A Dead Pig in the Sunshine

by Penny Burwell Ewing

  The kitchen door opened and closed. Oh, good Lord, Preston!

  “Jolene.” His voice rang down the hallway. “Get ready for your man because I’m hungry for some twinkie pie.”

  Heat suffused my face at Mama’s thunderous expression. Feeling the wrath to come, I hastily drew on my blouse and scrambled for the door to head him off, but Mama blocked the doorway and turned to meet my lusty visitor.

  He skidded to a halt just outside my bedroom, his face the color of Mr. Turner’s new red barn, and his hands busily re-buttoning his shirt. “Uh, Mrs. Tucker, uh, I’m, uh, surprised to see you, uh, here.”

  Mama slanted a reproving look with hands on hips. “I just bet you are, Dr. Neally. Now, about this twinkie pie.”

  “It’s not what you think, Mrs. Tucker,” he stammered. “Honestly, Jolene is a fabulous baker.”

  “Uh, huh, I know all about Jolene’s prowess in the kitchen, Dr. Neally.”

  I gasped at her audacity, and walked over to the nightstand and pulled out a pair of scissors. “Here.” I handed them to her.

  Mama gave me a hard look. “What’s this for?”

  “So you can cut the damn umbilical cord.” I snickered, furious and embarrassed with her intrusion and ready to pitch a classic Southern girl hissy fit.

  The kitchen door opened and closed. “Jolene.” Bradford’s voice echoed down the hallway. “I hope you’ve recovered after our late-night excitement.”

  Two pairs of startled eyes bore into mine. I groaned. “It’s not what you think.” My voice sounded guilty even to my own ears.

  Mama snipped the scissors for emphasis. “Then you’d better start explainin’.”

  ****

  Turns out I didn’t have too. Bradford took one look at our ragtag group as we entered the kitchen and accessed the situation correctly. I believe my disheveled appearance along with my horrified expression, and Preston’s awkwardly buttoned shirt provided a telling clue. If the situation bothered him, he didn’t show it, because he gave me a wink, and said in a casual voice, “Jolene, make a fresh pot of coffee while I fill in the blanks for your visitors.”

  Mama and Preston took a seat at the table as I busied myself with the coffee and fixings.

  “Now, let me start by saying that our late-night excitement was in the form of a police investigation. Jolene is helping me with a missing person’s report only in an unofficial capacity.” His tone reflected his authoritative position. “She has been helpful in the past, and I needed her special insight with this case.”

  Mama addressed me as I placed the cream and sugar on the table. “Is that special insight responsible for that gash on your head?”

  “It helped,” I shot back.

  “Sam, I don’t mean to pry, and I’m not questioning your story, but there’s more to the story. Give it to me straight, or I’ll make a special trip down to the station and have a nice quiet chat with your boss.” Mama’s tone was brittle. “I don’t like my little girl being used by the police to root out criminals.”

  “And I’ll join her,” Preston added, his gaze locked on mine. “What’s going on between you two? Is my girl keeping company with another?”

  I thumped the plate of brownies on the table. “I’m not your little girl, Mama.” I turned to stick my finger under Preston’s nose. “And I’m not your girl, either, so both of you knock it off. I’m a willing participant and don’t want or need your input.”

  “As you wish.” Preston got up from the table and stomped out the kitchen door, slamming it behind him.

  Damn, another one bites the dust. My strike out average had reached one hundred percent. Oh, well, perhaps I’d take a break from the dating scene for a while until I could enroll in a life management course out at the community college.

  “Feel better now that you’ve run another man out of your life?” Mama asked in a sweet tone meant to aggravate me. “I’m mighty upset about this twinkie pie business.”

  Bradford choked on his coffee and set his cup down with a clink. Mama turned her full radar vision on him. “Um, so I guess you know all about this?”

  His face burned red. “That is a question I’d rather not answer, Mrs. Tucker. This is between you and your daughter, and I’m wise enough to know when to keep my mouth shut.”

  Mama stirred sugar into her coffee cup, a wicked smile on her craggy face meant to rattle my cage. “Shameful. That’s what it is. I can’t imagine what your daddy would say if he knew how his daughter is carrying on.” Her eyebrows arched mischievously. “And at her age, too!”

