The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set

by Margaret Moseley

  “You’re going to have to come down and entertain my friend Janie while I get dressed for a funeral,” I told him. “I’ll make some coffee. She brought breakfast, so come on down. Now.”

  “Okay, okay,” he groaned through half-opened eyes, and he started down the stairs behind me.

  I was nearly at the bottom—right past the second floor—when I realized he was behind me. I turned and held up a restraining hand, which caught the still mostly asleep man in the chest as he continued to half-fall down the steps. “No, stupid. Go get dressed, then come down.”

  This was when Silas walked around the side of the house.

  “Honey?” Silas’s voice was tentative. “Are you all right?”

  “Silas,” I said. Brightly.

  “Silas?” Steven said. Not so brightly, but I certainly thought friendly enough. He opened both his eyes and held out his hand. “Steven Hyatt.”

  “Steven Hyatt?” asked Silas, coming up the few remaining steps to shake Steven’s hand, but turning to look at me. “Steven Hyatt of the ‘Let’s all come to the grave, my friend’ telephone calls?”

  “ ‘How far is it called to the grave?’ “ I corrected.

  “ ‘It’s only a life, dear friend,’ “ Steven replied, and for one long beat, we smiled and stared into one another’s eyes, remembering.

  “Welcome home from Australia, Mr. Hyatt,” said Silas.

  “Thank you, it’s good to be here,” answered my friend.

  “Think you can answer a few questions … just routine, of course?” Silas asked Steven.

  Steven looked at me.

  “Its okay,” I said. “He’s a detective. Silas Sampson.”

  Steven still looked blank.

  Impatient, I snapped, “Its about Steven Miller. You know. The murder.”

  “Oh, sure, sure, come on up. Honey, you said something about coffee?” Silas and I watched as Steven’s thin but muscular legs strutted back up the steps.

  “I can explain, Silas.”

  “Later.” He looked at me again, his eyes taking in the rumpled look of me. I certainly wasn’t looking my best around men these days. “Are you going to bring up some coffee?” he asked as he followed Steven.

  “No.”

  “No?” He turned and stared down at me.

  “No,” I said again, “but you and Steven are welcome to come down and have a cup with me and my friend, Janie. Which by the way, Mr. Detective Silas Sampson, is what I had come outside to tell my friend, Steven Hyatt, just before you arrived.” I started toward the front door. “By the way again,” I shouted up at him, “it’s not eight o’clock yet. What are you doing here?”

  “I came to tell you about Steven Miller’s funeral this morning. At ten o’clock. I tried to call you last night, but your answering machine is broken.”

  “I knew that,” I said, and I left with him wondering if I meant I knew about Steven Miller’s funeral or about the malfunctioning machine.

  Janie was trying to fix the coffee using the old metal percolator left over from the aunts’ time in the house. “It’s like camping out,” she told me as she assembled the various parts of the pot.

  I sneaked a peek as I reached inside the pantry for coffee. The loose boards still covered the you-know-what, but with new strangers in the house—making themselves at home no less—I’d have to take care of the little windfall I’d discovered the day before. “It makes good coffee,” I assured Janie as she filled the pot with water. “Think of it as a permanent Mr. Coffee filter.”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” she laughed. “I was fixing coffee in this kind of pot before you were born, but I gotta admit it’s been a while. There.” She put the pot on the gas burner. “Hope I remember how to know when it’s done.” Looking at me, she snorted, “Why, I swear, Honey, you’re not dressed yet. Run on, now. I’ll set these out.” And she grabbed at the baker’s sack as I skedaddled upstairs.

  “Nothing fancy,” I heard her call up the stairwell to my room. “Just your basic black will do. Like mine.”

  What to do.

  There was nothing black in my closet, and I didn’t know where in the world to look in the war room for something suitable to wear to a funeral. It just goes to show you. You think you’re so organized—I looked at the neat, shrouded rows of clothes hanging there—and then something unexpected happens like a man dying in your living room, and the next thing you know, you need black clothes to wear to a funeral.

