Murder on the Ol' Bunions (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery)

by S. Dionne Moore

  “What’s going on in here?” Chief said as he came back, pad of paper in hand.

  Mark’s gaze met mine. He pointed. “Guess the table wasn’t as heavy as I thought. I leaned against it and it slid.”

  “Better leave it, then. The state police will be breathing down my neck if everything is messed up. Are you ready?”

  Mark and I filed out to the car ahead of Chief. He stopped to secure the store.

  “If you don’t mind, Chief, I think I’ll head out on foot. I need to get over to city hall for the council meeting.” He paused, eyes shifting back toward the store. “Do you think I could get in there again with a piano mover to get an estimate?”

  “You call me,” was all Chief conceded. He held the front door open for me and I fell onto the seat, glad to be off my feet.

  I watched as Mark walked to the front of the hotel and turned the corner toward his restaurant, wondering about his little stunt in the shop. Something about his interest in that piano and those books and bookcase didn’t ring quite true, but if someone asked me why, I wouldn’t have any idea how to answer. It was just a feeling.

  The citizens of Maple Gap put in a strong showing at the city council meeting on Marion’s building. Councilman Lester Riley seemed pleased by the turnout, evidenced by the twinkle in his eye at every person who walked through the back door. Rumor had it that Lester was working to replace Eugene Taser as mayor in the next race. I’d vote for him. Lester’s heart was in the right place and his wife, Mary, would see no sense in puffing herself up like the current Mayor’s wife.

  Dressed in his best—a clean pair of overalls—Lester, greeted us as he would anyone; a howdy for me, and a sound slap on the back for Hardy. I made sure to check out his boots, too. Never can tell when a farmer, especially a dairy farmer, might be carrying lethal cow patties on the bottoms of their boots. To my surprise, he had on fancy cowboy boots. Who’d have thought for a minute he owned anything other than those galoshes thingies he always wore, even around town.

  I spied Payton sitting in the front row, still in monochromatic white. His expression matched his clothes. Made me wonder why this whole incident with Marion’s building concerned him so much. It had certainly surprised everyone when he blocked Marion’s sale by spouting arguments of the building’s historical value. Secretly, I doubted the city council had been impressed by the arguments he’d presented two weeks ago. After all, building more houses equaled more taxable households for the city.

  Other familiar faces lined the rows next to and behind Payton, mostly older townsfolk who hated to see the building be torn down because they didn’t like change.

  I didn’t like change either, but I knew it was inevitable.

  Shock ran along my nerves when I spotted Dana Letzburg. Slouched in a chair in the last row, her gray t-shirt and black jeans gave the impression that she wanted to disappear. When she caught me looking, she gave a wan smile, like one recovering from serious illness. It seemed fitting she be present, somehow. The building had been part of the legend that had made the Letzburg name so well known.

  Mark sat in his usual place with the rest of the council. Valorie sat with those citizens who supported the building being destroyed. She looked confident and fresh, though I figured the townspeople would be torn in their feelings about her. On one hand, she’d been caught cheating and branded untrustworthy as a result. On the other, her mother had just died and most would feel it noble of her to take up her mother’s cause.

  As Lester called the meeting to order, I found my seat. Hardy had slipped up to talk to Payton. He skedaddled back to me, his grin wide.

  Lester began by allowing some of the citizens to speak on behalf of saving the building, citing historical reasons. Then the opposing side spoke. Valorie didn’t say much. She really didn’t have to. As soon as she hit the podium, the tears started.

  “My mother needed the money and felt the town needed the new growth to survive since many of the children raised here move away shortly after graduating.” She paused for a long beat and made good use of the wad of tissues in her hand. “I hope the city council will vote to fulfill my mother’s dream for the town.”

  Short, sweet and to the point. Payton didn’t look up once during her entire talk. I think he knew he was going to lose the vote.

  And he did.

