Death Crashes the Party (4 page)

Chapter 4

I had the presence of mind to stick my cell phone in my pocket before I climbed up to slather another coat of paint on the ceiling. I didn't, however, have the presence of mind to stick a cloth in my other pocket to clean the paint off my hands. This thought occurred to me as my ringtone started playing. I knew from the tune that it was Larry Joe. I wiped my hands on my T-shirt and answered the phone.

“I heard you had breakfast with another man this morning,” Larry Joe said from the other end of the line.

“Don't you have anything better to do than track my every move?” I said, feeling a bit peeved.

“Oh, Dad and I just met a client for lunch at the diner, and Margie mentioned seeing you this morning, that's all.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Not really. I figure the sheriff is just zeroing in on you as his prime suspect.”

“Unfortunately, I don't think Dave actually has any suspects at this point.”

“I'm sure he has his hands full with this one. So do we,” he said. “Rumors are starting to circulate that we aren't going to be able to keep up with orders. That's why I'm calling, to tell you not to expect me for supper. Dad wants me to go to the Jaycees dinner and meeting tonight to do some glad-handing and rumor quashing. He's going to his Elks Lodge meeting tonight to do the same.”

After he hung up, I tried to remember if Margie was the short, plump waitress or the one with the beehive kind of hair thing going on. If she was the beehive, I regretted leaving her the extra tip.

I heard a knock on the front door, followed by a “Hey, it's me.”

“Come on in,” I called out.

I heard Di's voice from below as I continued painting the ceiling of my living room a very calming shade of periwinkle. I was at that moment perched on tiptoe on a dining chair that was sitting atop the dining room table, both of which were covered with a painter's drop cloth and a fair amount of paint spatter.

“They've invented these nifty things called ladders that let you reach high places without having to climb on top of a pile of furniture. I like that color, though.”

“Thanks. I think I've earned a break,” I said, descending from my aerie with as much dignity as I could muster. Judging from Di's suppressed giggles, it wasn't much. I didn't tell Di, but Larry Joe had a ladder up on the second floor. I was just too lazy to haul it down the stairs.

Di followed me into the kitchen, where we popped open a couple of cold ones—Diet Cokes, that is.

“Liv, why the heck are you swinging from a chandelier with a paintbrush, anyway? You really should make Larry Joe do the painting, at least the ceilings.”

I knew if I waited for Larry Joe to get around to painting the living room, the walls would be covered with moss. Not that it could be any uglier than the wedding mint-green shade on them already. “I just couldn't stand looking at these walls any longer. Besides, Larry Joe is still busy ripping holes in the upstairs bathroom.” I really wanted him to focus on the upstairs bathroom. I was getting tired of having to trek downstairs to take a shower.

“At least the kitchen's beautiful,” Di said.

“Yeah.” I exhaled a sigh and admired my granite countertops.

It's become a running joke about how nice the kitchen looks. When we bought the rambling Victorian almost two years ago, the previous owners had completely ripped out the kitchen as the first step of a never completed remodel. Not wanting to live in the house without at least some semblance of a kitchen, Larry Joe agreed to hire professionals to do the work. It's likely the only room in the house that will ever be finished. The house was built in 1900, a garage was added in the early 1940s, and an enclosed ramp connecting the garage and the house was added in the 1950s.

The ongoing construction site status of the house is one of the reasons I keep an office downtown instead of conducting business out of my home. My mother likes to refer to our house as “the nightmare on Elm Street.” Okay, so we do live on Elm Street. But I see our somewhat ramshackle painted lady as an unpolished—and badly in need of painting—gem.

Di left to run some errands, and with Larry Joe out of the picture for supper, we agreed to meet for dinner at Taco Belles at a little after 6:30 p.m. After I rinsed the paint off the paintbrush and scrubbed the paint off the rest of me in the downstairs shower, the only working shower in the house, I dressed and headed to the restaurant.

Arriving at the restaurant before Di, I got us a table and ordered a couple of jumbo margaritas. A squashed mosquito adorned the wall next to the booth, its remains plastered beneath an oversize sombrero.

