Magnolia Moonlight

by Mary Ellis

  “Speaking of which, what’s your pleasure tonight?” Nate pulled the guidebook from his back pocket. “There are restaurants ranging from gourmet Italian, to casual burgers and fries, to tacos with fresh guacamole.”

  Isabelle leaned in to study the pictures. “All the fishing talk gave me a hankering for seafood. Find me one of those.”

  “Your wish is my command, sweet bride.” After a short perusal of the map, Nate pointed her shoulders in the correct direction.

  “Could we cool the bride and groom stuff? If we mention the word ‘honeymoon,’ the next question from someone’s mouth will be, ‘Oh, did you get married over the weekend?’ Then, if we say a weekend two years ago, people will think we’re nuts.”

  “Are we the only people in America living on a budget? Okay, mum’s the word unless someone notices the dewy look in your eye.” He kissed the top of her head, her silky hair tickling his nose.

  Once they reached the seaside café, they were shown to the best table in the house. Or maybe there were no bad tables. Nate was so happy, he didn’t know which. The service was impeccable, the food delicious, and the conversation livelier than he and Isabelle had shared in months. But as Nate finished his last bite of his entrée, he realized his wife had grown quiet.

  “What’s wrong, Izzy? Don’t you like your dinner? We have enough spending money for you to order something different. Just this once, of course.” Nate winked at her and received a disappointing reaction in return.

  “Could you excuse me a moment?” Isabelle rose from the table so abruptly her napkin and handbag fell to the floor.

  “Shall I have them box this up for you?” he asked, reaching down to retrieve her tiny purse.

  She shook her head and disappeared down the hallway.

  With his companion gone, Nate’s legendary appetite vanished as well. Maybe they ate too many snacks on the drive down. Honey peanuts, strawberry Twizzlers, and Cherry Coke might have been inappropriate appetizers for gourmet seafood. Or perhaps the long car ride or too much sun on their walk upset her stomach. For whatever reason, Isabelle had looked green around the gills when she bolted from the table. When Isabelle’s absence stretched into twenty minutes, he began to worry. Should I call 9-1-1 so paramedics can check the ladies’ room or start breaking down stall doors myself? Nate pulled out his phone.

  But before he chose his course of action, Isabelle staggered back to their table and slumped into her chair. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Not really. I might have food poisoning. Suddenly I felt very sick, and then my expensive dinner went down the drain, so to speak.”

  “Can’t be food poisoning. We both ate the same thing, and I feel fine. In fact, that was the best snow crab I’ve ever had.” Nate scanned the room for their waiter.

  “An allergic reaction then. I feel like I’m floating on high seas during a hurricane. Sorry to cut our first romantic evening short, but could we go back to the B and B?” Isabelle sounded downright desperate.

  “Right this moment.” Nate wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her from the chair. Together they shuffled toward the hostess station, where he slapped his credit card on the podium. “Miss, could you help us? I don’t see our waiter and we need to leave. My wife doesn’t feel well.”

  The hostess took one look at Isabelle, grabbed the card, and hurried through the swinging doors. Isabelle laid her head against Nate’s shirt. Her eyes were shut, her skin flushed, and she was breathing through her mouth. A minute later the hostess returned with a man in an expensive suit.

  “I’m Mr. Ochs, the general manager. Your meal is on the house. I hope you’ll return another night when your wife feels better.” He handed back Nate’s credit card.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ochs. I’m sure we will.” But before Nate could put away his MasterCard, Isabelle broke from his embrace and ran out the front doors.

  He caught up with her on the sidewalk, halfway down the block. She was leaning against a palm tree, clutching her belly. “Good grief, Izzy. Don’t run away from me like that. You scared me witless.” He put a steadying arm around her.

  “I didn’t want to be sick in that restaurant’s nice lobby. I must be allergic to crab. Who knew?”

  “How could you not know you’re allergic to crab?”

  “I guess I never had it before. Lobster, shrimp, oysters, crawfish—yes, but not crab. Could we not talk about food until tomorrow? Plenty of people out walking haven’t had dinner yet. I’d hate to spoil it for them.”

