One Fete in the Grave

by Vickie Fee

  “You’ll keep this under your hat, right?”

  “Sure. It sounds like ancient history. And besides, you said you’d already told Dave.”

  “Are you keeping an eye on your mama and drawing up wedding plans?”

  “I’m meeting with her tomorrow.”

  Chapter 11

  I had asked Holly to work on sourcing a gondola for Mama’s wedding. I touched base with her Tuesday morning and she told me to come by her house so she could show me what she’d found so far.

  I stopped in Dixie Donuts and More and picked up a thermos of brewed coffee and a box of doughnut holes. I thought Holly deserved a little treat. She was being such a good sport about helping me with Mama’s crazy wedding list, as well as looking after odds and ends with the business while I took time away to clear Earl’s name and babysit Mama.

  The front door to Holly’s handsome Tudor-style home was open. When I knocked she hollered for me to come through. Holly had inherited her parents’ home, the one she grew up in, following her mother’s death. After having lived all over the globe with her army general husband, who passed away shortly before her mom, Holly said coming home to Dixie just felt right. The more-than-big-enough Victorian that Larry Joe and I call home seems like a shack compared to Holly’s manor house.

  She hadn’t changed much of the décor since she’d moved back. But she had added a few touches that her very proper mother would not have abided. Holly was in the dark-paneled traditional library with tall, stately bookcases topped with marble busts of famous writers and American statesmen, including Henry David Thoreau, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin. At one end of the room was a large partners desk that her daddy had used, not that he ever had a partner. A humidor, no longer stocked with contraband Cuban cigars, still stood behind the desk.

  Holly was sitting in a Queen Anne chair at one end of a Ping-Pong table at the other end of the library, the game table serving as a desk for her laptop and notepad. The table was one of Holly’s own special touches. They were a staple at military bases and USOs around the world, and she had become quite the table tennis fan and even played on an officers’ wives’ team in Germany. I would guess one of the few two-star general’s wives to do so. Holly occasionally conscripts her expressionless housekeeper into playing a game or two.

  “How’s it going? Are you ready for a break? I brought food offerings,” I said, as I set the doughnuts and coffee thermos onto her father’s leather-topped desk.

  “Mmm, that coffee smells lovely, darlin’,” she said, getting up from her chair. She said she’d be right back and went to the kitchen to retrieve plates, cups, and napkins. Renee at the doughnut shop had dropped sugars and creamers into a bag and tucked it into the box. We served ourselves, then sat in two leather reading chairs separated by a carved antique table.

  “So is it possible to rent a gondola for the wedding?” I asked.

  “We can rent gondolas in Ft. Lauderdale or a place near Minneapolis, but we’d have to hold the wedding there. They only provide service locally.”

  “Okay. Is there any place that will bring a gondola to us?”

  Holly dabbed her glaze-dappled lips with a cloth napkin and took a sip of coffee before answering.

  “There is a place in England that will deliver a gondola, along with a gondolier, anywhere in the world. But as you might imagine, it’s pricy.”

  “How pricy?”

  “Unless they plan to live on it, I’d describe it as cost prohibitive.”

  “I was afraid of that,” I said.

  “But I actually have an idea for an alternative. Come over here and I’ll show you.”

  Holly left her plate but picked up her coffee cup and walked over to the makeshift desk. She tooled the mouse around and clicked open a window on the screen.

  “Take a look at this. There’s a man at Pickwick Lake who builds these wooden flat-bottomed boats that taper at both ends. To me, the longer ones have a gondola vibe about them. See what you think.”

  I leaned over to get a better look and she clicked on one of the photos to enlarge it.

  “Yeah, I agree. The craftsmanship is beautiful.” Suddenly having a flash of brilliance, I added, “I could buy a carved figurehead and I’m sure Kenny could figure out some way to tart up the boat and make it look a bit Viking-like.”