  The council voted four to one, minus Mark’s vote, in favor of selling the building to the contracting company. Mark never breathed a word of explanation as to his recusal. Maybe it had something to do with him being a history buff? Or that his daughter now owned the building? But for that to be the case, Mark would have had to have known Marion would die, then get the news to the paper in time for it to be in the hands of Maple Gapites the next day.

  Lester caught me before I left, pumped my hand and asked me when I was going to run for city council. I laughed. He didn’t.

  Out of my peripheral vision, I caught Hardy dashing away as I listened to Lester list the reasons I’d make a good councilwoman. Mark snuck by the crowd, sheltering Valorie from the people with a polite smile and forward momentum.

  “You’d make a great councilwoman, LaTisha. Think on it,” Lester encouraged me.

  “Bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo isn’t my cup of tea. I even hate tea.” From there, my mind split between the conversation with Lester and puzzling over where Hardy had got off to.

  It took me awhile to disentangle myself from Lester, but I managed, only after promising to think things over. The crowd had thinned considerably, but I didn’t see Hardy’s hiked drawers anywhere in the building.

  Night air, warm with a cool breeze, sharpened my temper. That man had better not taken off without me.

  A low whisper of voices caught my attention as I descended the two steps to the curb. The voices were coming from behind a tall privet hedge. Neither sounded like Hardy. I continued down the sidewalk, curious enough to take a peek and see who it was and ask if they’d seen Hardy. I stopped cold when I glimpsed Hardy’s body wedged between two of the bushes, his ear obviously cocked toward the conversation.

  “What you doin’ in there?”

  He brought his finger to his lips and rolled his eyes.

  The voices stopped talking. He frowned at me.

  How was I supposed to know he was eavesdropping? I thought he’d gone and lost his mind, pretending he was a shrub or something.

  Hardy slipped out of the hedge and wagged his hands in front of him, hustling me toward our car. I moved as fast as I could, trying to shut my door as quietly as possible. Hardy hunkered down behind the steering wheel.

  “I can’t get down that low.”

  “Then sit there and act as if you’re waiting on me,” he said. “Let me know who comes out of that hedge.”

  We waited like that for about ten minutes before Payton slid out of the break in the bushes about ten feet farther up from where I’d found Hardy. He got into his car and left.

  “Payton.”

  “Did he see you?”

  I crossed my arms. “It’s dark. Hard to see black skin in the dark.”

  “No one else?”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when Dana popped out of the privet hedge opening, looked up and down the sidewalk, and made a bee-line for her car.

  “Dana,” I said. “She’s getting in her car right now.”

  Her headlights wiped a circle around us as she pulled out of her parking space.

  Hardy unfolded himself from the floorboard. “As soon as the meeting was over, I saw Dana and Payton pass each other in the hall. Looked like they were giving each other some kind of signal, so I followed them. Not a bad piece of detective work if I do say so.”

  “What’d you learn?”

  He turned on the motor and flicked on the headlights. “Couldn’t hear too much. Something about his shop and them getting together there after midnight.”

  What in the world did Dana and Payton have going?

  “There’s another little thing.” Hardy dug around
in the breast pocket of his seer-sucker shirt. “As Payton high-tailed it out of that meeting he slipped his wallet out and these fluttered to the ground.”

  These turned out to be a receipt from the dry cleaners and several stubs of lottery tickets. “He must be playing hard.”

  “Guess he’s stopped terrorizing the fire-hall bingo regulars and expanded to the Lotto.” Hardy whistled low.

  My mind shifted from one thing to another. If Hardy’d overheard Payton say something to Dana about his apartment, I might think they had a thing for each other. But his shop?

  As Hardy guided the car down Gold Street, I made up my mind.

  “When you get home, I want you to change out of those beige pants and put on something black.”

  He looked at me like I’d plucked my head bald. “What you thinkin’, woman?”

  “We’re going to walk over to Payton’s shop at midnight. You and I are going to do a little spying.”

