Chapter 10: Halloween Howl
I had to admit the Cleopatra outfit flattered Mama, even though the winged creature on her headpiece looked more like a turkey than a sacred Egyptian ibis. Sal was dashing as Mark Antony, garbed in a toga. Thankfully, Mama made it with an extra-long, king-size sheet, so as not to afford any inadvertent glimpses of Sal’s, uhm, sword.
The band lit into Achy Breaky Heart. Country line-dancers crowded the hardwood floor. A couple of rodeo cowboys—the real thing, not Halloween dress-up—stared each other down in what looked like a prelude to a fistfight. Some bosomy gal climbed on the bar to gyrate. In other words, despite Mama’s fiercest desire, it appeared the party at the VFW was less Halloween ball and more Himmarshee hoedown.
Still, the jack-o’-lanterns glowed, and the orange-and-black streamers hung just so. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Some members of the Tyler family even put in an appearance—minus costumes, of course. They came to thank the community for an outpouring of prayers and support. Amanda made the rounds. Her brother Deuce was conspicuously absent. I wondered why, and it wasn’t long before I got the chance to find out.
“It was terrible, Mace,” Amanda said. “He and my mother had a huge blow-out. Daddy’s body was barely cold in the ground when he started giving orders and outlining a new business plan.”
“People grieve differently. Maybe that’s the only way Deuce knew to handle it.”
She gave a vehement shake of her head. “No. He was cold as ice; not at all mournful. It was like I didn’t even know my own twin.”
I made some sympathetic murmurs, but this wasn’t the first time I’d heard of a family driven apart by a patriarch’s death. Family rifts could even motivate murder.
“Has anyone heard from your younger brother?”
“He came to the homestead after the crowd left. He said he didn’t want to show up earlier and cause a scene. He looked good, Mace. Clear-eyed and drug-free for the first time in a long while.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“It was, until Deuce kicked him out. Mother and Ronnie were consoling each other, and Deuce just blew up. Cussed him up and down, called him horrible names. Mother was heartbroken, on top of all the pain she’s already in.”
Sniffling, Amanda knuckled at tears. I handed her a red bandana, part of my annual hobo costume.
“I just don’t understand what’s gotten into Deuce.”
Money, I thought. Or power. And the chance to get more of both for himself. Of course I didn’t say so to her. Mentally, though, I added Deuce’s name to the list of those who might have wanted to see Bobby Tyler Sr. dead before his time.
I told Amanda I planned to talk to the county sheriff first thing Monday about inspecting her dad’s car.
“We’ll get this settled,” I said, embarrassed by the gratitude I saw shimmering in her eyes.
Suddenly, I heard a happy, girlish squeal: “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!” Mama cried. “Ellie, you’re a whole new woman!”
Mama had her hands on Ellie’s shoulders, turning her this way and that to admire the make-over. Highlighted hair, expert make-up, and a slinky black dress with a lacy white apron had transformed the formerly dowdy cleaning woman into a sexy French maid.
“Sal,” Mama called out, “doesn’t Ellie look gorgeous?”
I saw him hesitate. Answering in the negative would be rude (and untrue). But a yes might light the fire of Mama’s jealousy. Once ignited, it was tough to extinguish. He opted for avoidance. “How’s about I get you two gals some drinks?”
When he returned, Ellie placed a freshly manicured hand on his cheek and cooed, “I love a generous gentleman, and of such generous proportions, too.”
Brazenly, she licked her lips and let her eyes track down the front of Sal’s toga. Her gaze rolled past his belly to linger on the region of his, ahem, sword. Mama’s brows shot up. Her jealousy was building to a bonfire. I felt the heat from several feet away. Fortunately, my sisters and their husbands arrived just in time to create a distraction.
“Look at Maddie and Marty’s costumes, Mama! Aren’t they clever?”
The theme for Maddie and her husband was Star Wars. She was Darth Vader. Marty and her spouse were dolled up—literally—as Raggedy Ann and Andy.
When Mama turned to look, Ellie placed a possessive hand on Sal’s chest. She gave her lips another lick and whispered, “Later, Big Man.” Then she sashayed off, swinging her hips.
I heard Sal swallow.
