, as if he can’t bear to look at me as a man and not a cop. “I’m on duty, Acacia,” he says flatly.

“Right.” I take a step away, regroup. “I just… I saw him enter the forest there, beside that tamarack tree.” I point to the stubby conifer clad in its shaggy, yellowing coat of needles at the edge of the forest.

He follows my finger, a flicker of some unexpressed emotion glancing his jaw. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

I watch him walk away to radio in for backup, wishing I could be anywhere but here when they haul Ed’s body out.

He waits in the car until two other officers arrive. They huddle on the pavement as he debriefs them, the occasional glimpse toward the café breaking their cloister. Eventually, they dismantle at some mysterious signal and move in unison toward the back of the property, vanishing into the thicket behind the cabins.

Myrtle ignores her cardinal rule and keeps Bart in the café for a change, where he lies under one of the tables, watching the door like Ed will step through it at any moment. I bus the tables and wipe the windows with protracted fastidiousness, squinting through bubbly streaks for some sign of what’s happening. When the glass is clean enough to disappear—a sure trap for the local birds—I turn my attention to refilling all the condiments and saltshakers, hands trembling the whole time, spilling more grains than I contain.

Myrtle is cooking breakfast as if nothing is happening—a sausage and egg casserole—as if she expects Ed to return, hungover and famished, with Terry and Amos in tow. She catches me flubbing the salt and admonishes, “Steady, Piers. It’s all downhill from here. Maybe leave the more dexterous tasks for another day, hmm?”

I have an abrupt desire to take up smoking or knitting, anything to keep my hands occupied. The sole guest from cabin seven comes in for coffee and a bit of toast, as does the old guy who runs the Drunken Moose—a Bill somebody. I don’t need the extra eyes—their presence makes me clumsier—but the distraction of a full crowd is sorely missed. When I run out of things to busy myself with in the café, I grab the caddy of cleaning supplies and head out to work in the bathroom. I’ve never been so preoccupied with porcelain.

About an hour later, Regis leans in the door. “Can you step outside for a minute?”

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 chill and 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. Coroner is 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 her punctuates 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 worried for Aunt Myrtle. He’s worried because of her.

M ORE T HAN TWENTY-FOUR hours 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.

Like a spell, her efforts seem to conjure diners from all over, wafting in on the scent of her latest creation. The café fills up by ten in the morning and stays full the whole day through. Nonstop serving, bussing, and cleaning being the one small mercy I’m afforded. Myrtle nestles into the steady flow of company like an owl in the hollow of a tree, gabbing and laughing, surrounding herself with a fortress of people.

It’s practically closing when Regis turns back up, half our tables still full of stragglers. Terry and Amos are arguing over a game of Scrabble, washing their sorrows over Ed down with their second slice of pie. Myrtle is ensconced behind the bar, mixing fresh waffle batter for the morning. If Regis is surprised at the bustle, he doesn’t show it. Thankfully, he’s no longer wearing those aggravating sunglasses, and his hat’s been left on the dash of his car. He catches my eye as I lean down to stack a bunch of plates from a table that was just vacated. But before he can get to me, Myrtle hollers, “Want some pie, Sheriff? We’re feasting in Ed’s honor today.”

He pauses as if she’s seized him and he is somewhere he doesn’t belong. Recovering quickly, he pushes his chin out. “I’m all right, thanks.”

She nods as if it’s no skin off her nose, but her eyes are narrowed to dashes above her cheeks, the look of a woman playing a dangerous game she believes she’s winning.

But Regis is not easily taken in, and I’m not sure her confidence is warranted. I suddenly understand the pull of customers, the gobs of food, the exaggerated laugh at someone’s joke. It is a tableau, a stage set, everyone a prop that proclaims her status in the community, their love for her—her innocence. It strikes me as both brilliant and foolish. The attention it draws to her will only engage his obstinacy. There is a stubborn lift to his lip already.

When he reaches me, he bends to my ear. “Can we talk?”

I want to melt where I stand. Has the frost of the day before shifted? But when I brush past him toward the door, he shrinks away, my touch something he fears. Like a subluxated rib, something has slid quietly out of joint between us. I feel the ache of it between my shoulder blades, the misplaced pressure, the decreased range of motion.

The raucous night is an improvement over the noise in the café, less grating, the stirring of nocturnal creatures growing on me like an overplayed melody. I drag him from view around to the side where the slant of the roof blocks out the motel lights. We wash monotone as night swallows us.

“Is everything okay?” I ask when he doesn’t immediately start talking. I suddenly wish I had a necklace on, something with a thin chain and a pendant I could fiddle with. I don’t know what to do with my hands.

“I got the autopsy report,” he tells me.

“So soon?”

“It’s preliminary. The full report will take some weeks to come out, but they shared their findings with me. It’s standard procedure.”

