The atmosphere matched the mood of the group perfectly after Sugar summarized her visit with Millard Philpott and Clara shared Clint’s take on the hardware store fire.
Flowers pulled heavily on her Lucky and said, “Well, this is just great, ladies. You started out with one dead panty-hose-wearing bug man and now you’ve got yourselves a cheating wife, a crooked deputy, a case of arson, insurance fraud, and a suspicious body in the can. That doesn’t sound like solving anything to me.”
“Well, hell, Flowers,” Clara snapped. “We’re not doing it on purpose. Wilma, could Maybelline have killed Blake with something that would have made his death look like he had a heart attack?”
Wilma mulled over the question for a minute and then said, “Arsenic would do it or maybe some kind of pesticide.”
“You mean like the stuff Hilton used to kill bugs?” Mae Ella asked. “That’s kind of a convenient coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“A little too convenient,” Clara agreed. “What do you think, Wilma? Would Hilton have had some sure-fire brother-in-law poison on hand?”
“Yes, probably,” Wilma said. “A lot of those chemicals can only be sold to licensed professionals. I’m sure Hilton would have had something in his supplies that could have killed a man, but would Maybelline have had any access to that?”
“She is Wanda Jean’s sister,” Sugar said. “And before Blake wound up dead, the four of them used to do all kinds of things together.”
“So you’re saying Maybelline could have gotten a hold of some poison and fed it to Blake?” Clara asked. “And made him sick enough he had to go to the bathroom, and while he was in there he had a heart attack?”
Wilma nodded. “Yes,” she said. “And then she could have put that magazine with the body so it would have looked like the pictures of those naked women gave him the heart attack. It’s not a bad cover story. Everybody in town would be talking about the Playboy magazine, not the dead man holding it.”
All talk ceased at the sound of the back door opening. “Hello?” Wanda Jean called out.
“In here, honey,” Sugar answered. “Get yourself a cup of coffee before you sit down.”
They listened as Wanda Jean opened a cabinet and took down a cup, then apparently sweetened her coffee, the spoon making circular clinking noises as she stirred. When she came into the waiting area, she flopped down in one of the chairs and said, “Thank God it’s cool in here. Rolene’s air conditioner went out last night. I am about to die.”
Mae Ella snorted derisively. “It couldn’t be more than 82 degrees out there,” she said. “Using an air conditioner doesn’t do a damn thing but make it so you can’t take the heat. I wouldn’t have one of those things on a bet. What are you gonna do come July and August?”
“Stay in the house!” Wanda Jean said. “God wouldn’t have invented air conditioning if he hadn’t meant for us to use it.”
Mae Ella bristled. “In exactly which book of the Bible did God invent air conditioning, Wanda Jean?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Wanda Jean said, “but if it isn’t in there it’s just an oversight because I am certain that Frigidaire is on a mission from God to make Texas more bearable in the summer.”
Mae Ella was primed to deliver a sharp retort, but Clara cut her off. “That’s enough,” she said. “Sugar’s got the shop all nice and cool for us, Wanda Jean, and we’ve got a lot to talk about, so you just get comfortable.”
Mollified, Wanda Jean said, “Thank you, Clara. I knew you would understand.”
“Okay. Now, honey,” Clara said, “Sugar went up and talked to Millard Philpott at his house yesterday and we’ve got some things to tell you.”
Wanda Jean’s face immediately crumpled. “Are you gonna tell me that Hilton was . . . was . . . was . . .”
“A homo-sexual?” Sugar said, finishing the sentence for her.
A collective gasp went up around the room. “Don’t say that word out loud!” Mae Ella hissed.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Wilma said. “It’s a perfectly correct term for two men who have a sexual interest in one another.”
At that, Wanda Jean snatched up a copy of McCall’s and began to fan herself furiously. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” she said. “I just don’t think I can take hearing this.”
“No, no, honey,” Sugar said. “That’s the good news. Hilton wasn’t a homo-sexual. Those panty hose didn’t mean a thing . . . well, they must have meant something . . . but they didn’t mean that.”
Wanda Jean’s magazine stopped in mid-flap. “Really, Sugar?” she said, fresh hope lighting her face. “Hilton really was a real man who just liked hosiery?”
