Chili Con Corpses (13 page)

Danny laughed. “You sure are good at these, Professor. Thanks.”

When James hung up with Danny, he dialed the church’s number and went through the same routine with Ruby.

“I’ll think and pray and think and pray, Professor,” Ruby assured him. “I know my mind was an awful mess that day, because I broke a vase at my mama’s house that she’d been given as a brand-new bride. It was mighty precious to her and I felt so awful!” Her voice sounded as though she was on the edge of tears. “That’s why I bought the ticket! I prayed that I might get lucky and win so that I could buy an old vase like mama’s off the Internet. I planned to give any extra directly to the church, just so’s you know.”

James asked her to spend the rest of the day pondering her movements on that first Friday of November. He then turned his thoughts away from lottery tickets and focused on his job.

By four thirty, the library was abuzz with groups of high school students using the computers or simply hanging out in the magazine section as they took turns reading the more sexually themed quizzes in the latest issue of
Cosmo
. This happened several times a week, and though his only part-time employee, Mrs. Waxman, a former teacher, could settle the kids down within seconds, James liked to hand over the reigns to her at five o’clock and every Saturday with the library in a state of order and quiet.

Scott and Francis did their best to settle the rowdy teenagers down, but James finally had to intervene. He admonished a few of the more boisterous young ladies and forced them to begin the homework they had been sent to the library to complete. Once the room’s customary whispered hushes had been restored, James headed back to his office to phone Danny and Ruby. Just as he removed the receiver from the cradle, he saw Danny step up to the circulation desk and mutter something to Francis. Unable to control his curiosity, he hustled out front.

“Did you remember something?” he asked, surprised to see Danny standing on the other side of the desk. He must have left work a little early to get there before James headed home.

Danny looked glum. His thin, shoulder-length white hair was tied loosely at the neck with what looked like a twist tie for a garbage bag, and his oval, silver-rimmed spectacles were covered with spots. Though James had often compared Danny’s looks to those of Ben Franklin, the liquor store owner tended to look more relaxed than portraits of the famous American statesman. Today, however, Danny looked as weathered as the likeness of Franklin printed on one-hundred-dollar bills.

“It’s not my ticket, Professor.” Danny sighed. “I keep all the losing tickets in a stack in my TV room,” he explained. “I figure if I play long enough, the statistics are bound to let me be a winner sometime.” He shrugged. “Maybe not a big winner, but just something to show that the odds are right. Anyway, I like to keep count of how many I’ve bought for when I finally do win.”

Francis leaned over the desk. “So was your ticket for this drawing in that stack?”

Danny shook his head. “That’s the thing. It wasn’t. I thought maybe it had got stuck in that audiobook since I would have had both the ticket and the book on the front seat of my car.” He looked at James. “But I did what you said and tried to recollect the whole day. I remembered that just as I was about to leave work for the day, the word jumble that had been scramblin’ my brain all day like an egg shakin’ in its shell made itself clear to me. I grabbed the lottery ticket to write on, and then opened the newspaper to check the answer.”

“Were you right?” Scott asked, having appeared from nowhere.

“Yeah,” Danny’s lips curved into a hesitant smile. “But I threw the paper back in the trash bin and the ticket must have still been in the pages. That’s the last place I saw it.”

James rubbed his temples. It had been days since his last headache, but ever since his phone calls to Ruby and Danny, he had been sensing that he was only a stressful thought away from getting a whopper. “Still, Danny. You’re not sure. That ticket could still have ended up in the book bin.”

“No, Professor. That ticket …” he trailed off as Ruby Pennington approached the desk.

Ruby’s face was blotched with red and her eyes were puffy with recently shed tears. Her brown hair, which was streaked with gray, had been hastily braided and hung down her back like a fraying rope. She reached out both her hands, calloused from playing both the organ and the piano on a regular basis, and grasped James’s.

“I tried, Professor. I tried to remember about—,” she glanced at Danny quickly and then continued, “—that piece of paper. Thing is, I just can’t say what I did with it, so I want you to go on and let that other man have the money. My mama will grant me forgiveness, and that’s all the wealth I need in this world.”

