The Saucy Lucy Murders (8 page)

“Of course,” Lucy agreed.

“Poor thing,” Georgia exclaimed. “Your hands are all red and chafed and those nails …” She shook her head, obviously in sympathy.

“They are a little dishpan red,” Lucy admitted.

“It’s downright good you came when you did, honey. Why, if these nails of yours had gotten any shorter or drier, I would really have had a tussle of a time to get you set up with acrylics.” Georgia pulled out a nail buffer and began to run it across the nails on Lucy’s right hand, then her left.

Lexie listened to the low buzz of voices in the shop while Carma worked on her nails, then heard Lucy pipe up. “Isn’t it a shame about Henry Whitehead?”

“Ain’t it, though?” Georgia shook her head. “I never would have expected such shenanigans going on in Moose Creek Junction. A genuine murder. Just think of it.”

“It is awful.” Carma agreed. “Of course, there’s no excuse for killing someone. But I understand he didn’t endear himself to a lot of people.”

“Yup, call a spade a spade,” Georgia said. “Why, I was talking to his poor wife Violet just last week. She’s my neighbor, you know. And she was telling me about some of the things that went on in that marriage of theirs. Do you know that Henry wanted
them to get into
swapping?”

A lady under a hairdryer leaned forward, a few pink rollers peeking from beneath the hood. “Did you say shopping? What’s so bad about that?”

“No,
swapping.
They do it in Denver and a lot of big cities like that. It’s where husbands and wives go to parties with each other. They size each other up as sexual partners. Then the spouses agree to trade with each other for a night of … well, you can only imagine.”

Lucy went white.

“Why, I think that’s totally
Philistine,”
the hairdryer lady said. “No wonder poor Violet left him. What a deadbeat. Of course, that’s no reason for someone to do away with him.” Shaking her head, she slid back under the hairdryer and resumed reading a hairstyle magazine.

“How well do you know Violet?” Lexie asked Georgia.

“She’s been my neighbor for nigh on ten years.”

Lucy and Lexie exchanged a glance that acknowledged they had chosen a good place to come for gossip.

“Are you and Violet good friends?” Lucy asked.

“Good enough,” Georgia drawled.

“Would Violet have gotten angry enough at Henry to do something desperate?” Lexie asked.

Georgia gave a questioning look. “Like
murder
him?”

Lexie shrugged. “Maybe.”

Georgia shook her big, curly blond head with the black, need-to-be-dyed roots. “No ma’am, I don’t think so. Not Violet. She just ain’t the type.”

Carma finished gluing the last acrylic nail to Lexie’s real nails. Then she began to apply a smelly pink substance, brushing it out in perfect strokes. “You never know what people are capable of when they are pushed too far.”

Lucy nodded. “They often go over the edge.”

“True. But not poor Violet. She’d have been more likely to go into a convent than to kill someone,” Georgia said.

Lexie wondered about that. Considering how Henry had mentioned
poor
Violet was a little creepy. And also how horribly she had mouthed off right before she heard Henry was dead. No, to Lexie she didn’t seem like such a sweet innocent. Seemed like she had a few axes to grind with the ex.

“What about these
swapping
parties?” Lexie said. “Did Henry ever get Violet to go to any of them?”

“Violet claims it never got that far before she filed for divorce.” Georgia said. “But she did mention Henry was living a pretty wild single life.”

Lexie wondered who in the world would have found him attractive enough to go to bed with him let alone how to stand the smell. But, to each his own.

“Henry Whitehead had women parading in and out of his house day and night,” Carma said. “He was an arrogant womanizer. He probably irritated a lot of people.”

“Yes siree-Bob,” Georgia said. “Henry White-head had become the Casanova of Moose Creek Junction. That’s why Violet went for the jugular when they got divorced. She’d already gotten her revenge and a good divorce settlement. She really didn’t have any reason to do him in.”

“Maybe it wasn’t as good a settlement as it seemed,” Lucy said.

