BAD PICK

by Linda Lovely

  “Really?” Mollye bustled over to a series of wall pegs and grabbed one of the snowy white aprons I’d bought from a supply service. “Who did you con into renting that falling down hovel?”

  I hesitated. It was clear Ursula didn’t want her location broadcast. “Ursula Billings may be my new tenant, but please don’t spread the word. She wants privacy. A friend may join her, too. There aren’t any vacancies in hotels or B&Bs within miles.”

  “I thought Ursula was staying with your folks. What? Did Iris make her wait in line to use the loo? Can’t imagine abandoning a comfy house to sleep in your rat hole. Insult intended.”

  “Insult deserved.” I shrugged. “It appears Ursula’s one of those people who gets squirrely if she doesn’t have her space. Wants to get up, eat, shower, etc. when she pleases without worrying if it inconveniences her housemates. Guess the friend she’s expecting feels the same way.”

  “Friend?” Mollye arched an eyebrow. “Are we talking a male friend? Bet the tabloids would pay for that news.”

  “No,” I answered. “A woman. A police detective from Miami. Been friends for years. Perhaps they’re consulting on a project.”

  All true, and I still hadn’t given a tip-off about their secret mother-daughter relationship. Mollye and I had been best friends since I was eight. But that didn’t excuse me from a promise to keep my lips zipped.

  When I was a kid, my aunts sweet-talked my folks into letting me stay part of each summer on their goat farm. Moll boarded ponies at Udderly and we hit it off instantly. No matter how much time passed between visits, our friendship rekindled instantly.

  “Now and again, I feel the same way Ursula does about privacy,” I said, nudging the conversation in a different direction. “I love Aunt Eva but it’s sometimes heavenly to be alone. One of the benefits of having Summer Place as a solitary refuge.”

  Mollye pretended to pout. “Is this your way of asking me to leave?”

  “No, just limit yourself to one apron. Want to make sure I look clean and spiffy for the photos Dad plans to take of me performing vegan magic in the kitchen.”

  “Not a problem. You know how neat I am.”

  “Right.” Neat was not an adjective normally associated with Mollye.

  “I love your Aunt Eva,” Moll added “But I couldn’t live with her. Especially cooped up in a cabin, year-round. And you two get up so danged early. If I see the sunrise, it’s because I’m just getting home. You have any regrets about committing to live at Udderly?”

  “Not a one. Even though working at a goat dairy was never on my list of desirable, or even possible, occupations.”

  I thought back to last March when Aunt Lilly, Eva’s twin and partner in managing the dairy, died in a car accident.

  “I really enjoy helping Aunt Eva. She’d have had a tough time alone on the farm. Though I loved Asheville, it was time to leave. My life at Udderly makes humdrum sous chef duties seem boring, and I was constantly afraid I’d bump into my cheating ex-fiancé. The move’s been a welcome change.”

  Mollye tied her apron. “So what can I do?”

  Since vegan cuisine requires lots of chopping, I pointed Mollye toward a cutting board. “How about getting the celery out of the fridge? It needs to be washed and chopped, really fine. I need two cups.”

  Mollye grabbed a knife while I dumped water off the raw cashews I’d soaked overnight. Prep for making a big batch of cashew cheese—a building block for several entrées. A rich cashew pot pie with a golden flaky crust was among tomorrow’s options.

  As we worked side-by-side, I decided to tap into Mollye’s knowledge as a native Ardon County resident. If there was any dirt about Lawrence Toomey, I figured my friend would have heard it.

  “We had lunch at the Madren Center today,” I began. “Lawrence Toomey waltzed over to our table to greet Dad. I was surprised to hear an Ardon County resident had been nominated for the Supreme Court. What do you know about him?”

  It didn’t take much encouragement to get Mollye to share. Between my pal’s mom, her granny, and the cross-section of locals who visited Starry Skies, my friend was a treasure trove of longtime Ardon lore and breaking-news gossip.

