It's Your Party, Die If You Want To

by Vickie Fee

  As I walked into the hotel lobby, Ravi Patel rushed over to me with a panicked look on his face.

  “Liv, if you can convince Miss Grable not to press charges I would be very much in your debt. And please try to talk some sense into my wife. This behavior is so unlike her. I do not understand. I think it must be the influence of that kooky hairdresser.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Ravi,” I assured him. “Can you tell me exactly what Sindhu and Nell have done now?”

  “Miss Grable caught them searching her room,” he said in a near whisper, looking around to make sure no one was within earshot. Just then, a man I recognized as a member of Lucinda’s entourage stepped out of the elevator and held the door open for me. He escorted me to Lucinda’s third-floor suite, where I found Nell and Sindhu sitting in chairs facing Lucinda, looking like kids who had been summoned to the principal’s office.

  One of Lucinda’s guys scooted an upholstered chair over to the grouping, and Mitzi, whom I had never met, but whose voice I recognized from our little phone chats, invited me to sit down.

  “Thanks for coming,” Lucinda said. “I think you can appreciate the awkward situation these ladies have put me in.”

  “I can, Lucinda. And I’m embarrassed by their behavior. You’d be well within your rights to call the sheriff. I appreciate your restraint.” I looked over at Nell and Sindhu, who met my withering gaze with downcast eyes.

  “I seriously considered calling the sheriff, but I heard about their friend being charged with Morgan’s murder. I’m willing to give them the benefit of the doubt that they were just upset about the arrest and not thinking clearly,” Lucinda said. “But this craziness really has to end here and now.”

  “I agree, but I’m not sure how I can help.”

  “I understand that people in town are suspicious of me, since I’m viewed as an outsider and my visit coincided with Morgan’s tragic death. I don’t want to cause any trouble. I plan to leave town after Morgan’s funeral. Until then, I just want to be left alone.

  “Liv.” I was taken aback because it was the first time I remembered her calling me by name. “Frankly, you’re the most sensible person I’ve had contact with since I arrived. All I ask is that you exert whatever influence you may have over your friends here and any other members of their circle to just keep clear of me for the rest of my stay.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can,” I said. “I don’t think you have to worry about any more trouble from Sindhu. I believe her husband will be keeping a close eye on her after this incident. Nell, that just leaves you. Will you promise that all this silliness stops now?”

  “I’ll stay clear of Miss Grable, cross my heart,” Nell said with the tone and expression of a petulant teenager.

  “Well, then, we’ll just leave it at that,” Lucinda said, making a regal gesture with her hand that I took to mean we were being dismissed.

  I trailed out the door behind Sindhu, who apologized profusely to Lucinda. Nell followed us silently, and Mitzi closed the door firmly behind us.

  We walked down the hall, and no words were spoken until the elevator door closed in front of us.

  “I hope you two realize it’s still not too late for Lucinda to change her mind and report you to the sheriff.”

  “As you said, you don’t have to watch after me,” Sindhu said, staring straight ahead at the elevator doors. “I do not think Ravi will let me out of his sight as long as Miss Grable remains at the hotel.”

  I looked to Nell.

  “I already crossed my heart, didn’t I?”

  “Look, I’m not the enemy here,” I said, miffed. “I came over here as a friend, because when Mitzi phoned she was threatening to call the law on you two.”

  “I thank you for your efforts on our behalf,” Sindhu said coolly.

  We stepped off the elevator, and Sindhu walked directly to the check-in counter where Ravi was waiting for her. They disappeared into the back office.

  “Look, Liv,” Nell said. “I’m not mad at you—I know I got my own self into trouble, and I appreciate your vouching for me. But I still believe Lucinda is involved somehow in Morgan’s death. And I know in my heart of hearts that Jasmine is innocent. You don’t have to worry about me trailing Lucinda anymore, because I think we’ve done all we can do. But I do have one favor to ask of you. Please use whatever pull you have with Sheriff Dave to make sure he doesn’t close the book on his investigation now that he’s arrested Jasmine.”

