The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set

by Margaret Moseley

  I sighed again and began compiling the papers I would need for the next week into a manila folder.

  While I was in the midst of these machinations, the telephone rang with a conversation that not only changed my plans but maybe the direction of my life.

  I made my own telephone call to Janie to tell her. I would have called Steven Hyatt, but I wasn’t speaking to him right now. “Get married, my foot,” I muttered as I finally gave into a full-blown snort of disgust.

  “Janie? Honey. I need some advice.”

  “And you called me?” She sounded thrilled.

  I told her about the telephone call I had just received from my boss at Constant Books. How they at the home office had been considering my request for a lighter workload: my compromise for now having all that money and still wanting to work. “They’ve already hired someone for my south Texas circuit,” I said.

  She sounded as amazed as I felt. “Oh, no. What will you do?”

  “They don’t know yet. But I am definitely not going to Houston on Monday.” No Houston. No Harry. No Bailey.

  Janie immediately came up with the same thought. “What on earth will Harry think?”

  I thought I knew. The last time I had seen him was earlier in the summer when he had shown up at my house to ask me to marry him, and he had walked into a gaggle of men in my backyard, one of them dead. This trip to South Padre was when I had promised him an answer. It would have to wait, and I was glad because I didn’t know the answer, myself.

  “This is serious stuff, Honey.”

  “I have an idea, Janie, but I’ll understand if it’s too much trouble or inconvenient.”

  “What?”

  I tried not to sound like a little girl asking her mommy for help. “Can you come and spend the night with me tonight?” I knew Janie had not only Pages to consider, but also somewhere in her life she had a husband whose name I didn’t know. I kept meaning to ask. Surely, he answered to something other than Him?

  “Of course I can. I’ll get him to watch the store tomorrow.”

  Before I could get a chance to ask his name, she added, “And we can watch the CBS special on Twyman tonight. They’re promoting it every five minutes. CBS has film on all his wives.”

  I asked dryly, “And his books, I assume? He was famous because of his literary genius, Janie.”

  “Lord, Honey, you sound like I think your mother must have sounded. Of course, his books, but the juicy bits will be his personal life. Maybe we can get a clue as to which one killed him.”

  For the third time in an hour, I sighed.

  THIRTEEN

  “What I don’t understand,” said Janie as I turned off the television set following the maudlin, sentimental tribute to Twyman’s genius, “is how on earth the police department let this one get by them. Why no autopsy?”

  “Silas explained that. The doctor signed the death certificate, called it natural causes.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Janie continued, “but I thought in Tarrant County—and Arlington is part of Tarrant County—that there had to be an autopsy unless the deceased had been in the hospital for forty-eight hours, or unless the deceased’s personal physician signed the death certificate.” Janie knew every county law in Texas, I think.

  “Far be it for me to correct you, Janie. I have absolutely no idea what the law is. But I think because she was present when he died, that the formalities were kind of waived. They did contact his personal physician in … Where did they say he lived?”

  “The Cayman Islands.”

  “The Cayman Islands, yes. And, his doctor there said Twyman did suffer a heart attack, a mild one, some months ago. And that he was a diabetic,” I reminded her.

  “Hmmm …” And she wrote some notes in her ubiquitous notebook. I remembered that notebook and its pages of clues that Janie had entered following Steven Miller’s death. She wrote in a shorthand that only she could read. I looked over her shoulder.

  “Who is Mrs. Take?” I asked.

  “Mistake. That really spells mistake. Like the one the police made. They didn’t need a physician on the scene. They needed a crime-scene examiner. But,” and she sighed as she put away the notebook, “that doesn’t surprise me.” She shared what I would have taken for an insider’s viewpoint if I hadn’t known better. “Ever notice, Honey, how many mistakes are made when someone famous dies? Remember JFK? And, more recently, poor Mother Teresa? Doctors nationwide were going ballistic about her body lying there on that slab. All those people coming by and kissing her feet. Not that she didn’t deserve it, mind you. Bless her heart. But still and all …”

  “Mother Teresa wasn’t murdered,” I said. “And customs are different in India.”

  “Ah ha!” Janie exclaimed in a Sherlockian tone, “you’re admitting Twyman was murdered?”

  I looked around my living room as if I expected a hidden microphone. I also lowered my voice. “Janie, yes. I really think he was.”

  “Because?” She could hardly contain her excitement.

  “Because I saw the look in his eyes when he asked my advice about someone trying to kill him. And, oh, because something didn’t feel right about those wives of his. And … and …” I searched for more motivations.

  But Janie had latched onto my last inane reason. “Ah ha! You felt it, too?”

  We both were quiet for a moment, remembering the hour special we had just seen.

  The hastily put together tribute featured news clips, mostly ones that had aired before during the announcement of his death, but they had also included some current interviews with his many wives. Some taped that very day, but all of them having the women utter some words about Twyman’s talent and his work.

  CBS had followed Twyman’s life and work chronologically with Clover Medlock going first. It had been strange, watching younger versions of both the woman I had met that morning and of the man who I had seen die on Wednesday. The old black and white film segments of the two had jerkily shown an attractive, happy, and healthy couple. Clover had never taken her eyes off Twyman, giving him a cow-eyed devotion worthy of “the girls.”

