You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) (12 page)

Although she had been true to her promise to keep her mouth shut up to this point, Mae Ella could not resist at that moment turning to Wilma and whispering, just a little too loudly, “Isn’t that stretching things a mite?”

Heads swiveled in the congregation, and Clara covered her eyes with her hand. Brother Bob, who appeared to be smothering what looked very much like a smile, continued with his remarks unperturbed. “In that work, Hilton fought the good fight . . .”

A collective sigh of relief rose in the crowd as Brother Bob lapsed into a more doctrinally safe West Texas funeral sermon. Anyone sitting there that day could have delivered a good facsimile of the remainder of the service, which was liberally salted with tried and true injunctions about Jesus going to prepare a place for us in a house not made with hands, thus alleviating any apprehension about the valley of the shadow, for that threat passed over us as surely as the plagues of Egypt passed over the houses of the faithful, marked by the blood of the lamb.

There was a restless stirring when Brother Bob used the word “blood.” For as much as Hilton’s friends and neighbors were truly sitting in the Baptist Church to pay their last respects, they all knew a murderer was likely sitting there among them -- possibly even tastefully clothed in black and sporting a freshly combed bouffant on the front pew.

Forty-five minutes later when Brother Bob finally wound down and the choir completed warbled renditions of standard hymns, Bill Simmons wheeled Hilton’s closed casket down the center aisle, positioned it by the door, and opened the lid once again. Harold Insall began directing people to leave the church, one row at a time, the line passing beside the casket and out to the front lawn, where the townspeople formed a silent wall of well-mannered bereavement on either side of the walkway. The hearse, backed into the center parking space, stood ready to receive Hilton’s body for transport to the cemetery.

Because they had taken seats at the back of the church on purpose, the Study Club officers were in the first batch of mourners to exit the building and were able to position themselves to the immediate right of the open hearse doors. No sooner were they in place than Clara leaned down to Mae Ella and said, “I thought I told you to keep your damn mouth shut.”

Mae Ella fixed her with a placid expression. “How was I supposed to know the church would get quiet just as I made a simple observation?”

“Simple observation my backside,” Clara snapped. “What would Mama think?”

“She’d think Brother Bob had to dig pretty deep in the Bible to come up with the notion that a man who kills bugs for a living is doing the Lord’s work,” Mae Ella shot back.

The two sisters stood glaring at each other until Sugar and Wilma deftly inserted themselves between the siblings. “That’s enough out of both of you,” Wilma said. “We can talk about it in the car on the way to the cemetery.”

The ladies had, in fact, a great deal to talk about on the way to the cemetery, a conversation that started almost the instant the doors of the hearse slammed shut, and continued until they were carefully picking their way over the rocky ground to the graveside. They discussed not only Mae Ella’s social gaffe, Clara’s considerable outrage, and the quality of Brother Bob’s sermon, but also Melinda Sue Fairchild’s outlandish appearance.

Beyond that, the crowd at the church was, in their judgment, not conspicuous in any way. The turnout was as large as everyone expected, and a veritable throng now stood around the open grave. A few people surreptitiously checked their watches to see if the funeral would end by noon. Those that didn’t intend on going to the Catholic Annex for the reception wanted to make certain they made it to the cafe before the lunch special ran out. Saturday was, after all, meat loaf day with coconut cream pie for dessert.

After Hilton’s Masonic brothers performed their rituals, Brother Bob made blessedly brief remarks and people began to form a loose line to pass by the family and offer words of condolence. And that’s when it happened. That’s when Millard Philpott stepped out of the crowd in that seersucker suit, approached Hilton’s casket, and laid a single orchid tied with a lavender ribbon on the lid before turning and walking away, without so much as a word to Wanda Jean as proper etiquette required.

The assembled townspeople stood frozen in place watching his retreating blue-and-white striped back, and then the murmurs started.

“
Did you see that
?”

“
What did he put up there
?”

“
Is that an orchid
?”

From their position standing behind the chairs in which the family members were seated, the Study Club officers were just as shocked as the rest of the mourners. Finally, after swallowing a time or two, Sugar managed to croak quietly to Clara, “Maybe those panty hose of Hilton’s meant something after all.”

