Sam and Hunter stopped by to pick up Miss Rose Tyndale a little before six o’clock. A retired high school English teacher, she lived in the house where she was born, and rented out an upstairs apartment. Hunter had lived in that apartment when she first came to Merchantsville and Mallory Bremmer lived there now.
It took some time for Sam to get Miss Rose out the door and into the car. She had two cake carriers, a serrated knife and a cut glass platter to be managed, and she had to bundle up against the cold.
They turned off Main Street onto Literary Lane a little after 6 p.m.
“I’ll let you two out in front of the house,” Sam said, “Looks like the good parking spaces are already gone. I’ll bring the cakes and platter in.”
“No, let us take them,” Miss Rose said. “We’re already a little late.”
Inside the house, the two shivering women headed straight for the kitchen. While Miss Rose stayed to slice her first lemon pound cake, Hunter went back to the front foyer to see if Sam had arrived. He hadn’t, and she felt sorry for him having to walk from a block away in the cold with his ears freezing. The man wouldn’t wear a hat or a cap.
She looked around at the spacious interior with its wide center hall. The elegant staircase was tied off with a red ribbon. She smiled, realizing that was a polite way of letting curious guests know they weren’t invited to tour the second floor.
There were front parlors on either side of the hall, but the French doors to the smaller one were closed. Peeking through one of the glass panes, Hunter could see that the room was stocked with campaign yard signs and other Buzz for Governor paraphernalia.
In the larger parlor, the candidate’s father, Barnard McFall, was standing by the fireplace, greeting people as they came to him. Hunter had heard he was getting a little confused, but she couldn’t have told it by watching from across the room. The candidate’s mother was circulating, chatting and smiling, taking people’s hands in hers, hugging a select few.
Hunter got out her camera to snap a photo of the McFalls talking with Merchantsville’s Mayor, James Washington. Two city council members were in the background. That, she thought, would be a good one for the paper.
Nobody subscribed to The Messenger for state or national news. It was, with rare exceptions, and a little competition from the local AM radio station, the only print source of local news from Merchantsville, the neighboring town of Cathay and the entire rural region that made up Magnolia County. Even then, it couldn’t compete always compete with gossip, and many people were only reading it on Wednesdays to confirm what they already knew.
Hunter admired the front parlor. It was perfectly proportioned with tall windows, high ceilings, and crown molding. A huge gilt-framed mirror hung above the marble mantel, and there were several oil paintings in similar frames. It had a look that she had heard people call “old money”—elegant but just worn and faded enough to seem comfortable.
A burly, unshaven young man with a video camera was leaning against the wall between the two front windows, looking out-of-place and bored. A young woman with short cropped hair and tattooed arms was making her way through the crowd with what looked like recording equipment. She knew they weren’t media people. They were there to make a video of the candidate with his family in his childhood home: something that would become part of a television commercial, not doubt along with a shot of him in jeans, leaning against a country fence with a rifle in one hand.
The candidate, Buzz McFall, was nowhere in sight.
Sam seemed to be taking some time, so Hunter moved through the parlor back toward the dining room, greeting people along the way and hoping to see more of the house before the candidate made his grand entrance and she had to focus on getting a news story.
Near the dining room table, a striking young woman was chatting with County Commissioner Jaybird Hilliard and his wife, AnneMarie.
Hunter knew the woman must be Sabrina McFall—the trophy wife. Wearing a long black skirt and a white silk blouse, she was petite, with streaked ash blonde hair, big brown eyes and a smile straight out of a beauty pageant. Hunter took her second photograph of the night—the one that Novena had asked for.
The refreshments on the big mahogany table looked appealing, and Hunter reminded herself that there was a slow cooker full of chili waiting at home. There was a huge cut glass punch bowl full of a sparkling punch, with a number of cups already served and waiting. In addition to Miss Rose’s thinly sliced pound cake, there were plates piled high with party sandwiches, cheese straws, tiny cream puffs and petits fours. A chafing dish filled with meatballs in barbecue sauce was attracting the male guests.
