by Kelly Lane
“I’m afraid that’s true.”
“Damn,” whispered Pep, tossing a paper cocktail napkin down on the bar. “Eva, that’s not like you at all, hon. Here ya go, Miss Precious.”
Pep set down a tall old-fashioned glass with a peachy-colored beverage inside topped with a peach wedge and mint sprig.
“Still no umbrella?” asked Precious.
“Sorry. This is the Roadhouse, Miss Precious. Not the Ritz.” She looked at me. “Your cola chaser is comin’ right up, darlin’, although, the more I hear y’all talking, the more I think you need something with a bit more punch.”
“Waitron!” cried Wiggy.
Precious frowned. “He’s the kind of fella that gives all Yankees a bad name.” She took a long sip from her straw. “Maybe all men.” She sipped again. “I say he did it. Ummm. This tall, slender drink of peachiness is gooder than grits. Miss Pep, you’re one talented barkeep!”
“Glad you like it,” said Pep. “Here, hon.” She slid my cola across the bar. “Looks like ol’ Pappy Van Winkle may have done you a bit of good after all, sis. Already, you’re gettin’ a little color back in your cheeks. Sure you don’t want me to slip a shot of rum in that cola?”
“I’m sure. Thanks.”
“So c’mon. Quit holdin’ out on me!” whispered Precious. She bumped my shoulder impatiently. “Tell me the details about the folks from Boston. Especially about you and the dead guy!”
“Waitron!”
Several people in the bar turned to stare at Wiggy and his table of Boston “bird-watchers.” Then someone from the band hit a chord on the bass guitar, a speaker squealed, and the noise level inside the Roadhouse rose up a notch.
“They all work at the Perennial Paper Company,” I said to Precious. “And they’re all best friends. Or, at least they were when I knew them. All the men are Dartmouth College grads. Fraternity brothers. After he graduated, Dex became an acquisitions manager for the paper company. Wiggy got his job next, as the acquisitions asset and operations manager. He’s always been rude and bossy. Across from him”—I nodded—“the greasy little one wearing a red bow tie . . .”
As the band struck their first chords, the crowd whooped and clapped in appreciation. I raised my voice so Precious could hear me.
“. . . is Spencer Andover Fisk.”
The band started playing the bluegrass tune “Rocky Top.” I leaned closer to Precious so she could hear me.
“He’s Perennial Paper’s financial manager.” Precious nodded as the band played on. “He’s every bit the penny-pinching geek he appears to be. And coldhearted as they come. They used to call him the Slasher—to cut costs he’d recommend firing people right and left and never lose a bit of sleep over it. Also, he’s completely devoid of any personality or social skills. And the guy next to Spencer is Norcross Cooper Tarbox the Second. He’s a lawyer for the paper company.”
“Norcross?”
“Everyone calls him ‘Coop.’”
Precious cupped her hand to her mouth so I could hear her better. “And I thought we had crazy names down here in the South!” She threw her head back and laughed. “Folks don’t give Northerners enough credit.” She lifted her drink and took a long sip from her straw. Then she smiled coyly. “I could have me a slice of that hunka burning love. I kinda like those bad-boy types.”
“You can do better, Precious. Coop was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’s a trust fund baby and a total womanizer. Completely immature. I couldn’t believe he was one of the first people in our circle to get married. No one could.”
Precious nodded toward the skinny blonde woman at the table. “And the lovely Faye Dunaway look-alike?”
“Ha! That’s a good one, Precious. She does look like a skinny Faye Dunaway. Acts like the actress, too . . . when Faye Dunaway plays an evil character, that is.”
“So, I take it that you don’t like her much?”
“Not much. But then, the feeling has always been mutual. Her name is Claudia Bacon Devereaux, acquisitions administrator for Perennial Paper. She works, or worked, directly for Dex and managed all his affairs—both in and out of work. He didn’t step outside to pee and she didn’t know about it . . . or plan it ahead of time.”
