Even the catering crew had folded their tables before Janie and I left.
We didn’t stay out of shock or idle curiosity but rather so I could collect my shoe from under the table. The area where I had sat … next to the deceased … was monopolized by official figures following the removal of the body, and I hadn’t had a chance to fish around for my left shoe.
“Did you finish with the police? Did they recognize your name?” Janie headed toward my former luncheon chair with me, her arms full of doggie bags—after all, like Twyman, we didn’t get to finish our lunch either—and her Friends of the Library goodie bag. Her copy of Twyman’s best-seller, For All the Wrong Reasons, was stuck in her oversized straw purse. We always carry straw bags in the summer in Texas. Its sorta de rigueur, like no velvet in the hot months and no white after Labor Day.
“Yes, I told them all I knew, which was nothing. And no, they don’t know me. Not everyone thinks finding dead bodies is a claim to fame, Janie. Now, where is that shoe?” I shuffled over and lifted the white tablecloth.
“Here.” Janie dumped her parcels on the table. “Let me find it. You’re overbalanced.” Her gray-brown-blond head dipped under the table, leaving only a view of an ample Janie backside. “Got it,” came her muffled declaration. “And, oh, Honey, here’s your goodie bag. She pulled my black patent leather shoe from under the table along with the white plastic bag stamped with the Arlington, Texas, Public Library logo.
She straightened up, holding the bag aloft.
“Honey, would it be cricket if we took Twyman’s, too?”
“Twyman’s what?”
“His goodie bag. It’s down there. I don’t want to be indecent, but …” Her voice trailed off, her eyes aglow.
I don’t know what it is about women, but Janie is no different than the other two hundred women who attended the luncheon or any luncheon where there are goodie bags. There’s something really telling about seeing women in Nieman Marcus dresses and Ferragamo shoes grab their freebie sacks filled with commercial giveaways. Why a ten-cent wooden ruler stamped with Eat at A&W is so valuable is beyond me. I don’t attend that many functions, but watching them compare and switch contents seems to be a modern-day version of a treasure hunt with the treasure being something they wouldn’t have in their house on a dare.
“Janie,” I protested.
“Oh, shoot. Who will miss it? Who would know?” She dove back under the table, turning her bobbed head floorward again.
Janie fluttered her lashes at me as she stuck Twyman’s plastic sack into her own. “We’ll divvy it up back at your house.”
I put on my errant high-heeled sandal and rolled my eyes in response.
Elaine was still in the foyer talking to reporters. I gave her a five-finger wiggle as we edged toward the glass doors, but she wasn’t letting me off that lightly.
“Here’s one of our guests, Honey Huckleberry. She was sitting next to Mr. Towerie.”
The reporters turned as one, leaving Elaine behind as they swooped down on me. Janie ran her fingers through her hair, mussed from the under-the-table retrieval of shoes and sundries. A woman with a microphone in her hand led a cameraman by a cable like a dog on a leash.
“You were sitting next to Mr. Towerie when he died? Did he have any last words? Did you know he was dead? He’s famous, you know.” She motioned to the cameraman to turn the tape on.
“No, really,” I protested. “I don’t know anything. We had just sat down a few minutes before he died.”
“Huckleberry? Honey Huckleberry?” This from a man with a notebook. “Didn’t we do a story on you in the paper awhile back? Something about a murder?’’
“No. Yes. I mean yes, I’m Honey Huckleberry, but I don’t know anything about Mr. Towerie’s death.” I glared at Elaine, who was looking frazzled. I could see that she was weighing the value of the publicity for the library against the notoriety.
With Janie sticking a finger in my back like a gun, I smiled for the cameras, knowing that my five-foot-two redheaded self was being fed into the revolving wheels of news-at-five tape.
Abbie Petunia or some such name went into her spiel: “We have Honey Huckleberry here with us. The famous murder author was also a guest at the ill-fated luncheon for the legendary Twyman Towerie. In fact, Ms. Huckleberry was sitting next to the writer when he died. Tell me, Ms. Huckleberry. Did Mr. Towerie have any premonition of his death? What were his last words?” Then Ms. Gardenia—I finally read the ID tag right—thrust the fuzzy end of the microphone at me.
I continued to smile, wondering if I should correct her about my being an author, until Janie jabbed me again. “Yes, I was sitting next to Mr. Towerie.”
Gardenia turned the mike toward herself again as if she was going to take a bite of it. “And what was the conversation?”
It was my turn to snack at the black fuzzy again. Like some other professions, I guess it’s all in the wrist, this turning the microphone back and forth. I was fascinated. I leaned forward for my nibble. No wonder they called them sound bites. “He was very pleasant. We really only exchanged a few words about the luncheon. How we hoped it would raise money for the Arlington Library.” I smiled and resisted wiping my lips.
Her bite.
“Was he in distress? Did you know he was going to die? Did he?” She persisted with the gore theme.
I continued to lie.
“It was so sudden. I’m sure he never knew what hit him.” Now that was probably the truth.
Disappointed and giving me a glare, Ms. Abbie Rose Gardenia Petunia devoured the microphone again with her closing words. I didn’t hear them. Janie and I were out the door.
“Hmmm … Honey, you lied to her.” I don’t know when Janie began knowing me so well.
“Hmmm …” I murmured back. “You’re right.”
“Give,” was the one-word order.
I don’t know why I always lie to police and wind up telling Janie the truth. “What he said was …” I whispered into her ear as we crossed the street to the parking lot into the hot, humid day. “‘Can you tell me how one goes about finding out if someone is trying to kill them?’”
“I knew it. I knew it. I just smelled it all along. It was murder, wasn’t it, Honey?”