Owned by sisters Maybelle and Annabelle Wythe, probably now in their seventies, Taco Belles doesn't come close to approximating authentic Mexican cuisine. Still, the catfish tacos aren't bad.

“Sorry I'm late,” Di said as she slung her purse and then her backside onto the bench seat.

I could tell from her leotard and pajama-style pants that she'd just come from her weekly yoga class. Di walks what must be miles a day on her mail route, so she doesn't really need the additional exercise. But she says pounding the pavement every day does a number on her joints and muscles, and the stretching and toning she gets from yoga is therapeutic, as well as relaxing.

“I haven't been here long. I went ahead and ordered us a couple of margaritas.”

“That sounds good. As long as we eat some real food along with our liquor,” Di said. “I had a headache yesterday that just wouldn't go away. I think the fact that we consumed huge quantities of daiquiris the other night with only a handful of nibbles probably instigated that headache.”

A perky young waitress sat two fishbowl margaritas down in front of us, and we both ordered without bothering to peruse the familiar menu.

“Here's to the hair of the dog that bit you,” I said, lifting my oversize glass with both hands.

“You'll never guess who's joined my yoga class.”

“Mr. Sweet?” I said facetiously.

“No, but I'd pay to see that.”

We both grinned at the thought of my spindly landlord twisting and lunging into some awkward yoga pose.

“Who, then?”

“Deputy Ted Horton.”

“Oh, my,” I said. “Why would he take up yoga, do you think? Is he keeping an eye on you dangerous subversives?”

“I think he's keeping an eye on us, or at least some of us, all right. I think it's probably a desperate attempt to meet women.”

Poor Ted
, I thought. He's a thoroughly nice guy. Unfortunately, a picture of him could serve as an apt illustration next to the definition of
pencil-necked geek
.

We had drained about half our fishbowls before the waitress returned with our catfish tacos and a squeeze bottle of chipotle tartar sauce.

I told Di how I'd ended up having breakfast with Sheriff Dave and how a lack of progress in the double-murder case seemed to be weighing pretty heavily on him.

“Oh,” Di said, raising her fork to indicate she had more to say as soon as she had swallowed. “Apparently, there's been some progress on the case since this morning. I talked to Dave briefly, and he said they found some interesting stuff in a mini-storage unit rented by Darrell Farrell.”

My curiosity was divided between wanting to know more about Di's “brief ” conversation with Dave and wanting to know more about the “stuff ” at the mini storage. The mystery of the storage unit won out.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Oh, it was all their Civil War reenactment gear and whatnot. But get this,” she said, stabbing the air with her fork. “According to one of the reserve deputies who's involved in that kind of thing, a bunch of the clothes and weapons and equipment were the genuine articles, not reproductions. And the Farrell boys wouldn't have been able to amass that kind of collection on their salaries.”

“So the sheriff thinks they had a cache of stolen goods?”

“Either that or some high-quality counterfeit stuff that only an expert could tell the difference. Dave has contacted some history professor from the University of Memphis to come look at it all tomorrow. Either way, if they were mixed up with theft or a counterfeit ring, it could be what got them killed,” Di said.

“I hope Dave nabs a suspect soon. Today I felt like Mrs. Erdman was trying to imply that I had something to do with the murders, or that Larry Joe did. The Dixieland band I booked for her party may be playing a funeral march if she keeps it up. She makes me so mad,” I said before finishing off my margarita.

“Don't let her get to you, Liv. You already know that woman's a nut.”

“It's not just her. I haven't wanted to think about it, but while I've had plenty of calls from nosy gossips, my phone hasn't exactly been ringing off the hook with calls from prospective clients since I discovered the bodies.”

After dinner, we ordered some coffee to quell the goose bumps stirred up by the gale-force air-conditioning and to offset the stupefying effect of the jumbo margaritas.

Miss Maybelle delivered the coffee to our table.

“Here's something to warm y'all up,” she said, setting down the tray and filling two white ceramic cups with steaming coffee. Her white hair was carefully coiffured, and she was wearing a lightweight cardigan, one almost the same color blue as her eyes. “They nearly freeze me to death in here, but most folks seem to like the air conditioner on high. I think spicy food just makes some people sweat, no matter what the temperature.”

