Alice smiled faintly and held open the plastic bag so I could dump my dirty napkins.
“Exactly,” she said. “Plus, drinking alcohol—like real booze—actually blocks the effects of antifreeze poisoning.”
“Okay.” I nodded, trying to keep up with her nimble mind.
“Brittanie acted like she was drunk at the luau, but Crystal said Brittanie never drank alcohol. I’m guessing she was actually drunk on the antifreeze. The early symptoms include slurring and stumbling, just like you’re loaded.”
Alice closed her eyes. Her face seemed lit from within, the power of her concentration almost spooky in its intensity.
“But Uncle Wayne, he was definitely drinking alcohol. So maybe he did consume some of the ethylene glycol, but the margaritas kept it from making him real sick.”
Alice turned to me, her wide aqua eyes luminescent. “And that would mean that whoever poisoned the ice-cream sundaes either knew Brittanie would eat Uncle Wayne’s ice cream or planned to kill Uncle Wayne all along.”
“Alice Marie Anders,” I said, “where the heck did you get that big ol’ brain of yours?”
She giggled, the mischievous smile transforming her into a child again. “You and Mom are pretty smart, yourselves. I just have the book learnin’,” she teased, making fun of our down-home Texas slang.
I laughed along with her, overcome with amazement that such a brilliant mind could possibly be related to me.
Another car flew past, honking, and I realized we needed to get moving. Always a cautious driver, I flicked on my turn signal and eased back into traffic.
As we made our way home, I considered all the implications of Alice’s analysis. On the one hand, if Cal got ahold of the information, it spelled my doom. My defense so far had been that it didn’t make any sense for me to try to kill Brittanie with poisoned ice cream that she wasn’t likely to eat. But if Cal had a plausible explanation for how I might have really been trying to kill Wayne, and poor Brittanie just got caught in the cross fire, no amount of sentiment or warm feelings would keep Cal from slapping a pair of cuffs on me.
On the other hand, the possibility of Wayne as the real target meant a whole new list of possible suspects.
And as I scanned that mental list, I put a little gold star right next to Eddie Collins’s name.
chapter 20
Eddie Collins worked out of his house, a Victorian monstrosity on the very edge of the historic district, just beyond the greedy grasp of the Dalliance Historic Landmark Commission. One block closer to downtown, and Eddie would have been subject to the same restrictions on the exterior of his home as I was. As it was, though, Eddie had free reign.
Eddie had painted his house a mellow oceanic teal, with every layer of gingerbread trim boasting a different seaside color, from the indigo of the deep to the creamy yellow on the crests of waves. Shards of brilliant pottery and broken glass formed a mosaic on the skirting of his wraparound porch and on the risers of the steps. An explosion of red and fuchsia roses littered his yard and climbed a trellis archway over his front walk. In honor of the season, a cluster of goofy-faced jack-o’-lanterns guarded the door. Eddie’s house looked as though it had been designed by a gifted five-year-old girl.
Early Monday afternoon, I knocked on his cobalt blue front door and, when I got no response, rang the bell. I could hear the buzzing tone through the door, abrasive and ugly, followed by shuffling and muttering. Finally the door swung open to reveal Eddie in a pair of dirty jeans that sagged at the knees and a rough-woven cotton pullover, the type you could buy on vacation in Mexico.
He blinked at me from behind round-lensed rimless glasses, like a cave dweller creeping into the light. His stark coloring—skin like skim milk beneath hair the matte black of old tires—added to the impression. How he managed to stay so pale doing a job that kept him out beneath the merciless Texas sun was beyond me. All the SPF in the world couldn’t completely neutralize the summer sun, and wide-brimmed hats could do only so much. I didn’t think Eddie had an actual full-time staff like Wayne did, so he must have been using cheap day laborers—the men who milled around the parking lot of the abandoned SnoShack, swarming every truck or van that even looked as if it was slowing down—to save himself the actual physical work.
And clearly the day laborers worked well without supervision. It was well after noon, yet Eddie looked as though he’d just gotten up from a nap. His thick curls were pressed flat on one side of his head, springing wildly on the other, and his pale blue irises swam in a slurry of watery pink.