Danny’s eyes widened. Before anyone else could speak, he removed Ruby’s hands from James’s and took them in his own. “I’m the other ticket holder, ma’am, and that money sure don’t belong to me. I threw out my ticket with my newspaper. Danny Leary at your service.” He squeezed her hand. “It’s your money, ma’am.”

Ruby’s face slackened as she realized what he was saying. Gently removing her hands, she turned back to James. She opened her mouth to say something but only her expired breath was able to escape.

“I think this lady here needs to sit a spell,” Danny suggested, taking Ruby’s elbow.

James led her to the break room and all of them sat down. Scott and Francis were beaming, apparently thrilled to the core that the mystery had been successfully solved.

Ruby removed a tissue from her purse and blew her nose with such a sharp honk that all four of the men had to smile. Catching their grins, Ruby relaxed as well. “Okay then. Okay. Since you say so, it’s my ticket. And if it’s my ticket, I’d like to claim the money.” She put her tissue down on the table and sighed in relief. “And if it’s my money, then I can spend it however I see fit. Is that right?”

James was perplexed. “Yes, Ruby. However you like.”

Ruby pulled on her braid. “It’s the season of thankfulness, Professor. I have many things to be grateful for, and I would be grateful to you if you would help me out with …” She trailed off and glanced at Danny again. “Mr. Leary, I have an idea. It involves you, and I sure hope you’ll help me.”

It was almost six by the time James finally left the library. His heart was full after he listened to Ruby Pennington’s plan. In fact, it had given him a plan of his own. Bursting through the back door, he startled his father, who had just come inside from sweeping the porch.

“You tryin’ to kill me, boy?” Jackson barked.

“No, Pop.” He gave his father a quick hug. “I want you to live to a ripe, old age.”

Jackson gave his son a bewildered look. “What’s gotten into
you
?”

“Pop!” James announced. “We are
not
having Dolly’s ‘Housewife-on-Strike Thanksgiving Dinner to Go’ this year.”

His father was alarmed. “Why not? There’s not a soul on this earth who can make a sweet potato casserole like that woman.”

“Oh, I think there is,” James said mysteriously, winked, and then bounded up the stairs to his room, clutching the portable phone is his hand. “And I’m going to invite her to our house to cook it!”

The doorbell of
the Henry home rang shortly after one o’clock. It was such an unusual sound as the house was located at the end of a long, gravel drive and anyone familiar with the Henrys knew that they came and went exclusively through the back door. Even the mail carriers had learned that if a letter or package needed to be signed for, a light rap on the door leading to the kitchen would produce the best result. So the only time the door bell was brought to life over the course of the year was on Halloween, when a handful of zealous trick-or-treaters, likely in their early teens, made their way down the rough drive, waded through piles of leaves blanketing the cracked front walk, and forced the slumbering door chimes into life.

When Mrs. Henry was alive, she’d greet the enthusiastic candy gatherers with a warm smile and a bag of homemade chocolate-chip peanut-butter cookies tied with an orange ribbon. Since her passing, the kids now had to settle for Dum-Dum lollipops and many of them felt that the trek to the Henry house was no longer worth the effort.

Jackson looked up from the television as the ringing echoed through the downstairs. Turning down the volume, he listened carefully to determine if the sound of the doorbell was a figment of his imagination. When it wasn’t repeated, he restored the volume of his show about the day’s big football game to a deafening level.

As James ran a comb through his hair and examined his appearance in the mirror, he noted that his pants weren’t quite as loose as they had been last month.

“How am I supposed to concentrate on fat, carbohydrates, and salt content all at once?” he demanded of his reflection. “I should just eat lettuce. Seems to be the only safe food.” Cocking his head, he thought he heard the doorbell again. Knowing that his father would never get out of his recliner in order to see if someone was at the door, James hastened down the stairs with eager steps.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” Murphy said from beneath the layers of a plaid scarf that had worked its way over her pointed chin. Standing on the threshold, she leaned over and kissed him quickly on the lips. Her arms were laden with a white box bearing homemade dill rolls from the Sweet Tooth, a bouquet of ochre-colored roses, and two bottles of dry champagne.

