Manor of Death

by Holly Dey

  Cats…? Oh, good. Cat treat/cucumber dinner. Yum. “I think they’ve all been eaten,” she called out to her mother.

  “You can’t give ‘em so many treats! It’s not good for them.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  “Well, maybe you can run to the store in a little bit.”

  “Sure.”

  PC followed her mother out to the yard. The chickens came running to see her, and she was able to lean over enough to pet the two largest ones. Hazel bleated and jumped around the pen. This woke the two donkeys, and they brayed as they trotted up to Rose. It made PC smile, even as she noticed the temperature dropping with the lengthening shadows and fretted about her mother not wearing a jacket.

  Winters on the Texas Coastal Plain were typically cool, but not cold, with a few hot days sprinkled in for good measure–it was the south, after all. At seventy-five, Rose was in remarkably good health, but she was still more frail than she used to be. Convalescing for the past three weeks probably hadn’t made her stronger, even if she was doing physical therapy.

  “I’ll just feed, then we can go inside, Mama.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Mama, you don’t want to trip up Hazel with your cane, do you? With three legs, her balance isn’t so good.”

  Rose opened her mouth, then closed it. She sighed and gave Guinevere a final kiss. “I’ll put out some food for Blossom.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Blossom the opossum lived underneath the screened-in porch, and Rose fed her with table scraps and cat food. PC had also noticed some robust raccoons loping in for a share of the bounty, so she put out extra cat chow. Blossom was usually gone by the time those pushy trash pandas arrived. Cordite either tolerated or didn’t notice the marsupial, but the raccoons drove him mad. It didn’t help that they taunted him through the window.

  PC doled out feed and locked the chickens in the coop. The cat food kept the other visitors full enough that Blossom and the ‘coons–chicken eaters all–didn’t put much effort into breaking and entering the henhouse for an epic crime spree. When PC got back inside, she found Daisy on the loveseat, chattering away about Heather Micah, Tyson in the recliner with his phone, and Rose on the sofa where Cordite lay next to her with his head in her lap.

  “I need to take my dog for his evening jaunt around the neighborhood. You want to go, Mama, or did you get your walking in at Brandee’s?”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Daisy looked stricken. “I guess if ya’ll don’t need us, we’ll be on our way,” she sniffed. “Dinner ain’t gonna cook itself.”

  For the first third of the walk, Rose appeared to be surveying the neighborhood and gathering her thoughts.

  “Primrose? I wanna go to Reverend Deen’s Thursday night service.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s not at the church. It’s at the nursin’ home. All about healin’ the sick. Sometimes he even does a layin’ on a hands.”

  Cordite paused to make a deposit.

  PC pulled a bag from the dispenser on the leash handle and picked up the pile.

  “If you really want to go, I’ll take you. What time?” She shuddered at the idea she’d even considered putting her mother in that place. It was hard to imagine a social event there.

  “After supper time. Seven o’clock.”

  PC knotted the end of the bag and dropped it into an open trash bin that had been set out for early morning collection.

  “Are you in a lot of pain, Mama?” Why else would she feel she needed divine intervention?

  “No, not more than expected–a lot less than when I fell. It couldn’t hurt to get a little extra blessing, though.”

  “If you think it’ll help.”

  “You remember Joshua Deen from high school? He was the quarterback the first time ever the Possumwood Panthers made it all the way to state.”

  “Yeah. We didn’t exactly hang out. He was pretty broken up when Heather Micah got on a Greyhound bus for Hollywood the day after graduation.” Might be interesting if they run into each other.

  “Oh, I remember that. His mama was in my knitting circle. He joined the military the next week. Forget which branch. She passed a couple of years ago, you know.”

  PC spared him a quick thought, grateful her mother was still on the right side of the dirt.

  On Wednesday afternoon, Rose’s phone rang. Cordite, curled up next to her, raised his head, gave a single, half-hearted woof, then resumed his nap.

