Murder at Royal Palms (A cozy mystery novella) (Thursday Club Mysteries Book 1)

by Sheila Hudson

  ~5~

  When the gravel in the church parking lot crunched, I didn’t have to be psychic to know it was a silver Honda belonging to Leona Ledbetter. One thing I learned early in ministry is to never leave a planning meeting when the group is delegating responsibilities. That’s how I became the Deviled Egg Queen of our last congregation. Apparently, everyone wants to eat deviled eggs but no one wants to prepare them.

  Armed with that knowledge, I never missed a meeting of the women’s council. At our last meeting, one of the well-meaning members felt that Leona’s burden of heading the Christmas Drop In Committee was so great that she needed as assistant. This particularly sweet saint said that she couldn’t possibly take on that responsibility. So, she nominated me, the new kid on the block. Before I could say a word, she rambled on about the pluses of having a second person on the committee. Everyone else in the room knew that an assistant was one nobody wanted especially Leona Ledbetter.

  With twenty some eyeballs fixed on me, what could I do but gracefully agree to “assist” Leona? I still was brooding over the happenings of the last several days. I certainly didn’t need this extra hassle. Plus today of all days, Tom decided he would study at home. Great! This day kept getting better and better.

  I dumped the blueberry muffins into a napkin-lined basked. As Leona slammed the car door and started up the steps, I poured the coffee. Leona cannot resist a baked good. She can smell fresh baked muffins from a mile away.

  The aging matriarch tapped on the door. I bid her welcome, ensconced her into our most comfortable chair, and handed her a cup of coffee heavy with cream and sugar. It was as if royalty had deigned to grace me with her presence. Leona and Blanche Ledbetter were 3rd generation families at First Church. One of their kin was a former minister at First Church. Leona had chaired the Christmas Drop In Committee ever since her mother went to live with the angels (according to her tombstone). Leona’s mood matched her attire—gray. She wasted no time in coming to the point.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Roxy, dear. I know how busy you and Tom are. Of course, I didn’t want to say anything in the meeting, but I believe that my past performance shows that I can do a more than adequate job of planning and executing the Christmas Drop In . . . without an assistant.”

  “I see,” I said and turned my head away. I hoped she would interpret this as disappointment rather than glee. She viewed me up and down no doubt with disdain for my jeans and Agatha Christie T-shirt.

  “Now see here, Roxy if I am upsetting you. I’m sure I can find something for you to do.”

  I dabbed my eyes with a napkin. “That’s okay, Leona. I understand. I still have a lot of projects to complete before years’ end.”

  And that was that. Leona neither needed nor wanted an assistant. She and her minions— the ‘yes” women who carried out whatever Leona had decided—demonstrated that they could do nicely without help. I blinked back tears of joy because I dodged the proverbial bullet on that one. And a big plus was to see Leona at a loss for words.

  “These muffins look delicious,” said Leona and stirred her coffee. “I could smell the aroma all the way into the church parking lot.” After helping herself, she buttered and broke off a piece of muffin. Enthusiastically, she chatted about Charlotte’s new art studio, Helen’s gall bladder surgery, and Sherry’s new job. I nodded and added an appropriate “oh really” or “nice” or “uh uh.”

  After the shortest visit in history, Leona retrieved her Coach tote and bid me goodbye. “Round one,” Roxy told Tom when he came into the kitchen for a muffin.

  “Do you think there’ll be others? Rounds I mean,” Tom asked. He was naïve in matters of women’s church politics.

  “Oh yes. This was the first skirmish. The war comes later when she gets Blanche and all the inmates involved. Listen to me. Hattie’s vocabulary is contagious. I mean the residents at Golden Palms. We just have to be patient and get through the holidays with as much peace as possible. After all isn’t that what the season is about?”

  Tom washed down the muffin with his mug of coffee. He then repeated for the umpteenth time, “Don’t start with Leona. Give her some space.” With that warning, he refilled his mug and pocketed two muffins on his retreat to the study.