“And she doesn’t like you because—”
“I was close to Dex. In her territory. I always suspected that in addition to being his loyal assistant, Claudia held a torch for Dex.”
“Makes sense.”
“I can’t imagine what she’ll do without Dex now. She always worshipped the ground Dex walked on. He’s been her entire life. And she’d kill anyone who crossed him. I mean that figuratively, of course.”
“Of course. But then again, maybe not.” Precious raised her eyebrows provocatively. “So, how did they all end up here? Did they come to visit you?”
Some of the barroom crowd began clapping, stomping, and singing along with the band.
“. . . Good old Rocky Top, Rocky Top Tennessee . . .”
I leaned in closer to Precious.
“Honestly, Precious, that’s what I want to know. Last night at the tasting, Dex insisted that coming here and running into me had been merely a coincidence. They were just on a bird-watching retreat. I doubted his story then. And I doubt it even more tonight. I can’t imagine a single one of them having an interest in birds, or nature. Unless it’s to shoot something, just for fun.”
“And I remember Miss Daphne said he asked to sleep in your old room. That hardly sounds like a coincidence to me.”
“I agree.”
“Okay. Still, you haven’t told me about dating this guy. What was that all about? And, by the way, why are his folks staring at us?”
I turned to look at the group in the corner.
“They’re staring at your screaming yellow skirt.”
“No. They ain’t. They’re staring at you, Sunshine. What are you not telling me?”
“Yeah,” said Pep, sidling up to the other side of the bar. She never missed a word anyone said at the bar. “What exactly is it, Eva, that you’re not telling us? There was definitely something fishy going on between you and this dead Dex guy. What gives? I’m getting the impression that he wasn’t just some guy you casually dated a few times . . .”
“Good old Rocky Top, Rocky Top Tennessee!”
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I said, sliding off the barstool.
Precious and Pep shook their heads.
“We’ll be waiting!” Pep called after me. “Won’t we, Precious?”
“Sure will.”
CHAPTER 21
It’s always been a theory of mine that golf courses and barroom bathrooms are information gold mines. And that night at the Roadhouse proved me right again.
I’d gone into the ladies’ room and, basically, stood in a stall to gather my wits. I knew that I had to come clean to Pep and Precious, and, of course, Daphne, about Dex. At least the part about our having been engaged. Still, I worried that even my sisters would think the worst of me once they found out that I’d been secretly engaged to Dex, never told them, and then left Dex. Just like I had with Buck. And then later, Zack Black the weatherman. I mean, who does that? Even I knew how crazy my actions had made me look. Precious’s plan to take me out to the Roadhouse to distract me from my troubles was backfiring. Big-time.
Like everything else in my life.
My mind was running wild with the thought that someone, someone whom I knew, might’ve actually murdered Dex, right on our plantation, right after I’d argued with him. Talk about a freak-out. Plus, knowing my history with Dex, I was beginning to seriously panic about my own role in all of this. If it really had been murder, could I be a suspect?
Of course I could be a suspect.
And with good reason.
Standing in one of the two stalls in the dark and dank ladies’ room, I at
tempted to calm myself as I tried to figure out how best to present everything to Precious and Pep, without them thinking that I was a complete and utter jerk. Who wouldn’t think I was a jerk? Even I thought I was a jerk. Still, admitting to Pep and Precious that I’d not just dated Dex, but that I’d been engaged to Dex, was bound to be a lot easier than telling prima donna Daphne. Regardless, it was bound to come out. After all, already, I’d told Buck that Dex and I had been engaged . . .
I dropped my head in my hands.
I’ll just have to fess up, to everyone, once and for all.
I groaned.
Still, I need to come clean with Buck first. About all of it. I owe him at least that much . . .
That’s when the ladies’ room door flew open and the rowdy music from the barroom got real loud while two women stepped into the tiny room. One went into the stall next to me while the other waited by the sink.
“Did ya hear?” said the woman in the stall. “The Switzers sold their plantation. Ray Anne Bobbitt said they’re movin’ to Key West and buyin’ a big place on the beach.”
