Overdue for Murder (Pecan Bayou)

by Trent, Teresa

  "Are they all done grilling you?" Pattie asked.

  "Funny, coming from the cookbook writer," I told her. We gathered our things and started walking toward the door. I waved at my dad and George as they were bent over their work at Pecan Bayou's newest crime scene. Once we were out the door, Pattie looked back and whispered.

  "I thought I was going to die when your dad started in on the Miss Scarlett-in-the-library thing."

  "I know what you mean. Why is it sometimes when a person is at an intensely somber moment, something just tickles them and they have an irresistible urge to laugh?"

  "I don't know why we laugh at times like that. Maybe we've just held it all in for so long, we can't stand it and something triggers our goofy side. It's an awful thing, but I always feel better afterward."

  "I felt really bad, snickering in front of Peter Markham," I said.

  "Me too, but when I looked his way he seemed ... distracted."

  "Yeah, I noticed that too."

  We stepped up into Pattie's pink-and-white striped delivery van. As I settled myself in the seat, I could smell the lingering aroma of fresh baked goods. My cell phone rang inside my purse. It was Fitzpatrick.

  "I've been trying to call you, Betsy. I was thinking about our weekend."

  "Sorry, I left my purse in another room," I said. I debated at this point whether or not I should tell him I had discovered yet another body.

  "Are you at home?"

  "No, sorry. I just left the library, but I'm heading that way."

  "You're just leaving? Your meeting must have run late."

  "Well, it sort of did."

  "Betsy, I make my living predicting incoming storm systems. Is there something you're not telling me?"

  "Maybe."

  "Betsy?"

  "Okay, okay. I accidentally discovered another dead body."

  It was quiet on the other end. Somehow, being romantically involved with a woman who had a knack for finding dead people was maybe a little on the strange side.

  "Do you want me to come down?" His voice was so gentle I caught my breath.

  "No," I answered, my voice hoarse. Pattie pulled up to my house, where I could see the living room light softly glowing through the window. "Listen, I'm home. Can I call you tomorrow and tell you all about it? I need to go see about Zach."

  "Sure ... and Betsy ..."

  "Yes?"

  "Be careful, okay?"

  "Okay."

  Pattie was smiling, "Who was that?"

  "That was my friend from Dallas."

  Pattie recalled our earlier conversation about my debate over spending the weekend. "Oh, that friend from Dallas. He sounds like a nice fellow."

  I jumped down from the van, shut the door and turned to the open window. "He's very nice. He was even nice after I told him about finding a body tonight."

  "Why wouldn't he be?" she asked.

  "You're right. It's not like it's my fault or anything."

  "At least that's what you told the police," Pattie giggled.

  "Come on, Pattie, you know I didn't do it."

  She smiled. "You silly, I know – but I don't think Martha Hoffman does."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Are those waffles I'm smellin'?" my dad asked as he came through the back door to my kitchen the next morning.

  "Why yes, I think your deductive reasoning is right on target," I answered, pouring batter into my waffle iron. "I wasn't expecting you for breakfast."

  "I know, but I had some things I needed to talk to you about, and I figured it was better to talk to you here than down at the station."

  "Oh." I put the metal lid down to let the waffles begin cooking. Zach came shuffling out in his floppy-eared puppy slippers and bright red pajamas dotted with the escapades of super heroes.

  "Hi Grandpa," he yawned, sitting down at an empty plate. The sun shone through the white kitchen curtains fluttering in the morning breeze. I got the "World's Greatest Grandpa" mug out of the cupboard and poured a cup of coffee. "Black with two sugars."

  "Thank you darlin'," he said as he took a chair next to Zach. We enjoyed a quiet breakfast of waffles, syrup and juice while Zach and my dad talked about their next fishing trip. When Zach left the table to dress for school, I started cleaning up the dishes.

  "I wanted to let you know that because you're my daughter and a suspect in the biggest case to hit Pecan Bayou in awhile, Chief of Police Wilson will be taking the lead. He's worried I may not be totally objective in finding Vanessa Scarlett's murderer."

  "Afraid you won't turn your own daughter in. That's reasonable." I rinsed off a sticky plate and put it in the dishwasher. "When Arvin Wilson starts checking on Vanessa, he's going to find out she had two sides. One was the beautiful and poised side our community saw, and the other was low down, mean and dirty. She was absolutely driven to be the first and best at everything, at any price."

  My dad sipped his coffee. "Come on, Betsy, she didn't look all that mean to me. Crumpled up there on the floor of the library, she looked a little sad."

