3. James
3
JAMES
N ina Simone plays in my ears as Claire and I step off the plane. We’ve taken a small, connecting jet from New York to Kentucky, and the door opens like a wing on the runway. The cold, recycled air is blown away with a balmy gust of autumn. My first observation: Kentucky smells like sunflowers.
A man waits for us with the name PREACHER printed out on a laminated poster. Claire walks past him, her heels clicking like machine gun fire across the freshly polished airport floors. She dons her dark sunglasses and instructs him to take us straight to the morgue. The driver piles our suitcases in the trunk, and I hold on to my messenger bag.
I watch through the tinted car windows as the tarmac gives way to rolling, green hills, decrepit farmhouses, and worn-down men sitting on worn-down porches, with worn-down dogs on worn-down chains that bark at us as we pass.
A white, painted sign with curly letters says WELCOME TO BELLEFLOWER, KENTUCKY.
The driver—a stout man with a black cap—keeps adjusting his eyes from the road to the rearview mirror. His name tag says HARDING.
The car lurches over a pothole. I grip the handle above the window.
“Have you ever been to Kentucky, sir?” Harding asks.
“No,” I tell him. This is the sixth lie I’ve told in the last twenty-four hours.
“You should come in the summer seasons. Wildflowers open up. Real pretty.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Claire says nothing. She has a dark camisole pulled over a black dress. She wears large, gradient sunglasses. Her eyes are the color of an oncoming storm, and today, they are as impenetrable as rain clouds.
The wheels click as we roll over the train tracks, and the landscape does a sudden shift. We enter a small, charming town with freshly paved roads and storefronts washed with pastels: soft pinks and welcoming blues. Mothers pushing strollers packed with designer bags. Storeowners stuff their window displays with flower decor. My eyes catch on a stalled parade float with large, brightly colored sculpted flowers attached to it. Decorative horses are frozen mid-leap on the front of the float.
Harding catches my gaze in the rearview mirror.
“You hear about the Belleflower Festival?” Harding asks.
“No.”
“Aw, it’s our biggest festival of the year! Big draw for out-of-towners,” he explains. “Coming up this Saturday. They reveal this year’s Belleflower Queen and throw a parade.”
I say nothing. Harding takes my lack of input as permission to continue.
“Sorta like a Miss America, you know?” he says. “You get to be the shining star of Belleflower. Big deal here—those ladies get treated like true royalty, I’ll tell you what. No one knows who the Belleflower Queen is until the day of the parade, though. They throw a big party about it. Lovely parade. Really pretty. Y’all should go.”
“I’m afraid we leave Thursday,” I inform him. “We’re just here for the funeral.”
“Ah.” He shakes his head. “Damn shame.”
“Quite.”
Claire is still staring out the window. Quiet. Taciturn.
I put my hand over Claire’s. I thread my large fingers through her small ones, the blocky ring on my ring finger nuzzling hers. She lets me.
The car pulls into the hospital deck. It sinks below to the basement level. The second the wheels stop rolling, Claire opens her door and gets out. I pick up her purse, thank the driver, and follow her inside.
We go in and are met with a woman encased in glass. She informs us that Detective Holden hasn’t arrived yet, but we’re welcome to take a seat. She gestures to hard, plastic chairs lined against the slim hallway.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. Claire’s heel tap-tap-taps against the hard floors. I put a hand on her knee. She stills.
Finally, the doors open. A man in a brown and forest-green uniform steps inside. He has a round belly, a bristle mustache, and a red pocket on his jaw that looks like he cut himself shaving this morning. His utility belt jangles as he walks, and he tugs on his belt as he enters.
“Sorry for the wait, Ms. Preacher,” he says. His voice is hoarse with that deep Kentucky drawl, all lazy vowels and slow tenor.
“Any later and we’d be lying in the coffin ourselves,” Claire says sharply. “Shall we get this over with? ”
The sheriff recognizes that I’m the one he wants to talk to, so he extends a hand to me. “Deputy Holden.”
I stand and shake it. “James Calloway. The fiancé.”
He nods. “Listen, as I said on the phone, I don’t think you’ll be wanting to see this…I understand he’s your father, but the way it went down…well, to put it frank, it ain’t pretty. Remember him how he was. Not like this.”
“How he was, was a mean, old bastard,” Claire says. “I’m certain whatever he looks like is an improvement. Lead the way.”
Claire’s tone is tight, businesslike, and leaves no room for anyone to second-guess her. Deputy Holden sways on his boots, as though her words literally knocked him off-balance. But then he fixes his expression, tilts his hat, and says, “Follow me.”
He leads us down the thin hallway. He pushes past double doors marked for Staff Only, and we enter a tiled, sterile room. The air is cold and smells sharply of disinfectant.
A woman in a white coat looks up at us with large, surprised eyes.
Deputy Holden tells her, “Bring out Mr. Preacher, if you don’t mind. His daughter would like to see him.”
The attendant’s eyes flicker over Claire, assessing. Then, she unlocks a silver drawer. It rattles as she pulls it out. Mr. Preacher’s body is a soft lump underneath the white sheet.