“Hey, yeah. Can I help you?” His laconic drawl softened his consonants and stretched his vowels, like a record played at the wrong speed. I struggled to separate the words and had an irrational image of trying to pull a bully’s chewing gum from Alice’s hair.
“Hello, Mr. Collins. I’m Tally Jones.” A spark of recognition animated his face. “I called about your lawn-care services.”
“Sure, sure. Come on in.” He shuffled back, opening the door and his arms wide in invitation.
The inside of Eddie’s house was as dim as the outside was bright. Tea-dyed gauze curtains covered the windows, and the sepia light cast by a handful of table lamps didn’t reach the corners of the high-ceilinged room.
Despite the dark, Eddie’s living room felt welcoming in a shabby, comfortable way. Worn velveteen in shades of umber and ochre, russet and moss, upholstered the low, tatty sofas and chairs. Threadbare carpets softened the scarred oak-plank floors. Plants grew everywhere: jade plants and African violets filled chipped earthenware bowls, while golden pothos and spider plants streamed from macramé hanging baskets. The scent of their loamy soil provided a sharp counterpoint for the cloying musk of old incense.
“Sit anywhere,” Eddie offered.
I chose a faded green armchair with a massive marmalade tomcat draped over one arm, snoring softly.
Eddie flopped onto the sofa, drawing one knee up to his chest and resting that foot on the sofa cushion. His bare feet were unkempt, the nails long and yellowed, a smattering of black hairs curling from his big toes.
He smiled, a sweet, wifty smile. “That’s Jerry,” he said.
“Like Tom and Jerry?”
“Nah. Like Jerry Garcia. He’s a peaceful dude.”
I reached out to scratch Jerry behind the ears, and his purr revved up a notch and he lifted his chin to lean into it. Beneath his meaty whisker biscuits, one little fang protruded. I decided he looked more like Elvis—fat Elvis, not skinny Elvis—than Jerry Garcia, but I wasn’t going to quibble over Eddie’s feline name choices.
“I always wanted a cat,” I said.
Eddie cocked his head, a bemused smile wreathing his face. “So why don’t you have one?”
I shrugged. “My mother didn’t believe in keeping animals in the house, and my husband was allergic.”
Eddie made a little sound in the back of his throat. “That explains why your mom and your husband don’t have cats. But why don’t you have one?”
I felt as though that was some sort of Zen riddle, like whether a tree falling in the forest made a sound if no one was around to hear it, so I didn’t bother to answer. Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, broken only by Jerry’s rattling, tubercular purr, until Eddie decided to get down to business.
“So what can I do ya for?”
“Well, like I said, my name is Tally Jones, and—”
“Right,” Eddie interrupted. “You make the ice cream.” A beatific smile spread across his face.
I smiled back.
“Fantastic,” he said.
“Thanks. I was married to Wayne Jones.”
Eddie’s gentle expression clouded over, as though I had hurt him somehow. “Your husband does lawn care.” He sounded puzzled, as though he knew he was the butt of some cosmic joke but he couldn’t get the punch line.
“Wayne and I are divorced,” I said.
Eddie closed his eyes and nodded sagely. “That’s tough. But, listen, green is th
e way to go. Good for your soul, good for the planet, and good for your yard.” He smiled. “I know I haven’t been around that long, but two of my clients are in the Master Gardeners group, and they even invited me to give a talk at one of their meetings. You can trust your little corner of the planet to me.”
Bless his heart, Eddie had about as much edge as a bowl of mashed potatoes. It was tough to imagine him summoning up the rage—or the nerve—to murder someone. But then, I thought, committing murder by poison was like dumping someone on their answering machine: as nonconfrontational as the interaction could possibly be.
“Listen, I’m sorry, but I lied about why I wanted to talk to you.”
“You don’t need help with your lawn?”
“Actually, I could use a lot of help. But that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to ask you some questions about the Weed and Seed luau.”
“Aw, man, that’s uncool,” Eddie protested weakly.