  “Awlright,” Holly said. “I’ll get in touch with the boat builder tomorrow and see if we can come up with a rental arrangement. If he’s not amenable to renting, I’ll get some price quotes on buying. Do you think Earl would consider buying a boat if it comes to it? That would be kind of expensive, but still much cheaper than bringing one in from overseas.”

  I thought for a moment.

  “If the price isn’t outrageous, I think he would. I mean, he could always turn around and sell it and get at least most of his money back. But if we can’t rent one, I’ll check with Earl before we buy.”

  “Okay, I’m on it,” Holly said.

  “I’m off to spend some time with our crazy bride-to-be.”

  “What are y’all up to today?”

  “We’re going to go look at some dress possibilities for the wedding. And if we finish up there, we’ll go to a stationery store and look at wedding invitations. I’m going to attempt, at least, to guide some of the wedding plans out of Mama’s head and into the real world.”

  * * *

  I was scheduled to meet my mother up at her house at ten-thirty. I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting at her kitchen table listening to her rattle on about whatever new outlandish ideas she might have dreamed up for the wedding since our last meeting.

  So I told her we were going to do a bit of shopping in Memphis.

  Mama generally likes to be in the driver’s seat, except when it comes to actual driving; then she prefers to be chauffeured. She locked her front door, walked down the front steps to the driveway, and handed me her car keys. I took them without question or comment and slid behind the wheel of her Cadillac while she got in on the passenger side.

  “So what’re we shopping for that we have to drive all the way into Memphis instead of just going over to Hartville?”

  Mama tends to not like shopping in Memphis. She thinks it’s too crowded. I anticipated meeting some resistance, so I sweetened the deal by telling her we could eat lunch at one of her favorite restaurants there.

  “We’ll find a larger selection in Memphis, certainly in specialty items. Besides, going to Memphis gives us an excuse to eat lunch at The Arcade Restaurant. You haven’t eaten there in quite a while, have you? We’ll grab some lunch and then do some shopping. There are a couple of different places I’d like to stop.”

  Mama didn’t say much, but she didn’t put up a fight, so I knew she was secretly pleased about lunch. I wanted to feed her before we went shopping, so she’d be in a good mood.

  We made the drive to downtown Memphis in just over an hour. It was lunchtime, so I had to circle around a couple of times to snag a parking spot on the street, just as someone was pulling away from the curb.

  The Arcade Restaurant, on a busy corner on South Main, is a Memphis institution. A plaque on the building claims it’s the oldest café in town. Mama and I passed through the front door under the vintage neon sign and scooted across the baby blue vinyl seats in one of the booths.

  A waitress handed us menus and brought us ice water. Some of the sandwiches are named after movies that have filmed scenes in the restaurant, including 21 Grams and The Rainmaker, a vegetarian special and a turkey club, respectively. Much more unusual and particular to Memphis is the fried peanut butter and banana sandwich, a favorite of Elvis Presley back when he was a regular at The Arcade. Bacon may be added on request.

  We looked over the menu even though we knew before we arrived what we’d order. Breakfast is available all day and their pancakes are tops. We both ordered the sweet potato pancakes with a side of bacon. Mama doused her pancakes in syrup while I ate mine straight up. Since the air-conditioning was heavenly
cool, we sipped coffee without breaking a sweat even on a steamy July day.

  “So now that you’ve fattened me up, where are you taking me—to market?” Mama asked.

  She was still acting suspicious and a bit surly because I hadn’t told her exactly where we were going. Mama isn’t a woman who likes surprises, generally speaking.

  “Don’t you trust me? I do this for a living, you know.”

  “Take folks hostage?”

  I decided it was best just to ignore that remark. We settled the bill and stepped out into the sizzling air. With the Caddy’s AC on full force, we drove east down Poplar to a formal wear store with lots of plus-sized choices. The dresses I had in mind were marketed as mother-of-the-bride, but I thought they would also work well for a nontraditional full-figured bride of a certain age.

