Chapter Seven
The Mole
Just as I had predicted, First Baptist Church was packed the next morning. Evidently news of Scarlett’s death at our salon had spread through the large congregation. Whispers of speculation began the instant we entered the lobby. Mama, resplendent in a blue satin pantsuit, led the way into the sanctuary with my sisters and me close behind. Roddy and Lynette, Billie Jo’s husband and teenage daughter, brought up the rear. Of course, smiles and nods greeted us down the aisle, but as soon as we passed, the murmurs started anew.
“I never should’ve let Mama talk me into this. Everyone’s staring at us,” I whispered as I sat down between my sisters on the cushioned wooden pew.
They nodded in agreement.
“Let ’em stare,” Billie Jo whispered back. Several heads rotated quickly in the opposite direction when they met her unflinching gaze.
“I’m embarrassed.” Deena slumped down farther on the pew. “I can just imagine what they’re saying.”
“Let ’em talk.” Billie Jo’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Everyone here has their own skeletons. Ours just happens to be on display.”
Every head in the congregation turned to stare at us, some with pity, most with anger. From the uncharitable comments I heard, the locals were threshing the straw, so to speak, at our expense. Deena scrunched down as far as she could and buried her face into a hymnal, commenting to herself that this was most definitely a mistake. I shrugged. Really, I admired Billie Jo’s gumption. Most people didn’t realize her gruffness was meant to keep them at a distance. Billie Jo savored privacy.
Roddy reached over and laid his hand gently over hers, immediately defusing the situation.
“Sweetheart, stop fretting. We’re all plagued with the human condition. They mean no harm. Take a deep breath and relax, love.”
Billie Jo grasped his hand, smiling. “You’re one in a million, and I’m a lucky woman. Now tell Lynette to stop texting until after the service.”
The whispers stopped as the praise team mounted the steps leading into the choir loft. All heads turned toward the front as Pastor Inman stepped out from a side door and onto the pulpit platform. During the momentary quiet, I leaned over Deena’s lap and tapped Mama’s knee.
“Why are we really here?” I whispered.
“Damage control and information,” was the whispered reply.
“Information on what?”
“Not what, dear. Whom.”
“Stop with the grammar lesson. Just tell me.”
She gave me a condensed version of her plan. “Now be quiet. Pastor Inman has taken his seat.”
Sitting back in the pew, I contemplated all she’d told me. Her knowledge of private investigating was limited, to be sure. As was mine, but I’d skimmed through two books last night and had at least a smidgeon of familiarity on the subject. Mama’s best bet in this crowd would be to tap into the gossip grapevine and see if anyone was in the mood to talk.
As the hour progressed, I dutifully sang each song, listened without hearing the long sermon, and watched without seeing the sinners answer the altar call, while each person in sight came under my questioning scrutiny.
Finally church ended. The doors opened, allowing the warm, humid air in and churchgoers out. A crowd had gathered on the front lawn when we emerged. Mama made a beeline to a large woman extravagantly dressed in a billowing caftan which appeared to be made out of several layers of soft, shiny silk, each layer a different pastel color. I immediately thought of the Butterfly House at Calloway Gardens. Had one of the glorious specimens escaped and flown south? But as we drew closer, I recognized Diane Downey, grande dame of Whiskey Creek’s elite citizens. She was president of the Women’s League, First Baptist Church Ladies Auxiliary, and a number of other higher establishments I couldn’t name.
“Diane, darling, where did you find that sumptuous dress? I know you didn’t buy it here in town,” Mama gushed.
The woman beamed. “Pierre’s in Atlanta. It’s a copy from Hollywood.”
“It can’t be. You look glorious. I’m so jealous. Not every woman can carry off your unique fashion style. Right, girls?”
The matronly socialite grabbed Mama in a bear hug, burying her in yards of the flowered silk tent. Curious as to Mama’s method of extraction, I didn’t have long to wait before she emerged from the depths of the dress, looked morosely at her friend and said, “Have you heard the dreadful news?” She paused and then glanced at us, her three daughters, one granddaughter, and a fidgeting son-in-law. “We’re devastated by the tragedy.”