“No kidding?” said the other woman. “Waterfront property in Key West? That must take a boatload of money!”
“Sure does. And they got it, too. According to Ray Anne, they got enough money to burn a wet mule. Sold their place for more than three million bucks.”
“Three million! For that ol’ dump? Why, the house is a total gut job. The barns are barely standing. Fences are all torn up. And the fields are a mess. Who’s got money to spend like that around here?”
“No one. I hear they sold it to some outta-towners. Dicky Dicer had some people . . . Chinese, I think.”
She flushed the toilet. I heard the stall door squeak open.
“Apparently, they didn’t care about the house at all. I even heard they might knock it down. Barns, too.”
Water ran in the sink as she washed her hands, followed by the rackety rattling of the decrepit paper towel dispenser. Outside in the barroom, the crowd was clapping and stomping as the fiddler played “The Devil’s Dream.”
“C’mon, let’s get back to the table. This is one of my favorite tunes,” said the second woman.
Again, the ladies’ room door opened and the bluegrass music filled the dingy bathroom.
“Excuse me,” said the first woman.
I heard footsteps move across the floor. Then the door shut. I hadn’t even used the toilet. I flushed it anyway. Then I pushed open the door and stepped out into the tiny sink area.
And bumped right into Claudia Bacon Devereaux.
Squinting into the dirty mirror over the pedestal sink, the frail, sinewy blonde was just finishing scrawling bright red lipstick across her lips.
“You!” she screeched when she spied me in the mirror. The bathroom was so small, just a few inches separated us. I could smell her flowery perfume. Too flowery, too sweet, I thought. Still, it smelled expensive.
“Hello, Claudia.”
She spun around to face me. Clearly, she’d been drinking. She steadied herself with a hand on the cracked sink.
“You’re the one to blame for all of this!” she seethed. Then she hiccupped. Claudia’d never been a big drinker. “If it weren’t for you, Dex would still be alive. You know that? You killed him. And that’s what I told the detective today. That somehow, someway, you were responsible for Dex’s death.”
Great.
“Claudia, I’m sorry that Dex is dead. But like I said in the library today, I had nothing to do with his drowning. It was a terrible accident. I’ve not laid eyes on Dex since I left him years ago. And if you think I knew anything about your coming here, you’re dead wrong.”
“Funny choice of words,” her slurry voice squealed. “I’m finding it quite remarkable that just hours after you and Dex had a most disagreeable fight, when you assaulted and threatened him—in front of all of us—he turned up dead. Just like you said you wanted him to be!” As she spoke, Claudia waved one arm, flapping her hand wildly, as she used her other hand to steady herself on the sink.
“Claudia, despite what I might have said in anger, I would never truly wish anyone dead. And I did not assault Dex. I defended myself when he reached out to grab me. Still, he grabbed my breast! Surely, if someone did that to you, you’d feel upset. Wouldn’t you? It was humiliating.”
Claudia’s head started bobbing. “I get it now,” she slurred. “You’re the real reason Dex dragged us all down here to this Southern hellhole . . . Not land. Not trees! I should’ve known. Even after all these years, I should’ve known that he still carried a torch for you. What a fool I was not to see it sooner. That’s what I get for going on vacation last month and letting that little sniveling twerp Ophelia Byrd in the office handle travel reservations. Wait till I get back to Boston . . . Her perky little ass is grass. That is, if I even have a job when I get back! Oh . . . my . . . God . . .” She started sobbing. “My job!” she wailed.
Claudia looked completely wild-eyed. Like a trapped animal.
“Claudia, I’m sure you’ll keep your job—”
She wasn’t listening.
“I should’ve never hired her in the first place!” ranted Claudia. “With a name like Ophelia Byrd, she was bound to be a ditz. Of course, if I’d handled the reservations myself, like I always do, I would’ve known this was the place where you came from. And I would’ve protected Dex from himself and stopped this little junket to hell before it even started. Now Dex is dead. Everything is ruined. All our plans! And clearly, you’re to blame.”