While I dug the groovy, laid-back ambience of Eddie’s house, his hippie patois grated on my nerves. I didn’t know Eddie when he was a kid, because he was five years and at least one tax bracket ahead of me. But he hailed from Dalliance, same as me, a child of the go-go eighties. Maybe he spent some time in Haight-Ashbury during his college years—I’d heard he went to Berkeley—but he was laying it on a little thick.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I didn’t know whether you’d talk to me any other way. I want to know what you were doing at the luau.”
“It was a party,” he said with a shrug.
“Right. A party for Wayne’s friends and clients.”
“So?”
“So someone slipped poison in Wayne’s dessert at the luau, and Brittanie Brinkman died because of it.” Eddie’s eyes widened and his breath hitched audibly. “And it just seems a little strange to me that you were there at all, since you’re one of Wayne’s competitors.”
Eddie squinted shrewdly, and I saw a glimmer of the intelligent man behind the stoner facade. “What were you doing at the luau?” he countered. “You’re sort of his competitor now, too.”
I hadn’t really thought of my relationship with Wayne in those terms, but I could see his point. “I was working at the luau,” I explained. “I was invited.”
“So was I.”
My hand stilled on Jerry’s head, and he made a breathless sound of protest.
“What do you mean, you were invited?”
“I mean Wayne asked me to be there.” Eddie began picking at a frayed spot on the knee of his jeans.
“Right. Why would Wayne want you to come to a party for his clients, where you could schmooze with his customers? Maybe even poach a few.”
“You’d have to ask Wayne.” Eddie met my gaze as he spoke, as bold as brass. But he worried the tear in his jeans with increased vigor, and his pale pink tongue slipped out to moisten his lips.
I decided to go for broke. “You still have the letter?”
He paused just a heartbeat too long before saying, “I don’t think so.”
“Eddie, come on. You’re not a very good liar. If you have the letter, let me see it. Prove to me you were invited.”
He set his mouth in a mutinous pout, but I could see him weighing his options. Finally, he unfolded himself from the sofa and slouched over to a vaguely Asian sideboard littered with papers and a half dozen ceramic Buddha figures. He rooted around in toppling stacks of paper, until he finally grunted and pulled a single sheet out. He brought it to me, grasping it by two fingers and carrying it away from his body, as if he were worried about contagion.
“See, I was invited.”
I took the letter, a single typed sheet of Weed and Seed company letterhead, and skimmed through it once quickly before reading it again closely. There wasn’t much to it.
Eddie,
I know your secret. Want me to keep it? Perhaps we can reach a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Friday the 9th at Lonestar Park, 7 p.m.
There was no signature.
A few of the letters looked wonky, as though they weren’t quite on the horizontal. I ran my fingers over the words and could feel the faint imprint of the letters. No doubt about it, the letter had been written on a typewriter rather than printed on a laser or ink-jet printer.
I waved the paper gently in Eddie’s direction. “This doesn’t sound like an invitation, Eddie. This sounds like someone was trying to blackmail you.”
He didn’t say anything, just picked up Jerry and cradled him against his chest. The cat kicked its feet as he was lifted, but then settled down against Eddie’s shoulder, purring loudly and rubbing the top of his silky head against the underside of Eddie’s chin.
“Why would someone try to blackmail you? What’s the secret?”
Eddie shrugged, making Jerry squirm.
“Eddie, who sent this to you?”
He started and looked at me, his brow wrinkled in confusion. “Wayne Jones, of course.”
I laughed. “No way.” Eddie looked offended. “Aw, come on, Eddie. You’ve met Wayne. Does this sound like him?” I waved the paper in his direction.
“I don’t know, Tally. I’ve never gotten a blackmail note before. It’s sort of business related, so maybe Wayne thought he should use more formal terminology.”
“ ‘Mutually satisfactory arrangement’? Trust me, I edited all of Wayne’s business correspondence when we were married. Wayne Jones would never in a million years use a fancy-pants expression like that, even in a formal letter.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Eddie sank back down on the sofa, and Jerry wriggled out of his grasp. The cat plopped onto the cushion next to Eddie, stuck one back leg straight in the air, and began casually grooming himself.