“Or maybe she was trying to cover up her own affairs,” Lexie added.

“Violet? No, she’s a good egg.” Georgia started to glue the acrylic nails to Lucy’s fingers. “But then, I’m a transplant from Hondo, Texas. I may not know shit from shinola about people up north.”

Carma produced a new nail file and began the final buff on Lexie. “I’ve seen Henry hanging out at Mac-Greggor’s Pub. Maybe he got involved with a married woman. Could be a jealous husband found out and decided to teach Henry Whitehead a lesson.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Lexie said.

“Now, enough with the cross examination,” Carma said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two were trying to do your own police work.”

The sisters fell silent, though they exchanged glances again that seemed to say,
No more questions. We learned plenty.

A short while later, as Lexie and Lucy sat under the nail dryers with nearly identical red nail polish on their fingers, Lucy turned to her younger sister. No one else was nearby, and they could talk freely.

“What do you think about all this, Lexie?

“We have to become a couple of bar flies.”

Lucy groaned. “That is so wrong. I don’t know if going down there is a sin I can ever repent for.”

“Wait a minute. You said God would understand the nails. Why not the bar?”

Lexie peeked at her vermilion nails under the dryer. It was too bad she wasn’t going to a Halloween party. The red daggers on her fingertips would have looked super with a vampire costume.

“Oh, Lord.”

“Come on,” Lexie said. “How could it hurt to wander around and listen to people talk for a while? God would want us to do the right thing, which is to find Whitehead’s murderer. Don’t you think so?”

Lucy frowned. “God would want us to leave the detective work to the police, sister dear. He would not want us to endanger our lives.”

“Fine then,” Lexie snapped. “I’ll do this by myself.”

Lucy sighed. “Over my dead body.”

After paying for the nail jobs, Lexie and Lucy discussed when they could set off on their next fact-finding adventure. Lucy had promised Reverend Lincolnway she would clean the church again and she knew it would take her several days to polish the wooden pews, wash stained glass windows and scrub
walls. Any bar business would have to be conducted later in the week. They decided they would meet at MacGreggor’s Pub on Friday at eight o’clock.

As far as Lexie was concerned, she would have rather gone to the bar sooner, by herself if necessary, to carry out the amateur investigation. But Lucy would hear nothing of it. She insisted that although the good Lord would no doubt be disappointed to see His loyal handmaiden frequenting a bar, despite her true purpose, she would not allow her baby sister to enter into the lion’s den alone.

Lexie reluctantly agreed, even down to the pinkie promise she would wait until Friday before heading off to MacGreggor’s. Pinkie promises were a serious thing between sisters, so when they locked little fingers, she knew she’d be in real trouble if she were to go back on her agreement.

Back at the café, she seriously considered ripping off the red acrylics. It’d be hell to prepare food for her customers with those things clamped on her fingers.

But it was almost lunchtime, so the little torture devices would have to remain in place for now. Before long, the crowd began to shuffle in and Lexie put on her best customer-service face, despite her anxiety about where she and Lucy’s murder investigation would lead.

She nodded to her regulars who included old Ian Fletcher, a retired army type from the Vietnam War who liked to hunt and fish, and his wife Akiko, a tiny Japanese lady whom Ian had married a few years
ago and brought to live with him in Moose Creek Junction. Rumor had it that Ian had met her in an Oriental massage parlor in Denver, but Akiko was a nice enough lady and Lexie never paid much attention to the jaw-flappers in town.

Lexie went out to their favorite table by the large bay window. Most people ordered at the window, but Akiko and Ian liked someone to come to their table. Since they were such good customers, Lexie accommodated them.

Akiko, about ten years younger than her husband, ordered her usual pot of green tea, an egg salad sandwich on honey oat bread and a piece of apple pie. Ian, probably in his mid-fifties, wore a plaid flannel shirt in his thin frame, frayed jeans, and boots, and had his hair tied back with a leather thong. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth as he muttered his order to Lexie. It was different from the usual of chicken salad on rye. In what seemed an unusually soft spoken manner for a former sergeant, used to barking orders, he ordered tuna on rye, along with a piece of peach pie and black coffee.