  “Let’s get you back to a rocking chair on the porch.” Nate tugged her hand in the direction of the B and B.

  “Hold on. I need to tell you something.” Isabelle peered up at him with moist, glassy eyes. “Right after I was sick in the bushes, I thought I saw Craig drive by. Of all people to see down here, right?”

  “Craig from Nashville?” Nate’s incredulity stemmed not from her ex-husband being in Bay St. Louis, but from the fact she was telling him now. She still looked greener than a well-fertilized lawn.

  “One and the same. Only his hair was long, and he’d grown a scruffy beard and mustache.” Holding her stomach with one hand, Isabelle started to walk. “It almost looked like he was in disguise.”

  “Then the guy in the car probably wasn’t Craig. After all, you were…indisposed.”

  “But the car was an old blue Toyota. That’s what Craig bought when we were married. He kept the Toyota, and I got my Prius in our divorce.”

  “There are plenty of Toyotas on the road. At any rate, we’re on our honeymoon, so let’s not worry about Craig or anything else. At least not until you feel better.” Nate lifted her chin and kissed her nose.

  Isabelle offered a weak smile. “I’ve ruined our first night in paradise, haven’t I?”

  “Don’t be silly. Nothing is ruined, dear heart. And we have twenty more nights to rekindle the romance.” Nate wiggled his eyebrows again, but Isabelle was far too distracted to notice.

  EIGHT

  Isabelle awoke several hours later, groggy and confused but feeling infinitely better. She wasn’t sure if it was the can of ginger ale, the soda crackers, or the fact that every trace of crab had left her system, but her stomach felt almost normal again. She gazed around their well-appointed room. The air-conditioning had been turned up and a lightweight quilt pulled to her neck. Moonlight streaming through slits in the wooden blinds danced across the bed, a bed she occupied alone.

  Once fully in charge of her faculties, Isabelle headed to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. Poor Nate! He’d had such high hopes, but her stomach had other plans for the evening. Thankfully, she’d married a thoughtful and considerate man.

  Isabelle found her husband asleep in the sitting room recliner, the volume on the TV turned low. ESPN’s continuous loop of updates rolled across the screen. After studying his face in repose, Isabelle didn’t have the heart to wake him. Although he’d rest better in bed, he might have trouble falling back to sleep. She consulted her watch and made an impetuous decision. Taking her phone to the porch, she settled in a rocker and punched in a number. Craig told her several times that his new wife was a night owl. Cassie liked to read into the wee hours and then take afternoon naps when she got home from work.

  “Hello, Cassie?” she whispered when the other end picked up. “It’s Isabelle Price from Natchez. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Izzy? Are you and Nate finally on your honeymoon? Of course you didn’t wake me. It’s barely midnight.” Cassie released a cheerful laugh, not sounding at all sleepy. “It’ll be hours before I sleep, to quote Robert Frost.”

  “Thank goodness. I wanted to catch you before things got hectic here. First, thanks again for the thousand dollars you and Craig sent last month. We plan to put that toward a new car for me. At long last, the Prius gave up the ghost.”

  “You’re welcome. Craig regretted sticking you with half the credit card debt in the divorce. Most of it had been cash advances to feed his habit. It’s only
fair that Craig pays you back.”

  Isabelle noticed two things about Cassie’s reply: Number one, she didn’t drop her voice when referring to her husband’s addiction. Even though Craig’s problems were out in the open, a wife usually spared a husband’s feelings by not referencing them. And two, she had used past tense to describe Craig’s mind-set. “Well, those checks have been a big help to us. We might have cut our honeymoon short if not for Craig. My car broke down right before we left Natchez.” After a moment’s hesitation, Isabelle’s prodding yielded the intended results.

  “I’m glad you were able to get away, but that check might be the last one for a while.”

  Patiently Isabelle rocked, watching lights twinkle across the bay. “We can get by without the money,” she said at last, “but I sense there’s something you’re not telling me. If you want me to respect your privacy, fine, but if you’d like to talk, I’m here to listen.”