As if on cue, we all appeared miserable and down-hearted.
“Oh, you poor dears,” Diane said. “Kayla Winston told me last night. Her husband’s the coroner, you know. Such a terrible loss. What are you going to do?”
Mama took a tissue from her purse. “This could destroy our business. The police are investigating, but we just don’t know what to do next.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
A veil of authority settled over Diane as she considered our dilemma. “The first thing we should do is put our heads together and see if we can’t come up with something useful. I’m sure the girls will help stop any negative gossip about your salon.”
Mama blew her nose into a tissue as Diane gathered the lingering ladies into a tight net around us.
“I heard Scarlett was robbing the cradle,” one woman said.
“Oh, she dropped him for a rich, powerful, and very married man,” said another.
“But that’s not the worst part,” a woman in red whispered. “She was pregnant!”
“I heard the wife found out, and the man dumped her,” another added.
Diane drew herself up. “Well, I heard the man asked his wife for a divorce and proposed marriage to Scarlett.”
“And WXYB wasn’t renewing her contract,” another woman spoke up.
“Well, that’s nothing. I heard that she was selling drugs out of her house!”
The information dropped into my lap like gold nuggets from a prospector’s bag.
I smiled at each of them. “Would any of you ladies happen to know the names of these men?”
They didn’t have any names but said they would check their sources and get back with me. On and on the women chattered until someone’s husband complained about the lateness of the hour and the circle broke up. I had a feeling the gossip milked from this loose-lipped social circle would prove valuable in the coming days.
****
Forty minutes later when I stepped through the back kitchen door at my childhood home, a cloud of tantalizing aromas wrapped its enticing fingers around my nostrils. My rumbling stomach sent me straight to the stove where Mama stood frying chicken. I closed my eyes, inhaling the rich scents. Happy memories of years growing up in this large rambling house flooded my mind. Impulsively, I reached my arms around her, squeezing hard.
“Honey, watch out for hot grease,” she admonished as I dropped my arms and backed away from the hot oven.
Tongs in hand, she lifted another piece of chicken from the boiling grease, placed it on a paper-lined platter, then turned around, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s the hug for?”
I pinched off a bite of warm, sweet cornbread on the counter. “Just thinking about old times.”
Mama shot me a disapproving look. “I wish you wouldn’t pick at the food before it’s on the table.” She turned back to the stove, picking up the tongs. “I miss those times, myself. What’s got you thinking about that?”
“The smells in this kitchen always take me back to when Daddy was alive. You guys were the best parents a girl could have.” The sound of slamming doors echoed through the kitchen. “Where is everybody?” I asked.
“Your sisters are setting the table, and the men-folk are down at the barn checking on that busted tiller. Becky is taking a nap in the front bedroom, and I believe Lynette is in the den on her phone.” Mama turned around. Her eyes were misty. “I miss your daddy too. It’s been so l
ong since he went away.”
“I know it’s painful to talk about what happened, Mama, but we’re alone, and I have so many unanswered questions about his death,” I said softly. “I’ve always felt like you didn’t tell us the whole truth.”
She let out a heavy sigh. “I knew this day would come. There is something you girls need to know,” she said. “And I will tell you soon. I need more time.”
“You’ve had a lot of time to think about it. However, I’ll drop the subject for now, but we’re concerned about you living out here by yourself. We’ve even discussed you selling the farm and buying a smaller house in town, closer to us. We love this place, but what if something happened? It’s a twenty minute drive out here.”
She swung back to the stove. “You girls have been making a lot of plans behind my back.” Her tongs quickly transferred chicken from the grease to the platter. “This is my farm, and I’m not leaving, you hear? The fields are leased to the Cassidy brothers, and they’re bringing in a decent income. Now start dishing up the rest of this food into bowls and get it on the table. And tell Deena to put the ice in the glasses.”
