by Gail Oust
“Hearing about Sandy must have come as a shock,” I said, making a clumsy stab at interrogation.
Mary Lou’s head bobbed up and down. “I haven’t slept a wink since it happened. Not a single wink. I even had to buy concealer to cover the dark circles under my eyes. Who knows who might be next? My husband’s keeping a loaded shotgun by our bed.”
Pepper spray and a loaded shotgun? But I couldn’t fault Mary Lou and her husband for being nervous. In a town where people seldom locked their doors, its citizens no longer felt safe. “Are you disappointed Steel Magnolias has been canceled?” I asked in an attempt to steer the conversation away from weapons.
“No!” she declared. “I’m glad it’s been canceled!”
“What do you mean? I thought Truvy Jones was a plum role.”
Tears welled in her big blue eyes. “I overheard Sandy talking to someone on the phone when she didn’t think I was around. She was planning to replace me with a friend of hers with acting experience. Sandy told her she’d be perfect. To name her price.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been upsetting.” I reached for a box of Kleenex near the register and offered Mary Lou a tissue.
“Upset?” She dabbed at tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. “I wasn’t upset—I was angry. So angry I had steam coming out of my ears. I knew I shouldn’t keep on listening to Sandy talk, but I couldn’t help myself. Do you know what she said next?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “What did she say?”
“She told whomever she was talking to that I was the inspiration for every blond joke ever told. I got so mad, I started crying.” She dabbed and sniffled. “I really, really tried, Piper. Truvy Jones has lines on every single page. It’s not my fault I couldn’t remember the exact words and the cast kept missing their cues.”
“Of course it wasn’t your fault. The cast needed to step up.” I cringed at listening to myself being an enabler.
“That’s the same thing I said to my husband,” Mary Lou said, reaching for another tissue.
The woman had readily admitted to being furious with Sandy. Had Mary Lou been so enraged that she’d grabbed the scarf around Sandy’s neck and pulled tight? And what’s more, did Mary Lou have an alibi for the time in question?
“I’ll bet you went straight home after rehearsal and told your husband that Sandy was being mean to you,” I said, then held my breath waiting for her to confirm or deny.
“You bet I did.” She tossed her soggy tissues into the wastebasket. “But first I thought I’d better calm down. Hank has a short fuse and doesn’t like seeing me upset. See you Tuesday night,” she said as she left.
“Monday, not Tuesday,” I corrected but wasn’t sure she heard me—or would remember if she did. Just because Mary Lou was a ditz didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of murder. Being a criminal didn’t require membership in Mensa. Her alibi required further investigation before I crossed her name off my persons of interest list.
“What’s happenin’ on Monday?” Amber Leigh Ames, a statuesque brunette, remarked as she sauntered in.
Amber’s chief claim to fame was being a former runner-up in the Miss Georgia pageant. Her second-greatest achievement was snagging a man, who at the time happened to be my husband. CJ claimed he needed his “space”—a space filled by Amber and her medically enhanced assets. “Are you here to sign my petition?”
Amber flipped a glossy mahogany tress over her shoulder and gave me a saccharine smile. “CJ told me all about your little project. He thinks it’s a hoot, knowin’ you’re buttin’ heads with his old nemesis, Wyatt McBride.”
“Well, as long as you’re here, why not add your name?” I offered her a pen.
“Whatever,” she said, “long as I’m not required to attend. I don’t engage in activities that require me to break a sweat—or ruin a manicure. A former beauty queen has a certain image to maintain.” She signed the petition, her signature so large it took up two lines.
Since business had slowed to a trickle, I took a feather duster and started to make the rounds of the freestanding shelves. “I know you don’t cook, and if the petition didn’t bring you, why are you here?”
“Truth be told, Piper, I’m here on Lindsey’s behalf,” she said as she watched me dust.
I stopped what I was doing to stare at her. “Lindsey?”
Amber put on a sad face, an expression she no doubt practiced—and perfected—in front of her bathroom mirror. “Understand, I’m doin’ this as a favor. That sweet girl doesn’t want to hurt your feelin’s, so I offered to explain the situation for her.”
