Jill’s cat, Miss Chivis, was busily pooping in next door neighbor Sherry Angevine’s yard. Sherry glared out the window as Miss Chivis scratched up a big pile of pine needles to semi-cover her transgression. Sherry wondered how many times Jill’s cat or dog had pooped in her yard while she’d been at book club. It was yet another reason to hate Jill Caulfield.
There were actually many, many reasons to hate Jill. The leaf blower that blared every Saturday morning and many Sundays. The oh-so-perfect flower beds with just the right color combinations of impatiens or pansies. The five million Christmas lights that went up two weeks before Thanksgiving and came down two weeks after Christmas and lit up the neighborhood like a carnival.
But Sherry had found a way to funnel her anger against Jill and get revenge on her at exactly the same time. She had a secret.
Willow let herself into her house and sat down on a corner of a sofa draped with six different cats, all in various stages of napping. There were eight more felines in other parts of the house and a couple of feral cat families that used her backyard as a home base. All five of the dogs came barreling up to greet her and she absently scratched them behind the ears.
Willow had consulted the stars and read her tea leaves, but hadn’t yet found any answers to her problem. How could she get her sister to leave Cullen Caulfield? Jill was wasting her life with Cullen. Willow thought about Jill’s volunteer work and how much more she could do if she didn’t have Cullen drinking through all the money she scrabbled together. He treated his body like a sewer and just poured in that poison all day long.
Willow knew how he treated Jill, too. He yelled at her and belittled her and acted like her sole purpose in life was to wait on him hand and foot. And now Jill had invited over half the town of Bradley, North Carolina, to show off their dysfunctional household?
Cullen would probably drink for hours leading up to the party. And he wasn’t one to stay hidden in the back of the house, either. No, he’d be right in with everyone else—laughing too loud, falling over things, knocking glasses over and yelling at his wife. Unless Willow found a way to stop him.
Blanche arrived home, totally drained from book club. This supper club was going to be a disaster. Now, instead of spending an hour and a half with Jill Caulfield, she was going to have to spend ... what? Three or four hours with her? It was intolerable, she thought, as she slipped on designer label sweats and started walking on her treadmill.
But what excuse could Blanche possibly give for getting out of it? Maybe it would have been better if she’d volunteered to host it herself. There was a lot more room in her own house to avoid Jill than in Jill’s cramped bungalow with her alcoholic husband. And how was she going to survive another gathering where Saint Jill’s praises were lauded? Book club had been bad enough with Tippy spouting off about Jill’s cleaning prowess.
There was really no way to avoid this supper club. It was Bradley, after all: a small town. Escaping Jill Caulfield wasn’t a long-term option. Unless something changed, Jill would remain an annoying thorn in her side. Blanche could only hope something would happen to Jill. If only she would disappear ...
Georgia was glad Jill was hosting supper club. She’d never be invited to Jill’s house any other way. This could give her an opportunity to stab Jill in the back a few times. She imagined herself now: Well, it is good barbeque. But I’d rather be a good person instead of a good cook. Maybe she could put a sticky note in Jill’s bathroom, saying what a pill Jill was. People were always saying, “Poor Jill! Taking care of that no-good husband and working two jobs!” But Georgia knew the truth about Jill. And she was ready to share it with everybody she knew.
Simon Caulfield said, “Excuse me? Jill is hosting a supper club at her house? For how many people?”
His wife, Libba, shrugged. “I’m guessing thirty or forty? There are usually about fifteen of us who make it to book club and then you count the spouses in there ... well, it’ll be a big group.”
“And she volunteered to host the main course? That’s nuts! She cleans houses, for Pete’s sake. She cleans our house sometimes.”
Libba shook her head in frustration. “I’d rather she didn’t though. Sometimes I get a funny feeling about her. And we really can’t afford the help.”
Simon said, “You need the help with the housework, Libba. Especially if the cancer is coming out of remission. While we can still afford the help, we need to get it for you.”
Libba was no fan of Jill’s, but felt the need to point out, “Jill is only cleaning houses because your brother can’t hold down a job. The dinner won’t be as big of a splurge as it sounds—several of the members are bringing sides. But I don’t want to go. Cullen is so embarrassing. He’ll probably be staggering around drunk the whole time. Can we stay at home?”
“No. I think we need to go and make sure Cullen doesn’t make a fool of himself and embarrass us even more.”
Libba picked off the last bit of pink nail polish that she’d only just painted on that morning.
Progressive Dinner Deadly Page 3