He must be branching out, Lexie thought, recalling Akiko had once mentioned to her that Ian moved and spoke quietly all the time. The reason, she told Lexie, went back to his army survival training. The men who’d served tours in Vietnam learned to move stealthily and speak as little or quietly as possible while they patrolled the thick jungles, praying the Viet Cong wouldn’t detect their movements.

“Konichi wa, Rexie-san,”
Akiko commented in her pigeon English when Lexie brought their food. Akiko couldn’t pronounce her els at all, so some of her words came out sounding strange. “You sick maybe? You eyes very sad.”

“I’m just tired. There’s been a lot going on lately.”

“Ah, I see.” Akiko tilted her head to the side, a lock of graying black hair falling out of her pixie hair cut. “Ian and I hear about that man who was, how to say …” She looked up at the ceiling.
“Murder?
”

Lexie nodded, not liking where the conversation was headed.

“We hear you two were, how to say …” Again she looked up at the ceiling.
“Date?
” She poked her husband, who was leaning back in his chair reading a newspaper. He grunted in response but didn’t lower the reading material. Akiko narrowed her almond-shaped eyes. “Everybody in town knows about it. You be careful. Maybe not so many people come into café now. They afraid.”

Lexie was stunned. What kind of wild gossip was going on in Moose Creek Junction? Would people really stop coming here to eat?

She couldn’t survive without her café business. Surely folks wouldn’t stop coming just because of some wild gossip. But as Lexie told herself that, cold reality hit her in the stomach. People were fickle. Still, so far things at the Saucy Lucy had been running smoothly and customers came and went just like before Whitehead’s murder. Akiko probably
didn’t know what she was talking about.

“I heard about the murder, too,” Lexie told Akiko. “And yes, I knew Henry Whitehead. But only briefly. We weren’t dating. Not really.”

“Ah, so sad that man die. Buddhist belief say that dead spirits live on in other things. Maybe he now exists as a tree or a bush or an insect. One does not know for sure, but one must always be prepared to respect all living things. Could be something like a drum is one of your ancient ancestors.”

Lexie pondered that for a moment. “Does that mean maybe my dead mother lives on as a mixing bowl because she loved to cook?”

Akiko gave a slight bow.
“Hai.
Strange things happen in Buddhist belief. Bless your bowls before you cook. This will honor your mother.”

Lexie briefly considered the idea of blessing her mixing bowls and how to go about it. Then the weird idea of Whitehead passing over and returning to earth as a flea popped into her head. Ah, she’d done it again! What a terrible way to consider the recently departed.

“I’ll have to think about it, Akiko,” she said to the little Japanese woman, putting the idea of Whitehead as a flea and her mother as a mixing bowl completely out of her mind. “Please, enjoy your meal.”

Ian grunted again before putting down his newspaper and diving into his food. Akiko gave Lexie another slight bow, her tiny silver earrings tinkling against her faded pink cheeks.
“Sayonara.”

Lexie returned to the counter and quickly immersed herself in taking care of her other customers. She was still irritated at herself for buying into Akiko’s Buddhist belief enough to consider a dead person as an inanimate object when the phone rang. Her last customer, one of the local farmers in coveralls and a green John Deere ball cap, picked up his order and sat at a bistro table near the soda machine.

Lexie figured the call was probably from Otis wanting to make good and sure she was behaving herself. It was about time for her brother-in-law to start harassing her for always being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was definitely a cross to bear. Lexie wondered how her sister could stand living with him.

Hesitantly, Lexie put the cordless phone to her ear, grabbed a large spoon and stirred a crock-pot full of golden broth, tender white meat chunks, vegetables and fat, homemade noodles. “Saucy Lucy Café,” she said into the mouthpiece. “This is Lexie, how may I help you?”