Wedding Bell Blues

by Ruth Moose

  “Heavyset?” I asked. Not using the word “fat,” of course. That was not polite. My grandmother would have called some large person heavyset. You never ever referred to someone as “fat.”

  “Not that.” Ida Plum paused. “More like muscled. Like solid all over. As if she was a weight lifter or a lady wrestler of some sort. But what would somebody like that be doing in Littleboro?”

  Lady wrestler? Oh, my. Fear jumped on the back of my neck and grabbed me around the throat. Mrs. Butch Rigsbee, the woman in the photos in the wallet in the motel room. Could it be her? And here she was a guest in my bed-and-breakfast. A woman under my roof who had just hours ago threatened to find me and kill me. Yikes. Double yikes!

  My tea and scones didn’t feel so comfortable in my stomach anymore.

  “Odd woman,” Ida Plum said. “Checked in and an hour later checked out.”

  “What?” I asked. Checking out had been the joke batted around town when Miss Lavinia, my first guest at the Dixie Dew, had died.

  “Stayed in her room about an hour,” Ida Plum said, “came downstairs and said she’d changed her mind. She had to be going.”

  “Going where?”

  “Didn’t say,” Ida Plum said, “just asked me to give her a refund. I tore up the credit card receipt and threw it in the trash, hadn’t actually charged it yet.”

  “As you should have. How in the world could you charge for an hour? Unless, of course, you were Motel 3.” I started to laugh. “Did you check the room? Had she taken a nap or something?”

  “Not a thing out of place that I could tell. She must have washed her face. One washcloth was wet, and she’d hung it across the towel rack to dry, real ladylike.”

  “That’s all?”

  “And she raised one of the windows,” Ida Plum said.

  “That’s really odd. What was her name? And did you find out where she was from? What she was doing in Littleboro?”

  “Real closemouthed.” Ida Plum stood and put the cream in the refrigerator, then closed the door and leaned back against it. “I didn’t get a word out of her, come to think of it. I even asked her if there was some problem with the room.”

  “Credit card,” I said, suddenly realizing. I dashed to the trash can, started going through it. Paper towels, coffee grounds, tea bags. Finally I found what looked like a credit card receipt. Or pieces of it.

  “And now it’s not only shredded but those wet coffee grounds have probably erased any information. Damn,” I said. “And double damn.”

  At the desk in the front hall I opened the guest register book, ran my finger down the page and read the last entry in all caps, “KATE SPADE, IN PERSON IN THIS DUMP,” followed by three question marks and two exclamation points. Mrs. Butch Rigsbee’s idea of a joke I guess.

  Ida Plum didn’t ask why I was so interested in this weird guest and I didn’t explain. It didn’t seem quite the time.

  “Don’t blame me.” Ida Plum shrugged. “Just doing my job and what has increasingly become more of your job.”

  I held the limp bits of paper in my hand and wondered what in the world was going on in Littleboro. People who checked into a place only to wash their face and leave? People who made threats against other people’s lives? Now she was not only here in Littleboro but loose in Littleboro, probably looking for her husband’s motel lover, the one who answered the phone when she called. Looking for me? Even the Dixie Dew did not feel so safe anymore. And I wasn’t the one she was looking for, but did she know that?

  “What kind of car was she driving?” I went to the window thinking, hoping I might see an unfamiliar vehicle. “Or was she on foot?”

  “Why are you so full of questions?” Ida Plum asked, as she picked up our plates and headed toward the dishwasher. “I had no reason to be suspicious of anything.”

  “You aren’t suspicious when a guest checks in and leaves after one hour?” I repeated, “One hour?”

  Ida Plum raised both arms in the air. She had her back to me and I read the body language that said she was a bit perturbed. Ida Plum was not often perturbed.

  “I only work here,” Ida Plum said, her voice tight and strained.

  She came back to the table, picked up the plate that was empty of scones. “And you…” She paused. “You aren’t telling me all I need to know.”

  That’s when I knew I had to tell her about Mrs. Butch Rigsbee and how she’d yelled threats at me over her husband’s cell phone. So I did.

