by Vickie Fee
Despite being a crusty character, Ray spoke about the Farrell brothers with what sounded like a genuine fondness.
“Well, good night,” Di said. “We should head back.”
“Night, ladies,” he said, raising his beer to us.
“Some people are so sleazy, just talking to them makes you feel like you need a shower,” I said once we were out of earshot.
“He certainly has a gift for undressing women with his eyes,” Di said.
“Do you know where he works?” I asked.
“I’ve seen him trimming hedges and painting fences here in the park,” Di said. “I know he was in the army. Maybe he draws a military pension. What I do know is that he didn’t really tell us anything new about the Farrells.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“What do you mean?” Di asked.
“What was it Ray said? Something like he had ‘shown the ropes’ to the Farrell boys about reenacting. I’d bet you a dollar to a doughnut that if the Farrells were mixed up in stealing or counterfeiting Civil War artifacts, Ray Franklin was right in the middle of it.”
I said good night to Di, drove home, and jumped in the shower. After I had bathed the clinging humidity and the impurity of Ray Franklin’s gaze off my body, I slipped on a purple nightshirt that had PARTY GIRL emblazoned across the chest. I had just started filing my nails when Larry Joe walked through the bedroom door, took off his tie, and heaved himself wearily onto the bed.
“Rough night?” I asked, leaning over and giving him a kiss on the forehead.
“I’ve smiled so much tonight, my face hurts,” he said. “Some people act like we won’t be able to do business, just because we lost a couple of employees. I’m convinced some of them even think Dad and I were somehow involved in killing those boys.”
“Oh, honey. People are just tense because there’s a murderer still at large. Things will settle down when Dave has a suspect.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that even Mrs. Erdman seemed to suspect us.
I filled Larry Joe in on what the sheriff had told Di about the possible stolen goods in the storage unit. I circumspectly omitted having talked to Ray Franklin.
“Maybe that’s the lead Dave needs to get to the bottom of this whole mess,” I said.
“I certainly hope so—and soon,” Larry Joe said. “It’s starting to get to me, but I’m more worried about Dad. He doesn’t need this kind of stress. He’s getting to be an old geezer, you know.”
“Don’t worry about your dad. He’s one tough cookie. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
Larry Joe was gently snoring within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, and I drifted off soon after. About 2:00 a.m. our neighbors’ car alarm sounded—again. This occurs more often than I’d like to think about. Sometimes it beeps for five minutes; sometimes it goes on for fifteen minutes or more.
At the sound of the blaring beep-beep-beep, Larry Joe shot straight up into a sitting position in the bed.
“I’m going to kill the neighbors,” he said drowsily.
“Honey, it’s two a.m.,” I said, glancing over at the alarm clock. “At least wait until after sunrise to kill them. You wouldn’t want to accidentally kill the wrong people.”
Larry Joe moaned and stuck his head under his pillow. The alarm fell silent after a few minutes, and Larry Joe fell back asleep in an instant. I wasn’t so lucky.
Our neighbors with the pesky car alarm, the Newsoms—Larry Joe and I have dubbed them the Gruesomes—live next door to Mrs. Cleats. If the alarm persists for very long, Mrs. Cleats will often call the sheriff to complain.
Mrs. Gruesome insists that Mrs. Cleats’s cat is setting off the alarm by jumping on the hood of the car. Mrs. Cleats insists that she always brings Mr. Winky in the house at night, although we all know she doesn’t, and there are frequent litters of kittens that resemble him in the neighborhood to attest to it.
Larry Joe tried talking to Mr. Gruesome on a couple of the rare occasions when the neighbor was sober, and even offered to help him disable the car alarm. Gruesome declined because he said he was afraid it would void the warranty on the car. I think he was more afraid his wife would void his right to breathe.
Chapter 6
Thursday morning it was ninety-eight degrees outside, and I was in the eighth circle of hell, arguing with a man over ice.
