Death Crashes the Party (11 page)

About that time I heard someone squeal, “Virginia,” and I looked up to see a squat redheaded woman making a beeline toward us, waving jazz hands.

Mama smiled and called out, “Maureen,” then whispered to me out of the side of her mouth, “Brace yourself, hon. This woman never knows when to shut up.”

That was rich coming from my mother—and frightening. Mama stood up to hug Maureen, who nodded to me and then began prattling on and on, with an auctioneer's speed. Even Mama could barely get a word in. I drifted into a semiconscious state and was contemplating ordering more ice cream—since they don't sell liquor at the food court.

Finally, Mama stood up, which silenced Maureen just long enough for Mama to say, “I wish we could stay and chew the fat, but Liv and I have a little errand of mercy we have to take care of.” Mama patted Maureen on the shoulder, gathered up her purse, and started walking away. I scrambled to catch up.

When we hit the door, I turned to her and said, “So, what's our little errand of mercy?”

“I don't know what yours is, but I just rescued you from brain-numbing boredom, didn't I?”

I wrapped my arm around her waist. “Thank you, Mama. I owe you one.”

“You're welcome, darlin.' But you already owe me more than you could ever possibly repay—starting with sixteen hours of labor and a giant head.” She paused. “Which reminds me. If you don't mind, could we stop by the grocery store on the way home? I need to pick up some ground beef. Earl's coming over for supper, and I'm making meat loaf.”

I didn't want to know why my oversize baby head reminded Mama of ground beef. She said, “Earl's coming over for supper” like it was a special event, which it wasn't. Either Earl Daniels comes over for dinner or they go out to eat pretty much every night of the week, although his car is never parked at her house overnight.

My daddy passed away four years ago, God rest his soul, and Mama and Earl had been seeing each other steadily for about two years now. She cooks for him, and he makes little repairs around her house and escorts her to any events that she prefers to attend with a man on her arm. I wouldn't call Earl good-looking, but he is taller than Mama, has a full head of hair, and still has his own teeth.

Mama insists they are nothing more than friends, and I suppose I believe her. But I can't help thinking Earl smiles an awful lot.

Chapter 14

After I dropped Mama off at her house, I drove around for I didn't know how long. Bits and pieces of all that had happened over the past few days darted around in my head like a Pac-Man game, running through an endless maze of dead ends.

Larry Joe pulled in the driveway just ahead of me. I threw together a quick supper of canned chili and a tossed salad. After dinner, we retired to the den and pulled up a movie to watch on Netflix. It was some goofy comedy, but it was good to see my husband laughing like his old self, enjoying some downtime after an intense few days.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long. About thirty minutes into the movie, Larry Joe answered a phone call from a driver who had been in an accident on I-40. Thank God no one was hurt. But Larry Joe spent the next couple of hours making calls to get the wrecked truck taken care of and the freight transferred and delivered on time. Mentally exhausted, we called it an early night. I drifted off to sleep, thinking about the next day's main event—the Farrell brothers' funeral.

 

 

Tuesday afternoon I changed into a short-sleeved navy-blue dress and helped Larry Joe pick out an appropriately somber tie.

“We better get moving,” I said. “I always hate walking in late for a funeral.”

To me, it seems even tackier to come into the church after the casket than to trail in after the bride at a wedding.

“Will your mama be at the funeral?” Larry Joe asked as he was backing out of the driveway.

“She didn't say, but do you really think she'd miss the spectacle of a double funeral?”

“Silly question.”

We pulled into the parking lot of the First Methodist Church with plenty of time to spare before the one o'clock funeral for Duane and Darrell Farrell. We squeezed into a pew near the back, next to Larry Joe's parents. The church, which probably seated more than two hundred people, was packed.

The organ played a mournful tune, striking more than a few sour notes, as two gray coffins were rolled on gurneys up the main aisle. Six pallbearers, all wearing Confederate uniforms, flanked each casket. The officers wore long frock coats and brimmed hats, while the enlisted men sported short jackets and visor-fronted caps. It was a surreal sight. After escorting the coffins to the front of the church, the reenactors took off their hats and placed them over their hearts before taking their seats on the front pews to either side of the center aisle.

