by Nancy Martin
His body felt tight and damp with sweat, but I was no prize either. If Gracie learned I was dancing with the man she’d set her sights on, though, she was going to be upset. So I carefully considered what my response should be.
Finally, I said, “I work with one of the musicians in the band. I wanted to hear him play.”
Rico spun me around so he could see the stage as we danced. “Which one?”
“Mr. Carver—the man at the piano.”
“The old guy? I’ve seen him around, never met him. Wait—he was some kind of friend of Honeybelle Hensley, right?”
“You knew Honeybelle?”
“Everybody knew who she was. Me, not personally. I saw her around town, that’s all. You worked for her, right? Taking care of Miss Ruffles. So he must have worked for her, too?”
“Yes.”
Surely Honeybelle had known Mr. Carver and Hut Junior played together in a band. Or hadn’t she? Mr. Carver obviously kept it a secret from Mae Mae, so maybe he’d also been silent around Honeybelle. If so, why?
When Rico guided me around to the front of the stage, I took a longer, surreptitious look at Hut as he played the bass. He kept his hat down and focused on the strings. He was almost hiding behind his instrument. If he could have made himself invisible, he’d have done it.
Why play music in public if he preferred to be anonymous?
Rico spun me away from the stage, and I suddenly found myself looking straight into the startled face of Poppy Appleby. She was dancing—not with Ten, but with an older man who seemed to be just as expert a dancer as Rico. Poppy’s smile of enjoyment evaporated as her wide eyes met mine. I could see a dozen thoughts crossing her mind. Then she looked at Rico and blinked.
In another second she was gone, whirled away by her partner. Of course she couldn’t go dancing with Ten, I thought. He was still not recovered from his injuries.
Rico saw where I was staring. “Oh, that’s Poppy, the television weather lady.”
“Yes, I know.”
“She’s a really great dancer. She comes every week.”
“Have you danced with her?”
“Nah, she’s always got plenty of partners.”
The music got loud again, and we danced in the heat, with other bodies bumping close, everybody having a good time.
When the music eased up, Rico said in my ear, “You should come more often.”
I felt guilty. I wasn’t looking for love, that’s for sure, and even if I had been, Rico was off-limits. I didn’t want to spoil my friendship with Gracie.
So I said, “It’s getting late. I better go.”
He was gracious about it, but I could see hurt feelings in his dark eyes.
So I smiled and said, “Thanks for the dance. You have terrific moves, Rico. I had fun.”
“Sure.” He danced me to the edge of the floor and released me. “See you around.”
The band took a break, and Rico headed back to the bar. The dancers pushed past me in search of drinks. I tried to get lost in the crowd while I let various impressions settle in my mind. I found myself buffeted toward the back of the room. Suddenly a big man shouldered his way through the other people, on his way to the bathroom, maybe. When he got closer, I realized it was Hut Junior.
He didn’t see me—didn’t take the time—but moved swiftly past me and down the narrow hallway. He stopped where some coats and bags were hanging on hooks. Purposefully, he ran his hands through one jacket until he came up with an object. Before he palmed it, I saw it was a bottle of pills—in a small amber pharmacy container. He turned at once and came back toward me.
I turned my back so he wouldn’t recognize who I was, but I needn’t have worried. He was on his way back to the stage, pills in hand.
I watched from the doorway. He climbed back onstage, twisting open the pharmacy bottle. He shook a tablet into Mr. Carver’s hand. Mr. Carver smiled gratefully and popped the pill into his mouth. Hut Junior dropped a comforting hand on Mr. Carver’s shoulder. Despite the noise in the dance hall, Mr. Carver sat quietly for a few minutes, eyes closed, waiting for his pill to take effect.
With Hut there to look after him, I didn’t need to stay. I had learned enough for one night anyway. I needed time to let the information simmer in my brain.
I went back to Honeybelle’s house. I parked the Lexus in the garage and hoped the engine would cool off before Mr. Carver returned from his nighttime outing. My whole body ached, but I knew it would be worse in the morning.