  We exited the hotel and walked to our respective cars. I drove for a bit, taking a circuitous route back to the office. I could feel the heat of anger flushing my face.

  I was mad at Nell and Sindhu for acting all peevish toward me when I was just trying to keep their butts out of jail. I was mad at Lucinda for dragging me into the middle of it. Most of all, I was mad at Nell for causing me to entertain real doubts about Jasmine’s guilt. Up until now I had done a pretty good job of keeping my nose out of the whole murder business.

  The last time Di and I ventured into investigating a murder, we ended up with a rifle to our heads. And I preferred not to get myself into that position again.

  I drove around for a few minutes, trying to clear my head. I was too keyed up to go back to the office and actually accomplish anything. It wasn’t quite eleven-thirty, but I decided to head over to the diner. I wanted to stake out a table. With any luck, I hoped a certain deputy would join me for lunch.

  I was sitting alone at a table for two, waiting for my glass of iced tea and trying to decide whether to order the Greek salad with fat-free dressing or the chicken-fried steak when Deputy Ted Horton walked into the diner. It was time to tackle my assignment from Di to find out some of Ted’s likes and interests as the first phase of Operation Matchmaker. Ted was glancing around the room looking for a table, so I waved and motioned for him to join me. Since the diner always fills up at lunchtime, it’s not unusual for people to offer to share tables with passing acquaintances or, at times, even complete strangers.

  “Take a load off, Ted,” I said. “You look run off your feet.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. McKay,” he said, even though I’ve told him at least a hundred times to call me Liv. He took off his hat and sat down across from me. “It’s been a busy day, that’s for sure.”

  The waitress set glasses of sweet tea in front of us. Looking to the deputy, she said, “I know you want the daily special. How ’bout you, hon?” she said, shifting her gaze to me.

  “I should order a salad, but I’ll have the chicken-fried steak.”

  “Nobody here’s gonna shame you for that,” she said before heading over to a table of men rattling the ice in their empty glasses—a Neanderthal signal for refills.

  Ted performed the pleasantries of asking about Larry Joe and how my mama’s doing. And I returned the favor by inquiring after the health of his granny.

  Margie efficiently slid our plates onto the table, plopped a basket of biscuits between us, and tucked tickets under our napkin-wrapped cutlery.

  Town Square Diner’s chicken-fried steak is as good as any I’ve eaten, so it’s always a hard temptation to resist. After savoring a bite or two I launched into my Q and A with the deputy.

  “So, Ted, I know you eat lunch at the diner most days. It’s certainly convenient to the office and beats a peanut butter sandwich. But what about at home, especially on your days off? Do you cook much, or like to cook when you have the time?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m afraid I’m pretty hopeless in the kitchen. I’ll throw steaks or burgers on the grill. Other than that, my fridge is generally stocked with take-out boxes and stuff from the grocery store deli.

  “When I was little I was always asking my granny to let me help her in the kitchen. You know, I wanted to be on the spot when she took goodies out of the oven, especially her chocolate chip cookies. I guess she was wise to me, though. She’d shoo me out of the kitchen. But Grandpa always let me help him in the garden and in the smokehouse. I can’t cook anything, but I do know how to ho
e a garden and how to butcher a hog.”

  I started worrying that trying to fix up the deputy with a real live girl might be a hard row to hoe. Being handy in the kitchen makes a man instantly more attractive to most women. I doubt there are many women posting to online dating services looking for a man with hog-butchering experience. And that was probably just as well.

  We finished up lunch, which included a slice of pecan pie for Ted, before strolling out of the diner together.

  “Ted, I talked to Dave about the phone call Naomi Mawbry received about her sister. He explained how y’all checked out all the calls made to the bank around that time from the businesses and the elderly lady. What I don’t understand is how Naomi could have gotten a call and there not be any record of it.”

  “Don’t tell the sheriff I told you, but his theory is that Mrs. Mawbry made it up.”

  “Why on earth would she do that?”

  “I wouldn’t venture a guess,” Ted said. “But it’s really the only explanation that seems to fit with all the facts.”

