Gayle Trent

by Between a Clutch

  “Don’t be too sure,” I said under my breath.

  “What?” Tansie asked, putting her hands on her big ol’ hips.

  I ignored her. “How are you feeling today, Jim? Have you taken any of your pain medication?”

  “No, I haven’t had to use any of that today.” He made a fist and tapped himself on the head. “Knock wood.” He laughed like that saying might be something new to us. Tansie, naturally, laughed like a horse while I tried to think up a way to make Jim take his pain medication and fall asleep.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I need to get busy in the kitchen.” As I walked past Jim, I pretended to stumble and kicked his cast. He howled like a coon dog.

  “Oh, goodness,” I said, “we’d better get you some of those pain pills. Where are they?”

  He grunted. “No, I . . . I believe it’ll be okay. If I take that pain medicine, I’ll wind up going to sleep on you charming ladies and that would be unforgivably rude. I did you that way on Tuesday, Myrtle, and I still feel like a cad.”

  “Ah, we don’t mind,” I said. “The main thing is that you get better. Now where’s the pain pills?”

  “On the counter in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll get them,” Tansie said, “and bring you a nice glass of water.”

  She and I walked into the kitchen.

  “How do you know it’s a nice glass of water?” I asked her. “It might be dirty. He don’t have one of them filters on his sink or anything.”

  “It’s an expression, Myrtle. Boy, your mean streak is a mile wide today, ain’t it?”

  “I’m just tryin’ to take care of what we came here to take care of,” I whispered. “We need him asleep so we can compare his and Flora’s noses.”

  “I’m doin’ this just to shut you up,” Tansie said. “I don’t really think for one minute that Jim and Flora are the same person.”

  “Well, I don’t think that either. But as I already told you, I’m a thorough investigator.”

  She “humphed” and took Jim his medicine and his “nice” water.

  I got to work flouring the chicken. Tansie came back in the kitchen and put Jim’s glass in the

  sink.

  “He take it?”

  “Yes, Myrtle, I believe he did. I didn’t check under his tongue or anything, but I do think he took it.”

  “You don’t have to get snippy.” I went back to breading my chicken and placing it in a pan.

  “I’m bein’ snippy? I ain’t the one that kicked a man with a broken ankle.”

  I lifted one shoulder. “It was more like a tap. Besides, if he didn’t take his medicine, how were we gonna get him to go to sleep?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “You could have a conversation with him and bore him to sleep.”

  Now, don’t you know that burned me up? So I said, “Or you could sing to him—no, wait, we don’t want him to run away screaming with his ears bleeding.”

  She glared at me. “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

  “Yeah, I knew it, too. You should’ve given me the pictures like I asked you to.”

  “You’d a liked that, wouldn’t you? Then you coulda come back and told me that, sure enough, Jim’s and Flora’s noses were a perfect match and that I’d better stay away from him.” She shook a fat, crooked finger at me. “I know what you’re up to. You want Jim to yourself.”

  “Is that what’s the matter with you?” I asked. “If that’s all it is, you can have him. I just hope he’s all better when it comes time to bury you ’cause that’s gonna be one heck of a hole.”

  “Well, your—”

  Just then, Jim popped around the corner. “Is there a problem, ladies? It sounded as if you were arguing.”

  Tansie patted his arm. “A slight disagreement about recipes, I’m afraid.” She smiled. “Sorry we disturbed you. I’ll simply let Myrtle do this particular dish her way.”

  “I thought I heard Flora’s name mentioned,” he said.

  “You did,” I said. “How did Flora prepare her chicken?”

  “Different ways. Does it matter?”

  “I guess not,” I said, “unless you have a particular preference.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m sure whatever you decide will be fine.”

  “Alrighty then.” I turned him back toward the doorway. “Go on back to the den and relax. We’ll holler when it’s done.”

  I realized I’d made flour hand prints on his shoulders, but I decided to keep my mouth shut and finish getting my chicken ready for the oven.

  As soon as I was pretty sure Jim was out of earshot, I asked Tansie in a real low voice, “Still think he’s a lifelong bachelor?”

  She shot me a hateful look and flew in to making her nasty lemon cake.

  As soon as I got my chicken in the oven, I tiptoed down the hall to check on Jim. He had the television on, and Hoss Cartwright was ridin’ into town. Jim’s eyes were closed.

  I hurried back to the kitchen. “He’s asleep,” I hissed at Tansie. “Get the pictures.”

  “I’m right in the middle of stirring my cake.”

  “Fine. I’ll get the pictures.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t, Myrtle Crumb. You ain’t leavin’ me outta this.” She stopped stirring and grabbed the envelope containing the pictures. “But if my cake’s ruined, it’s your fault.”