“Lord God,” Clara said, her eyes still on Millard Philpott’s retreating back. “It was bad enough for Hilton to go and get himself murdered, but how in the world is Wanda Jean ever gonna hold her head up in this town now?”

Chapter 13

After they left the cemetery, the Study Club officers rode in complete silence for three blocks. Then they all began to talk at once. “What in the
hell
was that all about?” Wilma demanded, just as Mae Ella said, “Wonder what Wanda Jean has to say about Hilton’s manhood now?” which ran over Sugar’s question, “Does Millard Philpott realize he just put a prom corsage on a dead man’s casket?”

From behind the wheel, Clara issued a presidential edict. “There’s no two ways about it, we have to talk to that little peckerwood Millard Philpott.”

“How are we going to cook up a reason to do that?” Mae Ella asked. “It’s not like any of us have ever had anything to do with him before.”

“We’re not cooking up anything,” Clara said. “We’re going to march right up to his house and ring the doorbell.”

“And say what?” Wilma asked.

“He just pretty much told the whole county that Hilton Milton was a sissy,” Clara said. “I don’t think even an ignorant Yankee wouldn’t realize that might raise some questions.”

“You don’t really believe that Hilton and Millard were . . .,” Sugar faltered. “That maybe they liked Liberace?”

“I don’t believe that about Liberace,” Mae Ella said stoutly. “And don’t you start saying anything bad about Rock Hudson either.”

Clara shot Mae Ella a look in the rearview mirror and just shook her head. “I don’t know if Hilton and Millard were . . . listening to Liberace or not, but
that
would certainly be a reason to kill a man, now wouldn’t it?”

“You do realize that you’re talking about murder in self-defense?” Wilma said quietly.

Sugar turned in the passenger seat to look at her. “What do you mean?” she asked, frowning.

“If there was something going on between Hilton and Millard, do you have any idea how fast that could have gotten either one of them killed?” Wilma asked.

“What are you saying?” Clara asked.

“I’m saying that we don’t need to do anything to start any more rumors about Millard Philpott that he hasn’t already started himself by laying that orchid up on that casket,” Wilma replied. “We could get him killed. He might not be the murderer, but he sure as hell could be the next victim.”

Silence fell over the car again. Finally Sugar said, “Let me go talk to Millard.”

“Why you?” Clara asked.

“Like I told you before, I knew some boys like that in beautician school,” Sugar said. “They were awful sweet, and like Wilma says, they got picked on a lot. If Millard is like that, I think maybe I can tell just from talking to him.”

“Okay,” Clara said, pulling into a parking space at the Catholic Annex. “See what you can find out. We have to get in there and support Wanda Jean.”

The four of them barely got in the door before Wanda Jean pulled them into one of the side rooms and closed the door. “Oh, my Lord!” she wailed.

“Lower your voice,” Clara ordered.

Wanda Jean clamped her mouth shut, nodded her head vigorously, and started over in a strained whisper. “Do you think Hilton’s panty hose really did mean something about him after all?”

“Well, Wanda Jean, honey,” Clara said diplomatically, “you’re really the only person who is in a position to know the answer to that question, now aren’t you?”

The four women looked at her expectantly as Wanda Jean seemed to be searching her memory. “I just can’t see how the panty hose could mean anything,” she said finally. “Hilton was real . . . enthusiastic.”

“Can’t a man have more than one hobby?” Mae Ella asked.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sister,” Clara said. “You’re acting like we’re talking about hunting and fishing.”

Wanda Jean pulled a chair out from the long table in the center of the room and plopped down heavily. “I just don’t know why Millard would put an orchid on Hilton’s casket.” She stared into space with a disconsolate expression, her eyes vaguely focused on a crucifix hanging on the wall. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “But that sure was a pretty purple ribbon, wasn’t it?”

Mae Ella rolled her eyes and started to say something, only to be silenced by the look of warning on Clara’s face. Clara inclined her head toward Wanda Jean a couple of times, and the women took the hint; they all pulled out chairs and joined the widow at the table.

“How are you holding up, honey?” Clara asked, patting Wanda Jean on the arm.

