A Suspicion of Strawberries (Scents of Murder Book 1) (5 page)

“And she showed up today. Well, I’ll give her points for that.”

“Murderers often attend their victims’ funerals.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not like she tried to murder the girl.”

Ouch.

I did catch one suspicious glance and wanted to find a place to hide. Fast. I glanced at the food table and stepped up the pace.

Melinda Thacker nearly collided with me as she balanced her loaded plate on one hand and held a cup in the other. Her pale skin contrasted with the black dress she wore, her walnut tresses caught back in a chignon.

I braced my hand gently on the edge of her plate. “I’m sorry, excuse me.”

Her eyes widened. “Ms. Clark. Thanks. . .thanks for comin’.” Now her eyes glistened. “I’ve had time to think, and I have to say I was hard on you the other day when. . .”

“Don’t worry about it.” I touched Melinda’s shoulder. “We had a horrible shock, on what should have been a special day for you—and for her.” Words failed me, and my mouth went dry. I glanced over her shoulder as a man in a tailored dark suit approached from behind her.

Robert, Charla’s fiancé, paused. His arm went around Melinda, and for a second she leaned against him. He murmured in her ear before he moved on. Melinda’s face flushed as she flicked her gaze back to me.

Melinda composed herself and blinked. “What almost cracks me up today is knowing that a lot of people here couldn’t stand her. They’re just here for the show. Maybe they think she deserved what she got. And you know something? She said she knew people hated her, and she was sorry for them.”

I had no idea what to add to the conversation.

“Charla was larger than life. I think maybe some people hated that. Jealous.”

“You’re right.” Melinda sighed. “People can look you in the eye, say one thing, and mean something else.””

“I know. People can be so fake sometimes.” I frowned. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought Melinda and I were old friends, and she was speaking to me like a trusted confidant.

Swallow your own prejudice, girl, and be Melinda’s friend
. Maybe that’s what Melinda needed. A true friend. The neediness radiating from her practically bowled me over. Regardless of Thacker money or social status, I wouldn’t let the idea of me being a lowly Clark keep me from crossing that bridge and reaching out to the bereaved young woman.

One of the women from Melinda’s church appeared at her elbow, and I heard the soft chimes of my cell phone from the depths of my bag.

“Melinda, I’ll call you—”

“Okay. I’d. . .like that. Take care now, you hear?” With her parting words, Melinda turned and released me from her intense expression.

I moved to the trash can, tossed away my half- eaten food, and wished for Momma’s cooking. Once I sat my tea glass on the edge of the drink table, I fished out my phone.

“Ben, where are you?”

“I’m almost home.” Static hissed in my ears. “Hang on, let me go into the hallway.”

“Where are you? At a party? Without me?” His voice sounded plaintive.

“Ha. No.” I pushed through the door that led to the hallway of restrooms. “I’m at the potluck for Charla Thacker.”

“Well, I’ll come and rescue you once I get home and shower. I have something important to talk to you about.”

I didn’t miss his serious tone. It made my throat hurt.

The hallway echoed with the sound of my footsteps taking me to the ladies’ room. “What’s that?”

“Don’t worry, it’s good.”

“Now you’ve got me wonderin’.”

“That’s the idea. I love you, babe.”

“I love you, too. See you soon.” I slid my phone shut and sighed. We might be one of Greenburg’s longest- running dating couples—Honey Haggerty and Junker Joe Toms had been a thing for at least a dozen years and they’ve probably given up on the idea of marriage— but Ben’s voice still set my heart pounding. Several different possibilities sprang to mind about what Ben wanted to discuss.

Ben planned. I had loose ideas about what I wanted to happen. The idea of the next fifty years of my life, already decided?
Lord, what’s wrong with me?
I knew I shouldn’t be afraid to say “I do” to Ben.