  “Huh. Don’t hang that wreath on my door.”

  She took the sheet of pictures out of the envelope and started down the hall. I stayed right on her heels.

  We eased up to the side of the couch and looked back and forth from Jim’s nose to Flora’s nose. It was a tough call.

  “What do you think?” I whispered to Tansie.

  “About what?” Jim asked.

  I glanced at Tansie out of the corners of my eyes and saw that she looked like a big ol’ barn owl. I figured I did, too, but I’m a detective and I knew I had to make a speedy recovery. “Uh . . . we’re trying to decide whether or not your nose—”

  Tansie nearly knocked the wind out of me when she elbowed me in the ribs. I elbowed her back and finished. “Whether or not your nose is made like that guy’s who used to do the . . . uh . . . the toilet paper commercials.”

  “You think my nose looks like the nose of a guy who used to advertise toilet tissue?” Jim asked, frowning.

  “A little,” I said. “Remember? He was the one who didn’t want you to go around squeezing toilet paper, but he did it all the time. You know, you both have that little bulb thing there on the ends of your noses, and . . . and the nostrils are similar.”

  “Let me see.” He reached for the photo sheet, but Tansie jerked it out of his reach.

  “You can’t,” she said. “You can’t see this.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “It’d embarrass us,” I said. “He’s naked, except for one roll of toilet paper . . . strategically placed.”

  “You—” Jim rubbed his eyes. “You have a nude photograph of the toilet paper man?”

  I lifted my palms. “Takes all kinds; you know it?” I sniffed the air. “I’d better get back to the kitchen and check on that chicken.”

  As I hurried down the hall, I said a quick prayer. You never know when your number’ll get called—especially when you’re hangin’ out with a murder suspect—and I sure didn’t want to meet Jesus with a slanderous lie about Mr. Wipple on my record.

  “We’re gonna go straight to hell,” Tansie whispered as soon as she walked into the kitchen. She even looked down as if the floor just might open up and swallow us right then and there.

  “You might be,” I said, “but I ain’t. I’ve done asked forgiveness.”

  She sighed. “What’re we gonna do now?”

  “We’re gonna finish makin’ up this food, and then we’re getting outta here.” I nodded. “Hurry up with that cake.”

  “It probably won’t set up now.”

  I got out the Dutch oven for the beef stew. “Just hush up and do it, all rig
ht?”

  She peeped out into the hall. “You think he believed us?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know is that the sooner we get this done and get out of here, the better off we’ll be.”

  “What did you think about the nose?” she whispered.

  I blew out a breath and handed her the mixing bowl and spoon. “If you’re gonna stand here and yammer, at least stir while you yammer.”

  She stirred the cake batter. “Well? What did you think?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. What did you think?”

  “I don’t know, either.” She moved back over to the counter to pour the cake batter into a sheet cake pan. “But if he turns out not to be a freak or a killer, though, will you back off and let me have him?”

  Can you believe her? “By all means,” I told her.

  * * *

  I hadn’t been home for more than thirty minutes when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” Nothing. “Hello?” I repeated.

  I was about to hang up when a woman asked, “Is this Myrtle?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “This is Flora Adams. Can we meet somewhere?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Flora? Flora Adams?” I know I sounded like a myna bird, but I was in shock.

  “Yes,” she said. “Can we meet?”

  “Uh . . . where do you want to meet?” I asked. “Smiddy’s?”

  “No, Smiddy’s is too public. I want to have a private conversation with you without lots of prying ears around.”

  “I see.” I said that, but I didn’t see at all. Why would this woman want to meet with me? To tell me to stay away from her husband? To kill me? To let me know that she left of her own free will and that Jim didn’t kill her? To see the non-existent nudie picture of Mr. Wipple?

  “Why don’t we meet at the park near your home?” she asked. “I know there are lots of joggers around, so you won’t have to feel nervous. After all, I am a stranger to you.”

  “Yes, you are.” I glanced over at Matlock, who was patiently sitting there waggin’ his tail. “Why do you want to meet with me?”

  “To talk with you about Jim, of course. I’m afraid I’ve left him in an awful pickle . . . though much of it is his own fault.”

  “So, you want to meet at the park, huh? I hate for you to have to come all this way. Wouldn’t it be better—”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m already at the park. That’s where I’m calling from. Would you mind coming over now?”

  I looked out the window. The sun was setting and it would be getting dark soon. “Yeah. I’ll come right over. But we need to make this quick. I have things to do this evening.”

  “I promise this won’t take long.”

  “Where in the park do you wanna meet?” I asked.

