A Teeny Bit of Trouble (27 page)

“Fix it yourself.” Fran crossed her arms.

“You’re fired.” Miss Emma said. A drop of blue paint slid off the tip of her brush and hit the floor. “Leave this instant.”

“Oh, shut up,” Fran said. She pulled an emery board from her pocket and buffed her nails.

Miss Emma turned to Red. “You, lion man. Go outside and break me off a tree branch so I can switch my nurse’s legs.”

Red grimaced. He’d once told me that he hated female backbiting worse than stakeouts.

Fran shrugged. “In five minutes, the bitch won’t remember what she said.”

Miss Emma set down her brush. She moved to a coffee mug that held a set of Sharpies. She plucked out a blue pen, uncapped it, and stepped closer to the wall. In bold letters she wrote,
Fran called me a bitch!

Red pulled the leash from my hand. “Teeny, stay as long as you like. The mutt and I will be at Dr. O’Malley’s.”

Fran showed them out and didn’t return. Miss Emma dragged the Sharpie over the F in
Fran,
then she added a smiley face with horns. “Girl, what’s your name again?” she asked.

“Teeny.”

“Are you the O’Malleys’ new maid?”

“No, ma’am.” I hesitated. “I’m engaged to their son.”

“That’s scandalous.” Miss Emma drew a question mark on the wall. “Coop’s just a boy.”

“He’s grown up,” I said gently. “He just turned thirty-one.”

“He used to go steady with that trashy majorette.” Miss Emma set down her Sharpie. “Barb Browning. She married that druggist. What’s his name?”

“Lester Philpot,” I said.

“Barb took art lessons from me. Not a speck of talent. Her skills lay elsewhere. She could put together a thousand-piece puzzle in no time at all. And she constantly wrote in her diary. Even during art lessons. She carried that thing with her everywhere.”

Miss Emma reached for her brush, dipped it in a red pot, and drew an apple on her canvas. “Every time Barb came here for a lesson, she’d write and write. If Coop was home from college, she’d spy on him. One day she caught him sitting in the gazebo. It was an icy December afternoon. Barb walked out my door and didn’t bother to put on her coat.”

I turned to the window. In the distance, I saw Red and Sir walk around the gazebo, toward Irene’s house.

“Coop wasn’t wearing a coat, either,” Miss Emma said. “Barb went straight to him and took off his clothes and seduced him. And in all that cold, too. I tried not to watch. After a while, Coop got up and pulled up his pants and left. Barb stayed behind. She wrote and wrote in that diary. And she didn’t come back to my house.”

A tremor started in my fingertips and moved up my arms. “What year was this, Miss Emma?”

“Child, I don’t remember. Dates don’t stick with me. But I’m sure it was the year I put up a manger scene. I swapped baby Jesus for a blue Smurf figurine.”

I could totally see her Smurfing the manger.

Miss Emma tapped a finger against her chin. “But I think Coop was a freshman in college. He and Barb were broken up. Irene was so pleased.” Miss Emma dipped her brush into a pot of blue paint and drew a tiny Smurf. “Right after Valentine’s Day, Barb up and married Lester Philpot. Everybody said she was pregnant.”

The tremors moved from my arms into my jaws.

“I’ve never seen their daughter.” Miss Emma dabbed her brush in black paint and drew a frowning devil face on the Smurf. “I expected to see her when I painted Barb’s mural. I believe the girl was at school. Barb didn’t write in her diary, either.”

I edged closer to Miss Emma. “Did she say why?”

“She stopped keeping a diary after the child was born. Barb had the baby blues. But she still put together those puzzles.”

“I saw the mural,” I said. “When did you paint it?”

“Two years ago.” She pointed to the wall, toward a long pastel column. In the middle, she’d written,
Painted BBP’s mural—Battle of Atlanta.
The date was scrawled beside it.

Two years and one month ago.

Miss Emma drew a black doodlebug on her canvas. “Even then, my mind was starting to get foggy. So I listed my freelance projects. I was real excited to paint the Battle of Atlanta, but Barb didn’t know her history. She painted what she wanted. Thank goodness she chose an inconspicuous spot. She worked in one area, halfway up the staircase. At the curve. I hope people don’t think I painted it.”

I was barely listening. Eleven years ago, Coop had been a freshman at the University of North Carolina. He and Barb had broken up for good that autumn. But if Miss Emma was right and he’d slept with Barb that December, he could be Emerson’s father. When the DNA test came back, Lester might have no choice but to let the child live with Coop. And me.

