Hot Southern Nights

by Patt Bucheister

  "Nelson? I don't know any—" Sam suddenly realized who it was and grabbed the phone. "Abbie? This is Sam Horne. Do you happen to know where Brett is?"

  The older woman's voice was so soft, Sam had to strain to hear her. The chatter of the crew wasn't helping either. Holding his hand over the phone, he yelled, "Quiet!" He was instantly obeyed, a stillness falling over the crew and the reenactors, some of whom stopped being dead and sat up.

  Removing his hand, Sam spoke into the phone. "I'm sorry, Abbie, but I couldn't hear you. Would you repeat what you said?"

  He listened intently to every word Brett's friend said, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip on the receiver.

  Darren and Terry exchanged glances, their expressions showing a mixture of curiosity and concern. They had both witnessed the rare occasion when Sam lost his temper and the signs were obvious that a bout of anger was imminent.

  The gentle tone of Sam's voice was in direct opposition to his stony expression as he finally asked, "What time is this meeting supposed to take place?"

  As he listened to Abbie's answer he glanced at his watch. He had exactly twenty minutes to get from the Sunken Road to Old Town Fredericks-burg.

  "Try not to worry, Abbie. I'll see that nothing happens to Brett." He didn't tell the older woman that Brett was in more danger from him for what she was planning to do than from the idiotic meeting she had arranged.

  He disconnected the call and quickly punched out the phone number for Southern Touch. The lines around his mouth stretched even tighter as he listened to the phone ring without anyone answering it.

  He tossed the phone to Terry and, grabbing her pen, wrote a number on the back of her hand. "Keep calling that number until someone answers. If it's Brett, tell her I'm on my way. If a man comes on the line, hang up and phone the police and tell them to go to Southern Touch Gift Shop."

  As he passed Darren he took the other man's arm and pulled him along with him. "Now's your chance to show me how you got that speeding ticket in Fresno. Where'd you park your car?"

  "Next to the visitors' center. Why?" Darren nearly fell over a curb that came up faster than he expected. "Dammit, Sam. What the hell is going on?"

  "I'm going to strangle a southern woman with my own two hands," he said tightly, quickening his step when he spotted Darren's red rental car. "Then I'm going to tell her she's going to marry me and stop tormenting me."

  Using what little breath he had left from the mad dash to his car, Darren chuckled as he settled behind the wheel and shoved the key into the ignition. "I thought the tormenting started after the marriage ceremony."

  "Brett Southern doesn't do anything like anyone else. Like tell a man who cares about her that she's setting herself up as bait so he could be there to protect her."

  "What in hell are you talking about?" Looking at the road ahead, Sam said, "Drive faster, and I'll tell you."

  Brett heard a noise and squeezed the decorator bag too hard. It couldn't be the phone. She'd unplugged it so she wouldn't have to worry about answering it. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she realized the sound was only the compressor on the refrigerator doing its usual shuddering. That mystery solved, she looked down at the mold she was working on. A large blob of pink chocolate had fallen onto it. She picked up a narrow spatula and scraped off the excess candy, her mouth twisting in chagrin when she saw how the spatula was shaking.

  Great, she thought. Her stomach was in knots, her fingers were trembling, and her hands were sweating. This had seemed like such a good idea when she'd first thought of it. Even after she'd called Judson and asked him to meet her at her store after closing time, she had still considered her plan a good one. Now she wasn't sure.

  Gritting her teeth, she continued pretending to work as usual, the general idea being that she wasn't too concerned about her meeting with Judson. Actually, she was a nervous wreck.

  When she heard the gentle clang of the bell above the door, the butterflies in her stomach became starving vultures.

  She regretted the idea of pretending to be casually working while she chatted with Judson, who might not be as close a friend to Melanie as everyone thought. Jealousy came in many forms and in a variety of ways. Brett was having difficulty imagining Judson with strong feelings for anyone or anything, but perhaps it was true that still waters did run deep.

  She nearly dropped the decorator bag when Judson suddenly walked into the back room. Dressed as usual in a three-piece suit, he looked exactly as she'd always seen him: professional, somber, and solid.

