The Plot Is Murder

by V. M. Burns

  Nana Jo and the girls headed up the steps to the front door. I took a few deep breaths. The ostentatious country club was a sore spot for me. Despite the fact we were in the twenty-first century, South Harbor Country Club continued to adhere to ancient rules of discrimination and separatism. Several legal battles had forced them to take their discriminatory practices under cover. SHARC’s bylaws no longer specifically denied membership to African Americans, Jews, women, and all other minorities. However, the stringent rules for admittance, along with the exceptionally steep membership fees, ensured the club membership remained haughty and homogenous.

  Leon and I had participated in several protests just outside the gates, despite the fact neither of us golfed. The protests died down a few years ago, when the Senior Professional Golf Association (SPGA) built a new course in North Harbor as a part of the North Harbor revitalization efforts. The professional quality course attracted golfers from all over the world. Many locals abandoned SHARC for the newer course.

  Up close, SHARC looked ancient. I was surprised Nana Jo and the girls wanted to set foot in the place.

  “Come on. Let’s get this over with so we can get away from this racist mausoleum,” Nana Jo said as I reached the front porch.

  “Amen.” Ruby Mae plastered a smile on her face and walked through the large double doors with her head held high.

  A tuxedo-clad maître d’ led us to a reception room filled with faces I remembered from the television screen, both at the funeral and in advertisements soliciting votes. There were more people at the reception than at the church. We stopped at the edge of the crowd. Dorothy flagged down a passing waiter, and we each grabbed a glass of champagne.

  Nana Jo held up her glass and addressed the troops, “All right, ladies, time to divide and conquer.”

  We clinked our glasses in a toast and each took a sip. The girls spread out and left Nana Jo and me alone.

  Nana Jo scanned the crowd. I gulped my champagne and snatched another from a passing waiter.

  “You better ease up on that or you’ll find yourself puking, especially with nothing in your stomach,” Nana Jo said.

  She was right. I never was much of a drinker, but standing in the crowd of hoity-toity bigwigs left me feeling like a fish out of water. My pulse raced, and I started to sweat. I needed a bit of courage, even if it came through artificial channels. But, I agreed and promised to grab some appetizers.

  “See that really pathetic-looking man in the crumpled blue suit?” Nana Jo pointed to the front of the room. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s David Parker, Clayton Parker’s uncle.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I looked him up on Facebook.” Once again, Nana Jo sounded like she was talking to a child. “I’m going to see what I can get out of him.” And away she went.

  I stood by myself, unsure of my next move. I downed my second glass of bubbly and handed my glass to a waiter, who offered me another. I accepted. I would just hold this one. I wound my way around waiters and guests. Irma preened in the middle of a group of men admiring her . . . assets. Ruby Mae sat at a table talking to several people. A young man brought her a plate of food, which obviously hadn’t come from the appetizer trays the waiters carried around the room. Real food. Maybe she knew someone who worked in the kitchen.

  No sign of Dorothy. She was most likely in the ladies’ room. I wandered aimlessly until I spotted a bright red dress. The Widow Parker. I made my way in her direction. I didn’t realize I’d finished my glass of champagne until a waiter offered me another, my third. Or was it my fourth?

  Up close, Clayton Parker’s widow was stunning. Not what one would call skinny, although she was fit and toned. Her Louboutin heels made her well over six feet tall. Barefooted, she was probably five foot seven. Short dark hair and dark eyes, combined with a deep tan, gave her an exotic appearance. She turned from the elderly couple giving their condolences, and I was face-to-face with my former enemy’s wife.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  Although I’d spent the seconds it took to make my way to Mrs. Parker formulating what I would say, my mind went blank and my mouth went dry. A waiter offered me another glass of champagne. I didn’t even remember drinking the last one, but I gratefully accepted and downed it.

  “I . . . uh . . . I wanted to give you my condolences on the loss of . . . your husband.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.” Mrs. Parker extended her hand and we shook.

  Someone approached. Mrs. Parker turned to greet them but stopped. I hadn’t released her hand.