  I finally found a full, black cotton skirt in a bag marked Fall—Second Week, which made me look too young, and a black cotton sweater in a four-weeks-later bag, which might make me too hot. The costume did nothing for my slight curves, but hey, what did that matter? It was more important to dress the part.

  Silas, Steven Hyatt, and Janie were sitting around my dining room table eating kolaches and drinking what smelled like very strong coffee when I came downstairs. Stopping for a minute at the small door that led in from the hall, I took a long look at the group. Who are these people, I thought, and what are they doing in my house eating and talking like it was the normal thing to do? Which it wasn’t. It was Tuesday, and I should be … Where? Oh, no, where should I be?

  I was getting ready to bolt back upstairs to check my itinerary when Silas spotted me.

  “Honey, we’ve saved you a sausage whatcha-macallit. Janie says they’re your favorite.”

  Janie didn’t know, Silas knew but probably didn’t remember, but Steven Hyatt knew and remembered. He shrugged his lean shoulders and gave me an apologetic glance. “Maybe it’s time,” he mouthed using the same phrase he’d uttered last night when I’d complained about the people invasion I’d experienced.

  It had been Steven Hyatt, of course, who had taken over when Mother and Father died like they did. He had called Bondesky, who had called the lawyer, who had told me things I didn’t understand. I cried, and Bondesky had said, “Christ, who’s gonna take care of her?”

  And Steven Hyatt had said, “I will.”

  But I’d been shy about letting him into the house, and we had continued to meet upstairs, and that’s where he had written down everything that I was supposed to do for the next week. And then, the next month, and then, the one after that. After that, of course, he was gone, but his schedules kept coming from Austin, some scribbled on the backs of essays he’d written for his university classes, marked A over F. A for content, F for spelling.

  And somewhere in the next few years, I’d started writing my own schedules and making my own decisions like what classes to take at TCJC, how to shop for groceries or clothes, and where to get a job. And when to take a lover.

  Steven nearly choked when I told him about it during one spring break. “It was absolutely glorious,” I said, “but then I realized I really didn’t like him, just his body. I used him, Steven.”

  That was before I had my hair cut and permed, so it just fell over my eyes in a long sweep that Steven Hyatt pushed aside to kiss my forehead and whisper, “No, I don’t think so, Honey. I think he got as good as he gave. And you don’t see him anymore?”

  “No, I felt too guilty. And then, too, he wanted more.”

  “More? Than what?”

  “Steven,” I said looking seriously into his green eyes, “he wanted to come into the house.”

  I took a deep breath and entered the dining room. Steven Hyatt had the grace to stand and pull out a chair for me. Our eyes met. We both knew I had just passed over a line—a thin line, but a point of demarcation nonetheless. From now on, I could never again say that no one ever came into my house.

  Silas and Janie were getting on like a house afire. You think you know someone—I’d known Janie four years—and yet, you never really know anyone. Knowing she was a mystery fanatic and seeing her in action were two different things. Her blue eyes squinted, widened, and narrowed again as she listened to Silas go on about his work and himself. He was so wound up, flattered that she was so interested, that words fairly bubbled out of his mouth like oil ou
t of the ground.

  I heard a few words I recognized like “ammo” and “bust,” but Janie kept on nodding when he said things like “a one eighty-seven” or “twist” or even “a barrel of little red apples.” She was in her element, and when Silas went to the kitchen to get more coffee, she leaned over her untouched cup and said, “I’m in love.” But in an afterthought, she added in the universal Peggy-at-the-cleaner’s code, “But, Honey, he’ll never believe you. He’s a good cop, but he won’t be able to help you.”

  “I know,” I said, trying to sound like a pro. “That’s what they tell me on the streets.”

  TWENTY–THREE

  Janie wore black gloves with her outfit, heavy black ones that reached well past the wrist bone, but not as far as the elbow. She was a little upset that I hadn’t any but was mollified a little when I agreed to let her slap a black straw hat, complete with a short, tasteful veil, on my head, where it nestled among my corkscrew curls. She kept the hat in her car trunk for just such emergencies. “You just never know, Honey.”

