The Saucy Lucy Murders

by Cindy Keen Reynders

  Aunt Gladys slowly shook her head, but steam practically emanated from her flared nostrils.

  Alice shoved her hands on her hips. “But—”

  “I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding,” Lexie interrupted. She looped her arm through Aunt Gladys’. “We’re leaving now.”

  Winkie and Sturgeon talked to the elderly group, calming them down, as Lexie dragged her fuming aunt out into the reception area.

  “That woman’s deranged,” Aunt Gladys proclaimed. “She needs to be in a loony bin. Why, all we were doing is playing a good old-fashioned poker game and she doesn’t even know what a full house is. In fact, none of them did. It’s practically a crime.”

  “Not everyone spent twenty years in Las Vegas gambling every weekend, Aunt Gladys. And not everyone was married to Marty the card shark like you were. Now, let’s go home.”

  As they went outside, Winkie came up and took one of Aunt Gladys’s hands, speaking quietly to her. Then a short, pot-bellied gentleman hurried to her side as well, a grin tilting his lips. He had a cap of curly silver hair that gleamed in the sunlight, and he wore a green suit jacket and slacks with a matching green-striped tie. Though his clothing was obviously of good quality, the colors were a little bright and Lexie decided he looked like a leprechaun straight from the Emerald Isle.

  “I know you weren’t cheating, doll,” the leprechaun man told Aunt Gladys in a cultured, almost English accent, eyes twinkling merrily. “You’re just good at cards. Alice is only jealous.”

  “Thank you, Frenchie dear,” Aunt Gladys said as she stared adoringly at the portly fellow.

  “May I call you sometime? I’d love to escort you to dinner.”

  “Of course. I told you I’m staying with my niece Leslie, didn’t I?”

  “Right.” He nodded. “ I’ll call you there.” He smiled at her, then shuffled back to the group in the recreation room.

  “Who was that?” Lexie asked.

  “Ferdinand Duckworth the second,” Winkie said, hugging himself. “Gladys thinks he’s simply divine. And so do I.”

  “He’s rolling in the dough,” Aunt Gladys informed her. “He inherited millions.”

  Men with money. Aunt Gladys drew them like magnets. “What’s a millionaire like Frenchie doing in Moose Creek Junction?”

  “He made big bucks in the perfume industry and has been all over the world, even France, of course. He’s retired now and decided to settle in Moose Creek Junction for a quiet, simple life where he wouldn’t be bothered with high society. Can you even begin to imagine the life he’s led?” Aunt Gladys fanned herself theatrically.

  “Good gravy,” Lexie responded. So, Moose Creek Junction had once seemed pretty harmless to him. Did Ferdinand Duckworth II still think so? After Henry Whitehead’s murder and Elton’s accident?

  From the corner of her eye, Lexie noticed Donna Roos, the local realtor’s wife, striding in their direction amid a whirlwind of dry leaves skittering across the sidewalk. A slobbering boxer at the end of the red leather leash she clung to was walking her, more than she was walking him. When she passed them, Lexie nodded.

  Donna, however, merely glanced at her, raised her pinched face, and pressed her thin lips into a hard line. The dog and Donna kept on walking as though Lexie were invisible.

  Something clicked in her mind and she remembered reading an article in The Moose Creek Junction Chronicle about the recent frightening drop in the local real estate market. Since the early nineties, when recreational mountain property around Rawhide City and the Ice Queen Resort skyrocketed, investors had purchased property further south in Moose Creek Junction where prices were more reasonable. But the property sales boom had mysteriously stopped.

  Oh my gosh!

  Were people blaming her for the plummeting property values? Did they think no one was buying land because there was a murderer on the loose and it might be her? Even though no one could prove Lexie had anything to do with Henry’s death and Elton’s accident, she was associated with the incidents. That alone made her suspect, especially to small town minds. A sense of unease washed over her and she tried to ignore it, but to no avail.

  It was absolutely unfair for people to treat her like this. How could they be so petty?

  Despite Lexie’s outrage, she realized Donna’s ridiculous snub wasn’t worth worrying about. She had other matters with Aunt Gladys to attend to, and she focused on helping her blabbering aunt get settled into her truck.

