Gayle Trent

by Between a Clutch

  “We should,” she said. “We aren’t that busy. Do you have an account with us?”

  “No, actually, I live out of town. My friend Jim Adams suffered a broken ankle yesterday, and I went by his house to make him a couple of casseroles. I can pay the cleaning bill up front if you need for me to.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She half-grinned. “Did you say Jim Adams?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Mr. Adams is a regular customer, and he’s brought in some pretty strange things in his time.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t really know,” she said. “Maybe our manager will be around when you come back to pick this up. He’s our authority on Mr. Jim.” She looked like she was about to burst out laughing.

  “I hope he is here,” I said. “I’d like to talk to him. Can you tell me when this’ll be ready?”

  “It should be ready tomorrow,” she said.

  “Will your manager be here tomorrow?”

  “No, he’s out today and tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll see you on Thursday.”

  “Okay,” she said brightly.

  I pulled away from the window wondering just what kind of strange things Jim had brought to the dry cleaners. I’m sure dry cleaners see a lot of weird things, so it must really be unusual to have caused Jim to be the subject of such gossip there. So what had he brought them? Bloodstained garments? But that wouldn’t be funny. Unless he’d made up some outlandish story to explain them away. I shivered, wondering what I would learn on Thursday.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Before starting home, I went by the dog pound and gave them a twenty-dollar donation. The same animal control officer was there, and he was pleased as punch to see Matlock again.

  “Hey, buddy! You’re livin’ large now, aintcha?” He scratched Matlock behind the ears. “You’re doing great with him, Ms. Crumb. I’m awfully glad you brought him by.”

  “I’m a widow,” I said, “and I don’t believe I’d realized how lonely I’d been until I took him home.” I gave a little laugh. “It’s nice to have somebody to talk to all the time.”

  The dogcatcher laughed, too. “I know what you mean. I talk to critters all day long.”

  “When I was in here last, we spoke about Flora Adams,” I said. “Didn’t you tell me that she never adopted any of the dogs?”

  “Nope, she never did. I always figured she already had one or two of her own, or else she felt like she couldn’t take care of a pet by herself.”

  “But she wasn’t by herself. She had a husband.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t know her that well. We didn’t talk much. She basically brought ham every Friday, socialized with the animals and left.”

  “Still, that was an awfully kind thing to do.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he agreed. “She’s bound to have been an excellent person. Did they ever find out what happened to her?”

  “No,” I said. “They never did.”

  As soon as I got home, I called Sunny. I had a lot on my mind and needed her to help me sort it out.

  “Hi, Meem,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Meem? That’s new.”

  She giggled. “I know. I’m feeling silly.”

  “Somebody must’ve had a good day.”

  “I did. You know Bobby who sits behind me in math class?”

  For the next ten minutes, she chattered on about this “dreamy guy” who “so rocks” and who “totally talked” to her about “that garbage” they had for lunch today. To me, she sounded like somebody had sped up her record to seventy-eight . . . and if you know what that means, then you’re closer to my age than you are to Sunny’s. But that’s neither here nor there.

  Finally, she squealed, “Isn’t that great?!”

  “That is so kickin’,” I said, feeling pretty hip.

  “Oh, Mimi, you can be so passé!”

  There went my hip.

  “But that’s okay,” she continued. “What went on with you today?”

  I told her about Jim, and she thought Tansie and the spaghetti sauce incident was a real hoot. Then I said, “Well, you’ll be happy to note that your fund-raising efforts were not in vain. I went by the dog pound and gave ‘em twenty bucks.”

  “You so totally went in the hole, didn’t you?”

  “Totally. Anyway, I talked to the dogcatcher again. Don’t you think it’s odd that Jim and Flora didn’t have any pets of their own when they both like dogs so good?”

  “Maybe their dog died or something.”

  “Maybe. When I asked the dogcatcher wonder why Flora never adopted a dog, though, he said that maybe she didn’t think she could take care of one by herself.”

  “By herself?”

  “Yeah. I told him she was married, and he said he never talked with her much.”

  “They never did anything much together, did they?” Sunny asked. “Jim and Flora, I mean. Gee, the neighbors never even saw them together. How weird is that?”

  “I think it’s real weird. In fact, I’d like to dig in their family history a little bit . . . or at least, into his.”

  “You mean, like trace his family tree or something?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I believe I read somewhere that wife-killing—bein’ crazy and that kind of thing—runs in families. Think about it. Jim seems perfectly nice, and apparently, Flora was nice, too.”

  “So you think maybe Jim is a good person but that he’s a crazy wife-killer once removed or something because it’s in his genes?”

  “You never know.”

