The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set

by Margaret Moseley

  SIXTEEN

  Before we got more than half the money loaded into garbage bags, the world shifted, and my life took another of those life-changing turns.

  It started with the doorbell. It’s always the doorbell when it’s not the telephone.

  Janie squealed when we heard the ring and sat her ample self on top of as many bags as she could, spreading her white gown over a few others. “Don’t answer it. We’re not home.”

  “Don’t be silly. Let me see who it is.” I peered around the door toward the hall where, through the glass door, I could see a woman reaching for the bell turner again. “Oh, my, it’s Ms. Patton.”

  “Patton?”

  “No,” I corrected. “Potter.”

  “Potter?”

  “Yes.”

  Janie was getting good at screaming at me. “Who is Ms. Potter?”

  “Bondesky’s secretary. Wonder what she wants?” I headed toward the door as Janie assumed a diva-on-the-couch look, leaning way back to hide more bags.

  I opened the door a crack. “Yes? Good morning.”

  “Miss Huckleberry? Is that you?”

  I opened the door a little wider to show it was me. “How can I help you, Ms. Potter?”

  “Well, I ordinarily don’t work on Saturdays, but I was in the office for a few minutes this morning and when the packages arrived, I thought I would just pop over and bring them to you. Did I wake you?” she asked in a voice that indicated that I was a major sleep offender.

  “No, of course not. I was just … I mean, I got into doing some housecleaning and haven’t taken the time to dress. It’s so nice of you to bring the packages.” I added, “What packages?”

  Ms. Potter beamed. “Your computer. It came this morning.”

  “Wonderful. Just leave it right there. Thank you.”

  She smiled that superior Ms. Potter smile. “No, you don’t understand. I’m here to put it together for you and show you how it works. Oh, and your dog is here in the taxi.”

  I shook my head to clear it.

  “I don’t have a dog in a taxi.”

  Same smile. “You do now.”

  Looking beyond her oh-so-very-managed hair, I saw a white taxi at the curb, parked behind Ms. Potter’s sensible sedan, the driver unloading a hard-plastic crate. “There must be some mistake,” I said.

  “No, I checked and verified the address for you. Would you like me to see to it?” Her blue eyes indicated one didn’t talk to taxi drivers in one’s gown.

  I could hear Janie moaning from the dining room.

  “Here’s the paperwork that accompanied the dog.” And she handed me a large manila envelope. It was addressed to me. From Harry.

  “Please,” I said in defeat. I took the envelope from her.

  As she clicked her heels down the sidewalk to the taxi, I tore it open. Several pieces of typed papers and one handwritten note slid out. I read the note first.

  Honey,

  Sorry I haven’t been able to get you on the phone. The timing is lousy, but I have an emergency in London. Mother is ill. Rosa is looking after Sandscript but couldn’t take Bailey. Didn’t know who else to call, so you’ve got him. Just have time to make connection.

  Will call. Thanks … I love you.

  Harry

  I sat down on the first step of the stairs. “Oh, great,” I sighed.

  “What is it, Honey?” Janie yelled from the improvised bank vault area.

  “Can you spell pandemonium, Janie?”

  Actually, it wasn’t all that bad.

  While I retrieved my robe from the bedroom, Ms. Potter and the taxi driver got Bailey uncrated and in the house. He met me halfway up the stairs like his only long-lost relative, relieving himself on the third newel post in what had to be anxiety, pleasure, and a desperate need.

  The taxi driver assured us he had been well-paid and left us with the dog and the carrier, after Ms. Potter had given him an extra tip to take the multiple computer boxes up the stairs to the war room.

  Janie refused to budge from the garbage bags when I made introductions but was gracious and smiling all the same. “Just helping Honey out with some housekeeping,” she said. Bailey loved Janie at first sight. On the second sight, his big golden head started tearing open the bags. Thankfully, Ms. Potter had already sniffed an Aunt Eddie sniff and was on her way back to the war room. I followed her, shrugging my shoulders and spreading my hands wide in helplessness as Janie pulled hundred-dollar bills from Bailey’s mouth. “Good dog. Good dog. Want some water? Toast? Caviar? You seem to have expensive taste.” Bailey slobbered bills and followed her into the kitchen.

