Death Crashes the Party

by Vickie Fee

  She was standing on her front deck, just unlocking the front door, when I pulled up. She turned and waved at me to come on in.

  “I’m glad Larry Joe’s dad finally got to come home,” she said, pouring us a couple of glasses of iced tea. “Maybe now he and Miss Betty can get some rest. Nobody ever gets a decent night’s sleep at the hospital, with machines beeping and nurses coming in and out all the time.”

  “I hope so. The old coot really gave us a scare,” I said. “You should have seen Miss Betty fussing over him—and him loving every minute of it, complaining all the while.”

  Di kicked off her shoes and joined me at the dining table next to the front window. She pulled back the tinfoil covering the plate between us, which I’d had my eye on. Underneath were a half dozen chocolate-chip cookies that a lady at the post office had sent home with her. I helped myself to one. Savoring a moist, chewy bite, I looked out through the blinds and spotted a car parked across from Di’s trailer.

  I didn’t recognize the driver. Taking a closer look, I noted that both the driver and the passenger were wearing dress shirts, unbuttoned at the throat, and black sunglasses and were sitting in a nondescript American-made sedan. I could feel the heat of flames rising up my face.

  “The nerve of those, those . . . FBI agents,” I blurted out.

  “What?” Di said. She peered out the blinds and added, “Yeah, they look like some kind of cops, all right.”

  “After all they’ve put us through,” I said, still steamed. “Hauling Larry Joe and his dad in for questioning, stressing Daddy Wayne into a heart attack. Now they’ve got the nerve to put me and my best friend under surveillance. I’ll not have it, not on the very day Daddy Wayne finally got to come home from the hospital.”

  I jumped up and stormed out the door. Di tried to tell me to wait a minute, but I was filled with a righteous wrath.

  They averted their eyes as I walked toward the car. The passenger even held up a newspaper to pretend he was reading.

  I tapped on the car window. The driver rolled it down slightly and said, “Go away, lady. We’re working here.”

  “I know you’re working, Mr. FBI man. You’re working overtime at harassing my family, and I’m fed up with it. Why don’t you try tracking down some real criminals for a change, instead of persecuting innocent people—”

  The driver interrupted me, saying that they weren’t interested in me or my family and that I should get lost before I blew their cover.

  “I’ll blow your cover, all right. I’m calling the sheriff right now and filing a complaint.”

  The driver started the engine and said, “You just do that, lady. We’ll call him, too. I’m going to circle the block. And when I get back, you’d better be gone.”

  He drove off.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said, shaking my fist at his taillights.

  I went back into Di’s, still shaking, and started digging around in my purse, looking for my phone. As soon as I pulled it out, it buzzed. It was Dave.

  “Dave, I was just about to call you,” I said, oblivious to the obvious irony of his calling at that precise moment.

  He dressed me down in his bad-cop voice, without letting me get a word in.

  “They were running surveillance, but they were not watching you.”

  “Dave, they were parked directly in front of Di’s. Who else could they have been watching?”

  “If they were watching Di’s, they would not have been parked right in front of her place,” he said in a condescending tone, which didn’t sit well with me. “They’re staking out her neighbor three doors down. Bobo has been known to spend time with the woman who lives there.”

  After a stunned silence, I quietly said, “Oh.” Then my anger flared up again. “Well, you could have told us about her.”

  “I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want you two to go in and try to question her yourselves. Now, stay away from the neighbor and stay the hell away from the FBI agents, or so help me, I’ll throw you in a cell. And you better hope and pray that the neighbor was too busy to overhear your little snit. If you’ve blown their cover, I won’t intervene when the FBI takes you into custody for interfering with a criminal investigation,” Dave snarled before hanging up.

  I collapsed onto the dining chair and looked at Di with the humiliated eyes of a puppy that had just gotten spanked with a rolled-up newspaper. “Since Dave wasn’t exactly whispering, I assume you heard what he said.”

  “Most of it.”