She gives Deputy Holden another unsure look, but he nods in the affirmative. She pulls back the sheet.
Even with a dead body in the room, I’m not looking at the sack of skin and bones formally known as Mr. Preacher.
I’m watching Claire.
Her eyes widen when she sees him. Her lips part ever so slightly. Her throat concaves as she takes in a rapid, silent inhale, as though she’s swallowing a scream.
She turns her face quickly. Quietly, she recovers.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s him.”
“If you’d like a moment with him…” Deputy Holden begins, but Claire doesn’t linger. She puts on her sunglasses, swivels on her heels, and pushes back out the door.
I follow in her wake. She exits the building and halts in the parking lot. Her hair looks gold in the Kentucky sun. Claire is standing very still. She stares ahead. I put my hand on her shoulder, but she flinches and shrugs it off.
Deputy Holden steps outside to join us. He’s holding his hat by the brim in a sign of mournful respect. “When you’re feeling up to it, Ms. Preacher, I’d like to come by the house and get a statement. Go through some of Mr. Preacher’s files. See if we can’t make some headway into the investigation.”
“Do you have any leads?” Claire asks.
“We’re compiling a list of people who may’ve run into trouble with your father in the past.”
“You’ll need the whole town registry for that.” Claire tilts her head. “Come over now.”
The deputy hesitates. “Are you sure you don’t want to settle in?”
“The quicker we get through this, the quicker I can get back to France.”
Our driver pulls up. I open the door for Claire, and she steps a long leg inside.
“I’ll follow in my car,” the deputy says.
I get in beside Claire and close the door. It’s dark in the car, the tinted windows sealing us off from the midday sunlight.
“To the Preacher estate, miss?” the driver asks.
“Yes,” I answer for her .
The car rolls forward. Claire looks away from me. As she stares out the window, I notice the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Claire hasn’t eaten in forty-eight hours and wouldn’t even touch the tiny bag of airplane pretzels I pushed on her. She’s consumed some water, but not enough. She hasn’t slept.
She’s wound tight, running purely on the fuel of grief and rage.
“Claire.” I say her name softly. “You should slow down. Take a breath.”
“I’ll slow down when I’m dead.” She hears the words repeated back in her ears, and her mouth twists.
I crack open the window and let the fresh, earthy air in.
We pass more hills, spotted now with large, looming mansions. Each house has wide swaths of empty land separating one from the other. There are no true neighbors on this side of Belleflower, it seems, only acquaintances who live very, very far down the road from each other.
Our car stops in front of a black iron gate flanked with red brick. Harding gets out, punches in the key code, and the electronic motors on the gate ease open. We roll through the teeth of the gate and turn down a private road blocked in with tall, thick hedges. Through the gaps in the hedges, I can see the sprawling Preacher property, dotted with farm hands, grazing horses, and white wooden ranches.
We drive the bricked road up to the Preacher mansion. It’s a looming, Greek-style mansion. Tall, curved windows open out like a many-eyed spider, watching the grounds. The roof is ash-colored, the body limestone white, crawling with green fingers of ivy. We pass a large bronze structure of a horse rearing back on powerful, strong haunches. On either side of the stature sit two stone fountains with cherubs pouring water from large vases.
Now that she’s home, I watch some of the fight leave Claire’s eyes. This time, she remains seated and allows Harding to open the door for her and help her out.
When I step around to join Claire, I find her pulling through her purse frantically.
“Looking for something?”
“A key. I don’t have a key.” Her voice is tight and shaky.
I’m about to ask Harding for assistance when we both hear, “Bear.”
A man sits on the front steps. He’s wearing a rugged canvas jacket, dirty jeans, and a red bandana around his throat. He removes his hat as he rises to his feet, revealing a head full of wild, thick hair and a gentle face full of remorse. “Bear, I’m sorry…”
Something switches in Claire.
I watch as she storms toward the man and smacks him hard across the face.
“I had to hear it from the sheriff!” she hisses. “The sheriff! Where the hell were you?”
“Christ—settle down, woman.”
Woman . I’ve never heard anyone speak to Claire like that and keep their head.
“He’s dead!” she snarls. “He’s dead, Ransom!”
The man— Ransom— takes her anger. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”
“Fuck your sorrys ,” she chokes out. “Fuck you.”
“I know.”
“Ransom…”
“ I know , Claire.”
“…Ran…som…”
As she says his name, her eyelashes flutter. My muscles coil, but it’s unnecessary. Ransom tightens his grip on her arms, keeping her upright just as she crumples forward, going limp.
Claire has fainted. Right into this stranger’s arms.
I climb the steps and extend my arms. “I’ll take it from here.”
Ransom cradles her dead weight and furrows his eyebrows at me. “Who in the clam chowder fuck are you?”
“Her fiancé.” It’s something to see all the light leave a man’s face. Gently, I scoop Claire into my arms, and Ransom releases her, transferring her weight to me. She’s light, but the weight of her exhaustion is palpable as her head turns against my chest.
“Would you kindly open the door?” I ask.
Ransom eyes me suspiciously, but he reaches for a ring of keys at his belt.