  “Hi, Lin… You did?… Oh, my goodness!… Congratulations! Of course, we’ll go… Bye.”

  PC put down her book. What am I getting signed up for now?

  “Lin Youn, my next-door neighbor, have you met the Youns? Anyway, she got one of her paintings in the show at the art gallery downtown! There’s a wine and cheese thing tonight–I told her we’d go.”

  “I wasn’t aware that there was an art gallery downtown.”

  “Primrose, you haven’t lived here in a long time. There’s all kinds of cultural institutions here now.”

  PC raised an eyebrow.

  “There’s fine dining at Truffles!, a fancy antique shop, that craft beer place. You remember that broken down old Victorian across from the town square? That’s been all fixed up, and it’s now a bed & breakfast and a wedding venue. Happily Ever Afters, they call it. It’s been featured in the Lifestyle section of the Houston paper.” Rose nodded for emphasis.

  “Still haunted?”

  Rose massaged Cordite’s ear, shaking her head. “They were sayin’ that when I was a kid. Doesn’t make it true.”

  “I’ll get in the shower.”

  PC hoped that slacks and a long-sleeved polo shirt were appropriate for a wine and cheese event at a small-town art gallery, because that’s all she had.

  “Hurry up, Primrose! It starts in ten minutes!” Rose called.

  “Be there in a sec.”

  She finger-combed her damp hair as she bustled out of her bedroom.

  Rose stood by the front door. “I don’t want to be late.”

  It’ll take longer to get you in the car than it will to get there. “Let’s go, then.”

  Surrounding the courthouse, the square on this side consisted mostly of the sort of shops found in small Texas towns, with the store fronts raised a few feet off the street level, requiring steps at either end of the block. The buildings huddled together, some separated by narrow alleys, most not, but each was its own separate structure, not a single subdivided construction, like modern strip centers. Wooden awnings supported the businesses’ signs on top and shaded pedestrians below. The courthouse, built in 1872, sported a well-polished, brightly lit historical marker. A mirror image of the courthouse square lay on the other side of a two-block sized city park and housed city buildings.

  Chunky, wild-west letters announced that The Best Little Art Gallery in Texas was through the well-lighted doors of the shop below the sign. Bare lightbulbs dangled from light strings hung under the awning in front of the gallery.

  PC rolled her eyes. Hokey.

  She held the door for her mother, who was almost instantly embraced by an Asian woman. A dapper older man stood next to her.

  “Lin, I’m so proud of you! Let’s see it.” Rose took Lin’s arm, and the gentleman steadied her elbow, leaving PC to trail behind them. She frowned. Mama seems to be awfully familiar with that guy.

  “This one.” Lin gestured toward a gorgeous watercolor of a peach-colored chrysanthemum.

  “That’s beautiful,” PC offered.

  “Georgia O’Keefe, eat your heart out.” Rose grinned. “Lin, have you met my daughter, Primrose? She’s been taking care of the critters while I’ve been away.”

  Lin extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’ve seen you feeding the animals.”

  PC took her hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  Rose turned to the gentleman and held his eyes for just a little too long. “This is Terry.”

  Terry bowed slightly. PC r
eached out to shake hands. “It’s nice to meet you.” Can’t say I’ve heard a lot about you.

  He captured her hand in both of his. “The pleasure is mine.”

  A tuxedoed waiter offered them glasses of wine from a silver tray. “There is a cheese board near the back, if you care to partake.”

  As they wound their way through the gallery, Rose introduced PC to every single person in the room and had a little chat with each of them. Some PC remembered from childhood, but many had moved in after she’d left.

  Her mother’s visiting gave her time to admire the pieces. She’d done some painting off and on over the years, but her retirement should give her plenty of time to work on her technique. Who knows? Her work could be at an art show someday, too.

  “Drew! Drew!” Rose called.

  A trim middle-aged man in black slacks and a burgundy button-down shirt with the top button open came over. PC was amused by his waistcoat–a fabric print of van Gogh’s Sunflowers.