  “And you want me to go online and see what I can find?” she asked.

  “Actually, I’d like you to show me how to do it.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes . . . way. You’ve got plenty of your own work to do, and—”

  “Cool. Can you come on over?”

  “I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  I wanted to be sure to get Matlock squared away so he’d be okay on his own awhile. I didn’t dare take him back to Faye’s house.

  * * *

  Faye hadn’t got home yet when I arrived. I was glad. It would give Sunny and me a chance to work in peace for a while. I didn’t relish the thought of explaining the whole Jim and Flora thing to Faye, and I was hoping I could avoid that.

  Sunny answered the door and took me to her room. I love Sunny’s room. Everything in it is puffy and pastel. She has a canopy bed covered in flower pillows, and there’s a butterfly throw rug on the floor. I’d have given my eyeteeth for a room like Sunny’s when I was a little girl. Her computer sat on a white desk and was adorned with glittery stickers. Stuffed animals peeked at me from all directions.

  “I went ahead and got you onto a genealogy site,” she said.

  “All you have to do is put ‘Adams’ in the search box and hit the ‘enter’ key.”

  “All I have to do is put what where and click what?”

  Sunny rolled her eyes, typed “Adams” into a white box, clicked a button, and a whole slew of stuff about Adamses filled the computer screen.

  “To look at these,” Sunny said, “use this thing called a mouse to click on the link. Like this.” She clicked on a section of blue text and more stuff came up. “If that’s not what you’re looking for, hit this button to go back. Got it?”

  “Maybe.” I sat down at the desk.

  “Well, I’ll be right here if you need me.” She took a stack of textbooks out of her denim backpack and sprawled out onto the plush pink-carpeted floor.

  “Can I do a search for wife-killing Adamses?” I asked.

  She laughed. “How about adding the word ‘deaths’ after ‘Adams’ in the search box?”

  “Okay.” I tried that, and you’d be surprised at how many Adamses have died throughout history, not to mention America’s first and sixth Presidents. Oh, well, it’s a common surname. And “James Adams” is a common whole name. I know because I added “James” to that “Adams” and “deaths” search hopin
g to narrow things down. It didn’t help much.

  Finally after scrolling and scrolling and scrolling and scrolling, something stood out. It was the death of Delia Adams, survived by her husband James Adams and son James Adams, Jr. The date sounded about right in accordance with when Jim would have been a child, so I clicked the link to read more about it.

  “Hmmm,” I said.

  “What?” Sunny looked up from her math homework. “Did you find something?”

  “Maybe. There was a woman named Delia Adams who died of pneumonia in 1939. She had a son named James who was five years old at the time.”

  Sunny did some quick counting on her fingers. “The age would be about right, wouldn’t it?”

  I nodded. “And losing his mother at such an early age could make him hate all women and ultimately kill his wife, couldn’t it?”

  Sunny cocked her head. “That’s a stretch, but you never know.”

  We heard Faye’s car in the driveway and looked owl-eyed at each other.

  “What’s our story?” Sunny asked.

  “I just dropped in.”

  “Okay.” She got up and clicked computer buttons like crazy. Everything about the dead Adamses disappeared.

  “Hello!” Faye called as she stepped through the door. “Mother, please tell me you did not bring that beast with you.”

  Sunny and I went into the hall where Faye was hanging her jacket in the closet.

  “Mom,” Sunny said, “Matlock is a great dog.”

  I patted her arm so she wouldn’t keep talking and get herself in trouble. She and I are alike that way. Sometimes we don’t know when to shut up. “Did you have a good day?” I asked Faye.

  “It was terrific if you like having ten people constantly looking over your shoulder asking whether or not you’d typed their report yet, or do you know where this file is, or can you get so-and-so on the phone.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I guess it was terrific if you go in for that kind of thing.”

  Faye squinted at me. “I don’t go in for that kind of thing, Mother. I go in for a paycheck to help me support my child and myself. Otherwise, I’d be out of that bank so fast it would make my head spin.”

  I held up my hands defensively. As usual anymore, Faye had left her sense of humor someplace else. Still, she looked pretty in her green, double-breasted suit. The green brought out her eyes.

  “What’re you doing here anyway?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Just thought I’d come by. Since you’ve had such a hard day, why don’t you let me fix dinner?”

  She tilted her head. “That would be nice. Thanks.” She turned to Sunny. “Crimson, how’s your homework coming?”

  “It’s almost done.”

  “Then you can help Mimi if you want to. I think I’ll go take a bath.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Go soak away that stress.”

  Sunny and I headed for the kitchen. “What do you want for dinner, kiddo?”

  She grinned. “You know what I love that I haven’t had in forever?”

