Dying to Get Even

by Judy Fitzwater

  It was a beautiful day, and maybe a nice drive would be relaxing.

  Mrs. Walker had ordered her to stay out of the case, but a little visit to Lisa’s hometown of Lorraine could hardly count. Besides, she drove down there all the time—at least once every two years or so on her way to get peaches.

  It was lovely country, and if she didn’t blink, she wouldn’t miss the tiny bit of a town not much more than spitting distance from Macon.

  Jennifer parked her Bug in front of the Lorraine Post Office, a small, brick building on the corner, and got out. A bell rang over the door when she entered.

  “Mornin’.” A cheery, plump, middle-aged woman with hair piled haphazardly onto her head greeted her from behind the counter. “Hot, don’t ya think?” The words came with a curious yet friendly stare over a small pair of reading glasses.

  Jennifer nodded.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, putting down the stack of mail she had been sorting and leaning on the counter with both arms.

  Jennifer adopted a shy smile. Maxie had been an actress. How hard could it be?

  “I’m working on my family tree,” she drawled, pushing the Southern lilt a bit past her normal speech. “I think some of my distant relatives may have settled in this area. You wouldn’t happen to know…”

  “I know most everyone who lives in this zip code and pretty much all of their kin. Who you got in mind?” The woman could as easily have been a bartender asking her what she’d have to drink.

  “It’s my great-grandmother’s family, actually.”

  “Name?”

  “Mayfield.”

  The woman’s smile faded a little. “Oh.”

  Oh?

  “If it’s the Abraham Mayfield family you want, your best bet would be Melissa Bordeaux. She’s what you might call the reigning matriarch of the clan and the sanest one of the lot. If anyone’s likely to know who’s related to who in that tangled group, it’d be her.”

  “And where would I find Ms. Bordeaux?”

  For several seconds the woman stared at her as though sizing her up. “Tell you what. I’ll give her a quick call and see if she’s up to a visit this mornin’.” A polite way of saying: I have no intention of giving out her address without her permission.

  Jennifer tried nonchalantly to busy herself by looking about the place, all the while straining to overhear the phone conversation. But the woman turned her back and spoke so softly, she couldn’t make out a word.

  When the woman turned back to her, she was wearing a smile. “This morning’s fine. Stay south on the main road about four miles, hang a left at the fork, and then take a right at the mailbox that looks like a miniature barn. And keep an eye out for Benjamin.”

  “Who’s Benjamin?”

  “The goat. He’s penned in the yard. Go to the side door, not through the fence. ‘Cause he’ll butt if you turn your back on him.”

  Classy.

  Sweet. Melissa Bordeaux seemed every bit as sweet as the banana cake she handed to Jennifer with a dollop of real whipped cream, even if she did keep the meanest billy goat Jennifer had ever come across. When she’d bent to admire the beautifully tended flowers, he’d almost gotten her through the fence that surrounded most of the old, weather-beaten farmhouse. Fortunately, the back porch had been left free for people to come and go.

  The old lady leaned forward in her slipcovered chair and freshened Jennifer’s coffee.

  “I don’t rightly see how your great-grandmother could be related to us, Miss…”

  “Marsh,” Jennifer supplied on reflex, catching herself just a tad too late. She should have cut out her tongue before this visit. She’d hoped to get by without having to give a name.

  “Yes, well, Miss Marsh, my family doesn’t seem to have misplaced any of our kinfolk. You say she was abducted by Indians at the age of seven?”

  “Native Americans, actually.” As if using the politically correct term would somehow make up for accusing a proud and honest people of kidnapping. Jennifer shifted on the old sofa. “Actually, she may have simply been lost. Yes, I think that was it.”

  The woman seemed to be considering this possibility.

  “Or crazy,” Jennifer added, confident that the insanity apparent in her great-grandmother’s offspring would lend an air of authenticity to her story. She bit her lip. She’d been talking too much again, a major character flaw.