“It would appear so,” Sugar said. “But, well, brace yourself, honey. Hilton voted for Jack Kennedy.”
The issue of McCall’s hit the tile floor with a resounding thwap. “He did not!” Wanda Jean said. “Don’t you go calling my dead husband a liberal!”
“Now, Wanda Jean,” Clara said, “I know this is hard for you, but politically, Hilton wasn’t who you thought he was.”
“You all have got to swear to me that this kind of talk will never leave this room,” Wanda Jean demanded, her voice cracking. “It’s so much worse than the panty hose and being a homo-sexual.”
“Of course it won’t leave this room, honey,” Clara said soothingly. “We’d never speak ill of the dead like that.”
Wanda Jean accepted a box of Kleenex from Wilma and tried to compose herself. “So if Hilton wasn’t one of those kind of men, then why did Millard put that orchid on his casket?” she asked.
When Sugar was done explaining about the orchids, the floor around Wanda Jean’s chair was littered with cast off, wet tissues, and Wanda Jean herself had collapsed into hiccuping sobs.
“Lord,” Mae Ella groused, rolling her eyes. “Now what do we do?”
“We give her a drink,” Flowers said, reaching into her over-sized purse and bringing out a pint of bourbon.
“Flowers!” Clara said. “It’s Sunday!”
“Since when does a Methodist care about drinking on a Sunday?” Flowers asked as she poured a healthy shot in Wanda Jean’s cup. Then, turning to the sobbing woman she said, “Wanda Jean! Wanda Jean! You stop that crying and take a drink of this. You hear me? Take a drink!”
Wanda Jean did as she was told, choking a little on the first swallow. By the second cup, she was starting to calm down, even if her eyes had gone a little glassy. “Thank you, Flowers,” she said. “That’s good.”
“Bourbon is always good for what ails you, honey,” Flowers said. “You should start carrying a bottle in your purse for medicinal purposes.”
“Wanda Jean?” Clara said, waiting for the younger woman to look at her. “There’s more we need to tell you.”
Without speaking, Wanda Jean held her empty cup out to Flowers who didn’t bother with the coffee this time; she just poured the whiskey straight. “What now?” Wanda Jean asked, her tone filled with equal parts of dread and resignation.
Together Clara and Sugar explained the theory about the possible arson at the hardware store, Hank Howard’s likely involvement for monetary reward, and the chance that Wanda Jean’s brother-in-law, Blake, did not die of natural causes.
Wanda Jean put down her cup and listened closely, seeming to get more sober by the minute. When Clara and Sugar finished, she said, “Are you trying to tell me that you think there’s a chance Maybelline killed her husband and mine?”
“That’s not what we want to tell you, honey,” Clara said. “We’re just saying that’s what it looks like. Do you know what happened the day Blake died?”
According to the story Wanda Jean related, which she heard directly from Maybelline herself, Blake Trinkle’s digestive system had been in an uproar for a couple of days. Assuming he’d just eaten something that didn’t agree with him, Blake had been carrying a bottle of Pepto Bismol around and it was getting him through the day.
That morning, however, he woke up hot and weak. Maybelli
ne felt his forehead and told him he ought to go see Dr. Kitterell, but then the call of nature hit hard and Blake headed to the bathroom, grabbing a magazine off the table beside his chair as he went by. It just happened to be the December issue of Playboy.
According to Maybelline, she heard the toilet flush after a few minutes, but Blake didn’t come out so she went to check on him. When he didn’t answer, she opened the door and found him laying on the floor beside the toilet.
“Maybelline did tell me he’d managed to get his britches up,” Wanda Jean said, “so at least he died with some dignity, except he still had that magazine in his hand. Maybelline tried to take it away from him before the ambulance got there, but he was holding on to it so hard she couldn’t pull it loose.”
“Muscle spasms,” Wilma said thoughtfully. “His whole body probably seized up as he was dying.”
Wanda Jean nodded. “That’s right. The ambulance boys couldn’t get him to lay flat on the stretcher. They had to carry him out of the house with his hand stuck up out of the sheet holding on to that copy of Playboy like it was a flag or something. That’s how the story got around town. Everybody in the neighborhood saw that gaudy purple and green cover.”
