Death Crashes the Party (21 page)

Chapter 28

This week had pretty much been a blur for me—but that's been a good thing. Holly and I had been crazy busy putting together a plan to present to the Dodds for their daughter's engagement party and getting ready for the Erdmans' party, including talking to a nervous Mrs. Erdman at least three times a day. And Larry Joe had been just as busy at work, getting caught up, as well as interviewing candidates for supervisor and mechanic jobs.

But it was a really good kind of busy. We had no reason to visit the hospital, and I scarcely had time to think about the murders all week. Plus, Mrs. Erdman had the deep freezer in her garage removed as soon as the sheriff was finished with it, and she promptly had it replaced with a new, even bigger freezer, which was even now keeping our ice sculptures icy.

It was Friday night—time for the Erdmans' party. I had invested so much time in this party, I was determined that it would go off without a hitch, and that Mrs. Erdman would be impressed, in spite of her cranky self.

The guests were set to arrive at 7:00 p.m. I had been on the go since 7:00 a.m.

At three o'clock, I had done a preliminary check of the house and yard. Earlier in the day their gardener had wrapped twinkle lights around the trunk and branches of a small magnolia tree in the backyard, as well as weaving lights through a wisteria-covered arbor.
Check
.

Kenny had installed a small stage for the Dixieland band, and Holly had attached small foam collars to fresh magnolia blooms to keep them afloat in the swimming pool. While the chrysanthemums and marigolds in the Erdmans' backyard were natural deterrents for mosquitoes, we had added a few citronella torches for extra protection.
Check
.

Around 3:30 p.m., the florist had arrived and placed arrangements in the living room, dining room, and entry hall, and on the screened porch, at my direction. His assistant had wrapped the banister with greenery, accentuated by magnolia blossoms every few feet.
Check
.

At four o'clock, the catering team had arrived. I suddenly realized Mrs. Erdman, who had been trailing me like a bloodhound, had disappeared from the scene. While I was grateful for the break, I was also worried about what she might be up to. Mr. Erdman passed through, so I asked about his wife.

“She's holed up in her bathroom, trying to make herself beautiful. It should take a while,” he said with his usual charm.

“By the way, Mr. Erdman, you can certainly drink whatever you choose in your own home, but I'm not sure the bartender will be comfortable with actually serving the bootleg whiskey.”

“That's fine. I'll keep Vern's private stock in my study, and discriminating drinkers can help themselves. Oh, and before I forget, here's your payment,” he said, handing me a folded piece of paper.
Big fat check
.

At five o'clock, the bartenders—we had two for the evening—had set up separate bars for the ladies and the men. The ladies' bar would feature mint juleps and fruity cocktails, while the men's bar would offer whiskeys, a variety of choice liquors, and imported beers.

At 5:45 p.m., the band had arrived, had got set up, and had done a sound check. I had grabbed my bag from the car and had changed into black slacks and a white blouse, similar to the clothes the waitstaff was wearing. Some parties I leave once they are under way, but I planned to remain at this one for the duration.

At 6:15 p.m. two guys from the catering crew had carefully lifted the ice sculptures from the freezer and set them on a cart, rolled them into the dining room, and had placed them on the buffet table. I had dimmed some of the overhead lights and had made adjustments to the brightness of a spotlight directed at the center of the table to highlight the sculptures. I had to admit, they looked pretty impressive.

At 6:30 p.m. I had phoned the limo drivers to make sure they were en route to the hotel to pick up the guests. Even the ones who lived in Memphis were staying overnight, since the alcohol would be flowing freely.

At 6:55 p.m. Mrs. Erdman appeared at the top of the stairs just as the doorbell rang. It was show time. I gestured to see if she wanted me to open the door. She nodded regally. I welcomed the guests and allowed the hostess to make her grand entrance.

It was a surreal sight, the women wearing elaborate floor-length gowns lined with starched petticoats. Two of the women were wearing actual hoopskirts. They cut a wide swath through the house, and the waiters performed some nimble moves to avoid getting mowed down by the formidable frocks.

While the women were feeling glamorous, the men were feeling comfortable in baggy overalls and tattered shirts. One rather hairy man was shirtless inside his overalls. Although Mrs. Erdman must have insisted that Walter shave, most of the men, as well as one of the women, were sporting stubble.

The guys piled their plates high with food and hit the bar. The ladies milled around the buffet table, chatting and nibbling daintily. Waiters brought platters and plates over to one woman, who appeared to be lodged in the sofa, disabled by her hoopskirt.

The women ambled out onto the screened porch and sat on chairs lining the patio, near the band, which was playing some mellow Dixieland tunes. An hour or so into the party, Mr. Erdman walked over and extended his hand, asking his wife to dance, keeping his word without having to be prodded—at least not publicly. The other husbands followed his cue, although a couple of them didn't look very happy about it. After a couple of dances, most of the men wandered back into the house to smoke cigars in Mr. Erdman's study, and the women strolled back and forth from the garden to the buffet table and bar.

