Reborn by Murder: Cilla Presley Mysteries, #1

By

Dee Solberg

Chapter 1

Istruggled up the handicapped ramp toward the front door of Buck County High School as my nephew, Adam, took the adjoining stairs two at a time. I’d run up the same steps as a BCHS senior like Adam, never imagining that thirty years later I’d be clutching a cane, walking on a ramp and out of breath when I reached the top. Of course, that had been before I really understood mortality, before some cosmic prankster replaced my perfectly good body with a defective one, before Multiple Sclerosis.

Adam waited for me in front of the ancient oak doors, tapping one sneakered-foot and playing an air guitar. After the final frenzied flourish of silent chords, he stuck his hands in his back pockets and looked at me.

I’m glad you came with me instead of my mom and dad, Aunt Cilla, he said. They’ve been totally freaked out about all this and it’s driving me nuts. My mom keeps asking how I could do this to her, like I planned it or something, and my dad gets drunk and threatens to kick me out if I lose my full-ride to Iowa.

You can’t blame them for being upset, Adam. Waiting until two weeks before graduation to tell them you’re flunking English wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve ever done.

Adam lowered his eyes and sucked his bottom lip. He’d done that since the age of two whenever his parents scolded him or he’d done something wrong. Under the current circumstances, the habit looked comical when combined with his six-foot-two, two-hundred-fifty-pound linebacker body. I swallowed my urge to laugh. Adam already teetered on the edge, a chuckle might push him over.  Talking to his English teacher, Miss Tillman, would already test his breaking point.

Cedar Creek, like most small Iowa towns, had several teachers like Miss Tillman who seemed to have been around as long as the school itself. She’d traumatized senior English students with her I-take-no-crap attitude and mountains of homework since before I climbed these steps for the first time. Even though I thought she’d been old when I cowered in the back of her class, trying to be invisible, she must have only been around thirty. She’d be sixty or so now. I smiled thinking about how my definition of being old always stayed at least a few years ahead of my age.

We walked down deserted hallways that looked familiar, yet alien. Adam’s sneakers squeaked, my cane tapped, and my walking shoes made squishing noises. If we’d added the air guitar, we could have had a band. Our pace slowed as we approached Miss Tillman’s room, and then stopped completely as Adam halted in mid-stride. I noticed a moment too late and smacked into his back.

Great, we get this close and he’s going to bolt. I knew this was going too well.

I can’t go in there. Adam’s jaw tensed along with the rest of his football-honed muscles. His dark eyes showed a flash of fear before testosterone kicked in and hardened it to anger.

You can, and you will. I didn’t have time to waste on pleas or pleasantries. "And, you’ll be polite and at least act like you’re interested in passing this class."

She hates me. This is just going to make things worse.

I don’t think it can get much worse, Adam. Think about your options. I doubt you want to be in school here again next year, and I’m sure Miss Tillman understands that. We’re going to walk in there and have a civilized adult conversation.

Dream on, Aunt Cilla. I’ll go in, but if she pisses me off, I’m out of there.

A few minutes later, I sat across from Miss Tillman and Adam stood at the window, arms crossed over his chest, not even pretending to participate. Adding to my disgust, I felt dowdy in my elasticized clothes—buttons and zippers proved too difficult these days—and short, gray hair in a wash and wear cut. The teacher wore a tailored blue dress. She sat with perfect posture, hands folded on her immaculate desk, watery blue eyes boring into me. If I ever wished I could go back to being eighteen, all I’d have to do to dispel that silly idea would be to remember this moment.

The teacher patted her tight gray curls, even her hair knew better than to be unruly, and looked over the top of her gold-rimmed half-glasses. She’d been discussing Adam’s poor participation, lack of homework completion and general bad attitude. I’d been sticking up for my nephew, even to the point of arguing at times, but couldn’t keep it up much longer. Adam hadn’t done or said anything to help himself so far.

I’m not asking you to give Adam any special favors, I told her. We’re here to find out if there’s some way to help him pass English so he can graduate.

"I’m still not clear about why you’ve come, Priscilla. I anticipated discussing this matter with Adam’s parents. To be honest, I thought I’d hear from them after they saw his grade last quarter. The teacher frowned and looked at Adam. Assuming they did see your last grade report."

Adam returned her look but said nothing. His jaw muscles quivered and I silently begged him to hold his temper.