  My darling husband hated conflict which made him perfectly suited to his calling, but there were situations he didn’t understand. Leona threw down the gauntlet the day we arrived. She let me know in no uncertain terms that her regime was alive and well. The women’s council was her arena and I had better find something else to do. I cleaned up the kitchen and turned on my computer. It had begun misting rain. I tapped on the keyboard in tandem to the raindrops.

  Before Tom and I married, I tried my hand at fiction. It had been a while but I thought writing might be a good hobby for me now that we were in our pre-retirement season of life. If Leona were my antagonist, what would her character be? Maybe she could be the narcissistic mother who gives up her child for adoption and drops out of sight. Or perhaps she’d be a blackmailer? What other heinous crimes could I have her commit? Maybe Leona could murder the postman and dump his corpse on the parsonage lawn?

  A mental health professional would no doubt classify my actions as those of a latent psychopath sublimating anger into a piece of fiction. But writing a mystery was a pleasant diversion. It was a perfect vehicle to kill off enemies, incarcerate those who disliked me, or better still commit the offenders to a facility for the criminally insane. But the piece de resistance was that I could do it all from my study without guilt, recriminations, or even remorse. It was harmless enough to have my writing hat was cocked in Leona’s direction. Perhaps I could add manslaughter to her repertoire. By lunch time, I had finished a rough draft for a cozy. It was a very short cozy. I listened to the rain falling and decided to make our favorite grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch. After which I was on to the next crisis.

  Tom in his magnanimous nature volunteered our parsonage living room for a small private wedding. Only one problem—horrible living room drapes. He committed to a ceremony before he asked me about it. That was bad enough, but it was one of the town’s prominent families. It seems a granddaughter was pregnant and they wanted a private ceremony. Yikes, it was only two weeks away.

  For this particular situation, I would be forced to use my secret weapon. When I presented my case of the Hancock wedding, the hideous drapes, and the church’s reputation I was confident of action. It must have been forty years ago when the women’s council redecorated the parsonage and hung sage green panels. They probably looked snazzy then billowing onto shag carpeting. But at present, they were sun-faded, drooping, and in peril of danger of falling off the traverse rod. Thankfully the shag carpet was gone, but the once-sage-green panels remained.

  I was savvy at the church politics game. The last thing Tom needed was controversy. Besides, the Christmas Drop In included a tour of the parsonage. Tom was so proud of the work of our new board at First Church. He worried about rocking the boat. Political parties have their graybeards and so do we. I dialed the familiar number.

  Meryl Swaine, the oldest maven in our congregation, could work a miracle if that’s what it took. Miss Meryl and Mr. Tremaine were a source of constant amusement and delight. Only a month before, my husband talked Mr. Tremaine off the roof when he took a notion to clean the gutters. On a regular basis, Mr. Tremaine would get the idea to straighten the TV antenna or paint the eaves. Miss Meryl and I have lured him off the roof with brownies, the promise of a zoo trip, or a threat to call the fire department. Each time we managed to get him down safely, Tom dutifully hid the ladder. And just as predictably, Mr. Tremaine would always find it. The humor in the situation is swallowed by the fear that this fragile octogenarian would fall and break something. We never turn a deaf ear to a cry of help from the Swains. They are a great asset to have in your corner.

  “Hi. Miss Meryl. This is Roxanne Thibeaux. May I drop by this afternoon? I need to talk to you about
something.”

  Enough said.

  ~6~

  Our community is the epitome of small, southern, and traditional. The membership roster is chocked to the brim with respectable leaders in business, academia, and government. In other words, they were boring. The deacons and elders were hand selected by the former minister for their prestige and influence—gentlemen (no ladies) who were keenly aware of what others expect.

  That’s where Miss Meryl comes in. For years, she subtly controlled her pet areas through Mr. Tremaine when he was chairman of the church board. This put her head-to-head with the Ledbetter sisters, Elvira, and sometimes even Hattie. Now that three of her rivals were Golden Palms residents, the competition has lessened. But, Miss Meryl’s influence remained and she might just be persuaded to flex her muscle a bit. True, she was elderly but she was a driving force in the church and community having taught most of them in her classroom.

