Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything (24 page)

“You wanted her money, same as everybody. You're so smart, you figured a way to get it. Smiling, doing everything she asked, sweet as pie, talking to her day and night—you got her to change her will, to include you. And then you killed her.”

It was so absurd, and yet I could see how it made perfect sense to her. But I was tired and shaken and in no shape to make sense, so I laughed. I hiccoughed and laughed and sputtered and finally clapped one hand over my mouth and just shook my head at her.

“What's so funny?” Mae Mae demanded.

“It's not,” I said when I could finally speak. “It's not a bit funny. I thought the same thing, Mae Mae. Somebody must have poisoned her. I think somebody killed her, but it wasn't me. I swear it wasn't me.”

Mae Mae stood for a full minute, working her jaw, staring into my face as if she could learn the truth by drilling into my brain with a laser. Finally she plopped into the chair opposite mine and spoke. “You really think somebody killed Honeybelle?”

I sobered up fast. “I don't think she died of an ordinary heart attack.”

“Why not?”

“You know why. Because she was healthy. She didn't have any health problems at all. She was upset about the garden club thing and her disagreement with President Cornfelter and … and everything else, but she was getting over that.”

Mae Mae still glared at me with suspicion. “It broke her heart, the garden club ladies turning their backs on her the way they did. Posie turned them all against her.”

“But after a few days, she decided to put the garden club behind her and start doing new things. She was going to lunch in Dallas. She was thinking about travel.”

“She was never sick for a day,” Mae Mae said, more to herself than to me. “Not except a little cold now and then. She took good care of herself.”

“There's no reason she should have had a heart attack,” I agreed. With great relief at finally having someone to share my jumbled theories with, I said, “Honeybelle rewrote her will just in the last month or so—just before she died. And then how quickly the funeral happened—that was even stranger, wasn't it? It was like everybody was hurrying through the process. And now Ten saying he can't find a death certificate. Why would her death certificate be missing if there wasn't something fishy going on?”

Mae Mae snapped her gaze up to mine again, mistrust back in place. “You're not thinking Mr. Ten had anything to do with Honeybelle's death?”

“I hardly know him—not the way you do.”

She shook her head. “He's a good boy. Had his wild ways when he was younger, before he got himself banged up, but he'd never hurt a fly. Not even those bulls that near killed him. And anyway, what did he stand to get when Honeybelle died?”

“I don't know.” I sighed, starting to feel exhausted in addition to my aches and pains. “All I'm thinking is that Honeybelle didn't die of a plain old heart attack.” I took a deep breath to gather what was left of my courage. “I was down at the stockyard tonight. A man on an ATV came out of nowhere and lassoed me. He knocked me down and threatened me.”

Mae Mae was shocked. “Lassoed you like a steer?”

“Yes, and when I was down in the dirt, he told me to stop asking questions.”

“About Honeybelle?” She sucked in a shocked breath. “Are you sure? Stop asking questions or what? What did he say he'd do?”

“He said for me to forget about the dog and stop asking questions. I was flat on my face in the dirt at the time. I presume he meant he'd hurt me more than he had already.”

For the first time, I considered the truth of what tonight's violent incident meant. Honeybelle's death hadn't been something accidental or natural. Somehow, too, the kidnapping of Miss Ruffles was tangled up in Honeybelle's death.

Mae Mae was staring at nothing, her mind going just as fast as mine. She watched a lot of crime television, so maybe the leap from heart attack to murder wasn't such a great distance for her. Abruptly, she set the rolling pin on the table. “I knew it. I just knew it.”

“You didn't mention it to me,” I said tartly.

She shot back, “'Cause I figured you were the one that done it.”

“Well, it wasn't me. The man tonight convinced me she was murdered, though.”

Mae Mae's stare narrowed. “You're thinking it was Ten who roped you.”

“No,” I said at once. “But he was a cowboy. Somebody good with a rope. I didn't see his face. It had to be somebody strong.”

“He ain't as strong as he used to be, not since his accident. He's not supposed to be riding a horse, but he does, easy like. I don't know if he could ride one of those ATV things. Anyway, in this town, half the men rope and ride in competitions on the weekends. Coulda been anybody.”

