Between a Clutch
and a Hard Place
GRACE ABRAHAM PUBLISHING
Bristol, VA
Copyright © 2004 by Gayle Trent
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Manufactured in the United States of America
ISBN: 0-9741090-4-5
CHAPTER ONE
Lookin’ back, I have to wonder if the long-runnin’ competition between me and Tansie Miller had died down and I’d never stepped foot in Marcia’s Consignments and bought that pocketbook, how different things might’ve been. Then again, I don’t know why I’m wonderin’ about that because as long as there’s breath in either of our bodies, we’ll be rivals. Plus, I believe that what’s supposed to happen will happen no matter what, so I’ll get on with my story.
As you know, late September in the mountains of Southwest Virginia brings lazy days and cool crisp evenings. Sometime after my soap opera had ended on this particular afternoon, I’d dozed off in the recliner. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the doorbell rang. I peeked out the window and saw that it was Tansie. She had something in a lavender bag that she wanted to show me. I wasn’t much in the mood to hear her gloat over whatever it was. I’d decided to pretend I hadn’t heard the bell ring when she waved her sausagy fingers right at my window. I must be out of peekin’ practice . . . which is bad news for a detective. I’m not licensed or anything, but I’m still pretty darn good.
I went over and opened the door. There she stood in a blue long-sleeved tee shirt and navy pants. She likes blue—it matches her hair.
“Whatcha got in the bag?” I asked. “It’s not my birthday.” I just stuck that in there to be cute. I knew she hadn’t brought anything to me. I’d be hard pressed to get Tansie to give me a little air if I was stopped up in a jug—even though I did keep her daughter off death row with my intuitive skills earlier this year.
“Oh, I know it isn’t your birthday, dear,” Tansie said, as if she had any idea as to when I was born. “I merely found a precious little shop downtown and wanted to show you what I got
there . . . for myself.” She came on inside, opened the bag, and took out what looked to be a Louis Vuitton pocketbook. “Isn’t it nice? And I got it for a song.”
“Are you sure it’s real?”
Tansie rolled her eyes. “Well, of course, it’s real. Marcia’s is a very high-end consignment shop. She wouldn’t have taken in a fake.”
I hated to admit it, but it did look real. It was one of those white ones with the multicolored “L’s” and “V’s” and what looked to me like playing card symbols. Made me wonder if old Louis was a poker player.
“Marcia herself was in while I was there,” Tansie said, “and she has impeccable fashion sense. You really should drop by there.”
Now, there you go. She was takin’ a subtle dig at my fashion sense in there somewhere. But I know Tansie’s just jealous.
Everybody knows that when I put on my pillbox hat, I look like a mature Jackie-O. She, on the other hand, looks more like a cross between the mother and the grandmother on that show “The Nanny.” Tansie has the mother’s full-figured proportions and the grandmother’s big bluish hair, God love her.
“Did she say that blue there in them little diamonds matched your hair?” I asked.
Tansie flattened out her lips so that they looked prunier than ever, but I could see she was pretending not to notice my dig back at her. She straightened her back as much as she could
and said, “As a matter of fact, she said pastels were striking on me—‘striking,’ her word, not mine—and that this was the perfect purse to carry with pastels.”
“Well, it certainly is that,” I said, deciding to be charitable. “And it’s really a nice purse.”
Tansie smiled. “Thank you, Myrtle. I knew you’d like it.”
She looked out my window. “I see Melvia’s car is home now, so I’m gonna run on over and show it to her. You be sure and stop in at Marcia’s now.”
“I will,” I said, “and I’ll let her know it was you that sent me.”
She bit her lip on that one, but then she hurried on off to rub Melvia’s nose in the new pocketbook. Melvia is Tansie’s sister, you know; she has to put up with Tansie’s gloating. Heck, I guess she’s used to it—she’s had to put up with it her whole life. Melvia is the youngest, sweetest and most attractive of the two. Tansie just has the most money, so I guess she has to take her digs where she can, God love her. Of course, I’d get tired of that mess if I was Melvia and tell Tansie I could borrow money but she sure couldn’t borrow time. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t.
I never had a sister—or a brother either, for that matter—so I might just put up with the bragging and keep my mouth shut just like Melvia does.
I sat back down in the recliner and propped my feet up. That really was a nice pocketbook. I wondered if they had any more, but I’d have died before I’d have asked Tansie. Too bad we didn’t still have the party line on our phones. I could’ve listened to her tell everybody else in the country. Oh, well. That’s what technology and “forward-thinking” does for you—cuts off onesource of your eavesdroppin’.
I decided to finish my nap. Tomorrow I’d get fixed up and check out this Marcia’s. I was needin’ a new coat before winter, and I wouldn’t turn my nose up at one of them Armani numbers if the price was right. I yawned; and the next thing I knew, it was time to get up out of that recliner and get ready for bed.
