Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 07 (29 page)

I looked at Lillian, who was shaking her head as she looked at her husband on the seat below her. “I can’t see Ripley doing this on his own,” I said to her. “Let’s hear what you did after the bus was parked at the motel.”

“I told you that I took a walk and ended up at the bar,” she said.

“Did you go past the PD?”

“Is that the funny-looking red brick building? I walked by it, but I didn’t pay it any mind.”

“You did laundry,” Katie contributed. “I saw you while I was talking to Pierce. You had a magazine and were sitting by one of the dryers.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harve said, rising to his feet and taking an interest now that I’d done all the hard work. “Les here says you saw Carlos Tunnato in the launderette, Miss Hawk. Could you tell us what happened?”

“Back in Nashville he called me a bunch of times before we left. I mean, the messages on my answering machine were always that Charlie called, but he came up to me in the launderette and told me that was his nickname. Charlie the Tunnato. I told him that was as cute as a butchered hawg.”

“Charlie?” Matt echoed. “Where’ve I …?”

“What else did he tell you?” I prompted her.

“He said he had some information that would interest me. I told him I’d meet him later. He had this silly map, so I pointed to some place on the creek and said for him to meet me at midnight.”

I gazed evenly at her. “A stranger in a launderette says he has some interesting information, so you arrange to meet him in the woods at midnight? Doesn’t that seem overly trusting?”

She glanced nervously at Lillian, then pushed her hair back and gave me a defiant smile. “I had no intention of going, of course, and you already heard that I stayed in my room the rest of the night. I figured he’d freeze his butt off out there and maybe stop calling me in the future. I never dreamed he’d fall in the water the way he did.”

“Did you hear any of their conversation?” I asked Lillian.

“It was too noisy, and I was busy reading.”

“Why were you there?”

“Why does anyone go to a launderette?”

I was not in the mood for sarcasm. “You’d left Nashville less than a day earlier. It’s hard to imagine that you already needed to do laundry. Did you follow Katie—or Charlie?”

Matt made a face. “I jest know I heard that name before. Was it at your office, Lillian?”

“No,” she said coldly. “You might as well tell us who this Carlos Tunnato is,” I said when she failed to continue. “The Tennessee authorities will go to his house, question whoever else lives at the address, and find the connection, although it may take a week or two. Do you all want to wait in Maggody until they call us?”

“He was my second husband,” Lillian admitted. “We were divorced eighteen years ago. He’s been trying to borrow money from me, and I guess he heard we were coming here and followed me. I didn’t see him in the launderette. I didn’t even know he was in Maggody until I heard about his death.”

“That’s right,” Katie said with that same terribly sincere smile I’d seen earlier. “Lillian was way off in the corner, reading a magazine. She didn’t talk to him, and there’s no way she could have overheard what I said to this Charlie man. Nobody could have known about our meeting.”

“Divorced eighteen years ago …” I said, sitting down on the bottom row of the bleacher and thinking about what she’d said about making sure everything was done property. I could almost smell Marjorie’s majestic offering as I thought how I’d feel if I learned my divorce had not been finalized. I’d raise hell with the lawyer, threaten malpractice, hand-carry the documents to Manhattan, and if I had to, drag the judge out of bed. But I hadn’t remarried. If Lillian’s divorce wasn’t legal, neither was her marriage to Matt. He was free to marry Katie Hawk.

I looked up, ready to say as much, and faltered. Lillian and Katie looked as if they were listening to each other breathe. There was enough bonding going on to bring Wall Street to its knees. As a corporate entity, they turned and sent the same message to Ripley. He positively rippled in response.

“Lillian did not hear the conversation in the launderette,” Katie said abruptly. “Couldn’t have. No way. And I was in my room singing right up until midnight. Those folks what own the house heard me.”

I shook my head. “They heard something, and you couldn’t have climbed back up the drainpipe until after midnight. Matt said he was sitting below your window. He didn’t see you.”

“Was he drunk?”

The accused gave her a mournful look. “Not the whole time, Katie. It takes a couple hours to get warmed up, and besides, I would’ve noticed if you put your foot on my head.”

“That’d be a first,” she shot back. A more perceptive person might have taken it in the heart, but Matt grinned and ruffled his hair.

“And Lillian was helping me with Pierce’s body at midnight,” Ripley said. “I found her at the bar and we went to the house together.”

