Sparring Partners(32)
Lisa dozed off again and the girls eased out of the room. Helen began crying and said, “She’s hardly eaten a bite in the past five days.”
They debated whether to call their grandparents and decided to wait. It was a long night as Lisa grew irritable and complained of pain. The girls rarely left her side and napped fitfully whenever she was awake. At dawn, Margot called Honey with an update. The nurse arrived two hours later and cranked up the morphine. The Bunnings stopped by on the way to church and had a chat with Lisa, who happened to be awake and lucid. They never missed church and wouldn’t think of it now, even as their daughter drifted away.
Of course, they asked for prayer during the service and passed along the grim news that Lisa’s condition was deteriorating. Few things aroused a bunch of Baptists like the rituals of a final passing, and by 3:00 p.m. Sunday afternoon the caravan of casseroles was underway. Most of the friends were thoughtful enough to stop at the porch and hand over the dishes and settle for tearful hugs, but some of the pushier ones breached the perimeter and got inside where they loitered in the cramped kitchen and balanced paper plates while straining for a look down the hall at the bedrooms. Several of the older gossips, true veterans of the glories of funerals, even asked Honey if they could have a word with Lisa. Honey knew damned well that all they wanted was the visual so they could hurry off and talk about how gaunt Lisa looked. Honey declined and even posted herself in the passageway to ward off any trespassers.
Helen retreated to the bedroom and kept a vigil at her mother’s side. Margot, weary of that room, took charge of the front and welcomed each visitor with a big, sad smile that was completely phony, but only she knew it. She became quite the lady of the house, and Hermie, who only the day before wanted to reprimand her for her trip to Memphis, beamed with pride as his often wayward granddaughter charmed the crowd. The day dragged on as the food piled up in the kitchen, but the crowd began to thin as 6:00 p.m. approached and their friends headed back to church.
The nurse moved into Helen’s room for the duration. The girls slept in Margot’s bed and took turns throughout the night checking on Lisa and whispering to the nurse. By Monday morning, she was not responsive and her breathing was even slower.
(31)
Nick Lenzini was leaving the FBI office in Oxford Tuesday morning for a quick trip to Clanton when he got word that Lisa Stafford had passed. Two hours later, he parked near the courthouse and slipped into the law offices of the Sullivan firm. His meeting with Walter was at eleven thirty.
Once coffee was served, Nick began solemnly, “Very sorry about Mrs. Stafford. I know she was a friend.”
“Thank you,” Walter said gravely. “A lovely girl. I’ve known her all her life. This firm has represented her family for thirty years. Great people.”
“What will happen to the girls?”
“Oh, the family will circle the wagons, make the best of it.”
“No sign of Mack?”
Walter grunted and took a sip. “I was planning to ask you the same thing. What’s the latest?”
“Have you talked to Judd Morrissette?”
“Not in the past two weeks.”
“Well, he’s ready to go to the grand jury. Our investigation is basically done. Looks like an open-and-shut case. Problem is, we can’t seem to find Mack. That’s one reason I’m here. I don’t suppose you have any ideas where he might be.”
“That’s your job, isn’t it?”
“It is, of course. And we’re looking, though we haven’t sent in the bloodhounds yet. Given his penchant for disappearing, the U.S. Attorney would like to have him in our sights before there is an indictment.”
“That’s smart. But no, I don’t know of anyone who has actually seen Mack since he supposedly resurfaced. It’s safe to assume he’s living somewhere else. His mother still lives in Greenwood, right?”
“Yes, and we’re keeping an eye there. Have funeral arrangements been completed?”
“Yes, Saturday at two p.m.”
“Don’t suppose Mack would make an appearance, would he?”
Walter laughed and said, “I assure you, Mr. Lenzini, that the last place you’ll find Mack Stafford is the First Baptist Church this Saturday.”
“I suppose you’re right. It’ll be okay if we stop by, take a seat in the balcony?”
“Sinners are always welcome. It’s open to the public.”
(32)
Sunday morning, the day after Lisa’s funeral, Lucien Wilbanks entered Jake’s suite of offices through the rear door. He used the same key he had been using for decades. It was Jake’s office, but then it wasn’t. The law firm of Wilbanks & Wilbanks had been founded there in the 1940s by Lucien’s grandfather. Lucien had run the place until he was disbarred in 1979, a year after he had hired young Jake Brigance right out of law school.
Lucien still owned the spacious suite and leased it to Jake for a modest rent. Part of the deal was the understanding that he could come and go as he pleased. He kept a small windowless office on the first floor, far away from Jake’s domain upstairs, and he kept to himself as he read the Sunday papers and smoked his pipe and drank his coffee and bourbon. Sunday mornings were his favorites because the square was deserted, the stores were closed, there was no traffic, and everyone was in church. Lucien had given up on organized religion when he was fourteen years old.