"As for why I came, Miss Tillman, I’m here because I’m his aunt. We’re all concerned, and I agreed to come when his parents couldn’t." What else could I say? Adam’s parents are too self-absorbed and screwed up to help their son? My sister manipulates me into things like this all the time, and I don’t object? Or, I’ve fought my sister’s battles for her our whole lives? I glanced at Adam, who’d turned his back and begun looking out the window. He gripped the window sill so hard his forearms trembled. I braced for the explosion.

Bull! Adam whirled to face me. Why don’t you just admit you came because my mom whined and begged and you couldn’t tell her no.

So much for ‘I’m glad you’re here, Aunt Cilla.’

Adam continued. No one would care about me flunking this stupid class if I didn’t have an almighty scholarship waiting for me. I have to go up to Iowa and be a football star to follow in my dad’s footsteps and feed his ego. He never bothered to ask me if I wanted to play for Iowa, or if I even wanted to keep playing at all.

Adam, that’s enough! I smacked my cane against a desk to get his attention. Sit down and—

No, it’s not enough. It’s time someone in this pathetic town told the truth. He turned toward Miss Tillman and leaned over her desk. She shrank back in response. I struggled out of my chair, wishing I could crack my nephew over the head or drag him out by his spiky black hair.

Miss Tillman regained her composure, stood and pointed to a desk. Adam King, sit down and be quiet.

I’m done listening to you. If you flunk me, you flunk me. That’s probably how you get your kicks. Everybody knows you hate jocks, so I’m sure you love this.

Knock it off, Adam, I warned. Grabbing one muscled arm with both hands, I tried to pull him away from Miss Tillman. He twitched his arm free as if shaking off an annoying fly, leaving me to clutch the edge of the desk to keep from falling. As Adam strode toward the door, Miss Tillman and I both seemed to deflate like balloons with tiny leaks.

In the doorway, he turned and pointed his middle finger at me. Mind your own business, Aunt Cilla, and get off my back. He aimed the finger at his English teacher. As for you, you’re a bitter old lady who gets off on pushing kids around. You’re gonna cross the wrong person one of these days. When it happens, I’ll throw a party.

After the door slammed, I slumped into a chair. Embarrassment kept me from looking at Miss Tillman, but her ragged breathing told me she shared my jangling nerves. I concentrated on the sweet chemical smell of erasable markers to avoid thinking about what had just transpired. For a distracted moment, I mourned the loss of chalk dust, white hands and screeching noises that made everyone shiver.

Having failed in my mission to help Adam, I pulled myself up, apologized for his behavior—as if I’d caused it—and headed for the door.

Priscilla? Miss Tillman’s shaky voice stopped me.

Yes.

Contrary to what Adam thinks, I don’t derive pleasure from a student’s failure. He’s obviously an angry young man. Delving into that is not my field, but I can help him with English if he’s willing to do the work.

Is it possible for him to pull his grade up so he’ll pass your class?

There are two weeks left in the school year. It’s quite within his capabilities to pass if he works with a tutor and scores a high grade on the final exam. I’m even willing to tutor him if he would accept that. I realize he’s blaming me for his failing grade, but I’m not the ogre he and the other students think I am. There would be ground rules, of course.

You’re very generous to offer, Miss Tillman, especially after... I’ll let his parents know and tell them to call you.

I could begin the lessons as early as tonight. There’s no time to waste.

Thank you again. You’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry Adam didn’t understand that.

I’m sorry, too, Priscilla.

My departure from the classroom drew curious looks from everyone I passed. All the people in the building probably heard the confrontation. The delicious details would march down Main Street by mid-afternoon, becoming more dramatic with each telling. A small town had a lot of plusses, but keeping secrets wasn’t one of them.

The tutoring offer caught me by surprise. I’d misjudged my former teacher. The trick would be to convince Adam to admit the same thing.

Friday’s stress made itself known Saturday morning. My leg muscles began the day by twitching, spasming, and then not working at all. My brain, once its fog lifted, tried to get them in line, only to hear a gleeful, You can’t make us. I swore I heard it, which put me firmly in the unhinged category. At least I wasn’t crazy enough to tell anyone about the conversation.

Each morning brought a new adventure, wondering which body parts would report for duty. After twenty-six years of these coups, I’d grown weary of the struggle. Surrender was out of the question, though, so I kept on fighting.

Cilla, Dale called, breakfast is ready.

In my morning funk, I wanted to say, Leave me alone. I’ll be there when I get there. Instead, I told him I’d be along in a minute.