I gritted my teeth. “What ‘situation’ are you referring to?”
“Thanksgivin’ is next week. Someone needs to have the gumption to speak up and that someone might as well be me. Lindsey would prefer to have Thanksgivin’ dinner at the country club with CJ and me. We’d told her our invitation included her boyfriend, Sean Rogers, and his father.”
First Chad, now Lindsey? “I see…,” I managed, but speech was difficult with the wind knocked out of my sails. With an effort, I resumed dusting, my actions more mechanical than purposeful.
Amber trailed after me. “We invited Lindsey ages ago, but she’s been procrastinatin’, especially since Chad’s no longer comin’ home. The club called today, however, and needs a head count. The manager asked how many in our party, so I need to give him an answer.”
“By all means,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “If Lindsey wants to join you and CJ for dinner at the club, she has my blessing.”
“Great.” Amber beamed the toothy smile that had won her a satin sash and rhinestone tiara. “I thought you’d see it in the right light. It would be mighty lonely here with only the two of you.” She waggled her fingers. “Bye-bye.”
It’s going to be mighty lonely for me, too, I thought grimly, abandoning my housekeeping chores. A tear rolled down my cheek, and I impatiently brushed it away. This would mark the first time since my marriage to CJ years ago that I’d have no one to cook for on Thanksgiving. But it wasn’t the end of the world. I’d deal with it—somehow—when the day came.
The best medicine I knew of to fight depression was to keep busy. I needed to focus all my attention on finding a killer. The list of suspects was long, with many names still to be eliminated. Mary Lou had intimated she’d gone home to her husband with her complaints.
But her slight hesitation before answering puzzled me.
I didn’t know how to go about proving or disproving Mary Lou’s alibi, so, for the time being, I decided to concentrate on an easier target. Marcy Boyd, the young mother of twins, was another person of interest. Marcy might prove simpler to rule out since she had no obvious motive for wanting Sandy dead. And with two babies, I assumed she’d be in a hurry to return home as soon as rehearsal ended. However, since I was working under the theory Sandy had antagonized the entire cast—and for the sake of thoroughness—Marcy needed to be excluded as a possible suspect.
The regulator clock on the wall announced closing time. But my day wasn’t finished. There was still work to be done if I wanted to clear my BFF’s name. I decided to pay Marcy a surprise visit in the near future.
CHAPTER 21
BEFORE I SET my plan into motion, I’d taken Casey for a walk. When I returned, I learned Lindsey and Sean were going to the movies with friends. I leaned against the doorjamb of her bedroom, arms folded, and watched her try on, then discard, one sweater after another while Casey lounged contentedly at the foot of her bed.
“What do you think? Is the pink too babyish?” she asked, holding the sweater up for my inspection.
“I always think you look pretty in pink.” I half smiled, remembering Mary Lou’s pepper spray gadget. “Some never outgrow their fondness for the color.”
Her decision made, Lindsey slipped the sweater over her head and started to apply makeup. “About Thanksgiving, Mom, I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings especially after Chad bailed.”
“I only wish you’d told me yourself rather than have Amber drop the bomb.”
“I know how much you love to fuss, but think how much easier it’ll be this year not having to prepare a big dinner.” She swept rosy brown eye shadow on her lids, then reached for the eyeliner.
“Preparing a special dinner for my family isn’t work; it’s a labor of love.”
“Now you can spend the entire day in pajamas curled up on the couch, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade without having to stuff a turkey. Instead of football games on TV, you can pig out on those old movies like Miracle on 34th Street you used to make Chad and me sit through.”
“I thought you loved Miracle on 34th Street.”
“Mo-om,” Lindsey wailed. “It’s so ancient it was first made in black and white.”
“It’s a classic.” I staunchly defended my longtime favorite.
“Sean was so … excited … when Dad invited not only him but his father to join us for Thanksgiving dinner at the club.” Leaning toward the mirror, she swiped mascara on her lashes and replaced the wand in its silvery tube.