Seemingly without taking a breath, Miss Maybelle leaned in to the table and continued in a stage whisper. “Olivia, it must have been just awful for you, finding those young men who went and got themselves killed like that.”

“Yes, ma'am. I've had better days.”

“It's tragic, of course. But I've always found it to be true that those who come to a violent end most often had a hand in bringing it upon themselves. It's no secret their mama's always been on the wild side. While they were alive, her grandparents did the best they could, but I don't think those boys were brought up properly at all. . . . ,” she said, breathing a sigh. “Still, it is sad—and so unfair to you, dear. I certainly hope it doesn't put a damper on your little party business.”

Someone or something distracted Miss Maybelle, and she breezed away from the table.

“Lord, help me.”

“I wouldn't pay too much attention to Miss Maybelle,” Di said. “In case you haven't noticed, she's not the most positive or least judgmental woman in the world.”

“Maybe not. But she also has a knack for saying out loud what a lot of other people are probably thinking.”

Chapter 5

We paid for dinner at the cash register and grabbed a couple of after-dinner mints after dropping a donation in the jar for the Lions Club to help the sight impaired.

“You feel like walking a bit?” Di said.

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt me to burn off a few of these calories,” I said, patting my bulging midsection.

“Good. Well, follow me home, and we can take a stroll through the trailer park.”

As we made the short drive to Sunrise Mobile Village, I couldn't help thinking what a misnomer
mobile
was. I've watched Di check the tie-downs before tornado season. The anchoring system underneath the trailer includes steel rods several feet long that screw into the ground and steel straps bolted to the rods that fasten around the trailer frame. Nobody could just hitch one of these trailers to a truck and drive away.

We parked in front of Di's place. I got out of the car and automatically started walking toward the duck pond in the center of Sunrise Mobile, or not so mobile, Village.

“No. Let's head in this direction,” Di called to me as she ambled off down a side street leading to the outer circle of the trailer park.

“Are we just walking, or are we going somewhere in particular?” I asked, wondering why Di seemed to be choosing the far less scenic route.

“That depends. If you're still in snooping mode, there's a neighbor around back I thought you might like to have a chat with,” she said coyly.

I resented the snooping remark, but I still had to ask, “Who's that?”

We walked leisurely, nothing aerobic—it was still too stifling for a jog or even a power walk. But a warm breeze stirred, mitigating, or at least dispersing, the humidity.

Ray Franklin lived in a section of the trailer park set up for visiting RVs, one with temporary hookups. The section was nearly vacant, except for Ray's old Winnebago and another rusty camper. These dwellings actually were mobile, although looking at the condition of Ray's Winnebago, I had my doubts it would start. There are a few retired couples who park their campers here during the winter to be near relatives and to escape the cold and snow of their homes up north. They're sensible enough, however, not to vacation in the South during the long, hot summer.

Ray Franklin, who looked to be in his early forties, had a military-style haircut and the physique of an ex-athlete who had developed a slight paunch. He also exuded a steady stream of smarm.

“Evenin', ladies. What brings you out this way?” Ray was sitting in a plastic chair just outside the open door to his camper.

“Just walking off dinner,” Di said. “You may remember me. I live here, on the front side. I think we met at the Sunrise Village picnic.”

“Oh, yes, ma'am,” he said. “I do remember you.” His eyes scanned her figure without the least bit of discretion.

“This is my friend Liv McKay.”

“How d'ya do?” he said, his snake eyes slithering in the direction of my bosom.

I nodded and forced a smile.

“I'm just having an after-dinner drink. Would you care to join me?”

“We'd better not,” Di said. “We had drinks with dinner.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, tossing an empty beer bottle on the ground and reaching into the ice chest beside his chair to fish out another.

“Liv McKay. I suppose you're the one that found the Farrell brothers,” he said knowingly.

“Yes. It was just awful. They were so young. Did you know them?”

“Course I did,” he said. “Met 'em through Shiloh company. Kinda showed them the ropes. They were good kids. It's a real shame what happened to them.”

“That's what their boss said, that they were good kids. Never in any trouble he knew of . . . . They worked for my husband's family trucking business,” I added in explanation.

