Death Crashes the Party (3 page)

“Yes,” I stammered, a little surprised. “Did Ralph Harvey call to tell you I was coming?”

“Naw. I've seen your pictures in the paper. You have that party-planning business, right? I figured you must be related to the McKays at the trucking company. Come on in,” she said, propping open the screen door with her back and motioning for me to go through.

At her invitation, I took a seat on a floral sofa that looked almost as old as the house. Tonya sat down in a chair across from me. An air conditioner rattled and hissed from a window on the far side of the room. I scanned the walls and mantel, looking for childhood photos of her sons. But there were none.

“I'm so very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I thought maybe my luck had turned. I won a few dollars down at the casino recently. Just goes to show, I guess.”

“I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

“It's hard, of course, losing both my boys. But I tell myself Duane—that's my youngest—would've been lost without Darrell. Duane was a sweet boy, but even I knew he wasn't the brightest bulb on the porch. Darrell always looked out for him. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“It's nice when brothers are close like that,” I said. “I understand, in addition to working together, they were both involved in those Civil War reenactments.”

“Lord, yes. They'd been playing soldier since they were old enough to walk. Mind you, that wasn't my doing. After their dad died in the Iraq War, I didn't want to think about anything like that. But their pawpaw, my granddaddy, told them all these stories about the Civil War and took them on trips to Shiloh, helped them stage battles with toy soldiers.

“Duane wasn't as athletic as his brother, but he liked to draw and write stuff. My grandma gave Duane the journal of a Civil War soldier, which, she said, had belonged to her grandfather. Duane was fascinated with it and started keeping a journal of his own, still does, er . . . did, anyway.”

I noticed she was fidgeting with a teardrop diamond necklace. The sunlight reflecting off it confirmed it was the real thing, not cubic zirconia. I conjectured that it might have been a gift to herself from her casino winnings.

After a pause, she looked at me and said, “I heard you're the one that found them.”

I didn't quite know how to respond to that, so I finally just said, “Yes.”

She stood and continued talking with her back to me. “I guess I wish you could tell me that they looked peaceful or that they didn't suffer, but . . . maybe the medical examiner can say when he's done.”

I laid the envelope on the coffee table and told her it contained her sons' pay.

“We all get what's coming to us, one way or another,” she said. “I plan to move away after all this is settled. There's not much keeping me here now.”

“Ralph Harvey tells me your boys were well liked at McKay's. Please call us if you need any help with the arrangements.”

As I stood to leave, my cell phone rang. Caller ID popped up on the screen, indicating it was Larry Joe.

“I should take this,” I said apologetically. I stepped out onto the front porch as I answered. I heard some static before the phone went dead.

“That's odd,” I said.

“Cell phone reception is pretty spotty out here,” Tonya said, standing in the doorway behind me. “You might try calling back once you get over that big hill up on the main road.”

On the drive home, I couldn't help thinking about the fact there were no family photos in Tonya's living room. I reasoned that she could have slipped pictures of her sons into a drawer after learning about their deaths. Maybe it was just too painful to look at them.
Besides
, I thought,
I still have a box full of honeymoon photos in the closet I've been meaning to frame for years
.

I walked into the kitchen from the garage to find Larry Joe twisting the cap off a beer bottle. He hopped on his soapbox without even bothering to say hello.

“I've been home an hour, and I already know you've been snooping around at the company garage, asking questions about the Farrells. And I know you didn't come home last night but slipped in this morning, looking like something the cat dragged in.”

“That's because Mrs. Cleats across the street is a dang busybody who thinks it's her calling to keep her neighbors under surveillance. And Ralph Harvey has a big mouth.”

“It's because we live in a small town,” Larry Joe said as he sidled up to me and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Why don't you just tell me what's going on, Liv? You know I'm bound to hear about it, anyway.”

I looked up at my husband's cleft chin, dimples, and smiling brown eyes and fought the urge to kiss him. He's not quite George Clooney handsome, but he'll do.

“So are you worried about where I spent the night?” I said, breaking free from his embrace. I backed up to the counter and hoisted myself onto the granite top. From this vantage point, I could look Larry Joe squarely in the eye.

“Not particularly. I told Mrs. Cleats you spent the night at your mama's house after all the excitement yesterday.”

“Well, you lied,” I said, stretching out the word
lied
as if it had three or four
i
's. “I spent the night at Di's place after I got stinking drunk and passed out on her sofa.”

“See there,” he said with a wicked grin. “Doesn't being honest make you feel better?” He walked to the counter, positioned himself between my dangling legs, and began taking liberties—which was exactly what I wanted him to do.

I had planned to cook supper, but after we got sidetracked for a while, we just called and had pizza delivered. Unlikely as it may sound, pizza is actually a romantic meal for us. We had it on our wedding night. A pizza parlor that delivered was the only place we could find open after we stopped for the night outside Hattiesburg on our way to New Orleans.

 

 

Larry Joe was already gone by the time I woke up on Wednesday. He and his dad were meeting with Ralph first thing this morning to address the sudden staff shortage and to make sure freight would get out on time.

I was ravenous and decided cereal just wouldn't cut it. So I dressed and drove to Town Square Diner for a ham-and-eggs-and-biscuits breakfast. Just as I finished giving the waitress my order, Sheriff Dave slid into the booth across from me and said, “I'll have the same.”

“So you're having a bit of a late breakfast this morning, too,” I said. The clock on the wall indicated it was 8:45 a.m.

“I don't know if this is breakfast or lunch. I've been at it since before five this morning,” he said, taking off his hat and raking his fingers through a crop of dark, wavy hair.

“If you're going to ask me to go through the whole discovering-the-bodies story again, you'll have to wait until I've had something to eat. I just don't have the energy for it.”