“I don't think it was Ten,” I said softly. “It didn't—I don't know—it didn't feel like him.”

Mae Mae's thoughts had already traveled back to Honeybelle. “Who else you been thinking could have murdered our Honeybelle?”

I liked the sound of “our Honeybelle.” Still, I was reluctant to share all my suspicions with my newfound ally. “Well…”

“Go on and say it,” she ordered.

I started to rub my forehead, but my skin hurt and I stopped. “Listen, this is all speculation. And maybe my imagination got carried away—”

“Who else?” Mae Mae asked again.

I gave up trying to hold back. “President Cornfelter. He wanted a new football stadium very badly. He wanted a big donation.”

“And maybe figured he'd get it faster if she got herself killed.”

“Yes. And he had an argument with her the morning she died. She was in the car, and he went over and had words with her.”

Mae Mae shook her head. “He's too high class to kill somebody. Anybody else?”

I didn't agree, but I didn't argue either. I said, “Okay, this is going to sound crazy.”

“I've seen plenty of crazy.” Mae Mae leaned on her elbows. “Who else you thinking about?”

“Posie.”

Mae Mae snorted like a horse. “Now, that's just foolish talk.”

“Think about the wedding. How much Posie wanted to have it here, how adamant Honeybelle was about not hosting it.”

“No way she'd kill her own mother-in-law. Not over a wedding.”

“Even though she thought she'd inherit millions? She'd already humiliated Honeybelle in front of the garden club. She's ambitious, Mae Mae. And she seems pretty ruthless to me. Mr. Carver said there's been a long dispute between them. Over Hut Junior. And Honeybelle's rose garden.”

“What?”

“The rose garden. Honeybelle stole a lot of the roses in her collection.”

Mae Mae was scandalized. “That's a damn lie!”

“Is it?” I asked. “The Appleby family sold a rose to Honeybelle, but they're saying she didn't pay them what the rose was really worth. Or that she cheated them somehow. Anyway, something strange was going on between them. I just don't know what yet.”

Mae Mae didn't answer, but I could see her chewing on my ideas. Finally, she said, “Anybody else?”

“Mr. Gamble. He's the only one who could have cremated Honeybelle without requesting an autopsy that would confirm her exact cause of death. And now he's mysteriously left town.”

“He was over the moon for her! Why would he kill her?”

“Okay, if not him, there are dozens, maybe hundreds of people who borrowed money from Honeybelle, and probably some who couldn't pay her back. Shop owners, scholarship recipients—”

“She only loaned out small amounts to local people. Not enough to kill for.”

“Maybe you're right. I met some of them at the church, and they all seemed nice. It only takes one of them who wasn't so nice, though.” I tried to steady my racing pulse. “The big question is who had a reason to kill her and the opportunity to poison her or … or drug her or do whatever it took for Honeybelle to die. It had to be somebody close enough, somebody she trusted, don't you think?”

“She trusted a lot of folks.”

“Yes, she did. But one of them must have slipped some medicine or poison to her without her knowledge.”

“Who?”

But I had no time to say more. At that moment, Mr. Carver tapped on the back door and stepped inside.

“Sunny!” He gaped at me from the doorway. “What happened?”

I must have looked awful, because Mr. Carver's expression was horrified.

Before I could manufacture a plausible lie, Mae Mae said, “She fell. She was walking that dog, and she fell. That dog was always tripping up Miss Honeybelle, too, and now this. I was just going to help her get cleaned up.”

Mr. Carver closed the door. “Dear girl, you need a doctor! You should go to the hospital!”

“I'm okay.” Although I felt woozy all over again. “Just banged up and dirty.”

Mae Mae got up from the table, her bulk shielding me from Mr. Carver's view. She sent me a look that ordered me to be careful. “I'll get a basin and some towels. Get her something to drink.”

She bustled up the stairs as fast as she could and disappeared.

Mr. Carver came to the table. He had his car keys in one hand and wore his going-out clothes—loose trousers and an old shirt rolled at the sleeves. He said, “I saw the kitchen light and wondered if something was wrong. What can I get you to drink?”