The festivities continued in this genteel manner until about 10:30 p.m. I wasn't aware of it at the time, but at some point during the evening, the men had replaced the contents of the refined bottles of bourbon the bartender was using to make mint juleps with some of Vern's moonshine. Mr. Erdman had told me the moonshine was more than 180 proof. After witnessing its effects, I don't doubt it for a minute.

I first noticed that some of the ladies were beginning to talk and laugh quite loudly. One woman was guffawing and slapping the knee of the woman next to her, while another lady was punctuating her laughs with a series of piggy snorts. But my first clue that something was seriously amiss came when an exceptionally endowed woman's boobs tumbled out of her plunging neckline, and she just giggled as she flashed the band.

I searched the group for Mrs. Erdman, fearing she wouldn't react well to this impropriety. She was holding her stomach and leaning over her knees. I held my breath, fearing the worst, until I realized she was doubled over with laughter.

While everyone was laughing, one of the hoop-skirted women knocked over a citronella torch and set another guest's dress on fire. One of the men gallantly threw her into the swimming pool. When the shirtless man stripped down to his Skivvies and joined her, I silently hoped he was her own husband and not someone else's.

The woman with the emancipated bosom finally pulled herself together and tucked things back in place until her cleavage was contained—just barely—by her dress. The band had stopped playing, dumbstruck by the spectacle, so I waved my arms for them to start playing again. They struck up “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and couples started marching and dancing around the yard.

Things continued along this course for the next few hours. I basically kept watch to make sure no one drowned or set anyone else on fire.

The dancing and aquatic exercises helped sober them up a bit. A little before 2:00 a.m. things started to quiet down. The bandleader, Wilson Washington, came over and sat down next to me.

“Ms. McKay, you know these folks very well?”

“Way better than I ever wanted to.”

“I can understand that,” he said, looking around. “Let me ask you something. The fat man who lives here tipped me a hundred bucks. Then, a bit later, he slipped me another hundred. I guess he forgot he'd already tipped me. I don't want to take advantage of folks when they've been drinking. Should I give him back a hundred?”

“Keep it. I think you've earned it.”

“Yes, ma'am. Whatever they's paying you, I doubt it's enough. Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure, Mr. Washington. Shoot.”

“I don't want to look unprofessional, 'cause I'd be happy to book another gig with you sometime. But the host told us we could help ourselves to some of his whiskey. Would you mind if we sipped a bit while we're packing up?”

“As long as you promise me you have a designated driver. I'm certainly not letting any of these people get behind the wheel of a car.”

“That's not a problem, ma'am. Calvin, our drummer, is a teetotaler. He made a vow to his mama.”

“Then, by all means, enjoy.”

“I like you, Mrs. McKay. You can hire us for one of your parties anytime.”

Chapter 29

After the limo drivers and I had managed to get all the guests to the hotel and up to their rooms, I went back to the house and, with help from the bartenders, managed to put the Erdmans to bed. I got home and fell into bed myself about 4:30 a.m.

Larry Joe didn't stir, and he didn't wake me when he got up. I finally woke up about noon. And, despite the fact that I'd had only one shot of whiskey to steel my nerves the night before, I felt hung over.

Larry Joe was in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich, when I came downstairs.

“Tell me there's coffee,” I said blearily.

“There is. I'll heat you up a cup in the microwave.”

I downed a mug of coffee in three gulps.

“Whoa, lady,” Larry Joe said before taking my cup and giving me a refill. “Rough night, huh?”

“Have you ever heard of one-hundred-eighty-proof whiskey?”

“Yeah. I think my granddaddy used it to strip paint.”

“Let's just say things got a little out of hand after everyone at the party had way, way too much to drink.”

“Wow. I can't imagine the Erdmans getting liquored up and rowdy.”

“You're lucky. I had to put them to bed, so I've now seen both of them nearly naked,” I said, dropping my face into my hands.

“Hon, I think you're gonna need more than coffee to recover from that kind of trauma.”

Larry Joe's cell phone buzzed, and he took the call.

“All right. I'll be there as soon as I can,” he said. “Look, Liv, I hadn't planned to go in to work today, but there's a freight mix-up, and I have to go straighten it out.”

“That's okay. I'll be fine. I don't plan to do anything more strenuous than get dressed, if that.”

“The thing is, you can't stay here. Or, at least, I don't want you to stay here on your own.”

“What are you talking about? Why?”

“Our attorney called this morning and told me Ralph has been released on bond. I don't think he'd be crazy enough to come to the house to talk to me about his job, but I don't want you here by yourself, just the same.”

“You know, I'm eventually going to have to be in this house when you're not home, and Ralph's trial may not start for months. We're bound to run into him around town.”