“What do you think, Wilma?” Clara asked. “Could he have been poisoned?”
“Yes,” Wilma said, “but he also could have had a plain old heart attack brought on by the strain of whatever was going on with his gastrointestinal system.”
“In other words,” Flowers said, blowing out a plume of smoke, “the trots might have got him.”
“It has been known to happen,” Wilma conceded.
“Well,” Flowers said, “I sure as hell don’t want anybody putting that little bit of information on my tombstone.”
Mae Ella cleared her throat. “So, we might as well get down to it,” she said. “Was Maybelline screwing around on Blake while was still alive?”
Wanda Jean blushed and looked uncomfortable. “Well, kinda,” she said.
“Kinda?” Mae Ella said, arching her eyebrows. “How do you kinda cheat on your husband?”
“I know she and Hank Howard were friendly,” Wanda Jean said. “You know I had that awful problem with people shooting my deer statue when I put it out in the front yard?”
The women nodded and she went on. “Well, Maybelline was at the house one day when Hank came over to take down another report.” Wanda Jean sighed heavily. “That was the shot that took off part of Leroy’s antlers. That’s the deer’s name, Leroy. Anyway, whoever shot him that time missed and clipped his rack. Hilton had to get out there with bailing wire and fix it for me, and then I had to plaster over the wire. I did the best I could, but you can still see a lump on that side if you look real close.”
“That’s just awful,” Flowers said, lighting a fresh Lucky. “I hope they catch the little bastards that did that to Leroy.”
“Me, too,” Wanda Jean said earnestly. “Leroy just stands out there and minds his own business. I just don’t understand . . .”
Clara cleared her throat and Wanda Jean took the hint. “Well, anyway, Maybelline was standing there with me and Hank while I was showing him Leroy’s broken antler, and as much as I hate to admit it, she was flirting with Hank something awful, and he was flirting back. And then it was Hank that came to the house that day she found Blake dead in the bathroom.”
“Did he now?” Clara said.
“Yes,” Wanda Jean said. “Maybelline told me later how comforting it was to have a sensitive man like Hank taking down the official information.”
“I’ll just bet it was,” Mae Ella said.
“So now what?” Wilma asked. “We’re coming up with a whole lot of questions, but no answers.”
“Okay,” Clara said. “Wilma, can you find out if any of the chemicals Hilton was using could make it look like someone died of a heart attack?”
“Yes,” Wilma said. “I can do that if Wanda Jean can get me in the back of Hilton’s truck.”
“That’s not a problem,” Wanda Jean said. “Lester told me I can use the truck, I just can’t go back in the house yet.”
“Good,” Clara said. “I’m going to come into town tomorrow and go see John Powell. He’s supposed to be opening back up this week and I’ll take him a pie or something. He’s working at the store every day stocking the shelves, so it won’t be a problem to get him to let me in. And, Sister,” she said, “I have a little chore for you.”
“What’s that?” Mae Ella asked.
“Well, you’re right there in the courthouse,” Clara said. “I want you to see what you can find out about Hank Howard for us.”
“That’s easy,” Mae Ella said. “I’ll just ask Flossie, the dispatcher. She knows the dirt on everybody in the building.”
“Perfect,” Clara said. “And finally, Wanda Jean, I want you to get Maybelline in here to the shop so Sugar and Flowers can talk to her.”
“How am I going to do that?” Wanda Jean said. “Maybelline’s too tight to ever pay to get her hair done at a beauty parlor.”
“Oh, I can fix that,” Sugar said. She reached in the bottom drawer of the reception desk and pulled out a stack of gift certificates. Peeling off three, she wrote the name of each of the Bodine sisters on a separate sheet and handed them to Wanda Jean.
“Rolene, too?” Wanda Jean asked, examining the certificates.
“Yes,” Sugar said. “If we don’t ask them both, Rolene will just get her back up. We might learn more this way. Tell them I wanted to treat you all to a day at the salon after the stress of the funeral. Hair and nails. Flowers, do you mind?”
“Not a bit,” Flowers said, puffing on her cigarette. “I haven’t had this much fun since the pigs ate my little brother.”