  Ted’s answer caught me off-guard. I was going to have to give this new theory about the phone call to Naomi some thought.

  Chapter 11

  After a quick stop by the office, I drove out to Holly’s house to pick her up. We had a 2:15 appointment to meet our engagement party client, Mrs. Dodd.

  Mr. Dodd had decided to wear a riverboat gambler costume to the engagement party that he and his wife were hosting for Rachel and Mark. Mr. Dodd had gone to a large costume store in Memphis and quickly decided on a circa 1880s costume, featuring a long frock coat, patterned vest, high-collar shirt with an ascot tie, and a brimmed hat. The look, which suited him perfectly, was a cross between Maverick and Mark Twain.

  He had spotted a dance hall costume that he thought would be just the thing for his wife. She thought it was a bit on the tawdry side for a mother of the bride, and I tended to agree.

  Mrs. Dodd, who is a little more straight-laced than her husband, had debated for weeks whether she should also wear a period costume. The guests wouldn’t be wearing costumes and neither would Rachel or Mark. I had advised Mrs. Dodd that she should wear whatever made her feel most comfortable as a hostess.

  She had bought three outfits over the past month, each of which she had asked Holly and me to weigh in on. Last week, I thought she had finally settled on a tailored ivory pantsuit with a bronze silk blouse. It was elegant without being too formal, and she had found a bronze brooch with a riverboat design that perfectly complemented the ensemble.

  Late yesterday afternoon, however, she had telephoned me with a note of panic in her voice. She said that she really wanted to try to find a period costume for the party. She acknowledged that it was last minute and beyond the scope of my duties as a planner, but she asked if I could please help her. The timing wasn’t the most convenient, but it was obviously very important to my client, so I told her I would make some calls and get back to her in a couple of hours.

  I called and explained the situation to Reesie, the owner of a vintage clothing store in Memphis who I had worked with on several occasions. I gave her my client’s dress size and height. She e-mailed me photos of a few dresses she had in stock, which she thought might suit our client’s needs. I forwarded the photos to Holly and discussed the situation with her over the phone. After we had a strategy in place for the fashion crisis, I called Mrs. Dodd and set up an appointment for us to meet her at Reesie’s shop.

  Holly and I arrived before our client and did a bit of reconnaissance shopping. We laid out a couple of dresses and left one hanging on the rack that we planned to help Mrs. Dodd “discover” on her own. After I announced I had just spotted Mrs. Dodd pulling into the parking lot, Reesie, sporting a stylish hat, put on some Dixieland music and uncorked a bottle of Chardonnay.

  At first Mrs. Dodd was of the mind that she should try to find something in the same era as her husband’s costume. But we didn’t have much trouble talking her into fast-forwarding past the bustles and severe corsets of the late 1800s.

  Reesie handed her a turn-of-the-century design. Mrs. Dodd disappeared into the dressing room with a glass of wine and stepped out wearing a white confection from 1903, very similar to a dress worn by Judy Garland in Meet Me In St. Louis.

  She stood in front of the full-length mirror and declared, “I look like Little Bo Peep,” which was an apt description.

  “It’s very sweet,” Holly said. “A little too sweet for a gambling hall, I think.”

  Reesie, our resident expert, pointed out that women’s fashions really began to change dramatically around 1908. So we decided to focus on dresses from the teens and twenties.

  “Besides,” I added, “I’ve done a bit of research online, and apparently riverboat travel remained fashionable well into the 1920s.”

  Mrs. Dodd drained the remains of her wineglass and returned to the dressing room with a circa 1916 dress. She emerged looking much more fetching. The dress had a flared skirt with ruffled layers and a faux-vest fitted bodice in a fabulous deep purple.

  “That’s definitely a party color,” Holly said. “And I like that you’re showing a bit of ankle.”

  Mrs. Dodd actually giggled. I discreetly gestured for Reesie to refill her wineglass.

  “I agree,” I said. “Getting the skirt up off the floor is a definite improvement. The dress has a little movement when you walk.”

  She twirled around in front of the mirror.