  “So Bobo’s girlfriend lives just a few doors down from you,” I said. “Do you think she knows what kind of man he is, what he’s mixed up in?”

  “I’m not sure she cares as long as he pays cash,” Di said nonchalantly.

  “Are you saying there’s a hooker living just a few doors away from you?”

  “Everybody has to live somewhere,” Di said. “Anyway, it’s not like it’s a full-time gig. She also works at a strip club.”

  “And you never told me this?”

  “I only know her to speak to. We don’t hang out or anything,” Di said. “Besides, I wasn’t really sure she was hooking until recently, when I saw Jake Robbins leaving her place with a smile on his face. I knew there was no way anybody would make out with Jake unless there was money involved.”

  I mulled that over as I crammed half a cookie into my big mouth.

  Chapter 28

  This week had pretty much been a blur for me—but that’s been a good thing. Holly and I had been crazy busy putting together a plan to present to the Dodds for their daughter’s engagement party and getting ready for the Erdmans’ party, including talking to a nervous Mrs. Erdman at least three times a day. And Larry Joe had been just as busy at work, getting caught up, as well as interviewing candidates for supervisor and mechanic jobs.

  But it was a really good kind of busy. We had no reason to visit the hospital, and I scarcely had time to think about the murders all week. Plus, Mrs. Erdman had the deep freezer in her garage removed as soon as the sheriff was finished with it, and she promptly had it replaced with a new, even bigger freezer, which was even now keeping our ice sculptures icy.

  It was Friday night—time for the Erdmans’ party. I had invested so much time in this party, I was determined that it would go off without a hitch, and that Mrs. Erdman would be impressed, in spite of her cranky self.

  The guests were set to arrive at 7:00 p.m. I had been on the go since 7:00 a.m.

  At three o’clock, I had done a preliminary check of the house and yard. Earlier in the day their gardener had wrapped twinkle lights around the trunk and branches of a small magnolia tree in the backyard, as well as weaving lights through a wisteria-covered arbor. Check.

  Kenny had installed a small stage for the Dixieland band, and Holly had attached small foam collars to fresh magnolia blooms to keep them afloat in the swimming pool. While the chrysanthemums and marigolds in the Erdmans’ backyard were natural deterrents for mosquitoes, we had added a few citronella torches for extra protection. Check.

  Around 3:30 p.m., the florist had arrived and placed arrangements in the living room, dining room, and entry hall, and on the screened porch, at my direction. His assistant had wrapped the banister with greenery, accentuated by magnolia blossoms every few feet. Check.

  At four o’clock, the catering team had arrived. I suddenly realized Mrs. Erdman, who had been trailing me like a bloodhound, had disappeared from the scene. While I was grateful for the break, I was also worried about what she might be up to. Mr. Erdman passed through, so I asked about his wife.

  “She’s holed up in her bathroom, trying to make herself beautiful. It should take a while,” he said with his usual charm.

  “By the way, Mr. Erdman, you can certainly drink whatever you choose in your own home, but I’m not sure the bartender will be comfortable with actually serving the bootleg whiskey.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll keep Vern’s private stock in my study, and discriminating drinkers can help thems
elves. Oh, and before I forget, here’s your payment,” he said, handing me a folded piece of paper. Big fat check.

  At five o’clock, the bartenders—we had two for the evening—had set up separate bars for the ladies and the men. The ladies’ bar would feature mint juleps and fruity cocktails, while the men’s bar would offer whiskeys, a variety of choice liquors, and imported beers.

  At 5:45 p.m., the band had arrived, had got set up, and had done a sound check. I had grabbed my bag from the car and had changed into black slacks and a white blouse, similar to the clothes the waitstaff was wearing. Some parties I leave once they are under way, but I planned to remain at this one for the duration.

  At 6:15 p.m. two guys from the catering crew had carefully lifted the ice sculptures from the freezer and set them on a cart, rolled them into the dining room, and had placed them on the buffet table. I had dimmed some of the overhead lights and had made adjustments to the brightness of a spotlight directed at the center of the table to highlight the sculptures. I had to admit, they looked pretty impressive.