  Bradford and I shared a knowing look, and I stifled a giggle at his incredulous expression. Thankfully, Mama noticed my crude drawing on the table and picked it up.

  “What’s this about?” She stopped studying the drawing. “This looks like Betty’s antique engagement ring.”

  “Betty van Allen?” Bradford’s tone reflected his inner calm. My mouth opened and closed with surprise, and then speculation. Could Vanessa’s mother be in on this scam? The third party? The lump on my head throbbed with remembrance.

  “You say it’s Betty van Allen’s antique engagement ring?” I repeated for clarification.

  Mama shook her head. “No, I said it looks like Betty’s antique engagement ring.”

  Bradford picked up the drawing. “In all the time I dated her daughter, I never saw her wear the ring.”

  “That’s because it was stolen long ago,” Mama explained. “The ring belonged to Alfred van Allen’s great-grandmother and had been passed down through the generations through the firstborn son. Vanessa was just a child when it went missing.”

  “So, you can’t positively identify the ring?” Bradford asked.

  Mama frowned. “I just said that. The ring in the drawing is similar to the ring I remember seeing on Betty’s hand when she and Alfred wed. It’s been ages, and my memory isn’t what it used to be. I could be completely wrong in my assumption.”

  A truck horn sounded outside. “There’s Harland now.” She pushed away from the table. “I’ve got an eye appointment in fifteen minutes, so I don’t have time to get to the bottom of this matter.” She swung her gaze from me to Bradford. “I’m not done with this conversation, Sam. I don’t like Jolene mixed up in police business. Find a way to work without her special insight or I will.”

  Mama placed a kiss on my cheek at the door. “I’m mighty ashamed of you, Jolene Tucker Claiborne. Twinkie pie indeed. Sleeping with two men. What would Becky think if she knew? “She didn’t wait for my response, but launched ahead. “You need to get married and settle down with one man like your sisters.”

  I sighed with exasperation. “Give it a rest, Mama. Every dog should have a few fleas.”

  True to Mama’s standards, she broke contact, gave Bradford a quick red-faced nod, and pinched me hard on the arm before bolting out the kitchen door.

  When I turned back to Bradford, his face still held traces of embarrassment. “Lord, Jolene, I’ll never be able to face her again now that she knows.”

  I shrugged. “Serves her right. Next time she’ll ring the damn doorbell.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  No News Ain’t Necessarily Good News

  After Mama split the scene, we decided to divide and conquer. Bradford would pay a visit to Betty van Allen, and I would attend the Whiskey Creek Writers Guild meeting this afternoon at the library. Perhaps between the two of us we could fish out more information on the mysterious ruby ring, and we’d meet back up here at my house later in the evening to compare notes. Since Bradford had received a summons from Sheriff Snellgrove, he took off and I headed in to work.

  The day passed without incident, and by four, I hung up my apron and drove over to the library on Main Street for the writers meeting. Uncertain what to expect, I’d brought along a notebook and an essay I’d written back in high school to pass off as a work-in-progress, or WIP, in writer’s lingo.

  The librarian at the main desk gave me directions to the upstairs room set aside for the
meeting. When I entered, a dozen heads turned my way and I bobbed a greeting—not recognizing a soul from the Halloween party. I took a seat between two old biddies with their noses pointed toward the ceiling. Both ignored me but I kept my smile in place, not bothered by their snobbery.

  “Welcome to the Whiskey Creek Writers Guild meeting.” A young woman at the head of the table rose to her feet. “My name is Kathy Dickson, and I write poetry. Let’s go around the table and everyone introduce themselves and tell what genre they write.”

  When my turn came, I pushed back my chair and stood. “My name is Jolene Claiborne, and I’m a wannabe novelist.”

  “You’re Annie Mae’s daughter,” a man voiced. “I remember you from the book launch.” He smiled, his greedy gaze roving suggestively over me. “The Lone Ranger if I’m not mistaken.”

  I returned the old goat’s smile, silently wishing I could pluck his eyes off my boobs and slam them back into his wrinkly, ancient face. “Yes, I’m Annie Mae’s daughter.”