Was I still holding out for someone more polished, more ambitious? Ridiculous. And then I thought of my parents. Daddy had fallen short in his career. Some nights I saw the traces of his regret when we looked at the constellations or a new moon through his telescope. An injury had knocked him out of the navy too early and dashed his dreams of being a flight engineer. He’d settled for working up and down on the Mississippi River, piloting a boat. Good money, but the grease under his fingernails still made his job not good enough for some in Greenburg.

Momma was proud of him. Yet I wondered sometimes if she regretted never seeing the sights she always dreamed of. She still had the kitchen decorated with pictures of Paris and Rome and other places she wanted to visit.

“One day,” Momma would say. I understood the restless feeling. One day I, too, wanted to see and do things bigger than Greenburg. Maybe that’s why although I loved the store, I felt the pull toward something else. Ben seemed content in his pattern.

I entered the bathroom. Another woman was washing her hands at the sink, but other than that, the place seemed empty. She dried her hands, and the door gave a drawn-out, plaintive
squeak
as she left.

The mirror told me I needed to reapply some lipstick. I fumbled with the tube and my cell phone. The phone won, and the tube clattered to the floor and rolled, clicking its way along the tiles and into an empty stall.

My tube of Mocha Bliss had cost eight fifty at Walgreen’s. That’s almost a Charla Thacker kind of price in Greenburg, so I wasn’t about to let it go. Reminding myself that a refrigerator can hold more bacteria than a bathroom floor, I entered the stall and let the door bang shut behind me.

The tube taunted me from where it lay at the edge of the wall. I tried to stretch to see if I could reach it. Then I tried to get my leg in between the toilet and wall, but my backside wouldn’t let me. Okay, now for the squat and reach—

And that’s when the door to the bathroom creaked open, and a pair of female voices floated in on the air.

“I’m just about done tryin’ to look real sad,” one voice began.

“Oh, don’t you know it?” Heels clacked on the tile floor. My back cramped, but I snatched the lipstick anyway.

Someone turned on the faucet. I could still hear over the rush of water. “I wish we could all take a microphone and say, ‘Now here’s the
real
Charla Thacker! This was
her
life!” The voice rang against the walls. “Funny, they don’t have a poster of when we were shoplifting buddies in high school.”

“Shush, do you want someone to hear you?” The faucet went off, and I heard the ripping of paper towels. I could scarcely breathe. Should I betray my presence and embarrass them? I know I’d be embarrassed if someone overheard me slinging thoughts like that around like yesterday’s garbage.

“Don’t tell me lots of people wouldn’t agree with me.”

“That’s not the point. She died a week before her wedding.”

“Robert would have been mine if she hadn’t paraded in front of him and played the helpless female.” The trash can lid clicked. “Trying to sue Mike Chandler. Yeah, right.”

“Aren’t you and Jared happy?”

“We are, but all I can say is, you give out ugly, and you get it right back one day.”

The quieter it got, the more my back hurt, but no way was I getting up, or releasing my hold on Mocha Bliss.

“Stop it. Your hair looks fine. No one’s going to notice if it’s messed up.”

“Humph. They’re all
still
looking at Charla. Those posters are big enough to choke someone.”

The clacking heels announced the women’s exit as did the squeaking door. I stood up and groaned. Things had just gotten a whole lot more interesting. Then it dawned on me that I needed to find out about those speakers. Like their names, perhaps. And what was that about suing Mike Chandler? The guy ran his family produce farm outside town.

I slipped from the bathroom stall and tiptoed to the door. Maybe if I pulled the door handle slowly, the hinges wouldn’t announce themselves. Once I’d opened it about six inches, I peeked out the door.

All I caught was a glimpse of the hem of a dark skirt and someone’s nice, dressy slingbacks before the door to the main hall closed. So, who was the bitter woman dating Jared? I needed to ask Di.

“The only Jared I know of sells cars over at MidRiver Motors.” Di and I stood by her van in the church parking lot, where we spent a moment to regroup without being overheard. “He and Kaitlyn—oh, I can’t remember her last name—have been seeing each other for about six months. I don’t really know her, but some-one mentioned something at work, while some of us were at the coffeepot. I tried not to listen, but now with what happened to Charla, I can’t help but remember.”