Ray Franklin was among the men in gray. Tonya Farrell was seated on the second row. I spotted Ralph Harvey and some other people I recognized from McKay Trucking sitting a couple of rows ahead of us on the opposite side of the church. I caught a glimpse of Mama sitting near the front. I recognized her favorite funeral hat.

Reverend Goodwin, the pastor at First Methodist, is relatively new to Dixie, having been assigned to the church here less than a year ago. After the organist had struck the final painful, off-key chords of “In the Garden,” the congregation exhaled a collective sigh of relief. The slender, thirty-something-year-old minister nervously approached the pulpit, a visible perspiration mustache above his lips. My guess was this was the reverend's first double funeral—and likely his first standing-room-only service.

Following the funeral, Larry Joe and his dad offered their condolences to Tonya Farrell and chatted briefly with Ralph Harvey and the other guys from work. We decided to skip the graveside service, since it looked like a respectable number of folks had pulled their cars into the lineup for the procession to the cemetery. Larry Joe kept tugging at his collar, as if to let steam escape. And honestly, Daddy Wayne looked like he needed to lie down.

We talked my father-in-law into going home, and Larry Joe headed back to the office for a few hours. I briefly considered crashing the funeral luncheon to see if I could pick up any helpful bits of information, but decided it would be tacky. Besides, I needed to go to the office and make some phone calls before my appointment at the country club.

I had a date with the head bartender at the Dixie Country Club to sample some different versions of the mint julep. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it. Mrs. Erdman had originally been scheduled to go with me to the tasting. I always like to involve my clients in some fun aspect of the planning process, and with Mrs. Erdman, I figured drinking liquor while we were at it would make it more enjoyable, at least for me. She wanted to be sure we served the ultimate mint julep at her Moonshine and Magnolias Anniversary Party. But at the last minute she called to cancel, saying she had a sick headache. My best guess: her headache's name was Walter Erdman.

Her cancellation caused me a moment of panic. I didn't know if we'd be able to schedule another time for the sampling before the party, and we really needed to place the bar order right away. She said she didn't want to leave something “so important” to chance—meaning leaving the decision up to the bartender, which made perfect sense to me. She reluctantly said she'd trust my judgment, but trying to figure out what would please Mrs. Erdman was not a responsibility I wanted on my shoulders.

Then I thought of Holly. Mrs. Erdman had shown an obvious admiration for Holly's pedigree—from one of Dixie's most prominent families, world traveler, elegant manners. I suggested taking Holly along for the tasting, an idea that elicited enthusiastic approval from Mrs. Erdman. Fortunately, Holly was available on such short notice. I'd rightly reckoned that the prospect of sipping mint juleps wouldn't be disagreeable to her.

I drove up the winding drive to Holly's stately Tudor-style home, vintage 1920s. She had inherited the house from her mother, who had died just a couple of months after Holly's husband had passed away. It had obviously been a difficult time for her emotionally. But Holly said that when she returned to Dixie to sort out her mother's estate, it felt like being wrapped in a warm, welcoming blanket. She knew instantly that moving back into her childhood home was just what she needed.

Holly came out the front door, dressed in a sleeveless turquoise turtleneck, matching eyeglasses, and wide-legged pants, her hair pulled back in a Karl Lagerfeld ponytail. Not a look everyone could pull off, but it worked for her.

On the ride to the country club, Holly filled me in on her morning meeting with Meemaw Carter. Rummaging through our client's costume jewelry had turned up some pieces Holly thought would add a nice bit of sparkle and whimsy to the table for the bridesmaids' tea, and it had also been a pleasing trip down memory lane for Meemaw. I've learned never to underestimate the value of personalizing parties with items belonging to the clients, as well as of making the process of planning the party an enjoyable one for them.

