You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) (7 page)

“Exactly!” Clara said, pouring the cornbread batter into a newly greased pan. “Why would a little gal who can take down a 12-point with a heart shot at 200 yards using open sights stab her husband? And on her brand new carpet? No man is worth having to try to get blood out of the living room rug.”

“Good to know,” Clint said drily.

Clara put the pan of cornbread in the oven and turned toward her husband. “Don’t think you’re ever gonna get off that easy with me,” she warned. “If you do something to make me that mad, I won’t kill you. I’ll make you listen to me for the rest of your life.”

Now
that
was a threat to make a man walk the straight and narrow if Clint had ever heard one. “Okay, honey,” he said. “Simmer down. If you don’t think Wanda Jean killed him, that’s good enough for me. But what are you going to do about it?”

A gleam came into Clara’s eye. “I need a rotten tomato.”

And that was the discussion that led to Clint and Clara Wyler standing in the tomato patch at dawn. “Do you mean to tell me,” Clara said crossly, “that you can’t find me one tomato that looks sickly?”

“Not a one,” Clint said proudly. “I’ve used enough DDT on these vines that a bug would die just
thinking
about chewing on my tomatoes.”

“You know they’re starting to say that maybe that DDT stuff isn’t so good for us,” Clara said.

“Looks like it agrees with the tomatoes,” Clint said happily.

Clara realized she was asking a lot of her husband to present her with a flawed tomato. Ever since it became clear that they weren’t going to have any children, Clint had taken to his garden with a passion, heading out the backdoor to tend his plants the instant supper was over.

Sometimes Clara watched him a little sadly through the kitchen window. If he couldn’t raise children, Clint was determined to raise just about everything else from dogie calves to tomatoes, which is why the Wylers had three heifers that lived in the yard and still demanded bottles, and why Clara had enough tomatoes to feed Coxey’s Army.

She looked at her husband, standing over his plants like a ruler surveying his kingdom, and said diplomatically, “Honey, surely there’s one bad one in the bunch.”

Clint set his jaw at a stubborn angle and said, “You’re just gonna have to stop at Barker’s and buy a sickly tomato.”

“Well,” she said, sighing, “can you at least give me an idea of what I could ask Mike Thornton about if something
was
wrong with your tomatoes?”

“Tell him you’re worried about the DDT,” Clint said with sudden inspiration. “He’s all het up about this organic nonsense. I’ll bet if you go into his office and tell him I’m using DDT on my tomatoes, he’ll have something to say about it.”

*   *   *
 

“Something to say about it” proved to be an understatement. Mike Thornton paled as he listened to Clara describe her husband’s indiscriminate use of DDT, especially when she finished with, “And when he reaches in that big old spray can with his arm to stir up the DDT, well, I’m just not sure it’s good for him to be doing that.”

Mike labored under multiple problems gaining any authority with members of the community, not the least being the matter of his predecessor, who had held the position of County Extension Agent since the Smith-Lever Act created the service in 1914. Four years into his own tenure, Mike was still referred to as “the young feller who got Harry’s job.”

The fact that the venerable Harry Knopf died
on
the job, smack in the middle of judging the swine at the annual youth show, only conveyed more of an aura of sainthood to the man. At least a dozen times a week, Mike had to grit his teeth as someone politely listened to his advice and then responded with, “That’s not what Harry would have told me.”

Just last week, Mike lost his patience and said to someone invoking the name of Harry Knofp, “What do you want me to do, dig him up and ask his opinion?” The rancher gazed at him inscrutably and replied flatly, “Wish to hell you could.”

But now, Clara Wyler, the wife of one of the most respected ranchers in the community, was sitting beside his desk asking his opinion about the effects of DDT on her husband’s tomato patch and person. It was all Mike could do to contain his professional enthusiasm as he launched into an explanation of the research being conducted on the indiscriminate use of insecticides on food crops. Without thinking, he asked, “And you all don’t have any kids, do you?”

At that, Clara drew herself up stiffly in the chair. “And what, Mike Thornton, does one thing have to do with the other?” she snapped.

Alarm bells began to sound in Thornton’s head. But in for a dime, in for a dollar, he cleared his throat and said, “Well, it has been suggested that DDT has a certain effect on . . . men,” he finished lamely.