“It took well over an hour,” Lillian said. “Breaking into the store, undressing the mannequin, dressing poor Pierce, trying to get that guitar set just right.”

Harve threw up his hands and stomped off to yell at Les, who hadn’t done anything worthy of a tirade but might well in a day or two. “Charlie was your ex-husband?” said Matt. “Didn’t I meet a guy named Charlie at your office?”

“Oh, shut up!”

It was impossible to attribute this final statement to one particular speaker, since it came from all three of them.

“Grab me! I’m fixin’ to fall!” screeched Ruby Bee, hanging onto the branch above her head. The one she’d been standing on continued to bend under her weight until it snapped like a firecracker.

“Gimme your hand,” Estelle said from a higher roost. She caught Ruby Bee’s hand and helped her relocate to a branch sturdy enough to hold her.

Ruby Bee tried to find a spot that felt secure, comfortable being out of the question. It was a spindly tree, chosen out of necessity. She was still amazed at how quickly she and Estelle had arrived up in its branches. Terror could do that. “I cain’t believe this,” she grumbled. “Women our age sitting in a tree, and most likely stuck here all night. I ain’t climbed a tree since I was ten years old, and I only did it then to get down my cousin’s kite on account of his bawling. It’s not dignified.”

“Then shinny on down.”

There was a moment of silence while they pondered their predicament. Sleet pattered on the pasture and rustled the few leaves on the branches around them, and up on the main road a car door slammed and an engine came to life. Water gurgled across the low water bridge. Way across the field, Christmas tree lights sparkled in a window.

Estelle risked life and limb to lean forward so she could see the ground underneath the tree, then sighed and wrapped her arm back around the trunk. “You got us into this, Rubella Belinda Hanks, you with your bright idea of spying on Raz Buchanon. I hope you’ll be proud of yourself if and when they find our frozen bodies in this tree like two turtledoves.”

“I told you not to open the door,” Ruby Bee said promptly, not willing to take the blame alone. “I clearly said that I heard Marjorie inside there, snuffling and snorting, and you said that no one over the age of six was afraid of pigs.”

“And who said she’d take a stick and smack the pig on the nose if she bothered us? Whose idea was that?”

“I had to say something when you insisted on opening the door.”

They carried on like this for a while longer, but then branches creaked as they settled in and took to listening to the restful sounds in the blanket of darkness.

Loud music blared from inside the house. Lights shone from the living room windows, and the Christmas tree in the window glittered in tiny explosions of colored lights and tinsel. A plastic Santa posed on the roof, his arm raised to encourage eight plastic reindeer to dash away, dash away into the sky.

Miss Vetchling observed the scene from inside her car, the windows windows rolled down far enough to allow smoke to escape as she finished a cigarette and made sure she was at the correct address. It was far too late to drop by someone’s home without an invitation, but there were at least two dozen women inside who’d received theirs. They carried cocktail and wineglasses and plates of food, and they milled about with a great deal of laughter.

To drive away would be craven, Miss Vetchling told herself as she got out of her car. No dogs came howling out of the darkness, but she took her brolly along as she went up to the front door and knocked firmly enough to be heard over the music.

The door swung open and a woman with wildly crimped blond hair and scarlet lipstick grabbed Miss Vetchling’s arm. “Glad you could make it, darling! You haven’t missed a thing, but we’re getting ready to start. Come on in and let me take your coat and umbrella.”

Before she could demur and present her spiel, Miss Vetchling was pulled inside, stripped of her coat and only weapon, and handed a cup of what she was told killer eggnog. The first sip was enough to cause her to shudder, but the second was really quite tasty. Miss Vetchling allowed herself to be presented with a plate of canapes and placed on the sofa between a hardfaced woman with black hair and a young woman with an anxious expression.

She put a meatball in her mouth to forestall attempts at conversation while she assessed the group. All women, all dressed casually but not cheaply, all seemingly having a delightful time in what Miss Vetchling knew was the home of Miss Cherri Lucinda Crate. Miss Crate seemed to have abandoned her guests for the moment. None of them allowed this to adversely affect their spirits; all were indeed consuming spirits with enthusiasm.

