Murder in Mayberry. Jack Branson
she said, moving away without making eye contact.
I breathed a raspy sigh of relief and wiped my now-raw nose just as Judy approached. “I heard you were sick. That little coat you had on last night won’t keep you warm at the cemetery. You can wear mine.”
I hugged Judy, being careful not to turn my runny nose toward her. I appreciated her gesture, but I told myself. Keep your guard up. No one’s eliminated as a suspect.
For the service, the immediate family was ushered into a separate room just off the main one—Janet and David, Iva Ray, Grace, Earl and his family, his daughter and granddaughter, Ann’s fiancé Bob and me. I sat on the back row, along with Bob.
From the family’s room, we could see the ministers and musicians and the first few rows of mourners. We watched as the pallbearers made their way solemnly to the front row. Janet and David’s sons had just flown in from California and Ohio, dressed in pricey suits befitting their professional positions. Equally well-dressed were Russell and Jack. Earl’s daughter’s boyfriend was dressed in a more modest suit. Brenda’s brother wore dark cotton pants, shirt and tie and a navy-colored outdoor jacket.
The pallbearers were stone-faced, as their assignment demanded. Inside the family room, we could weep in private. But the atmosphere was quiet and stoic.
As the minister spoke, I watched Jack’s face, knowing that behind the steely stare was a broken, grieving heart. No one but me noticed his slightly set jaw and the rhythmic tapping of his clenched fist against his thigh. Knowing how he was hurting, I told myself that the other family members were hurting, too. And yet, one of them could be the killer.
As the service progressed, Bob began to sob quietly. I wanted to comfort him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so.
After the service, we filed by for a final look at the body—first, the hundreds of mourners in the large room and then the family. Bob walked in front of me, bent over and sobbing. Seemingly from nowhere, Connie appeared at his side. Draping her arm around his frail shoulder, she audibly comforted him.
The snow made for treacherous driving, so Jack drove his mother and me to the cemetery, quickly joining the other pallbearers when we arrived. He walked with his mother and me up the snow-covered knoll to the open grave, then hurried back to the hearse. Snow flurries blurred the pallbearers’ vision as they trudged up the small hill to the grave.
At that moment, I was especially thankful not to be a man. Not to have to lift a coffin which contained someone I loved. Jack had done this many times, but today I knew the burden was especially great. Loved ones had died of cancer, heart conditions and other natural causes. Never had we lost someone to a violent crime.
The gray, cloudy sky and scattered snow flurries added to the somber feel of the graveside service. The closer relatives sat in folding chairs under a small canopy beside the open grave. In spite of my cold, I decided not to sit under the shelter—the blood thing and all. There would be one or two who would whisper, even if just inwardly, “What’s she doing sitting with the family?”
While the others went to Connie and Tom’s, Jack and I snuggled up on Iva Ray’s couch, eating leftovers from well-wishers and nursing my now fully developed cold.
Iva Ray was animated when she returned from Tom and Connie’s.
“The family wants to go in on an investigator,” she told Jack excitedly. “You say you have someone?”
“I’m already scheduled to meet with him Monday afternoon,” said Jack. “I’ll tell him to work through Earl.”
I soon learned that I could weep without warning. With minimal emotion, I’d tell five people what we knew so far about the murder. Then, to my own surprise, I’d begin crying as I told the sixth.
I’d walk into the mall with so much rage that I’d hope someone would try to grab my purse so I could attack them with my fists. One day, I told a sales clerk in the photography department of a store—a complete stranger—about the murder.
I became afraid to walk down our basement stairs when I was alone in the house. I couldn’t watch murder scenes in suspense movies. I didn’t want our grandsons, Taylor and Elliott, to play with their oversized rubber Lego swords any longer.
We brought Ann’s portrait home and hung it in our dining room. The first time we had the family over for supper, eight-year-old Elliott pulled a chair in front of the portrait so he could pretend that Aunt Ann was eating with us.
During the meal, Elliott began talking about next Thanksgiving and Christmas. With holiday family stacked up like airplanes over Chicago, Elliott usually wandered around with his pillow, looking for a bed with space enough for a wiry little boy to crawl in.
“Sometimes I sleep with Granny Ive, and sometimes I sleep with Aunt Ann. It’s funny to sleep with Aunt Ann, because her feet are always cold,” Elliott giggled. I looked quizzically at Penny.
“He knows,” she whispered. “He just thinks if he doesn’t acknowledge it, it won’t be true.”
Older brother Taylor responded openly to Elliott. “She’s dead, Elliott. A bad guy broke into her house and killed her. Aunt Ann’s not coming at Christmas. You just have to get used to it.”
Jack didn’t sleep well, and he thought about the murder constantly. Just as he’d start to relax most nights, our phone would ring and the caller ID would indicate a call from Madisonville. And after he talked about the murder, he’d have another sleepless night. His alarm sounded each morning at 3:20 a.m., regardless of how many hours he’d stayed awake trying to focus on anything but Ann lying lifeless at the bottom of her basement stairs.
Neither of us could comprehend how something this horrible could happen in our normal family. But we knew from experience that we can’t make sense out of a tragedy while we’re in the middle of it. It’s only when we reach the other side of the valley that we can look back and see how the path brought us eventually to higher, safer ground. It’s only then that we realize that the path set for us is exactly the one we would have chosen – if we could have seen the destination.
I knew we’d be stronger not in spite of what we’d gone through, but because of it. But no one—while walking through the fire—can say, “Let me walk a little longer. The heat will make me strong.” But when the fire cools and we see that we’re durable and strong, then we understand.
Right now, the other side of the valley wasn’t in sight, the fire was still raging and it would be a long time till we could make sense of anything associated with Ann’s death.
Monday, January 20. Jack and I returned to work. We spent the evenings trying to put the pieces of the crime puzzle together. The whodunit overshadowed the grieving process, and I resented not having the energy to mourn. I was a marketing director with a small family of staff. My team was incredibly sensitive and allowed me to talk about the murder when I felt like it and push it to the back of my mind when I could. Mostly, I needed to talk.