  "This is most unusual, Brett," he said with a touch of censure in his tone. "I would have thought your accountant would have been the appropriate person to call if you want advice about your business."

  "I didn't ask you here to talk business, Judson."

  "You said you had something to show me and that I was to meet you at your shop at five-thirty. I took it for granted you needed my advice about some business decision."

  Brett gave up any pretense of making candy. Setting the bag down, she turned to face him squarely. "It seems we've both been taking things for granted. Take me, for example. I took it for granted that you and your wife were my parents' best friends, that you would never do anything to hurt either one of them, or me, for that matter."

  "And you would be quite correct." He didn't bother to conceal his impatience. "I wish you would get to the point, Brett. Kathryn isn't feeling well, and I should be with her."

  Her mother's journal was lying on the workable. She reached over to pick it up.

  "Do you know what this is?"

  "No, I don't," he said with a martyred sigh. "Is that what you wanted to show me?"

  "I don't know if you are aware that my mother kept a journal in which she recorded herbal remedies, experiments with planting new herbs, and recipes she'd found in books or been given by other herbalists."

  "I'm sure it is quite fascinating to someone interested in that sort of thing, but I still don't understand why you wanted me to come here this evening."

  Brett wondered if it was her imagination that he seemed to be more guarded in his speech. "After my mother died, I couldn't believe she killed herself or fell down the stairs accidentally."

  It could have been the lighting in the workroom, but Judson appeared to be paler than he'd been when he'd arrived. He glanced at the journal in her hand. "Evidently you feel you have found the answers you wanted."

  Brett opened the journal to the page she had marked with a slip of paper. Without any warning, she read the passage her mother had written about Judson two days before her death. When she looked up, she saw Judson reach out to grab the edge of the worktable. Brett took a step toward him, fearing he was about to faint. His eyes were dark and anguished in a chalky white face.

  "I didn't realize your mother kept a record of personal, confidential discussions."

  "She usually didn't. She was obviously upset about whatever problem you had that you didn't want her to discuss with my father."

  "Brett, you surely don't think I was involved with your mother in any way other than as her friend?"

  "I don't know what to think." Brett walked to the sink to fill a paper cup with water for Judson. With her attention solely on him, she didn't hear the opening and closing of the door to the shop.

  "Would you like to sit down?" she asked as she held out the paper cup to him.

  He shook his head. He did accept the cup, however.

  "Judson, I need to know what really happened the night my mother died."

  After taking a long drink, he met her eyes. "I wouldn't ever do anything to hurt Melanie in any way. I cared about her and your father a great deal."

  "You loved her, Jud," a sneering voice said from the doorway. "And not like a friend. Why deny it when we both know it's true?"

  Brett jerked her head around to stare at the woman who had spoken. Kathryn Quill, like her husband, was dressed in a suit, hers almost a carbon copy of his
. Her usually immaculate hairstyle was untidy, however, as though she had yanked at the sides of her head.

  It was the look in the other woman's eyes that held Brett's attention. The socially correct bland expression was gone, replaced by a dark glare of hatred.

  Brett's gaze dropped to the object Kathryn held in her hand. The barrel of the small handgun was pointed at her!

  Judson took a step toward his wife. "Kathryn, put down the gun. You don't want to hurt Brett. She's done nothing to harm you. Give me the gun before you do something foolish."

  The gun never wavered as Kathryn looked at Judson. "She's Melanie's daughter." Venom dripped from the woman's voice. "Melanie the good. Melanie the perfect. Just like your first wife, Jud. Even after fifteen years of marriage, I still have to listen to people talk about the saintly Ellen O'Hara Quill. What a wonderful woman she was, so charitable to those less fortunate than she, so generous with her time, which she gave freely to anyone in need."

  Judson held out his hand toward his wife. "Give me the gun, Kathryn. Then we'll sit down and talk."

  Kathryn shook her head. Her pink-tinted mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste. "Talking is your answer to everything, Jud. I prefer action. If something or someone is in my way, I get rid of them quickly. I don't talk them to death."

