Goodbye Earl(100)

OS: It’s a murder investigation now, so we’re obligated to investigate it, Mrs. Plum.

HP: Sure, but if someone killed him…no telling who it was. All those drugs and all that money? Sometimes those kinds of things never get solved, because no one wants to say anything about them. Look, all I’m saying is that Trey Foxberry did a terrible, awful thing when he beat Caroline to a pulp, and that was the cherry on top of what he’s done in this town…what his family has done all through these hills. I wouldn’t sleep with his daddy in high school, and do you know he told everybody I did anyway? My husband knows all about it and that was a long time ago, but that’s who Max Foxberry is and that’s how he raised his son to be. I know some people may think I’m no better, because I do love my wine and I’m not perfect. I can see how somebody could get addicted to those pills they sell, because it starts with pain. Opioids are prescribed for pain. If you’ve been in enough pain in either your body or your soul, you’ll do anything to stop it. Anything.



*





Dahlia and Verity Bell


Officer Stewart: Both of y’all want to come in here together?

Dahlia Bell: Is that okay?

OS: Sure.

Verity Bell: We want to tell a story about Trey Foxberry, and we were both there when it happened.

OS: Is this something recent that pertains to the murder investigation?

VB: Was he murdered?

OS: We believe so.

DB: Oh okay. Well, no. This happened when I was seven and Verity was nine.

OS: And how old are you now?

VB: Twenty-eight.

DB: Twenty-six.

OS: All right…um, sure. Go ahead and tell me what happened.

DB: Trey Foxberry was the first boy who ever said something nasty to me. I ran out of the front door chasing Verity around back so we could go swimming, and Trey was walking past with his friends. We were in our bathing suits, and he told us to pull them down and show him— VB: He used filthy words. Do we have to say them? I refuse to say them.

OS: You don’t have to say them if you don’t want to. I think I get your point.

DB: One starts with a c.

VB: Dahlia! Don’t!

DB: I’m not. I only said one letter!

OS: That’s plenty. That’s all right.

DB: Trey was fourteen. I remember because our brother, Leo, was fourteen too. Well, you know that. You’re friends with Leo, right?

OS: Absolutely. I’m glad he’s back in town for a while.

VB: Me too. We put him to work at the bookshop, but he’s easily distracted. He’ll see someone he knows walking past and poof—he’s gone! He’s always been like that. He’s like a bunny or something.

OS: I’ll remember to call him that the next time I see him.

DB: He’ll know you’ve been talking to us, then. Call him Bunny Bell! That’s what we do.

OS: Leo Bunny Bell.

DB: Yep.

VB: I know it doesn’t matter if Trey said something nasty to us when he was a teenager, but if it helps Caroline for us to come and tell you things like this, to prove he without a doubt could be the kind of person who could do awful things…who could put her in the hospital…

DB: I mean, no matter how he died…it seems like God would only let him act like that for so long…

OS: Yeah, your mom said sort of the same thing when she came down, and she wasn’t the only one.

VB: I mean, if I had to choose between Trey or Caroline being alive…all I’m saying is that I’m super glad Caroline is alive.

DB: Right? I’m so glad she’s alive.

OS: I can’t argue with either of you there.





48





Rosemarie


Esme was shaking her head, on the phone with her brother in Rosemarie’s hospital room.

“Rosie, he says the pharmacy claims you never picked up the prescriptions? Here, you talk to him,” Esme said.

There was a small gap between Esme’s front teeth, and Rosemarie had remarked on it within five minutes of meeting her for the first time; she loved that little gap. She’d missed that little gap. She’d missed her face, the pale coral blush of her cheeks. Esme was wearing a loose-collar T-shirt the same color of her blushes. Rosemarie had missed her stylish black glasses and the thin slip of prematurely gray-white hair she kept tucked behind her left ear. And she missed how she smelled—like some sort of biblical fruit and musk Rosemarie could never place, and Esme couldn’t tell whether it was her shampoo or her soap or a mix of both, so the smell was a mystery. A chemical reaction that only happened when they both met Esme’s soft, tawny skin.

“Hello, Dr. Eden, how are you this afternoon? Your sister got here five minutes ago and she’s already ordering me around. Can you please inform her I’m busy dying?” Rosemarie said, looking at Esme the whole time she was talking. Esme took the hand that wasn’t holding the phone.

“Rosemarie, the medicine can make you feel better. It will make you feel better, but you have to take it,” Esme’s brother, Ambrose, said gently.

“You know I know that, right? I also know you’re just doing your job,” Rosemarie said to him.

“And I love you,” he said.

“I love you too, Ambrose. You’re an excellent doctor. Thank you for calling in my medicine and for taking the time out of your busy day to talk to me on the phone because your sister refuses to let me die in peace,” Rosemarie said.