  “What brings you here today?” Kathy questioned in a neutral voice.

  “I heard Vanessa van Allen might be in attendance.” My gaze registered their reaction and swiftly moved over their hands. No ruby ring. Plenty of diamonds though. “I believe she has a lot to offer a budding new author.”

  “As you can see, she’s not here.” Kathy’s smile withered. “Vanessa’s in isolation as she finishes her latest work, but I’m sure you can learn a lot from the rest of us.”

  A murmur of agreement sounded around the room, and the old biddies shot me a disapproving look. I resumed my seat. “Do you know where she is—in isolation, I mean?”

  “We wouldn’t tell if we knew.” A male voice contained a strong suggestion of reproach. “You need to mind your own business, missy.”

  “That’s right,” another voice joined his. “Writers respect the sanctity of privacy.”

  Other voices of discontent joined in and for a second I considered taking the path of least resistance to the door. Christ, I’d ignited a firestorm of fervor. Why such passion for Vanessa? Or could the passion be for Careen posing as Vanessa? Hmm. Seems like I’d have to test the waters of discontent to bring out the sharks if I wanted any usable information on the missing writer and the ruby ring.

  Kathy Dickson held up her hand for silence. “Everyone quiet down, please. I’m sure our new member didn’t mean to offend anyone. Let’s get to work, okay?” She directed the last at me, and I gave her a nod of acknowledgment.

  The group quieted down but the atmosphere had turned frosty. When I observed their faces, dislike stared back full force. Not deterred, I dropped my gaze down to my notebook and jotted down a few questions I’d ask when the opportunity presented. I didn’t have long to wait.

  “We’ll start with reading our WIP,” Kathy began. “And last week Nan Green was skipped. We’ll start with her. Remember to keep your critique short and non-judgmental.”

  Nan Green read her sizzling WIP. As she finished, dead silence settled over the room. Most appeared embarrassed by the lusty erotica similar to what I’d read of Careen’s work. The old biddies fluttered together like sparrows on a windy day. The men in the group had their mouths clamped shut, but for the old goat—his eyes had refastened on my boobs. I wanted to slug him, instead I seized the opportunity to steer the conversation back to Vanessa since she was the reason for me being there in the first place.

  “Since I’m new and I don’t know anything, I find the writing compelling. However, it reads a lot like Vanessa’s work. Has she been mentoring you long?”

  All eyes shifted from me to Nan Green. She flushed under the scrutiny. “I don’t believe my work much reflects hers, but she has given me some pointers in the genre.”

  “Jolene’s right,” a woman said. “Your work does mimic Vanessa’s. You would do better to develop your own voice.”

  “I disagree,” another piped up. “Nan’s voice is uniquely hers. Vanessa’s shifts with each book she writes.”

  “Nan isn’t plagiarizing Vanessa,” an older woman added angrily.

  “Vanessa’s work is shameful,” commented one of the biddies. “Makes me cringe.”

  “Are you disparaging Nan’s work, Agnes?” an older gentleman with a beautiful mane of white hair questioned from the far end of the table.

  “That is not what I’m saying,” Agnes sputtered. “Nan is a fine writer, Robert.”

  Frustration crossed Kathy Dickson’s face. “Enough,” she shouted over the rising voices. “This is not how we conduct our meetings.” Here she shot me a bleak, tight-lipped smile. “Jolene, you’re disrupting the group with accusations of plagiarism. I understand you’re new, but please keep your comments to the writing and not the writer.”

  The other group members gathered around Nan as tears pooled in her eyes. Agnes remained in her seat, but gave me the evil eye as if I’d killed her BFF. Damn, no wonder Mama didn’t attend these meetings anymore. Panty-grippers. All of them.

  Robert, with the beautiful mane of white hair, stood to his feet and pointed a long finger at me. “You, young lady, are no wannabe writer. What is your true motive for invading our group?”

  Kathy Dickson shot to her feet. “I call this meeting to order. Sit down, Robert. There’s enough drama without you adding to it.”