  “Hello darling Roxy,” Miss Meryl called loud enough for the neighbors to hear. The air was brisk but she kept her vigil on the front porch and waved at every passerby. Folks knew that it would be well into the cold wind of November before Miss Meryl would relinquish her post. Even on the frostiest morning, you could see her perched near the window. Not much escaped her keen attention. She had a knack for details. Miss Meryl was used to keeping order since she taught school for forty years. If your family had roots in Athena, she knew all your family secrets for three generations.

  “Miss Meryl. How are you? How’s Mr. Tremaine? I brought you those pear preserves that you like and some fresh baked biscuits. Let’s go inside for some tea.”

  “No need. I have a pot of tea all ready for our nice chat. Come sit next to me on the glider.” She patted the cushion next to her. Miss Meryl always smelled like lavender. Her pants suit was not fancy but warm and topped with a shawl of many colors. One she probably knitted herself before the arthritis won. After a bit of catching up and chit chat about the comings and goings of our burg, I ventured the question.

  “Have you heard that Deacon Parker’s granddaughter is getting married? And what’s more the ceremony is to be in the parsonage.”

  “Yes I heard. I knew that she would wind up pregnant and having to wed. Cynthia Parker has the worst reputation in town. Her grandparents tried to straighten her out, but with her background. Land sakes! I am surprised she didn’t get knocked up before now.”

  With a steady hand, Miss Meryl poured tea out of her silver service and passed me a cup and saucer. The aroma of peppermint warmed me even before a sip. After slicing a biscuit, she slathered it with a layer of butter and pear preserves. She smacked her lips and continued, “I haven’t been in the parsonage in years. No offense. But is it fit for a wedding?”

  And there it was. The open door I needed. I had to approach this with finesse so that we could get the carpet cleaned, proper window treatments installed, and all within a short time frame. But before I could continue, she added, “Are those horrid green drapes still in the front room? Rip them down. Get something modern. I have always hated those things. Got outvoted by the Ledbetter sisters and their gutless followers.”

  “That’s what I came to ask you about. Who do you think I should contact?”

  “Never you mind. I’ll take care of it. Here have some more tea. You look tired, Roxy. Are you sleeping all right?”

  She continued with her train of thought, “My nephew, Harold, is an interior decorator. His mom is always going on about his sexual preference. I don’t care a whit about that! All I know is that Harold adores me. I can rely on him to take care of it all. I’ll let you know when to evacuate. Here write down the date and time of the wedding so I won’t forget.”

  She slid me a ‘Honey-Do’ pad and pencil. I dutifully wrote down the details of the upcoming nuptials.

  That’s why Miss Meryl is my secret weapon. Despite her years, her mind is sharp and her connections run deep. She is a dynamo in a La-Z-Boy© getting done from her parlor what most of us would consider impossible.

  I asked about Mr. Tremaine again. She said that he was worn out from trying new hobbies. String art was too challenging. With the type of dementia he suffered, most crafts proved more frustrating than calming. He tried woodworking – too dangerous. But before Miss Meryl took his tools away, he did manage a tiny birdhouse. Leather work and stamp collection were boring. I made a mental note to search for a hobby a more serene —maybe watercolors or photography.

  At that moment, Miss Meryl brightened and offered, “His passion for the moment is herbs. He is raising them in pots on the back porch. Heaven knows what he has planted. If I don’t stop him, he stirs in his discoveries into my soups and stews. One day he will poison us both.”

  I tried to put that implication out of my mind and didn’t let my worried face show. Miss Meryl was delighted to know all the details of Mitchell’s demise, funeral, and catered reception. She laughed so much I had to pat her on the back to keep her from choking. I even impersonated Hattie as she retold the revival story. Tears flowed down her cheeks. Miss Meryl was a school mate of Elvira so I included the visit to GP and shared the plans for a gardening project.

  “You should join us,” I said, “it won’t start up until after the holidays. We could arrange for someone to sit with Mr. Tremaine while you are away.”

  “I’ll think about it, dear. I rarely leave him anymore. I worry so when I have to leave him. He can be hard to manage and gets confused. It would take someone strong and patient to cope with him when he gets in one of his moods.”