I inherited my sharp senses from Mama, who had heard Ellie’s whisper. She click-clacked across the dance floor, pursuing the housekeeper. The turkey-ibis on her head bobbed to a heated rhythm.
Mama called out, “I’d like a word with you.”
Showing Mama the talk-to-the-hand sign, Ellie kept walking.
That sign triggered something in my mind, but all thoughts flew away as what happened next came quickly. Catching up, Mama tugged on the bow of that lacy apron. Ellie whirled, and the apron came off. Reaching into a deep pocket of her tight black dress, Ellie slid out a knife. Mama went stiff, the apron she held blowing in a ceiling fan’s breeze. Ellie lunged. Mama ducked.
Before any of us could react, Ellie slashed downward, toward Mama’s face. Mama reached up to defend herself, still grasping the apron. Howling in pain, she collapsed. Ellie bolted. My whole body went cold when I saw blood, bright red, spreading across white lace.
Chapter 11: The Reckoning
“Bring another clean bar towel,” I yelled, applying pressure to one already soaked through.
Maddie ran for the towel. Marty and I tried to calm Mama, who wanted to sit up when the best thing for her was to lie down. Sal had fled out the door, in pursuit of Ellie.
Because people get hurt in nature parks in Florida, I’m trained in first aid. I’ve had a lot of experience with injuries. I saw right away the cut to Mama’s head was not deep. But because the blood vessels are so close to the skin, head wounds bleed. A lot.
“You’re going to be okay, Mama,” I reassured her, hoping I was right. Her color was good, she wasn’t cold or clammy, and she was able to respond to questions.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Of course I do! The Halloween ball.”
“Whatever,” Marty said, and the two of us exchanged weak smiles.
Sal returned, looking dejected, and said, “I couldn’t find her,” just as Carlos arrived.
We quickly brought the two men up to speed. Ellie was the assailant; Mama’s bleeding was slowing. At the edge of my consciousness, a faint, though familiar, sound struck a memory chord. An engine sputtered and stopped. Sputtered and stopped.
“I hear Ellie’s car, Carlos! She’s parked out back.”
Within moments, he’d located and apprehended her. Now, he marched her, handcuffed, into the VFW. He shoved her none too gently into a chair a few feet from us.
“Is this the individual who assaulted you?” he asked Mama.
“You mean tried to kill me? Yes.”
Mama looked at Ellie with eyes that seemed more sad than angry. “Why’d you do this? What have I ever done to you?”
Ellie answered—a long, convoluted tale—of how her life would have been different, better, certainly richer, if only Mama hadn’t taken Bobby Tyler from her all those years ago. “You had to pay,” she said.
She talked about saving what she could from her job in Vegas, so she could return to Himmarshee. She’d set her sights on Sal, payback to Mama for “stealing” Bobby. Her plan was to scare Mama, to send her away. She bragged about the loosened picture, the phone calls, and all the ghost tricks she’d engineered: “You were so easy to fool.”
In the end, Ellie decided getting rid of Mama permanently was an easier path to Sal.
It didn’t make much sense. Ellie was obsessed. She wasn’t sane. As she talked, she ran her manicured fingers through her colored hair. Watching, I suddenly remembered what D’Vora had said about Ellie’s hands: A maid and
an amateur mechanic.
“So you wanted to punish Mama with murder,” I blurted out, “the same way you punished Bobby?”
She stared at me blankly.
“I thought it was Lamar, but it was you. You tampered with his car. You killed him.”
Carlos coughed. I glanced at him. He shook his head.
“What do you mean, no?”
“You were right the first time, mi amor,” he answered. “Lamar Johnson got drunk at the Last Chance Saloon, and started bragging about the crash. He confessed. He’s in jail, charged with the murder of Bobby Tyler Sr.”
Maddie gave my arm a consoling pat: “Nobody’s right every time.”
Marty had been silent, thoughtful-looking, throughout Ellie’s recital. Finally, she said, “I’m surprised y’all didn’t mention some of these coincidences about Ellie to me.”
“Like what?” Mama asked.
“Like ‘Mrs. Danvers.’ That name didn’t ring any bells?”
The rest of us exchanged puzzled looks.