  Like I said, it wasn’t all that bad.

  Later, when I had dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, I rejoined Janie and Bailey downstairs. Ms. Potter was efficiently pulling hardware out of the boxes and following the color-coded schematic to connect the computer cables. She seemed happy to be left alone to her own devices, so I did.

  Bailey was chewing on a full box of Pop Tarts and also seemed happy.

  I sat down beside him on the floor and hugged his neck. I was trying to figure out what to do with the money on a Saturday.

  Janie was continuing to stuff bags with money.

  “Honey, you lead such an exciting life. Everything would just be perfect if we could figure out who killed Twyman.”

  I scratched Bailey behind the ears. I know nothing about dogs. I know nothing about investments. I know nothing about computers. Today, murder was at the bottom of my list. “Twyman?” I asked.

  SEVENTEEN

  I may have forgotten about Twyman, but Bondesky, strangely enough, had not.

  “So, how’s the murder investigation going, Huckleberry?” was what he wanted to know as we unloaded the bags of money from my van. “You any closer to figuring out who done it?” It was half a joke and half serious. It kind of reminded me of when Twyman had asked me for help.

  “Why do you ask, Bondesky?”

  He was out of breath from hoisting the money, so he panted like Bailey when he answered, “Just curious. You’re good at that sort of thing. Just wondered what was going on.”

  I don’t know much about murders and mysteries, but Janie has taught me one thing. When someone asks a question or behaves in a different manner, something’s going on. My wrong accusation of murder had once put Bondesky behind bars for a while. Somehow, I didn’t think that in his mind that qualified me for being good at investigating.

  So, I asked again, “Why do you ask, Bondesky?”

  He pulled the last of the improvised money bags into his office and collapsed into his desk chair. I responded to the waving motion of his hand by rummaging in his new executive refrigerator and popping open a bottle of Evian for him. Then I took one for myself. Money running is a tiring affair.

  “How much money did you keep out?” he finally managed to say.

  “Enough. Why are you not answering my question?”

  Bondesky downed the second bottle I placed in front of him. He looked like he could have stood to have one poured over his head, too, but I resisted.

  “Well, it’s like this.” He grinned that sly grin that people do—along with the eye thing—that lets you know you’ve caught onto them. “Someone asked me what you’d found out. That’s all.”

  I did some mental calculations in my head. “Clover,” I concluded.

  “Well, yeah. She really liked you, Huckleberry.”

  “Does she think Twyman was offed, too?”

  “Of course not,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

  I assumed my usual hip-on-the-desk position and drank my yuppie water. “Then how did you two happen to talk about me thinking Twyman was murdered?”

  “It kinda came up.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Okay. It’s like this, Huckleberry. She calls and she says you came out. Then she says why are you so interested in Twyman. I told her it was the ring, but she says she don’t think so. So maybe I mention you like to investigate murders.”r />
  “Did she tell you about the cows and the ashes?”

  “She might of mentioned them, yes.”

  “And did she tell you she didn’t want the ring? Wouldn’t take it, in fact?”

  “Ayup.”

  “And does she think Twyman was murdered?” I didn’t think so, but I asked anyway. If Clover had suspected foul play, she would have requested an autopsy. Wouldn’t she?

  “Nah. She doesn’t think the guy was murdered. But she wonders why you do.”

  I changed the subject. “What are you going to do with the money, Bondesky?”

  “Awww, put it here. Put it there. Don’t worry about the money, Huckleberry.”

  That’s all I wanted to know about the piano money. I knew the old fellow would take good care of it and it would come back twofold at least. If there were taxes or penalties to pay, he would take care of them. What I know about finances would fill a thimble and leave room for the Sphinx.

  “I like Clover,” I finally said.

  “Like I said, it was mutual. She maybe wants you to call her again.”