  Her face held a frozen smile and a question.

  A wave of guilt overtook me, and I had to say something. I pulled her close and whispered, “Your husband died in my backyard.”

  Her eyes, wide as silver dollars, darted from left to right. She was searching for something or someone. Her hand went cold and trembled in mine. She opened her mouth as if to speak but didn’t. She swayed and would have fallen if not for the tall, handsome man who appeared and caught her.

  “Diana? Dearest?” Mr. Amazing’s whisper held a heavy Russian accent. He patted her cheeks and scowled at me. “What did you do to her?”

  I didn’t feel so hot myself and scowled back while I tried to figure out what I’d done to her. I grew hot. The room spun. Maybe this is what overtook Mrs. Parker. I leaned forward and puked on Mr. Gorgeous’s leather shoes.

  In one graceful movement, he scooped up Mrs. Parker and carried her away.

  The next thing I remember, I was laying on my own sofa with a damp cloth on my forehead and a wastebasket on my chest. Nana Jo and a tall, stocky man dressed like a penguin hovered over me.

  “Looks like you’ll live,” Nana Jo said, without the least bit of sympathy in her voice.

  I groaned and made good use of the wastebasket. When I finished, she brought me another towel to wipe my face and replaced the liner in the wastebasket.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You made a spectacle of yourself.” Nana Jo handed the bag to the Penguin. She went to the kitchen and banged cabinet doors.

  My head was twice its normal size and throbbed as though someone was using it for a drum.

  “Stop,” I wanted to scream, but it came out as a whimper.

  Nana Jo quit banging doors. When she turned on the faucet, it sounded like I was standing underneath Niagara Falls. She returned and handed me a glass of water and four aspirin. My head weighed a ton. Nana Jo helped me sit up. I swallowed the pills and enough water to get them down.

  “What’s with the Penguin?” I whispered in her ear.

  I heard footsteps on the stairs and looked in that direction. When the Penguin appeared, Nana Jo waved him to the sofa.

  “Sam, I believe you know Dawson Alexander.”

  Dawson Alexander? Why did the name sound familiar? I might have figured it out if my head hadn’t been full of cotton. My confusion must have shown. His smile faded.

  “Hello, Mrs. Washington,” Dawson said. “I guess you don’t remember me. I used to go to—”

  “Dawson. Dawson Alexander. Of course I remember you. You were in my—” I moved too quickly. The room spun, and I needed my wastebasket. When I finished, Nana Jo swapped out the liner and helped to clean me up.

  Dawson made another trip downstairs to dispose of my bag of shame.

  “I think I have the plague,” I said.

  “Nope. You’ll live, but you probably will wish you hadn’t,” Nana Jo said.

  I fell asleep, and when I woke up, my loft was dark. The room was peaceful and quiet, except for the heavy weight on my chest and the snoring near my feet. Lifting my head was still painful, but pins no longer stabbed the backs of my eyes. My moment of panic at the weight on my chest vanished when I saw Snickers. Oreo was the buzz saw at my feet.

  My head had shrunk two sizes during my nap and was still two sizes too big. The pounding had subsided, somewhat. I didn’t want to move. I would have lain on that sofa until I drew my last breath if my ki
dneys had cooperated. No matter how much mental energy I expended, they refused to be silenced. I was forced to move. Moving dislodged the sleeping poodles, who barked and announced I was up and moving.

  After taking care of necessities, I made the mistake of looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. The phrase death warmed over would have been a compliment. I stuck my tongue out at my reflection and went to bed.

  I awoke to pitch black darkness, still feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. The bed sheets tied me down like a straitjacket. Oreo paced up and down on top of me—sadly, not an unfamiliar occurrence, but the growling was new.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Hearing my voice seemed to agitate Oreo more. He leapt from my chest to the bed. The resulting wave of nausea was, in my confined condition, terrifying. I kicked and flopped until I freed myself enough to sit up and find the wastebasket by the side of my bed. Oreo growled and scratched at the door. Snickers was curled up in a ball, sound asleep on the pillow. I didn’t remember letting the dogs out to do their business. There would be packages for me to clean up in the morning, but I couldn’t deal with getting up and walking downstairs to let them out. I ignored Oreo and went back to sleep. I’d clean up later.