  At 6:30 p.m. I had phoned the limo drivers to make sure they were en route to the hotel to pick up the guests. Even the ones who lived in Memphis were staying overnight, since the alcohol would be flowing freely.

  At 6:55 p.m. Mrs. Erdman appeared at the top of the stairs just as the doorbell rang. It was show time. I gestured to see if she wanted me to open the door. She nodded regally. I welcomed the guests and allowed the hostess to make her grand entrance.

  It was a surreal sight, the women wearing elaborate floor-length gowns lined with starched petticoats. Two of the women were wearing actual hoopskirts. They cut a wide swath through the house, and the waiters performed some nimble moves to avoid getting mowed down by the formidable frocks.

  While the women were feeling glamorous, the men were feeling comfortable in baggy overalls and tattered shirts. One rather hairy man was shirtless inside his overalls. Although Mrs. Erdman must have insisted that Walter shave, most of the men, as well as one of the women, were sporting stubble.

  The guys piled their plates high with food and hit the bar. The ladies milled around the buffet table, chatting and nibbling daintily. Waiters brought platters and plates over to one woman, who appeared to be lodged in the sofa, disabled by her hoopskirt.

  The women ambled out onto the screened porch and sat on chairs lining the patio, near the band, which was playing some mellow Dixieland tunes. An hour or so into the party, Mr. Erdman walked over and extended his hand, asking his wife to dance, keeping his word without having to be prodded—at least not publicly. The other husbands followed his cue, although a couple of them didn’t look very happy about it. After a couple of dances, most of the men wandered back into the house to smoke cigars in Mr. Erdman’s study, and the women strolled back and forth from the garden to the buffet table and bar.

  The festivities continued in this genteel manner until about 10:30 p.m. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but at some point during the evening, the men had replaced the contents of the refined bottles of bourbon the bartender was using to make mint juleps with some of Vern’s moonshine. Mr. Erdman had told me the moonshine was more than 180 proof. After witnessing its effects, I don’t doubt it for a minute.

  I first noticed that some of the ladies were beginning to talk and laugh quite loudly. One woman was guffawing and slapping the knee of the woman next to her, while another lady was punctuating her laughs with a series of piggy snorts. But my first clue that something was seriously amiss came when an exceptionally endowed woman’s boobs tumbled out of her plunging neckline, and she just giggled as she flashed the band.

  I searched the group for Mrs. Erdman, fearing she wouldn’t react well to this impropriety. She was holding her stomach and leaning over her knees. I held my breath, fearing the worst, until I realized she was doubled over with laughter.

  While everyone was laughing, one of the hoop-skirted women knocked over a citronella torch and set another guest’s dress on fire. One of the men gallantly threw her into the swimming pool. When the shirtless man stripped down to his Skivvies and joined her, I silently hoped he was her own husband and not someone else’s.

  The woman with the emancipated bosom finally pulled herself together and tucked things back in place until her cleavage was contained—just barely—by her dress. The band had stopped playing, dumbstruck by the spectacle, so I waved my arms for them to start playing again. They struck up “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and couples started marching and dancing around the yard.

  Things continued along this course for the next few hours. I basically kept watch to make sure no one drowned or set anyone else on fire.

  The dancing and aquatic exercises helped sober them up a bit. A little before 2:00 a.m. things started to quiet down. The bandleader, Wilson Washington, came over and sat down next to me.

  “Ms. McKay, you know these folks very well?”

  “Way better than I ever wanted to.”

  “I can understand that,” he said, looking around. “Let me ask you something. The fat man who lives here tipped me a hundred bucks. Then, a bit later, he slipped me another hundred. I guess he forgot he’d already tipped me. I don’t want to take advantage of folks when they’ve been drinking. Should I give him back a hundred?”

  “Keep it. I think you’ve earned it.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Whatever they’s paying you, I doubt it’s enough. Can I ask you something else?”

  “Sure, Mr. Washington. Shoot.”