  Mollye quickly filled me in. Larry Toomey had a wife, Esther, and a daughter, Ruth, an only child. His in-laws were none other than Guy Nickles, the pastor of the Temple of True Believers and his wife, Jeannie. While ultra-conservative appeared to be an apt label for all of Toomey’s kin, Mollye said his wife—the former Esther Nickles—and her parents dropped completely off the end of the liberal-conservative spectrum into a black hole of religious bigotry, nationalistic paranoia, and conspiracy theories.

  Mollye paused in her genealogy rundown to look down at the first two stalks of celery she’d diced. “Is this fine enough for you, ma’am?”

  I nodded.

  Moll dumped the chopped celery into a large measuring cup. “I’m fairly certain Susan wouldn’t have stormed our goat yoga session yesterday without the approval of Toomey’s in-laws, Guy and Jeannie Nickles.”

  “Wow. Does Toomey share his in-laws’ ‘goats are devils’ baloney? If so, it’s hard to imagine he could be confirmed to the high court.”

  Mollye shook her head. “Oh, I have no doubt he’ll be confirmed. Questioning a Protestant about his religious beliefs is unsporting, un-American, and blasphemous. Officially, Toomey and the missus belong to a mainstream Protestant congregation in Greenville. My bet is Toomey picked the church with the wealthiest parishioners.

  “Of course, Judge Toomey and his wife are in Ardon County more Sundays than not. When they’re here, they attend the Temple of True Believers. If asked, I’m sure Toomey would claim he goes out of respect for his fruitcake father-in-law.”

  “What’s Toomey’s daughter like?” I asked.

  “Esther—Toomey’s wife—married him when she got knocked up at seventeen.” Mollye began to warm to her tale. “A hurry-up wedding, though no one mentions baby Ruth made her seven-pound arrival a short five months after they tied the knot. Ruth was in my grade. Quiet, shy. Went to some religious college. She’s some sort of health care practitioner up in Greenville.”

  Figuring I’d learned as much as I could about Toomey’s pedigree and family, I gently steered the conversation back to Susan, the goat hater.

  “Do you really think Nickles encouraged his parishioners to harass our goat yoga group?” I asked as I started peeling avocados, a secret ingredient in my chocolate mousse. “I grew up in a Methodist Church with a pastor who preached a loving, forgiving God. I still hold on to that vision. I’ve attended a variety of religious services over the years—Protestant, Catholic, Jewish—and I can’t recall a single sermon on satanic goats or Baphomet. Where does this come from?”

  Mollye laughed. “I asked Granny about this goat nonsense. She shook her finger and said, ‘Where do you think the term scapegoat comes from?’ Granny insists sex is the reason goats have been slandered.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve seen firsthand how billy goats behave during rutting season.” Moll giggled. “Even if they don’t have horns, they’re horny buggers and danged determined to boink any female in the vicinity. According to Granny, folks who believe sex is sinful latched onto randy goats as the embodiment of lust and evil.”

  I shook my head. “And I thought snakes were the only members of the animal kingdom to get a bad rap. Me, I’d nominate mosquitoes and fire ants as the real devils.”

  About four o’clock, Ursula arrived to inspect the pig-in-the-poke she’d agreed to rent. I introduced Mom’s friend to Mollye before guiding her down the gravel path that linked the ramshackle cottage to the front of the property.

  “There’s no place to park a car back here,” I noted. “I’ll be happy to help you move your suitcases in. But, if you stay, you’ll have to schlep groceries a fair piece.”

  Ursula waved off my conc
ern. “I travel light and so does Amber. I’m betting most of our meals will be takeout.”

  I opened the door to the cottage. It took under three minutes for my prospective renter to do a walk-through. “It’s just fine,” she said. “I’ll move in tomorrow after the tasting.”

  While I still had trepidations about renting the sorry excuse for a building, who was I to argue with Judge Ursula?

  Thanks to Mollye’s willingness to serve as sous chef, we quickly finished all the advance prep. I glanced at my watch—5:35 p.m. I was beat. I wanted to kick off my shoes and sit. The only downside of being a chef is the hours spent on your tootsies. Yet the occasional twinge in my lower back was far less painful than sitting at a bank desk staring at rows of numbers.

  Moll shucked her previously white apron. It looked like modern art with green and purple swirls blending into tomato-red blotches.