Hunky head bartender Mark DeAngelo treated us to a tasty variety of mint julep recipes. Like any bartender worth the salt on his glass rims, he flirted with us as he mixed drinks. Holly was laughing loudly and was flirting back, which I found a little surprising for my usually decorous assistant. It started to make sense when I learned she had already had a two-martini lunch with an old friend. By the third mint julep sample, I was catching up to her. Mark's biceps flexed when he muddled, and I was feeling turned on as I watched him bruise mint sprigs.

The amount of bourbon in the mint juleps ranged from one and a half to three ounces per serving. They all tasted good to me, but in the end Holly and I settled on the recipe with the most liquor and a slightly expensive brand of bourbon, believing that after having a few of these, even Mrs. Erdman would be too mellow to complain.

Mark reached over and rubbed Holly's bare upper arm and remarked that she had goose bumps. If she didn't before, she did after he touched her. He told us they always kept the air-conditioning on a little too cool for the ladies, and said he'd be right back with a fresh pot of coffee to warm us up. It was a smooth way of saying we needed to sober up a little before operating an automobile on public roads, but we weren't drunk enough to take offense. The two of us sat at the bar, enjoying the steam rising from our cups and off of Mark's body as he cleaned up the glassware and took the bar order for the Erdmans' party.

After I dropped Holly off at her house, I picked up two chef's salads from the diner for supper. When I arrived home, a fly came in through the back door with me. I chased it around the kitchen for ten minutes like a woman possessed before I finally silenced its buzz with the splat of a flyswatter against the windowpane. Larry Joe came in from the garage just as I collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table.

“You look tuckered out,” he said, bending down to plant a kiss on the top of my head. “You been doing one of those dancercise videos?”

“No. I've been managing pest control.”

Larry Joe grabbed a beer for himself and the pitcher of iced tea for me from the fridge while I plated up our salads and mixed a simple vinaigrette dressing.

“I'm worried about your dad. He was looking kind of green around the gills today.”

“Yeah. When he gave in to going home after the funeral, I knew he must be feeling poorly,” Larry Joe said. “If he won't go to the doctor, I think I'll see if Dr. Chase can drop by the house and have a look at him.”

“I think you should, honey. Your mom's going to make herself sick worrying over him.”

After we finished eating, Larry Joe insisted he needed to mow the lawn before the neighbors started to complain.

“Honey, are you sure you're up to it? You've been working yourself to death. I can call that kid down the street tomorrow and get him to come over and cut the grass.”

“Aw, you know I don't like the way he cuts it. Anyway, I'll probably just run over the front yard and save the back for another day.”

“Take a bottled water out with you,” I hollered as he headed upstairs.

After Larry Joe had changed clothes and had gone outside to tend to yard work, I curled up on the sofa in the den. I stared at a game show on TV but didn't manage to fill in any of the letters before Vanna made them appear. I thought to myself that I should do some laundry or paint some more in the living room. Instead, I lay on the sofa with the TV remote in my hand, clicking from channel to channel with the energy of a three-toed sloth.

Unfortunately, my mind wouldn't give in to the laziness my body so readily embraced. I couldn't help wondering who had put Darrell and Duane in that garage. Couldn't help wishing the killer had stashed the bodies somewhere else. Couldn't help thinking Winette was right and I needed to get that diary back into Ray's trailer.

Problem was, even if I could work up the energy to drive over to Ray's trailer, I couldn't do it tonight. Di plays bunco one night a month with a group of other mail carriers, all women except for one retired guy. And this month was Di's turn to host. It sounds pretty cutthroat: they play for money, although Di insists it's just chump change. And the parties are BYOB, with the host or hostess providing light snacks. Di says it helps her keep up with post office politics and gossip. And the gossip gets even more cutthroat than the bunco. There was no way I'd risk one of those tongue waggers spotting my car driving past Di's on the way to Ray Franklin's place.

After channel surfing for a long while, I hit the OFF button, wondering why we paid for cable. At some point, my mind finally stopped racing, and I dozed off to the drone of the lawn mower.

I was awakened with a jolt by the sound of Larry Joe's panicked voice.

“Liv, put your shoes on. We've got to go.”