After finishing her eggnog, Miss Vetchling decided she could not remain at the party under false pretenses and went into the kitchen to seek out Miss Crate. There were cookie sheets of food awaiting their turns in the oven, plates of cookies, bowls of red and green candies, and bottles jammed on a counter that served as a bar. Glasses were lined up nearby.

Miss Vetchling made herself a martini (eggnog was high in both calories and cholesterol) and continued her search for Miss Crate. The carpet was in need of a good shampooing, she noticed with disapproval as she went down a hallway. Miss Crate should be presented with the opportunity to see how effective a Vacu-Pro could be.

“No peeking,” said Miss Crate, popping out of a room and closing the door behind her. “Let’s refresh your drink and then we’ll get started right away. Have you ever been to one of these before, darling? I can tell you’re going to love it. It’s so much easier to shop like this than to battle those crowded malls. Free gift wrapping and delivery up until Christmas Eve.”

Miss Vetchling could make no sense out of Miss Crate’s babbling, nor could she get in a word edgewise. Once her martini had been enhanced with a hearty dollop of gin, she obediently followed her hostess to the living room and resumed her seat on the sofa. Accepting the reality that her investigation was temporarily halted, she lit a cigarette and sat back to await developments and contemplate a career in private detection. It really was more scintillating than phone sales, she thought with a tiny hiccup. One met so many congenial people.

The other guests found seats or sat on the floor, and the music stopped. Miss Crate’s head appeared around a comer. “You ready, ladies?”

Everyone assured Miss Crate that they were, including Miss Vetchling, who did so with a merry flick of her finger. The lights dimmed and sultry music filled the room like mysterious and exotic perfume. Miss Vetchling watched the doorway with a sense of anticipation that was not unpleasant.

Miss Crate stepped into the room. She wore a shimmery white nightgown gathered demurely at her neck with a red velvet ribbon and falling inches short of panties made only of a wisp of lace. “Picture yourself as a Christmas present,” she cooed at her audience. “What would the man in your life do if he found you under the tree like this?”

“Climb up the chimney,” said a stout woman with a hint of a mustache.

Miss Crate giggled. “Oh, come on, Lynne, he’d drag you off to the bedroom for a night of passionate love. And just how does this passionate lover come dressed on Christmas Eve? In an undershirt? In worn flannel pajamas? Hell no! He comes in the sexiest, skimpiest briefs so you can both see what he’s got in mind. Right, darling?” Into the doorway stepped a gangly young man, and indeed he was dressed in the … well, skimpiest briefs Miss Vetchling had ever seen. They appeared to be dotted with tiny reindeer, but there were very few of them, certainly not the standard allotment for a sleigh. On his head was a red cap trimmed with white felt. On his face was an embarrassed smile.

Miss Crate stroked his arm. “Why, here’s Santa.”

“No,” said Miss Vetchling, “actually it’s …”

“Kevvie!” screamed a figure pressed against the living room window. “Kevvie!”

“So why’d you let them go ahead with the concert?” asked Harve, who as usual was safe at his desk in Farberville where Maggody was nothing but a bad memory, at least for the moment.

It was Monday afternoon, and I’d finally had time to sit down in the PD (where Maggody is an omnipresent menace day and night), lean back at the preferred angle in my chair, get my feet settled just right on the corner of the desk, and call him to exchange information.

“I wasn’t going to,” I admitted, “but Ripley and Lillian came by yesterday morning and told me how the cow ate the cabbage, as Dahlia would say. It wasn’t exactly blackmail, but there were some overtones. We dickered back and forth and finally agreed. It’s not like any of them shoved Pierce Keswick out the window, Harve. I’m satisfied that he was there when Marjorie came charging at him and I can tell you it’s not the time to consider the safest place to retreat.”

“I grew up on a farm,” Harve said. “I know how dangerous those old sows can be. Got a five-inch scar on my leg to prove it. But they did drag the body to the souvenir shoppe and dress it up like that. I dunno what the charge should have been, but we might could have come up with something to entertain ourselves.”

“Sure we could have, and I could have called a press conference conference and told everyone that Matt Montana lied about his original lyrics and that Hizzoner is in line for a Country Sound Award for sleaziest songwriter of all time. The story might not have made the front page of the New York Times, but it would have been hot stuff in the tabloids and country music publications. The tour would have collapsed. The label company wouldn’t be worth the price of a CD—or even a cassette. I could have done all that, Harve, but I didn’t.”