Doing It at the Dixie Dew (23 page)

“I'm sacking out on this sofa.” Malinda came back yawning. “Right there.” She pointed. “It's me, my pillow and Miss Margaret Alice's granny afghan.” She stretched her arms toward the ceiling and yawned. “Go. You two are keeping me awake.”

“And you've had a haaard day,” I said. “You mean running for your life just wears you out?”

“I'd rather be worn-out than laid out.” Malinda wiggled her toes, pulled the afghan around her shoulders and curled into the sofa. “Good night.”

I started to get the tray and glasses, but Scott motioned to leave it, come on. Malinda was already asleep.

“I don't think I can go to sleep that easily,” I said.

“Take a hot bath,” Scott said. “I'll check your locks.”

I gave a half giggle. “You and Ossie DelGardo.”

“What?” Scott said. “I missed something.”

“Never mind,” I said.

Later in the tub I felt myself smiling. Ossie and Juanita. Funny. I was glad I could laugh about something; that I could be that relaxed. The last few weeks had been tense and unreal, and if I were reading this in a book I wouldn't believe it. But all this had happened in my little town. I stretched, splashed and unwound, then lay back, closed my eyes and felt myself getting drowsy. The water had cooled, so I ran more hot water and soaked, letting every bad moment of the afternoon slough off. The whole nightmare of me and Malinda running through that decayed castle of a house with that henchman after us, then the drop from the balcony and the mad chase down the driveway with him right behind us. I slid deeper in the soothing water. I was relaxed now.

I was in bed with my light off when Scott cracked my door and leaned his head in. “Sleep well,” he said.

“Wait,” I said quickly. “Wait.”

“Good night.” Scott had one hand on the doorknob.

“Don't go.”

“Even upstairs?”

“Here.” I sat up, pulled back the sheet and slid over. “Sleep here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

He eased off his jeans and started to unbutton his shirt when he stopped and said suddenly, “I'll be right back.” He shot out the door wearing a shirt, shorts and socks. Red socks. Were they warning flags? Where was he going and what had he heard?

In a few minutes he was back, under the sheet next to me, kissing me and more. I felt as if he'd always been right there. So right.

He kissed the back of my neck and moved down to nuzzle my shoulder.

“Oh God,” I said.

“Yes,” he answered, his breath warm and moist on my breast.

I pulled him close, closer, until his breath was my breath, his chest my chest, and then he was me.

“Oh my,” I said suddenly. “Oh my goodness.”

“Yes.” He nibbled my ear. “Goodness gracious yes.”

Chapter Twenty-five

I woke to the smell of fresh coffee, surprised I had slept. But it had been such delicious sleep. Except it wasn't the sleep. It was the sex and Scott. God, it had been so long. Too long. And now what? Where did that leave me?

When I reached for my robe, my arms felt stiff, as if I'd been stretched somewhere yesterday. I'd been stretched all right. Mentally and physically. My arms when I hung from Miss Tempie's balcony. My legs running up those stairs and frantically down the driveway that seemed ten miles long. Not to mention ducking from what I
thought
was a bullet, and all the tension during those hours of tea and confession with that henchman digging and shoveling, then standing guard outside the door.

And then there was Scott. Last night. I patted the empty bed beside me, pressed my face into his pillow. It still smelled slightly of a hint of his aftershave and something more. Something that made me stretch deliciously.

I wanted to stay in bed all day. I wanted to roll in these sheets and swaddle myself in them. Telling myself if I did, Scott would come back and find me and we would begin again where we left off last night. We would repeat and repeat until we were marvelously spent, until we fell exhausted off each other and the bed and began again on the floor. God, he was good. God, I was good.

The question was, Where was Scott now? The house was quiet. And what time was it?

I slid into my slippers and shook myself, combed my hair with my fingers. Where was Scott? Had I dreamed the whole wonderful thing?

I was tying my robe when someone tapped lightly on my door, then opened it.

Ida Plum stepped in carrying a tray, coffee and muffins. “Are you ready for this?” She motioned me back in bed. “Once won't spoil you, I don't guess.”