“Come on in,” James said, recovering from her demonstration of affection. Fleeting as the kiss had been, it was the first time a woman other than Lucy had brushed his lips with her own, and he felt a twinge of irrational guilt. “I’m so glad you could join me and Pop today,” he added warmly as she put her packages down on a small table in the hall.

He helped her shrug off her brown leather coat and hung it on one of the heart-shaped hooks lining the wall outside the kitchen. As he turned to gather up the champagne bottles, the doorbell rang again.

“Aha!” James rubbed his hands together with glee. “Our chef has arrived!”

Murphy gave him an odd look but said nothing. Her view of the next guest was blocked by James’s broad back, but she recognized the exuberant voice immediately.

“You are
such
a dear boy to include me in your holiday!” Milla planted a maternal kiss on his cheek, leaving a dimpled oval of rosy lipstick behind. “I’ve got the sweet potato casserole almost ready for the oven, but the turkey’s out in the car along with my delicious cornbread and oyster dressing and the fixings for dessert.”

James ushered her into the hall. “You come in and make yourself at home. I’ll get your things from the car.”

It took three trips to bring in the cardboard boxes filled with food, spices, pots, pans, and kitchen gadgets. When he was done, James joined the two women in the kitchen as Milla rearranged everything in the refrigerator and rummaged through the cabinets in order to get a complete assessment of what kind of kitchen she had been invited to take control over.

“What do we have here?” Milla peeked under the lid of a Tupperware bowl.

“Cranberry-orange relish,” James replied proudly. “I also made green bean casserole. I told you I wasn’t going to let you cook the whole dinner.” He pointed at a pie cooling on a wire rack on top of the fridge. “That’s just a regular pumpkin pie. You’re going to make a dessert on top of the sweet potatoes, turkey, and stuffing?”

“You bet your boots I am!” Milla put her hands on her hips and then smiled at Murphy. “Why don’t you visit with James? I’m going to put the
other
man of the house to work. It’s well past time he learned how to use some of the tools crammed in these drawers.” Her eyes twinkled. “Send him in here, James.”

James hesitated.

“Go on,” Milla ordered. “I can hold my own. Besides, I doubt he bites.”

“He just might,” James mumbled and then took Murphy’s arm and led her into the lion’s den.

Jackson barely glanced away from the television screen as James introduced him to Murphy. He grunted something that might have been the word “hello,” but that was the extent of his hospitality. Murphy, nonplussed as always, didn’t try to force Jackson into conversation. Instead, she spied a battered Monopoly box on one of the bookshelves and carried the game over to the room’s only table, which was cluttered with magazines and stacks of books.

“How about a little game of vicious capitalism before dinner?” she asked James, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Monopoly used to bring us kids close to blows during most of our family holidays.”

“Well
I’m
not playing some kids’ game,” Jackson grumbled, and James knew that despite his gruffness, his father was doing his best to deal with two strange females invading his home for a holiday that had only been special while his wife was still alive.

“That’s right, you’re not, Pop.” James switched off the TV set and jerked his thumb toward the kitchen. “You’re wanted in there.”

Jackson’s eyebrows almost merged with his hairline. “What?” he growled in surprise. “A man’s supposed to stay out of the way ’til it’s time to carve the turkey. Don’t you know the first thing about women, boy?”

“
This
woman wants
your
company,” Milla stated from the doorway. She wore an apron covered with turkeys being chased by a fat chef wielding a cleaver. Smiling, she marched over to the recliner, grabbed Jackson’s hand, and led him from the room. “We two widows need to stick together,” James heard her say. “Plus, I’ve got some heart-warmin’ bourbon that I’m going to mix into the sweet potatoes. My thinkin’ is we’d better try some first. Make sure it’s good enough to serve to everyone else!”

James didn’t hear Jackson’s reply, but whatever he said sent Milla into peals of laughter. Tuning the radio to a light classical station, James settled down across from Murphy and spent half of the afternoon trying to coax her out of charging him the required rent as he landed on property after property dominated by her hotels.

“I never win when I play with the dog piece,” he said sulkily as she directed her own playing piece, the top hat, straight to Free Parking. “I can’t believe it! You’ve won that three times!”