“I know, I know. Just humor me for now. It's still chaos at McKay's, and I can't deal with business and worry about your safety at the same time. Go shopping or go to your mama's. Whatever, please. I'll wrap things up at the garage as soon as I can. I'll call you when I'm heading home, okay?”

“Oh, okay. Just let me put on a bra.”

I can't believe I agreed, but I knew I'd given him plenty of reason to worry about me recently. Besides, something about those dimples gets me every time.

He gave me a big hug and a kiss before he climbed into his truck and I got into the SUV. It was sweet of Larry Joe to worry over me—sweet, but inconvenient. I really didn't feel like shopping. I felt even less like listening to my mother for two hours. Plus, she'd want to hear all about the Erdmans' party, and I just didn't have the strength or the stomach to relive that just yet.

I drove down the street. Then I pulled over and texted Di to see if I could hang out at her place. She texted back in a moment. She was out but said I was welcome to make myself at home.

 

 

I flopped down in Di's recliner. After a few minutes I noticed there were some dishes in the sink. I figured the least I could do was wash up, considering how much time I'd been spending at Di's and what a high-maintenance friend I'd been lately.

After I had dried the last dish and put it away, I opened the refrigerator door and leaned in, searching for a Diet Coke. Suddenly, I was startled by a man's voice.

“Hey, babe. I picked up the groceries you asked for,” Dave said, carrying two bags and kicking the front door closed behind him.

I stood up quickly, conking my head on the refrigerator ceiling in the process. I think it was an even bigger kick in the head for Dave when he realized it was me, not Di, he'd been talking to through the fridge door.

“Ah, Liv. Hi,” he stammered. “I just picked up a few things at the grocery store for Di.” He sat the grocery bags on the dining table. “I have her spare key . . . for emergencies,” he said, tucking a key on its own little key ring into his pants pocket.

“Of course,” I said, trying hard not to let the smile in my mind spread across my face. We both stood in awkward silence for a moment.

“Here. I'll put those groceries away,” I said, thankful for something to do.

Dave muttered something like, “Well, then,” and started to go.

“Dave, since you're here, can I ask you something?”

He looked nervous. I supposed he expected a question of a personal nature. He looked visibly relieved when I asked about Ralph and what would happen next.

Dave sat down at the table, and I took a seat on the sofa. He confirmed my concerns that it would likely be months before Ralph's trial began. Dave filled me in briefly on his trip to Nashville.

“I talked to Carl Adams. Fortunately for me, but unfortunately for him, Adams spent one day in the hospital and a couple of days laid up at home with a kidney stone last week. He had talked only to a couple of collectors about the possibly stolen goods in the storage unit. The Nashville police are going to interview the two guys he had talked to.”

“Why is that fortunate for you?”

“It cuts down on the number of suspects for Tim Morgan's murder, in theory, anyway. In reality, the two collectors Adams talked to could have shared that information with several other people. And even if they both have alibis for the time of the murder, that doesn't mean they couldn't have hired someone to break into the storage place, who then panicked when Tim confronted him.”

“I hate to bring it up, but did the FBI ever catch up to Bobo when he was visiting Di's neighbor?”

He glowered at me for only a moment.

“Yeah, you lucked out on that one. Apparently, the neighbor was busy entertaining when you raised the ruckus with the agents.”

“Good,” I said sheepishly.

Di came through the front door, momentarily interrupting the conversation.

“Hey, you two.”

She didn't seem in the least unnerved to find her best friend and her boyfriend chatting at her place in her absence. She took a seat on the sofa beside me.

“I guess you picked up those groceries,” she said, nodding to Dave. Then turning to me, she asked, “Why exactly are you hiding out here?”

“Ralph was released from custody today, and Larry Joe didn't feel comfortable with me being at the house by myself. Ralph's been warned that he's not permitted on-site at McKay's, pending the trial. Larry Joe's worried he might come to the house, trying to get his job back—which would be a huge waste of time. Larry Joe said he'd call me when he's headed home.”

“So, how did the Erdmans' party go last night?” Di asked.

“I'll tell you about it one day—when I'm strong enough.”

“
Okay
,” Di said. “Dave, tell us about your trip.”

Dave brought her up to speed on what happened in Nashville.

“What about the damaged hard drive from the storage place? Have they had any luck getting video off of it?” Di asked.

“No word yet,” he said.

“Dave,” I said, “assuming the person who murdered Tim is the same person who killed the Farrells, I don't think it likely that it's someone from Nashville or a professional brought in by some drug lord. I mean, the Farrells were both shot in the chest, not in the head, like a hit man might do. And I don't believe a hit man, or any out-of-towner, would have dumped the bodies at the Erdmans' house, would they?”

“In the first place, we can't assume it's the same killer. There's nothing in the evidence to make that case. Secondly, a hit man isn't necessarily a professional, in the sense of being experienced. It's just someone who's willing to kill for a certain amount of money.”