Eddie frowned. “If it wasn’t Wayne, who was it?”
“Didn’t anyone approach you at the luau?”
“No.” Eddie fell silent. He absently stroked the curve of Jerry’s back. “No,” he repeated. “I thought it was weird that someone would want to . . . well, to have this kind of discussion in such a public place. And when Wayne basically ignored me, I figured he realized it was a bad idea.”
I hesitated, not sure how much further I could push Eddie before he realized he could just throw me out of his house. When I spoke, I chose my words carefully and kept my tone as neutral as possible.
“You know, if Wayne wasn’t the blackmailer, you could still be in trouble. Maybe it would help us figure out who sent you the note if you told me what the secret was.”
“I told you. I. Don’t. Know.” He punctuated each word by jabbing his forefinger into his own leg. The sudden tension vibrating around him sent Jerry scrambling for safer ground.
“Eddie. You must have some idea. I mean, you went to the luau to talk to whoever sent the note. You must have had some clue what the threat was about if you bothered to respond.”
He squinched his eyes closed and folded his arms across his chest, literally shutting me out. “I think you ought to leave now.”
I stood and took a few steps toward the door, then turned to give it one more go. “Eddie, you do realize you basically just handed me a motive for you trying to kill Wayne, right?”
His eyes popped open in surprise, then narrowed in confusion.
I sighed. “You told me that you thought Wayne was trying to blackmail you. I don’t know what sort of dirt you think Wayne has on you, but if you think he’s about to expose some deep dark secret, you might want him dead.”
Eddie shook his head vehemently. “No way, man. I didn’t want to kill anyone. I just wanted to find out who was threatening me. I only thought it was Wayne because of the Weed and Seed paper.”
“And you’re telling me you don’t have any idea why someone might blackmail you?”
He looked at his feet, his expression miserable. “I guess I can maybe think of a couple of reasons,” he said softly. “Just like everybody else, I have a few secrets. But I wouldn’t kill to keep any of them.”
chapter 21
Wednesday nights were always a little slow at the A-la-mode, so Bree and I left Kyle and Alice in charge and invited Finn over to our house for drinks.
The mellow glow of the overhead fixture reflected off the warped glass of the kitchen window and bathed the room in soft, forgiving light. The cheap cupboards and stained linoleum floors, the hodgepodge of cereal boxes and generic canned goods that lined the exposed pantry shelves, all looked homey and comfortable instead of messy and depressing.
I stood by the island, carefully halving an avocado, prying out its stone with the tip of my knife, then scooping the tender meat from the leathery skin.
Bree, dressed in calf-length leggings, an oversized Dickerson sweatshirt, and rainbow-striped socks, slipped a CD in the banged-up boom box on the kitchen counter. With a dramatic flourish, she pressed PLAY and Barry Gibbs’s reedy falsetto filled the room. Bree shuffled from side to side, rolling her hands one over the other, then struck a pose, arms flung wide and head thrown back, before returning to her half-assed hustle.
I mashed the avocado in a bowl, unconsciously moving the fork to the beat of the Bee Gees. Bobbing my head, I pulled a lemon from a chipped porcelain bowl filled with citrus and tomatoes.
My knife broke the rind and sank into the soft flesh of the fruit, releasing a fine, pungent mist that burned its way like acid into my memory.
For an instant, I sat by the window in my Grandma Peachy’s kitchen, perched on a wooden stool, its seat worn concave from generations of ample bottoms. A warm breeze blew through the fly screen, fluttering the flour-sack curtains and caressing my face as I grated the zest of lemons for homemade lemon ice cream. The astringent scent clung to my fingers like my own personal sunshine. Outside, I could hear Bree’s throaty laughter as she traded sly jokes with the ranch hands. In the sitting room, Bree’s mama, my aunt Jenny, played her 45s, practicing her disco dancing to Donna Summer and the Bee Gees, and Grandma’s wooden spoon kept time as she stirred the custard at the stove.
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