  Okay. Enough of the madness. My plan had failed. Time to confess up. I pushed from the table and stood. “Folks, Robert’s right, I’m here on false pretenses.” Gasps of indignation followed, but I lunged ahead. “I’m trying to locate Vanessa van Allen.”

  “But I told you that she’s in isolation to finish her book,” Kathy added scathingly. “We have no knowledge of her whereabouts.”

  “Vanessa is not in isolation as you believe,” I said. “She’s officially missing from the Baconton Writers’ Retreat. I’m surprised you don’t know as it’s been on the local news.”

  “Most of us don’t watch the news, my dear,” one of the old biddies said. “Fake news, you know. Instead, we read books.”

  “Why the subterfuge?” Agnes accused. “We would’ve answered your questions if you’d approached us with the truth.”

  “Agnes is right.” Robert’s tone had chilled. “You could’ve been truthful from the start. We would’ve helped in any way we could.”

  I fished the crude drawing from my notebook. “I’m sorry for that.” I held up the drawing. “You can help me now. Do you recognize this ring?”

  When the drawing had been passed to each member of the group and none had recognized the ring, I tucked it back into my notebook.

  “Are you finished?” Kathy’s tone indicated she’d grown tired of the interruption to her meeting.

  “Has any one of you seen Vanessa since Halloween night?” I questioned.

  Again, no one had.

  Kathy left her place at the head of the table and came to stand beside me, her face cold and disapproving. “Now that you’re done with your interrogation, I must ask you to leave and never return.”

  The old biddies gave me the once-over and lifted their chins to the ceiling. I flushed under the heated looks thrown my way, and headed for the door with my Southern pride tucked between my legs.

  ****

  “Not much luck with the local talent, I take it.”

  I glanced up from my plate of chow mien, and shrugged. “No luck at all, Bradford. For the life of me, I don’t understand how you became entangled with that bunch of kooks. Panty-grippers. All of them.”

  “Vanessa was the only writer I was entangled with, as you put it.”

  “The Queen of the Vampires is the biggest drama queen of them all.” I snickered. “I’m just glad Mama’s shifted her interest to the new baby and away from bestseller-dom.”

  “Bestseller-dom? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that term before.”

  I scooped up an egg roll. “I just made it up, but it describes the mania I witnessed firsthand this afternoon. God, and you thought I was high maintenance.”

  We
were sitting at my kitchen table eating Chinese take-out. Bradford had turned up several minutes after I arrived home and had thought to bring dinner, thus sparing me the chore of preparing a meal.

  Bradford chuckled. “Jolene, you’re higher maintenance than a convention of writers, and you’re the biggest drama queen I know.”

  “Am not,” I protested, without much conviction and changed the subject. “So, how’s Snellgrove’s investigation coming along?”

  “Careen’s body has finally been released for burial. Her family has made arrangements to have the body shipped to Hawkinsville. Not much progress has been made to identify her killer.”

  “Find Vanessa and you’ll have your killer,” I mumbled with a full mouth of egg roll.

  Bradford set down his glass of iced tea. “We have no proof that Vanessa killed Careen.”

  “Careen fingered her.”

  “I’m sure we can’t use the murder victim’s word in court. We need concrete proof that Vanessa pulled the trigger.”

  “What about Mini Pearl? Any progress on how she came to be the murder weapon?”

  “Stolen guns are hard to trace.” Bradford popped a shrimp into his mouth. “I’m still working on it.”

  “I thought you weren’t on the case.”

  “Officially, I’m not, but that won’t stop me. I’ve got my sources working on it, and I hope to have word soon.”

  “What about Snellgrove’s possible tie to Vanessa? Careen swore she saw them together in the graveyard just before we found her body.”

  “I can’t tie them together. I even came right out and asked him. He denies knowing Vanessa at all.”

  “What about Betty? Did she have anything of value to say?”

  Bradford scooped up a forkful of fried rice and popped it into his mouth and chewed vigorously. “She wasn’t home.”

  “I think we’ve hit a roadblock with this case. Of course, we could pay another visit to Madame Mia’s and see what the spirits have to say.”

  “No.”

  “They were helpful before.” I pushed up from my chair, went to the cabinet and reached for the aspirin bottle. My killer headache had returned full force.