  A bubbly salesclerk chatted us up as soon as we entered. It was easy to deduce that she worked on commission. She directed us to the plus-size section. After a quick tour, I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly which prominently displayed dress Mama was going to choose. I tried to steer her toward other options, even got her to try on a couple of other dresses. But there was no way to deny the gravitational pull this frock had on her.

  “Mama, why don’t you go ahead and try on that dress,” I said, nodding toward the dress in question.

  She tried to act coy.

  “Well, if you really think I should,” she said. “It’s a bit dressier than what I originally had in mind.”

  “It can’t hurt to check it out,” I said, knowing very well she was not leaving the store without at least trying it on.

  While she disappeared behind louvered doors, I looked around for a formal dress I thought I could sell her on as an alternative.

  When she marched regally out of the dressing room and turned with a flourish to face the three-way mirror, I knew the dress would be coming home with us.

  It was a sequined floor-length dress with an Egyptian-inspired collar, sheer sleeves, and a short train. It was also deep purple, a favorite shade of Mama’s, and honestly a good color on her.

  I knew the moment I laid eyes on the dress that in Mama’s head she imagined herself as Cleopatra floating down the Nile in her gondola Viking boat standing next to her Antony, or Thor—I don’t pretend to understand all the machinations of Mama’s mind. Admiring the image in the mirror, Mama looked as proud as a sixteen-year-old who’d just been named homecoming queen. As ridiculous as the dress was, I couldn’t deny the pleasure it obviously gave her.

  I wasn’t lying when I told her I thought it suited her perfectly.

  The “perfect” dress was more than twice as expensive as the other dresses she had tried on, which put a big smile on the saleslady’s face. I wondered what kind of look Earl would have on his face when he signed the check for it. But I had a feeling when he saw how happy Mama looked wearing it, he wouldn’t put up a fuss.

  We had barely started the drive home to Dixie when Mama said, “By the way, Liv, I’ve added five or six more names to the guest list. I declare, as soon as I add a particular person who absolutely has to be invited or they’ll get all in a snit, I think of someone else who will be mad if I invite that person and not them.”

  I decided to take another stab at trying to nail Mama down on at least a ballpark idea of the wedding date she had in mind. I knew Mama’s elaborate vision of this occasion had to include a date, or at least a season. Fall leaves, spring buds, or summer bounty. But no matter how I approached it, she was being evasive.

  Finally, I said, “Mama, can’t you give me some idea of when you’d like your wedding to be? Narrow it down to a month, or a least a season for me. There are some things we can’t plan without a date.”

  Mama teared up and started fishing in her handbag for a tissue. I suddenly felt thimble tall and wished I could disappear.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?”

  “It’s kind of hard to set a date, not knowing what’s going to happen with Earl. I know perfectly well he did not kill Bubba Rowland. But if that sheriff doesn’t get off his duff and find the real killer, my sweet man could end up in prison anyway. I already told Earl we could just go on down to the justice of the peace next week and get married and wait to have our wedding celebration later on. But he won’t hear of it. Says he won’t marry me until he can give me his name without any hint of dishonor attached to it. That blame fool.”

  Tears started burning my eyes, too, and I asked Mama if she had an extra tissue. I flipped on my turn signal and pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven.

  “Listen, Mama, I promise you that Earl is not going to spend one day in prison,” I said, turning to face her with earnest eyes. “You have my word on that. So try not to worry.”

  She reached over, grabbed my hand, and gave it a squeeze. Then she pulled on the car door handle.

  “I think I’m going to make a stop in the little girls’ room while we’re here. I should have gone at the dress shop. And I’m getting a Slurpee. You want me to get you one, too?”

  * * *

  Mama and I slurped our icy cherry drinks on the drive back to Dixie. I dropped Mama off at her house. I shut off the engine to her Cadillac, got out, and walked over to my SUV as Mama retrieved her purchase from the car. She looked so proud as she took the hanging garment bag containing her wedding dress out of the backseat. She started to walk away as I got in my car, then turned around and hollered for me to wait just a minute. She went in the house and came back out in just a couple of minutes with a Tupperware container. I rolled down my window.

