However, Ansel Coombs had been safely tucked into a back booth at The Happy Hour Roadhouse absorbing beer with his cronies, and it was the occasion of his homecoming that gave the alarm and caused the battered body of Mrs. Trimble to be found. As he returned to his vine-covered cottage just outside the cemetery gate at about 10:30, supported by his chums, Jackson Spiker and Luke Leep, the three were startled by a high mournful keening emanating from the confines of the graveyard.
With a cry of “Ghosts!” Spiker and Leap had dropped the sodden Ansel on the path and lit out down the hill as fast as their arthritic legs could carry them. Ansel Coombs, more cantankerous than ever with a snootful, had growled, “Ghosts, my great Aunt Fanny!” and armed with flashlight and pickax had set out to investigate the goings-on in. his cemetery. He followed the piteous howl, and after much stumbling and a few false turns among the stone angels, came upon the pop-eyed dog guarding his mistress’ mortal remains.
As he later told Officer Hupp and whoever else would listen to him, Ansel Coombs was only sorry that he wasn’t there to hear what Mildred Trimble said to her murderer before he lowered the boom on her. It must have been a doozie and worth using as her epitaph.
As for Wayne Trimble, why, Wayne had spent the entire evening with Verna Hicks in her trailer. He’d gone there directly from work, had supper (meat loaf and mashed potatoes) and the two of them had got involved in a lengthy game of Monopoly that lasted all evening. They were still negotiating for possession of Park Place when Officer Hupp arrived with the news of Mrs. Trimble’s misadventure. Verna Hicks, questioned separately, had corroborated Wayne’s statement and added some further details which reddened Officer Hupp’s ears and were omitted from his report.
Officer Hupp polished off two brownies and left, promising to let Wayne know if there were further developments. Wayne, clearing off the coffee cups, reflected that it had been sheer genius that had inspired him to lift his mother’s billfold, remove the money, and toss the billfold into the rainbarrel behind the house. When it had become necessary for him to drive to the lawyer’s office at the county seat 20 miles away for the reading of the will, he had simply fished the billfold out of the rainbarrel and somewhere along the River Road, he couldn’t remember exactly where, he’d flung it from the car window in the general direction of the river. He was sure no one had seen him. He was sure it would make no difference now that it was found.
The long afternoon passed quickly enough enlivened by neuralgias and charley horses and further donations of edibles which the donors felt entitled them to all the gory details. Wayne told his simple story over and over again, and yearned for closing time and the peace and quiet now to be his forever in the little white frame house on Elm Street. Verna had kindly offered to take charge of Precious Lotus until a home could be found for him. There was nothing now to interfere with his quiet enjoyment of the things he found good in life.
Wayne could now build his model ships on the dining-room table and no one would nag at him to clean up the mess. He could read his favorite magazines with his feet on the couch and no one would tear out the centerfolds or disturb his repose. He might even take up pipe smoking or even, Wayne chuckled, keep a bottle of whiskey in the house. There was no end to the things he could do now. And there would be no fretful whine to say him nay. It had all been so easy.
Just before closing time, after Wayne had amassed enough dainty food to supply a wedding party and felt that if he had to tell the story one more time he might well astound everyone and confess the deed himself, in came Miss Emily Orr for her weekly bottle of Lydia Pinkham’s. Miss Emily tottered down the length of the store, hollering as she came.
“Wayne Trimble, Wayne Trimble! What you gonna do now, Wayne-Boy?”
“Why, Miss Emily, what brings you out this afternoon?” It was always best to humor Miss Emily who was 80 if she was a day, and never minded what she said.
“Curiosity, son. Same as every other busybody in town.” She bore down on him, safe behind a counter stacked high with notions.
“But I need my Lydia P., too,” she confided in an undertone.
Wayne reached to the shelf behind him for the bottle. He nearly dropped it as Miss Emily cackled and bellowed her next question. Heads at the soda fountain turned to listen.
“You gonna get married now, Wayne-Boy?”
“Why, no, Miss Emily. Whatever gave you that idea? At least, not right away. It wouldn’t be respectful.” Wayne busied himself slipping Miss Emily’s tonic into a crinkly white paper sack and writing the amount of her purchase on her account card.
“Be a fool if you don’t. Nothin’ to stop you now, is there?” Miss Emily snatched up her Lydia Pinkham’s in a withered brown claw and headed for the door, yelling as she went. “It’s past time you made an honest woman of that Hicks girl. Everybody knows. Don’t you think they don’t, Wayne Trimble. Stop by for tea and jam cakes some time, y’hear.”
The door slammed behind her and its little bell tinkled into a thick silence. The remaining soda-fountain customers smirked at each other, paid their bills, and left. Andy, the fountain clerk, cleared the counter and removed his apron and jacket.
“Don’t pay her no mind, Mr. Trimble,” he said as he prepared to leave for the day. “She’s just an old hen. Cackle, cackle, cackle all the time.”
“Oh, I won’t, Andy. Thanks. It’s been quite a day.” Wayne started turning out the lights in the front of the store.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Trimble.” And Andy was gone.
Alone in the store, Wayne Trimble thoughtfully gathered together all the covered dishes, cookies, and pies that had showered upon him during the day. He managed to get them into one large bag, all the while thinking of Miss Emily’s question, “You gonna get married now, Wayne-Boy?” For truth to tell, it had never entered his mind. His arrangement with Verna was of such long standing, it had achieved a kind of permanence in his mind.
True, at one time he had ached to make Verna his bride, and she had been willing if not exactly eager, but that was years ago and his mother’s loud objections and lurid recounting of Verna’s faults of birth and breeding had forced their relationship into a pattern of pretense, Verna pretending that marriage was imminent, Wayne pretending that the situation didn’t exist, and Mrs. Trimble pretending that she didn’t know anything about anything.
No, Wayne had not considered marriage at all. He’d scarcely had time to enjoy the fruits of his mighty blow for freedom. For the first time in his life he meant to live alone, peacefully, quietly, without his mother’s voice constantly and irritatingly telling him what was good for him, what to eat, what to think, what to do, and even when to go to bed. No, he was not quite ready to give up his newly won state of single blessedness.
But come to think of it, Verna was pretty much attached to her independence, too. Maybe she wouldn’t be so eager to marry now, to move out of her cozy trailer and into the white frame house so filled with memories of Wayne’s mother. He had been unnerved by Miss Emily’s suggestion that the whole town was breathlessly waiting to march him from funeral wreath to wedding bells. But maybe he really had nothing to worry about. Verna would undoubtedly be willing to carry on as before. Everything would continue to be peaceful and quiet and easy.
Much relieved, Wayne Trimble locked up the drug store for the night and with his heavy bag of goodies tip-tapped his way up Main Street bidding a pleasant “Good evening” to such townsfolk as he passed along his way. Up Main Street to Elm, turn right, two blocks along Elm, through the wrought-iron gate, up the path to the front door. Wayne Trimble luxuriated in using his own front door. For forty years Mrs. Trimble had insisted that Wayne use only the back door so as not to track dirt into her sacred front parlor. Now Wayne used only the front door and he didn’t even bother to wipe his feet.