  “In it again, aren’t you?” she said. “Why can’t you stay out of trouble? Why? Why? Why?” She raised both hands in the air and went back to the sink.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Needless to say I didn’t sleep much that Saturday night. Not only did I have the catering job to do for our Miz Mayor and her trashion event, but I did keep reminding myself that the lady wrestler, Mrs. God or Mrs. Butch Rigsbee or whoever she was, wasn’t sleeping under my roof. Somehow I knew she was loose somewhere out there in Littleboro or staying somewhere she could watch my every move. Watch and wait. I bet that was her idea. Then she’d kill me one way or another and I never even laid eyes on her husband. I didn’t know which was worse, being hunted by somebody out there in Littleboro or somebody holed up somewhere just waiting for the perfect opportunity to do me in. I finally drifted off.

  Sometime in the early, early Sunday-morning hours I dreamed there was an ambulance coming down Main Street, wailing its lungs out. Was it residue from yesterday morning with Crazy Reba and her boyfriend, that body on that picnic table? But then the wailing seemed to come closer and closer, louder, louder still until I thought it was coming up my porch and through the walls right into the Dixie Dew. That’s when I sat bolt upright in bed and saw, through the dark and my pulled shades, red and blue flashing lights. I knew then this was no dream. This ambulance was real and right outside my front door. I grabbed a robe and slippers, flew out the door and dashed down the porch steps. There in front of me was a replay of the scene from yesterday: two men and a woman in white uniforms, unloading a stretcher, lowering it to the ground and the lights on the ambulance going around—red, blue, red, blue. But who, who were they loading?

  “Stand back, ma’am.” One of the guys put his arm out like a crossing guard. “Don’t want to crowd her.”

  “Her?” I tried to get past his arm but he held firm. He’d had experience with the likes of me. But I was no gawker. This was in front of my house. Who was she? Who was flat on the sidewalk? Couldn’t be Reba. Ossie had her locked up tight and was probably sitting on the key. Or sleeping with it under his pillow in Juanita’s heart-shaped red velvet bed. She’d invited the whole town in for an open house (with refreshments) when she remodeled her beauty shop and redecorated her apartment upstairs. That bed had been talked about for weeks, giggled over behind Juanita’s back. “Tacky” was the word most used to describe it.

  “I live here,” I said.

  That’s when Verna, who must have heard my voice, piped up, “Let her through. She’s my neighbor.” Verna reached both arms toward me.

  “Beth McKenzie, honey. Lock my house, then find Robert Redford.” I saw the EMTs give each other a look that said something like, We got us a live one here. Should we just drive straight to the loony wing?

  One of them held Verna’s arm, checking her pulse. Another listened to a stethoscope on her chest. Verna said to him, “You think living with Robert Redford is easy?”

  The attendant rolled his eyes.

  “Well, it ain’t,” Verna continued. “That rabbit’s got a mind of his own. One minute he’s on his leash hopping down the sidewalk pretty as you please, next minute he’s got my feet tangled. Down I go, topsy over teakettle, my ass in the air. Excuse me, Lord. And off that rabbit goes dragging that leash behind him. I’m flat on my back and hollering, ‘Bob, Bob Redford, you come back here.’”

  The attendant straightened up and motioned for another attendant to unbuckle the straps on the stretcher, get it ready to load up Verna.

 
“If anybody who don’t know me, they’d think I was crazy. Well, I’m just lying here on the sidewalk looking up at that dusky sky, thinking not blue sky but ole peeking moon behind the trees, thinking Emily Dickinson and her blue beloved air, and then I felt something funny, but not funny. Pain. Why had it taken a while to kick in? Was I knocked out cold? Anyway, my foot hurt. Hurt like hell. Excuse me again, Lord. Ankle? I tried to wiggle it and hurt worse. Had a bone popped and I didn’t hear it?”

  The men lifted Verna onto the stretcher, buckled her in. She waved her arms and said, “Wait. I tried to lift my leg and didn’t get it very high. When was the last time I lifted my leg? Then I remembered an old joke my daddy used to tell. He worked in Miller’s Hardware forty years.”

  I just stood there while Verna went on and on. Telling a joke? Maybe she’d hit her head when she fell.

  “Name the three parts to a woodstove.” Verna laughed.

  “Me?” I asked. “I don’t know.”

  “Lifter, leg and poker.” Verna haw-hawed.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “It’s supposed to be a dirty joke,” she said. “They all laughed down at the hardware when Daddy told it.”