Mae Mae met me at the kitchen door, still in her bathrobe. The kitchen smelled of coffee and baking. She had kept herself busy while I was gone. “Well?”
For once it was nice not to see her glowering at me, expecting the worst. “Mr. Carver went to a roadhouse out past the interstate. He’s a regular there, playing in a band.”
I might as well have told her he had joined a nudist colony. “A band!”
“That’s not all. Hut Junior is in the band, too. They play together.”
Mae Mae’s expression cleared. “Hut Junior? And Mr. Carver?”
“Do you know something about the two of them?” I kicked off my sneakers, stumbling in the process and catching my balance on the kitchen counter.
“I know a lot, but we can talk in the morning.” With concern, Mae Mae said, “For now, you should get yourself a bath and go to bed. Here’s a tea.” She handed me a muslin bag, tied with a string. Inside, I could see bits of twigs and leaves. “Don’t drink it. Put it in your bathwater.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m beat.”
“Also in the morning,” she said just as sternly, “you can explain what happened to Miss Ruffles.”
Behind her on the floor, Fred snored. He had rolled over onto his back to get comfortable, and his anatomical differences from Miss Ruffles were on full display. With Mae Mae giving me a long frown, I picked him up and carried him upstairs.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Remove boots and spurs before entering tub.
—BOARDINGHOUSE RULES
I took the bath in Mae Mae’s concoction and nearly zonked out in the tub. Exhausted, I barely made it into the bed with Fred before falling into a coma. In the morning, I turned off my alarm when it went off and fell back to sleep for another two hours. It was past nine when I finally pulled Fred out of my bed and headed down the stairs to the kitchen.
By which time Mr. Carver was already seated at the table and fastidiously finishing his scrambled eggs with a generous slice of cinnamon coffee cake that Mae Mae must have baked while she waited for me to return last night. He had the angelic air of a man who’d slept well, with no guilt.
Mae Mae was back to freezing me out.
I fed Fred and let him outside into the backyard before returning to the kitchen and sliding into the chair opposite Mr. Carver.
“So, Mr. Carver, how long have you been playing music with Hut Junior?”
With a clatter, he dropped his coffee cup back into its saucer. He looked across the table at me with a wounded expression. I had betrayed him.
“Playing music,” Mae Mae repeated.
“They’re really good,” I said. “They play at Harley’s Roadhouse, right, Mr. Carver?”
“What kind of den of iniquity is a Harley roadhouse?”
“It’s not a den. There’s dancing.” I reached for a slice of coffee cake. “What I want to know is how long Mr. Carver and Hut have played together. Well?”
“For many years,” he replied at last, trying not to sneak a frightened look at Mae Mae. “I taught Hut his first piano lesson. And his introduction to the guitar. But he went for professional lessons after that. Guitar, mandolin, and the bass, of course. He’s very good.”
“He took lessons at the university?”
“Yes, at first. Honeybelle got him the best lessons money could buy.”
To Mae Mae, I said. “They really swing. And the place was jammed. You and I will have to go some night, just to listen.”
Mr. Carver looked implo
ringly at Mae Mae. “Hut didn’t want anybody to know.”
“I knew just fine he was musical,” she said shortly. “I thought he stopped years ago. Honeybelle said so.”
“Well, he kept on going. His mother wanted him to keep at it, but he wanted to go into the Hensley oil business, and thought it would be better if—”
“If his music was a secret from Honeybelle,” I finished. “Neither you or Hut wanted her to know you moonlight at a roadhouse?”
“It wasn’t a secret,” he said. “Not exactly.”
“I guess not,” Mae Mae said. “Not if everybody in town goes out there to hear you play.”
The doorbell rang at the front of the house. I got up quickly, my mouth full of heavenly coffee cake. “I’ll get it. Then we’ll talk more.”
“No, no.” Mr. Carver reached for his blue jacket. “It’s my job to answer the door.”
“Finish your breakfast,” I said. “And talk to Mae Mae.”
I pushed through the swinging door as Mr. Carver sank back into his chair with a nervous sigh.
