by Tamar Myers
So that was it! That’s why the place was so dark. The plantation shutters in the kitchen were closed as well. Silly me, indeed. I’d completely forgotten.
“Ah,” I said, as it came back to me. “That was Pinocchio—er, I mean Regina Larkin’s idea. She said it would be inviting trouble if any of the hoi polloi drove by and saw so many high-profile guests cavorting in one place.”
C. J. returned to the kitchen. “She said that?”
“Well, maybe she didn’t use the word ‘cavorting,’ but that’s what y’all did. Anyway, she definitely said ‘hoi polloi.’”
“Abby, I don’t think the hoi polloi drive down your street.”
“Maybe not. But it seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t invite many neighbors, and there was no point in making them jealous.”
C. J. nodded. “That part makes sense. People are always jealous of me.”
I decided, in the interest of time, not to comment. “Dmitri must be mad at me,” I said by way of diversion. “Any other day he would be rubbing up against my legs, meowing his head off to be picked up.”
C. J. nodded again. “Just like my cousin Alvin Ledbetter. Except he used to nip my ankles—”
I bolted into the dining room. The powder-blue French silk drapes in that room have a double lining and are surprisingly heavy and utterly opaque. Between the drapes and the window there are enough sheers to blanket half of Charlotte. Until I flipped the chandelier switch, the room was as dark as Buford’s heart the day he left me for Tweetie. I pulled hard on the drapery cord and the afternoon sun flooded the room with glorious diffused light.
“Ah, that’s much better. Dmitri! Dmitri, where are you?”
True to his heritage, my ten-pound bundle of joy refused to answer. “I’ll look upstairs,” C. J. volunteered, and bounded up the steps like the African springboks I’d seen in National Geographic.
I hobbled on to the living room, the scene of last night’s debacle. When I pulled the drapes in that room I couldn’t help but groan. The scorched area on the carpet was even larger than I remembered, and if the manufacturer couldn’t match the dye lot, the entire floor was going to have to be recovered. Leave it to me to buy the most expensive carpet on the market. According to the salesman it was supposed to last a lifetime under normal foot traffic. He hadn’t, alas, mentioned anything about the Statue of Liberty dropping her torch.
“Abby!” C. J. called, rescuing me from my reverie of needless dollars spent. “Dmitri’s upstairs.”
I took the steps one at the time. Even without an injured foot, a woman of my stature does not bound like a gazelle.
C. J. waited for me at the top of the stairs. “He’s under your bed,” she said. “He’s acting weird.”
I shivered. I’d been hoping to work my way slowly into that room.
“Weird? How?”
“He’s rolling around with his feet in the air. And growling, too. Granny Ledbetter used to do that every spring. But it’s fall now, Abby. I think something is wrong.”
I took a deep breath and charged the scene of the crime. When faced with a flight-or-fight situation, I sometimes surprise myself by barreling headlong into danger, especially if a loved one is involved. And next to my son Charlie and Greg, my yellow tom is the male I love most in the world. Even my brother, Toy, takes a backseat to my four-legged friend. I know, despite his name, Toy is a human being and should count for more than a cat, but Dmitri didn’t tease me mercilessly from the moment he could talk. Nor is Dmitri the undeserving apple of Mama’s eye.
C. J was right. Dmitri was rolling around like nobody’s business and in the exact spot where Tweetie’s corpse had been found. It was downright unseemly. Bizarre even.
“Stop that!” I commanded.
Dmitri stopped just long enough to give me a challenging look through green slits, and then went right back to rolling. In cat years my feline is probably older than I, but he often acts like a teenager.
“What do you think it could be?” C. J. asked. “Ooh, Abby, you don’t think he’s been possessed, do you?”
“Possessed? You mean by Tweetie’s ghost?” I couldn’t quite suppress a chuckle.
“It happens to animals, you know,” the big gal said defensively. “Especially to cats. Granny Ledbetter had a big old Persian that was born on the day Elvis Presley died. So that’s what Granny named him. Anyway, even when he was a kitten, Elvis used to go up to Granny’s beagle, who was named Darwin, and start to meow something pitiful. This would make Darwin real mad, and he’d chase Elvis all over the place.”