  Brett forgot about the gun as she sorted out the pieces of the puzzle she'd connected incorrectly. "The chamomile tea was for you, not Judson, wasn't it, Kathryn? You were the one my mother was trying to help."

  "Your dear mother was working with Jud to keep me doped up so Jud could sneak away to be with her."

  Judson shook his head vehemently. "I have told you at least a hundred times that Melanie and Phillip were our dearest friends, and that is all they were."

  "When you say our, you mean yours and Ellen's, don't you? Your friends were never my friends. They put up with me because they felt sorry for you, married to me. No matter what I did, it was never enough to gain Melanie's respect. Even the night I saw her for the last time, she looked at me as though I was something that had crawled in under the door."

  Brett closed her eyes and counted to ten in an attempt to control her fury. This unbalanced, vain woman had killed her mother.

  After reaching ten, Brett opened her eyes and saw Kathryn raise the gun as Judson took another step toward her. "Don't try any heroics, Jud. Actually, I did Miss Southern a favor."

  Brett stared at her in astonishment. "By killing my mother?"

  "You and I have a lot in common, you know. Like Jud's first wife, your mother would be a hard act for you to follow through life. You would always have people comparing you to her, and you would always come up short in their eyes. Now you're free of her shadow."

  "If you expect me to thank you for killing my mother, you're crazier than I thought."

  Out in the front room, Sam curled his hands into fists as he heard Brett antagonizing a woman who was holding a gun. Darren was crouched beside him, ready to spring through the doorway at Sam's signal. It was Darren who had seen the shadowy figure of a woman through the glass in the front door. He had then pointed to the bell hanging near the top of the door. Being taller than Sam, he had slipped his hand through the barely opened door to hold the bell's clapper so they could enter the store without making any noise.

  Sam's first impulse had been to charge the woman, but then he'd seen the gun pointed at Brett. He couldn't take the chance Kathryn Quill would pull the trigger if he and Darren jumped her from behind. They would have to wait for just the right moment. In the meantime he felt fear clutching his gut with sharp claws at the thought of anything happening to Brett.

  Brett, on the other hand, seemed fearless as she continued to goad the other woman. "How did you do it, Kathryn? How did you kill my mother?"

  "I wish you wouldn't keep saying that," Kathryn said petulantly. "I didn't so much kill your mother as I removed my competition. I've found that works the best. Remember the car accident the chairwoman of the charity ball had two years ago when she broke her leg? Jud's first wife had once been the chairwoman, and your mother also. I was nominated, but Sylvia Armstead won the most votes. Then she had the nerve to appoint me as her assistant, as if I wouldn't notice what a slap in the face that was. So I arranged a little accident for dear Sylvia. At our next meeting, I slipped outside and put some petroleum jelly on the brake pedal of her car, enough to make it slippery. When she went around that curve at the bottom of the hill near her house, her foot slipped off the brake, and, just my luck, she rammed into the side of a truck. Broke her leg, and I got to be chairwoman."

  Brett knew she should be horrified by Kathryn's matter-of-fact relating of an incident in which she had intentionally set out to hurt, or even kill, someone. But all Brett could feel was anger at the senseless acts of vanity.

  "You are certifiable," she said quietly.

  Kathryn's mouth tightened into a grim line. "You're wrong. A crazy person couldn't have come up with a foolproof scheme time and time again to get rid of competition without being caught. That takes someone with a clever mind, not someone who's lost it."

  "How did you get my mother to take the sleeping pills?"

  "I chose a night when your father was scheduled to give a lecture and would be gone for hours. I waited in the walk-in closet off her bedroom until she came upstairs. I knew she had the habit of bringing a pot of chamomile tea to her room each night to drink while she read some of her plant books. She practiced what she preached." She glanced at her husband and sneered. "Jud informed me of that as an incentive to persuade me to drink the horrible stuff."

  "Then what did you do?" Brett asked to bring Kathryn's attention back to the night Melanie had died.