“But if it was the same killer, that would rule out Ralph and Rudy, who were in custody at the time,” I said, undeterred by Dave's line of reasoning. “So wouldn't that seem to make Bobo a likely suspect?”

“I don't think so,” Dave said, promptly bursting my bubble without remorse. “Agent Dooley told me, unofficially, that while they haven't had Bobo under continuous surveillance, it was unlikely, based on their intel, that he was at the mini storage at the time of the murder. Which I interpret to mean they probably have some sort of tracking device on his car,” Dave said.

“Did you ever get a chance to check out that Brad guy, Candy's insanely jealous boyfriend?” Di asked.

“No alibi for the likely time of the murders—although with one body in a deep freezer and the other one sweltering in an un-air-conditioned garage, the medical examiner could give us only an approximate time frame. And Brad has been arrested a few times for public drunkenness and assault,” Dave said. “But I don't really like him for the murders. He has a black belt in karate and seems to like beating up on people with his bare hands. If he was going to kill Darrell, I think he'd want the satisfaction of beating the crap out of him first. And neither Darrell nor Duane had any injuries consistent with that.”

“That has to make Ray Franklin the favorite suspect among the locals,” Di asserted.

“He may be a generally suspicious character, and I don't like him any more than you do,” Dave said. “In fact, if I had the manpower, I'd keep a closer eye on him. But he has an alibi for the time of Tim's murder. It's not necessarily bulletproof. A friend of his says they were at a movie together, and Ray has a ticket stub with the showtime on it. But without something to go on, that's enough to prevent me from arresting him or getting a search warrant. I checked with the theater. It's one of those second-run places, and they don't have any security cameras.”

Sensing that Dave's morale was in a downward spiral, Di quickly spoke up and offered us snacks and beverages.

“No, thanks. I should be going,” Dave said, putting on his hat and rising to his feet. “I still need to run by and talk to Mrs. Donavan over on West Street, who insists she's the victim of a Peeping Tom.”

“Are you referring to old Mrs. Donavan, who was the school librarian for ages?” I asked.

“That's the one. She phones the station at least every other week, and either Ted or I go by to talk to her probably once a month about her peeper.”

“Do you think anybody's actually trying to sneak a peek at her wrinkly, dried-up self?” Di asked.

“I don't see how. I've never seen so much as a footprint or a broken twig along the side of the house. Besides which, she has a thorn bush growing right under her bedroom window. Nobody could get close to it without getting scratched up. I've bled myself more than once just walking past it.”

“How long has this been going on?” I asked.

“At least twenty years, according to the sheriff's office files,” Dave said.

After Dave left, Di freed her hair from the ponytail that was holding it in place and grabbed a Coke from the fridge.

“I feel sorry for Dave,” I said, “having to investigate crimes both real and imagined.”

“It's the real ones that he's losing sleep over—that all of us are losing sleep over,” Di said. “Hey, I've got an idea. . . .” Di paused, staring into space.

“Let's hear it.”

“Well, it scares me, because it sounds like something you'd dream up. But you know how Dave was just saying he'd keep tabs on Ray Franklin if he had more manpower?”

“Yeah.”

“We could provide the manpower, kind of.”

“What do you mean?” I said, leaning forward, feeling intrigued.

“There's only one road in and out of the trailer park, and Ray has to drive right past my place to come and go from his camper, right?”

“Right.”

“So why couldn't we set up surveillance and keep an eye on him from my front window? We wouldn't try to follow him or anything crazy. But we could call Dave or Ted and let them know whenever he leaves. If they're available, they can track him for a bit. At the very least, we'd have some record of when he was home and when he wasn't, you know, in case anything else happens.”

“I'm certainly game, but I don't know how helpful surveillance will be if it's not twenty-four-seven.”

“Then let's make it twenty-four-seven—for a couple of days, anyway,” Di said. “Hopefully, by that time, Dave will have something from the crime lab on those broken security cameras or something new from the Feds. I'm off today and tomorrow, and I can get someone to fill in for me at work on Monday.”

“I don't have an event tomorrow, and I can certainly make a few phone calls from here to follow up with clients.”

“And maybe Larry Joe could even help keep watch, too,” Di said. “I really do think you should tell him what we're up to, with all you two have been through lately.”

Di got on the phone to Dave, and I called Larry Joe to fill him in on our surveillance plan.

Dave reluctantly agreed to the plan, with the stipulation that under no circumstances would we follow Ray on our own. Larry Joe was surprisingly supportive. I think he liked the idea of knowing exactly where I'd be.

Di went out and walked far enough around the circle to Ray's place to spot his truck. He appeared to be at home. She changed clothes and set up her station by the window with a drink and snacks and told me to go on home and have supper with Larry Joe.