“Crystal,” I said patiently, “cats and dogs fight. That’s what they do.”
“But don’t you get it, Abby? Granny’s cat Elvis was meowing ‘You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog.’”
I groaned. “Well, Dmitri isn’t possessed, and he’s for sure not Elvis.”
“That’s right, but he could be Buddy Holly.”
“Somehow I don’t think so. Besides, he isn’t even meowing, he’s just rolling.”
“Buddy didn’t sing all the time, Abby. Ask for a sign.”
I sighed. Anything to shut the girl up.
“Dmitri, if you’re Buddy Holly—or anything at all except a cat—give me a sign.”
A split second later my doorbell rang. The instrument has four tones, and at the sound of the first chime I did a remarkable impression of a springbok. I didn’t intentionally leap into C. J.’s arms, but that’s where the second chime found me. By the third chime Dmitri was in my arms. C. J., bless her heart, had no one to leap on.
The three of us trembled with fear. It was all so silly of course, because doorbells rarely hurt anyone. Finally, C. J. came to her senses.
“It still counts, Abby, even if it is a doorbell. Dmitri is really Buddy Holly.”
“Dmitri is a cat who still has his back claws,” I growled. “C. J., put me down.”
“Not until you admit the truth.”
“Crystal! Put me down, you big galoot!”
C. J. promptly dropped me. I landed on my injured ankle, and promptly dropped Dmitri. The poor dear was not amused and raced down the hall like he had a pack of hounds after him. Maybe Dmitri was Elvis. Then again, maybe he was just a cat. One thing was for sure; the doorbell needed answering.
20
My first reaction was to tense up when I saw that the caller was Malcolm Biddle. Then I remembered that just this morning I had elevated him from his position at the bottom of the male pond to somewhere near the surface. Maybe a floating layer of algae.
“Come in,” I said, and graciously hobbled aside.
As he passed I noted that his was a rather cute derriere. I directed him to sit on the far side of the living room, so I could ogle his booty a few seconds longer. After all, it wasn’t like I was married, and I certainly didn’t plan to touch.
“Abby,” he said, once we were both seated, “Buford just called. He asked me to give you a message.”
“What? He’s supposed to be on a plane somewhere over the Pacific.”
“He is. He tried calling you here and at your Mother’s, and when he couldn’t get you, he called me. He has some ideas for the funeral.”
I swallowed. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Well, I’ll be handling the legal end until Buford gets in, and I’ve already made arrangements with the funeral home for when the body gets released. But Buford wanted somebody to see to the spiritual side.”
“You’ve lost me.”
At that point C. J. clambered into the room. Mercifully she took a seat without being told. I reluctantly made introductions.
Malcolm crossed his legs seductively, one sturdy ankle balanced across the opposing knee. I dared not even glance below his belt.
“Abby, Buford wants you to contact his clergyman. Make tentative arrangements for the funeral. I spoke to a Ms. Sharp on my cell phone on the way over here, and I think we can get the body released in time for a funeral on Wednesday.”
“What�
�s the rush?”
I got the impression that Malcolm squirmed, although I swear he didn’t even blink. “Buford has a court case Thursday.”
“I see. So he’s delegating the dirty work.”
C. J. gasped. “Abby, we’re talking about a friend’s funeral.”
“She wasn’t quite a friend,” I said through clenched teeth.
Malcolm smiled. “Abby, I know this has to be tough on you, but Buford didn’t know who else to call. I suppose I could handle the funeral arrangements, but I’ve never done that before. Besides, I don’t go to church. I wouldn’t know how it’s done.”
I bristled. “You’re not suggesting that Buford wants the funeral held at my church, are you?”
“Oh no. At least I don’t think so. He was quite specific about the place. He said Holy Blossom Interfaith House of Prayer on Park Road. That isn’t your church, is it?”