Murphy laughed. “Why do you keep playing with the dog if you never win with it?”

James shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“That’s what is so endearing about you.” Murphy reached across her mountain of paper money and squeezed his hand. “Your optimism. It’s infectious.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better about getting my butt kicked two games in a row. I surrender. You’re too much of a real estate tycoon for me to handle.” He eyed the bookshelves. “How are you at Scrabble?”

She gave him a lopsided grin. “I
am
in the business of words, so I’m not bad, but I haven’t played in decades.”

“Good, then maybe I stand a chance.” James rose and replaced the Monopoly assemblage with an equally ratty Scrabble box. “Can I get you anything while I’m up?”

“Let’s break into that champagne,” Murphy suggested.

As James cautiously entered the kitchen, he was amazed by both the nostalgic aromas floating out of the oven and the sight of his father, seated across the table from Milla, happily peeling Granny Smith apples.

“You cannot be a novice, Jackson Henry,” Milla teased. “No true beginner can get the peel off in one whole piece. I believe you’ve been fibbing to me all afternoon long about not knowing your way around a kitchen.”

“When I tell a fib, ma’am, it’s a whopper!” Jackson stated proudly.

Was his father flirting? The thought froze James in his tracks. Milla spied him and shook a flour-encrusted rolling pin his way. “No interfering with my tutoring lesson.”

“We have some parched throats back in the den,” James explained. “Am I allowed to open some champagne?”

Milla stepped out of the way. “Why didn’t you say so? Your father and I are already feeling nice and warm from sampling the bourbon, so you go on ahead without us.”

After James popped the cork on the champagne bottle, he realized that he didn’t own the appropriate glassware for a sparkling beverage. Settling for highball glasses, he first peeked into the oven at an unbelievably plump and browning turkey before returning to the den.

“We’re having a feast fit for royalty,” he told Murphy as he handed her a glass.

The pair had only consumed several sips of champagne and completed two highly competitive rounds of Scrabble when Milla ordered them to relocate to the dining room.

“Nice spread, Professor,” Murphy praised James as she looked over the table setting.

Earlier in the week, he had driven to a gourmet kitchen store in Charlottesville and purchased mustard and cranberry-hued pottery plates and a set of wire napkin rings in the shape of pumpkins. He had taken out the good silverware, which hadn’t seen the light of day in years, and buffed his mother’s set of crystal water goblets to a high shine. Milla had cut Murphy’s flowers short and arranged them in a woven basket. The small chandelier cast a soft light overhead and two tapers in deep red illuminated the center of the table. James realized that he should have ironed the tablecloth, but he doubted much of the surface would be visible under such a vast array of food dishes.

Jackson carried Milla’s sweet potato casserole with bourbon in one hand and James’s green bean casserole in the other. Milla trailed behind him bearing a bowl heaped so high with mashed potatoes that James felt the weight of the dish might cause the older woman to become unbalanced and pitch forward. In her other hand was a napkin-lined basket containing the fragrant dill rolls from the Sweet Tooth and a butter dish. Whispering orders to Jackson, who complied with a nod and a shy smile, Milla laid out the food and surveyed the table.

“Let’s see. Your daddy’s getting the cranberry-orange relish, the oyster cornbread dressing, and the gravy, so I guess it’s time to bring on the main attraction.”

The turkey had shrunk several sizes during its long roast in the oven, but its skin had been burnished a golden brown. Milla had lovingly coated it with high quality olive oil, sea salt, fresh ground pepper, and sprigs of fresh rosemary. She had also stuffed the cavity with more rosemary and fresh thyme. Jackson’s eyes shone with lascivious greed as he surveyed the bird, and James knew that his father was secretly fantasizing over claiming both drumsticks.

“You’d better sharpen that knife, Pop,” he cautioned his father upon seeing the carving set appear next to the platter bearing the regal turkey.

“Shoot, boy. I had these ready to go days ago.” Jackson pointed at the knife, preferring not to look any of his guests in the eye. “This blade’s so sharp it’d cut through a piece of lead pipe just like jelly. Watch and learn, son. Carvin’ is a man’s job.”