  In the morning, I felt worse. My head pounded like Ricky Ricardo on the bongos. My eyelids were glued shut. The effort to wrench them free was taxing. Once I managed, yellow daggers of light squeezed between the blinds and stabbed my eyes. I immediately shut them.

  A gust of wind hit the room and opened blinds, turned on lights, and sang, “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  Nana Jo was an evil woman. I would have gladly strangled her if I could have convinced her to bring her neck down low enough for me to reach it.

  “Shoot me,” was all I managed to croak.

  I’d never noticed how loudly Nana Jo laughed until that moment.

  “Come on, sweetie. Drink this.” Nana Jo pulled the pillow off my face and pried open one eyelid. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  It was the lie I wanted to hear, the only thing that could induce me to endure the pain of opening both eyes.

  “What is it?”

  Nana Jo held a glass filled with a dark liquid that looked like something Oreo had hacked up after eating an entire bag of Doritos.

  “This is my surefire hangover remover, guaranteed to get you feeling like a human being in no time.”

  “What’s in it?” I narrowed my eyes.

  “You don’t want to know. Just hold your nose and chug it down as quickly as you can. Trust me.” Nana Jo pushed the glass into my hand and helped me sit up.

  I was suspicious but desperate. It couldn’t be worse than the way I felt. I held my nose and downed the concoction as fast as I could. The smell and taste were horrible, but the sliminess was worse.

  I sputtered and gagged, sure I would puke.

  “Swallow,” Nana Jo said.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and did as I was told.

  “Why was it slimy?” I wiped my mouth and lay back on the pillow.

  “Raw egg.”

  My stomach tensed, and I frantically hunted for my wastebasket. Nana Jo handed it to me. Just as I got my face to the basket, I belched. Loudly, but nothing came up. I waited. And waited. Nothing. I decided I wasn’t going to puke and lay back down.

  “See. You’ll be back to your old self in no time.” Nana Jo was way too perky. “Come on, you can’t stay in bed all day. I’ll let the dogs out. You better go and clean yourself. Your hair looks like a rat’s nest.” With that, Nana Jo got up and turned to go. “Come on, let’s go get a treat.” Nana Jo used the magic word. Both Snickers and Oreo followed her like she was the Pied Piper.

  I stayed in bed a few more minutes before I managed to get up and drag myself into the bathroom. I leaned against the shower walls and let the heat and steam batter my skin. Even though the water felt like torture, I started to feel better. When I finished, the aroma of coffee and the distinct smell of bacon reached me. Rather than retching, my stomach growled. It took a while to remove the fur from my teeth, but after a thorough brush and a few extra-strong swills of mouthwash, I started to feel somewhat human.

  In the kitchen, Nana Jo had a plate ready, but the strong cup of coffee was the first thing I addressed.

  “Feeling better?” Nana Jo peered at me over her cup of coffee.

  “Hmm,” I said between shoveling in food and slogging down steaming hot coffee. Once I started, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything the day before. I was starving.

  “Did you hear anything last night?” Nana Jo asked.

  “Anything like what?”

  Nana Jo didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. I thought I heard a noise. I almost went down with my gun, but I figured it was probably some drunk wandering home late from a bar.” She grinned. “Sorry, present company excluded.”

  I ignored her last comment. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  After we ate, Nana Jo, bless her soul, cleaned the kitchen. I was mobile but not speedy. I took things easy and drank a lot of water. By the end of the day, I was exhausted, but much better.

  Friday night meant poker night for Nana Jo and the girls. I decided to skip that bit of fun. Instead, a quick excursion to the British countryside was in order.

  Chapter 12

  “Lady Honorah Exeter knew Charles Parker?” Penelope leapt from her seat and dislodged Cuddles, the napping Cavalier King Charles Spaniel using her lap as a pillow. “That’s great.”

