One Foot in the Grave: Carly Moore #3

by Denise Grover Swank

  Wyatt’s eyes flew wide in surprise. “I’m not a threat. I’m Carly’s friend.”

  “Then why’s she cryin’?” Gladys demanded. “It looks like you’re blockin’ her from gettin’ into her car.”

  What did Gladys plan to do? Swat him? If I hadn’t been so close to breaking down, I probably would have burst into laughter.

  “I just need to talk to her, is all,” Wyatt said.

  “It looks like she don’t want to talk to you,” Roberta said, still approaching.

  “Carly, call off your posse,” Wyatt said in a low growl, not looking amused.

  “That’s right! We’re her posse,” Gladys shouted, whacking the handle of the flyswatter on her hand, then releasing a curse as she shook out her fingers.

  “Gladys. Roberta,” I said, turning to face them. “I can handle him.” Then I spun around to glare at Wyatt. “Get out of my way.”

  “We can’t just leave things like this,” he protested, holding his hands out at his sides to keep me from going past him.

  “Get out of my way, Wyatt!”

  But he refused to move. “Not until we’re done.”

  “How dare you?” I shouted, anger rushing through my head. He’d set the rules for our relationship, and now he thought he could determine when I could leave?

  Roberta reached us and rammed a foot of her walker onto Wyatt’s boot.

  He yelped and jerked backward, but he was still blocking my car door. “Carly.”

  I was pissed, more pissed than I’d ever been in my life, and before I could even think about it, I pressed the tab on the can. My aim had lowered, and it sprayed on his abdomen.

  He let out a cry and stumbled away from the car, covering his face with his hands. “Jesus! What the hell did you do that for?”

  “I warned you,” I said, already feeling guilty as I moved out of his path.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, stumbling a few more steps. “This burns like hellfire!”

  “I think that’s the point. Imagine what it would have felt like if I’d sprayed you in the face.” I clicked my fob and covered my face with my purse in case any lingering spray was in the air.

  “Don’t you dare leave!” he shouted, more out of panic than anger, but I ignored him, getting in the car and turning on the engine.

  He spun and turned toward the car, blindly reaching out to stop me as tears streamed down his face. What would have happened if I’d sprayed him in the face? “Carly!”

  I quickly backed out straight so I didn’t accidently run him over or the two older women, then turned before he could reach the car. I gunned it, looking into the rearview mirror.

  He was still stumbling around, probably because Gladys was now smacking him with the flyswatter and Roberta was jabbing him with her walker, and my guilt returned. Then I told myself that he’d brought it on himself. Maybe he’d take me seriously next time. Because something told me that Wyatt had picked up some tactics from both his father and his girlfriend, and he’d been using them on me.

  I was done being manipulated, and God help the next person who stood in my way.

  I figured it didn’t bode well that my next stop was at the home of the master manipulator himself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As soon as I pulled away from the parking lot, I call Marco’s cell phone, not surprised and actually grateful when it went to voicemail. I wasn’t sure I could handle talking to him right now.

  I listened to his message and took a deep breath to calm my nerves before I started to speak.

  “Hey, Marco. Just calling to give you an update. I went by Mitzi’s house, but her husband came out and said she wasn’t going to talk to me. Like we discussed, I dropped by Greener Pastures to see Gladys, but I also talked to Thelma Tureen about Heather. She told me where Heather’s aunt lives, so I’m hoping to visit her tomorrow before my shift. Oh…if you think of it and you’re in Ewing, can you get a bunch of Gerbera daisies? If not, that’s okay, but Miss Thelma said they’re Hilde’s favorite, and I was hoping to bring some to offer my condolences.”

  I paused and took a breath, wondering what I should say about Wyatt, if anything. But if Wyatt showed up at the tavern tonight, Marco was sure to pick up on the tension between us.