  “Maybe I will. I need some advice. I’m into livestock now.” And I told him about Bailey.

  “Now you get a watchdog.” He laughed. “You always were an after-the-barn-door-closed type of person, Huckleberry.”

  “She really wants to see me again?” I knew Bondesky’s offhand comment to that effect was more urgent than the delivery had been.

  Having delivered the message, Bondesky relaxed. I could see him touching the top of his head, looking for the discarded eyeshade. He was ready to get back to business. Social banter wore him out. “Sure, give her a call.”

  Then he did a funny thing. Looked around like Ms. Patton/Potter was still in the outer room and lowered his voice. “Let me give you this one, Huckleberry. Ask her about the book.”

  “What book?”

  “That For All the Wrong Reasons book; that’s the book.”

  “Tell me,” I begged.

  But he was through confiding.

  I turned over the thought in my head. What on earth did Clover want to tell me about the book? The one that Twyman had written when he was married to her? Out loud, I said, “Thanks for sending Ms. Potter over this morning. She is very efficient and a good teacher. Had my first lesson on the computer.”

  “Yeah? How’d that go? You a whiz now?”

  “Well, I know how to turn it on. How to play solitaire. And I printed out a letter addressed to someone I don’t know. Yeah, I think I’m a whiz. Just have one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  I pointed to the white object he held in his hand, ready to go to work when I left. “They don’t really call this a mouse, do they?”

  EIGHTEEN

  I am now a solitaire whiz.

  I didn’t do the laundry. I didn’t eat. I fed the dog and fondled the mouse the rest of the weekend. I think Bailey used my mother’s carpet for a lawn, but hey, I got to watch the dancing cards tell me hurray when I beat the game. Good thing I don’t smoke. I am a closet addict.

  “Steven, I have lost my soul,” I told Steven Hyatt about noon on Monday when he called. “What day is it?” I had forgotten I was not talking to him—even forgot to give unknown poet’s lines. Oh, lord, had I said good-bye to Janie? Was Janie gone?

  “Help me,” I pleaded to Steven.

  He lied and said, “You’ll get over it. I once was a Microsoft Solitaire champion, myself. I’ll send you the hard stuff.”

  “Oh, gee, thanks. Just what I need. It has cleared my head a little, though. You can think when you’re not thinking. Steven, I’m sorry I was such a horse’s patootie last week.” I really have to expand my vocabulary. Surely there are other words. “I’m trying to remember why I was angry at you.”

  “I told you to get a life, not an obsession.”

  “Oh, yeah. Marriage. Was that a proposal, Steven?” I joked.

  “Not yet, Honey.”

  I laughed.

  “I called to tell you about my visit with the one and only Gabriella.”

  “Ah, the second Mrs. Towerie. How’d that go?”

  “Strange, strange woman, Honey.”

  “Tell me.”

  I didn’t know I was still playing solitaire while talking to Steven until he said, “I will if you take your hands off that mouse.” How did he know?

  “Done,” I lied.

  “Liar.”

  He knows me so well.

  “Never mind. I won’t tell you that she is broken up over Twyman’s death. Not. Or that she sneered when I mentioned his name while offering my sincere condolences. You don’t get to hear that then I did some sleuthing for you.”

  This time I did let go of my new rodent friend. “Yeah? How so? What did you find out?”

  “Ah ha! Thought that would get you. Actually, I’m not sure what I found out. Does the word Bargello mean anything to you?”

  “Sure, that’s the name of Marcie’s health spa.” The “girls” were becoming first-name people in my mind. Well, cows, anyway. Whenever I heard their names, I thought of which cow had what name. Gabriella had been the dark one. I was beginning to see Clover’s logic in the naming.

  “Yes, I remember now. From the television special. That’s why it seemed familiar.”

  I didn’t reply. Steven often tells more when he’s rambling than when he’s questioned.

