Guess Who's Coming to Die? (25 page)
Read Guess Who's Coming to Die? Online
Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
“She kept fooling around with boys down by the water tank.”
“Not boys, one boy. Horace Jensen.”
I was so surprised, I dropped my toast. Lulu gulped it up. “No joke?”
“Nope. Apparently they’d been at it since they were thirteen. And you know who kept turning them in? Willena Kenan. She must have sat down there every night waiting for them.”
“Do!” I added Sadie Lowe to my list of Members with a Motive to Murder. Then I frowned. “Back then she probably saw Horace as her ticket out of the mobile home park. But why on earth would she look twice at him now? She’s got all the money she’ll ever need.”
“That kind never has enough money,” said Mr. Know-it-all.
“How many of that kind have you ever known?”
He gave me a wide, smug smile. “Ask me no secrets, I’ll tell you no lies.”
Joe Riddley headed to work, Bo on his shoulder. He often took the bird if he didn’t have meetings during the day. As soon as I’d done the dishes, I called to see if I could visit Meriwether. I figured that with an infant, she might have the baby back down for his morning nap by nine.
Instead, Meriwether was already gone. Jed answered the phone and I could hear Little Zachary gurgling in the background. “She’s over at Gusta’s having a cup of coffee,” Jed told me. “We men are having a bonding session.”
“Have fun,” I told him. “But listen, while I’ve got you, I have a question. If you can’t tell me, don’t, but I am presuming that Willena left everything to Wilma, right?”
He chuckled. “Why do I suspect you are looking for surprise bequests that might have led somebody to do her in?”
“Nobody did her in. Haven’t you heard? She died of heart failure, the medical examiner says.”
“What about the corkscrew?”
“It was a nasty touch while she lay dying, apparently. Which is still a punishable offense, especially since whoever it was didn’t call for help. They might have saved her.”
“Yuck!” I could almost see him shudder. “That’s horrible. Is that why you are still asking questions?”
I had to think fast to come up with an answer. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m nosy. Or maybe I don’t like loose ends. I wondered, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t spread it around, but Willena didn’t write a will. It’s going to be one hell of a mess before I get things straightened out.”
“What?” I tried to imagine how a woman could have even a little bit of money and not want to decide what happened to it after she died. And when a woman had as much as Willena Kenan . . .
“When I took over her business, I suggested that we go over her will to be sure it was up-to-date. She told me she hadn’t gotten around to writing one, that it gave her the creeps to think about wills. And you know Willena — she was never one to bother herself with things she didn’t want to do.”
“No, she sure wasn’t. I’ve always said that Willena was so laid-back, she practically lived lying down.”
Jed chuckled, then grew serious again. “I kept pestering her, and she had finally agreed to come in to draft a will, but she never made it.” He heaved a sigh. “I keep telling my clients that wills are like fire extinguishers—if you wait until you need one, it’s too late. But do they listen?”
“Apparently not. But you’re preaching to the choir, hon. Mine is up-to-date.” I thought over the ramifications of what he’d said. “Still, I presume that Wilma will get what the state doesn’t. I guess it’s been proven that there are no other heirs?” I found the thought of all that money going to a woman who already had more than she knew what to do with too depressing to dwell on. Without even thinking hard I could name ten charities that would put it to better use.
“Like who? You thinking of trying to establish kinship?”
“No, but Robison, Willena’s grandfather, had a sister. She got married to an unsuitable husband, then died young, according to Wilma, who told me she should have stayed in Hopemore. But it’s conceivable she has a child or even children.”
“Are you trying to complicate my life, Mac?”
“Always glad to oblige.”
He turned away from the phone to say something to Zachary. Zachary laughed, and I listened with delight. Jed grew up without a dad and with two old reprobate uncles in the house, so I was astonished at what a good dad he was turning out to be.
When he got back to me, I asked, “Speaking of Wilma, how did your inventory go yesterday? She told me you and she were going through the house to make one.”