  “Here’re some sliced peaches. I bought a quart at the farmers market yesterday. They’ve already been sugared.”

  “Thanks, Mama.”

  * * *

  I drove to the office, determined to get some work done. When my time isn’t taken up with an impending event, I like to play catch-up on back-burner items and work on organizing my desk and supply closet and surf the Internet looking for new party ideas. I usually enjoy having time for these kinds of things. But I was so distracted I started to feel that I was actually doing more harm than good with my scattered attempts at organization.

  Mama’s tears over Earl refusing to marry her until he had cleared his name were still pulling at my heartstrings. I knew my time would be better spent with wholehearted attempts at finding the real killer than halfhearted attempts at organizing my supply closet.

  I ran over the list of suspects in my head and decided I hadn’t invested nearly enough time looking into Webster Flack. There were some violent tendencies there. The vandalism at Bubba’s store and the altercation the day of the festival when it looked to me the two men might come to blows.

  I decided I needed to have a little chat with Dave. I locked up the office and crossed the square to the sheriff’s office.

  I walked up to the front desk and asked Terry if she could buzz the sheriff for me.

  “Can I say what this is concerning?” she asked with a bored look.

  Just as she started to buzz his extension, the sheriff ambled in and said, “It’s okay, Terry. I’ve got this.”

  He looked at me, then turned around and started walking away without a spoken greeting, much less an attempt at pleasantries, which is an egregious breach of Southern etiquette.

  I followed him into his office, where he plopped down into his chair.

  “Dave, can we talk for a minute?” I asked.

  “We can if it’s not about the murder investigation,” he said with a scolding glare.

  “Okay. It’s not about the murder, or at least not directly. I wanted to ask you about the vandalism to the Rowland’s building—which happened before the murder.”

  “What about it?” he said, his nostrils beginning to flare.

  “My understanding is there was some indication it was done by Webster or one of his group. But you never arrested anyone. What evidence did you have pointing to them, instead of some teenage vandals or taggers? I mean, there has been other graffiti popping up ar
ound town from time to time.”

  Dave opened a filing cabinet drawer, pulled out a folder, walked to the copy machine in the hallway, and made a double-sided copy. I was right on his heels when he turned and handed me the paper.

  “Here’s the report. Knock yourself out. I don’t have time for this right now.”

  He stormed back to his office. I decided to leave before he changed his mind and asked for the report back.

  * * *

  After getting the police report from Dave, I went home and set about making potato salad. I also seasoned and formed ground beef into patties for hamburgers later. I went in the den, put my feet up, closed my eyes, and thought about the festival and Bubba and Earl and hoped my mind would be able to organize my thoughts about the murder more effectively than it had about organizing my supply closet.

  Not much luck on that front, so I called Larry Joe and asked what time he expected to be home. About thirty minutes before his ETA, I went into the backyard and fired up the gas grill. We hadn’t cooked out much this summer and I thought some charred beef would hit the spot for my husband.

  When Larry Joe got home I put the hamburger patties and some buttered buns on a platter and went out back. I put the buns on the grill just long enough for a light toasting and some grill stripes, before taking them off. I placed the thick burgers on the grill and went back in the house.

  Larry Joe had made it home and was pouring us some iced tea when I walked into the kitchen.

  “Hon, I can take over grill duty,” he said.

  “Okay, I just put them on, so you’ve got a few minutes. Do you want to eat out back? There’s some shade, but it’s still awful warm.”

  “No, I’ve had enough of the heat for one day. Let’s eat in.”

  I sliced a red onion and some sweet pickles and placed them, along with the mayo, mustard, and ketchup, on the table. I was spooning potato salad onto our plates when Larry Joe returned with the hamburgers.