  “I know you ate lunch out,” my friend began. “But let’s go wild and crazy and go out to dinner, too. You’re tired and you deserve a meal you don’t have to make. Call Eva and see if she wants to join us.”

  “Eva has plans. It’s her Red Hat group night,” I answered.

  “Oooh, cool,” Mollye cooed. “I’m gonna join one of those groups soon as I turn fifty. Love that they wear outrageous red hats and purple tops and have no purpose other than having fun with other ladies.”

  I smiled. “You wear red and purple together now so the wardrobe requirements won’t be a strain. And my answer to dinner out is yes. Let someone else do the cooking. Just give me a sec to check in with Eva and make sure our part-timers and Gerri can handle the evening chores.”

  Four students in Clemson’s Ag school provided our part-time labor force, and we’d recently brought Gerri Woods on full time as a farm hand. On weekends, Tess, a friendly retired school teacher, smiled her way through our retail sales on the two days we invited the general public to visit.

  I phoned Aunt Eva on our cabin’s landline. She was far more likely to answer it than her seldom-activated cell phone. Eva picked up on the fourth ring. Not one for idle phone chatter, she told me all was well, ordered me to have fun, and hung up.

  “Where do you want to eat?” I asked Mollye.

  My pal tossed out three suggestions. I accepted her second choice as we walked out to Moll’s Starry Skies van parked behind my Prius. I’d collect my car after dinner.

  TEN

  Since Moll drove, I ordered a Michelob Light at dinner. I was so exhausted the beer made me a tad light headed. The sensation had just begun to pass when Mollye dropped me at Summer Place a few minutes after eight.

  “You heading straight back to Udderly?” she asked.

  “In about five minutes. Just a quick check in the kitchen to make sure everything’s buttoned up. Thanks so much for your help today—and your offer to waitress tomorrow. Fingers crossed everyone will love the food, and Harriett won’t add me to her blackmail list. Since I’m next to broke and don’t have a going business concern, maybe I’ll get a pass.”

  I hopped out of Moll’s van and glanced across the street. My neighbors’ downstairs lights were on. Good. I’d phone to let the Medley sisters know I’d soon have tenants. Didn’t want them calling the cops in panic if they saw strangers coming and going at night.

  I walked around the side of Summer Place to reach the sunporch and kitchen, so far the only fully renovated sections of the old mansion. I unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. Mollye’d set the porch table for six with fine china on loan from my mother. The crystal water goblets and wine glasses sparkled in the light.

  Huh? Two place settings seemed slightly out of kilter. Looked like someone had walked too close and snagged the tablecloth. I swore it wasn’t like that when I admired the set up before Mollye and I left. Did I do it just now?

  No biggie. I was tired. Could have missed it. My big concern had been the size of the round table. Did it offer enough elbow and leg room to comfortably seat six?

  I straightened the linens. Then I took out my cell phone. I decided to check voicemail and messages before I called the Medley sisters. The one and only voice message was from Janice Medley, one of the neighbors I was about to call.

  “Brie?” The elderly woman’s high voice held a bit of a tremor. “Janice here. Wanted you to know someone’s been fooling around on your property. Normally wouldn’t call to tell you about a visitor when your car’s sitting in the drive, but my sister let our dog out to tinkle and saw you climb in that gaudy Starry Skies van. Not five minutes after you left someone pulled into your drive and stayed maybe half an hour. It was getting dark and there was mud on the license plate. So couldn’t get a number. Thought you should know. Neighbors need to look out for one another.”

  I deleted the message. I’d given Ursula a key to the cottage but I couldn’t imagine her coming back when I told her she had to wait until tomorrow to move in. But maybe she’d wanted to do a second tour to figure out what she needed to buy to make the place a bit more comfy.

  I returned my neighbor’s call.

  “Miss Medley?” It didn’t feel right calling her Janice. “I’m letting two women friends use the cottage behind Summer Place for a while so you might see strange vehicles come and go when I’m not here.”

  “Oh, that explains the truck,” Miss Medley said.

  “The truck?” I asked.

  “Yes, the truck that pulled in your drive right after you left with your friend tonight.”

  Goosebumps zoomed up my arms.