* * *
I didn’t sleep good last night, so by seven o’clock I was ready to go into town. Mentally ready, anyhow. I still had on my gown and housecoat—the pink floral print ones; they’re a set. I alwaysfeel kinda fancy wearing that ensemble . . . like I’m on one of them soap operas that used to come on at night. Remember those? There was “Dynasty,” “Dallas” and “Flamingo Road” where they had a big bomb and then the series went off the air.
Nobody ever did tell us whether David Selby, Morgan Fairchild or Mark Harmon got blew up or not. I think that’s rude. Even if they don’t have the money to show somethin’ for another season, they should do a big wrap-up show to tell you how everything ends. Of course, maybe everybody died on “Flamingo Road” when the bomb went off. They could’ve at least said that in “TV Guide.”
Anyway, nothing in town opens until ten or after, so I had coffee and worked the crossword in the back of the newspaper while I watched Matt Lauer on “The Today Show.” I sure do wish that boy had left his hair alone.
By the time I got myself fixed up in my red pants suit, black shoes and black pillbox hat and downtown to Marcia’s, it was eleven o’clock. That was okay, though. I didn’t want to be therewhen she opened the door or else Marcia would think I was hurrying in to buy one of those pocketbooks like Tansie got.
There was a pleasant-looking, albeit too skinny, woman behind the counter. She was dressed in a black pantsuit and had her dark blonde hair in one of those French braids down her back.
“Good morning,” I said. “Are you Marcia?”
The lady smiled. “I am.”
“I’m a friend of Tansie Miller.”
“Ah, yes, I remember Ms. Miller.”
“Well, she is sort of hard to forget. Anyway, she got the cutest Louis Vuitton pocketbook in here yesterday.” I looked around the store. “Do you have any more of those?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t, Ms.—”
“Crumb. Myrtle Crumb. You can call me ‘Myrtle.’”
Marcia’s smile widened. “Myrtle.” She said it very warmly and sincerely, the way people do when they’re really good at getting you to give up money you can ill-afford to spend and making you think it was your idea in the first place.
“I can see you’re a woman with more classic than trendy taste,” Marcia said.
I shrugged, glad I’d put on a spritz of Chanel No. 5 perfume to underscore my good taste before coming here. “Well, I have been compared to Jackie-O.”
“I can certainly see that you share her fashion sense.”
I smiled, silently acknowledging what Marcia meant—that I and my Jackie-ness was way above and beyond anything poor Tansie could ever hope to achieve.
“I have a darling little black clutch that would be the perfect complement to your hat,” Marcia said.
Since that darlin’ little ol’ Reese Witherspoon wore a pink pillbox hat in that movie she did where she went to Congress, pillboxes are all the rage again. Maybe. At least, they are for
those of us with classic tastes
.
I followed Marcia to the purse she’d mentioned. There it sat on a shelf next to a pair of black pumps that looked like those Audrey Hepburn wore in “Breakfast At Tiffany’s.”
The pocketbook was one of those envelope-type things barely big enough for your car keys and a pack of breath mints, but it sure was stylish.
“I’ll take it,” I said. “And what size are those shoes?”
Fifteen minutes later, I was on my way home with no new winter coat and the money I’d saved for it spent on a pocketbook and a pair of shoes. That Marcia was one slick salesgirl; I’ll give her that. There I went in her store to buy a winter coat, and she talked me into buying a pocketbook and a pair of shoes.
And, wouldn’t you know it? Tansie wasn’t even home when I got back, so I couldn’t run over there and show her what I’d bought. Melvia was home, but it wasn’t much fun to rub her nose in stuff. She’s so used to Tansie doing it that she just acts bored with whatever you show her.
I went in and sat down in the recliner. I got the shoes out first. I slipped them on and held my feet up so I could get a good look at ’em. Wow. These weren’t just pretty shoes; they were sexy. Joan Collins sexy. Remember in “Dynasty” she was always getting those younger men? Not that I wanted me a younger man, mind you; but I bet I could get me one in these shoes.
I got the pocketbook out of the little lavender bag and then sat back in the recliner. I wanted my feet up so I could look at my new shoes some more. I was humming “Moon River” when I opened up the pocketbook—or “clutch,” as Marcia had called it. It was roomier than I’d thought it would be. There were a couple of little zipper sections. ’Course, you couldn’t put too much in them or else it’d pooch out on the sides like a pregnant cat.
I unzipped one compartment and there was a piece of paper inside. I hoped it was a receipt so I could see just how good of a deal I’d got. Instead it was a note. It said, “If anything ever happens to me, look to Jim. He did it. Signed, Flora Adams.”
