Death Crashes the Party (19 page)

Chapter 26

Dave hurried out the door as Di and I sat in a stunned and confused silence.

“I wonder if somebody discovered a dead and decomposing body in one of the storage units?” I said.

“If it was decomposing, I hope it was dead,” Di said in her trademark deadpan manner.

“Thanks again for being there for me last night. I guess I should head home.”

“If you're in a hurry to go home, does that mean things are okay with you and Larry Joe?”

“I think so. Keep your fingers crossed.”

I ran by the grocery and picked up a salad bag, a bag of frozen broccoli and cauliflower, and a couple of boneless chicken breasts. At home I panfried the chicken and topped it with some store-bought marinara sauce before popping it in the oven to melt a bit of mozzarella cheese on top. It wasn't exactly gourmet, but it was the best I could pull together on short notice. Besides, Larry Joe likes pretty much anything covered with marinara sauce.

When I heard the garage door opening, I quickly lit candles and placed them in the center of the table.

Larry Joe had a grocery store – variety bouquet of flowers clutched against his heart. “It's not much, but I wanted to get you something,” he said sheepishly.

“They're beautiful.”

He handed me the flowers, wrapped his arms around me, and swept me off the floor with a passionate embrace. After I relished a flurry of kisses across my face from my sweet husband, my feet finally touched the floor, both literally and figuratively.

“Dinner smells good, honey.”

I placed the flowers in a vase and sat them on the table, alongside the candles. Larry Joe uncorked a bottle of red wine and retrieved some goblets from a cabinet shelf.

“I guess I'll have to limit myself to one glass of wine. I'm awful sorry, hon, but I'm going to have to go back to work after dinner. I should be home shortly after the three-to-eleven shift is over. With Ralph gone, it's a little chaotic in the shop. And, as if we weren't already shorthanded on mechanics, Rudy's mom called this morning and said Rudy wouldn't be at work today because he was ‘indisposed. '”

“He's indisposed, all right,” I said. “He's in jail.”

I filled Larry Joe in on Rudy getting arrested in Nashville, getting picked up by the Feds, and squealing on Ralph to save his own sorry patootie.

“That's the best news I've had all day,” Larry Joe said. “Not that I'm losing another mechanic, but that Ralph will be doing some time. His lawyer had the nerve to tell our lawyer that Ralph may sue if we fire him before he's been found guilty in a court of law. It's a good thing that lawyer talked to Bill Scott instead of me. I think I would have wrung his scrawny little neck. Bill handled it, though. He told him Ralph was just suspended without pay until after his trial. And even after we gave him the box of stuff Charlene packed up from Ralph's office, he kept trying to insist that Ralph had a right to come on the property, with an escort, to check for his belongings. Bill held the line and told him he would not be allowed on the property for any reason, pending his trial.”

“Hmm. Honey, maybe you should call and tell Dave that Ralph seems all hot to go back to McKay's and look around. If he left something there connected to the drug trafficking, Ralph—or somebody who isn't locked up right now—may try to break in late at night to retrieve whatever it is. Dave may want to keep an eye on things there.”

“Maybe I should take along my shotgun and keep an eye on things myself tonight.”

“No, you shouldn't,” I said emphatically. “Besides, I am not ready to spend the night alone in this house just yet. Not after last night. And I was kind of looking forward to having you sleep next to me tonight, too.”

“Okay,” he said, his pursed lips relaxing into a weak smile. “I don't really want to kill anybody, anyway. I wouldn't mind beating the crap out of Ralph Harvey, though.” Larry Joe walked over and kissed the top of my head. “Keep your motor running. I'll be home by eleven thirty. Please keep your cell phone with you tonight. And, just in case, you'd better think up a new hiding place—everybody in town knows about that shower curtain by now.”

Larry Joe left for work, and I cleared away the dishes. I couldn't help but worry about my stressed-out, overworked husband. With Ralph, Rudy, Duane, and Darrell gone, and his dad still in the hospital, he was struggling to keep everything going with a skeleton crew.

I gathered supplies to paint my neglected fingernails and flipped on the TV in the den—the old nineteen-inch television from my mom's sewing room, which she insisted we use until we got a new set. I was only half listening to the news when a breaking bulletin caught my attention, prompting me to punch up the plus sign on the volume button.

“This just in. A man was found dead at the Lock-Ur-Stock Mini Storage near Dixie, Tennessee, this evening. Unconfirmed reports indicate the dead man was the manager of the storage facility and may have interrupted a burglar in one of the units. Sheriff Eulyse ‘Dave' Davidson declined comment on the reports, saying that the investigation was in the early stages and that the man's identity is not being released pending notification of the next of kin.”

I clicked off the TV, and my cell phone rang.

“Did you see the news?” Di asked.

“Yeah, just now. Have you talked to Dave?”

“No, and I doubt I'll hear from him tonight if he's got a fresh homicide on his hands—to add to the two unsolved murders he's already working on.”

“I hope the TV news is wrong about the manager being the victim. Tim Morgan and his wife go to our church. They're a sweet couple.”

About 10:00 p.m. I called my mother-in-law to make sure she had made it home safely from the hospital and to get an update on Larry Joe's dad. She was both excited that the doctor might let Daddy Wayne come home on Monday and worried that it might be too soon.

Still feeling uneasy after the break-in, and feeling creeped out by a new murder at the storage place, I waited up for Larry Joe. True to his word, he was home before 11:30 p.m. We went straight to bed.

Since we woke up the next morning in the same position in which we had fallen asleep—curled up together spoon-style—I could only assume that we had slept so soundly that neither of us had moved a muscle all night. We slept too late to make it to the early church service, and I had to start setting up for the bridesmaids' tea around 11:00 a.m. And although I could definitely use the prayers, I was honestly too tired to make the extra effort to make it to the early service, anyway. I did put forth the effort to whip up some waffles for breakfast.