  Maxie would never have let the conversation get so out of hand. She was there to get information, not give it. “You were telling me about your family,” Jennifer reminded her, stuffing another bite of cake into her mouth to ensure she kept quiet.

  “We’ve got family all over central and southern Georgia doing just about anything you can think of to do. Why, there’s farmers, police, teachers, even got one down at the DMV. You name it, we’ve got it.”

  “Actually, I was more interested in the family right here in Lorraine, if it does turn out I’m related to you.”

  “I don’t hardly know what to tell you. There was three of us girls and three boys that made it to adulthood. Me, of course. I’m the eldest. I had two girls and a boy. I’ve got seven grandchildren and over fifteen great-grandchildren.” The woman beamed her pride in the direction of a wall full of photographs.

  “My sister Priscilla never married. ’Course, you wouldn’t be interested in her. She went off to Tennessee, became a librarian, died ’bout two years back. My other sister, Dorothy, married Mitchell Billings. They moved up to Macon and had a passel of young-uns—eight, I think. Let me see for sure. There was Petey, Pansy, Butch…”

  This was like sorting BBs. But Melissa would have to get to the boys eventually.

  “My brother Ralph was killed in the war. Buster married young and had three girls. And when Lester finally did get around to marrying, he and Lucille only had the one son.”

  So Lester’s son had to be Lisa’s father, unless this whole conversation had been for naught and Lisa was from some wayward branch of the Mayfield family tree.

  “Wow!” Jennifer exclaimed. “You must have some family reunions.”

  “Every summer. Of course, the number gets smaller each year,” she admitted sadly. “The young-uns—they don’t go in so much for family.” She stretched over and patted Jennifer’s hand. “That’s one reason I’m so glad to help you out, a fine young woman like yourself, looking for your roots.”

  Melissa shoved her glasses farther up on her nose, inspected Jennifer’s face, and shook her head. “You’re a mighty pretty little thing, but I just don’t see any family resemblance.”

  The woman pushed up from her armchair and got her cane under her hand. She was taller than Jennifer had realized, and more muscular than fleshy. Still, she strained to take her first step, and Jennifer put down her cake to help.

  “No, you sit still,” Melissa ordered. “I’ll be fine once I get going. This arthritis is not going to be what stops me.”

  She managed the few steps to the paneled wall that was covered with family photos in cheap frames and plucked down a large, color shot. She balanced on the cane as she ran her hands over the glass, sending dust floating to the floor. Then she brought it back and offered it to Jennifer.

  “This was the last really big reunion. Must have been fifteen, sixteen years ago. One of Dorothy’s sons was working at a photography studio that year. He had one made for each of the brothers and sisters. Take a look at it. I don’t think you’ll see anybody that looks anything like you.”

  Jennifer scanned the photo. The older folks had been caught laughing, smiling. There was Melissa, younger, straighter, darker hair, her arms circling an older man who held himself steady with a cane. She skimmed the teenagers on their knees in the second row and their younger siblings directly in front of them, her eyes drawn immediately to the far left—that had to be Lisa. But her hair was dark and her face looked fresh and soft and sweet.

  “And the food that year! My goodness!” Melissa let out a guffaw as she collapsed back into her
chair. “You’ve never seen or tasted anything like it! Even the young folk brought in their best dishes. Many of them were in 4-H, and most nearly all of them participated in the county fair, girls and boys alike. Blue ribbons, reds, whites—we took them all.”

  The banana cake was definitely worthy of a best of show, as Jennifer knew after making desserts and pastries for Dee Dee’s catering business.

  “This cake is utterly delicious,” Jennifer agreed.

  “Won two years in a row, 1957 and 1958. I retired it after that. Time to give someone else a chance.”

  “I’d love to have the recipe.”

  The smile dropped from Melissa’s face. Immediately, Jennifer realized she had crossed onto sacred ground.

  “I don’t give out my recipes.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

  The smile returned. “Of course you didn’t. That’s all right.”

  Melissa eased herself next to Jennifer on the couch. “But you see what I mean?” She laughed. “I don’t see anyone that looks the least bit like you in that picture. No taffy-colored hair.”

