Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky (14 page)

I quickly interrupted Wendy in mid-sentence and changed the subject. I told Wyatt I’d been contacted by my new boss, Colby Tucker, and in turn, notified the library employees when the library would reopen. He told me he’d known Tom Melvard for years, and often saw him in the evenings, entering and exiting businesses in town where he performed custodial duties.

“The old guy ain’t no bigger than a ten year-old,” Wyatt said. “He made a living as a jockey though, so his size was very beneficial. Tom’s kind of a loner and has never been married that I know of, but you couldn’t ask for a nicer guy.”

“Yes, he seemed very pleasant on the phone.” I went on to tell him about Carolyn Aldrich’s decision to go back to school to learn the cosmetology trade, and how I’d been fortunate to discover my other part-time employee was interested in full-time employment.

“I know Paul Miller too,” Wyatt said. “He belongs to the same gym I do. He’s training in martial arts for cage-fighting competition. Quiet guy, but very driven. Paul’s been involved in body-building since I’ve known him.”

“Quiet is an understatement, but he’s definitely built like a tank,” I said. “Are there any new developments on the case regarding the string of burglaries?”

“The pawn shop on Main Street got hit last night. Several guns, a
Rolex Submariner
watch, and about a grand in cash got lifted from there. Same M.O. as the prior burglaries, which was disabling the security system and cameras, and breaking in through the rear doors that face the alley. It also appears as if a crowbar was used to open up the cash register in each incidence. We’ve been following some leads from the tip line, but none of them have resulted in finding a perp, or perps, as we suspect might be the case.”

“Wow, Wyatt,” Stone said. “Kind of brazen, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt replied. “We’re hoping their lack of fear and defiant behavior will cause them to slip up and do something rash that leads us right to them. It could be just a lone perp, but a pair, or team of suspects, fits the profile better.”

I could understand why the police department was preoccupied with this case, because crimes of this nature were a rarity in this small community. Murders in Rockdale were uncommon too, although the quaint little town had been plagued by several of them in the two years since the Alexandria Inn had opened for business. And, like the potential slaying of Bertha Duckworthy, I’d somehow found myself in the middle of every single one of them!

Chapter 9

After sprucing up our guests’ rooms, and putting new linens on their beds, I went outside and found Stone raking leaves on the front lawn. He was filling large black trash bags with the leaves to put out on the curb with the trashcans on Monday morning.

“What’s up?” He asked.

“I’m going to run to the post office to buy stamps this morning, because it’s Saturday and the post office closes at noon. I want to get a birthday card off to Sheila today. Her birthday’s on Monday.” Sheila had been my best friend since Junior High, and would no doubt still be my best friend when the preacher read me my last rites. Actually, unless I converted to Catholicism, I probably wasn’t going to be read any rites. But the point is, Sheila and I were as tight as my blue jeans were becoming, and would be best friends forever. The last thing I wanted to do was forget her on her birthday. I also had some bills I’d like to forget, but it would be best to keep the electricity on at the inn for our guests.

“Okay. Are you going to the store this week? I need some aftershave. Like maybe Brut 33 if they have it,” Stone said.

“Sure,” I answered, knowing there was no way I was buying Brut 33 for Stone. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it went out of style in the seventies, somewhere between mood rings and lava lamps. I’d pick him up some Prada or Polo, or something else from this century, and he’d never know the difference.

Speaking of last rites, there was someone out there I wanted to have their rights read to. “
You have the right to remain silent,”
and “
You have the right to an attorney
,” to name a couple. I’d better grab a cup of coffee to go, and get cranking if I had any hope of helping make that happen.

“Say, Stone, when are you planning to talk to Elroy Traylor?”

“I thought I’d see if I could get in to see Traylor one day this week.”

“On what pretenses do you need to speak to the city manager?”

“Well, no pretenses really, because I really do want to discuss the city’s budget allocation for tourism this year,” Stone said. “It’s the driving force behind the economy of this town, and I think more resources need to be pumped in to it. While I’m there, I’ll bring up the library and the rumor I heard about it being relocated. Then I will segue into a discussion about the tragic death of our local librarian, and see where it goes from there.”

“Good plan, Stone! Thanks so much for helping me. I thought I might call and invite my new boss, Colby Tucker, to supper tonight, or tomorrow night, whichever suits him.”

“Think there’s a chance in hell he’ll accept your offer?”

“No,” I replied honestly. “But I didn’t think it’d hurt to be gracious and friendly, and show a desire to meet my new boss. I will have to report to the man, you know. And miracles do happen occasionally.”

* * *

There was a long line when I walked into the post office to buy stamps. I waved at a gal toward the front of the line that worked as a stylist at the Klip Joint where I had my hair done. When I looked up at the clerk behind the counter, my jaw fell open. I was almost certain she was the woman whose photo I’d seen on Quentin’s phone, Barbara Wells. When I got up to the counter, I’d have to find out for sure without taking too much time because I didn’t want to hold up the line.

If the postal clerk was Barbara Wells, the lady who called Quentin while I was at his house, and Quentin had told me it was his brother, my first assumption was they were having an affair. The woman behind the counter was decades younger than Quentin, and tremendously better looking than his late wife, Ducky. I could understand why he’d be attracted to her, and even why he’d want Ducky out of the picture so he could pursue a closer relationship with this buxom blonde, with the gorgeous blue eyes and straight white teeth.