  He had written For All the Wrong Reasons while married to Clover. When she had been asked how it felt to be married to such a talent, the Clover I had met this morning, her confident, well-educated voice incongruous with the weather-worn face, had answered, “Twyman always did have an eye for good writing.”

  Janie and I both came out of our silent musing at the same time and said as in one voice, “That was a strange thing to say.”

  Janie went on, “Yes, especially since that was exactly what Gabriella Rusi said, too.”

  Gabriella had been a surprise to me; her unexpectedly dark Mediterranean complexion camouflaged her age, which I knew had to be younger than Clover, but older than the woman actually appeared. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman, but it bothered me that there was absolutely no expression radiating from her black eyes. No life there at all.

  But the ex-wife who had bothered Janie the most was Marcie. “She had a sweet face, but I just don’t trust women who tell other women how to lose weight,” she said.

  “She saved Twyman’s life, for heaven’s sake, Janie. He would have died years ago if Marcie hadn’t found him and gotten him into a nutritional program.” I quoted from the television special we had just viewed.

  “Honey, there’s a difference in helping someone with a special diabetic diet and fooling fat ladies. Even if they do lose weight at her ‘exclusive east Texas health spa,’ I bet you they gain every pound back—and more—on their drive home.”

  I could tell Janie was projecting her own weakness for fast-food calories as she listed all the possible opportunities for indulging between Marcie’s spa—The Bargello—in Jefferson and Dallas. “I’ll bet there are ten McDonald’s and eleven Waffle Houses on that stretch,” she declared.

  “You’ve been there?”

  “No, but I’ve passed by. I’ve smelled the raw carrots and celery from the highway. I
bet the minute you drive up to that security gate, they search your car and take away your Hershey’s, not to mention your cheese and cracker stash.”

  We were still debating the merits of a controlled diet plan—way off the subject of Twyman’s women—when the phone rang. We hadn’t even gotten to Babe yet.

  “It’s Steven Hyatt,” I said as I slanted the caller ID toward the lamplight. I don’t know why I have so much trouble reading that thing.

  “Tell him I said hi,” Janie said.

  “You tell him yourself. I’m not speaking to him.”

  That didn’t mean I didn’t eavesdrop, though. Not that I had to. Janie kept relaying his side of the conversation. “Steven says he knows Gabriella. They are in negotiations for her to be the publicist on his movie.” She corrected herself as she responded to Steven’s end of the conversation. “Your movie.”

  “It’s not my movie. It’s his. I just gave him some seed money, that’s all.”

  “He says she’s a really strange woman, but a fantastic publicist. Has an appointment with her tomorrow. Shall I tell him that we think she might have killed Twyman?” Janie didn’t wait for an answer but spouted off to Steven Hyatt all the reasons we thought Twyman was murdered. Then the conversation changed, and she lowered her voice and muttered words like “uh-huh” and “maybe” with an “I think so, too” thrown in here and there. I straightened up the living room, pretending not to hear or care.

  Finally, she ended the conversation with, “Well, let us know, okay?”

  When she hung up, she began helping me clean up, picking up her popcorn bowl and Coke can. We puttered in silence for a few minutes before I asked, “Well?”

  “Well, what?” she replied in fake innocence.

  “What was all that about?”

  “Steven?” Janie was really carrying this too far, I thought.

  “Yes, Steven. What did he say?”

  “You could have talked to him yourself, you know.”

  “What’s he going to let us know about?” I fairly screamed at Janie, and I never ever scream at anyone. “And what was all that whispering?”

  “Well,” she said, sitting down on the green velvet chair, the Coke spilling its last drips into the unpopped kernels in the bowl, “he said he would look around tomorrow when he kept his appointment with Gabriella. Just in case he saw anything suspicious.”

  “Oh, right. Like he would know something unusual. It’s the normal stuff that throws him.” I sniffed just like my mother said Aunt Eddie had sniffed when she had her nose out of joint. In disdain.

  “And the whispering?” I persisted.

  Unexpected tears welled in Janie’s blue eyes and spilled onto her round cheeks. “I don’t know why you two are arguing. I know you love each other. Why is it that people who love each other can’t talk?”

  I forgot all about the snacking mess and went over to hug Janie. “Oh, honey,” I said, using my name to comfort her, “I didn’t mean to get you upset. Steven and I are just squabbling. It’s not the end of the world. Do you want me to call him back?”

  “You do love him,” she sniveled.

  “Of course I do. He was my only friend before you.”

  We did some sisterly/motherly hugging before we wound our way upstairs. Janie always stayed in my mother’s old room. She loved the high head- and foot-boards of the oak bed. She ran an appreciative hand over the starched eyelet cover before folding it back. “We didn’t even get to talk about Babe.” She yawned as the last of the moisture dried in her sleepy eyes.

  “Tomorrow,” I reassured her as I headed toward my bedroom. “Twyman’s not going anywhere.”