  There was a familiarity within the group, some shared roundness of features, a bend to the nose, something that gave them that family look.

  “Who’s this?” Jennifer asked, casually pointing out Lisa.

  “Now she was some young-un. Lester’s granddaughter. Found the cosmetics store before she was tall enough to reach the counter. She was Lorraine’s Miss Peach her senior year in high school. Pretty little thing, but with a tendency to gain weight. You could tell even then. Sweet child.”

  Yeah, real sweet.

  “What happened to her?”

  “We’re right proud of her. She and her husband run that chain of Edgar’s Down Home Grills. I always knew that girl would be something special, that one. Yes, siree. Something special.”

  Jennifer had to agree that Lisa was, indeed, special. Anyone who could instill that much fear could not be described as average.

  She put her plate on the coffee table and stood up. What had she expected to find in Lorraine anyway? Early evidence of Lisa’s homicidal tendencies? “I’ve got to go,” she said.

  “So soon? We were just getting acquainted.”

  Jennifer nodded. “I had to flip the lever for the reserve tank in my Volkswagen, so I need to get to a gas station before I run out of gas.” She’d used that excuse before. The logic didn’t hold, but the trick was to get out before the person she was talking to had enough time to think about what she was saying.

  Melissa walked her out and stood on the porch as Jennifer opened the car door. “Now isn’t that the cutest little thing. I haven’t seen one of those Bugs in a coon’s age.”

  “Thanks again,” Jennifer called as she turned the car around.

  She pulled out of the dirt driveway and took off for Macon feeling strangely unsettled. She couldn’t shake the feeling that in her encounter with Melissa Bordeaux, somehow she’d given more than she’d gotten.

  Chapter 14

  Maxie watched as the crane swung over the huge industrial vat and lowered the leather harness toward the milky chocolate. One uniformed policeman strained from his position atop a step ladder and prodded the bobbing mass in the direction of another officer who, with his sleeves rolled and elbows chocolate deep, cursed as he draped the harness about the body. Licking his fingers, he gave the okay, and the machinery groaned as the body was pulled from the brown goo, dripping like an oversized bonbon.

  Rinnnnnng. Rinnnnnng. Rinnnnnng.

  Maxie turned, her nose thumping into the chest of police sergeant Oscar Mobley. “You still here?” he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.

  “I’m working security. You know that,” she chided.

  “You were working security. Your employer is now a giant Milky Way bar.”

  It was true. Rufus Donaldson was dead, but he’d given her a retainer like she’d never seen before, and she owed him at least a month’s work, a month she intended to see that he got.

  Rinnnnnng. Rinnnnnng. Rinnnnnng.

  “What’s that infernal ringing?” Mobley asked.

  “Must be a glitch in the machinery,” Maxie offered.

  Rinnnnnng. Rinnnnnng. Rinnnnnng.

  Muffy woofed lazily at Jennifer’s feet, stretched, and, whining, sauntered over to the door. Jennifer pushed back from the computer and raked away the mess of hair that was tangled over her forehead.

  Oh, crud. The doorbell.

  She glanced at her watch. Five minutes after seven. It couldn’t be! After she’d gotten back from Lorraine, she’d grabbed a sandwich and sat down to write for just a few minutes. She must have dropped into some kind of time warp. Was it tonight that she’d invited Sam over for dinner?

  She ran to the door and peered through the peephole. It was him all right, and he’d even brought wine and a gardenia.

  She unlocked the door and opened it a crack, letting her hair dangle in her face. “Stay right where you are,” she ordered, slammed it back, almost catching Muffy’s nose, and fled to the bathroom. The dog, now convinced something was up, was hot on her heels.

  She wiped the bands of smudged mascara from under her eyes, applied a fresh coat, quickly lined her mouth with lipstick, and dragged a brush through her uncooperative hair, flipping it away from her face.

  Cripes. She had no idea what she was going to serve him for dinner.

  She raced back to the door and checked. He was still there, patiently examining the petals of the flower.