But would Quentin kill for her, when divorce was always a less gruesome, and at least, a legal, option? He hadn’t really seemed the type to exert cruel and unusual punishment on his spouse, just because she didn’t have the good fortune of looking like she’d just stepped off the front page of
Glamour
magazine.

Quentin was attractive in his own way, but certainly not
GQ
material. He for sure wouldn’t be taking David Beckham’s place in an underwear advertisement any time soon. How would he even manage to catch this woman’s eye? There had to be a different connection between these two. It was my intention to find out what it was.

As I waited in line, I turned ideas over in my mind, trying to think of some clever way of finding out, in what form or fashion this woman was involved with Quentin Duckworthy. Finally, I decided the best tactic was a direct approach. I’d ask the clerk, if she indeed turned out to be Ms. Wells, flat-out how she knew Quentin. Hopefully, I’d catch her off guard enough that she’d answer me without having time to realize it was none of my damn business, and that I shouldn’t have even had the audacity to ask her such a personal question.

This course of action might have been successful had Ms. Wells not gone on break, and been replaced by a male clerk, just as I was walking up to the counter. I noticed she was blotting her eyes with a tissue as she walked away from her post. And I heard her blow her nose as she exited the room. Was she upset, suffering with allergies, or what? I wondered.

I bought four stamps, just enough to mail Sheila’s card, and three utility bills. I knew I’d be back on Monday to buy more stamps, perhaps two or three times, before I was waited on by the gorgeous woman I thought might be Barbara Wells.

* * *

Walking up and down the aisles at Pete’s Pantry, twenty minutes later, I tried to think of something special to prepare for supper. I’d been bowled over by Colby Tucker’s acceptance to my invitation to dine with us at the Alexandria Inn that evening. He’d even seemed delighted, stating he needed to have me fill out and sign a W-9 and several other forms, to take over as interim head librarian. He had a busy week ahead, and this would be the perfect opportunity to meet me and take care of required business at the same time, he told me.

I was almost too stunned to respond. Not to mention, I was practically doing handsprings down the hallway. He asked permission to bring along his wife, and I replied affirmatively, assuring him that I was anxious to meet the both of them.

Now I was thinking about my repertoire of savory recipes and finding it a pitifully short list. I debated the likelihood of me pulling off a Rack of Lamb Persillade recipe I’d recently cut out of a magazine, and decided it was wedged right between meager and hopeless. I could screw up a bowl of Raisin Bran given half a chance.

I settled on a menu of roasted chicken, asparagus, potatoes au gratin, and rolls. I could surely handle that menu without any difficulty. I’d make enough to serve the Tuckers, Stone, and I, in the kitchen, and our four remaining guests in the dining room. The Spurleys had left early that morning to return home to Nebraska, and only the two young couples from Florida remained at the Alexandria Inn.

Then, due to a lack of time to prepare something special, I’d serve a store-bought Dutch apple pie and ice cream for dessert. I still had to stop and purchase some aftershave for Stone if I could squeeze it into my schedule, because the Tuckers were due to arrive at six o’clock.

As I drove home, I felt queasiness in my stomach, and had a sudden premonition the evening would turn out to be something I’d regret. My intuitions were seldom without merit. Was it too late to withdraw my invitation to the Tuckers? Of course it was, I decided. But I would try desperately to ensure the evening would turn out to be a fruitful and informative meeting over a delicious meal, accompanied perhaps with a tearful, and remorseful, admission of guilt.

* * *

The Tuckers arrived promptly at six o’clock. So promptly, in fact, that I wondered if they’d waited at the end of the driveway to pull in just as the cuckoo bird emerged from the clock hanging on our kitchen wall. I admit, I liked to arrive on time at events, as well, but I wasn’t anal about it. Within ten minutes of the scheduled time was close enough for me.

I hadn’t gotten the chicken in the oven to roast as early as I’d anticipated, but assumed it would be done enough by the time everyone sat down to eat. Everything else would be ready by then too. As it turned out, we’d be eating in the formal dining room, because the four guests at the inn were going out on the town for dinner and a movie. They’d be taking advantage of a nice Saturday evening in an unfamiliar town, and just enjoying the opportunity to be out and about. I’d suggested a fun restaurant downtown called The Hallowed Hog, because the Kansas City area was known for its fantastic barbecue, and I thought it’d be something they’d find fun, and delicious, as well.

Colby Tucker didn’t look anything like I’d pictured him. Not very tall, and very rotund, he looked as wide as he was tall. His wife, on the other hand, looked like she’d given up eating for Lent and had never started up again. She was a little wisp of a thing. Both of the Tuckers were dressed very dapperly, making me glad I’d at least changed out of my blue jeans with the ragged, but now stylish, rips in them. Fortunately, I’d chosen to wear black slacks and a black and red sweater. Black was thinning, so hopefully I didn’t look too much like a linebacker compared to Mrs. Tucker, who practically disappeared standing next to her husband.

After introductions were made, I led our guests into the parlor, and Stone fixed them a cocktail at the rustic wet bar that looked like it was straight off the set of a John Wayne movie. Stone and the Tuckers visited in front of the roaring fireplace, while I readied the table for supper. Mrs. Tucker offered to assist me, but I turned her down, telling her I didn’t have much to do and I’d rather she relax in the parlor. Actually, I didn’t want her to see the horrific mess I’d made of the kitchen, or watch me rush around it like a kitten who had overdosed on catnip.

“Is something burning?” Stone hollered.

“Oh crap!” I said, with one hand over my mouth.