“Oh.” I stand there, not knowing quite how to respond. When he doesn’t go on, I ask, “And?”

His face is pinched, eyes darting away. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this, but…” When he meets my eyes finally, he looks sad, sadder than I’ve ever seen a man look. “I don’t know what it is about you. I can’t seem to help myself. I want to protect you so badly.”

“Protect me? From what?”

“I care about you,” he says now, as if it comes as a surprise, like ants in the sugar jar. He sighs, the sound of it heavy between us, weighted. “It’s not good, Acacia.”

My heart rate picks up, stuttering into overdrive. I wipe my palms on my thighs. “Was it a bear, then? Should we be concerned?”

He sighs again, as if he expected this but still hoped for more. “A moose, but that’s not what I mean.”

I clear my throat, try and hide the anxiety shooting through me like a drug. “It’s not?”

His hands go to his hips, elbows out, a wall I cannot breech. “The coroner found traces of orellanine toxin in his bloodstream, and amatoxins. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Poison, Acacia. Mushrooms. Another amanita plus something else.”

I deflate but am careful not to collapse in front of him. “Is that what k-killed him?”

“That’s not the point,” he tells me. I feel like a mouse in a very small field with a very large cat. There is nowhere to hide.

“I see,” I say, stalling. “How do they think he got—”

“Oh, come off it,” he barks, swearing at me. He takes a few steps away, hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, and walks back. His lips barely move as he says, “I don’t know what you two are playing at. But since you got here, we’ve had two deaths and two mushroom poisonings inside of a week. And this isn’t the first time someone has died of suspicious causes around here. My first year in the department, we found a young man at a campground, lifeless. His heart had stopped the night before, and his blood was chock full of amanitins—deadly amatoxin compounds. Coroner couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Last place he was seen alive was this very café. At the time, I believed your aunt when she said he wasn’t acting right when he came in. Said he seemed to be high on something. We wrote it off as a case of mistaken identity. Boy was probably looking for psychedelic mushrooms and got confused, especially if he was already on something.” Regis glares at me. “He was twenty-one, Acacia. Twenty-one years old.”

I can’t imagine Myrtle taking a life that young, but how much do I really know about the venery? About Myrtle’s history? I scrabble for words, but none come.

“Despite my best instincts and the obligations of my job, I’m out here telling you this because… because…”

I widen my eyes and cross my arms. “Because?”

“Because you matter to me, and I don’t want you to go down for her… deeds. ”

“What exactly are you implying about my family, Regis?” My eyes narrow, and I can practically feel them blazing with green fire.

He leans in. “You told me you were here to study botany. Is that true?”

“Yes,” I tell him, refusing to look away. If I don’t stand by my story, he will never believe another word I say.

“Well, then you better start interviewing attorneys. Because if I go any further with this, you are in a heap of legal trouble. Is that clear?”

Fear crests over into anger, years of being told who I am, who I should be. It froths inside me, threatening to spew. I came here for freedom, independence, a chance to live beyond the reach of Henry’s control and bloodlust, but between the venery and this, I am starting to wish I’d never made it out of that river. “Perfectly.”

This should be the point where he stalks off unburdened of the responsibility of me, his message delivered, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. After a second, I realize he’s waiting for me to say more, anything that might absolve us of what his instincts are telling him we’re guilty of. His chest heaves, every breath a prayer that I can make this right.

I take a step toward him. “What’s clear, Sheriff Brooks, is that you think I not only slipped toxic amounts of poisonous mushroom into a stranger’s coffee for no apparent reason other than the satisfaction of watching him die a brutal, grotesque death in front of a room full of my aunt’s customers—in an amount that would be physically impossible to disguise in eight ounces of liquid even if it is that bitter swill Myrtle serves for coffee, I might add, and at a time that would render his symptoms remarkably, improbably swift—but that I then turned around and did the same thing to a man I considered a friend, who showed me nothing but kindness, who was old and vulnerable and not a threat to anyone. In the middle of the woods, likely at night no less, while a serial killer stalks women in the area and we have been repeatedly warned to stay indoors after dark.”

His jaw grinds even as his lips part, so that he looks like a cow chewing cud. A series of rapid blinks attack his eyes, lashes wrestling for dominance, but he is utterly unable to respond.

I step toward him again so that I am only inches from his face. I want this part to sink in. I want him to know he has lost. Myrtle would be proud. “Good luck making that fairy tale stick in any court of law from here to the Mexico border.”

He closes his mouth and the color drains from his face, turning him a wan, sickly blue in the dark.

“You can think whatever you want, Sheriff. But that doesn’t change the truth.” I step back and give him an icy once-over. “Maybe they were right about you. Maybe you’re terrified of commitment after all.”

I stalk back inside, leaving him to his presumptions, the callous night, and the ugly pall of defeat.