For just an instant he saw realization dawn in Clara’s eyes and then it was gone, replaced by a look that told him he was not going to like what came out of her mouth next. He was right.

“So, Mike, if you’re so worried about what insecticides might do to your manly parts,” she said, fixing him with a triumphant glare, “why were you letting Hilton Milton spray your marijuana plants?”

That caught him so completely off guard, the next words slipped out before Mike could stop them, “I never let him spray my . . .”

“Ah hah!” Clara said, slamming her hand down on his desk. “Got you! You are dealing drugs.”

Mike felt a cold trickle of sweat start down the collar of his shirt. “Please lower your voice,” he said urgently. “I most certainly am not a drug dealer.”

“You can start backing up all you want to, Mike Thornton,” she said, shaking a diamond-bedecked finger in his face, “but you know you’re growing pot, and I know you’re growing it, and Hilton Milton was at your house the day before he wound up dead in his living room.”

A look of horror crossed Mike’s face. “Now wait just a minute!” he said earnestly. “Me growing weed doesn’t have anything to do with Hilton being dead. He was one of my best . . .” The words frittered out into a confused stammer.

“Customer?” Clara supplied helpfully.

Mike gulped and nodded, but said nothing.

“So are you still gonna try to tell me you’re not dealing drugs?” she demanded.

“Pot isn’t a drug,” Mike said defensively. “It’s not like I’m selling heroin. I don’t do drugs.”

“Do you smoke your own pot?” Clara asked.

Mike nodded again.

“Then you do drugs,” she said dismissively. “Now you better start telling me about Hilton and this little private garden of yours, or we’re marching right over to the courthouse and having this conversation in front of the Sheriff.”

Now sweating profusely, Mike described how he grew his plants under special lights in his basement. He’d worked as an electrician’s assistant to help pay his bills in college, so he’d done the rewiring himself, leaving no one the wiser about his covert greenhouse.

“I don’t have the plants sprayed,” he said. “But I had water bugs upstairs big enough to move furniture and I couldn’t get rid of them, so I called Hilton. He just came right out and asked about the pot. He wanted to do a trade, and I agreed.”

“When was this?” Clara asked.

“More than a year ago,” Mike said. “About a month after he was there, Hilton knocked on my door. When I let him in, he said he really liked my weed and he was wondering if he could buy some. I don’t deal. I just sell to a few friends. The money covers my overhead. We set up a monthly ‘appointment.’ Hilton would come over and hang out for an hour like he was spraying the place. Sometimes we’d smoke a joint and talk. He was a good guy. I liked him. And I did
not
kill him. Why would I?”

Clara looked at him like he had two heads. “To cover up your illegal drug operation.”

“Mrs. Wyler,” Mike said sincerely, “I have a dozen marijuana plants in my basement. It’s not a drug operation. And even if it was, I wouldn’t kill somebody over it. I’m a pacifist. Seriously, I didn’t kill Hilton and I have no idea who did.”

She wasn’t exactly sure why, but Clara believed him. “Well, alright,” she said, standing up. “I think we should just keep this little talk to ourselves, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” he agreed readily. “Absolutely. Thank you.”

Clara started for the door, but Mike stopped her with a question. “Did the Sheriff find Hilton’s stash?” he asked.

Clara turned toward him with a perplexed frown. “His what?” she said.

“Hilton left my place the day before he was killed with a baggie full of pot,” Mike said. “Did the Sheriff find it?”

“Not that I’ve heard anything about,” Clara said.

Mike looked relieved. “Okay,” he said. “That’s good to hear.”

But was it? Did that missing bag of marijuana have something to do with Hilton ruining Wanda Jean’s shag carpet? If Mike Thornton didn’t kill him over the pot, maybe someone else did.

Chapter 8

Sugar Watson’s cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, held largely in place by her bright red lipstick. She was using both of her hands to carefully rat and arrange Bitsy Temple’s bouffant, her intense concentration speaking to the seriousness of her work. Sugar liked to think that doing good hair and sculpting marble had a lot in common.

From time to time, she’d step back and appraise the height and shape of her creation, then strategically apply more Aqua Net before resuming her work, rat tail comb in hand. With a critical eye, Sugar located and covered holes and thin spots, occasionally clipping a section in place to allow the spray to set well before continuing.