“Girl?” Miss Emma snapped her fingers. “What’s your name again?”

“Templeton.” My voice was barely a whisper. Poor Miss Emma. Her memories were tattered, as if moths were flying inside her head, chewing holes in the past.

“I’ve heard that name before.” Miss Emma painted fangs on the doodlebug. “I used to know something about Barb’s diary. But I can’t remember. If it comes back to me, I’ll write it on my wall. Or I can ask my housekeeper. Fiona cleans for the Philpots, too. She knows all their secrets. She said Barb ripped the pages out of her diaries and put them somewhere. She kept the pages she wanted and burned the rest in the BBQ pit.”

I sighed. Fiona McTavish had died two years ago—a hit-and-run driver had plowed into her on California Avenue. I told Miss Emma good-bye, promising I’d give my regards to Irene, then I walked back to Hanover Square.

Lunch was served in the solarium, but I stayed in the kitchen and ate graham crackers. I thought about Coop’s ulcer—why hadn’t he mentioned that he’d been feeling poorly? Or was Irene trying to goad me?

A swooshing sound rose up as Sir padded around the room, dragging his leash over Irene’s throw rugs.

Clues on the wall, clues beneath the fur, clues underfoot.

I felt certain that Barb’s anagrams referred to organ harvesting. She’d worked at the hospital, with access to patients. She could have been part of a black market ring—without Lester’s knowledge. Maybe the Philpots weren’t involved. But why had Lester pushed for Kendall’s cremation?

I needed to study the mural and look under Barb’s rugs. Her closet was probably filled with fur coats. But how could I get inside the Philpots’ mansion? I could wait until they were gone. I’d hidden Kendall’s Hello Kitty chain in the truck. Maybe one of the keys would fit. But if the burglar alarm went off, the police would swarm to Musgrove Square.

Still, I had to try. As the smell of Irene’s sweetbreads wafted into the kitchen, I found a notepad and wrote:
I’m taking Sir for a ride.

I grabbed his leash and we raced out of the house, into the sweltering, pine-smelling air. By the time I stopped in front of Barb’s house, I had a plan. If everything worked out like I hoped it would, I’d know the identity of her killer.

twenty-five

Sir trotted down the Philpots’ sidewalk, straining at the leash. Before I could ring the bell, Helen flung open the door as if she’d been waiting on the other side. She’d changed into white Bermuda shorts and a crisp, sleeveless t-shirt. A tote bag dangled from one hand, a key chain from the other. The foyer was spotless, not a trace of the urn fragments or spilled litter.

“You’re back already?” she said. “What did you forget? Because I was just leaving.”

Behind her, the French doors stood open, and wind stirred a gauzy curtain. She glanced over her shoulder. “Emerson, for the last time, get out of that pool!”

I heard a splash. Then Emerson yelled, “I told you to go without me. So go!”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” A fine net of perspiration stood on Helen’s upper lip. She dumped her tote bag on the floor and everything spilled—sweatbands, metal racquet, water bottle, tennis balls, and a towel monogrammed with a black P. Philpot, petty, puzzle.

“I ought to leave the little monster,” Helen said, shoving the items back into the tote.

I stubbed the tip of my shoe against the porch trying to distract myself from the ache in my chest. A long time ago, my mama and I had taken an unexpected road trip from Tybee Island to Myrtle Beach. At night she’d dumped me with strangers. If free sitters weren’t available, she parked me in a motel room by myself.

Quit crying, Teeny. I’ll be back in a few hours. Put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. If anybody knocks or rattles the knob, start barking. Robbers are scared of dogs.

“I’ll stay with Emerson,” I said.

Deep lines slashed across Helen’s forehead. “I hope you’ve had rabies shots. Little Miss Know-it-All is in the pool, but she’s not alone. She went behind my back and invited some neighborhood kids. Nothing but tiny hoodlums.”

“I like kids.”

Helen’s forehead puckered. “Are you sure you want to babysit? I’m in a tennis tournament. A round robin. I could be gone for hours.”

“My whole afternoon is free,” I said. “Take your time.”

“I suppose you could use the practice. Emerson could end up with Coop. But I still think she belongs to someone on Curry Island. We should have the DNA results any day now.” Helen slung the tote bag over her shoulder. “I’m sorry if I was rude earlier. I wasn’t happy to see you at first. I’m upset about that damn urn. And I was ticked off about that document you mentioned. I called Lester, and he doesn’t know about it.”

