by Ann Yost
Kit.
She couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. “What do you want?”
“To apologize. I’d been drinking, and Mary Alice cornered me. I never meant to hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me.” She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.
“You cheated on me.”
“It didn’t mean anything.”
It certainly didn’t mean anything to Jessie now. She sighed.
“Why are you calling?”
“It’s the season of forgiveness, remember? The season of second chances. I want one. A second chance, I mean. We can still go to the islands. The tickets are good for a week, I checked. We can get married down there.”
“You must really want a tan.”
“I really want you. I screwed up, Jessie. Bad. Come to the islands with me.”
The wave of disgust that rolled through her was aimed at herself. She couldn’t believe she’d bought into his slick lines. “Take Mary Alice.”
“No way. She ruined my first honeymoon.”
“I thought you were all about second chances.”
“C’mon, Jess. We can make this work. I know we can.”
Jessie couldn’t blame him for thinking that way. She’d thought the same thing until forty-eight hours ago. She tried to think of a way to short circuit the appeal. “It’s too late, Kit. I’ve met someone else.”
The stunned silence told her how completely he hadn’t expected to hear that. Well, to be fair, it was a lie.
“Who?”
She only hesitated a second. “Aunt Blanche’s foster son, Luke Tanner.”
Kit took a moment to absorb that. “You’ve known him, how long? Two days?”
“When something’s right, it’s right,” she said.
“Honey, he just wants Blanche’s property. He’s using you, Jessie.”
She didn’t bother to point out that Kit had used her, too.
“Listen, I’ll make this right,” he said, confidently. Kit always sounded confident. “I’m coming down there, darlin’, and we’re gonna get married.”
She was starting to get bored with the conversation. How on earth had she thought she could marry this man? “I’m not interested.”
“I know what you’re doing, babe. You’re not serious about this guy, if he even exists. You’re scared to death of commitment. That’s why you’re still single. It’s why you agreed to marry me to solve your father’s problems. As long as you can stay on the sidelines, keep your heart out of the mix, you’re okay.”
The words stung, probably because there was truth in them. “I didn’t marry you, Kit. I came to my senses. I want you to leave me alone.”
“You gotta get off the bench, babe,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “You gotta get into the game.”
“Maybe,” she said, after a long pause. “But not with you.”
She clicked off the phonem but she was still holding it when it rang again.
“The answer’s still ‘no.’”
“Elf?” The low voice rumbled through her like a powerful minor chord and her blood rushed.
“Can you come over to Francine’s?”
****
He was bulletproof. God dammed bulletproof.
Adrenalin bubbled up Dennis Prendergast’s chest like the fizz in ginger ale. No one but Letty knew about the affair. And Letty was no longer in a position to tell anything to anybody.
Ding dong the witch was dead.
He didn’t dare get too cocky though. The Letty incident had been a warning. He needed to cut his losses and get out. He’d collect the big payoff on Christmas Eve, take Ellie and split.
In the meantime, he needed to get Lois under control. She was turning into a loose cannon. He’d get her to agree to a little time apart.
He helped Eleanor up to their room, removed her shoes, and rubbed her feet. Then he covered her in an afghan.
“I’m all right,” she protested. “I really don’t need a nap.”
“Doctor’s orders,” he said. He winked at her. “Doctor of Divinity. You close your eyes for a bit, and I’ll be home in no time. I’ll make you some lunch. Maybe a couple of Monte Cristo’s.”
“We’re out of lunchmeat.”
“I’ll stop by Ferguson’s. Will they know what I want if I tell them the name of the sandwich?”
Her thin pale cheeks creased in an approximation of a smile. “Never mind the market, Denny. I’ll get up in a bit and take care of it.”
He planted a chaste kiss on her cold cheek. “You, my dear, are the perfect wife.”
A moment later a lighthearted Dennis Prendergast stepped out into the morning sun.
Although the church and mortuary were connected by an interior door, it was seldom used. Dennis had to hike around the church to the mortuary entrance on Potter Street. He didn’t mind. The day was fine.