  Shyly, she again cracked the door and peeked through the slit.

  “Writing?” he asked with a smirk.

  Hah! He thought he knew her so well.

  She opened the door wider and pulled him inside.

  What makes you think that?”

  He looked her up and down, and Jennifer followed his gaze over her clothes. Sleeveless flannel shirt, blue jeans, socks, no shoes.

  “I don’t see any paint buckets or brushes. So what’s Maxie been up to today?” he asked, handing her the flower, brushing past her and setting the wine down on the coffee table.

  She breathed in the sweetness of its scent. Then she quickly found a bowl, filled it with water, and floated the white flower. She put it in the middle of the coffee table, where the heady scent could perfume the air.

  “Maxie was rejected again today,” she said as casually as she could manage, her chin quivering involuntarily.

  Without a word, Sam folded her to him. For a long moment they stood there. When she tried to pull away, he drew her back.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  As if somebody had died.

  She shook him off. She didn’t need anybody understanding her quite that well. “I’m fine,” she lied. “Really, I am.”

  “So you were writing.”

  “A little.”

  “Good.”

  Why was his saying that so irritating? As if all she had to do was do it. Simply string words together.

  She collapsed on the sofa, hugging a pillow to her. Better to have some distance between them, either because she was feeling particularly vulnerable at the moment or because she was likely to bite his head off if he said…well, almost anything.

  He loosened his tie. “So what’s for dinner?”

  Like that.

  “Well…” she began, staring at him from under her eyelashes. “I’ve got macaroni and cheese in a box. Estimated preparation time: fifteen minutes. Or, I could make an omelet: twenty minutes. Or vegetarian fried rice: closer to thirty. I’ll have to make the rice. Or—

  “You forgot I was coming over.”

  “Completely. I’m so sorry.” And she meant it. Her actions—actually, her lack of actions—were inexcusable.

  He looked pensive, as though considering the implications of her candor. “I could take this personally, you know.”

  She nodded. “Don’t. I treat all my friends horribly.” Look what she’d done to Mrs. Walker. “I don’t mean to, really.”
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  He joined her on the couch, slouching into the cushions and propping his feet next to the wine bottle. He fished in his jacket pocket and came up with a mangled package of miniature powdered sugar doughnuts, which he tossed onto the table. “Those will keep us from starving. At least for a little while.”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” she promised. “I’ll have the Thai House deliver some of those wonderful peanut noodles we’re so fond of. I’ll give them a call, after you’ve had a minute to relax.”

  He let his eyes drift shut. He was obviously tired. Searching out the truth and reporting it to the readership of the Macon Telegraph was a demanding job.

  “I was surprised to see you at Emma’s,” she commented. She never had found out what he was doing there.

  “Yeah, well, she asked me to come.”

  “Because…”

  “Because she knew I was gathering information for an article on franchise fraud. I’d done some research at the Grill because of Edgar’s plans to take his restaurants national.”

  “National?” Jennifer sat up.

  Sam’s eyes popped open. “I thought you knew.”

  She shook her head. “Why would he do that? He already had the two here in Macon, three in Atlanta, and one in Marietta. How many more could he handle?”

  “None. He was going to franchise. You know, sell the concept—the décor, Edgar’s Special Steak Sauce, the Eddie. I suspect all the local sites would be sold, too, except, perhaps, the original restaurant.”

  “And he’d become the supplier.”

  “For each and every restaurant.”

  Jennifer took a deep breath. “That could easily be worth millions.”

  “Easily. If it flew.”

  Jennifer suddenly had a vision of turquoise and pink stucco dotting America, and herds upon herds of cattle headed for extinction. She shuddered.

  “I guess Edgar’s choice of cuisine is a little hard for you to take,” he said, as if reading her mind.

  “Vegetarianism is a personal choice. I don’t expect to impose it on the whole world.”

  He shrugged out of his coat, twisted, and tossed it over the back of the sofa toward a dining room chair. It missed its mark, and Muffy immediately lay down on it.