  I crossed my arms and huffed at the ceiling, where shuffling feet and an occasional thump let me know Hardy was hard at work getting dressed. If we were going to get to the rehearsal on time, he needed to move faster. I was always waiting on that man. With as little meat as he had on his bones, he should take less time than anyone to get dressed. At least he didn’t have to tuck his excess into a pair of pantyhose. I could pin on a hat in less time than it took him to stick a leg into his drawers.

  Tonight, I vowed I wouldn’t say a word, no matter how slow he moved. When the phone rang, I plucked it off its base and barked my greeting.

  “Momma?”

  Shayna. Funny, I should have been delighted, but in light of the other cancellations, I dreaded the call. Maybe she wanted to chat. After all, it had been awhile since I’d called her. If not for this investigation, I would have, being that Wednesday is my normal night to reach out and touch my children. No matter what, after my talk with Hardy, I vowed I’d handle myself better if she called to back out of Easter dinner.

  “It’s about time you call your momma.”

  Shayna’s laughter made me smile. “You must be waiting on Pop to get dressed. You have that edge to your voice.”

  That made me grin. How well they knew their father and me. “You haven’t heard the latest. Sit down and I’ll fill your ear.”

  “Sounds serious.” Her voice faded away for a second. She must have switched ears or something. “What’s going on in Maple Gap?”

  I inhaled, savoring that moment when I knew something someone else didn’t. “I found Marion Peters deader than dead in her shop this past Tuesday.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.” I nodded, as if she could see me, pleased at her reaction.

  “What happened?”

  “Not sure yet. With all the classes I’ve taken, I’m trying to piece things together. The state police did the forensics work, but you know how small town people react to big town folks. Marion’s funeral is Saturday. They promise to release the body in time. I’ve got to get over there tonight and practice, Valorie’s wanting me to sing. You gonna come to the funeral?”

  “Uh, I’m thinkin’ I’ll be busy, Momma.”

  I closed my eyes. “We could sing together, like we did when you was young.”

  The other end of the conversation got quiet. “But I’m all grown up now. Didn’t like singing then and still don’t.”

  “You’ve got a beautiful voice, Shayna, you should use it.”

  “Actually. . .” She mumbled something.

  “What you say?” The voice in the background at Shayna’s sounded deep. Definitely male. “Is that Rhys I hear?

  “Sorry, momma. Yeah, it’s him. Anyway, what I called to tell you is important. Can Pop get on the other line?”

  I reared my head back. “Hardy! You pick up that phone now, you hear? It’s our baby.”

  “That’s my ear you’re yelling into, Momma.”

  “Sorry, honey. You heard from your brothers?”

  “Talked to Tyrone last night. Cora’s doing fine. She’s had some Braxton-Hicks. Tyrone got real nervous.”

  A click on the line and Hardy’s voice came on. “I’m here.”

  “Momma, Pop . . . ” I steeled myself for whatever announcement was coming, reminding myself to play it down if she couldn’t come to dinner. “Me and Rhys are getting married!”

  As Hardy babbled his surprise and congratulations, my mind floated on another plane entirely. My remain-cool-at-all-costs promise didn’t take in this kind of announcement. For sure! “You haven’t been dating long enough to get married.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d said it out loud until I heard Hardy’s tone. “Tisha.”

  “We’ve known each other a long time, Momma. I always admired him in college and we took a course together. Worked on a project together for an entire semester.”

  “That’s different than working on a lifetime together.” I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Momma, he’s a good man. Has a great job.”

  “You bringing him home for Easter supper?”

  “Well. . .”

  I refused to let the salt gathering in my eyes start spilling all over the floor. “Tell my son-in-law-to-be that I guess I’ll see him at the wedding then.”

  “We were thinking we’d go to the Justice of the Peace. You know. Small wedding, just the two of us. No fuss or frills.”

  Hardy was responding to her, but I couldn’t take anymore and slammed the phone down.

  Thirty minutes later, Hardy appeared in the doorway of the living room. “You comin’?”