“Rebecca? By Daphne du Maurier?” She sounded irked. “It’s only one of the most famous Gothic mysteries ever written.”
We remained obtuse.
“In our defense, Marty, we’re not all librarians,” I said. “I work with critters. They can’t read.”
Slowly, as if speaking to children, Marty synopsized the book’s plot: “Mrs. Danvers is an obsessed housekeeper. She tortures a young wife she sees as an interloper. The setting is a ghostly mansion called Manderley. Get it?”
Silence from the rest of us.
“The book’s Mrs. Danvers is a housekeeper at Manderley, the mansion?” Her tone was nearly pleading as she pointed at Ellie. “This Mrs. Danvers was in housekeeping at Mandalay, the hotel. Pretty close, right?”
Marty gazed at us, waiting in vain for a single synapse to fire. Sal stirred his cocktail. Maddie straightened her Darth Vader cape. Mama gingerly touched her bloody head.
Carlos narrowed his eyes at his prisoner. So did I. The same worshipful smile Ellie had worn while gazing at Sal was now trained on my little sister.
“Marty, you’re the only one smart enough to get me. Wasn’t my du Maurier homage clever?”
Marty’s face reddened to match her Raggedy Ann rouge. “Only if you define clever as crazy!”
Carlos stood. “I hate to break up the literary discussion, but it’s time to book this Mrs. Danvers in jail.”
He turned, a spark just for me in his eyes. “Will you wait up?”
“Always,” I answered, anticipating a hauntingly hot Halloween treat.
--The End--
A former USA Today reporter, Deborah Sharp traded sad news for funny fiction with her Southern-fried Mace Bauer Mysteries. Think Janet Evanovich, if Stephanie Plum had a couple of cousins named Bubba. Deborah rode a horse across Florida for research, and chatted with Al Roker on the Today show. She was less nervous about the horse. Deborah lives with her husband Kerry Sanders in Florida, where she spends her spare time chasing iguanas from the hibiscus. Mama Gets Trashed is her fifth book. Visit her online at www.DeborahSharp.com
Kiki Lowenstein and a ‘Doodoo’ to Remember: A Kiki Lowenstein Short Story
By Joanna Campbell Slan
Editor’s Note: The first book in Joanna’s bestselling Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series was a finalist for the Agatha Award. The series is soon to deliver Book #13, and young mother Kiki Lowenstein continues to win new friends with every outing. In this short story, a fun family outing turns into a fearful fright, but Kiki Lowenstein is good at sniffing out bad guys.
Diarrhea in a Great Dane isn’t just a problem; it’s a natural disaster. Consequently, when I walked my pooch back into the house that October morning, I was not a happy camper.
“Okay, who fed Gracie the extra dog treats?” As I glared at the faces gathered around the breakfast table, I unclipped my rescue pup and fisted my hands on my hips. “Who fed her people food?”
Not a peep.
Anya, my thirteen-year-old daughter, tapped her spoon against a mound of oatmeal. Ty, our eight-month-old baby, squished a handful of applesauce in his fist. Detweiler, my husband, frowned. Brawny, our Scottish nanny, cocked her head to one side and poured herself more tea. That left Erik, our five-year-old son, to glance about furtively.
“Erik? Did you give the dog an extra treat? Honey, I need to know. If she’s had an extra treat, she’ll be fine soon. If not, I might need to take her to the vet.”
Rather than answer, he buried his face in his small chocolate brown hands. With a hiccup, he stuttered, “S-s-s-she was hungry and I feeded her.”
“You know that she has a sensitive tummy. Even if she looks hungry, she can only have the food I feed her.” With a sigh, I shook my head at him. Not that he could see me. Although I could glimpse those brown eyes through the forest of fingers, he wasn’t looking my way. He was staring off into space and trying not to cry.
“It’s all right.” Anya slipped a comforting arm around Erik’s shoulders.
“Mama Kiki yelled at me,” Erik whimpered.
“No, she didn’t,” Anya corrected him kindly, as she adjusted the scrunchie holding her platinum blond hair neatly away from her face. “She’s not mad. Tonight is Halloween, Mom’s favorite holiday. Remember? You’re going to have lots of fun trick-or-treating. Trust me, buddy.”