“Your father can be quite generous.” When it suits his purposes, I thought. My ex-husband could also be wily and manipulative. CJ had known exactly what he was doing by inviting Sean and his father.
“People around here consider Sean’s dad an outsider,” Lindsey said. She picked up a hairbrush and pulled it through her long blond hair. “This could be an awesome way for Mr. Rogers to make some business contacts, to network. Maybe get on a first-name basis with important people.”
“Mmm,” I murmured. Lindsey had a big heart. I didn’t know whether I should be proud of my girl for wanting to help her boyfriend’s father or furious with CJ. To paraphrase a quote from another of my favorite movies: He’d made an offer she couldn’t refuse. I could cheerfully strangle him for his machinations. Then I brought myself up short. Should CJ turn up dead—especially choked to death—I’d be the number one suspect. Isn’t it always the spouse? Or, in this instance, the ex-spouse?
Lindsey caught my expression and paused in the act of applying lip gloss. “If it really bothers you, Mom, I can call Dad and cancel.”
Was I being a doormat? Should I put my foot down? Insist my daughter spend the holiday with me? It was speak now or forever hold my peace. I didn’t want either Chad or Lindsey to view me as a needy, demanding mother. No, I’d rather have them see me as an independent and loving parent who placed their desires ahead of her own. My decision made, I blew out a breath and said, “It’s all right, Linds. Spend Thanksgiving this year with your father and Amber—but with one stipulation.”
“Okay.” Lindsey nodded warily.
“I don’t want to hear that the cuisine at the country club is better than mine.”
Laughing, she turned and gave me a hug. “Promise. No one makes a better sweet potato casserole than my mom.”
“My pumpkin pie is world-class, too,” I reminded, hugging her back.
“Absolutely the very best.”
Our lovefest was interrupted by a knock on the back door, alerting us to Sean’s arrival. Casey barked to notify us he’d heard it, too.
“I won’t be late,” she said as she grabbed a light jacket and hurried off.
“Have fun,” I called after her.
Minutes later, a car door slammed. Next I heard Sean’s Impala start, then fade as they rode off.
The apartment was engulfed in silence.
I switched the light off in Lindsey’s bedroom and wandered into the living room with Casey trotting at my heels. Sinking down on the sofa, I picked up a foodzine and idly flipped through the glossy pages. But images of holiday treats and sumptuous party buffets failed to capture my interest. My mind was too busy scrambling for the best way to approach Marcy Boyd and ask about her alibi. Two heads were always better than one at solving problems of this magnitude, so I did what had become second nature. I reached for the phone and dialed my BFF.
“Hey, honeybun,” she greeted me. “You caught me goin’ out the door.”
“What’s up?” I sensed my plan for enticing her cooperation with pepperoni, mushrooms, and lots of gooey mozzarella evaporating. “Hot date tonight?”
“Don’t I wish.” She let out a theatrical sigh I could hear from blocks away. “When it comes to a ‘hot’ date, I’d settle for lukewarm.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Right as rain,” she replied with a cheerfulness that sounded phony. “I’m on my way over to Aunt Ida’s. The poor thing is still recovering from hip surgery, so I told her I’d help make the mincemeat for pies. In exchange, she promised to confide her secret ingredient.”
I absently petted Casey, who, after being deserted by Lindsey, had curled up on the sofa next to me. “Mincemeat, eh? Well, then, that explains why you bought a jar of crystallized ginger and a whole nutmeg.”
“Aunt Ida swears neither of those is her secret weapon. Sorry, hon, but I have to run. I don’t want Aunt Ida to think I’m not comin’ and startin’ without me. It would be just like her to overdo and get a setback.”
After I hung up, I picked up the TV remote but set it down. I needed something more mentally stimulating than reruns. And what could be more stimulating than trying to solve a real-life murder mystery? Rising from the sofa, I went to the end table and brought out the persons of interest list Reba Mae and I had drafted what seemed a decade ago.