  I sat down at the table. "I agree, she did. But in the last two weeks I saw her tangle with just about everybody she came in contact with. I know I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, telling her off at the mall, but she destroyed Pattie's entry and then blamed it all on Zach and Danny. You know you can say all kinds of things about me, but you go blaming my kid ..."

  "I know, Mama Bear, I know." My dad chuckled and patted my hand. "I feel the same way about you. If I didn't, I wouldn't be riding shotgun to Chief Wilson."

  "I think the deeper you dig into Vanessa's background, the more people you'll find who aren't all that sad she's gone."

  "Could be, but this morning I'm going to visit with her biggest fan, Martha Hoffman."

  "Good luck with that."

  *****

  There was a memorial service for Vanessa Markham on Thursday. All of the writers from author night were sitting in one pew at the Pecan Bayou Community Church in the same order they had been told to sit in at the library. As I walked toward them, Pattie scooted over and tapped the pew so I could complete the set. Damien Perez leaned over Pattie and said, "Good morning, señorita."

  "Good morning," I replied.

  "You are done with the police?"

  "Probably not, but they seem to be satisfied for now."

  "Good." He turned back toward the front of the church.

  Pattie pointed to the other side of the aisle, where Martha Hoffman was dressed in a black cardigan and skirt and held a lace-trimmed hankie up to her nose. "Seems she didn't want to sit too near us. You know she's been sharing with anyone checking out a book how you clobbered Vanessa right there in the children's section."

  "Wonderful," I whispered. Martha glanced over at the two of us and then jerked her head back when our eyes started to meet. I would have to make an effort to console her after the funeral just to watch her squirm.

  In the front row sat Peter, his head in his hands. Next to him was Rocky Whitson and two people I assumed to be Vanessa's parents. They were not what I had expected. Her mother had stringy blonde hair that hung straight to her collar. Her father was a burly man wearing a plaid shirt under a dark suit that looked a little small. I wondered if it was borrowed. It explained a lot about Vanessa's drive to look better than anyone else in the room. Her parents didn't look like bad people – they just didn't look like Vanessa.

  As the pastor spoke of Vanessa's life and achievements, I saw her mother's head bend as she quietly cried into a tissue. At one point, Peter looked back at our pew with a wistful expression. Perhaps he was acknowledging our presence, and it was his way of thanking us for attending.

  After the final hymn was sung we were dismissed to the narthex of the church, where the ladies of the congregation had prepared red punch and cookies. We stood around balancing chocolate chip cookies on white paper plates, our discussions in somber whispers. Peter Markham was making the rounds, talking to all of the little groups clustered around their coo
kies. When he came to our group, he stood between Edith and Pattie.

  "I just wanted to thank you all for coming today. I know some of you only knew my wife for a short while and I appreciate your show of support today."

  "Of course," said Edith.

  "Very sad," said Oscar Larry, taking little nibbles of his cookie at the same time.

  Peter nodded in agreement to the obvious. "I just wanted to let you know, with Vanessa gone I'll be selling the house. I feel the need to make some changes. Vanessa had a pretty extensive collection of books on writing that if any of you are interested in, please come by the house." So was he here to thank us for coming or to tell us about the fire sale at his house?

  "That is so kind of you," said Edith. "I already have so many books on writing, but your wife's fiction had such promise, I'm sure she probably had some good resources."

  "Yes, I'm sure she did," said Damien, looking into his cup of red punch, his eyes not daring to glance directly at Peter's.

  Pattie shot me a glance. We knew all about Damien's appreciation of Vanessa's resources.

  "After I sell the house, I'll be moving in with a friend in Andersonville. I've had an offer to write for a community paper there."

  "What about the investigation?" I asked.

  "What about it?" Peter answered.

  "Don't you have to stick around for that?"

  "The police think Vanessa was killed during the afternoon hours on Tuesday, and I have an alibi. I was doing a play-by-play of a baseball game at the high school. I am anxious to find out who did this to my wife. I know Vanessa was ..."

  No one dared fill in that blank.

  Not getting any takers, he continued, "Vanessa was ... difficult ... but I never thought she'd anger someone enough to get killed. It's a crazy world we're living in."

  "That's for sure," said Oscar Larry. After three hours of showing us slides of little green men, he would know about people being at the end of their ropes.

  Edith Martin reached out and placed her hand on Peter's arm. "If there's anything we can do, please let us know. Anything at all." Peter's eyes moistened. "Thank you, Edith."