People were finding their way to the food, but having seen how much was still in the kitchen, Hunter had an idea that the McFalls would be eating party food for the next week.
Merchantsville was a small town in a rural county. After five years, Hunter had grown used to knowing most of the people she encountered. This crowd was just what she had expected—elected officials and friends of the family.
Then there was a surprise. A young woman with frizzy blonde hair, dressed in a long denim skirt and a bulky black sweater, came into the dining room from the hall. Hunter recognized her, smiled and said, “Hi, Stacy, are you still working at the middle school?”
Stacy Vann looked a little distracted but managed a quick smile.
“I sure am,” she said. “How does Bethie like high school?”
“She loves it,” Hunter said. “So… you’re interested in politics?”
“I, uh, just came with a friend,” Stacy said. “Nice to see you.”
And she was gone, heading toward the hall.
Hunter looked around again for Sam and spotted him talking with Barnard and Pink McFall. That was a good picture, too, she thought, but she had to be careful about putting too many photos of her handsome husband in his hometown paper, even if he was the sheriff.
Using her zoom lens, she took the picture to send to her Atlanta friend, Nikki, who referred to Sam as “Sheriff Gunsmoke” and considered Hunter’s life in Merchantsville an ongoing source of entertainment.
A woman came out of the kitchen with a platter of cheese straws in her hand.
Hunter smiled.
“Hello, there, Miss Augusta,” she said, “Which of these delicious refreshments did you make?”
“Only the chicken salad sandwiches,” Augusta Wren said. “We had plenty of good help. My granddaughter, Kenyatta, made these cheese straws. She thinks she wants to go to culinary school.”
“Our daughter Bethie knows Kenyatta,” Hunter said. “They’re in the Debate Club together. I guess she takes after you with the cooking.”
Hunter had first met Augusta Wren when she interviewed her as one of the cooks to be featured in the newspaper’s Cook of the Month series. She had grandchildren in their teens and twenties, but she was one of those women who ages well, with fine posture and few wrinkles. Except for her closely cropped gray hair, she could have passed for fifty.
Augusta found room for the cheese straws. Then she closed off the flame under the almost empty chafing dish, picked the whole thing up with a disdainful look and whisked it away to the kitchen.
A handsome young man with dark blonde hair held the swinging kitchen door open for her, and then came through to the dining room. This wasn’t an event that would attract many young people, and just from having seen his grandfather, and pictures of his father, Hunter knew he must be Tab McFall, the candidate’s son. He had grown up in Merchantsville with his mother.
Sam arrived at Hunter’s side.
“I wish they’d get this show on the road,” he murmured. “I’m going to call Bethie and see how things are. I’ll tell her we’ll be a little late.”
Miss Rose came out of the kitchen. She was holding her coat, wearing one of her church dresses—a pale blue that matched her eyes. Her cheeks were pink, and her white hair w
as a little windblown. She reminded Hunter, as she often did, of a grandmother from a children’s book or a greeting card.
She wasn’t a grandmother, though. And aside from being a cake-baking perfectionist, she was a constant reader, a cut-throat bridge player, and had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the founding families of Merchantsville.
“I thought Ellie was going to stay and help,” she said to Hunter, “but it seems she left off her sandwiches earlier and begged off. I guess she had to get home to Tyler. I haven’t seen the candidate yet. They seem to be barricaded in the den.”
Sabrina McFall came over and introduced herself to both of them.
“You were smart to keep your coat on,” she said to Hunter. “It’s cold in here.”
“It’s warmer than it was in my workplace earlier,” Hunter said. “I thought I was going to have to put on gloves to type.”
“It’s been years since it got this cold in Merchantsville,” Miss Rose said, and then she added. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting Pink’s granddaughter? Is she here?”