I stopped humming right in between “moon” and “river.” I had to find this Flora Adams and see if Jim had done her in. Just my luck—go to a consignment shop and wind up with a brand new mystery to solve. Or, since it came from a consignment shop, would it be a used mystery? Either way, I’d get right on it after “The Young and the Restless” went off. Since I didn’t know much about computers, I waited until three-thirty to start my detecting. Three-thirty is when my fourteen-year-old granddaughter gets home from school. I called, and she picked it up on the first ring.
“Hi, Sunny.”
Her name’s really Crimson, though Heaven only knows why Faye named her that. She doesn’t even have red hair—she’s a blonde, like her daddy. Faye’s the redhead. She’s my daughter, you know. She took after her daddy, too. I’m a brunette, although I now need a little help stayin’ that way from the girls down at the Tilt-A-Curl. Anyway, I’ve always called the young-un Sunshine or Sunny because she is my sunshine.
“Oh, hi, Mimi,” Sunny said.
“You sound disappointed. Are you expecting a call? If you are, you can call me back.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Seriously, now. Heaven forbid I should put a crimp in your social life. You know I’d never do that.”
Big sigh. “I know. What’s up?”
“Can you search that Web thing for some information for me?”
She tried to stifle a giggle but didn’t do such a great job. “Sure. What do you need to know?”
“Can you find out if a woman named Flora Adams kicked the bucket?”
“Probably,” Sunny said. “Was she from around here?”
“I’m not sure, but I doubt she was from too awful far away. I bought her pocketbook at a consignment shop in town this morning.”
“Well, I’ll do a metasearch and see what I can find out.”
“Thank you, sweetie. I appreciate it.” I paused. “You doin’ okay for money?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure? I know how you like to try out new nail polish shades.”
Sunny gave a little laugh.
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll pay you ten dollars for doing this work for me.”
“Now, Mimi, you don’t have—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to. I don’t expect you to work for nothing. Why, if I did some work for you, I’d expect to be paid top dollar.”
“You would not. I’ll call you as soon as I know something, all right?”
“All right. Thanks, baby. Hug your mama for me.”
“‘Kay. Love you, Mimi.”
“Love you, Sunny.”
I do, too. Sunny is at the very top of my list of favorite people. Most days she’s even ahead of her mother. But don’t tell Faye I said that.
The phone rang about fifteen minutes after I’d talked with Sunny.
“That sure was quick,” I said when I picked up the phone.
“What was quick?”
It was Bettie Easton.
“Oh, hello, Bettie. Sorry about that. I was expecting a call from my granddaughter.”
“Oh. If you’re busy, I can call you back.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Good, because I have something really exciting to share with you.”
Great. She had to be selling something—probably Mary Kay or Avon. Those Eastons are always sellin’ something. Since I was trying to be nice, though, I kept my mouth shut and heard her out.
“Melons,” she said.
That was it—melons.
“Is the band selling fruit already?” I asked.
School had only started back up a little more than a month ago, but Bettie really goes overboard whenever her grandkids are selling something. The Eastons have a used car business, so I guess it’s in their blood.
“No, hon. I’m talking about us. We’re melons.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Yeah, I’ve got melons, but it takes a bra with the hydraulic capability of a dump truck to hold ’em up these days, so I don’t see what’s to brag about.”
Bettie laughed. “Oh, you. You see, ‘melons’ is an acronym. Mature elegant ladies open to nice suggestions. What do you think?”
“I think it sounds like ‘melons’ are old hookers.”
Bettie laughed some more. “Not at all, silly. We’re only open to nice suggestions.”
I didn’t have a comeback to that, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Here’s how it works,” Bettie continued. “To get the Melons started, we’ll have us a little party. We’ll invite all the mature bachelors to attend. All us melons will have a dance card like in the old days. The bachelors will sign our dance cards—all nostalgia-like. It’ll give us a chance to mingle a little bit. What do you think?”
“I think it still makes us sound like hookers.”
“Not at all.” Bettie had a little bit of a huff to her voice now.
“It’s like that Ya-Ya Sisterhood thing, only we’ll be the Melons.
Get it?”
“Have you been watching “The Golden Girls” reruns again?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, I have. And it makes me realize how silly
we are to be sittin’ home alone every evening when we could be gettin’ wined and dined. We’re still vibrant women, so why don’t we act like it?”
“You’ve got a point,” I said.
“So you’re in?”
“I’m in. What do you need me to do?”
“Be at the Center tomorrow morning at nine-thirty for the first meeting of the Melons.”
“I’ll see you then.”
I still thought “mature elegant ladies open to nice suggestions” made us sound like a bunch of streetwalkers, but I didn’t want to miss out on a party.
It wasn’t long after I’d hung up from talking with Bettie that Sunny called me back.
Gayle Trent Page 1