I was startled to open the front door to Poppy Appleby. She stood on the porch in sky-high heels that showed off her pedicure and a pretty pink sundress printed with tiny turtles. On her arm, she carried a straw handbag—the perfect size to hold her peashooter. In her other hand, she twirled her sunglasses as she pretended to admire Honeybelle’s roses.
“Good morning.” She turned on me with a smile that looked stiff around the edges. “Your name’s Bunny, isn’t it? Am I too early to pay a call?”
“Sunny.” Belatedly, I brushed crumbs from my mouth. “No, you’re not too early.”
“Oh, I’m so glad.” Although I had not invited her inside, she squeezed past me and stepped into the foyer. “I’m a bit of an early bird myself. In television, you have to be. But I thought I’d take a chance and stop by after the morning news. I saw you at the roadhouse last night. Did you have a good time?”
“I only stayed a short while, but yes.”
“Who was that you were dancing with?”
“Just a friend.”
She wanted to ask more, but her manners were too good. She said, “He’s a good dancer.”
“He said the same about you.”
“Really? How nice of him.” In a rush, she said, “Poor Ten can’t dance, you know. He’s steady enough on a horse, but he hasn’t quite got his balance and flexibility back yet. He doesn’t mind if I go out dancing, because I love it so much. That was my uncle I was with when you saw me last night.”
I realized that she had come to assure me she hadn’t been cheating on her fiancé. Did she think I was going to tattle on her? That idea made me feel a little sorry for her. Maybe she wasn’t as self-confident as she let on.
Mae Mae had once mentioned that the Appleby family came from humble beginnings. Maybe Poppy was a woman who overachieved to overcome her feeling of inadequacy? To my eye, she had everything. But perhaps that had not come easily.
Making an effort to be friendly, I said, “Your uncle was pretty agile.”
“Yes. Yes, he is.” She seemed at a loss about what to say next and finally asked, “Is Mae Mae at home?”
“Sure. Come in.”
In the act of closing the door, I noticed another vehicle pull up in front of the house. It parked behind a small white convertible that must have been Poppy’s ride. The newcomer was a large van with the Critter Control logo painted on its side.
To Poppy, I said, “Mae Mae’s in the kitchen.” I hooked my thumb at the arriving truck. “I should probably intercept this guy, show him the backyard, so could you find your way?”
Poppy blinked as if I had suggested she kick off her shoes, put her feet up on Honeybelle’s furniture, and drink a beer directly from the can.
“You won’t get lost.” I shrugged off my lack of good southern manners and pointed. “If you’ve forgotten, kitchen’s that way.”
“I remember,” she said, cool again.
We parted, and I hotfooted it out to the Critter Control truck.
The exterminator was a crusty, bandy-legged old man who stood maybe five-two, with a wispy gray beard and an enormous hat on a skinny body. He had the back of the van already open. The vehicle was full of traps, barrels of poison, and what looked like several guns in carrying cases padlocked into racks.
“Good morning,” I said. “It might be easier if you pulled your vehicle around the back.”
“Why, good morning there, little lady—whoa, not so little. You’re high altitude, aren’t you?” He stood so much shorter than me that he had to crane his neck to look up, but he made up for his lack of stature with a big smile that showed lots of empty spaces. With panache, he swept off his hat to show a pink scalp, bushy eyebrows, and large, permanently sunburned ears with plenty more gray hair sprouting out of them. He touched his hat to his chest. “I’m Rudolphus Barnstable, but you can call me Rudy, everybody does, even Miss Honeybelle, rest her soul. What a character she was. Hope you don’t mind an old cuss like me saying you’re as tall as a sunflower in a cotton field.”
“Thanks, I think.” I smiled and pointed. “This way. I’ll show you.”
He climbed back into his truck and followed me around the block to the back gate.
When he was out again and opening up his truck to show all his critter remedies, I couldn’t help asking, “You’re the one who helped Honeybelle get rid of prairie dogs once before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. She was a satisfied customer, too. I don’t guarantee critters won’t come back, though. You can’t stop nature, if you know what I mean.” He waggled his eyebrows.