The ice sculptor I had employed for the Erdmans’ party, who had at first been so charming and accommodating, was now trying to tell me he couldn’t deliver the sculptures until the day of the party—an hour and a half before the guests were scheduled to arrive. He had previously assured me that if we had freezer space for the sculptures, they would be delivered at least forty-eight hours before the party.
“Ms. McKay, please be reasonable,” he said through the phone. He was lucky I couldn’t get my hands on him. “You have my word the sculptures will be delivered not a minute later than five thirty.”
“You already gave me your word that they would be delivered Wednesday afternoon. How am I supposed to trust your word when you keep changing it?”
There was no way I could risk having the sculptures delivered at the last minute. What if they cracked in transit? What if one of the cherubs had a crack somewhere other than on his little heinie? Mrs. Erdman would have a meltdown.
My borderline insane client considered these sculptures the crowning glory of her elegant supper buffet, and I was not going to let this guy backpedal on his promised delivery time.
“I’m an artist, Ms. McKay, not an assembly line,” he said dismissively.
“The work order for the sculptures, which we both signed off on, stipulates that the sculptures will be delivered by Wednesday afternoon,” I said, steam slowly escaping from my ears. “If you cannot fulfill the terms of the contract, then consider it voided, and I’ll just have to find another artist.”
This was a threat I hoped I wouldn’t have to carry through with. Ice sculptors weren’t exactly plentiful, and I understood that creating large custom ice pieces involved more than pouring vats of water into great big trays.
“This is the first time I’ve employed your services, and I’d certainly like to be able to do business with you in the future—and recommend your work to my colleagues and clients,” I added.
I knew he wouldn’t want to risk bad word of mouth from someone who could continue to bring him business in the future. As a party planner, I carried a little more weight than an individual customer, who was likely to be just a one-off sale.
He silently struggled with his pride for a moment before acquiescing. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. McKay. I’ll have to rearrange our project schedule, but your client’s order will be delivered on Wednesday.”
I hung up the phone and leaned back in my chair. I felt like I’d already put in a full day’s work, and it was only 9:30 a.m. I poured a fresh cup of coffee and allowed myself a few moments to decompress before getting back to work. As I gazed vacantly out the window, a parade of four black sedans driving past the office suddenly captured my attention. I jumped up from my desk, hurried down the stairs, opened the front door, and looked out to see the cars circle around the courthouse and come to a halt in front of the sheriff’s office.
I turned around and ran smack into Winette and Mr. Sweet, who were peering over my shoulder.
“I wonder who those unmarked cars belong to,” I said.
“It’s the Feds,” Winette said matter-of-factly. “You can tell by those cheap suits and sunglasses.”
A gray-haired man in the lead car, along with his driver, had gone into the sheriff’s office, while the others waited outside. By this time, we weren’t the only ones watching the spectacle. People from inside the barbershop, the diner, and other businesses were gathering in doorways and spilling out onto the sidewalks, gawking at the entourage.
In a couple of minutes, the sheriff emerged from the building with the gray-haired man and Deputy Ted Horton. A guy in a cheap suit and sunglasses opened the back door of
one of the sedans and took the arm of an older man who was handcuffed and helped him out of the car.
Heat waves rising off the asphalt distorted the scene I was watching unfold. For a brief moment, I almost convinced myself it was a mirage, just a trick of the light. Voices behind me brought me back to reality.
Winette said, “Whaaa? Huh?” Mr. Sweet muttered something equally unintelligible.
I rushed into the parking area to get a closer look before gasping, “Daddy Wayne!”
In complete shock, I found myself crumpled on the curb. Then Winette and Mr. Sweet each grabbed one of my arms, helped me up, and led me into their office.
“This can’t be happening,” I said as Winette brought me a glass of water. “I need to call somebody—a lawyer or my mother-in-law.”
“You need to call Larry Joe,” Winette said calmly.
“You’re right.” Just as I picked up my cell phone, it rang. It was Larry Joe.
“Honey, they’ve arrested your dad and—”
“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to give you a heads-up. I’ve been on the phone with our attorney.”