  “Just relax,” one of the men said, but Verna kept on.

  “I wiggled my leg. Foot just flopped. Hurt. Five thirty in the morning, where was anybody? Where was a paperboy? Used to be that little Gurley boy, Nestus—I always liked his name—used to walk by, come up and lay my paper on my porch. All I had to do was crack open my screen door, reach down and there it was. I didn’t even have to put on a wrapper. Then Nestus grew up, went to college and old Mr. McNutt took over the route. He’d drive and his wife would roll and throw up papers out the passenger window. She had a good throwing arm, could get it almost to my porch sometimes. Now I don’t know who is doing what, little newspaper there is. Sometimes it’s in my boxwoods. Or my lilac bushes, or stuck up in one of the dogwood trees. I’ve had to get a ladder to get my paper down.”

  “Lady,” one of the men said, “we’re ready to shut these doors and get you some place you can get some help.” I thought his expression meant mental help as well as physical.

  Verna was still in her story and she wasn’t about to stop in the middle. She held up her hand to stop them closing the double doors. “Now here I was flat on my back and wet from the sidewalk dew creeping into my blouse and britches. Where was anybody? Everybody? I hollered until I was hoarse and prayed somebody wouldn’t come running by, stumble and land on top of me. When I heard a car pass, I raised my arm and waved. Nothing. They drove right on by.”

  “Lady.” Two of the attendants stood holding open the doors. “We gotta roll.”

  “Wait a minute,” Verna said. “I’m not through.” She reached up, grabbed the lapels of my robe, pulled me closer and whispered, “I was in a state, I tell you. I tried to roll on my side and couldn’t. Sidewalk was wet and slick. Sticky wet. I heard somebody’s feet fast, fast. Running. Help. I raised both arms. Hel-up. Hel-up. Don’t step on me. Hel-up.”

  “That was enough to stop anybody in their tracks,” someone said. A man in blue running shorts had stepped up beside me.

  “He’s the one.” She pointed. “He called 911. Bless the Lord.” She blew the man a kiss as the EMTs started to shut the doors. “Find Robert Redford,” she called. “Beth, find him!”

  The EMT guys revved up the motor and started down the street. I guessed they’d take Verna to Moore Country Medical, then, if her ankle really was broken, she’d go to rehab at The Oaks Nursing and Rest Home, where my grandmother had been those weeks and months after she fell and before she died.

  “Is this a scavenger hunt?” the man beside me asked as he bent over to tie his shoe. “If so, I haven’t a clue.” He stood up and looked around, held up an imaginary list in front of him and read aloud, “Find body on sidewalk. Stop and call 911, move on to big blue mailbox for next clue.” He smiled, a big beam of a smile.

  In the excitement I hadn’t even noticed anybody around me. This guy didn’t look or sound like anybody I knew, certainly not anybody in Littleboro. Looked like custom-made running shoes, I thought, though I wasn’t an expert on running attire. My, my. I looked up into the face of the most handsome man I’d ever seen: white-blond hair that fell halfway across his forehead and heavy eyebrows over startling green eyes.

  Of course I stuttered introducing myself, almost forgot to extend my hand. When I finally did, he took my hand between both of his almost as if he planned to raise it to his lips and kiss it. Of course if he had I probably would have wet my pants.

  “Miles Fortune.” He smiled. “And I confess, I’m an addict.”

  I was startled for a moment. What kind of addict? I didn’t know what he meant. For an addict, he sure had nice hands. Smooth, soft and long, long fingers with beautifully manicured nails, which surprised and amazed me. A man with expensive hands.

  Scott’s hands were tanned and rough, with short but knowing fingers that built things and painted things. Working hands. I loved working hands. They were honest and dependable. Mama Alice always said you could tell a lot about a person from their handshake. Never trust anybody with a limp one, she’d said. Or a cold fish of a handshake. But she never told me about anybody with a sexy handshake.

  I stepped back.

  “Running.” He laughed. “I’m addicted to running. Have to get my run in before I do anything else or I’m a mess for the day.”

  He ran his fingers through his white-blond hair. “After being on the road all night, the first thing I had to do when I got here was my run. And it was as good a way as any to see a little bit of the town.”

  “Oh,” I said, which probably sounded as silly as I felt standing here in robe and slippers in the fast approaching daylight. And I just happened to be wearing my rattiest robe, the one with a coffee stain down the front. I pulled it closer.