He mounted the steep steps to the door etched in gilt letters that read: J. Mortimer Epps Mortuary, Embalming A Specialty.
Daylight disappeared as he entered the shadowed foyer. The only illumination came from a small lamp on the reception desk. The bulb was strong enough to illuminate two familiar, bubble gum pink mounds. Lois’s breasts. Gone was the distaste of last night. Dennis’s penis began to quiver.
“Mornin’, sugar.”
Her voice reminded him of her skillful, collagen-enhanced lips, her talented tongue. He watched, speechless, as she stepped out from behind the reception desk dressed in some kind of Spandex. The material hugged her body and created cleavage as deep as the Grand Canyon.
Dennis’s body reacted immediately. He watched helplessly while Lois teased him by stretching her arms behind her. Her breasts jutted and jiggled.
Christ.
“Morning, Reverend,” Mort said.
He seemed to appear out of nowhere, and Dennis quickly stepped forward to shake his hand, hoping Mort couldn’t read his mind. Or his trousers.
“I stopped by to select a coffin for Letty.” He was relieved his voice sounded normal. He gave Lois’s chest a last glance before he followed Epps down the hall.
****
Jessie inhaled the fragrant smells of casseroles, cakes, cookies, and the warmth of camaraderie that mingled in Francine’s small house. The women of Mystic Hollow pulled chairs from the kitchen and bedroom and formed a circle around the sofa where Francine rested next to Judy Reeves.
Jessie passed out cups of coffee and tea and kept an eye on the plate of doughnuts fresh from Molly’s Bakery. Everyone expressed concern about Francine, but very soon the topic changed to Miss Letty’s death.
“Poor Eleanor,” Hermione Foote said. “I heard she was the one who found the body.” Hermione, Jessie thought, was Olive Oyl to the mayor’s Popeye.
Clara Ferguson nodded. She reminded Jessie of a stack of Firestones. Clara owned the market with her husband Frank and their son, Frank, Jr. She liked to share news, but unlike Letty who snooped and pried, she waited for it to come from the normal channels. “I know exactly what happened. Letty was shot clean through the heart.”
“Where did you get that, dear?” It was Hattie Bexler, who, with her son and daughter-in-law, owned and operated Bexler’s Drugs and the Emporium, Mystic Hollow’s only general department store. Jessie suspected that Hattie and Clara were the kingpins of the Mystic Hollow Grapevine. “I heard from Horace that she was stabbed.”
“Horace.” Clara sniffed. “He can’t even get the mail delivered to the right address.”
Thelma Barstow lived on a pig farm several miles from town, and she apparently pulled no punches.
“I say she died of plum cussedness.”
“Jessie was at Letty’s house this morning,” Mabel Ruth said, in what appeared to Jessie as a clear attempt to help straighten out the facts. “She actually saw the body.”
All eyes focused on Jessie and a barrage of questions followed.
“You were there? Where did it happen? Were her eyes open? What was sh
e wearing?
Jessie did her best to fill them in.
“She was on a sofa. Hadn’t had a chance to go to bed, so she had on the clothes from the festival. She looked very peaceful.”
“Peaceful.” Clara shook her head. “That’s a new look for Letty.”
“Well, I certainly hope Ezra calls for an autopsy,” Judy Reeves said. “After that hushed up business with Blanche.”
Jessie’s ears perked up. So it wasn’t just the witches who were suspicious about Blanche’s death.
A motherly looking woman sat on Francie’s other side. She’d been introduced as Charlotte Russell. Her voice was pleasant and kind.
“I’ve got to get to the hospital,” she said, patting Francine’s hand. “I’ll see if I can’t hurry those test results.” She kissed Francie on the cheek before she left.
“Lottie’s holding up well,” said Judy Reeves. “I don’t know how she does it. I’d have to be institutionalized if anything happened to either of my boys.”
Jessie saw Francine flinch.