“At Wilma’s pace, it took all afternoon. She kept calling out instructions to Hetty to polish some of the silver or clean a mirror, and she made a list of each item. She literally had me count the teaspoons.”
“Wilma doesn’t want Willena’s servants walking off with any of the silver.”
“Hetty and Baker? They wouldn’t!”
“You know that and I know that, but Wilma thinks they might.” All of a sudden little Zachary let out the kind of wail that said he was ready for some full attention, so I hurried to wind up our conversation. “I guess I’d better go over and see if Gusta has any coffee left in her pot. Happy bonding.” I hung up before he could suggest I come over and do something about the wail. I’d helped raise my two sons’ children. I had no desire to be at the beck and call of another crying infant.
When I called to see if it was all right for me to come to Gusta’s at once, Florine said in a superior tone, “Of course. Miss Gusta is always up and dressed by six. She’s with Meriwether out on the porch, having coffee.”
“Tell them to save me some.” As I hung up, I wondered why some folks think it’s virtuous to get up early. Personally, I’ve seen enough dawns to last me a lifetime. If I live to Gusta’s age, I plan to sleep late every morning and enjoy my fill of the midnight sky.
I found Gusta with Meriwether on the front porch of Pooh’s enormous yellow Victorian house, rocking, sipping coffee, and watching a few cars amble down Oglethorpe Street. Technically, the house was now Jed’s, but since he and Meriwether preferred their one-story gingerbread house over on Liberty Street, I figured Gusta could live in Pooh’s house as long as she liked.
I have failed to tell you that Meriwether is one of the few truly beautiful women I have ever known. She has a cloud of golden hair, lovely blue-green eyes in a heart-shaped face, and long, slender limbs. At one point she used to be far too thin, but since she had gotten married and had little Zach, she had filled out enough to be stunning. Today she looked a lot fresher and lovelier than the mother of an infant usually does, wearing a pink floral skirt with little white buttons all the way down the front and a pink cotton sweater.
Gusta was dressed, as usual, so that if she had to step in and chair an important meeting, she wouldn’t have to change. Today she had on a soft blue cotton dress that accented her silver hair, with a matching cotton jacket. Need I remind you that those women owed their wealth to cotton mills? And that both had maids who did all their ironing?
I had scarcely taken a third rocker when Florine came out with a Limoges china cup and saucer for me. Gusta nodded to Meriwether, who poured steaming coffee from a silver coffeepot. Gusta had told me years ago, “I firmly believe that when a woman reaches sixty-five, she ought to throw away her second-best dishes and flatware and use her best china and silver every day.” Augusta Wainwright was one woman who lived by what she believed.
As I sat stirring cream in my coffee with a sterling spoon and put the delicate cup to my lips, it occurred to me that Gusta might be right about a few things.
Of course, she could be tiresome, too. She consulted a small gold watch that hung from a gold bow on her chest and said, “It’s nine thirty, MacLaren. What brings you to us when you ought to be working?”
“Good coffee,” I replied.
“It is good,” she agreed, indicating by a nod to Meriwether that she would like more.
“But I also wanted to see if either of you remembered anything about Monday night that might shine some light on what happened.” These were such good friends that I dared to confide, “I hated it when Charlie was focusing on Cindy back when he thought it was murder . . .”
The expressions on their faces made me realize they hadn’t heard the news, so I backtracked and filled them in on Willena’s heart attack. I continued, “So if Charlie was looking at Cindy as his prime suspect for the murder, because MayBelle told him she and Willena had a fight at the meeting, now he’s likely to think she used the corkscrew. I’m looking for anything that would prove she didn’t.”
“She wouldn’t!” Meriwether exclaimed. “Cindy would never hurt anybody.”
“She couldn’t have used the corkscrew,” Gusta declared. Her tone left open the question of whether Cindy would or would not hurt anybody, which made me want to smack her, but she pointed out, “Cindy left before Willena got her present. Remember? While we were holding the election of officers, Cindy got up and dashed out. She never came back to the room.”