Both subjects were closed, so I left the kitchen, following the sound of laughter into the dining room to find my sisters finishing up with the table.
“Hey, there you are,” Deena said as I entered. “What took you so long? I’m usually the one who’s fashionably late for Sunday dinner.”
“I ran home to change out of those pantyhose. And I wanted to jot down what the ladies at church had to say about Scarlett. There are a couple of leads I’d like to follow up on.”
“What do you mean, leads?” Deena asked. “Like investigating? Leave that for the police.”
“I wish it were that simple.” I paused, debating whether this was a good time to enlist their help. Investigating Scarlett’s death would require teamwork. Just as it would saving the salon. Upon further thought, Easter dinner wasn’t the best time for a pow-wow with my sisters. Maybe tomorrow.
“I couldn’t believe some of the things those old bats said,” Billie Jo piped up. “Made me wonder what they’d say if someone asked about me.”
Deena wrinkled her nose. “They’d say that you’re as crazy as a polecat in winter.”
Billie Jo placed napkins beside each plate. “Yes, that’s true, but I guess that’s true about the whole family. Including you.”
I sat down at the table. “Remember when we promised not to push Mama to sell the farm? Well, I opened my big mouth and made her mad. I know she’s hanging on to this farm because Daddy loved it. Leaving here would be like losing him all over again.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about this.” Deena sat down beside me. “It was just a matter of time before one of us slipped up and said something. I’m glad it’s out in the open. The acreage is leased out, but this house requires a lot of maintenance. Roddy and the boys are trying to fix her tiller so she can put in a garden, for God sake.”
I smiled at her outrage. “That’s what she told me. And guess what else I learned?”
“What?” Deena asked.
Billie Jo looked up from the table setting. “No more bad news I hope.”
“That remains to be seen,” I said. “But I did get her to admit that she’s been keeping something from us concerning Daddy’s death.”
“Good Lord, what could she possibly be hiding?” Deena pressed.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
“I don’t like this one bit,” Billie Jo added. “All of a sudden, everybody’s got a secret.”
“Well, not everyone,” I said. “Just our mother.” I pushed back my chair and stood. “Come on. I hear her hollerin’ for us now.”
Mama, fussing under her breath when we entered the kitchen, lifted the lid of a pot and stirred the contents. “Get me a bowl for these mustards, Jolene. Deena, get on down to the barn and tell those men I said dinner’s on the table. Billie Jo, get Lynette off that phone and tell her to get in here and help.”
Becky strolled into the kitchen as I pulled down a large bowl from the cabinet and handed it to Mama.
“Need some help, MeMaw?” Becky asked.
Mama spooned up the mustards. “You can set up the dessert cart for me. There’s a coconut cake there on the counter and a pecan pie ready to come out of the oven. And don’t forget the strawberry pie I brought from Shoney’s. It’s in the ice box. Get Jacob to help you get the dessert cart out of the garage.” She passed the steaming bowl to me. “Place these on the table.”
Booming male voices coming through the back door echoed back to the dining room. Retracing my steps, I stood in the doorway leading into the kitchen.
One of the deep bass vibrations belonged to Sam Bradford. He stood just inside the door, cowboy hat in hand. My gaze swept over his dark wavy hair, just graying at the temples, eyes as fathomless as a cloudless sky, and his expressive mouth underneath a luxuriant mustache turned up in an audacious smile.
Does his mustache tickle when he kisses? The thought hit my brain like a bullet to its mark. An unwelcome surge of excitement goosed me. I couldn’t be attracted to this man. He was bait to lure Deena into helping me investigate Scarlett’s death. Hadn’t I planned this out last night while stuffing my face with milk and chocolate cake?
“Come on in, Sam. Dinner’s on the table,” Mama said from the stove.
“Thank you for the invite, Mrs. Tucker.” His gaze swept the room. “It’s nice to see that some things never change.”
Billie Jo took his cowboy hat from him and hung in on the hat rack. “Would you like to wash up before we eat? The bathroom is down the hall on the right.”