“We can skip that for now. I'm more interested in the fact that you seem to be trailing along behind me, talking to witnesses, and yakking to just about everybody else in town on the phone.”

“I haven't followed you anywhere, Sheriff Davidson,” I said, feeling pretty put out by his insinuation, especially after the grilling he had put me through on Monday at the Erdmans'. “I went by to see Mrs. Farrell to give her Darrell's and Duane's last paychecks, which I picked up from Ralph Harvey. And I haven't called anyone in the past two days, except Larry Joe. My phone's been ringing off the hook.”

“That so?” Dave said, his scowl softening into a smile around the edges.

“Yeah, that's so. A double murder is pretty big excitement for a small town. I can't believe you're surprised it's got everybody talking.”

“I just wish all the gabbing I've listened to added up to one solid lead on this case,” Dave said, rubbing his eyes. He looked as wrung out as a dishrag. As sheriff of Delbert County, he was responsible for all the unincorporated areas of the county, along with contract coverage of the municipalities that were too small to have their own police department. Since there are only three towns in the county, and Hartville is the only one with its own police force, Dave and his small band of deputies have a lot of ground to cover.

The waitress brought our orders, and we both nearly cleaned our plates before another word was spoken.

I brushed a napkin across my lips. “Dave, the only thing I've heard about the Farrell boys that might have something to do with their deaths is that they apparently liked to smoke marijuana. Maybe they got on the wrong side of their dealer.”

“Naw, I'm afraid that's a dead end. The Farrells bought their weed from a kid at the high school who I've had a ‘Come to Jesus' talk with on more than one occasion. And I'm pretty sure his grandma is growing the stuff he sells,” he sighed and shook his head. “They're a family of morons, but they're not dangerous.”

Dave grabbed the check the waitress had left on the table. “I'll take care of this,” he said, scooting out of the booth. “You can feel obligated to pass on to me any tidbits of information you pick up that might be pertinent.”

I left a couple of dollars on the table, not knowing how much of a tip Dave had included with the bill. I spoke to my mom's next-door neighbor, Bubba Rowland, who was sitting at the counter, then walked across the street and past the courthouse to my office on the other side of the square.

Dixie has a town square like the ones that were once pretty typical in small towns, with a courthouse in the middle, surrounded by businesses and one-way streets on three sides. Our square has fared better than many since the sprawl of suburbia and the advent of big-box stores. We have only one vacant building at the moment. Of course, the theater next door to Sweet Deal Realty used to be a grand movie palace once upon a time. These days its grandeur is a little shabby around the edges, and it's used by the town's community theater group and for local dance recitals and gospel singings. But at least it hasn't been torn down.

What was formerly a good-sized furniture center on the other side of the square is now a storefront church, and the fancy hat shop I remember from my childhood is now a thrift shop. But we still have a diner and a bakery and a drugstore and a beauty salon and other businesses that keep our little downtown area teeming with people during the day, until they roll up the sidewalks at about 6:00 p.m.

I went upstairs and sat down at my desk in the 1950s-era building, with its green-tiled floor and paneled walls, which are painted white. After going over my notes for the Erdmans' party, I phoned the band and the caterer to confirm the date and time and to go over details.

As a party planner, I absolutely depend on a cadre of professionals, from caterers to musicians, from florists to magicians. And I depend just as much on my part-time, as-needed employees, who help me pull it all together, especially Holly Renfrew, assistant extraordinaire.

Wilson Washington, manager and trombonist with the Dixieland band I had hired for the Erdmans' party, confirmed the details and asked me to e-mail him a map to the Erdmans' house.

“The van's got GPS, but I don't trust it. Sometimes it acts crazy, you know?”

“Yes, I've had that experience on occasion, where the GPS voice keeps saying, ‘Recalculating,' over and over. And if you do have any problems, you have my cell number. Feel free to call me anytime,” I said.

Hiring Washington's Ragtime Band for the party was a real coup. They're top-notch and get booked months in advance. Before Hurricane Katrina, the band was based in New Orleans. They moved to Memphis after the devastating storm and eventually decided to stay.

I finally broke down and phoned Mrs. Erdman. I was starting to get worried that she had gone so long without calling me. I was surprised when she picked up on the first ring.

“Rose, is that you?”

“Uh, n-no, ma'am,” I stuttered. “This is Liv McKay.”

“Oh, Liv, I'm sorry. I'm expecting a call from my sister. Why are you calling?”

“I just wanted to touch base. I haven't talked to you since . . .” I paused before adding, “Monday.”

“Yes, that was quite a shock,” she said. “And what a strange coincidence that both those young men worked for your husband. Don't you think?”

I wasn't sure what she was trying to imply.

“It's been quite a shock for Larry Joe and his dad, that's for certain,” I said.

“Yes, I'm sure. Well, hopefully, the sheriff will arrest someone soon, so we can all move on with our lives,” she said.

“One of your guests called about a costume fitting. I told her I was certain you would go ahead with the party, not wanting to disappoint your friends. You do want to proceed with the party?”

“Why, yes, of course,” she said, sounding put out. “Those unfortunate boys have nothing to do with us. I can't imagine why anyone would leave them in our garage, can you?”

Again, I wasn't sure just what she was implying, but I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

“No, Mrs. Erdman. I really can't imagine.”

“Well, I really can't talk right now, Liv. I'll call you if I think of anything,” she said before hanging up abruptly. It chafed me that Mrs. Erdman seemed to imply that my family could have somehow been involved in the murders. But this is a small town, and I knew the dead men's connection to McKay Trucking was bound to fuel gossip.

My nerves were feeling a little frayed, so I decided to give up on work for the day. I'd go home and work on painting my living room ceiling. The never-ending chore of painting our fixer-upper house had become a kind of therapy for me.