Free The Family Jewels by Mary Kay Andrews Page A
Authors: Mary Kay Andrews
earlier, after Miss Loudene, flush from winning a $16 jackpot at the VFW Bingo Hall, had invited her into her home for a toasted cheese sandwich and a warm Nehi orange soda.
Bingo was the bond my mother shared with Miss Loudene. They were both regulars at the Tuesday night Decatur VFW game, and had become fast friends over their united hate for a large black woman named Onie, who drove a MARTA bus, and took up a whole table with the 32 cards she played for each game. Somehow, Edna had gotten snookered into taxiing her new friend to the VFW and the Stone Mountain Elks Lodge, for their Thursday night bingo, and to the bank to help Miss Loudene cash her social security check.
Only two nights earlier, she'd tucked her winnings into the lard can, and, after only the briefest hesitation, proudly shown Edna her inherited finery.
Edna, of course, had put me on immediate alert.
"That old lady is gonna get herself killed over that jewelry, Callahan. Living over there in Scottdale, who knows what kind of people in and out of those old mill houses. Why, a strong wind could knock that front door slap off its hinges. I said, "Loudene, my daughter Callahan is a former police detective. She's a private investigator. She knows about such stuff.' And Loudene, that impressed her. I want you to go over there and talk her into locking that stuff up in the bank. Or better yet, she ought to go ahead and sell it, move into a decent apartment."
Edna had been right about the neighborhood. The old mill village had seen better days. The cotton mill, closed for a dozen years, had recently been razed. There was talk of a new apartment complex, of a shopping center, and fine new stores. So far, it was just talk. Scottdale's oldest residents, the men and women who'd moved to Atlanta from the Appalachians, worked the mill and taken pride in their tiny wooden "shotgun" houses, were dying off and moving away. The neighborhood had gone transient There were raucous parties, open-air drug deals, streets lined with empty beer bottles and discarded fast food wrappers.
Miss Loudene's was the only house on her street without at least two cars jammed into the driveway. Hers was the only one with flowers and a neat little green lawn and a mailbox painted bright red. She was 70, a shrunken gnome who weighed less than most of the dogs I'd seen chained to nearby porches. She lived alone, without a phone or a car. And she had a lard can stuffed with diamonds.
"Your mama sent you over here to make me lock up my jewels, ain't that right?" Miss Loudene said, jutting her chin stubbornly. "But there's a lot Edna Mae Garrity don't know about me."
She went to the window, pulled the window shade down again. She put a liver-spotted hand to my ear, and whispered. "I'm fixin' to sell some of mama's jewelry. My sister nor none of her kin know that. And it ain't none of their business."
I looked up in surprise. Miss Loudene's colorless lips stretched into a conspiratorial grin. "Mama left it all to me. Got somebody coming over here tomorrow. Knows all about jewelry. Says I can get me enough from that peacock set to buy me a fine set-up over there at the senior highrise in Decatur. Get me a stacking washer-dryer and cable television. What you think about that?"
"That's fine, Miss Loudene," I said, patting her hand, relieved to be off the hook. "This person, is it a jeweler, something like that?"
"It's a fine Christian-type individual," Miss Loudene said. "Gonna take me shopping for my washer-dryer soon as we get the money for my jewelry." She stood up, clearly done with our conversation. "Tell your mama Thursday night, pick me up early, we'll eat some supper at the Piccadilly Cafeteria. My treat ."
* * *
Edna's face was ashen. "She's gone, Callahan. Something bad happened in that house. I just know it."
My mother had left the house at 5 o'clock Thursday, to take Miss Loudene to supper and the VFW Bingo. Thirty minutes later, she was back, alone, shaking like a
Bingo was the bond my mother shared with Miss Loudene. They were both regulars at the Tuesday night Decatur VFW game, and had become fast friends over their united hate for a large black woman named Onie, who drove a MARTA bus, and took up a whole table with the 32 cards she played for each game. Somehow, Edna had gotten snookered into taxiing her new friend to the VFW and the Stone Mountain Elks Lodge, for their Thursday night bingo, and to the bank to help Miss Loudene cash her social security check.
Only two nights earlier, she'd tucked her winnings into the lard can, and, after only the briefest hesitation, proudly shown Edna her inherited finery.
Edna, of course, had put me on immediate alert.
"That old lady is gonna get herself killed over that jewelry, Callahan. Living over there in Scottdale, who knows what kind of people in and out of those old mill houses. Why, a strong wind could knock that front door slap off its hinges. I said, "Loudene, my daughter Callahan is a former police detective. She's a private investigator. She knows about such stuff.' And Loudene, that impressed her. I want you to go over there and talk her into locking that stuff up in the bank. Or better yet, she ought to go ahead and sell it, move into a decent apartment."
Edna had been right about the neighborhood. The old mill village had seen better days. The cotton mill, closed for a dozen years, had recently been razed. There was talk of a new apartment complex, of a shopping center, and fine new stores. So far, it was just talk. Scottdale's oldest residents, the men and women who'd moved to Atlanta from the Appalachians, worked the mill and taken pride in their tiny wooden "shotgun" houses, were dying off and moving away. The neighborhood had gone transient There were raucous parties, open-air drug deals, streets lined with empty beer bottles and discarded fast food wrappers.
Miss Loudene's was the only house on her street without at least two cars jammed into the driveway. Hers was the only one with flowers and a neat little green lawn and a mailbox painted bright red. She was 70, a shrunken gnome who weighed less than most of the dogs I'd seen chained to nearby porches. She lived alone, without a phone or a car. And she had a lard can stuffed with diamonds.
"Your mama sent you over here to make me lock up my jewels, ain't that right?" Miss Loudene said, jutting her chin stubbornly. "But there's a lot Edna Mae Garrity don't know about me."
She went to the window, pulled the window shade down again. She put a liver-spotted hand to my ear, and whispered. "I'm fixin' to sell some of mama's jewelry. My sister nor none of her kin know that. And it ain't none of their business."
I looked up in surprise. Miss Loudene's colorless lips stretched into a conspiratorial grin. "Mama left it all to me. Got somebody coming over here tomorrow. Knows all about jewelry. Says I can get me enough from that peacock set to buy me a fine set-up over there at the senior highrise in Decatur. Get me a stacking washer-dryer and cable television. What you think about that?"
"That's fine, Miss Loudene," I said, patting her hand, relieved to be off the hook. "This person, is it a jeweler, something like that?"
"It's a fine Christian-type individual," Miss Loudene said. "Gonna take me shopping for my washer-dryer soon as we get the money for my jewelry." She stood up, clearly done with our conversation. "Tell your mama Thursday night, pick me up early, we'll eat some supper at the Piccadilly Cafeteria. My treat ."
* * *
Edna's face was ashen. "She's gone, Callahan. Something bad happened in that house. I just know it."
My mother had left the house at 5 o'clock Thursday, to take Miss Loudene to supper and the VFW Bingo. Thirty minutes later, she was back, alone, shaking like a