  “Had a late flight from L.A., then found an all-night car rental at Raleigh-Durham, drove like the dickens and now have to find breakfast and a place to stay.”

  “I have breakfast,” I said and pointed to the Dixie Dew behind me, which didn’t look all that welcoming or friendly with no lights burning. I hadn’t even turned on the porch light. I almost said “and a bed,” then realized how provocative that might sound.

  “It’s a bed-and-breakfast,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m in the right place.”

  I told him to finish his run, and by the time he got back I was dressed in one of the two last dresses I owned, a green and pink shirtwaist that matched (if you squinted) my tearoom tablecloths. I had bacon cooked, a breakfast casserole in the oven and the table set. Plus coffee, always coffee. I liked for the smell to waft up the stairs and get my guests moseying on downstairs.

  While my two lady guests were eating, he signed the guest register. He put on his credit card two bedrooms. He said he’d take the Lilac Room and didn’t give me a name for the person who would use the Daffodil Room, which Ida Plum had just cleaned. He did tell me he was with the festival and that he had no idea what a green bean was. He grinned, “Call this a mystery guest.”

  “Some kind of wild herb?” he had asked. “Like ginseng?” I saw the cutest dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. I get weak-kneed over dimples.

  I extolled the virtues of the ubiquitous green bean casserole that was a must at every Thanksgiving meal, then I told him about the value of green vegetables, vitamins and all that. He listened with his head cocked to one side as if he didn’t believe a word I was saying but he liked the way I talked. I’ve read guys love a Southern accent and I’ve got a real one. That’s one thing I never lost all those years in “Yankee Land,” as my grandmother called it. Somebody once told me that if you lose your accent, you can never go home again. I never lost mine and here I was, born and bred and back in Littleboro, North Carolina, the Tar Heel state. Home sure stuck to me.

  He finished the paperwork and then took his leather duffel up the stairs, climbing
the steps two at a time. Again, I said to myself, “My, my.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I served Miss Isabella Buckley and her prize pupil, Debbie Booth, who wrote the food columns for The News & Observer and didn’t look a thing like her little head-shot photo in the paper—Debbie turned out to be prettier, younger. They were judges for the green bean cooking contest. I was nervous about them judging my B and B food, but they loved the breakfast casserole. It was the standard eggs/milk/cheese thing, but I always added a jolt of red pepper and some ribbons of kale for color. And grits, I do grits in a silver compote with a lid. When you serve grits, they have to be hot. Grits can be country plain or dressed-up fancy. Anybody who has never had shrimp with grits hasn’t lived, Mama Alice used to say.

  Miss Isabella had retired from teaching home economics at Carelock U ages ago and moved to Glen Aire, a continuous care retirement community in Cary. She had to be nearly eighty, but prissy as ever in her blue voile dress with a lace collar and her little pearl button earrings, the screw-on type. Miss Isabella didn’t strike me as someone who would ever allow piercings to her body, not even her ears.

  Debbie, on the other hand, was the opposite of prissy. She wore green jeans (maybe in honor of the festival), a cute sweatshirt that had little red chili peppers stamped all over it and red sneakers. She looked as if she couldn’t wait to get to this judging business, her red-blond curls bouncing. I bet somewhere on her body she had a tattoo. I tried to guess what it would be. A single red rose? No, not the type. A butterfly? Again no, not the type. I finally decided she’d have a tattoo of a small skillet and the words BON APPETIT above it. Or a tomato? A luscious, ripe one with an exclamation point. Very tasteful, but fun.

  She and Miss Isabella left soon after breakfast, saying something about the Liberty Antiques Fair and that they’d be out until late.

  Mr. Hollywood, the L.A. runner, had been up and down the stairs a dozen times, cell phone to his ear. He’d eaten my breakfast like a vacuum cleaner on suction, whooshed it down, then asked for a mug, more coffee, and gone out to swing on the porch. After about a five-minute swing I heard him spring up and saw him sprint down the walk. How much relaxing can you do in five minutes in a swing? I could tell he was not from the South. And he sure acted like he was in some high-pressure stress, stress, stress business. He needed a good swinging on a cool front porch shaded and scented with wisteria more than anybody I’d ever seen.