“Lottie’s son, Bobby Ray, died in Iraq,” Mabel Ruth explained to Jessie. “She works up at the hospital.” The heavyset woman turned to Francine. “I imagine it was nice to see a friendly face last night.”
The redhead’s smile was wan. Was the lack of color just because of the head injury, or was Francie upset about Zach?
“I wonder,” Maude said, thoughtfully, “if there was any connection between Letty’s death and Blanche’s.”
Jessie was surprised at the smallest witch’s insight. She realized this might be a good chance to hear more details about her aunt.
“What exactly happened with Great-Aunt Blanche?” she asked.
Clara Ferguson’s brown eyes were bright with indignation. “She was cremated the same day, poor old thing. Mort Epps claimed it was her wish, that she’d asked him to do it that way. But,
of course there’s no proof.”
That sounded pretty suspicious.
Thelma spoke up. “Did Letty look as if she’d been murdered?”
“There wasn’t any sign of foul play,” Jessie admitted. “It was just odd that she came home from the festival, sat down on the sofa, and died.”
“I guess it could happen like that,” Thelma said.
“It could,” Millicent put in, “if it were anyone but Letty.”
Judy Reeves nodded. “That woman knew too much for her own good.”
“The chief mentioned that her throat was a little swollen,” Jessie said, suddenly remembering.
“Oh. My. God.” Mabel Ruth stuttered. Her kind eyes had rounded into dark plates giving her a stricken appearance. “She was allergic.”
Jessie felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. “Allergic to what?”
“Strawberries,” Millicent said promptly.
“Peanuts.”
“And peanut products,” Maude added.
“I’d forgotten all about that,” Clara murmured. “We haven’t stocked peanut butter for years, and I’d forgotten why.”
“Just the scent of peanuts could put her into a coma,” Millicent said. “She didn’t like people to know.”
Jessie felt a small shock of excitement. “We need to find out what she ate last night.”
“I saw her at the festival,” Clara said. “She was eating one of Molly’s brownies.”
Food continued as the topic of discussion until most of the visitors left. Mabel Ruth, Millicent, and Maude cleaned up the kitchen while Jessie tucked Francine back into bed.
“You’ve got enough casseroles and cakes for a month.”
“That’s Mystic Hollow. Folks believe everything from a broken leg to a broken heart can be cured with a homemade coconut cake.
Most of the time they’re right.”
“Zach’s mother seems nice.”
“The whole family’s great. There’s a younger brother and their dad. Carl owns a garage. I always thought Zach would work there after he mustered out and we got married. Instead, when he brought Bobby Ray’s body back, he broke up with me.”
Jessie felt a wave of sympathy for her new friend. How horrible to have your dreams snatched away with no reason given. Jessie’s dreams had been snatched away, too, but Kit hadn’t broken her heart. She sat in a rocker near the bed. She sensed Francie needed to talk.
“He thinks I cheated on him with Bobby Ray,” Francine said, in a low voice. “He found letters and things.”
“Forged, of course.”
Francie smiled, faintly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t understand what happened. It’s like an atomic bomb went off in my life and left it shredded. Bobby had my class ring, too. I worked two jobs to buy that thing. It had an azure stone, the color of Zach’s eyes. Everybody knows how important it is to me. I can’t figure it out. Bobby and I were friends. Why would he lie to Zach?”
“And why would Zach believe him,” Jessie murmured.
“That part I finally get.” Francie sounded bitter. “The bottom line, he wants out.” Her chocolate brown eyes filled with tears. “And that’s not the worst of it. I’m pregnant. He doesn’t love me or want me, but when he finds out, he’s going to insist on marriage.”
“You could say no,” Jessie suggested, gently.
“I will say no,” Francie said, her voice thick with despair, “but he’ll never give up. Never. Duty is more important to Zach than anything, including his feelings. And mine.”
While Francie dozed, Jessie joined Mabel Ruth, Millicent, and Maude in the small living room. They spoke in quiet tones.
“Mark my words, girls. Prendergast killed Letty for the same reason he killed Blanche,” Millicent echoed Jessie’s earlier thoughts. “They knew too much.”