  Sure enough, he went into a long, detailed explanation of how he and Gabriella were looking at papers—contracts—when she was called out of the room. His penchant for nosiness prevailed in those few short minutes. He called it intellectual curiosity. He did a song and dance about how he had shuffled the contracts over her desk, causing him to mix them up with some of her papers, forcing him to look at them carefully.

  I picked up the mouse and clicked on New Deal. “Go on,” I said.

  “Somehow Gabriella’s calendar printout was mixed up with my papers. I don’t know how that happened. But I double-checked to make sure it wasn’t my papers, and that’s when I saw the name Bargello. On August eighth. Circled in red.”

  “Okay,” I responded absently. You have to do that to keep Steven going. Like stepping on the accelerator in the car. A little more gas for another mile.

  “Beside the circle were three names. Want to guess who they were?”

  “Marcie, Clover, and Babe.”

  “Bingo.”

  I put the black queen on the red king. “Steven, I thought these women hated each other. How come they’re doing a wife’s reunion at Marcie’s?” I glanced at my own calendar. August the eighth was three weeks away.

  “Beats me,” he said. “But it must be a big thing.”

  “Because?”

  “Because when Gabriella came back—I had replaced the calendar by then—she grabbed it and turned it over. And she glared at me. Well, that wasn’t unusual, she’s a first-class glarer. But it was one of those questioning glares. You know?”

  “Yes,” another push on the gas.

  “Like she was trying to guess whether I had seen anything. Read her calendar. Like she didn’t trust me.”

  “Go figure,” I said.

  His verbal motoring had stopped. It was my turn to drive.

  “Okay, this is what we have. Four ex-wives. One dead man. They all divorced him …”

  “Or were divorced,” Steven amended.

  “Yes. I wonder if he left them or if they dumped him?”

  “Good question.”

  “Well, I can find out about Clover, anyway. She wants to see me. Something about Twyman’s first book,” I told him.

  “Interesting that you should mention his book. One of the things I told Gabriella was how proud she should be that he wrote Down by the Riverside when they were married.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Honey, it’s funny, but I swear, she looked frightened. She just muttered something about appreciation for my time and that she would get back to me.”

  “Frightene
d? That is strange, Steven. Lord, wouldn’t you love to be a fly on the wall when those women get together in August?” I grinned at the thought.

  “Another thing about that, Honey. Tell me why they are all going to The Bargello? Not a one of them is fat.”

  “Goose, you don’t have to be fat to go to a spa. It’s like nutrition and good eating and living right.”

  “No booze, eh?”

  “Nope. Just mud baths and facials.” I sighed. “And massages and pedicures and all those wonderful pampering things. Someday, when I am rich, I’m going to treat myself to a week at a spa.”

  “Er, Honey?”

  “Hmmm?” I put the last king on the pile. The cards started their march of triumph across my monitor.

  “Honey, you are rich.”

  NINETEEN

  One of the first lessons I learned from my book rep mentor was to avoid at all costs the lure of fast food on the road. His name was Kantor, and he was a wee little Jewish man who could have made a good living in the 1890s as a drummer. There wasn’t a rope he didn’t know about the book business. That he was willing to show me the convoluted knots of his trade was a puzzle that he explained over a delicate lunch of trout almandine in this quaint restaurant in a small town in south Texas.

  “Now, Miss Honey, they don’t have a bookstore here in Buford, but when you’re on the road, food is king,” he told me when they served us our lunch, the Tuesday special at LD’s Eat and Go. The Main Street café off the town’s square would never have beckoned me through its doors without Kantor’s guidance. Now it’s a regular stop. Although I personally prefer Monday’s meat loaf.

  As we ate the Chocolate Surprise for dessert, Kantor told me, “Anyone can eat at McDonald’s. In fact, over a million a day do. But,” and he emphasized this remark with his fork, “they miss out on the adventure of getting to taste life.” Kantor made the word life seem like a masterpiece of art. “Look around you. These are the real people of the world. So, it takes an hour instead of fifteen minutes to eat. Would you ever see these wonderful faces? These stereotypes of humankind? These blessed souls?”