Combing out a new perm was a process Sugar would not allow to be rushed, and her clients knew that if Sugar was faced with a potentially difficult coiffure conundrum on the appointment ahead of them, they’d best pick up the latest copy of
Redbook
and settle in for a wait. At least they could be assured that Sugar would give them the same meticulous attention when it was their time to sit in her chair and be shaped and molded with her skilled and talented fingers.

Sugar never applied the finishing cloud of Aqua Net until every errant strand had been carefully coaxed in place, and she guaranteed her styles to withstand even the stiffest breeze. Rain was another matter, but that’s why she sold a full complement of plastic bonnets, always cautioning her clients to have one neatly folded in their purses in cases of an emergency. The new ones with pink polka dots on a clear vinyl background were moving off the counter at a brisk pace.

Throughout her session with Bitsy Temple, Sugar asked the usual questions about Bitsy’s life. She pretended to listen with interest as Bitsy described her passion — designing and sewing by hand the latest fashions for Barbie dolls. Sugar offered a sincere level of mock sympathy when Bitsy bemoaned the fact that, “All the best polyester patterns are just too big!”

Mistakenly assuming Bitsy was talking about bringing standard dress patterns down to Barbie’s rail-thin, custom-molded size, Sugar said, “Couldn’t you just make your own patterns out of tissue paper?”

Drawing in a patient breath and assuming the air of an instructor in a delicate and all-consuming pastime, Bitsy said, “I don’t mean the patterns for the clothes, Sugar. I mean the pattern on the fabric. Why, you find a nice swirl with lots of colors and you cut the material down to Barbie’s size and it just looks like one great big piece of paisley is eating that little girl right up! The people who make the fabric should think about that kind of thing.”

“Well, maybe you should write the companies, Bitsy,” Sugar suggested, pinning a carefully shaped bit of hair in place to let it set. “Maybe they could make tiny little bolts of material just for Barbie. You doing anything else interesting these days?”

“Oh, I’m working on a full set of new sequin ornaments for Christmas,” Bitsy enthused. “It just takes forever to stick all those straight pins through those little holes and get everything right on the Styrofoam balls. I’m doing the twelve days of Christmas and the leaping lords just won’t cooperate.”

“That’s men for you,” Sugar agreed, ratting the top of Bitsy’s growing bouffant. “Well, all I can say is you sure are looking good, honey. You on a new diet?”

“Oh, no,” Bitsy said. “I liked doing Weight Watchers, but Tinker just had a fit about me spending the money on gas to drive to Kerrville to weigh in. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t just take the number off our bathroom scale and mail it in or something, and he really didn’t like the recipes. He got me an Exercycle instead.”

Concentrating on shaping Bitsy’s bangs, Sugar said, “My heavens! Aren’t those things kind of expensive?”

Bitsy’s faltered a little and said, “Well, Sears & Roebuck was running a sale.”

“Cover your rings, honey,” Sugar ordered. “I need to do the first layer of spray.”

Bitsy slipped her hands under the plastic cape and Sugar created an all-encompassing cloud of Aqua Net, moving the can in circles to ensure even coverage. “I do have to say you’re married to an awful sweet man,” Sugar said. “Buying you all those diamonds
and
an exercise bike. If I want anything new, I best get to licking me some Green Stamps. The plumbing business must be good.”

“Well,” Bitsy said nervously, “Tinker always says everybody has to flush.”

“Indoor plumbing does make life more tolerable,” Sugar agreed. “I hope to the good Lord I have used my last outhouse. Come to think of it, I need to call Tinker. I’m tired of having to jiggle the handle at the house. Is he booked up this week?”

“Actually,” Bitsy said, “he’s, uh, going to a, uh, kind of a convention this coming weekend.”

“Well, that sounds like fun,” Sugar said. “You going with him, honey? Where’s the convention?”

“Uh, no,” Bitsy said. “I have to get my paint-by-numbers homework done before art class at the church Thursday night. We’re doing those cats with the big eyes. So Tinker is going to Las . . .”

She trailed off and her own eyes grew wide. Sugar paused in mid-pick and said encouragingly, “Angeles?”

“No,” Bitsy said uncertainly. “Vegas.”

Sugar frowned. “There’s a plumber’s convention in Las Vegas? I thought people just went out there to gamble.”