  No way would Ursula be driving a truck. When she’d dropped by at four o’clock, her ride was a sporty, blue Mercedes Benz. Impossible to mistake it for a truck.

  I thanked Miss Medley for watching out for my property. News of renters seemed to reassure her there were no new marauders in the neighborhood.

  Me, not so much.

  Had someone been in Summer Place? I turned on all the lights to make sure no one lurked in the shadows. Then I checked the refrigerator and counters. Nothing seemed out of place. The only oddity was a wet patch on the counter. I opened the dishwasher to see if I should run it tonight or wait till I finished prep work in the morning. I frowned at what I didn’t see. One of the mixing bowls I’d used wasn’t there.

  I opened the cupboard where I kept my mixing bowls. The large red bowl I could have sworn was dirty sat on the shelf. I took it down. Clean as a whistle. Maybe Mollye’d washed it by hand and put it away. She’s the opposite of a neat freak but with Mollye anything was possible.

  I tried to laugh off my full-fledged set of the willies. The mystery truck, the place settings, the bowl. I shivered. Maybe the shock of seeing Karen’s dead body was making me susceptible to fear. As I locked the door behind me, I debated.

  Should I phone the sheriff? No, a parked truck, a clean bowl, and out-of-alignment silverware didn’t exactly provide compelling evidence of a break-in. He’d look at me like I was nuts if I suggested someone broke in to wash a bowl for me.

  Maybe some teenagers parked in the driveway to neck. No nearby streetlights. Lots of trees. Very private. The driveway was an ideal lover’s lane.

  Don’t start imagining things. You have real problems to worry about.

  ELEVEN

  Though I hadn’t slept well, I muddled through Tuesday morning farm chores as quickly as I could. Aunt Eva was faster. Soon as I walked inside, she handed me a cup of coffee and shooed me toward my room.

  “Go get ready for your vegan premiere,” she said. “I know how much it means to you. Wish I could afford to help you more fixing up Summer Place. Lilly and I had some grand plans.”

  I put down my coffee cup and hugged Eva. Unspilled tears made her eyes glisten.

  “You and Aunt Lilly bought me my dream. How could I ever ask for more or thank you enough.”

  My aunts had planned to start Summer Place renovations before they handed me the keys. Li
lly’s death had dealt her twin a financial as well as an emotional blow. The money crunch was exacerbated last spring when Eva was unjustly arrested as a murder suspect.

  Eva’s eyes began to tear in earnest and she abruptly spun away. She didn’t like anyone to see her cry. She worked hard to maintain a tough-as-nails, cantankerous front for everyone’s benefit—even the family who loved her. Dad said his sister’s bravado façade was a lingering legacy from her abusive husband. She wanted to make certain no one ever believed they could take advantage of her again.

  “Go on, git,” Eva said. “Sure you don’t want me to come and provide a running commentary on your cuisine? I can give them a heads up that what you call cheese is a bunch of crushed nuts pretending to be dairy.”

  “Gee, thanks, but I think I’ll handle the commentary. Just hope Mollye won’t add any of her off-the-cuff comments.”

  By 11:20, the aroma of sautéed onions filled the air, triggering my own Pavlov response. I was famished. Too bad I’d have to wait until the guests had come and gone for a taste. Didn’t want telltale blobs on my white apron advertising the menu.

  That worry wasn’t shared by my server. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Mollye popping a miniature cornmeal muffin in her mouth. At least her choice of snack only left a trail of crumbs, easily brushed away.

  “Didn’t you tell that bunch of freeloaders to be here at eleven thirty?” Moll asked. “Where is everyone? Think they’d be on time for free eats.”

  I surveyed the drive from the window wall in my renovated all-weather sunporch. “No one’s late, and three cars are pulling in right now. Mom and Ursula are the leaders of the pack.”

  I took a deep, calming breath. Yoga and meditation had taught me to center myself by focusing on my breathing. I had confidence in my skill as a chef. But I’d spent enough time in commercial kitchens to know how many disasters could lurk between refrigerator, stove, and table. Plus not everyone shared my taste. Heck, I had cousins who claimed the smell of green beans cooking made them nauseous, but they snarfed up fried pork rinds.