I had forgotten that elections were held right after Willena shamed Cindy about buying Walker’s company stock. Now I remembered that during the elections Cindy had seethed, her eyes full of unshed tears. Finally she had muttered to me, “I want to check on the kids,” and rushed from the room. She hadn’t seen Wilma give Willena the silver bar set.
“I could kiss you, Gusta,” I declared.
“Have more coffee instead,” she suggested, nodding for Meriwether to refill my cup.
I felt so relieved that I held out my cup without hesitation, although it was my fourth of the morning. “I had also wanted to ask you a few questions about Rachel Ford,” I told Meriwether. “But now I think I’ll drink my coffee and go to work. I can ask about Rachel later.”
Meriwether filled the cup and handed it back. “What did you want to know?”
“Anything, actually. All I know is she used to be a hotshot international lawyer in New York and came down here eighteen months ago to take the job of director at the Poverty Law Center. I don’t know a thing about her family, where she grew up, where she went to school — all the stuff that gives you something to talk about with a stranger. Joe Riddley has suggested I get to know the women in the club,” I added, in case they wondered about my sudden interest.
I could tell by the glint in Gusta’s eye that she didn’t believe a word of it, but Meriwether has always had the better manners of the two.
“Well, let’s see.” She set her cup down on a little wicker table beside her and stretched her long legs out before her to soak up the sun. She was wearing pink flats to match her skirt and sweater.
“You look good enough to eat,” I told her.
Gusta sniffed. “If she isn’t careful, she’s going to get as bad as Wilma, with shoes to match each outfit.”
Meriwether grimaced. “Call me anything but Wilma, Nana. I’ll even give up my pink shoes.”
“Honey,” I told her, “you are beautiful and you know it. And you have a gorgeous baby and a husband who loves you dearly. Keep the shoes. You will never end up like Wilma. Wilma is fifty percent pride and fifty percent bitterness, all wrapped up in postponed living and tied with the bow of discontent.”
“Mac is a poet!” Meriwether told her grandmother admiringly. “Shall we nominate her for poet laureate of Hopemore?”
“Nominate me for a new job, if I don’t finish talking to you pretty quick and get down to the store.” I set my cup down on the table. “Quick, tell me what you know about Rachel.”
“She grew up in New York City. Manhattan, I think. Her mother was Jewish and her daddy an Italian Catholic. Their name wasn’t Ford to start with. She and her brother changed it when they grew up. I don’t know why.”
“She has a brother?” Rachel seemed more alone than any woman I knew.
“She did. He was in the army and got killed in Iraq. It’s his car she drives. He wasn’t married, so he left her what she calls ‘his bits and pieces.’ His death pretty much shattered her. Their mother had died the year before, and their dad had been gone for several years, so when her brother died, Rachel was utterly alone. She says she decided to start over somewhere without so many memories.”
“But why Hopemore?”
“Why not?” Gusta demanded, bristling.
“We aren’t exactly the center of the universe,” I reminded her. “Finding the place would take some doing from New York.”
Meriwether sipped her coffee with a thoughtful expression. “I don’t think she ever said. I got the impression that she read an ad for the job, came down to interview, and liked it here.”
I sat there thinking all that over. “Even after losing her brother and her mother, it’s hard for me to believe she would give up a successful job in international law to head a poverty law center down here.”
Meriwether’s laugh was like a bell. “She didn’t have a successful career in international law. She was one of a zillion lawyers in a New York firm, and she hadn’t been there but three years, so she was way down on the totem pole.”
“What was she doing before that?”
“Taking care of her mother. She was an invalid. I don’t know what she had, but she got confined to a wheelchair while Rachel was in law school. Rachel’s brother took care of her until Rachel finished, and then Rachel took over. She cared for her mother for years and years. I don’t know what they lived on. But eventually her mother got so sick that she needed full-time care. Rachel took a job in a law firm so she and her brother together could afford enough to hire somebody to look after their mom.”
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