“I just don’t know, Clara,” Wanda Jean said, looking at them with red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t like the way everybody is looking at me and talking about Hilton. I don’t want people to know about him and the women’s clothes, but not because I’m ashamed of him. I loved Hilton. He was a real good husband. I don’t know why he liked to put on my clothes, but he wasn’t hurting anybody when he did it. I always figured that was kind of between us. Hilton never did anything to hurt anybody. Did you know that he didn’t really kill mice in people’s houses when they hired him to? He used these live trap things and then he’d drive way out in the country and let the mice go. Why would somebody want to kill a man who couldn’t even bring himself to hurt a little mouse?”

No one spoke for a minute and then Mae Ella said, “Look at me, Wanda Jean.”

Three heads snapped in Mae Ella’s direction, expecting something acerbic to come out of her mouth, but Mae Ella ignored them, holding the young widow’s gaze as she said, “Honey, you can’t spend your life trying to figure out why bad things happen. You quit thinking about how people are running their mouths. Hilton was your husband. If you say he was a good man, then that’s good enough for me. We’ll figure out who killed him and see to it that that person is brought to justice.”

Wanda Jean looked at her with brimming eyes. “Oh, Mae Ella,” she said, “I just don’t know how I’m going to go on without Hilton. He was my best friend.”

As Wanda Jean collapsed into heaving sobs, the other women watched in astonishment as Mae Ella gathered her into a hug. “There, there now,” she said, patting the crying woman on the back. “Don’t go making yourself sick, honey.”

When the five women emerged from the room, Wanda Jean was dry-eyed and composed. She immediately started fielding condolences, sweetly listening to platitudes about Hilton and making all the right replies.

“Sister,” Clara said quietly to Mae Ella, “you never cease to amaze me.”

“Horsefeathers,” Mae Ella grumbled. “We’re so busy trying to figure out who killed the man we’re forgetting that little girl buried her husband this morning. She just needed somebody to remember that.”

The remainder of the reception went smoothly with the mourners eating their fill of free funeral food. Truth be told, nothing anyone could have done would have topped Millard Philpott’s stunt at the graveside. When Sugar got back to the Style and Set that afternoon, Flowers had already heard all the details, greeting Sugar as she came in the door with, “Was that sissy little Yankee really wearing a seersucker suit?”

The two women had the salon to themselves until Sugar’s three o’clock appointment showed up, so Flowers made a fresh pot of coffee and they both lit cigarettes to settle down and properly dissect and evaluate the funeral. Sugar described Melinda Sue Fairchild’s arrival at the church, Mae Ella’s vocal and unsolicited critique of the sermon, and then ended with her take on Millard Philpott and the orchid, saying, “I’m going to go see him after work today.”

“Just like that?” Flower’s asked. “No call beforehand or anything?”

“No,” Sugar said. “I don’t want him having time to figure out what he’s gonna say to me. Everybody in town knows Millard never leaves his house. He’ll be there.”

“What in tarnation does that man do for a living, anyway?” Flowers asked.

“According to Dixie over at the post office, he gets these big heavy manila envelopes from publishing companies in New York City,” Sugar said, “and then he mails them back. She asked him one day if he was a writer or something and he told her he’s an editor.”

“Then why in the world doesn’t he live in New York?” Flowers asked. “Seems like it would be a better place for someone like him.”

“Well,” Sugar said, critically inhaling from her Camel, “maybe I can find out the answer to that, too, when I talk to him.”

“He may just tell you it’s none of your damn business,” Flowers pointed out. “Have you ever even said hello to the man?”

“Not that I can recollect,” Sugar said. “But bashfulness has never been my failing in life.”

“This is true,” Flowers admitted, lighting her second Lucky of the conversation. “That reminds me,” she said, “speaking of folks who aren’t bashful, Ruth Ann King came in to get her nails done while you all were at Rolene’s yesterday. She told me that she saw Leroy Taylor in Kerrville early that morning Hilton was killed, so I guess that means you all can scratch him off the list of suspects.”

“Damn,” Sugar said darkly, smashing out her cigarette in the ashtray. “I wanted to nail that wife-beating son of a bitch for something.”

“I thought Lester Harper had Leroy dead to rights when somebody saw him skulking around the hardware store the night of the fire,” Flowers said with equal malice, “but I’ll just be damned if Leroy didn’t manage to talk his way out of it. Of course, he wouldn’t recognize the truth if it walked up and slapped him in the face.”