  “Rose! I heard you were back home. How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, I’m doin’ all right. You’re putting on such a nice show! Have you met my daughter?”

  He took PC’s hand. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

  Oh, please.

  “Drew Berlusconi, Primrose Donovan. Oh, look–there’s Justice. I need to go see her.” Rose hobbled away toward her friend.

  “My mother is the only one who calls me Primrose. Everybody else calls me PC.”

  “Primrose is a lovely name.”

  PC felt heat rising in her cheeks. “Perhaps, but who’s going to respect Sergeant Primrose, Homicide Detective?”

  “You’re a detective?”

  “For twenty-five years. I just retired.”

  “Sounds so much more exciting than selling insurance. Something everybody needs, but nobody wants. I escaped into the art world after too many years of that.”

  “I’ve dabbled in painting, but I’m glad I don’t have to try to make a living with it.”

  “You must show me your work.”

  PC took a too-big sip of wine. “Well, there’s—”

  The low murmur of the art patrons went silent. PC turned toward the sound of high heels clicking across the wood floor.

  And there she was, in a form-fitting black-sequined cocktail dress. Heather Micah.

  Chapter 4

  Heather wavered on her five-inch stilettos. Red wine sloshed out of her glass as one ankle nearly rolled out from under her.

  “So thish is what pashes for culture now?”

  Drew approached her. “Madam, would you care to sit down? Is there someone I can call to take you home?”

  Heather’s eyelids drooped, and she swung her glass up for another drink, but almost missed her mouth. “What, you think your little rinky-dink art gallery,” she clawed two fingers of her free hand to make air quotes, “ish too good for me? Don’t act like you don’t know who I am.”

  Gallery patrons tittered to each other.

  “I’m sorry. But you seem to be a little tipsy. Your safety is my only concern.”

  She tried to glare at him, but her eyelids kept closing. “I’m famoush. An influencher.”

  “How special for you.”

  She laughed and pointed to one of the paintings that wasn’t included in the show. “That picture with the horshes. Ish that a Beltracchi?”

  Drew’s nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. Heather looked him straight in the eye and giggled.

  Her glass tilted at a dangerous angle and Drew snagged it out of her limp fingers before it could spill.

  She snatched it back, sloshing some wine onto the hardwood floor. “Don’t. Take. My. Shtuff.”

  With a burst of unexpected coordination, she threw the glass at him. It grazed his sleeve before smashing on the floorboards, scattering glass shards around the deep red pool of Shiraz.

  There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

  Drew stiffened, and his eyes glittered. He took out his phone and punched in three numbers. “Yes, ma’am. There is an aggressive and belligerent drunk here at the art gallery. She’s a danger to herself and others. Please send an officer to remove her before she hurts someone… Of course.”

  Heather shrieked with rage and lurched at Drew.

  PC stepped in, grasping Heather’s wrist with one hand and her elbow with the other, spinning the actress around as PC twisted Heather’s arm behind her into an arm lock.

  “Owww! You’re hurting me! Let go!”

  “Let’s just walk to the front door, okay?” PC said through gritted teeth. She hadn’t had to grapple with a suspect in a long time, but she was glad she’d kept up her skills.

  Drew walked with her. “You. Are. Amazing!”

  “I know,” Heather purred.

  “Not you.” Drew shook his head.

  PC quashed a chuckle. Heather had always thought she was the queen bee in high school. If she recognized PC, she didn’t let on.

  Heather squeezed out some crocodile tears. “Help! Help! I’m being kidnapped!”

  People shook their heads and returned to their wine and cheese, no doubt tsk-tsking about how the mighty had fallen, embarrassed by the scene Heather was making, but relishing the juicy gossip.

  Red and blue strobe bounced off all the parked cars. It wasn’t surprising the police had arrived so fast–the station was only two blocks away.

  But PC was surprised by who got out from behind the wheel.

  It was the Chief of Police himself, Elwood Wilson. Her long-ago ex-boyfriend.