“I remember where it is.”
Waiting until he’d disappeared down the hallway, and out of earshot, I joined Mama at the stove. Billie Jo left to find Lynette, and Deena had disappeared down the hall. For the moment, Mama and I had the kitchen to ourselves.
“I’m not complaining, but I’m curious to know why you invited Sam to dinner.”
She handed me the platter piled high with fried chicken. “Mind your manners and put this on the table. Sam’s a lonely bachelor in need of a wife. He and Deena were such a cute couple back in high school and can be again with a little help.”
So that was the reason for the invite. Mama wanted to play matchmaker. But wasn’t this exactly what I wanted? I set the platter of chicken back down on the counter. “What if Deena has other plans?”
“Sometimes Deena can’t see what’s right in front of her.”
“And Sam is perfect for her? Have you thought to ask him what he thinks about your plans of marrying him off to Deena?”
Her gaze held mine. “Please tell me you’re not wanting him for yourself. I can understand the attraction, but you’re not Sam’s type. I invited him here to get reacquainted with your sister. I’m depending on you to help this romance along.”
I frowned slightly, a tad offended by her comment. What did she mean by saying I wasn’t Bradford’s type? Besides, I could be his type. She didn’t have all the answers. Not yet, anyhow.
The sound of the squeaking dessert cart being wheeled into the kitchen stopped our conversation. Jacob steered it over to the counter.
Becky grabbed a wet dishcloth from the sink. “We found it, MeMaw. It’s covered in dust, but I’ll wipe it down good before we stack the desserts on it.”
Maintaining a brittle smile, I picked up the platter of chicken and left them to finish up. In the dining room, the table was laden with steaming dishes. Mama came in behind me with a plate of deviled eggs, and Becky and Jacob behind her with the dessert cart. We sat down at the table, and Roddy offered thanks.
By unspoken consent, we avoided mentioning yesterday’s tragic events at the salon. Instead, the conversation centered on the high cost of employee health care, the town picnic in July, and the price of a new tiller versus repairing the old one.
Several times, I looked up to find Bradford watching me, his razor sharp gaze seeing through
me as if I was as transparent as the glass I held in my hand. Confident of my ability to shrug off the conflicting emotions his attention brought, I encouraged Deena to entertain us by reliving her prom night with our guest. Bradford joined the merriment, laughing as they recalled the fun they’d had with their friends at the dance. Deena beamed under his radiant smile when he told us how afterward at breakfast, just at sunrise, he’d given her his class ring and asked her to be his steady girlfriend.
Mama nodded her approval, and for the rest of the meal, I listened half-heartedly to Deena’s excited chatter and Bradford’s murmured replies as they continued to reminisce about their last year of high school and the mysterious hand of fate bringing them back together.
From where I sat, it appeared that Mama’s wish—and mine—had come true. But victory left a sour taste in my mouth. Drinking down the last of my sweet tea, I excused myself from the table, having no appetite for dessert at this time. Besides, I had half a chocolate cake waiting to be polished off later at home.
Chapter Eight
The Mysterious Madame Mia
Monday morning, I drove to Madame Mia’s House of Psychic Vision on Fifth Street. Not sure what to expect, I arrived fifteen minutes ahead of time and parked across the street from the beautifully-restored Victorian home. I had expected to find the fortune teller in a crumbling, rundown building in the older section of town not in this fabulous setting. The “Queen Anne” house, painted a soft yellow with black shutters, and tall, towering chimneys, dormers, and gables, had a wraparound front porch, gingerbread details, and a white picket fence. Perhaps this wouldn’t turn out to be so bad after all.
Gathering my courage, I pushed open the car door, hurried across the street, through the gate to the large front porch, and rang the doorbell. Several minutes passed before the door opened, and I had my second surprise of the morning.
“Please come in.” The woman’s accent was heavy and exotic, her ivory linen business pantsuit looked expensive. “I’ve been expecting you.”
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