  “I just don’t know,” she said. “Liv, would you and Holly try on something to give me some ideas? Pick out the sort of dress you’d choose to wear if you were me.”

  I chose a bold but elegant gold silk dress with a dropped waist and a V neckline. It had beadwork on the skirt and silver art deco designs on the top. Reesie handed me a matching cloche as I emerged from the dressing room.

  I pulled the hat onto my head and did a few steps of the Charleston. Mrs. Dodd gave her enthusiastic approval.

  Holly stepped out of the dressing room in a 1920s-style flapper dress with beadwork and fringe. She turned her head and looked over her shoulder at us, sucking in her cheeks and making fish lips. True to her usual 1960s fashion sense, she looked like a go-go dancer, except with the skirt almost to the knee.

  Mrs. Dodd, Reesie, and I applauded, and we all started giggling.

  Holly walked over and started casually thumbing through some dresses before pulling one off the rack for Mrs. Dodd. It was the dress we had decided would be perfect for her before she had arrived.

  “I think this one has your name written all over it,” Holly said, holding it out for our conservative client, who had loosened up considerably after a bit of wine and a good laugh.

  We all fell silent for a moment when she stepped out of the dressing room. The dress was truly stunning on her. It was a black silk evening dress with art deco flourishes and sheer sleeves. It fit as if it were custom-made for her. Reesie slipped a long strand of faux pearls over Mrs. Dodd’s head to complete the look.

  “That’s it,” Holly said. “Your bob-length hairstyle works so well with it, I don’t think I’d add a hat.”

  “I agree,” I said. “That dress is elegant and perfect for a casino night in any era—from a riverboat to Monte Carlo.”

  Mrs. Dodd gazed into the mirror with a pleased look.

  “I’ll take it, Reesie,” she said.

  “Do you want to buy it or rent it?” Reesie asked.

  After another quick look in the mirror, Mrs. Dodd said, “I’ll buy it.”

  She was beaming as we walked out of the shop.

  “I don’t think I’ll tell Rachel about the dress,” Mrs. Dodd said. “I’ll let it be a little surprise.”

  Holly and I climbed into my SUV and pulled out of the parking lot feeling pretty pleased with ourselves.

  “Holly, you really came through for Mrs. Dodd—and me. Thank you. You know I’d pay you more if I could, don’t you?”

  “Aw, darlin’, it’s my pleasure. Besides, how many
people get paid to play dress-up in the middle of the day? I am on the clock, right?” she said.

  “You most certainly are,” I said. “And I believe we deserve a treat. I’m thinking maybe a fabulous dessert should be in order, your pick. Where would you like to go?”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been to Cheesecake Corner,” she said.

  “Ooh, that sounds like a winner.”

  I drove from midtown to the South Main District in downtown Memphis and snagged a parking spot in front of the eatery. We went inside and looked over the Cheesecake Corner menu, but I already knew what I was going to order. Pumpkin cheesecake is available only seasonally, so I didn’t want to miss my window of opportunity. After mulling over the options for a couple of minutes, Holly ordered the caramel pecan cheesecake.

  We sipped coffee until the waiter delivered our order, then dove into our sinfully rich, ridiculously huge slices of cheesecake.

  “Trying on that fabulous dress makes me wish a client would book a Roaring Twenties party,” Holly said. “That would be such fun.”

  “Yeah, it would,” I said. “Why don’t you throw the party? Your house was built in the 1920s. It would be the perfect setting.”

  “I just might,” Holly said, holding her fork in midair with a faraway look in her eyes. “Would you cohost it with me?”

  “You know I’d help you plan it—no charge, of course. But you don’t need a cohostess. You can definitely rock that role all by yourself.”

  “I’ve had friends over for dinner, but I haven’t put on a proper party since my husband passed away,” she said. “I don’t know if it would be the same.”

  There was a sadness in Holly’s voice that broke my heart.

  “Holly, honey,” I said. “I don’t guess it would be the same, but it could be wonderful. You could invite exactly who you wanted instead of those you felt obligated to invite, which was often the case because of your husband’s position, right?”