“Anything.” My strength was starting to drain away again. I closed my eyes and put my head down on the table.

Mae Mae came back down from her apartment and snapped, “What did you do to her?”

I sat up, and Mr. Carver stuttered, “I-I didn't do anything. I'm getting her a drink.”

They bustled around, and in a moment Mr. Carver set a juice glass of something amber in front of me. It took a big effort for me to pick up the glass and sip from it. Honeybelle's Dubonnet. It burned in my throat, but felt warm going down. Only after I swallowed did I realize I shouldn't have done it. Mr. Carver could have tainted my drink.

But that was ridiculous.

With her basin, Mae Mae knocked over the glass, and its contents immediately spilled across the table. “So sorry,” she said, without meaning it.

Her basin was filled with hastily gathered items. She handed me a kitchen towel to sop up the spill.

“My daddy was a Louisiana
traiteur,
” she said as she worked at sponging my scraped knees with a clean, wet washcloth. “A kind of faith healer, you'd call him. Here, hold this leaf. Stay still, child. I'm gonna cut a snip of your hair.”

“What—?” I finished wiping up the spill and obediently grabbed the small leaf between my fingers. It was dry and delicate.

She tossed the bloody washcloth aside. With a rough hand, she squared my shoulders. “Sit up straight and stay still, I'm telling you. Now put the leaf in the basin and hold out your hands.” She trimmed a tiny lock of my hair with her scissors and dropped it into my cupped hands. “Drop that in the basin now, too.”

Mr. Carver said, “Mae Mae, you're going to scare this young lady with your black magic country ways. Let me drive her to a proper doctor.”

“You hush with your insults,” she snapped. “Ain't nothing magic about it.” From her deep pocket she withdrew a small cloth bag. She untied the strings and upended it, spilling a cascade of small items onto the table—an acorn, some bits of plant, a figurine, an animal tooth, and more. “It's all natural, from God's earth. Don't touch that,” she said to me, pointing at the tooth. “It's for my rheumatism. It bites the pain. Don't pick up your hair neither.” She hustled to a drawer and came back with kitchen matches.

“You say a prayer now,” she said to me. “Don't matter what kind.
Now I lay me down to sleep
will do just fine. Just so you're talking to God.”

I obeyed and started reciting the bedtime prayer in a shaky whisper. She struck a match. In the basin, she set the snippet of my hair on fire—a sharp smell, a puff of smoke. The leaf caught fire, too, and a bright flame flared up. The edges of the leaf burned fast, curling, then turning black.

The flame went out at the moment I finished the prayer. Mae Mae gathered up the burned black bits and stuffed them into the small bag. She clasped the bag between her hands and bowed her head. “Stay still now, and let me pray.”

“What nonsense,” Mr. Carver said. “In Memphis, you'd be arrested for fraud.”

She muttered her prayer and finished with a hasty “Amen. Now take this bag and put it next to your heart. Yes, right there in your bra.”

She held wide the neck of my shirt so I could obey her command. Mr. Carver turned away, making an exasperated noise in his throat. Then Mae Mae passed her hands up and down on either side of my body, not quite touching me. Presumably not speaking to God, she said, “And you can hush your mouth about fraud, mister.”

Mr. Carver shook his head.

“There,” she said to me when she had finished moving her hands around me. “Tonight I will make you a tea to add to your bathwater. It will be healing and restful. Meantime, put this Band-Aid on your knee.”

“Thank you, Mae Mae.” I wasn't sure I felt any better, but I sat in wonder as she gathered up her little charms and stowed them in her pocket. The little bag was warm against my skin. I opened the Band-Aid and applied it to the worst cut on my knee.

“I hope you feel better,” Mr. Carver said, edging for the door.

“Are you on your way out?” I asked.

“Me? No, of course not.” But he slid a set of car keys into his pocket.

Mae Mae rolled her eyes at me, then began to rinse the basin at the sink. “We're just fine. You run along now, Mr. Carver. I'll take care of things here.”

He hesitated, looking at me uncertainly. “If you say so.”

“I just need a good night's rest,” I said.

“Well, then. Good night.”