“Larry Joe, what’s this all about? There must be some mistake.”
“It’s something about some drugs they found on one of our trucks in Oklahoma.”
“But that’s crazy. How can they think your dad has anything to do with that?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure Bill Scott will have Dad out of jail within a few hours. What I really need you to do is to go over and be with Mama. I told her Dad had been taken in for questioning, but you know her phone will start ringing off the hook pretty soon.”
“Sure. I’ll head over to your mama’s right now. Keep me posted.”
In the car, on my way over to my mother-in-law’s, I decided I had better call my own mother before she phoned Miss Betty or me. Since my husband and I had both grown up in Dixie, I’d known his parents pretty much all my life. As seemed to be common in the South, I grew up calling all my mama’s friends “Miss Betty,” “Miss Sylvia,” and so on, while I addressed most of their husbands as Mr. Smith, Mr. Brown, and so forth. When Larry Joe and I got married, it seemed a bit formal to keep calling his dad Mr. McKay, so he ended up being Daddy Wayne, while his mom remained Miss Betty to me.
“Hi, Mama. . . .”
“Dear Lord, Liv. What in the world’s going on? I just had a call from Sue Maynard, saying she saw some men take Wayne McKay into the police station—in handcuffs.”
“He’s been taken in for questioning about drugs found on one of the trucks. But Larry Joe has already talked to their attorney, Bill Scott, and I’m sure he’ll have Daddy Wayne out of there soon. I’m on my way over to be with Larry Joe’s mom right now.”
“Of course, hon. You tell her we’re praying for her and Wayne.”
Mama hung up, and I knew instinctively she’d be right back on the phone, calling all the ladies in her prayer circle. That should keep her busy for a while, I thought.
I pulled into the driveway of Wayne and Betty McKay’s house, located just a few blocks on the opposite side of the town square from where Larry Joe and I lived. While our neighborhood is a hodgepodge of houses dating from around 1900 to 1940, their street is a mix of houses built mostly in the fifties and sixties. The house Larry Joe grew up in is circa Ozzie and Harriet.
I slipped in through the kitchen door, which is never locked, knocking as I entered. My mother-in-law was sitting at the kitchen table, clipping coupons, still wearing her pink terry-cloth bathrobe.
She stood to give me a hug.
“Olivia, thank goodness. Larry Joe called and told me not to answer the phone until you got here. Has someone died?”
“No, Miss Betty. Nobody’s died. The police are just questioning Daddy Wayne about drugs they found on one of McKay’s trucks in Oklahoma.”
“Well, that’s what Larry Joe said. I thought there must be more going on than what he was saying. Telling me not to answer the phone and all.”
“He just doesn’t want nosy busybodies calling and worrying you, that’s all. In fact, why don’t we just take the phone off the hook for a while and have a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, no. We can’t do that. What if Larry Joe calls back?”
“I have my cell phone,” I said, taking it out of my purse and laying it on the table. “If he needs to get in touch, he’ll call this number.”
“All right, dear. Whatever you think’s best. I’m too jumpy to talk to anybody right now, anyway.”
After almost thirteen years of marriage, it still astounded me how generally compliant my mother-in-law is. No way would my own mother have stayed off the phone until I arrived, or agreed to take the phone off the hook. Betty McKay is only six years older than my mother, but it seems some generational shift occurred during that interval. Or maybe it’s just that Mama is bullheaded, a trait Larry Joe would say I inherited.
My mother-in-law poured us two steaming cups of coffee out of what looked like a freshly brewed pot. I surmised that she had busied herself with making coffee and clipping coupons after Larry Joe called.
I leafed through her stack of coupons and did my best to make benign conversation. She suddenly blurted out, “How could that nice Sheriff Davidson make such an asinine mistake as to think Wayne could have anything to do with drugs? I don’t think Wayne’s ever even been to Oklahoma.”
I was a bit taken aback, since “asinine” is probably as close to profanity as my mother-in-law would ever venture.