Erik had grown up in California with his biological mother and his step-father in a very wealthy and adult household. The fact he had never been trick-or-treating came as a shock to the rest of the family until Brawny explained why. “The houses were too spread out. We had a six-foot tall security fence around the property. Trick-or-treaters never came to our door. Of course, we never celebrated Halloween in the UK the way you Yankees do here.”
“Your sister is right,” Detweiler said, moving over to pick up the boy and cuddle him. “You and Ty will have lots of fun when you go out with Mama Kiki tonight.”
“Gwacie,” Erik whined. “I want Gwacie to come. Please?”
I joined my husband and son for a group hug. “Of course she can.”
~*~
All day long Gracie’s tummy rumbled like a Humvee driving over a pockmarked road. Her distress caused noxious gases that she emitted while snoozing in her doggie playpen in the back of my store. Twice poor Margit came out of the back room, gagging as Gracie’s chemical warfare drove the sturdy German woman from her bookkeeping tasks. In fact, the fumes were so potent that Margit’s eyes watered behind her cat-eye glasses.
At five p.m., I left the store in my pal Clancy’s capable hands.
“I should think that after all these years, you can trust me to run a crop,” she said. “You think I can’t help our customers turn cheese containers into Cheesy Pumpkin Albums?” There was a whiff of annoyance in her stance, but Clancy never gets too angry with me. She’s a true-blue pal.
“You know I do,” I said, to the woman who could have played Jackie Kennedy in a bio-pic. Clancy’s classic auburn bob, her patrician features, and her impeccable taste combine to make her the picture of elegance. The scent of her Chanel No. 5 perfume mingled with Margit’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. I couldn’t help myself from eating another one. My third. Or fourth. I’d lost count.
“Then scat!” and Clancy pointed to the door. “And take that smelly fart machine with you, please.”
~*~
Ty had no idea why we were shoving his chubby little legs into a Batman costume. Nor did he care. For the most part, he was an easy baby. Sure, he’d been colicky until he reached six months of age, but now he was usually cheerful. While he cooed at me, I talked soothingly to Erik. “After you ring the doorbell, what do you say?”
“Twit or tweet!” he screamed.
Close enough. I’d decided that visiting the twelve houses on our city block in Webster Groves, Missouri, would be more than enough excitement for one evening. Erik was already totally “hyphy” as Anya and her friends would say. A party at his school had given him a preview of
coming events—and yes, he was on a sugar-induced rollercoaster ride.
“Are ye sure ye don’t want me to come along?” Brawny adjusted the suspenders on Erik’s Ghostbusters costume. In her garb of a kilt, knee socks and a crisp white blouse, she always looked as if she was in some sort of a drama production, but we’d come to know this as Brawny’s regular attire. Tonight of all nights, she’d fit right in.
“Someone needs to answer the door here.” I picked up Ty and worked his tiny feet into the baby carrier I wore like an oversized, front loading backpack.
“Aye.” Her eyes twinkled. “I have a surprise I’m working on. It’ll be ready when you get back. I’m sewing costumes for the cats.”
I was glad my back was to her when I rolled my eyes. I could only imagine how our two kitties would feel about getting gussied up for Halloween.
With that, we were ready to go…except Gracie blocked our egress through the back door. Her tummy problems had kept all of us running in and out in response to her needs.
“You can’t answer the front door and deal with her at the same time,” I said. The magnitude of the problem hadn’t hit me until that moment. An excited Gracie might lose control of herself and have an accident. That would be messy. Very, very messy.
“I want Gwacie!” Erik hollered, as he threw his arms around the dog’s neck. “Gwacie come too!”
In my black pants, black tee, baby carrier and extra baby weight, I could double for the Michelin Man. Why not add a huge black and white dog into the mix? She didn’t have a costume, but then again, she didn’t need it. I could always say she was a small child wearing harlequin spotted fur. So it was decided. We’d no more than trooped down the driveway when Gracie assumed the position. A stink enveloped all of us. Erik buried his face in the leg of my pants. “No more tweets for Gracie.”
“That’s right.” I hugged him. “Look around, buddy. See all the trick-or-treaters in their costumes?”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 57