  "While Melanie was in the bathroom, I slipped out of the closet and put a handful of ground-up sleeping pills into the pot of tea. I waited what seemed like forever, but when I finally came back out of the closet, she was still awake. When she saw me, she tried to get out of bed, but she was too woozy from the pills. I pretended to let her escort me to the door, but when we reached the top of the stairs, I gave her a little push and she toppled over."

  The cavalier way Kathryn spoke of her mother's death infuriated Brett so much, she could barely keep from rushing at the woman. "My mother always went out of her way to make you feel welcome in our house," she said, her voice shaking with her fury, "and you show your appreciation by drugging her and pushing her down her own stairs. What kind of person could do such a thing?"

  Kathryn raised her free hand to the side of her head and clenched her fingers in her hair. It was as though she had so much restless energy, she needed an outlet, even if she hurt herself in the process.

  When she brought her arm down, her hand was shaking. She clasped both hands on the gun and kept it pointed at Brett.

  "You've had everything handed to you, Miss Brett," Kathryn said with a sneer. "You don't know what it's like to want something, only to be turned down."

  Brett thought she saw a shadow move just beyond the doorway, then was certain someone was in the front of the shop when she heard a table leg scrape on the wood floor.

  Unfortunately, Kathryn heard the sound also. She turned and pointed the gun toward the dark shop.

  Brett spoke again, hoping to bring Kathryn's attention back to her. If it was Sam in the front room, she certainly didn't want Kathryn to start shooting in that direction. As for herself, her anger and disgust were stronger than her fear, making her search for some sort of explanation for this woman's senseless violence.

  "When you were told there was no part for you in the documentary Sam Horne is filming, did you decide there wouldn't be a documentary at all if you couldn't be in it?"

  Kathryn's grip on the gun wavered, but it was once again aimed in Brett's direction.

  "I saw a program on television," she said, "where a fire in another room caused water damage when the firefighters put out the blaze. Isn't it a shame about Mr. Horne's movie? All that film soaked in water and foam."

  "T
he film wasn't damaged, Mrs. Quill," Sam said from behind Kathryn. "We use watertight containers."

  Kathryn swung around, the gun waving wildly, and Brett rushed at her. She grabbed Kathryn's right wrist hard and pushed her arm up just as the gun went off. The bullet lodged in the ceiling above their heads. Sam and Darren wrested the gun away from Kathryn, then Sam clamped her arms behind her back.

  "Brett," he said. "Find something to keep Mrs. Quill from doing anything even more dumb than she's already managed to do."

  As Darren called the police Brett found a roll of the heavy packing tape she used to close boxes. Kathryn struggled and cursed as they wound the tape around her wrists, securing her hands behind her back. The two of them together were physically stronger than Kathryn, but she had the strength that came from madness. Even after they'd finished with the tape, Sam had his hands full keeping Kathryn restrained so she wouldn't hurt herself, him, or anyone else.

  Judson, Brett noticed, hadn't moved since Kathryn had first admitted to killing Melanie. He stood several feet away from his wife, his gaze never leaving her. His shoulders were slumped in defeat, his eyes haunted with the knowledge of what his wife had done. And what he'd allowed her to do.

  As pathetic as the older man looked, Brett couldn't feel any sympathy for him. He hadn't actually killed her mother, but his culpability stemmed from knowing his wife was mentally unstable and doing nothing about it. He had to have known, Brett thought. Kathryn's feelings of hate and jealousy hadn't developed overnight.

  "I'm going to tell the police everything, Judson," she said to him. "You are just as guilty as Kathryn because you knew what she was doing and didn't stop her. You're an attorney, for God's sake. You're supposed to uphold the law, not break it."

  The lawyer slowly turned his head toward her. With the air of a man completely defeated, he said quietly, "I can't ask you to forgive me when I can't find forgiveness for myself. I'm sorry for Melanie's death. I swear I didn't know what Kathryn had done. I'm also sorry she set the fire in your barn." He glared at Sam. "She became even more irrational when she couldn't get a part in your film. She was sure people would accept her if she had an important role."