“I don’t think Sheriff Davidson really had anything to say about it. Since it had to do with crossing state lines and all that, it was federal agents that brought in Daddy Wayne for questioning.”
“That explains a lot,” she said.
My mother-in-law doesn’t really trust anyone who wasn’t born and raised right here in Dixie, so it explained a lot for her. This was an attitude she and Mama happened to share.
“Miss Betty, why don’t you go get dressed and put your face on? Just in case we need to go out later.”
Fortunately, she complied. I needed a break. Once she was upstairs and out of earshot, I called Larry Joe for an update. His phone went straight to voice mail. I hoped that meant he was talking to either his dad or their attorney.
As I was about to put the phone down, it buzzed, alerting me that I had a text message. I hit the RETRIEVE button to find a message from Di.
Handcuffs?
I spent most of the morning and half the afternoon with my mother-in-law. As the hours dragged on, Miss Betty kept busy with her knitting project, and I spiraled deeper and deeper into enveloping boredom. I actually spent an inordinate amount of time studying my mother-in-law’s vast collection of salt and pepper shakers. A whole wall in the kitchen is devoted to it, with 114 specimens—yes, I counted them—on wooden shelves Daddy Wayne had built specifically for the collection.
Some of the shakers made sense, at least as much as any collection of never used objects makes sense. She has lots of shakers from her travels over the years, from Route 66 to Graceland to the Golden Gate Bridge. She has a set of tiki salt and pepper shakers she brought back from the thirtieth-anniversary trip she and my father-in-law took to Hawaii. These kinds of souvenirs I can understand. But some of the sets, such as the pair that looks like shotgun shells or the one of a peasant woman pushing two pigs in a cart, just don’t compute with me.
Just before 3:00 p.m., Larry Joe finally arrived, with his dad in tow. Daddy Wayne looked as pale as if he’d just survived a bloodletting. Larry Joe took me aside and briefly brought me up to speed. His dad hadn’t actually been charged with anything. Apparently, the handcuffs were only because he got belligerent when the agents attempted to bring him in for questioning. Ralph Harvey and the attorney were coming over to his parents’ house later in the evening to go over paperwork, look for any irregularities in shipments, and brace for an audit. Larry Joe said I should go on home and not to expect him for supper.
After I arrived at the house,
I pulled a page from my own playbook and took the phone off the hook. I figured anyone I really wanted to talk to would call my cell phone, anyway. I left a trail as I dropped my purse and kicked off my shoes on my way to the den. I stretched out on the sofa and promptly dozed off to the droning of some television talk show.
I woke up a little after 4:00 p.m. With Larry Joe out of the picture for supper, I called Di to see if she had dinner plans.
“I was just about to call you,” she said. “Dave phoned and asked me if I could drive home the professor that came to look at all the Civil War stuff in the storage unit. His car won’t start, and Dave says he can’t really spare a deputy to drive him to Memphis. You want to come along for the ride? That way I’ll have someone to talk to on the drive back.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to have the distinguished professor all to yourself?”
“No. I think he’s some old coot. Dave says he’s harmless but chatty. Maybe we can find out something about the Civil War gear he examined.”
“Okay. Count me in. When do we leave?”
“Ted was just about to run the professor over to Town Square Diner. They skipped lunch, and he was getting hungry. Dave said he was sure the professor would enjoy the company if we wanted to join him for supper.”
I texted Larry Joe to let him know where I’d be, put on some lipstick, hurried over to the square, and parked in front of my office. Less than a minute later, Di pulled in next to me. We walked past the courthouse to the other side of the square. Deputy Ted was just getting the professor settled into a corner booth when we arrived at the diner.
“Professor, may I introduce Ms. Souther and Mrs. McKay? Looks like you’re going to be treated to the pleasure of their company for dinner.”
The professor rose in a gentlemanly fashion and greeted each of us with a nod and a smile. We slid into the booth, facing him. He waited for us to be seated before sitting down again.
“This is Dr. Maurice Shapiro, ladies. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I better get back to work,” Ted said, putting on his hat and turning toward the door.