I didn't protest but popped back in bed, plumped up my pillows and settled back, disappointed down to my toes that Ida Plum's head had appeared behind that tray and not Scott's. Where was he? This wasn't the way I wanted my first morning after. I always thought, after making love, I'd be the one to wake early and lie there watching someone else sleep. Possessing rather than being possessed. Hanging on to that wonderful feeling as long as possible. But, my God, he'd disappeared.

I couldn't let Ida Plum, bless her thoughtfulness, see how disappointed I was.

I sipped. God, he made good coffee.

“Malinda made the coffee,” Ida Plum said.

If she was reading my mind, then I was embarrassed.

“I found it when I came in. With this note.”

I read the note scribbled on a Dixie Dew B and B notepad: “If you need me I'm pushing pills. What a night. M.”

“Her handwriting's as bad as a doctor's,” I said.

“She almost was.” Ida Plum poured herself a cup. “Remember? She was going into medicine. All that hoopla with the Morehead scholarship and her being black and female. Double token, they had, but none of the papers spelled it out that way at least.”

“What happened?”

“I've never heard all of it. Or maybe even most of it. Or maybe not the truth of it. Rosalie never has been one to talk her troubles. One day Malinda's back, working at Gaddy's, degree in pharmacy and a baby. I never asked questions. Figured if Rosalie or Malinda wanted me to know something, they'd tell me.”

“I've never asked either,” I said.

“I'm just glad she was with you last night,” Ida Plum said.

“If she hadn't been with me last night, I wouldn't have been where I was. I'm no match for Miss Tempie, handyman or not.”

“Speaking of Tempie. Ossie called. He'll be by later to get a statement from you. He's talked to Malinda. He thought you'd like to know they charged Rolfe with Lavinia's murder.”

“Father Roderick's, too?”

“Just killing Miss Lavinia. Rolfe also got charged with attempts on your life. And Tempie as accessory.”

“Somehow I can't see Miss Tempie in a cell.”

“Neither could Ossie, apparently. That's why he didn't take her in. She must have pulled her poor, pitiful Tempie act. She is a master at it. Years of practice.”

“He let her go?”

“Until the trial. She confessed it was all her idea. She's good at confessing and he's got it on tape. He figured she wasn't going anywhere and she wasn't a threat to anybody.” Ida Plum picked up my towel from last night. I almost worried Scott's blue plaid boxer shorts might drop out. Where were they? Where was he?

“Did he get the whole story?” I wanted to hurry and finish my coffee and get dressed, find out what was going on in the real world.

“Tempie had been embezzling from the church. They've had priests come and go. She's always done the bookkeeping and it was always sloppy. Nobody thought to check and recheck until Father Roderick came along.”

I stopped with an orange cranberry muffin halfway to my mouth. “Our Miss Tempie? The quintessential little old lady?”

“Nobody but.” Ida Plum opened the curtains and raised the window.

“And there she was giving me a lecture on manners and morals.”

“Evidently she did it over the years. That's manners for you. A nibble at a time.”

“Why?”

“She was accustomed to a certain lifestyle. You saw her house. It takes something to keep a house like that standing … even if it's not standing very well. Taxes go up every year, even on unoccupied property. And to keep her in cat food. It may be cheaper than tuna, but it still takes a couple of cans a week for casseroles and salad.”

I loaded my knife with strawberry jelly. “I thought she taught music.”

“She hadn't taught in years,” said Ida Plum. “She had gotten to the place where she screamed at the kids relentlessly. Or that's what I heard. And more. It doesn't take corporal punishment to get a kid to practice music. Or it shouldn't.”

“Probably did more than just whack their fingers with a ruler. She had a vicious temper.” I shuddered, remembering how I had cowered under the fear of Miss Tempie's upraised hand holding that ruler like a guillotine ready to come down on my helpless fingers. “Where does Miss Lavinia fit into the picture?”

“According to Ossie, who, contrary to what you heard, has not been spending all his time with Juanita but digging through a lot of information and checking out sources, Lavinia was leaving everything to St. Ann's. That's where Father Roderick came on the scene. Doesn't surprise me a whit.” Ida Plum sniffed. “He never struck me as the priest type. I thought he was too good looking.”