  You also never know about funerals.

  What I had intended as an unobtrusive, discreet entrance turned into a parade of sorts. Janie led me by my elbow to the front of the funeral parlor—the Millers weren’t churchgoers—to greet the family who were doing their duty in a dark, uneven lineup. Steven Hyatt, whom I had insisted accompany us, followed in a black-and-white striped, summer sport coat circa the 1920s. “It’s not a costume,” he’d insisted. “I wear it every day, and ‘sides, it’s the only thing I own that’s got black in it, unless you let me wear my T-shirt.”

  Going ahead of me, Janie stage-whispered to the first mourner in line, “I’m Janie Bridges, a friend of Honey Huckleberry’s. Here to support her. You know. She found the body.” She moved on to the next in line, repeating her litany.

  I reached out and took the hand of the man in front of me. Embarrassed by Janie’s introduction, I whispered in a real whisper, “I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Steven Miller,” said the young man.

  “Yes, I’m sorry about your father … Steven Miller.”

  “No, I’m Steven Miller,” he said.

  “You’re Steven Miller?” I asked incredulously in a normal but very loud sounding voice.

  “Yes, I was Steven Miller, Jr., but now I’m just Steven Miller.”

  “Of course you are,” I replied and moved on to the next one, also a man.

  “I’m sorry about your … your … death,” I mumbled and ran past the others, pumping hands as I went, Steven Hyatt only nodded as he sidestepped past the group. I caught up with Janie about five relatives down the line.

  “Found the body, did you?” a large woman asked as I paused in front of her, hand outstretched.

  “Yes.” Why deny it now?

  I wanted to sink into the nearest pew, but Janie dragged me back toward the end of the rows of the small chapel. “This way we can see everybody,” she said. “We can’t miss him.”

  It was downright embarrassing, causing more attention than the corpse, but subsequent mourners were dutifully informed that I—“the one who found him”—was present and identified by “she’s the one with the red hair and black hat” or “black sweater and red face.” With red and black being the prime locators.

  I genuinely mourned Steven Miller. He had been my friend and protector. He’d died in my house as I had held his hand. I had shared in his death, and I was diminished because of it, but it was obvious that I wasn’t going to be allowed to grieve for my friend at his funeral service.

  It wasn’t real, anyway. Not the flowers I’d sent, the telephone calls I’d made to his widow, or the card I had written legitimized Steven Miller’s death. That would only come for me when I saddled up and headed out of Fort Worth on another sales trip at five o’clock in the morning, hitting me when I would stop for gas and a final checkup before moving out. I used to like knowing that Steven Miller and I were the only ones awake in the city. Now I would miss that comfort and miss his customary benediction before my journeys. I would miss him in my life.

  We stood to pray, and Janie whipped out a small notepad. I stared at it, wanting to knock it out of her hand. Aghast at her nerve but fascinated by her first entry—achieved only after she’d flipped several pages filled with what looked to be a recipe for either gold or chocolate meringue pie—“IV posbs,” was scribbled at the top of the blue-lined page balanced in the palm of her hand. When the minister gave everyone permission to sit down, Janie continued to scratch an account of Steven Miller’s funeral into her private record.

  “HH nervs,” was the next description of the event.

  “You’ve got that right,” I whispered into her ear, “nervous that you’re going to get us thrown out of here.” Then, curious, I pointed to the first inscription. “What does ‘IV’ mean? Isn’t that a medical term?”

  “Four. I think I see four possible suspects.”

  “You do?” I looked around. “Who are they?”

  Janie shook her head. “No. First you tell me who you see.”

  With everyone now praying from a sitting position, I risked looking around the small but appropriately furnished chapel to see what I could see. I put my hand on my knee, spreading a finger for each “posbs” I counted.

  Janie nudged me. “No, Honey, whisper them to me and I’ll write them down.”

  With my mouth in her ear, I related, “Going by your original criteria, which was to see how many people I recognize, here’s the list. One. Silas Sampson. He’s standing in back, doing the same thing we’re doing.