  Winkie spoke with Aunt Gladys in sympathetic tones and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Thank you for your help with Aunt Gladys, Winkie,” Lexie said as she shut the passenger door, still able to hear her aunt’s prattling.

  “Do try to convince the poor dear to get some rest this afternoon,” Winkie said. “She’s gotten herself in such a dither and it can’t be good for her health.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Lexie said, “but she’s pretty hard headed.”

  “Just like always.” Winkie put his hands on his hips. “I’ll call her later to see how she’s doing.”

  As he walked back into the Sunrise Center, Jack Sturgeon left the building and approached Lexie.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened,” he told her, an apologetic look on his face.

  Lexie shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. My aunt has a way of irritating people. It’s just what she does.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry it ended this way.” He smiled. “And I know it may not be the best timing, but I’d like to see you again.”

  Lexie fought to keep the surprise out of her expression. “I suppose it could be arranged,” she managed to answer. Oh, brother, she sounded like she was setting up an appointment to have furniture delivered!

  “How about a movie Saturday night?”

  Finally, a date Sister Lucy didn’t have to set up for her. Jack Sturgeon had all his hair and teeth, too, and he hadn’t salivated over her cleavage. Lexie was stunned. “Um, sure. How about I meet you at the old Jefferson Theater for the main feature?”

  “Great.” Jack winked, then turned and walked back into the Sunrise Center.

  Lexie watched him go, still amazed. Miracles can happen, she told herself.

  Still concerned about what to do with Aunt Gladys, but looking forward to her date with Jack, Lexie hopped into her truck and drove home, barely hearing Aunt Gladys’ complaints. On a whim, she pulled into the Loose Goose Emporium parking lot underneath a canopy of tree branches covered with dry brown leaves.

  “What are you doing?” Aunt Gladys grabbed onto the cracked dashboard. “You’re driving like a maniac. I’d be better off hoofing it around town on a skateboard than letting you play chauffer.”

  “We need toilet paper. You just stay put while I go grab some.” Lexie ignored Aunt Gladys’ look of irritation when she got out of the truck.

  The Loose Goose Emporium—why Fred and Bertie Creekmore had decided on that name was beyond Lexie—was housed in the old red brick DeLacy building originally built in 1885. It sported typical Victorian gingerbread trim, cupolas, a wrap-around porch, balconies, and many beautiful stained glass windows. The building had survived a vast assortment of incarnations as well as fires, floods, blizzards, and drought, though the present lack of rain wasn’t the first dry spell Wyoming had ever suffered.

  First built by one of Moose Creek Junction’s founding fathers as an upscale home in one of the finer neighborhoods of the time, it had later become a mercantile and dry goods store, then a restaurant, another time a dress shop and for a while the town library. But the DeLacy building’s most infamous incarnation by far was when it was called the Saddle Up Saloon.

  Men from all walks of life frequented the Saddle Up: bankers and lawyers, outlaws and ruffians alike. For a price, Hattie Bookman’s gals entertained them for an hour, or for the night, and her ladies didn’t come cheap. They shimmied their buxom shapes into beautiful Parisian gowns, swished ostrich fans and served their clients the finest liquor and food. Me
n came for miles around to visit the saloon and partake of its delights.

  The existence of the world’s oldest profession was common in frontier towns and Moose Creek Junction was no different. As long as the girls paid their monthly fines and didn’t cause trouble, the local law enforcement looked the other way. Besides, Hattie’s loose women gave all the good ladies of society a night or two off while their husbands were otherwise engaged. It also helped that the shady ladies were philanthropic, sharing their wealth with the Orphans’ Society, the Ladies’ Sewing League, and other charitable organizations. The soiled doves also had purchasing power and were good for the local economy.

  At the moment, the Loose Goose Emporium, while not having such a notorious reputation as the Saddle Up, filled a niche in Moose Creek Junction society. There was a large grocery store in Weston-ville if you had the time to make the 45-minute trip. For quicker errands, one could find plenty at the Loose Goose; milk, bread, eggs, cereal, Hamburger Helper, a small assortment of meats, canned goods, and necessary paper items. Actually, Bertie made it a point to stock a little of everything from personal hygiene items to cosmetics and a small supply of clothing. Since the Loose Goose had gone into business in the early seventies, nobody had an excuse to suffer without the necessities.