“Oh, yes,” Sabrina said. “She’s hiding out somewhere. You know teenagers.”
“I did at one time,” Miss Rose said. “I taught high school English for years. Many of them just couldn’t wait to get out of our reach.”
Sabrina laughed, and Miss Rose excused herself to go find a place to sit down.
“Jaybird’s wife was telling me you’re the editor of the paper, and you’re married to the sheriff,” Sabrina said to Hunter. “Was that the tall man you were just talking to?”
When Hunter nodded, Sabrina lowered her voice and asked, “Does he have to run for office?”
“Well, it’s an elected office,” Hunter said, “And he has to be on the ballot, but fortunately, nobody’s run against him since he won the job the first time. We’re crossing our fingers this time. He sure doesn’t take anything for granted.”
“I hope nobody runs against him,” Sabrina said, “I think this is all really nerve-racking. My dad ran once and lost, and that was just for city council in a small town like this. I just don’t know if Buzz realizes…Oh, don’t put that in the paper!”
Hunter smiled.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m just going to take a few pictures and get some quotes from your husband.”
“Are you going to have dinner with us at the country club after this?” Sabrina asked, glancing down at her watch. “Jaybird said he invited you and your husband.”
“Thanks,” Hunter said. “I’m sure it will be great, but we’ve got two kids at home, and we’ll be eating chili and building a fire to toast marshmallows.”
Sabrina sighed and said, “That sounds nice.”
She checked her watch again. Then she looked up, relieved.
“Oh, good! There comes Dawson,” she said. “I was wondering how long they were going to keep people waiting out here.”
A slender, silver-haired man had come into the dining from the hall. He headed straight to Sabrina, nodding hurriedly when she introduced him to Hunter.
His name was Dawson Reeves. He was the campaign manager.
“Where’s Buzz?” Sabrina asked, looking past him toward the back of the house. “It’s already after six-thirty, and we’re supposed to be at the country club right after seven. We’re going to be way late.”
“He had an important business call,” Reeves said as if he were talking to a child. “He had to go upstairs and get his laptop for some information. I need for you to come with me and smile pretty.”
“Whatever it is, he shouldn’t be keeping all these people waiting,” Sabrina said as she walked away with him.
A few minutes later, the crowd had gathered in the front parlor, spilling out into the hallway and dining room. Hunter maneuvered her way into a good position for picture taking. She got out her tiny digital recorder and turned it on just before Dawson Reeves began to speak.
Looking around to see where Sam was, she noticed Stacy Vann hovering alone at the edge of the crowd watching intently.
Reeves, suddenly all smiles and laid-back charm, explained that Buzz was dealing with a business emergency and had gone upstairs to get his laptop for some information he needed. He had sent his apologies for the delay, and would be down in just a minute.
Then he began introducing the family members, starting with Sabrina, who offered a friendly smile, and moving next to the elderly parents who were now sitting together on a loveseat near the fireplace. Hunter looked around for Miss Rose and saw her sitting on the edge of an uncomfortable looking chair, with her coat and gloves in her lap, looking a little tired. Sam was standing in the hall near the front door, which meant he was ready to make a fast exit as soon as they could.
“And,” Dawson Reeves was winding up. “There’s Buzz’s son, Barnard Talbot McFall the fifth, better known to all of you as Tab. He’s going to be helping with the campaign, and we think he’ll be a great asset. Where are you, Tab?”
Tab McFall waved and grinned from the back of the crowd.
Reeves went on, “And, last but not least, Buzz’s daughter, Caitlin. Caitlin was sweet sixteen just last month.”
That one turned heads. A dark haired teenager Hunter hadn’t seen before waved her hand limply and blushed at the attention. She was standing near her half-brother, wearing a long sweater, or possibly a short dress, over leggings. Hunter thought she must look like her mother because she certainly didn’t look like a McFall. The McFalls tended to have sturdy, healthy good looks of the kind that went with tartans, kilts, and bagpipes, while this young lady had a fine-boned fragile look.