The smell of brewing coffee spurred me on. I grabbed my cane, shuffled into the bathroom and silently prayed my bladder would cooperate. As I passed the mirror, I glanced at the middle-aged woman reflected there. Who was she and where had she come from? Despite my physical problems, I still felt young on the inside and couldn’t reconcile that with the appearance of the woman in the mirror. I didn’t feel alone, since everyone my age seemed to face the same confusion.

Brute’s canine smile appeared around the edge of the bathroom door, his black-lined mouth a contrast to his white, German Shepherd face. I smiled back, wondering why a dog could cheer me up so much more successfully than a human. If Dale’s happy face peeked around the doorframe, an indulgent smile probably wouldn’t be my response. He knew that, so he stayed in the kitchen. Throughout our twenty-six-year marriage, he’d endured the worst of my mood swings, depression and general self-pity. Now, he exacted his revenge by doing all the cooking.

I used to cook, clean, shop, do laundry, garden and take care of all the other chores life imposes on those who insist on being responsible adults. I did it all while working as the dispatcher and gofer at the Sheriff’s office. Cedar Creek only needed one dispatcher and one deputy, since crime wasn’t rampant in the midst of farm country. The town’s population barely topped two thousand, and all of Buck County only tripled that number. Sometimes, I suspected a large number of farm animals had been included in the count at census time.

I’d quit my job when I couldn’t remember calls I’d just taken, lost all mental and physical capacity during the summer in the sweltering un-air conditioned office, and spilled coffee over everything from papers to electrical equipment whenever my hand stopped listening to my brain. I resigned the day the Sheriff’s daughter called, in labor with her first child, and I began happily sharing the news without arranging to get her to the hospital.

Wishing I still enjoyed a job’s camaraderie and sense of being needed and appreciated, my despair deepened as I walked to the kitchen.

Morning, I said. I kissed Dale and he helped me settle at the table. My mouth formed the closest thing to a smile it could muster in my foul mood, though it ended up as a cross between a sneer and a smile, what my father used to call a snile.

How did you sleep? Dale asked, stroking my hair. Mornings at the Presley house were so predictable, sometimes I expected to see a script.

Fine. Standard answer number four. It usually satisfied any question from How are you doing? to How was your day? Especially when used as a response for people who didn’t really care, but had been raised to be polite.

Dale didn’t fit into that category. He usually frowned and made a growling noise in his throat at my pat response. He sincerely wanted to know how I’d slept, but I saw no point in reciting the ugly details.

It’s Saturday, but you’re not wearing your gardening clothes. Are you going to work? I asked, steering him onto another subject.

I need to go to the office for a little while. I should be back in a couple of hours. Now that tax season’s over things are getting back to normal, but I have some papers I want to get ready for next week. A CPA’s work is never done. He dramatically placed his hand over his heart. I laughed.

You’re like the mail carrier. Regardless of weather, natural disasters or nuclear war you’ll keep on crunching numbers.

I hope I’d have sense enough to stop in a nuclear war. Give me some credit.

I tried to be in a good mood when Dale left for work, so he wouldn’t worry about me while he was gone. If I made the mistake of letting him see how I struggled in the mornings, he’d leave with a concerned look and I’d feel guilty. All the rah-rah literature and MS support groups told me I had nothing to feel guilty about, but the feeling gnawed at me just the same.

From the stove, Dale said, I hear you took Adam to see Miss Tillman yesterday.

Gee, I didn’t think the billboard went up until tomorrow. Look, I know how much you hate it when I let Maggie talk me into doing things like that. I’m sorry, Dale, but she’s my sister. Besides, I thought I could help Adam.

From what I heard, the meeting didn’t help anyone. Why didn’t you tell me about it?

I mentally ticked off my excuses. I knew you’d be upset, I made a mess of things and didn’t want to admit it, you would have gone on and on about Maggie using me and Adam being out of control...

Cilla?

I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react just like this. I know you don’t understand, Dale, but I felt needed. That doesn’t happen very often anymore.

Shawna and I need you.

You have to help me with practically everything, and Shawna’s up in Iowa City starting a life of her own. That doesn’t feel like being needed to me.

Dale sighed and shook his head. I think I’ll go to work. Whatever I say will just upset you more.

So much for making the morning pleasant, I thought, as the familiar mantle of guilt settled on my shoulders.

I’m sorry, Dale. I’m not trying to be difficult.

I know. It just comes naturally.

Yeah, thanks for understanding.

Take good care of my Cilla, Brute. He ignored my sarcasm and handed the dog his morning rawhide treat.

After Dale left, Brute trotted over to me with rawhide and a string of slobber hanging from his mouth. He flopped down at my feet and chewed the smelly strip.