  “How about the bench near the creek?”

  “That’ll be fine. See you soon.”

  I hung up the phone and looked at Matlock. “Well, this takes the cake,” I told him. “We’re going to the park, but you stick close to me in case this nut case tries to do me in.”

  He wagged his tail. I think all he heard was “we’re going to the park.”

  * * *

  By the time I got to the park, it was dusk. I’d changed into a yellow jogging suit because I figured it would stand out even in the dark. An old lady beating what might appear to onlookers to be one of those smaller school buses and trying to push it in the creek would surely raise some eyebrows. Faye had bought me this ugly jogging suit. Because she’s a redhead, she looks good in yellow, so she thinks everybody else does, too. Well, I don’t. Still, I’m glad I had the thing when I needed it.

  I was also carrying me a big metal flashlight. I figured it could serve two purposes—to beat her off me if the need arose or to get the heck out of the park. I started to do a “sic, her, Matlock” dry run, but I was afraid he might really attack somebody and we’d get arrested or thrown out of the park before I could find out what Flora wanted with me.

  Matlock was thrilled to be at the park. He wanted to smell everything everywhere. I let him because I wasn’t all that eager to get to Flora. The dog flushed a rabbit out of a bush, and I nearly had a heart attack when the little creature ran past me. Matlock wanted to give chase, and it took every ounce of strength I had to hold him. Who does he think I am—Alice in Wonderland? I don’t have time to chase rabbits. I’m too busy with would-be killers and nut cases.

  I got Matlock settled down and we continued along the jogging path to where Flora said she’d be waiting. I couldn’t fathom why she’d want to talk with me, but I didn’t feel like much good could come out of it.

  My palms were sweaty by the time I got close to the black wrought iron bench near the creek. A woman was sittin’ there with her back to me. She had longish gray hair with white streaks that looked to me like she had them put in there by a professional. She had on a green cardigan, and when I stepped around the side of the bench, I saw that she had a plaid throw across her lap. She was knitting something orange. I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a scarf, a baby blanket, or something to strangle me with. Crandall would’ve turned over in his grave at the thought of somebody strangling me with UT colors.

  “Flora?” I asked.

  “Hello, Myrtle, dear,” she said, not looking up from her knitting yet. “Have a seat. I won’t be but a second.”

  I sat down and she finished counting out her row. I’ve heard of people getting stabbed with knitting needles. Haven’t you? Or have you? Maybe I made that up because I was nervous. Anyway, I don’t think they allow them on airplanes anymore, so there you go.

  She put her yarn and knitting needles into a tote bag that sat on the ground to her left. Naturally, I was looking at her face really close to see whether or not she looked like Jim. She resembled him a little but not enough to make me believe Jim was some sort of cross-dresser.

  “Jim likes you very much,” she said, turning to look at me.

  “He told me he was a widower.” I bit my bottom lip. “I’d never run around with a married man.”

  “Oh, I know that.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. Jim thinks very highly of you. I know everything about Jim . . . and he knows most things about me.”

  “Does he think you’re dead?”

  She looked at the trees reflected in the creek. Then she looked up and pointed. “Ah, there’s the North Star.”

  “You gonna make a wish?”

  She laughed. “I would if it would help. But it wouldn’t.” She looked at Matlock. “Come here, darling.”

  Naturally, he went to her like he’d known her all his life. Big help he’d be if she decided to gouge my heart out with those knitting needles.

  She patted his head and then turned back to me. “I’d like to explain a few things to you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “All right.”

  “Jim was so young when his mother died—only five—though he was four when she became ill. It’s a terrible, terrible thing for a child to watch his mother die.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “No, you can’t,” she said, “unless you watched your own mother die . . . as a child, I mean. He could hardly bear the thought of living without her.” She smiled. “But, I was there, and I helped him through it.”

  “But you had to have been a child yourself.”

  “In some ways, yes; but in other ways, I was mature . . . nurturing. I wanted to be a mother to him. He needed one so desperately.”

  “Didn’t he have anyone else?” I asked. “Any grandmothers, aunts—”

  “No, just his father, and he had to work so Jim and I were there alone most of the time.”

  “You must’ve come to see him every day.”

  “I did.” She smiled. “Every day, every night. Whenever he needed me, I was there. I was always there.”

  It was getting darker, so I leaned in closer to get a better look at her. She was beginning to give me the creeps. A bre
eze lifted my hair off my forehead and I shivered slightly.

  “When he entered adolescence,” Flora continued, “he began to prefer other girls to me. I could understand that, and I was even willing to share him.” She stared at the trees reflected in the creek’s clear water. “I’d come to need him as much as he’d once needed me.”