  “Then two, me.” Janie wrote HH right under Si-Samp. “Oh, and there’s Ralph.” She looked up and I added, “That’s Dr. Ralph Ketchum … with a K.” I pointed to the top of Ralph’s round, neatly combed head, bent in prayer, two pews behind us. “He’s the head of the clinic next door, and Steven Miller worked for them, too. I guess he’s representing the staff and other doctors.”

  Suddenly I gasped.

  “What? Where?” Janie’s head was bobbing from side to side like a doll on a dashboard.

  “There on the right. One … two … three rows down? The guy who looks like he belongs in the funnies? That’s Steven Bondesky. I didn’t know he knew Steven Miller. No, wait; that’s not true. Bondesky pays my bills, and I knew he knew of Steven Miller, but good lord, would you look at that?”

  “What? What?”

  “There by the door, standing behind Silas. The man with one ear? Or rather, the man with the filthy bandages over one ear? That’s Jimmy, the something or other who works for Bondesky.”

  “Does he smell as bad as he looks?” There’s nothing slow about Janie.

  “Yes, he does. Wonder what he’s doing here?”

  Steven Hyatt punched me in the ribs. “Would you two be quiet? You’re embarrassing me.”

  I shut up, but Janie gave him a scathing look and deliberately added, “StvHyt” to her growing list.

  With the first note of the postlude, Janie hauled me up and over the last pews so that we were posted by the door when the mourners exited. Steven Hyatt walked right past us, like he didn’t know us, and Silas, standing across the floor space from us, frowned in a warning manner, but Janie blithely ignored them both and shook hands with the departing throng just like she’d earlier greeted them. I’m sure they thought she was part of the family. As a matter of fact, I’m sure the family thought she was part of the family.

  “Pleased to meet ya,” Steven Bondesky said to Janie. “Sorry about your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Moving to stand in front of me, my accountant said, “I thought I’d find you here. I need to see you, Huckleberry.”

  “Let’s step outside,” I said.

  Janie followed us at what for her was a discreet distance. Steven Bondesky can be intimidating.

  The day was slowly heating up. Spring was almost over, and summers in Fort Worth are only better than Houston because of the lower humidity, which is t
o say they’re hot but not so wet. But you couldn’t prove it by Steven Bondesky, who was already wiping sweat away from his thick, white face. It was the first time I’d ever seen him away from his office. No, come to think of it, he’d been at my father’s funeral. It’s strange, I thought, the only time I see Steven Bondesky away from his office is at funerals.

  I took the initiative. “I want to talk to you, too.”

  “Yeah? What about?”

  “I can’t say here.” Janie was too close. But I gave him a hint. “You know what you’ve always said I had and I said I didn’t? Well, now I do.”

  “Oh, you finally found it,” he said.

  “Shh. You never know who’s listening.”

  “I like that you’re careful, Huckleberry. Yeah, come by the office. I’ll talk to you there about it. But what I want now is to tell you I got the Plymouth Voyager for you. Jimmy here”—and I was surprised to find the crumpled creep standing at my elbow—“he’ll bring it by later, if you’re going to be home.”

  “Sure,” I said bravely. Maybe I could get Janie to stay awhile. I knew Steven Hyatt wouldn’t be any protection.

  “Okay, then.” As he lumbered away, his massive frame swaying to and fro from the effort, he growled, “And come see me about the other. I told ya it was there, ya know.”

  I watched him climb into the rear of a black limo—Jimmy was driving—and as it pulled away from the curb, the next car pulled up. Ralph went around and slid into the passenger seat in front—next to Joaquin!

  “Everybody’s here,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Janie’s face beamed with pure bliss as she followed my gaze. I had pointed the gardener out to her while he worked in my backyard that very morning. “It’s just like in the books,” she said.

  “So, you think we’ve seen the murderer this morning?” I asked Janie. We were headed for the Malibu, Steven Hyatt supporting us across the uneven pavement of the funeral home parking lot by offering each of us a crooked elbow to hang onto.