“That's why she came back,” I said.

“She was eighty plus. She knew she couldn't have a lot of years left.” Ida Plum fluffed the curtains and wiped a finger of dust from my bureau. “I told you that from the first day you got her reservation. She wanted to be buried here. She just didn't plan on being buried here quite so soon. She planned to spend her last days in one of those new condominiums the church is building. She'd be taken care of until her last breath; then the church would take over from there with what was left of her money. And there was supposed to be quite a bit left. Or that's what I heard.”

“And with all the inheritance, Miss Tempie's minor indiscretions over the years would be forgiven. Especially since she was the one who recruited and reunited Miss Lavinia with St. Ann's.”

“Tempie just hurried up the process. At her age you get impatient.” Ida Plum had her hand on the doorknob.

“And Father Roderick's housekeeper?”

“She killed Father Roderick. That all came out when Ossie talked to Tempie. Tempie knew it from the start. She just didn't tell. She always was one to keep things to herself. Thought she was too good to even talk to most people.”

“Sounds like a domino effect.”

“And both Tempie and Father Roderick knew the housekeeper stole Miss Lavinia's jewelry.”

“Which Crazy Reba then stole from her when she went in the rectory to take a bath.” Oh, it was all falling into place, domino after domino.

“When Father Roderick was going to report his housekeeper to Ossie DelGardo, he made the mistake of praying first. That's when the housekeeper strangled him.” Ida Plum snorted. “His religion did him in. Maybe he was a real one. I just thought he did more playing at it than actual work.”

“So it must have been Miss Lavinia's silk teddy. The housekeeper must have taken it when she stole the jewelry. The poor woman. She couldn't have fitted half her ass into it.” I laughed. “It's all so curious.”

“That's Littleboro for you.” Ida Plum started out.

“But where do I come in all this?” I asked. “All I did was find Miss Lavinia and Father Roderick. And maybe get myself and Malinda half-killed. I didn't know anything or anyone who might have been in the murdering business.”

There was no answer. Ida Plum had shut the door. By the time I got dressed and into the kitchen, Ida Plum was gone. She'd left a note. It was a day for notes, I thought, reading it. Ida Plum had written on a grocery shopping pad, below “Carrots” and “Bathroom cleanser:” “Your Mr. Murchison is still in bed. I did not take him a tray. One was enough and I'm not starting that. Hope he is not a repeat of Miss Lavinia. One was enough of that, too. I.P.D.” Scott would laugh at those initials. The Ida Pineapple Department.

I forced myself up the stairs. There was only silence at the top. I waited outside Mr. Murchison's door. It was so quiet. I tapped on the door. Then tapped again. Please, not again. Surely, it couldn't happen twice. I'd be out of business fast.

I tapped again, leaned against the door and listened. Nothing moved. No one coughed or turned over in bed, or made a human sound.

I turned the knob and again waited. Nothing.

And nothing met me inside the room. Nothing and nobody. It was cleared out. There was a note on the dresser. “Left at 5 a.m. Thanks for a good night. Rupert Murchison.” The handwriting was small, little mouse tracks across the page and as tidy as an accountant.

The bed was unmade, but the spread had been pulled up to neaten it and there were damp towels over the rod in the shower. Mr. Murchison had been here and gone. Gone on his way and not to his reward. I was relieved. Oh, was I relieved. I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I sighed and started removing the sheets.

Sherman came in, hopped on the dresser and looked out into the maple whose leaves were unfolding at a fast rate. He looked as if he were thinking, Bird for lunch, bird for lunch. He flexed a paw against the screen, got it caught and began to pull.

“Trying to tear the house down, Sherm?” Scott poked his head around the corner. “The House of McKenzie stands on strong turf, old buddy.” Scott pried the cat's claws loose, then picked him up and held him next to his chest.

“I just had a scare.” I smoothed on fresh sheets. “When Mr. Murchison hadn't come down, I came up and it was the Monday morning of Miss Lavinia all over again. No answer when I knocked. Not a sound of someone in here … someone alive, that is. Then I opened the door and it was empty as a tomb.”