  He eyed her coldly. “I heard you were in town.”

  PC nodded. “I have your drunk and disorderly.” She pushed Heather a few steps in his direction.

  “What was she doing?”

  “I asked her to leave, and she attacked me!” Drew crossed his arms.

  PC nodded to the crowd behind her in the gallery. “Whole room full of witnesses.”

  “She’s hurting me!” Heather whined.

  Chief Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “Let her go. I’ll take it from here.”

  PC released her grip. Heather pitched forward and nearly fell, only to be caught by the chief. She was close enough he would have broken her fall, even if he hadn’t reached for her.

  I’m sure that wasn’t planned at all.

  “She’s all yours, Woody.”

  He regarded PC over Heather’s shoulder for a long moment. “I hope your mama gets well soon. Wouldn’t want you to have to stay here in town any longer than necessary.” Woody then turned his attention to Heather. “I’m gonna take you back to your hotel so you can sleep it off, okay?”

  He helped her down from the elevated sidewalk and into the front seat of his Tahoe.

  Woody looked to PC. He paused for a moment, eyes widening, but he said nothing before he climbed into the vehicle.

  “It was nice to see you, too, Woody.”

  He slammed the door and drove away.

  She gave Drew a quick, apologetic smile. “Long time ago, lot of bad blood under the bridge. Best forgotten.”

  He nodded, holding the door open for her. One of the waitstaff was cleaning up the broken glass.

  Drew gestured toward the door behind them. “He didn’t even ask if I wanted to press charges.”

  PC shrugged. “She’d make bail as soon as she was processed, then she’d harass you and make your life a misery until her court date, where she’d likely get a small fine, if that. He probably saved you a lot of trouble. I’m just hoping she’s too drunk to remember I was involved.”

  “Drunk. I wonder…”

  Heather was gone, but so was the artsy vibe. People were more interested in Heather’s melodrama.

  PC excused herself to check on her mother. As she wove between clusters of wine sippers, fragments of conversations stuck in her ears.

  “That Heather, she’s something else…”

  “… no one’s called him ‘Woody’ since high school!”

  “… Hollywood’s ruined that girl. I told
her mama…”

  “… a little excitement is good for…”

  Rose sat on an antique settee, upholstered in green velvet. Lin and the egg lady, Justice, stood around her.

  “Mama, you doing okay?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine.” She giggled.

  “You’re not drinking wine with your pain medication, are you?”

  Rose snorted. “I haven’t had any pills in over a week!”

  PC held up her hands. “Just checking. Making sure you’re not too tired.”

  “Ha! I’m fine. Nothing better than catchin’ up with friends.”

  “Okay.”

  The art show was half-way through, and PC hadn’t looked at any of the paintings except for Lin’s. She strolled through the gallery, admiring the work. All the pieces were flowers or nature watercolors. Very calm, very soothing. Heather Micah was all but forgotten by the time she reached the last painting. The crowd had thinned to almost non-existent.

  “See anything you like?” Drew smiled at her.

  “They’re all beautiful.”

  “I think so. But now that woman is gone, perhaps I can get the focus back where it belongs and make these local artists some money.”

  “I was wondering how a small-town art gallery stays in business.”

  “I do get a lot of foot traffic from day-trippers out antiquing. But mostly internet sales.” He sighed. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant than naked commerce. You said you paint. I’d like to hear more about it.”

  “I said I dabbled in painting. There’s a difference. I’ve been looking into signing up for classes, though.”

  “We host workshops on Saturday afternoons, if you’re interested.”

  “I might take you up on that. Depends on how Mama’s doing.”

  “Of course.”

  PC’s car rumbled down the gravel washboard driveway of Azalea Manor. Cars overflowed the lot. Many were parked haphazardly on the over-long grass.

  “Reverend Deen’s Thursday night services are very popular.” Rose gave a self-satisfied nod.

  “Do you go every week?”

  “No. Just every now and again, when my rheumatism acts up.”