  “Say, just so you’re not blindsided later. Wyatt pissed me off in the nursing home parking lot, and I might have pepper sprayed him in the stomach. So good news, the pepper spray worked,” I said with a fake cheery voice. “But don’t worry, he didn’t try to hurt me or touch me or anything untoward. He just pissed me off with his usual bullshit. Like the fact that he was apparently engaged to Heather when he demanded his father give him ownership of the tavern. I told him I was sick of his lies, and when he wouldn’t get out of my way, I sprayed him.” Then a new thought hit me. “So if someone from the nursing home calls the sheriff on him, he didn’t do anything worthy of arrest, because last time I checked, irritating the hell out of someone wasn’t an actual crime.”

  I realized I was rambling, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

  “In any case,” I said with a sigh, “I wanted to give you an update and to thank you for being such a good friend. Thanks for putting up with my crap. Okay. Bye.” I hung up.

  I called Max next, trying to hurry before I left Ewing and lost cell phone service.

  “Max’s Tavern,” he answered in his good-natured voice.

  “Hey, Max, it’s Carly. How are things workin’ out with Molly?”

  “Well…” he drawled, and I knew it wasn’t great. “She’s slower than you, and she’s made a few mistakes, but it’s Ruth that’s the wrench in the engine. She’s ridin’ her hard.”

  Great. “I’ll talk to Ruth when I come in, which is why I’m callin’. I’m gonna be about an hour late.”

  He was silent for a moment, then hesitantly said, “Okay…”

  I knew he wanted to know why, but I really didn’t want to tell him, and I also didn’t want to lie. “Thanks for your understanding, Max. I’ll be in as soon as I can. Promise. Oh! And before I go, I think we should consider hiring Ginger to help with the lunch shifts. I figured it would probably work with her kids’ schedules.”

  “Huh,” he said as though mulling it over. “That might be a good idea, and as far as I know, Ruth doesn’t have a beef with her.” His voice was becoming staticky.

  “Well, there’s a good sign,” I said. It was a sad day when you hired people based on their ability to get along with a contrary waitress.

  The connection dropped after that, and I didn’t see Wyatt in my rearview mirror, not that I was surprised. Marco had told me that pepper spray would incapacitate a person for a good length of time—plenty of time to get away, although I was fairly certain this wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

  As I drove through Drum, I saw Emmaline Haskell sitting in a chair on the sidewalk at the street corner by the library, and I said a quick prayer of thanks. She was an older woman who sometimes came to town with a five-gallon bucket of bouquets of flowers she grew on her land. Today I could see white, red, and yellow tulips sticking out of her bucket. I couldn’t see any parking spaces, so I waved to her when I got to the stop sign, feeling bad when she hobbled over, trying to drag the bucket with her.

  I usually walked to her from the tavern when I knew she was in town, always eager to buy a couple of bouquets to brighten the house. Most people in town didn’t buy them, thinking they were a frivolous expense, but she was a sweet old woman, living alone and trying to get by on a small social security check, and I loved flowers. It was a win-win situation. Some days I was one of her only sales if people driving through didn’t stop.

  “Oh, Miss Emmaline!” I shouted through my open passenger window. “Stop right there! You don’t have to bring the bucket to me! Just give me three of your prettiest bouquets.”

  She leaned into my open passenger window and gave me a stricken look. “But that’s $30, Miss Carly.”

  “I’m just plain Carly, Miss Emmaline,” I said, hating that she
thought me better than her because she was poor as dirt and I had enough money to buy flowers. I dug into my wallet and pulled out two twenty-dollar bills, leaning over to hand them out the window. “You keep the change.”

  She took the bills and looked them over. “Are you sure?”

  “I have a couple of friends I want to give them to, and you have the prettiest flowers.” Then a thought hit me. “Miss Emmaline, would you be interested in a small job next week? I’d have to take you to Ewing, but I have a friend—Thelma Tureen—at the Greener Pastures nursing home and she loves flowers. I was going to take some bedding plants out there and help her plant them, but I don’t know the first thing about growing flowers.” (Not entirely true since I’d worked in a plant nursery in Arkansas for a month, but that wasn’t part of my official story.) “You’re clearly an expert. I could pick you up and we could go to the Piggly Wiggly in Ewing to pick up some plants—I’d pay you of course, and pay for the plants—and then you could tell me how to plant them in the courtyard. I’ll pick up something for lunch, and we can make an afternoon out of it.”