  I pulled another tissue from the box and blotted my eyes. Jamming my feet back into my shoes, I noted Hardy’s short-sleeved shirt. “It’s chilly tonight, you’ll need a coat.”

  “I’ll get one.”

  We rode in silence, though I heard voices from long ago—the chatter of my babies as I hauled them to school, picked them up from a bake sale, or from fall carnival. Their little bodies would smell of sweets and fresh air.

  Saturday mornings meant trips to the bakery on Gold Street that specialized in hometown goodness. The children would each get a free cookie of their choice. Mrs. Gudeese always had a smile and a warm sticky bun, cinnamon roll, or loaf of cinnamon-raisin bread.

  Then she died and the store shut down, hollow and empty.

  Marion’s store would shut down soon, too.

  Payton would be forced to move if the council gave the okay to the contractor, hoping the new homes would lure city folk from Denver. What would Hardy do without Payton’s shop?

  Maybe I should talk to Payton and convince him to move into the old bakery, that way we’d at least keep him in town, where he belonged.

  Too many changes.

  Hardy pulled into the church’s driveway, lifting a hand in greeting to Pastor Haudaire, a good man of God in the small town for as far back as I could remember. Probably hovering around his fiftieth anniversary of preaching.

  “How old you think Pastor is?”

  Hardy turned off the car and smothered a belch. His bottom lip pooched out. “Forty-eight, forty-nine years he’s been here. Probably sixty-nine or thereabouts.”

  Something inside me deflated at the news. That meant the Pastor, who looked so very old, was only about twelve years older than me. I swung the door wide, braced my hand along the roof of the car and aimed my feet toward the pavement. Hardy hauled me out and up onto my feet.

  “You’d think with all this walking I’m doing, I’d lose weight.”

  “You weighted yourself lately?”

  “Weigh-ed, not weighted, and, no, the scale and I aren’t on speaking terms.”

  “It told you the truth, did it?”

  I drilled him with my eyes. “You better shut your trap before I yank them britches up so high you’ll sing with the angels.”

  His eyes glittered. “I sing with angels all the time, next to you in church.”

  “Oh, you’s a sweet talker when you want to be.”

  He slammed the door. “A smart man
knows when to wag his tongue in the honey pot.”

  I winced as Hardy greeted the pastor with a hearty slap on the back, even though the elderly man seemed frail as glass. I shook Pastor’s hand and moved into the sanctuary where Mark and Valorie sat together on the last pew.

  Up front, the organist practiced a slow, mournful song. No choir to sing for Marion, I noticed, but then some people didn’t want a whole group singing at their funeral.

  By the looks of Valorie, she hadn’t done much else but cry. I settled myself beside the girl and pulled her into a hug.

  Tears sprang to my eyes and I didn’t know if they were sympathy tears for Valorie, or genuine tears of grief for Marion. Maybe tears for myself. “Let’s get this crying done so’s I can rehearse.”

  Hardy waited until the organist finished and proceeded to the front where he sat down at the piano and ran through a few small pieces he always used when “getting limber” as he called it.

  As I held Valorie, Mark went to the front to lean on the glossy mahogany piano to listen. Hardy never disappointed his listeners. After being married to him for so long, listening over and over to the hundreds of songs he could play or pick out, or even create, I could sometimes still be surprised by the immensity of his gift. He began “Amazing Grace.” At first he added a jazz feel to the notes, then it mellowed and softened into a flowing river of promise to the listener. His hands crossed over the keyboard, then down again, and the notes floated and wrapped me in the blanket of their mercy.

  Emotions spilled through me until the tears came anew and when I could stand it no longer, I released them. My voice, a soft, low rumble, built with the intensity of Hardy’s playing until everything slipped away and I imagined heaven opening its doors and ushering me in. A great longing welled as I held that last note and my mind came back to the reality of the cold, hard world, and the newness of death experienced by the young woman laying like a child against my breast.