I squinted at the bright sky and wished I’d brought my sunglasses. “Six months, you say. Well, she doesn’t sound like a murderer. I have a feeling if we check out every person who Charla made jealous—or who knows what—we’d spend a lot of time spinning our wheels and getting nowhere. Maybe we should check out her recent past, or see who had the biggest grudge?”

“We could. It sounds like Kaitlyn’s still pretty miffed about what happened, even though she’s moved on. And Robert Robertson sounds like he was quite an item himself.” Di shook her head.

“I wonder if Kaitlyn nursed a secret grudge. Maybe she wanted to be the one on the way to the altar.” I pondered the idea. Where did someone cross the line from being bitter to becoming a murderer?

“Would you just listen to us?” Di’s voice squeaked. “People have private lives, and quite frankly I’d hate it if someone suspected me of murder just because I had a grudge. I didn’t mind coming with you today, because you definitely needed the moral support, but—”

“You draw the line at us being the Hardy Girls.”

“It’s Hardy
Boys
. I started reading them to Taylor and Stevie.”

“I know what they’re called.” My stomach churned, my new shoes had chafed my heels, and I felt downright cranky. “This is my
business
we’re talking about. If someone sabotaged that cherry facial scrub, I’ve got to know. Because I know it wasn’t me. So, did
you
learn anything?”

Di shook her head. “Not really. I’m not as nosy as you are.”

“Oh, isn’t that nice of you to say?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not good at asking those kinds of questions. I probably wouldn’t know a clue if it ran up and bit me.” She lifted her hands, palms up. “I tried. I only noticed how sad the Thackers are.”

The parking lot still had plenty of cars, which probably meant the food supply was still holding up. “We ought to go back in. When else will we have so many potential suspects in one room?”

Di gave a soft chuckle. “You sound full of sympathy.”

“I am, actually.” We started walking back to the door that led to the church reception hall. “Even though the Thackers might not believe or suspect their daughter died because of foul play, they deserve to know the truth, if I can find it. That’s the least I can do for them.”

“Why you, though?”

“Why not me?” I pulled the door open and felt a blast of cool air from the reception hall. Yes, going inside was definitely better than sweltering outside. “I can’t sit by and do nothing. If it turns out I’m wrong, that’s all right.”

“Hello, Mrs. Mann.” Di smiled at a woman wearing a dark pantsuit. She nodded and pushed past us to leave, the heavy door closing behind her.

My eyes adjusted to the muted lighting, and I tried to find at least one of the women I’d heard in the bathroom. “Do you see Kaitlyn? I know one of them had some black slingbacks, and one wore a dark skirt.”

Suddenly it seemed as though all the women wore dark skirts, now that Mrs. Mann had left the building. I couldn’t very well stare at everyone’s feet until I found the right person. And once again, what would I say if I came face-to-face with her?

“I’m not sure who she is. Maybe I can ask one of the girls from the bank.” Di frowned. “Although they’d wonder why. . .see, I told you I’m not good at asking questions.”

“That’s okay. Do me a favor. See if anyone’s wearing a pair of black slingbacks.”

“I can do that. Um, what are slingbacks?” Di studied the footwear of everyone who passed by. We stood next to the trash can like a couple of waifs.

“They’re high-heeled sandals with a buckle and a thin strap across the back of the ankle. Although I bet everyone shopped at Payless this year.” I glanced at one woman’s black skirt. No, that was a broomstick skirt with a crinkled texture. The other skirt I’d seen looked more tailored. This was ridiculous, scrutinizing everyone’s wardrobe. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

I headed to Trudy, the wearer of the broomstick skirt and owner of Higher Grounds coffee shop. She looked as uncomfortable as I felt. “Hi there.”

“Hey, Andi. Wasn’t that a beautiful service?” Her long, dark hair hung in a braid over one shoulder.