Time for a quick review. I plopped down on the sofa again and studied the names. Craig, Dorinda, and Madison all had rock-solid alibis for the time of the murder. Bunny Bowtin insisted she’d gone straight home, as did Mary Lou. In the latter’s case, I’d detected a slight hesitation. I put checkmarks next to both Mary Lou and Bunny—checkmarks meaning further investigation was warranted. Wanda Needmore had been deliberately evasive when questioned, so I put a checkmark—and, for good measure, added a star by her name. Wanda definitely merited a more intensive scrutiny, especially in light of the litigious relationship between her and the vic, aka Sandy. The single cast member I hadn’t contacted thus far was Marcy Boyd.
I sat in my much-too-quiet living room lost in thought. Marcy had been given the choice role of Annelle, a beauty shop assistant. She and I hadn’t been on the best terms ever since I suggested that Danny, her then husband-to-be, might be responsible for the murder of a local chef a while back. It was time the young woman put it behind her. It wasn’t healthy to harbor a grudge. I got up so suddenly that I jolted Casey from his nap.
The hands on my wristwatch indicated it was only seven thirty. The early hour afforded plenty of time for me to scratch another name off the list. Danny Boyd, on the one hand, managed the Pizza Palace and, as it was Saturday, the busiest night of the week, he’d probably be at work. Marcy, on the other hand, would be home alone tending to the couple’s two-month-old twins. Tonight could prove an excellent opportunity to question Marcy about her whereabouts for the time Sandy was killed.
Up until now, I’d been negligent in cooing over the babies. My bad! No time like the present to correct the situation. As an apology of sorts, I neatly arranged leftover cookies on a plate and covered them with plastic wrap. Grabbing my purse along with the cookies, I headed out the door.
Though I’d never been there before, I’d heard from Gerilee that Danny and Marcy were renting a small bungalow from her uncle on the outskirts of town. Turning right on Pine Street, I slowed to a crawl and squinted through the windshield trying to read house numbers in the dark. I finally made out the numerals 764 mounted above a mailbox by the front door. Grass, brown and bristly as a welcome mat, covered the postage-stamp-size yard. Flowers dead and awaiting burial filled clay pots on either side of the steps. An older-model Ford sat in the cracked side drive.
I was starting to have second thoughts about my idea and wished I had Reba Mae along for backup. Parking at the curb, I grabbed the cookies, exited my car, and marched up the walk, being careful not to trip on the uneven cement. I felt butte
rflies flutter in my stomach and scolded myself for being the least bit nervous. What could possibly go awry visiting a young mother of twins? Unless, that is, she had a proclivity for wrapping silk scarves around the necks of unsuspecting women.
Since the doorbell didn’t seem to be in working order, I knocked, once, twice, then three times. Moments later Marcy answered the door wearing an infant in a cloth sling draped across her chest. At first all I noticed was the baby’s bald head peeking from the top of the sling. It took me a second longer to register Marcy’s tearstained face and smudged mascara.
I held out the plate of cookies. “I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”
She accepted the offering and stepped aside for me to enter. “What do you want?”
“I … um … realized I hadn’t stopped by to visit you and the babies.” Once inside, I took a closer look at Marcy. The woman seemed to have taken more pains than usual with her appearance. Her wispy, dishwater blond hair hung in limp curls around her narrow face. Lipstick and eye makeup transformed plain into … less plain. A skirt and blouse had replaced her usual T-shirt and jeans.
“Who is it, honey?” Danny emerged from what I assumed was the kitchen. Without the scruffy goatee he tended with limited success, he could’ve passed for a teenager. Like his wife, he carried an infant, this one strapped into a baby carrier resembling a reverse backpack with tiny blue rocket ships.
“Piper came over to surprise us with cookies.” Marcy set the plate on a nearby coffee table. “Isn’t that thoughtful of her?”
Danny adjusted his John Lennon–style glasses, then patted the baby carrier in the region of the baby’s bottom. “When we heard the knock, we hoped you were the babysitter coming to tell us she’d changed her mind and could sit with the twins after all.”
“Out with it, Piper!” Marcy demanded, her pale gray eyes sharp and shrewd. “Tell us the real reason you’re here—and don’t try to pull the wool over our eyes by saying this is merely a social call.”