  The look of shock on her face made me question whether I’d offended her somehow. I was about to backpedal and apologize when she gave me a watery smile.

  “You don’t have to pay me, Miss Carly.”

  “Carly,” I said insistently. Then I gave her a wink. “My momma taught me to respect my elders. Even if they are only slightly older than me.”

  “Your momma did right by you, girl,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “I ain’t seen Thelma in over five years. I’d be honored to do it. No pay needed. And I’ll bring some of my own plants. I have a mess of ’em in my greenhouse.”

  Of course they knew each other—both of them had lived in Drum for over sixty or more years. I had no intention of just taking her plants, but I figured we could work out some kind of payment later if she’d be willing to sell them without cutting into her own plantings. Right now I needed to get my flowers and get out to the Drummonds’ place.

  She handed me four beautiful bouquets since I’d overpaid her, the stems in a bread loaf bag with a tiny bit of water so they didn’t wilt, and I told her I’d be in touch to figure out which day worked best for her and her flower-selling schedule.

  I felt better having a gift to give to Emily, but my stomach still clenched the closer I got to the Drummond property. I definitely wasn’t dressed for tea in my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, but I hadn’t had time to change, not that Bart would care about my schedule. I was sure he’d see it as a sign of disrespect.

  There was nothing I could do about it now. If I went home to change, I’d be late, and I’d barely make it in time as it was.

  I turned onto the Drummond property and took the lane up to the circle drive in front of the large stone, two-story monstrosity the Drummonds called a house. The first time I’d seen it, I’d struggled to envision the men I knew growing up in this house. It looked like a grand estate, totally different from the way Wyatt and Max lived now. Hell, Max’s apartment over the tavern was a remodeling disaster. But I knew the Drummonds had hit hard times first when moonshine became legal, and then once and for all when their lumber business had gone belly-up over a decade ago. The Drummond Lodge and Spa was Bart’s wing and a prayer to turn it all around, which seemed like further confirmation that he’d never have put the resort in its current location if he’d known that his son’s ex-girlfriend was buried there. He couldn’t really afford the bad publicity at this point.

  I parked in the drive and looked in my rearview mirror. My hair was longer than it had been on my last visit, slightly past my shoulders now, and it didn’t look too bad. I did a quick finger comb, and considered putting on some lipstick, but that was Caroline. Carly was usually makeup-free, or just mascara and a bit of concealer. I hadn’t taken the time to apply anything this morning, so Emily was getting me au naturel.

  I pulled the recorder out of my purse, flipped the cassette over and pressed play, then set it back in my bag. I only had thirty minutes left. I would either need to get more tapes, or review what I’d recorded and start taping over it.

  With my purse slung over my shoulder and a bundle of white and red tulips in my hand, I walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell next to the large double wooden doors. They opened about five seconds later. A woman in her late fifties—the same one who’d turned up her nose and pointed me to the servants’ entrance at the end of the house last December—answered, looking just as disgusted by the sight of me today as she had before. At least I’d worn a dress last time. Today I looked like a ranch hand.

  “Mrs. Drummond was expecting you for tea,” she said, her gaze sweeping my attire. She looked extra revolted when she took in the bouquet of flowers dripping water on the front step.

  “I hadn’t realized there was a dress code,” I said in a breezy tone I hoped would piss her off.

  For a moment or two, I thought she was going to turn me away, but she backed up with a look of utter disgust and let me in.

  The entry way was two stories tall with a massive wooden chandelier over our heads. If the Drummonds wanted to kill someone and make it look like an accident, they could pull it off with that light fixture. All they’d need to do was arrange for someone to cut the chains at the right moment. A curved marble staircase was off to the right, a pair of open French doors to the left.