  “We’ll work it out. The change of pace would do you good. Plan on it.”

  She seemed pleased at the invitation but not any more pleased than my prospect of the parsonage getting a makeover even if it was just one room. Maybe Harold could help me discreetly dispose of furniture abandoned by previous ministry families.

  On the way home, I thought about Mr. Tremaine and his herbal hobby. Where was he getting the herbs? How safe was it for him to be putting them in their food? One more thing to be concerned about. Maybe I could get Tom over for a visit and a look at Mr. T’s herb garden.

  ~7~

  Two days after my visit with Miss Meryl, the phone rang in the parsonage. Miss Meryl called to say Harold and his crew were on their way. Tom and I left the door key under the mat and we headed to Dahlonega for the day. It had been months since we had the entire day to spend together. I strolled through what must have been Georgia’s oldest hardware store. We took in the Gold Museum depicting Georgia’s first gold strike and the town that grew around it. We sipped tea in a British tea shop. I felt renewed after catching up with the love of my life. Dinner on the way home was in an out of the way pub which reminded us both of our trip to Europe on our 30th anniversary. We vowed to do this at least once a month.

  A week later the wedding was over without a hitch (pun intended). Fall festival was a memory. It was a few more weeks before Thanksgiving loomed on the horizon. It would just be the two of us. For the Langfords, Thanksgiving weekend was a major holiday, so the sisters planned on visiting South Carolina for a get together of distant cousins.

  Thanksgiving was a reprieve before the last hurdle of the year—the Christmas Drop In. Since my meeting with Leona, I had noticed a lot of eye rolling in the congregation. No doubt she spread the word that she would be executing the Christmas fete single handedly. That was of her own choice, of course, which Leona conveniently left out of any conversation.

  The Thursday Club happily joined the art group at Golden Palms in making decorations for the upcoming holidays. Amy excelled in pine cone turkeys with beady eyes. My specialty was masks for their holiday dinner entertainment. Like the youngsters in school, GP planned to act out the first Thanksgiving complete with Indians, Pilgrims, and assorted players. Some of the residents were really getting into the part with costumes, buckled shoes and hats, and feathered headdress. It was all in good fun and the art teacher finally gave up her lesson plans and let everyone do whatever they wanted. />
  Wednesday evening services on Thanksgiving eve were cancelled. We enjoyed a lovely night at home with no activities. It was the same on Thanksgiving Day. I thawed the turkey and placed it in the oven, took the dressing out the freezer, and had a coconut cake on the buffet for our dessert.

  With the bulk of our meal either prepared or in the oven, I edited Tom’s memoir galleys one last time. His deadline was slowly creeping up on him. With Suzy and Amy away, Clara and I were self-appointed charges for Hattie. Clara planned to spend the afternoon with Hattie. Sleuthing was pushed into the background.

  Suzy promised a detailed report about her dinner with Tony when they returned from the holiday. She let us know that if it were necessary that she would take another one for the team when the forensic report came in. Everything slowed for the long weekend. Clara put out an early edition of the newspaper and closed up for the weekend. The grapevine brought news of a new administrator at Golden Palms, but time would tell if that were true. Who resigns during the holidays? Could it be that there was a leak about Mitchell’s death and residents’ families were putting pressure on the Golden Palms Board of Directors? Clara had been diligent in assuring that nothing in the Athena Beacon hinted of anything amiss at Golden Palms. My imagination began working overtime and not in a good way.

  I put on a Christmas CD to put me in the spirit of my tasks. After pulling a few recipes, donning my holiday apron, and digging out the cookie cutters, I was ready for an afternoon of Christmas baking. I concentrated on cookies that I could bake and freeze until the Drop In. Cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg filled the air. Carols played and the scent of Christmas was in the air. It was the therapy I needed.

  As I took the 3rd batch of cookies from the oven, my cell phone rang. It took a minute to put the tray on a cooling rack, remove my oven mitt, and glance at the caller ID. It was an unknown caller number. Probably some salesman. Just as I was putting another tray of cookies into the oven, my cell rang again. This time Clara’s number popped up.