Dawson Reeves surveyed the group, looking for others to introduce. He frowned a little and went on.
“I’ll introduce our media director after Buzz talks with you,” he said, “Now let me just tell you a little bit about the campaign plans. If you’re wondering why we’re starting the campaign so early in the year, it’s because we want to hear the voices of people all over Georgia. Buzz’s number one priority in the primary is to visit all 159 of Georgia’s counties…”
Hunter left her recorder on and tuned Dawson Reeves out. She looked around to see how others were reacting. Miss Rose was covering a yawn. Jaybird Hilliard was frowning, with his arms folded over his chest. Sabrina McFall kept glancing toward the back of the house, and then toward the central staircase, no doubt ready to run and drag her husband to the front of the room the moment she saw him.
As the campaign manager droned on, Tab McFall edged toward the foyer, looking up the stairs and then down the hall. Caitlin McFall stayed where she was, texting on her cell phone. Stacy Vann was no longer in sight, and Hunter wondered with some amusement if people might be slipping out through the kitchen door.
Dawson Reeves, she thought, was sadly mistaken if he thought small town people had any more tolerance for long-winded speeches and late-arriving speakers than city people did.
Sam was still in the foyer, looking toward the front door. Hunter checked her watch and was surprised to see that forty minutes had passed since they had arrived.
Barnard McFall spoke up in a very loud voice.
“When’s the governor going to get here?” he asked. “Didn’t somebody say the governor was going to be here?”
His wife reached out for his hand and whispered to him.
“Well, I’m not waiting around here all night,” the old man snapped, jerking his hand away and standing up, “I’m ready for my supper. I never did like Herman, anyway.”
Hunter turned and saw Augusta Wren hurrying from the kitchen. Meantime, Sabrina McFall was heading straight for the staircase with a determined look on her face. She shook off Dawson Reeves’ restraining hand.
And that was when the screaming began.
Chapter 3
The first scream was from somewhere upstairs.
The second was closer. A thin
dark-haired woman in a long gray dress came running down the stairs.
Hunter’s reporting instincts kicked in with the first scream, and she was at the bottom of the stairs by the time the woman screamed once more and stumbled over the red ribbon. Sam was already there to catch her and keep her from falling.
“Lillian’s up there,” the woman told him between gasps. “She’s there. She was calling me. There’s a dead man. Let me go!”
Sam got the woman standing upright and spoke to her firmly.
“Don’t leave,” he said. Then he yanked the ribbon loose and took the stairs two at a time, not realizing that Sabrina McFall was right behind him.
Mayor James Washington, who had been a sergeant in the Marines before coming home to Merchantsville, had been positioned for a quick exit, too. Now he came forward swiftly and took a post in front of the stairs, just in time to block Tab McFall.
“Let’s let the sheriff handle things,” he said gently. Tab glared at him, spun around and headed down the hall toward the back of the house.
Hunter felt a blast of winter air and realized that the screamer was out the front door and already on the front porch.
“Wait!” Hunter called as the woman hurtled down the steps. “You’re not supposed to leave!”
The woman didn’t look back, and Hunter wasn’t prepared to chase her down.
“Lucasta! Where’s Lucasta?”
It was Stacy Vann, limping badly.
“Where’s Lucasta?” she asked Hunter in a panic. There were beads of perspiration on her face despite the cold. “I heard her screaming!”
She winced in pain.
“If you’re talking about the woman in the long gray dress, she just ran out the door,” Hunter said, “Do you know what her name is? Is she from around here?”
“Lucasta Tilling,” Stacy said. “She lives here. I mean she lives in Merchantsville. She’s, uh, a friend of mine. Is she hurt?”
“No, I don’t think she’s hurt,” Hunter said. “She’s just very upset about something. You look like you’re the one who’s hurt. What happened?”
Looking for Lillian (Hunter Jones Mystery Book 7) Page 2