  "Do they have any idea who might have done this?" asked Damien.

  Peter glanced at me and then back to Pattie. "I've heard a few ideas of people, but at this point they really can't be sure."

  "I ... really ... admired your wife," Damien said, his voice rough.

  Peter cocked his head to the side in surprise. "Did you know my wife?" Oh boy, was that a loaded question.

  "Just professionally, Mr. Markham, Damien said, looking at his watch. "My apologies, I am late for a meeting with my publicist." Damien offered his hand, and Peter shook it. Would he have shaken that hand if he had known that Damien and his wife had been involved? Peter had been so busy with his own affair he hadn't even noticed that Vanessa was having one of her own. If secrets were tennis balls, the church narthex would be bouncing with a sea of yellow-green fuzz.

  "I can't believe you actually had the nerve to come to this funeral."

  I jumped to see Martha Hoffman standing behind me with a cup of red punch in her hand. "You are the prime suspect, and you have the gall to come in here where we are mourning her loss after you so cruelly put her down with my candlestick."

  I began to wonder if that was just fruit juice in her punch. The librarian seemed to be a little free with her commentary this morning. What was even more surprising was who came to my rescue.

  Peter Markham stepped in front of me. "Miss Hoffman, I appreciate your loyalty to Vanessa, but the police don't know who murdered my wife, and I would appreciate you not causing a scene at her memorial service."

  "Really," said Pattie, putting her arm around my shoulders as if to protect me from Martha's verbal attack. "Kind of tacky, if you ask me."

  "You would side with her, seeing as she stood up for your lousy cupcake platter at the mall. I got news for you, missy. Any idiot can stack a bunch of cupcakes on a plate."

  "Miss Hoffman, you're distraught." Chief Arvin Wilson came over as the noise level in the group rose. He gently guided Martha Hoffman away from our group.

  As they walked away, Martha continued her accusations. "Chief, I'm glad you came over. I got some things to tell you about Becky Livinson over there."

  "I'm sure you do, ma'am. I'm sure you do. Can I drive you home?"

  As they left the church, I felt obligated to address this with Peter. "Peter, you know I am just the one who discovered your wife's body. She made me angry, but I could never kill another person."

  Peter Markham took a deep breath and put his hands behind his head. "Like I told Miss Hoffman, I'd like to take today to grieve for my wife. Nothing else."

  "Of course," I said, feeling as big of an insensitive interloper as Martha Hoffman had been. I felt awful for bringing it up and tromping all over this man's grief. He drifted away to the next crowd of people.

  "Don't worry," Pattie reassured me. "If you hadn't said anything, then Martha would have gotten away with accusing you of murder in front of all of the people who actually liked Vanessa. You had to speak up."

  "I guess you're right," I said. "But if I don't figure this out, that woman is going to make sure I get the chair."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A couple of days later I showed up on Peter Markham's doorstep. I really didn't want any of her books, but I did want to find something, anything, that could clear my name.

  "Betsy," Peter answered the door in a wrinkled white polo shirt and what looked like a two-day growth of beard. His blond hair, which had always been so carefully groomed at the Pecan Bayou Gazette, was now pointing every which way, and the date of his last shower was questionable. I handed him a tater-tot casserole and gave him a little hug, holding my breath so as not to breathe in the smell of unwashed man. "How are you doing, Peter? You look a little rough."

  He ran his hand through his hair as if he suddenly realized how awful he looked. "I'm okay." He gazed off and then jumped, probably realizing I was standing there staring at him. "Oh, let me show you to Vanessa's office where she did all of her writing. It's really just a spare bedroom but we never had children, so ..." He paused. "Let me show you the way."

  For a guy who was cheating on his wife, he was a mess. You never know how much you'll miss a person until they're really gone, I guess. I was surprised how much I hadn't missed Barry. When he left I thought I couldn't live a day without him. Now if he came back into my life, I couldn't live a day with him.

  We climbed the white-carpeted stairs of his two-story brick home, passing tasteful black-and-white photos of the two of them in a montage of activities. There was a picture from the beach, a picture of them playing football on what looked strangely like the Kennedy compound and a picture of what had to be the two of them on skis zipping down a hill. If you knew of this marriage just through these pictures, you would think everything was perfect.

  Peter opened a white hallway door to a beautiful room with sunlight streaming in through white curtains patterned with thick green stripes. "This was her hideaway from the world." He paused as he scanned the room as if for the first time. "It seems so empty now." Was this the first time he'd opened the door to this room since Vanessa's death?