  FOURTEEN

  In the middle of the night, I got up from my sleepless bed and padded across the hall. I stood in the doorway in my long, thin cotton gown with the blue flower sprigs and called Janie’s name. When I heard her muffled response, I said, “Janie. In case you wondered. I gave Steven Hyatt some money for his movie because I have lots of it. I found it in the walls of the house after Steven Miller died. That’s what the murderer was looking for. I didn’t know it was there—my father hid it for me—but I finally found it.”

  I straightened the twisted lace that served for gown straps and went on, “It was in the pantry. Well, of course, I never went there on purpose, so it was a while before I found it. Steven Bondesky is upset about the piano, and of course he’s right. I just haven’t decided what to do.”

  Janie asked, “The piano?”

  “Yes, that’s where the money is hidden now. There’s over four million dollars in it. Steven Hyatt knows I have some money but not how much or where it is.” I paused. “Well, I guess that’s it. I just wanted you to know. I think I can go to sleep now. ‘Night.” And I tiptoed back to my room, not sure whether she had heard me or not.

  I think I did hear her say, “Good lord.” Maybe she was saying her prayers.

  FIFTEEN

  When it’s hard for me to go to sleep, it’s always even harder for me to wake up. Mother used to have to drag me out of bed for school, but I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on Saturday mornings. That was when I was young, before I appreciated Saturday morning as a snuggle-in day. Today, I luxuriated in a sleep-induced smile as my body wriggled against crisp sheets and layers of colorful pillows. I hugged my favorite stomach pillow close as I felt waves of sleep sending me back to oblivion. The sound that had awakened me forgotten in anticipation of … I sat upright in bed. Was that the piano I had heard?

  I didn’t even grab my seersucker robe before I glided down the stairs.

  What to my wondering eyes doth appear? I thought as I took in the scene before me. Janie, in her voluminous white cotton gown, sat on the piano bench; her head, arms, and shoulders sprawled across the open keyboard. She was sound asleep, but as she turned her head to one side, her ears played a chord. That was what had awakened me.

  “Janie,” I said. Gently.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the aisle of keys before her. “What?”

  “Whaaat? You’re asleep at the piano.”

  She sat up and looked around. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” The imprint of two black keys made a furrow over her right eye.

  I couldn’t resist. “I didn’t know you played the piano.”

  “Play the piano? Play the piano?” She was awake now. “No one can play this piano. Only about six keys make a sound.”

  “Well, you found them. Those six keys woke me up.” I headed toward the kitchen. “May I ask why you are having a concert this morning?”

  Janie yawned as she followed me into the kitchen. “Did you or did you not say in the middle of the night that there is money in the piano? I’ve been afraid to look.”

  The coffee was made, the pot almost empty, in fact. I poured a cup. Janie handed me her cup, and I poured cold coffee down the drain, refilling it with hot from what looked like the end of the pot. Janie loves making coffee in my perk pot. I handed the cup back to her along with the sugar shaker. “Four million dollars, yes.”

  “And you expected me to go back to sleep?”

  “Of course. I did. I’ve gotten used to the money.”

  We took our steaming cups back into the dining room. “Show me,” she said.

  Wordlessly, I flipped the switch on the chandelier and raised the top of the big upright piano. Even on tiptoes, Janie couldn’t peer over the top. She raised her gown above her knees and stepped up on the bench. “Holy Toledo,” she gasped.

  I closed the lid and helped her to the floor. We sat down at the table.

  Holding her coffee cup in two hands, Janie took a big gulp and said, “So, you miss playing the piano?”

  As straight-faced as she, I answered, “Not much. ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ was about all I could really ever master.”

  “Honey, you really do need a mother. That money has got to go. Today.”

  “I know. But … where?”

  “How about a bank?”

  I deadpanned back at her. “Right. And t
hey won’t want to know where it came from? I won’t have to pay mega taxes?”

  “Ever hear of safe-deposit boxes?”

  I got up to refill my cup, bringing the pot to Janie who waved it away with murmurs of, “That’s the third pot.”

  “Ever see how little they are? Besides,” I said, filling my cup, “I want the money to grow.”

  “Oh, right. It’s growing in there,” she said as she gestured toward the upright. “Growing dust bunnies.”

  “I know. I know. But I’ve decided what to do with it.”

  “And … that is …?”

  “I’m going to give it all to Bondesky.”

  “Because? Honestly, Honey, this is like pulling teeth.”

  “Because he knows about the money and has ways of getting it into investments that I don’t know about.”

  Janie snorted. “I would think he would, yes. Honey, it’s called off-shore, black-market money laundering.”

  “Yeah? I wondered how he was going to do it.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that it might be illegal?” she asked.

  “Oh, really, Janie. Bondesky just looks illegal. I’m sure it will all be aboveboard. My father earned that money. I reckon if I have to pay a few taxes, I’ll just have to pay a few taxes. Bondesky can handle all that. Where are you going?”

  Janie paused at the doorway and sat her still-full cup on top of the piano. I’m going to call my husband and tell him I won’t be there today. That I have to help you move … assets.”

  I grinned. “Yes, call … him. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you …” But she was already on the phone and waved me away.

  I mimicked Janie by cradling my cup of coffee in two hands and staring at the piano over the rim. I was going to miss that money.