“It just don't add up. It's like I told the deputy. Duane and Darrell kinda confided in me. I think they saw me as some kind of father figure. I served in the Iraq War, which their daddy died in. Maybe I flatter myself, but I like to think if they'd been in some kind of trouble, they would've told me. I'd have done what I could to help them out. But then, I guess we never know people as well as we think we do.”

Despite being a crusty character, Ray spoke about the Farrell brothers with what sounded like a genuine fondness.

“Well, good night,” Di said. “We should head back.”

“Night, ladies,” he said, raising his beer to us.

“Some people are so sleazy, just talking to them makes you feel like you need a shower,” I said once we were out of earshot.

“He certainly has a gift for undressing women with his eyes,” Di said.

“Do you know where he works?” I asked.

“I've seen him trimming hedges and painting fences here in the park,” Di said. “I know he was in the army. Maybe he draws a military pension. What I do know is that he didn't really tell us anything new about the Farrells.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“What do you mean?” Di asked.

“What was it Ray said? Something like he had ‘shown the ropes' to the Farrell boys about reenacting. I'd bet you a dollar to a doughnut that if the Farrells were mixed up in stealing or counterfeiting Civil War artifacts, Ray Franklin was right in the middle of it.”

I said good night to Di, drove home, and jumped in the shower. After I had bathed the clinging humidity and the impurity of Ray Franklin's gaze off my body, I slipped on a purple nightshirt that had
PARTY GIRL
emblazoned across the chest. I had just started filing my nails when Larry Joe walked through the bedroom door, took off his tie, and heaved himself wearily onto the bed.

“Rough night?” I asked, leaning over and giving him a kiss on the forehead.

“I've smiled so much tonight, my face hurts,” he said. “Some people act like we won't be able to do business, just because we lost a couple of employees. I'm convinced some of them even think Dad and I were somehow involved in killing those boys.”

“Oh, honey. People are just tense because there's a murderer still at large. Things will settle down when Dave has a suspect.”

I didn't have the heart to tell him that even Mrs. Erdman seemed to suspect us.

I filled Larry Joe in on what the sheriff had told Di about the possible stolen goods in the storage unit. I circumspectly omitted having talked to Ray Franklin.

“Maybe that's the lead Dave needs to get to the bottom of this whole mess,” I said.

“I certainly hope so—and soon,” Larry Joe said. “It's starting to get to me, but I'm more worried about Dad. He doesn't need this kind of stress. He's getting to be an old geezer, you know.”

“Don't worry about your dad. He's one tough cookie. Why don't you try to get some sleep?”

Larry Joe was gently snoring within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, and I drifted off soon after. About 2:00 a.m. our neighbors' car alarm sounded—again. This occurs more often than I'd like to think about. Sometimes it beeps for five minutes; sometimes it goes on for fifteen minutes or more.

At the sound of the blaring
beep-beep-beep
, Larry Joe shot straight up into a sitting position in the bed.

“I'm going to kill the neighbors,” he said drowsily.

“Honey, it's two a.m.,” I said, glancing over at the alarm clock. “At least wait until after sunrise to kill them. You wouldn't want to accidentally kill the wrong people.”

Larry Joe moaned and stuck his head under his pillow. The alarm fell silent after a few minutes, and Larry Joe fell back asleep in an instant. I wasn't so lucky.

Our neighbors with the pesky car alarm, the Newsoms—Larry Joe and I have dubbed them the Gruesomes—live next door to Mrs. Cleats. If the alarm persists for very long, Mrs. Cleats will often call the sheriff to complain.

Mrs. Gruesome insists that Mrs. Cleats's cat is setting off the alarm by jumping on the hood of the car. Mrs. Cleats insists that she always brings Mr. Winky in the house at night, although we all know she doesn't, and there are frequent litters of kittens that resemble him in the neighborhood to attest to it.

Larry Joe tried talking to Mr. Gruesome on a couple of the rare occasions when the neighbor was sober, and even offered to help him disable the car alarm. Gruesome declined because he said he was afraid it would void the warranty on the car. I think he was more afraid his wife would void his right to breathe.