  Lexie glanced at the over-sized wooden goose on the store sign. She remembered staring at it as a little girl and wondering if a real goose had posed for the portrait or if someone had painted it from memory. Why that had mattered to her, Lexie didn’t remember. The goose looked tired and worn from age, just like she was.

  Inside she took a small plastic cart from the front of the store that of course had gimpy, squeaky wheels—par for the course—then made a beeline for the paper goods and chose a 24-pack of bathroom tissue. A sudden thought occurred to her and she swerved down another aisle to the office and art supplies where she picked up a stack of velvet-backed paint-by-number kits. She headed to the wooden checkout counter that used to be the bar and still had a large, ornate mirror from the Saddle Up days hanging behind it.

  “Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t the town floozie herself.” Violet Whitehead tossed her brunette head at Lexie and grabbed another chocolate from the box sitting next to her, popping it into her mouth. She licked her chubby fingers then chewed furiously on the candy. After she swallowed, she stared at Lexie and spat, “Stolen anyone else’s husband lately?”

  Lexie wrinkled her nose at the smell of chocolate candy and cheap perfume that floated from Violet’s blue jeans and black embroidered peasant top, both of which were too tight and made her look like a lumpy sack of potatoes. She didn’t know the woman well, but what she’d seen of her, especially today, hadn’t given her a good impression. No wonder Henry Whitehead hadn’t been thrilled to have her as his wife and his affections had wandered. Harpie was the word that came to Lexie’s mind to describe Violet Whitehead.

  “Excuse me?” Lexie blinked.

  “Everyone knows how you entice men with your innocent, smarmy looks and teasing. It’s all over town so you can’t fool me. Even my poor, stupid Henry got duped.”

  Lexie put her items down on the counter with an emphatic thump. “Last I heard, you and poor Henry were divorced. I don’t make a habit of dating married men. In fact, I rarely date at all.”

  Violet snorted and wiped her fingers on her jeans. “Right, and I’m Anna Nicole Smith,” she screeched. “You date enough that men are falling at your feet, literally. Dead.”

  “Look, Violet, I didn’t come here to chit-chat with you about what you think you know. I just needed a few things.”

  “I just needed a few things,” Violet mimicked sarcastically. “Well, I’m so freakin’ glad I got to wait on you I could just croak. If it weren’t for you, my Henry would still be alive and paying his child support. And I wouldn’t have to be working my ass off to wait on sissy-prissies like you.”

  Lexie was getting ticked off and couldn’t stop from giving an angry retort. “Hey, I work for a living, too, Violet. Most of us around here do. Get off your high horse about how bad you have it.”

  Bertie Creekmore came out from a back room, expression dour. Her face was gaunt and her brownish-gray frizzy hair screamed for conditioner. She wore black from head to toe on her skeletal frame and seemed sad.

  Bertie tapped the ancient cash register with a long finger and glared at Violet. “What’s going on? It sounds like a wrestling match out here with all the shouting.”

  “Sorry,” Lexie said. “I’m just trying to buy a couple of things and Violet’s unhappy with me.”

  “What did I tell you about harassing the customers?” Bertie said to Violet.

  Violet, properly chastised, hung her head. “That you’d let me go if I didn’t quit.”

  “Shall I give you notice, then? Hmmm?”

  Violet’s face turned as purple as the flower she was named for.

  Lexie was irritated, but she really didn’t want to be a part of Violet loosing her job, too. “It’s OK, really, Bertie. I think Violet’s just having a bad day. Don’t fire her.”

  “Lexie’s right,” Violet said. “I really didn’t mean anything.”

  Bertie gave a loud sigh. “I don’t need you chasing off my customers, mind you. I’ll give you one more chance. Otherwise—”

  “I know, I know,” Violet said. “I’ll behave myself. I promise.”

  Violet rang up Lexie’s items and Bertie said, “I don’t know why you’re still so defensive about that ex-husband of yours anyway, Violet. He was a no-good and I knew that boy was going to get himself in trouble. I saw all the women he had parading in and out, day and night, night and day. It’s amazing he could lift his head off his pillow, let alone get it up any more.”