“Gracious, no! I’ve never even heard of the place.” Frankly, I was flabbergasted. To my knowledge Buford had refused to set as much as one hairy toe in the doorway of any church following our wedding day, with the exception of weddings and funerals relating to big-name clients. Even our children’s baptisms went ignored by him. When he married Tweetie Bird it was at a justice of the peace in Las Vegas.
“Ooh, ooh,” C. J. squealed and waved her arm like an inept school girl who finally got one answer right. “Holy Blossom is my church!”
That astounded me as well. I couldn’t recall her ever having mentioned a church. In fact, I had the distinct impression she was against organized religion of any kind.
“Since when, dear?” I asked gently.
“Abby, I’ve been going there for years.” C. J. was gazing with adoration upon Malcolm Biddle’s comely features. He, in turn, looked like a Crusader who had just found the Holy Grail. My, but that pair moved fast!
“C. J., you’ve only lived in Charlotte for two years. Before that you lived in Shelby.”
“Okay, so it’s been two years. But that’s still years.”
“Just barely. What kind of a church is Holy Blossom?”
“Well, like Mr. Biddle said, it’s an interfaith church. Although we don’t use the word ‘church,’ on account of that has connotations. Anyway, what makes Holy Blossom so special is that we accept people from all backgrounds.”
“Most churches do, dear.”
“Yeah, but at Holy Blossom we try not to judge.”
Touché. “Did you know Buford and Tweetie were members?”
“Of course, silly. They came almost every Wednesday—at Holy Blossom we have our services on Wednesday evenings because it’s more inclusive.”
“You don’t say. Well, maybe you should be the one to arrange Tweetie’s funeral. You know the pastor, don’t you?”
“I’d be happy to, Abby. Sister Deidre is a good friend of mine.”
I stood. “Well, I guess that’s settled then.”
Neither C. J. nor Malcolm seemed to have heard me. They were still giving each other the eye, and the stream of pheromones passing between them was so thick, I could have cut the flow with a knife.
“Ahem,” I said. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Go ahead, Abby,” C. J. said. “We won’t get in the way.”
“You’ve only just met, for crying out loud.”
“Maybe it’s kismet,” Malcolm said.
“Kismet?” I asked incredulously. I couldn’t believe a real lawyer would talk that way. Buford should take another look at his colleague’s license. Malcolm wouldn’t be the first faux lawyer to have taken his bar exam in a tavern.
C. J. nodded vigorously. “Granny always said this could happen.”
“What? That you’d make a fool of yourself?” Perhaps I was being harsh, but I care about the girl.
C. J. was on her feet in a flash. She whisked me, stumbling, into the dining room.
“Make fun of me if you want to, Abby, but this could be love at first sight.”
“Crystal, you’re supposed to have the second sight. You should know better than to think two people could fall in love in less than a minute.”
C. J. lowered her massive head and trained her eyes intently on mine. “You should be happy for me, Abby—not jealous. You already have Greg.”
“I’m not jealous!” I stamped my foot, then howled with pain. I may even have used a few expletives.
“Honestly, Abby, you don’t have to be so rude.”
“Out!” I said pointing to the door.
“But Abby, I gave you a ride.”
It may have been only my imagination, but it seemed to me that her sigh rustled the heavy French drapes. Mama’s sighs, I’ll have you know, can quiver my curtains all the way from Rock Hill.
“Yes, you very kindly gave me a ride,” I said, “and I thank you for it. Look, C. J., I’m sorry if you think I was rude. It’s just that I’m feeling incredibly stressed. And all this talk about love at first sight is—well, let’s just say it’s adding to my stress.”
“I forgive you,” C. J. said, and there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm or resentment in her voice. She looked longingly toward the living room. “Abby, if it’s really all right with you, maybe I will go. If you think you’ll be all okay here alone.”
“I’ll be fine.” I meant it. The nonsense with C. J. and Malcolm had somehow diffused the spooky feeling I’d gotten upon entering the house.
My young friend patted me on the back. It was supposed to be an act of tenderness, but the gal has huge mitts and the strength of a grizzly bear. It was all I could do to remain upright.