  Lady Elizabeth didn’t share her niece’s enthusiasm and continued to pour tea for her husband and niece. “Yes. She said she met him last year, on the Queen Mary when she returned from her sister’s wedding.” Lady Elizabeth calmly passed Lord William a cup.

  Ignoring the tea, Penelope clumped across the wood floors and paced in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the library walls. Despite the room’s size, a massive fireplace and comfortable, overstuffed furniture made it feel warm and cozy.

  “Dear, do sit and drink your tea before it gets cold,” Lady Elizabeth said. “All that noise is giving me a headache.”

  “Sorry.” Penelope took her seat. “I wonder what happened to the carpet?”

  “Thompkins must have sent it out to be cleaned. Now, where’s Daphne?”

  “She left for London early this morning.” Penelope took the cup her aunt offered.

  “London? Good Lord, whatever for?” Lord William blustered.

  Penelope sipped her tea and hid a smile.

  Lady Elizabeth gazed lovingly at her husband. “Dear, just because you hate going to town doesn’t mean everyone does. I believe she went shopping.”

  “Shopping? Whatever for?” Lord William discretely passed a biscuit to Cuddles.

  Penelope soberly put down her teacup. “She said she was going to look for items for her trousseau.” Penelope once again rose and paced.

  Lady Elizabeth shook her head, quietly signaling to her husband to change the subject.

  “What else did Lady Exeter say?” he asked.

  “Not much, really,” Lady Elizabeth said. “She met Charles Parker on the boat. They were about the same age and both Americans, so it was natural for them to strike up an acquaintance. She said they dined together, and I believe he saw her once or twice after they landed in England.”

  “That sounds reasonable.” Lord William helped himself to a scone.

  “Yes, but why didn’t she tell anyone she knew him?” Penelope stopped pacing.

  “I asked her the same thing.” Lady Elizabeth sipped her tea and carefully put the cup on the table.

  Penelope searched her aunt’s face. “Well? What did she say?”

  “She said she didn’t want anyone to know. She—”

  “There must be something wrong. If it was just an innocent acquaintance, then why hide it?” Penelope resumed pacing.

  “Do sit down, you’re making me dizzy,” Lady Elizabeth said.

  “Sorry.” Penelope returned to her seat.


  Lord William sipped his tea in silence.

  Both waited for Lady Elizabeth to continue.

  She wiped her hands on her napkin. “You know that Lord Exeter’s mother, the Dowager Countess, never really approved of Honorah.”

  Lord William harrumphed. “They certainly approved of her money.”

  “Yes, dear. The Exeters were in desperate need of money. Honorah’s family wanted a title. No one is saying it was a love match. But, I do think, all things considered, it seems to have been suitable. They do appear genuinely fond of each other.”

  “What does that have to do with Charles Parker’s murder?” Penelope’s confusion showed on her face.

  “The Dowager Countess barely acknowledges Honorah at social occasions.” Lady Elizabeth glanced at her niece.

  “She can be very rude,” Penelope said. “I had the misfortune of sitting next to the Dowager Countess at the Westmorelands’ dinner party. She spent thirty minutes criticizing the way Americans eat. She said it was uncivilized the way Americans cut their meat and then put down their knives. Poor Honorah couldn’t help but hear her. Her face turned bright red and every time she reached for her knife, she dropped it.”

  “I know. The poor dear,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Lady Honorah was afraid if the Dowager thought there was any connection between her and Charles Parker, she would treat her even worse.”

  “Dashed silly.” Lord William shook his head and slipped another biscuit to Cuddles. The dog sat attentively by Lord William’s side, a place food was likely to be deliberately dropped.

  “Hard to imagine how she could be much worse than she is now,” Penelope said.

  “It’s not hard for me to imagine. She was always a spiteful cat,” Lady Elizabeth said with more venom than normal for her. “Anyway, that’s why Lady Honorah didn’t want anyone to find out she knew Charles Parker. While I don’t believe Victor killed that man, I honestly don’t believe Honorah killed him either. We’ll just have to keep looking.”

  With that, Lady Elizabeth turned her attention to her tea.