Chapter 17
The County Clerk’s Office and the Sheriff’s Office sat at opposite ends of the first floor of the courthouse. Every morning at 7:45, Mae Ella Gormley and Flossie Henderson used their keys to open the north and south doors of the building. Down the long expanse of dim hallway tiled in deep moss green, the two women would each raise a hand in greeting before walking into their respective domains.
It was rare for either of them to traverse the length of the hallway to speak to the other, however, so Flossie’s face registered surprise when she found Mae Ella standing outside the Sheriff’s Office waiting for her first thing Monday morning.
“Morning, Mae Ella,” she said, shifting her oversized purse to her other arm. “What are you doing down at my end of the hall?”
“Morning, Flossie,” Mae Ella said, watching as the other woman unlocked the office door. “I wanted to talk to you in private before the boys get in.”
“Oh, Lester and Hank won’t be here until at least 8:30,” Flossie said. “They have to stop and get their coffee and gossip at the cafe first. Come on in.”
Mae Ella followed Flossie into the room. “I thought you all had a night dispatcher?” she asked.
“We do,” Flossie said, “but the dang kid went and caught that teenage mono . . . nucleo . . . kissing disease thing. Doc says he has to stay home for a few days, so people will just have to wait to call the Sheriff until the sun comes up. I’m too old to be sitting down here all night waiting on the phone to ring. Come on back here and sit down while I make the coffee.”
Flossie held open the gate to the area behind the counter and waited until Mae Ella pulled out one of the desk chairs before she busied herself opening a fresh can of coffee. As she worked, Flossie said, “So what’s so important it got you all the way down to this end of the hall?”
Mae Ella shifted in the rolling chair, the squeaking casters punctuating her words. “Flossie,” she said, “I’m just gonna cut to the chase.”
“Nobody expects anything else from you, Mae Ella,” Flossie said, filling the pot with water from a jug under the counter.
“You know that Wanda Jean Milton is a member of my Study Club and that Lester thinks she killed her husband?” Mae Ella asked.
“I do,”
Flossie said, measuring out scoops of Folger’s, “and it’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of. I can see a Bodine woman shooting her husband, but stabbing him? That ole dog just won’t hunt.”
“That’s what the Club officers think, too,” Mae Ella and said. “Clara is determined that no Club member is going to be charged with murder while she’s the president, so we’ve been asking questions and getting some strange answers. Do you know anything about the fire at John Powell’s hardware store?”
Flossie’s coffee scoop paused in mid-air. “How did we get from Hilton Milton getting stabbed to John Powell’s fire?” she asked.
“We got there through talk about Hank Howard,” Mae Ella said. “Have you all got yourselves a sheep-killing dog in the Sheriff’s Department?”
“I might have known this was gonna come down to some dang fool thing Hank’s done,” Flossie said. Then she paused and stared perplexingly at the coffee pot. “How many scoops did I put in there?”
“How the hell should I know?” Mae Ella said. “You were the one doing the counting.”
“Well,” Flossie said, still peering into the recesses of the coffee pot, “you threw me off. I’ll just put in one more for good measure. There’s no such thing as coffee that’s too strong.”
“That’s what I tell those girls that work for me when they go to spitting and choking over the coffee I make,” Mae Ella said. “Bunch of little sissy weaklings. Now, getting back to Hank.”
“Oh, right,” Flossie said. “I was wondering how long it was gonna be before that popinjay got himself in trouble.”
Mae Ella raised her eyebrows over her wire-rimmed spectacles. “Hank has a high opinion of himself, does he?” she asked.
“High opinion?” Flossie snorted. “You could comb your hair in the shine he keeps on those boots. Do you know that he actually carries an extra handkerchief just to wipe’em off? Can’t stand so much as a little speck of dust. Here about a month ago, he and Lester had to go out and look at a fence at Bob Conroe’s place that got cut. Hank stepped in a cow patty by accident. I swear to God you’d have thought he had himself a case of the bu-bonic plague the way he took on. Insisted on going home and getting another pair of boots, he told me he spent the whole evening saddle soaping the others. Over a little cow crap. Honestly.”
You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) Page 12