  Lexie suddenly realized the Loose Goose Emporium was right across the street from Whitehead’s place. Bertie and Fred had downsized from their home and now lived above the store in the small apartment she had once rented. Even with the bird’s-eye view, Bertie needed good eyesight or a pair of binoculars to see much. Lexie placed a bet on the binoculars. “You saw him a lot?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. I imagine he was dead on his feet at work with all the nonsense he had going on at his place. Loud music and goings on till all hours of the morning almost every day. He constantly left his curtains wide open and I could see …” she trailed off and cleared her throat, obviously rethinking her choice of words. “People told me they saw all manner of wild parties and, well, sexual activities going on. Why, he was a regular neighborhood nuisance. It’s funny his landlord didn’t kick him out long before somebody offed him. If you ask me, it’s good riddance to have him out of here.” She colored brightly. “Of course, it’s not nice to speak of the dead that way, but Henry Whitehead was not a pleasant person. I bet it was one of the neighbors hereabouts who did him in.”

  “Did you see anything unusual the night of the murder?” Lexie asked anxiously. She paid for the items Violet rang up on the ancient cash register, picked up the brown bag. Had Bertie attacked Whitehead with a butcher knife? Or had one of her neighbors?

  Lexie mulled it over a moment. That theory was pretty far fetched, although still a possibility. Whoever killed Whitehead probably killed Hugh Glenwood and hurt Elton. Bertie had no reason to do that.

  Violet was right about one thing—she did have a penchant for getting the men around her hurt or killed. It wouldn’t exactly win her the sweetheart award.

  “Nothing more unusual than the usual.” Bertie tapped her sallow cheek. “Except for that dark, foreign-looking car. That was definitely not usual. I’d never seen it before and I haven’t seen it since. Of course, I told the police all about that. And then them reporters called like crazy askin’ questions. ’Bout ripped the phone off the wall, I did.”

  Lexie’s radar flicked on. Could it be the dark car that followed her home from Whitehead’s house the night he was killed? “Did you get a license plate number?”

  “Good gracious, no. It was too far away and m
y eyes are getting pretty dim, you know.” She shook her head. “A shame about that Elton fella,” Bertie said. “I hope he gets better soon. The Briarhursts are none too happy he’s laid up in the hospital. I hear he’s not good.”

  Lexie didn’t comment because she didn’t know what to say. She still felt the sting of guilt over Elton’s accident. “You ladies have a good afternoon,” she said, trying hard not to let Elton’s condition get her down. Surely he’d get better. He just had to.

  Carma was entering the store as Lexie left, sleek, smooth, and cosmopolitan as ever. Her black designer jeans, green silk blouse, and snakeskin boots definitely did not fit in with the flowered house-dresses and red, windblown complexions of most of the women in this town. Carma looked even thinner than before and her make-up and dark hair were flawless, giving her a New York model sort of look. She gave a brief, “Hullo,” and narrowed her exotically lined eyes at Lexie.

  “Nice seeing you,” Lexie returned, feeling a blast of ice come from Carma. Her long purple nails gripping the door caught Lexie’s attention and she wondered how the woman could even use the phone with those evil lances. They were ridiculous, but then Lexie supposed she had to advertise her trade somehow. One of the main things Lexie remembered about Carma from high school was she believed everyone should see things her way.

  “You simply must come to the next book club meeting with your sister, Lexie,” Carma purred. “We read the most fabulous books; the next one we’re going to read is that new murder mystery everyone’s talking about.” Her eyes gleamed. “And elections are coming up soon. If you join, you can vote for Lucy as the new president. She would be fabulous.”

  Carma was sure into the word fabulous. Lexie guessed her usage of the adjective made her feel superior to the townspeople she no doubt considered hicks. Funny, Carma had been born and raised here. Why she felt she was so far above everyone was beyond Lexie. “I didn’t even know she was running.”

  “That’s because she doesn’t know herself. But she will, you can be sure.” She laughed. “There’s no one else who can fill Susannah Averill’s shoes when she resigns this year.”