  “It’s a short story, actually. Craig left me. That’s why I’m not sure if there’ll be any more checks. Apparently, he fell in love with a law clerk where he works.” Cassie emitted a bitter laugh. “She’s probably more fun than me, but it’s hard to stay cheerful while digging out of a financial hole.”

  Isabelle’s heart broke for her ex’s second wife. What a nightmare to fall in love with a man with so much baggage and then be left on the sidelines. Yet despite Cassie’s frank confession, something niggled in the back of Isabelle’s mind. Craig might have an addictive personality, and he might have problems with money management, but he didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. And to suddenly tell your new wife she was being replaced was cruel.

  “I truly hate to ask, but do you think Craig might have moved to Bay St. Louis with this other woman?”

  “Where on earth is Bay St. Louis?” Cassie sounded bewildered.

  “It’s a nice little town on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, close to Gulfport and Biloxi, but not as well-known.”

  “Oh, no. Craig would never move to an area that has casinos. He joined Gamblers Anonymous after we got engaged and still regularly attends meetings. Why do you ask?”

  Isabelle stopped rocking. “Because I thought I saw him drive by earlier tonight. Did he happen to grow a beard and mustache?”

  “You must be mistaken, Izzy. You know Craig hated facial hair. He was even fanatical about five o’clock shadow, remember? He would shave if we were going out. I’m sure he and whoever-she-is still live in Nashville.”

  Cassie’s voice contained so much sadness Isabelle couldn’t press the matter any further. “Thanks for clearing that up, and I’m sorry for your loss. Craig didn’t deserve you.”

  “Ditto, wife-number-one. Have fun on your honeymoon, Izzy. Don’t give that lowlife we both had the misfortune to marry another thought.”

  After they hung up, it was a long time before Isabelle could fall asleep. Despite Cassie’s and Nate’s assurances, she knew whom she had seen on South Beach Drive. Craig Mitchell was in Bay St. Louis. She would know that slimeball anywhere.

  NINE

  Natchez

  Monday

  Michael rose at the crack of dawn to begin his new exercise regimen. Although he’d been on the high school track team, his respectable hundred-meter dash hadn’t paved the way for a lifetime of physical fitness. Truth be told, he was about the flabbiest skinny guy in western Mississippi, maybe in the entire state. He pulled his brand-new pair of Brooks running shoes from the box. Paying a hundred fifty bucks for a pair of sneakers should prompt him to take this phase of his reinvention seriously. Every cop, private detective, and bounty hunter in the business needed to be in as good shape as the criminals. According to television, felons spent their days pumping iron and playing basketball in the prison yard in preparation for illegal activities upon their release. He hoped he wouldn’t encounter any serious bad guys until the regimen improved his strength and endurance.

  Slipping on a sweatshirt, Michael jogged down the riverfront trail at an easy pace. All of Natchez lay within easy reach of his second-floor apartment above a law firm. Moving from his parents’ house in the suburbs, surrounded by families, had been a good idea. Frugalness kept him living at home longer than most men his age. Even after paying his parents rent, he was able to amass a sizeable down payment. But because he no longer needed a house, moving to Natchez put him close to work and far from his mother’s disappointment. Judging by her sorrowful face, you would think she’d been the one jilted.

  After a head-clearing run and a hot shower, Michael drove to the office of Calvary Baptist. After yesterday’s disappointing service, he was bound and determined to make progress in the investigation. Parishioners before and after church were friendly enough…to each other. But they hadn’t exactly poured out their hearts to a stranger. His explanation that he recently relocated here earned him a weekly bulletin, along with info on VBS and the women’s club. When he explained that he possessed neither wife nor child, interest in him waned. Or maybe he imagined it. Either way, nobody volunteered anything helpful about the Deans, and his eavesdropping yielded solely how to remove gum from a child’s hair. Elizabeth will not be impressed, he thought. And Michael wanted nothing standing in his way at Price Investigations.