  “I don’t want to look unprofessional, ’cause I’d be happy to book another gig with you sometime. But the host told us we could help ourselves to some of his whiskey. Would you mind if we sipped a bit while we’re packing up?”

  “As long as you promise me you have a designated driver. I’m certainly not letting any of these people get behind the wheel of a car.”

  “That’s not a problem, ma’am. Calvin, our drummer, is a teetotaler. He made a vow to his mama.”

  “Then, by all means, enjoy.”

  “I like you, Mrs. McKay. You can hire us for one of your parties anytime.”

  Chapter 29

  After the limo drivers and I had managed to get all the guests to the hotel and up to their rooms, I went back to the house and, with help from the bartenders, managed to put the Erdmans to bed. I got home and fell into bed myself about 4:30 a.m.

  Larry Joe didn’t stir, and he didn’t wake me when he got up. I finally woke up about noon. And, despite the fact that I’d had only one shot of whiskey to steel my nerves the night before, I felt hung over.

  Larry Joe was in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich, when I came downstairs.

  “Tell me there’s coffee,” I said blearily.

  “There is. I’ll heat you up a cup in the microwave.”

  I downed a mug of coffee in three gulps.

  “Whoa, lady,” Larry Joe said before taking my cup and giving me a refill. “Rough night, huh?”

  “Have you ever heard of one-hundred-eighty-proof whiskey?”

  “Yeah. I think my granddaddy used it to strip paint.”

  “Let’s just say things got a little out of hand after everyone at the party had way, way too much to drink.”

  “Wow. I can’t imagine the Erdmans getting liquored up and rowdy.”

  “You’re lucky. I had to put them to bed, so I’ve now seen both of them nearly naked,” I said, dropping my face into my hands.

  “Hon, I think you’re gonna need more than coffee to recover from that kind of trauma.”

  Larry Joe’s cell phone buzzed, and he took the call.

  “All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said. “Look, Liv, I hadn’t planned to go in to work today, but there’s a freight mix-up, and I have to go straighten it out.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll be fine. I don’t plan to do anything more strenuous than get dressed, if that.”

  “The thing is, you can’t stay here. Or, at least, I don’t want you to stay here on your
own.”

  “What are you talking about? Why?”

  “Our attorney called this morning and told me Ralph has been released on bond. I don’t think he’d be crazy enough to come to the house to talk to me about his job, but I don’t want you here by yourself, just the same.”

  “You know, I’m eventually going to have to be in this house when you’re not home, and Ralph’s trial may not start for months. We’re bound to run into him around town.”

  “I know, I know. Just humor me for now. It’s still chaos at McKay’s, and I can’t deal with business and worry about your safety at the same time. Go shopping or go to your mama’s. Whatever, please. I’ll wrap things up at the garage as soon as I can. I’ll call you when I’m heading home, okay?”

  “Oh, okay. Just let me put on a bra.”

  I can’t believe I agreed, but I knew I’d given him plenty of reason to worry about me recently. Besides, something about those dimples gets me every time.

  He gave me a big hug and a kiss before he climbed into his truck and I got into the SUV. It was sweet of Larry Joe to worry over me—sweet, but inconvenient. I really didn’t feel like shopping. I felt even less like listening to my mother for two hours. Plus, she’d want to hear all about the Erdmans’ party, and I just didn’t have the strength or the stomach to relive that just yet.

  I drove down the street. Then I pulled over and texted Di to see if I could hang out at her place. She texted back in a moment. She was out but said I was welcome to make myself at home.

  I flopped down in Di’s recliner. After a few minutes I noticed there were some dishes in the sink. I figured the least I could do was wash up, considering how much time I’d been spending at Di’s and what a high-maintenance friend I’d been lately.

  After I had dried the last dish and put it away, I opened the refrigerator door and leaned in, searching for a Diet Coke. Suddenly, I was startled by a man’s voice.

  “Hey, babe. I picked up the groceries you asked for,” Dave said, carrying two bags and kicking the front door closed behind him.