Mabel Ruth nodded, sagely. “This is all about the secret.”
The secret. Jessie suddenly realized there was another secret the old ladies didn’t know. She opened her mouth to tell them, but no words came out. How could she talk about sex to three elderly spinsters?
“What is it, dear?” Millicent asked. “You look like a startled codfish.”
Jessie sucked in a breath. She needed to keep them in the loop. After all, they wanted to nail Blanche’s killer nearly as much as she did.
She described the tryst, omitting some of the juicier details.
“Good goddess!” Millicent breathed. “The man’s a married minister!”
“Of course. That’s why he keeps the church locked,” Mabel Ruth said, grimly.
“Were they just embracing,” Maude asked, “or was it the whole hog?”
Jessie laughed. “It was most of the hog. We were really just ear witnesses.”
“We?” Mabel Ruth looked intrigued.
Nuts. Her face flamed. But then, she’d done nothing wrong. Not really. They had been trapped together behind the stable.
“Luke was there. He’d heard me snooping around upstairs when he came in to put the tables and chairs away.”
“That must have been a bit, well, awkward,” Millicent commented.
Jessie appreciated the understated understanding. “It was.”
Jessie’s annoying ringtone interrupted them and she quickly answered the phone.
“Elf?”
She ignored the burst of excitement she felt and corrected him. “My name is Jessie.”
He ignored that. “The chief called. I’ve got a list of stomach contents here. See if it means anything to Mabel and the others.”
“Shoot.”
“Chocolate, milk, flour, egg, oatmeal, and peanut oil.”
Jessie let out a little shriek. “Murder by peanut oil.”
The old ladies exchanged a grim glance.
“Looks like Prendergast bagged another one,” Millicent said.
“Now, Mil, we don’t know that for certain,” Mabel Ruth reminded her.
“We know it,” Maude said, with uncharacteristic fierceness. “But we need proof.”
Francine emerged from
the bedroom, still pale, but insisting she felt much better. Jessie was wild to start investigating Letty’s death, but she’d promised to stay with her friend. Besides, she didn’t know exactly where to start.
Apparently Mabel Ruth could read her mind. “There’s only one place to get the answers we need,” she said. “The horse’s mouth. Francine, dear, where do you keep your board?”
Chapter Eight
Mystic Hollow had no public Fax machine.
He shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, a town whose market stocked only rot-gut beer, was a town stuck back in the ’50’s.
So, because of Mystic’s retro ways and because he refused to drag his heels in getting the final loan for marketing his search machine, Luke found himself driving the twenty-five miles to Roanoke. It wasn’t all bad. He got a good cup of coffee. Besides, it removed him from temptation.
It also removed him from his job as protector of that temptation.
Now it was early afternoon, and he was sitting in traffic on I-81. He stared broodingly, at the snowflakes that drifted onto his windshield. Maybe the Shenandoah Valley would have a white Christmas this year.
Christmas! He sat up straight. Surely Jessie Maynard would go home for Christmas. She had Norman Rockwell written all over her. It was already December Twenty-second. Would she leave today? Tomorrow? He told himself not to get his hopes up, but his spirit lightened anyway.
If Jessie would only go home for Christmas, he could leave Mystic Hollow for the last time. He could return to his unfurnished D.C. apartment. He could leave the emotional past behind and start fresh. Alone. He frowned. The idea wasn’t as compelling as it should have been. Naturally he’d have preferred a warm home and a welcoming woman, but it wasn’t in the cards.
Crystal’s “Dear John” e-mail had taken care of that. Bitterness erupted inside him, and he snapped on the radio. The flakes, it turned out, were a scouting party. The rest of the frozen troops were scheduled to descend tonight. His gut tightened.
He’d be snowed in tonight in a warm house with a wary woman; one he couldn’t touch. He forced himself to focus on Letty Appleby’s death.
He had a feeling he’d find an answer or two at the J. Mortimer Epps Mortuary: Embalming Specialty.
****