I decided to ignore his implication. “I was wondering if you have a humane solution for getting rid of prairie dogs.”
His flirtatious manner evaporated. “Humane for who?”
“The prairie dogs. Maybe you could trap them this time, and release them somewhere else?”
He looked at me sadly. “You’re not from around here, are you, Sunflower?”
“No, sir, I’m not.”
“I could tell,” he said, turning morose. “Every now and then, I gotta put up with—that is, I have to go along with the wishes of a misguided client.”
“So you’ll try the trap idea?” I said firmly.
His voice took on a whine. “Depends on how big your infestation is. If you’ve got a few hundred prairie dogs, there’s no way to keep up with them. They can make more prairie dogs faster than I can catch ’em. They tunnel underground, and that’s how come you can never tell how many you got.”
“We don’t have hundreds.”
“Not yet,” he said darkly.
“Not yet,” I agreed. “But maybe I could help you somehow.”
His bushy eyebrows took an ornery angle. “It costs extra if you help.”
“Now, look—”
“Oh, simmer down, Sunflower.” He had a cackling laugh. “Let’s have a look at your situation, then we’ll chew the fat.”
“Good plan. This way.”
Fred looked up from his nap on the terrace and decided not to stir himself. This morning he looked physically exhausted, but I was glad to see him alert.
Rudy knew his way around Honeybelle’s property, and he took a tour of the prairie dog town that was under construction around the gazebo. In a few minutes he completed his inspection and leaned on the swimming pool ladder. He pulled a plug of tobacco from the hip pocket of his jeans. With a pocketknife, he cut himself off a chunk and conveyed it into his mouth.
“Well now,” he said. “You don’t have more’n a handful out there now. Good thing you called before they got outta hand. If you wanner try trappin’ ’em, I could set up some traps and you could call me when we got something.”
“I’m happy to do that.”
“I got some oatmeal and peanut butter in the truck. There’s nothing like oatmeal and peanut butter to tempt a prairie dog. But you gotta keep your own animal away from the traps.” He pointed his knife at Fred.
>
“Okay,” I said.
By that time, Mr. Carver was coming out the kitchen door while shrugging into his jacket.
Crowing, Rudy said, “Here comes the boss man. We’ll see what he has to say. Or maybe he’ll just sing us a tune.”
“You know Mr. Carver? You’ve heard his music?”
“Shore. He’s been playin’ around these parts since almost before the railroad came through. Honeybelle tol’ me he wanted to move back up to Nashville and work in the recording industry. Looks like that didn’t happen yet. Hey, there, Mr. Carver. How you doing this fine morning?”
I left them to their discussion. I gave Fred a pat and went back inside, where Poppy was making her pitch to Mae Mae.
“I can’t promise you a program of your own,” Poppy was saying. “I thought I’d suggest to my boss that I produce three three-minute segments for our noon news program. We’ll see how those go, what kind of viewer response we have.”
Poppy was seated at the table, and Mae Mae was pouring hot coffee into one of Honeybelle’s delicate china cups. She had set a slice of coffee cake in front of Poppy on a china plate, too. “What kind of segment?”
“Cooking, of course. Cajun cooking. That’s your specialty, right? Ten told me so.”
Today’s apron said THIS KITCHEN IS SEASONED WITH LOVE, with a picture of a big red heart that seemed magnified by Mae Mae’s enormous bosom. Mae Mae said, “I cook New Orleans style. That’s not Cajun, no, ma’am. It’s refined Creole cooking.” She spoke with pride. “Fine dining.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Poppy said promptly. “You can provide a little education, too. Explain the differences in the cuisines of your region, the way Paula Deen did. And Martha Stewart—you could talk about your family traditions like she does. How you came to Mule Stop, that sort of thing. Our viewers will love it.”
Mae Mae glowered. “I don’t see how no viewers are gonna want to hear about me wading out of the city through five feet of sewage.”
“Mae Mae,” I said gently, “don’t play hard to get. Poppy’s offering you a nice proposition. You could have fun with it.”