“Take care, Abby. And if you start to get depressed, my granny has a wonderful hot toddy recipe I’m sure she won’t mind if I share. It contains St. John’s wort, cod liver oil, crème de menthe—”
“Thanks, dear. I’ll keep that mind.”
It was actually with some relief that I ushered the pair of fledgling lovebirds to the door.
Okay, to be absolutely honest, the second the front door shut behind C. J. and Malcolm, the relief I felt at their departure vanished. It was replaced with an almost overwhelming feeling of doom. Something horrible had happened in that house, and something just as horrible was about to happen again. My instinct was to grab my pocketbook from the kitchen counter and race out of there like a kid on the last day of school. One thing I knew already, there was no cotton-picking way I was ever again going to be happy living in that house.
There were things to be done, however, so I had no choice but to haul myself upstairs one more time. Dmitri, wouldn’t you know, was back to rolling around on my bedroom floor. I let him indulge in this strange obsession while I made a quick check of the second-story rooms. Nothing appeared to be missing, and there was no sign of a struggle. The bed Wynnell had crashed on the evening before was still rumpled, but that was to be expected. Apparently the kitchen fairy didn’t climb stairs.
Having found no clues in my cursory search, I packed an overnight case with a few essentials, gathered up a complaining cat, and hit the road to Mama’s. The unremitting howling of my male companion made the trip almost unbearable. I’m sure you’d think ill of me if I told you I almost stopped at the South Carolina welcome station to let him out—permanently out—so I won’t tell you that. I mean, I love the big lug, I really do, but there’s only so much a body can take. He may be a yellow-orange tabby, but there’s a touch of Siamese in there somewhere, so he has the lungs of a two-year-old human. At any rate, it wasn’t until I was a block from Mama’s that he shut up long enough to cough up a hairball on the passenger side seat.
Then my luck changed abruptly. As I pulled into my petite progenitress’s driveway, I noticed she wasn’t home. It’s not that I didn’t want to see Mama, mind you, but I had important matters to attend to. Playing Scrabble and sipping sweet tea would have to wait for a Sunday afternoon during which I had no murders to solve.
Dmitri adores Mama, and she him. In no time at all he’d settled himself on Mama’s pillow and was fast asleep. While he w
as bedding down I stashed the overnight bag in Mama’s best guest room—Toy’s old room—and wrote her a short note. I explained that her heart’s fondest desire was only temporarily being met, and under no circumstances should she interpret that as my agreeing to buy the house next door.
I grabbed a diet soda before leaving and had one sore foot outside the door when the phone rang. While I don’t claim to have C. J.’s second sight, or Mama’s nose for sniffing out trouble, there are times when I just know the phone is for me. This was one of those times.
“Hello,” I said cautiously. Just because the call was for me didn’t mean I’d want to take it.
“Abby, thank God you’re there,” Greg said.
“Just barely, dear. In fact, I was just leaving.”
“Abby, please, hear me out.”
I’d picked up the phone nearest the door. It was on a doily on a walnut phone table between a pair of 1950s-style overstuffed armchairs. I hoisted myself into the closest chair.
“Spill it, dear.” Just between you and me, I was expecting a lecture on how to be more civil to Investigator Sharp.
“Uh—I don’t know how to say this, Abby.”
His tone made me uneasy. God forbid I had pushed him too far—right into the skinny arms of his new coworker.
“Just say it. I can take it.” I didn’t know that I could, but I wasn’t about to come across as weak at a moment like this.
“Abby, this is something I should have told you before. And I was going to tell you tonight, at supper, but news like this has a way of spreading like a gasoline fire. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
“Then tell me!” I wailed. My anxiety was so high by then that I was in danger of exploding and starting my own fire.
“Okay, it’s like this. I quit my job.”
My gasp informed me that Mama didn’t dust her house as regularly as she claimed. “When? Why?”
“I gave my notice on Friday.”
“But that can’t be! You’ve been tagging along with Investigator Sharp like she was your bosom buddy—no pun intended.”
During the ensuing silence a lasting peace descended upon the Middle East and Dennis Rodman grew up. Finally I could take it no more.