I left my dishes and came back for them an hour later when I’d loosened up enough to bend over the dishwasher. By then I’d gotten dressed, grumbled, given myself an injection, grumbled, tried to think of something I could do to feel useful and grumbled some more. I glared at my cane, the visible proof to myself and everyone else that I wasn’t normal, much as I longed to pretend otherwise.

My father labored over the intricate hand-carved cane to soften my mother’s own disgust when she couldn’t walk steadily because of MS. I quit college to care for her as she progressed from cane to wheelchair to bed, since my father and sister never seemed to be around. Heavy sadness pooled in my stomach at the thought of putting Shawna and Dale through that.

Walk time, Brute, I called, shaking off my self-pity but not the accompanying gloom.

Brute ran, leash in mouth, and stood by the door to the garage. His tail thumped against the wall like a tribal drum, increasing to a frenetic pace that would have had the dancers twirling in circles before they collapsed from exhaustion.

It didn’t seem like eight years since he’d been a little white puppy with one ear that stood up and one that flopped forward.

Dale and I hadn’t considered a teenaged girl’s hormonal mood swings when we brought him home the day Shawna went to her first prom. I hate German Shepherds, she announced, as we proudly presented the squirming puppy. And who ever heard of a white one? Gross!

We flunked ‘Parenting 101’ again, Dale whispered into my ear.

Shawna raced around getting ready for the dance and Brute thought it was a delightful game. His mini-mistress wasn’t in the mood for games. When he jumped up on her black silk dress and snagged the skirt, she’d shrieked, You brute, look what you’ve done. Our new puppy had a name.

I smiled at the memory as we got in the car. Brute thrust his head out the open back window, into the wind. I imagined all the smells that must bombard his nose. Soil, mown grass, other dogs, sun-warmed asphalt, cats, peonies, maybe an occasional skunk as we drove into the country outside Cedar Creek; and, of course, Iowa cornfields.

We’d begun walking in the country a year earlier after I kept stumbling in our neighborhood and knew the neighbors were watching. I didn’t want everyone in town talking about poor Cilla. It bespoke the lie when I gave them standard answer number four.

When we got out of the car, I grabbed Brute’s leash. His eyes begged for freedom, and I relented. There wouldn’t be anyone else around for him to bother. I stuck the leash in my pocket, envious of his independence.

Brute bounded in and out of the corn, never out of sight for more than a moment. He always glanced at me before venturing into the field or the tall brush in the ditch at the side of the road. Brute wasn’t a trained assist dog, not formally trained, at least. He’d trained himself, and me. He sensed my mood and abilities hour by hour.

He’d often wedge himself against my legs to keep me from falling, or bring me things he thought I needed. Shoes, pillows, dropped spools of thread and once, Dale’s greasy fix-it shirt from the hamper. I never figured out why he brought that treasure, but imagined he’d either been telling me it was time to do laundry or he expected me to fix the squeaky screen door.

The birdsong and the breeze rustling in the tops of the trees soothed me. No cars passed and I relaxed, knowing we were alone. I thought about yesterday’s fiasco with Adam and Miss Tillman. Did Maggie follow through with the tutoring? If she did, had Adam gone for the session last night? Why couldn’t I tell Maggie to handle her own problems? I shoved the tip of my cane into the gravel road, making bigger holes with each jab.

When will you learn to mind your own business? Adam is Maggie and Halsey’s problem, so stay out of their affairs. I knew that would be hard to do, especially if Maggie kept begging me to help.

My face sought the sun; its warmth smoothed the rough edges of my morning despair. When I finished basking, I saw Brute nosing at something in the roadside ditch at the edge of the cornfield.

Yipping and barking, he ran back to me and pranced around like a child who needs to pee. He looked at the spot he’d come from, and then back at me. His yips turned to whines, broadcasting an urgent canine message. Impatient with my failure to move, he stood behind my legs and leaned into me. I stumbled forward. Having made his point, he ran back to the weeds and waited.

I walked to the edge of the road and looked into the ditch. A blur of yellow peeked out amidst green sprouts, black dirt and brown grasses. I wasn’t sure I could get down there to see what the yellow patch was. Even if I made it down, getting out again would be another matter. Brute bounded up the incline and nudged my hand with his nose.

What is it, Brute?

He answered with an eerie whine I’d never heard before. Goose bumps crawled up my arms. I grabbed his collar and my cane and we inched down the bank, ending up knee-deep in weeds, slime, and trash. Stagnant puddles lay disguised here and there under all the brush. The air hummed with mosquitoes. I edged forward, my cane