  I cupped her pretty little face in my hands. “Let me guess. Biscuits and gravy?”

  “Uh-huh, and sausage and coffee-n-bread.”

  “That does sound good. I don’t know about the coffee-n-bread, though. It’s a little late for coffee.”

  Sunny’s face fell.

  “Does your Mother have any decaf?”

  “Yep!” She raced across the kitchen and retrieved a small jar of instant decaffeinated coffee from the almond colored cabinet that stood in one corner of the kitchen. “I made Mom get it at the store last week. I was planning on bringing it to your house next Saturday.”

  “You really have been craving coffee-n-bread, haven’t you?”

  In case you don’t know, coffee-n-bread is coffee loaded up with cream, sugar and biscuits. Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. I mean, you dunk cookies and donuts in coffee, don’t you? The coffee-n-bread recipe has been handed down in my family for many generations. It’s been around since at least the Great Depression . . . maybe longer.

  Faye came out in her black satin housecoat and house shoes. She seemed a little surprised that me and Sunny—or Crimson, as she calls her—had fixed breakfast for supper. She enjoyed it, though. Throughout that meal, she appeared more like her old self than I’d seen her in I-don’t-know-how-long. After we ate, I got up and started to clear the table.

  “That’s okay, Mother. Sit back down. I’ll take care of this in a little bit.”

  I went ahead and sat back down, but I knew I needed to be going soon. I didn’t want Matlock to think his new owner had abandoned him, too. He was such a sweet dog, though, that I knew somebody must’ve loved him once.

  “Have you been doing all right?” Faye asked. “We hardly ever get to talk anymore.”

  “I’m doin’ fine,” I said.

  “No health problems?”

  I shook my head but stole a sly glance at Sunny. She covered her mouth with a paper napkin to hide a grin, so I knew she got my meaning. I didn’t have any health problems unless hanging out with a potential killer counted. After all, what could be more hazardous to your health? We made small talk for a few more minutes and then I left.

  On the drive home, I pondered over my relationship with Faye. We used to be close—almost as close as me and Sunny. We were even close during “those rebellious teen years” everybody talks about. What happened? How had we drifted apart almost to the point where I sometimes felt she was a stranger to me?

  When she met Steve—Sunny’s daddy—she thought he was just the berries. Naturally, me and Crandall thought he was a hooligan. He was a lazy good-for-nothing is what he was. We tried to mask our feelings, but Faye could probably tell I didn’t like Steve very much. Maybe that’s when it started—when she started pulling away . . . thinking of me as “the enemy.”

  Anyway, Faye and Steve got married, and she kept him up while he went to school. At least, that’s what he called it. To my way of thinkin’, he was playin’ musical majors.

  When Faye got pregnant, Steve quit school because they couldn’t afford to keep throwing good money after bad. He made a few weak attempts to find work, but there wasn’t anything out there that was really “him,” or so he said. I reckon the position of “bum” was taken.

  Steve got killed in a car wreck when Sunny was a little over a year old. I hated it for her and Faye, I really did. Crandall did, too. We helped Faye all we could. Sometimes I think she even resented our help. She was bound and determined she was gonna raise Steve’s child all by herself, but she couldn’t do it.

  She needed us. Sunny needed us. Finally, Faye’s good sense won out and she allowed Crandall and me back into their lives. Good thing, too. After Steve died, Faye never heard from Steve’s parents again. One thing’s for sure: Faye never got over Steve. I guess to her, he’ll always be James Dean—a young, handsome rebel. It’s sad. She’s wasting her life—as far as bein’ a woman goes—pining for somebody who never was as good as she thought he was in the first place.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning, me and Matlock went out to get the paper first thing. I’d had a good idea up in the night, and I needed to see the paper to make sure my idea was as good as I’d thought it was last night. Without even glancing at the headlines (it’s usually all bad stuff anyway), I dug through and found the community section. They always run a little list down the side of the front page of stuff that’s going on in our area for the day.

  There it was—Veterans of Foreign Wars will meet for lunch today at 12:30 p.m. at Carol’s Café. I looked down at Matlock and scrunched up my nose. “As much as I hate to miss ‘The Young and The Restless’ two days in a row, I’m gonna have to miss it again today. But Paul Williams would do the very same thing in my shoes.”

  Matlock kept his feelings to himself—nary a bark or whine escaped him—but I could tell he was disappointed. And not just about Y&R.

  I scratched his head. “We’ll still have this morn
ing,” I told him. “And I won’t be long this afternoon . . . just long enough to dig up a little information on our suspect from a few of his friends.” I got up and refilled my coffee cup. “I guess I ought to call our suspect and see how he’s feeling today.”