My knees began shaking. “I was mistaken,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Lester is upset. He’s had so much tragedy in his life. He had a promising baseball career until he hurt his shoulder.” Helen lifted her key chain. “My son has suffered. Everyone in this family has suffered except for Barb and Emerson.”

Helen looked down at Sir. “Will he tinkle on Lester’s walls?”

“No, ma’am. He’s housetrained.”

“He better be, or I’ll send you the cleaning bill.” Helen rushed out the front door.

After I heard her car drive away, I set down Sir’s leash and walked up the staircase. I paused in the curve that Miss Emma had mentioned. A cherub statue sat on a low ledge. Faux ivy looped around and behind it, then trailed up the wall.

I pushed it aside. It took a minute to find the exact spot where the art teacher’s precise images ended and Barb’s cruder ones began. Bucolic clouds hovered over a street that did not, to my recollection, exist in Atlanta. Barb had painted a replica of downtown Bonaventure, with its pastel buildings nestled around the Square. Lester’s green pharmacy stood across the bridge. On the sidewalk was a stick family. One figure had long blond hair and wore a sequined majorette costume. Beside the woman was a blue-eyed man with dark bangs. Next to him was a little blond child with a wide mouth.

The next thing I saw made me gasp. Scattered behind the little family were two dismembered stick figures. One had frizzy hair and stubby legs. She wore an apron. The other figure had long brown hair and resembled Ava O’Malley, Coop’s ex.

Barb had painted this scene years and years after she and Coop had broken up. I imagined her squatting in this curve, leaning toward the ledge, illustrating key events from her past. She’d painted her mural in a hard-to-see spot, below eye level. Her tall husband couldn’t find her handiwork unless he bent over, shoved aside the statue, and clawed away the silk ivy.

I squinted at the mural. A flash of red caught my attention. Just outside the square green pharmacy, body parts were lined up on the sidewalk. Eyeballs, bones, teeth. Attached to each one was a price tag. A trail of blood led into the store.

My heart slammed against my ribs.
Clues on the wall
.

A shrill cry rose up from the pool. I straightened up and ran down the stairs. I grabbed Sir’s leash and led him to the patio. Three small children stood in the shallow end of the pool, tossing a beach ball.

Emerson spotted me and waved both hands. She scrambled out of the pool. “Teeny! You came back.”

“Helen is playing tennis. I’m babysitting you.”

“I’m so glad.” Emerson started to wrap her arms around me, then she hesitated. “I’m all wet.”

I pulled her against me, feeling her cold body mold itself against me. Two small boys pushed in around us. “Let’s play hide-and-seek,” the taller one said.

Emerson introduced them as the Gallagher twins—Reed and Alex, though I couldn’t tell them apart. They seemed younger than Emerson, and so skinny, their rib bones threatened to poke through their skin.

“Alex’s got a missing front tooth. It makes him lisp like the Asshole-Who-Can’t-Be-Named.” Emerson pointed to a boy in green swim trunks. “Reed’s got a chicken pox scar on his forehead.”

She scooted away from me, reached for a towel, and blotted her face. “I’ve been through hell,” she said, her voice muffled by the terry cloth. “Mr. Philpot and his lab rats got my saliva. They snuck up behind me and did a blitz attack.”

“I’m so sorry, honey.” I helped her dry off.

The Gallagher twins bounced on the balls of their feet. Alex stuck his finger in his nose. Reed pointed at Sir. “Lady, what kind of dog is that?”

“English bulldog.” I reached down and patted Sir’s head.

“Quit talking.” Reed shoved his brother. “I want to play hide-and-seek.”

Emerson thumped my arm. “Teeny’s it.”

“One, two, three,” I said. The children scattered into the house. “Four, five, six.”

Still counting, I led Sir back inside, past the staircase. Giggles drifted down, followed by, “Shhh!”

“Ten, eleven, twelve…” I felt overwhelmed by the sheer number of walls and floors. Miss Emma had said that Barb had hidden pages of her diary under the rug. I decided to check under the rugs first.

At the end of the hall, double doors opened into a bedroom that was bigger than my whole upstairs. The walls were bare, except for a large plasma TV. No rug. Who’d removed it? And why?

The closet door stood ajar, showing a glimpse of pastel ball gowns. Further down, I saw mink coats. I hated to deviate from my plan, but
clues beneath the fur
kept reverberating in my head. I checked the full-length coats and found nothing. Then I plunged my hand into the pocket of a silver fox jacket. My fingers closed on a cold, hard object. I dragged it up. The light hit a small brass key.