  The woman released a huff of disapproval—I wasn’t sure of what: my attire, the flowers, my existence?—and ushered me through the doors into a very fancy living room with twelve-foot ceilings and a large stone fireplace with an enormous hearth. Perpendicular red velvet couches formed a little conversation area near the fireplace, separated by a coffee table with a white marble top and a gold base. A black grand piano was to the left of the massive, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the drive. Multiple other seating arrangements filled the nearly thirty-foot-deep room, with windows on the opposite wall, which I presumed looked over the backyard.

  A silver tray with a silver tea pot sat on the coffee table, and a three-tiered silver caddy filled with tiny cakes and cookies sat on a gold and marble cart next to the sofa, along with a stack of two blue and white china plates. Two blue and white china teacups were arranged on the silver tray next to the pot.

  Emily sat at the end of one of the sofas wearing a black and white tweed blazer and skirt, a black-and-camel-colored scarf wrapped around her presumably bald head.

  “Mrs. Drummond, Miss Moore has arrived,” the housekeeper said in a condescending tone.

  “Now, now,” Emily said with a wave of her hand. “Be nice, Annie.”

  Annie pierced me with a dark look, then shut the doors.

  “Oh, Carly,” Emily said in delight. “I’m excited to host you today. You have no idea how happy I was when Bart said you asked if you could call for tea.”

  An interesting way of putting it, given Bart had been the one to invite me. I hurried toward her when I saw she was struggling to get up.

  I leaned over, extending my hand. “Thank you so much for having me. I’m sorry I’m not more dressed up. I had some errands to run earlier, and I never made it home to change.”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” she said, dismissing the matter with a flick of her hand. “No need for formalities. We’re friends here.”

  “I brought you these,” I said, holding them out. “Emmaline Haskell has the prettiest flowers, better than you’ll find in any shop. She sells them on the street corner in downtown Drum.”

  She took the flowers and sniffed. “Ah, Emmaline. She’s still around? She’s been selling them for years. I’ll ring the bell and have Annie bring a vase.” She picked up the bell from the side table before I could stop her.

  “I could have gotten you one,” I said, taking a seat opposite her.

  “Nonsense. You’re my guest. It’s Annie’s job.”

  The French doors opened, and Annie stood in the doorway. “You rang, ma’am?”

  “I need a
vase for Carly’s bouquet. She got the flowers from Emmaline Haskell. Can you believe she’s still selling flowers downtown?”

  “No, ma’am,” Annie said in a dry voice. “I’ll get your vase right away.” Then she walked out and shut the door.

  The tension in the room eased after Annie left, but I still resisted the urge to glance around the room for Bart. Hopefully, the fact that there were only two cups indicated we’d be alone. “I take it that it’s just the two of us today.”

  “Bart so wanted to be here, but he was called back to the construction site. We’re all so relieved it’s been reopened.” She reached for the tea pot and poured some into a cup. “I’d have Annie serve our tea, but she’s on the grumpy side today.” She leaned closer and held the edge of her hand to her cheek as though hiding her mouth from the doors. “I think she’s going through the change.”

  I suspected her attitude ran deeper than some errant hormones but held my tongue. “I can get you something from the cart.”

  “Oh, that would be good. Go ahead and put the two plates on the coffee table, next to the teacups.”

  I realized both cups had been poured and set before our respective seats. I passed out the two plates.

  “Now grab the tray and bring it over. I suppose we’ll just serve ourselves,” she said with a sigh as though she’d been asked to climb Mount Everest. Personally, I’d much rather serve myself than have someone else do it. Especially Annie.

  But as though she were Beetlejuice and could be summoned at the mere mention of her name—or, in this case, a manifestation of my thoughts—she walked into the room with a crystal vase with a small amount of water at the bottom. She snatched the flowers off the side table where Emily had placed them and dropped them into the vase as though touching them were offensive, and I knew it was partly because I’d bought them off the street.

  It took everything in me not to snatch them back, not on my account but Emmaline’s.