Red-faced and blotchy, Claudia checked herself out again in the mirror over the pedestal sink before turning on the water faucet. She was shaking.
“Claudia, I understand you’re upset. We all are. Still, I don’t see how any of this was my fault. I didn’t even know you were in town until you’d already checked in and were seated at dinner last night. Believe me, I was as shocked as anyone to discover you all here. And I’m sorry about Dex. I really am. I can’t imagine what happened. Did you all go swimming in the pond last night after the tasting?”
Claudia cupped her hands under the running water.
“Like hell you’re sorry. I heard him outside in the yard last night. He was out there, calling you like a crazy, deranged person.”
“What?”
She splashed some water on her face as she kept talking, ignoring me completely. Mumbling to herself, I heard her say, “He sounded like he was out of his mind. Screeching out your name, singing . . . When I looked outside, he was dancing and skipping all around the place, like some kind of nutcase. And it was all about you. What did you do?” she shrieked. “Did you hold his head under the stinking, filthy pond water and kill him?”
She shut off the water and yanked a paper towel from the dispenser.
“Claudia—”
“If you didn’t, you may as well have done it . . . It’s all your fault! You should be ashamed of the way you treated him . . . running off and leaving him like that all those years ago. God knows, he wasn’t perfect. He would’ve given you anything you wanted! All you had to do was stay with him! And then, after you dumped him, poor, poor Dex insisted that none of us ever mention you again, ever!”
She was quietly, somehow, screeching.
“Why, he still loved you. And he protected you!”
“Claudia, what on earth are you talking about?”
She shoved her face up to mine. “After the news came out that you’d dumped Zack Black the weatherman earlier this summer, Dex still protected you from all the media! He didn’t tell anyone how you’d run off and left him . . . the same way!” She tossed the paper towel into an overflowing trash can. “Then we all found out in the news that you’d dumped some other poor fellow down here, years ago. So that means you left three men . . . on your wedding day! Is no man good enough for you?”
“Please, stop, Claud
ia.”
“He kept his mouth shut, Dex did. Swearing us all to keep our silence about you. About your secret engagement. And about how you dumped him at the last minute. I even had to cancel your honeymoon reservations on Bora Bora.” She turned and put her hand on the bathroom door. “Tramp.”
That’s it.
I reached around Claudia and put my hand on the door, pressing it shut.
“Did it ever occur to you, Claudia, that Dex didn’t want anyone to know that I left him because I left him for a good reason? And it was that reason that he was afraid would become public, not the fact that I’d left him.”
“I know everything there was to know about Dex Codman. None of it mattered. He loved you.”
“Claudia, Dex was not the man you thought he was. And if you truly knew him, then you have no business criticizing me. Dex earned what he got. And in my case, that was nothing.”
Claudia gave me a steely cold stare. Then very quietly, she said, “No one knew Dex better than I did. No one. He wasn’t perfect. I know that better than anyone. He had his flaws. He needed someone who understood him. Someone to love him, accept him, no matter what. And he made it abundantly clear to me that person was you.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“And how dare you speak ill of the dead like this! Now let me out of here!”
Clearly even more upset than when she’d entered the ladies’ room, Claudia took her nails and dragged them up my outstretched arm, scratching my skin as she swiveled and kicked me in the shin before yanking open the door and storming out of the ladies’ room.
Believe it or not, my Roadhouse visit only got worse from there.
CHAPTER 22
I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover the Saturday night barroom crowd had nearly doubled in size during the few minutes I’d been in the ladies’ room. On weekends, most folks didn’t show up much before the band started playing.
As I stepped into the crowd, I watched Claudia as she pushed her way through people, weaving and stomping back to the table in the corner where Spencer was holding his phone up to his face, no doubt playing some game. Puffing on his pipe, with a full shot glass and a fresh pint of beer in front of him, Wiggy studied the barroom crowd, while Coop chugged a beer from a bottle while a busty young woman wearing too-tight everything sat in his lap, giggling. I shook my head. It was Maisy Merganthal.