“By the way, honey, I was so tired, I forgot to tell you I talked to your mom. She said the doctor might let your dad go home tomorrow.”

“I hope it's not too soon.”

“That's just what your mama said.”

Larry Joe retrieved a couple of plates from the cabinet, and I plated up breakfast.

“I phoned Dave last night and told him about Ralph seeming anxious to go on company property for some reason and what you said about him or one of his accomplices maybe trying to slip in at night. He said they'd try to keep an eye on things. But honestly, he's got his hands full now with Tim Morgan's murder.”

“Oh, no. So it really was Tim? I sure do hate that.”

“Me too. He was a good guy.” Larry Joe took a big swig of coffee and doused his waffles with sorghum molasses. “And another thing, Dave said it was Darrell Farrell's storage unit that was broken into. Whoever it was hauled off just about everything and killed Tim in the process.”

“Oh, Lord, will this never end?”

I hadn't even entertained the possibility that the murder at the storage place could be connected with the other murders, but the robbery of the Civil War artifacts made it seem likely.

After breakfast, we sprawled on the sofa in the den and divided up the Sunday newspaper from Memphis. I perused the sales circulars, while Larry Joe read the comics aloud. A little after 10:00 a.m., Larry Joe headed out to check on his mom and dad and to find out if there were any definite plans to release Daddy Wayne from the hospital tomorrow.

After he left, I took a quick shower and dressed. As soon as I was in the car, I gave Di a call on my cell. She had heard the news report confirming Tim Morgan as the murder victim, and she really didn't know anything new about the case. I relayed the news that my father-in-law might get to come home from the hospital tomorrow. Mostly, we commiserated about the duress Dave and Larry Joe both were dealing with at present.

“I'm really worried about Dave with all the stress he's under—and all the stress he heaps on himself. He actually feels responsible, at least partly, for Tim Morgan's murder.”

“How can he believe that?” I asked.

“Well, it seems Tim's widow lashed out at Dave when he went to talk to her, saying how Tim wouldn't have been in harm's way if Dave had hauled off all the expensive Civil War artifacts in Darrell's storage unit instead of leaving them there. But you and I both know there's not enough room in the tiny evidence room at the sheriff's office for all that stuff and the FBI wouldn't take it.”

“Dave's been in law enforcement long enough to know that the grieving widow was just trying to make sense of a senseless crime and lashed out at him because he was handy,” I said.

“I know. But since it seems pretty certain that this murder is linked somehow to the Farrells' murders, Dave thinks if he had caught their murderer by now, Tim would still be alive. Though I don't know what more he thinks he could do. He's working day and night, trying to solve this case.”

“Of course. And as much as I hate what happened to Tim, he knew better than to confront a thief like that. If he had just called the sheriff, maybe the Farrells' killer would be in jail right now—and Tim would still be alive.”

 

 

Although I'd spent more time lately thinking about hospitals and suspects and murders, today I had to pull myself together and concentrate on work. I had a bridesmaids' tea to put on this afternoon.

After a quick stop at the bakery to pick up the raspberry-lemon bars, mini cupcakes, and petits fours I'd ordered, I drove to Meemaw Carter's house, a Victorian much like my own home—minus the scaffolding and drop cloths.

I tapped on the screen door as I entered.

“It's Liv McKay.”

“Come on back, darlin'. I'm in the kitchen.”

Meemaw was assembling finger sandwiches, which she had opted to make herself. On the counter, I also spied wax paper lined with strawberries that had been dipped in chocolate. I arranged the desserts on cake pedestals and placed the chocolate-covered strawberries on a platter.

“That's probably Holly,” I said after hearing a car pull up in the driveway. “We'll start setting up in the backyard.”

I left Meemaw to arrange the homemade sandwiches on a multitiered plate stand, which held a variety of her best china plates. There were chicken salad with pecan sandwiches and sandwiches spread with pimento cheese, sometimes referred to as Southern caviar. Meanwhile, I went out to meet Holly, and the two of us unloaded tables and decorations from her van and my SUV.

We set up a round-topped table in the backyard, beside a gazebo, and draped it with gauzy lavender tablecloths. Two giant red maples provided pleasing shade for both the screened gazebo and the table next to it. Holly set out Meemaw's best china dinner plates and tucked a pink rose beside each. We arranged antique costume jewelry, foraged from Meemaw's personal collection, around a centerpiece of light pink roses and dark pink peonies. The jewelry added just the right touch. A wrapped package containing a mirrored compact on which the recipient's name was engraved—the bride's gift to her bridesmaids—was placed in front of each plate.

The table was circled by a charming assortment of mismatched chairs from Meemaw's kitchen, living room, and parlor. An antique-style picture frame sporting each bridesmaid's initials on parchment paper was hung from the back of each chair with lavender satin ribbon. Inside the gazebo, the sandwiches and desserts and pitchers of lemon and mint-infused iced tea were placed on a cloth-draped table adorned with pots of trailing ivy and a centerpiece of Verbascum spikes with blooms in shades of buff, rose, and lavender.

Holly and I stepped back to admire our work. Meemaw came out and joined us.

“Liv, darlin', this is beautiful. Exactly what I wanted—simple Southern elegance,” she said. “I wish you were planning the wedding. You wouldn't believe some of the tacky decorations Andrea's mother has dreamed up for the reception. She's not from here, you know. But I try to keep my mouth shut. My sweet girl will make a beautiful bride, anyhow. And thank the Lord, she's marrying a local boy.”