  “Good morning. You must be Mrs. Purdy. I’m Michael Preston.” He flashed a smile as he walked through the door.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Preston? I heard you were interested in joining our church.” The middle-aged woman dropped what she’d been doing and pulled a brochure from the drawer. “I understand you’re from Brookhaven.”

  Instead of gleaning tidbits from the congregation, he had provided conversation fodder. “Yes, ma’am, but I already have the brochure. I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Dean. She hired our firm to tie up some loose ends regarding her husband’s death.”

  Mrs. Purdy returned the brochure to the drawer. “Are you with the marble engraving company? I thought the funeral home would handle the headstone.”

  “No, I’m here to look at the church’s financial records. I understand there’s some confusion, and I’d like to straighten it out.”

  She blinked several times. “Financial records?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Most likely, you have an accounting program that manages receivables and payables, and separates the contributions into various funds.”

  “Well, sure, we have a separate account to pay salaries, utilities, and maintenance. Then there’s a mission fund and the building fund for the new school. But I don’t have the password to those files. I just handle prayer requests, email, the daily devotion, and the weekly newsletter.” She pushed up from her desk. “Care for a cup of tea, Mr. Preston? I was about to make one for myself.”

  “I would love one, ma’am.” Michael followed her to a tiny kitchen. “I want to do anything I can to help. I feel so sorry for Mrs. Dean.”

  “My, yes. Paul was such a good man.” She sighed as she filled the teakettle with water.

  “I don’t know how she’ll manage without the pastor’s salary.” He leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. “It’s expensive to raise a daughter these days.”

  “Money is one problem she won’t have.” Her voice lost its tender concern.

  “Oh, does Mrs. Dean work outside the home?” Michael took two mugs from their hooks and set them within easy reach.

  “Of course not. Women like her don’t work,” Mrs. Purdy sneered. “She had a million-dollar policy on her husband. I know, because I witnessed his signature on the application. Paul told me not to talk about this, but with him gone, why should I protect her reputation? What does a God-fearing woman need with that big a policy? You need enough for a decent burial and to put the kid through college. More than that would be greedy. The premiums must have been through the roof.” She took the mugs and filled them from a hot-water dispenser by the sink.

  “It does sound a tad extravagant. Do you remember which insurance company issued the policy?” Michael tried not to sound as though he were on the verge of an i
nvestigative breakthrough.

  She tapped her lips with an index finger. “Hmm…I’m not sure. It’s been a while.”

  “Unfortunately, most policies won’t pay in cases of suicide.”

  “Oh, my. What a shame,” she said, dunking her tea bag vigorously. The glint in her eye underscored her words’ true meaning.

  “Who did have the passwords to the accounts, ma’am?” he asked to get back on track.

  “Only the reverend and Ralph Buckley, our finance director. But Ralph left town right after the funeral. I suppose he needed time to mourn.”

  “May I see the checkbook register for the church account?”

  “Sure, but it isn’t here. Paul took it home to get bills caught up. He worked in the evening after supper.”

  “Was that normal? I mean, didn’t you say Ralph Buckley was in charge of finances?”

  “Yes, but Ralph’s been under the weather due to his angina.”

  Michael sipped his tea to hide his disappointment. No access to the church hard drive or the checking account. Zero for two. “Thank you. I’ll stop back after Mr. Buckley returns. For now, please accept my condolences on the loss of your friend.”

  Her face brightened. “Thank you, young man. Paul was my friend. And Lord knows that man needed all he could get. See you on Sunday,” she added when he was halfway down the hall.

  Michael received a less cordial reception at stop number two.

  Alice Dean opened the front door barely enough to hold a conversation. “Mr. Preston? I understood Miss Kirby wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “Correct, but she asked me to start reviewing financial records in her absence. According to Mrs. Purdy, the church checkbook is here.” He smiled. “May I come in, please?” For one dreadful moment, he thought she would refuse.

  “Very well, as long as you don’t need my help. I’m quite busy today, as you can imagine.”

  Actually, he had no idea what recent widows faced but thought it prudent not to ask. “Could you point me in the direction of Reverend Dean’s study?”