THREE
I live on the south side of Fort Worth. I know I ought to move, but what can I say? The three-storied asbestos-siding house is my legacy, my security, and my burden. I reckon I should put bars on the windows, but that would be like closing the barn door after the cows are gone. If there were any kids left in the neighborhood, my house would be the one they would point to as “the murder house” when they hurried by. Instead of youngsters passing, I had scores of cars headed toward their drivers’ appointed hours at the various clinics and doctors’ offices that had encroached the neighborhood. My house is the last holdout against tongue depressors and eye patches.
It’s busy during the day around my place, but at night, it’s blessedly quiet. Just me and the house and the money. How many of the day people would believe I had four million dollars in cash hidden in the upright piano in the dining room? It was the people of the night I worried about.
Well, Janie would believe.
If I told her.
Which I hadn’t.
One of the few secrets I had kept from her.
The only person who knew of the cash cache was my accountant and financial adviser Steven Bondesky, and he wasn’t very happy with me.
Bondesky called me daily to see if I had done anything about my big problem. That was his way of encoding a message. Like my phones are wiretapped or something. Oh, on second thought, his might be.
After we reached home from the library luncheon, Janie fussed around in the kitchen, putting the catered lunch onto my Desert Rose dishes, pretending that we had cooked the baked chicken and smashed the mashed potatoes. A pass through my new microwave and linen napkins contributed to the illusion, but as we sat down to eat, we both knew that it was a sham meal. A dead man’
s last meal.
Oh, well, we ate it anyway.
As I toyed with the green beans, I thought of saying out loud, “Janie, I’ve been meaning to tell you. Two months ago, when we had all that murder stuff going on, I found the money my father left me. It was in the walls of the house, and now I’ve crammed it into the piano behind you. What do you think I should do with it?”
“Four,” said Janie.
She knew?
“Well, maybe over four,” I responded.
Janie laughed. “Yes, if you can count the first one twice.”
“What?”
“He married the first wife twice.”
“Janie, what are you talking about?”
She looked up from a forkful of potatoes. “Why, Twyman. He had four wives, but was married five times. Wonder which one killed him?”
“Silly, you’re always looking for the murderer. Twyman wasn’t murdered. He died of a coronary or something. Big men like that have heart attacks at the snap of a finger.” And I demonstrated, snapping.
Janie was profound. “Honey, there is more murder in the world than we know. And you said yourself that he told you someone was trying to kill him.”
“No, I said he asked if I knew what to do if you thought someone was trying to kill you. There’s a difference, Janie. It’s like polite talk.”
She snorted. “Ha! I’m the only one I know who thinks murder is part of polite talk. And politeness and Towerie don’t belong together in the same sentence.” She scraped up the last of her mashed potatoes and beans, stuffing it in her mouth with a so there attitude. “Now,” she said, as she lifted her iced tea glass, swirling the melting ice in the last of the drink, “tell me every single word he said.”
As I told her about my surprise at being seated beside the guest of honor and the subsequent remarks we had exchanged, Janie kept nodding her head for me to go on as she cleared the table, carrying the empty plates to the kitchen and returning with the lemon pie.
“He laughed at you?”
“Yes. When I asked him where he lived.”
“Just like that? You asked him where he lived, and he laughed? Hmmm,” she muttered, rolling the thought over in her head like it was a clue.
“Not exactly.” I sighed.
I was born to and reared by two very elderly people. Until they died ten years ago when I was eighteen, I spent the majority of my time with them. They loved and cherished me as well as giving me some very quaint and antiquated manners. I have spent my adult life trying to reconcile that upbringing against the sometimes-harsh realities of a late-twentieth-century world.
Flustered at being seated by one of the world’s greatest authors, I had stammered, “And where do you make your home, Mr. Towerie?” Thereby providing the man with his last laugh on earth.
“Where do I make my home?” He had sputtered into his coffee cup. “Girl, that phrase went out in the twenties. Where did you come up with that one? And here I thought you were some big, hotshot detective.” And he repeated his favorite new phrase. “Where do you make your home?”
I wanted to tell him that calling a woman girl was also gone from the modern PC vocabulary, but instead, I asked in surprise, “Detective? Me? Where did you get that idea?”
“From the papers. It was on the news wire everywhere about how you found two dead bodies and solved an international mystery. Any of that true?” Skeptical was the least of the looks Twyman imparted to me over raised eyebrows.
“Oh, that. Surely you know that newspapers always get it wrong. It is true that two men died in my house. Well,” I corrected, “one in the parking lot. And there was an international scandal, yes. It was all about alternative fuel formulas and …” I faltered.
And cut to the chase.
“It just all happened to me, Mr. Towerie. I didn’t have anything to do with originating the mystery. Other people in other places and other times started the chain of events.”
“Oh.” He had looked disappointed out of proportion to the discussion. “And here I was going to ask for your help.”
“My help? With what?”
I finally came to the part Janie wanted repeated.
Twyman shrugged as he answered, “I was going to ask you how one goes about finding out if someone is trying to kill them.” His disappointment had quickly changed to a grin as he took the lemon pie that was offered by the server as she also set his baked chicken plate in front of him. He greedily reached forward with his fork and—well, Janie knew the rest of that story.
With my background, I have trouble saying wow, but the same parents obviously did not rear Janie and me.
“Wow,” she said. “What on earth do you think he meant?”
“I think it meant he was researching some new work and wanted an insight into the detective’s viewpoint. Which he mistakenly thought I was.”
“Could be,” she replied. “Or could be it was a genuine plea for assistance.”
I finished cleaning off the table.
“That man had more money than God,” I said. “He could have hired the best detective minds in the country. It was just an idle question, Janie. Had nothing really to do with me.”
As I placed the dirty dishes into my new dishwasher—I had spent a wee bit of the piano money—the phone rang.
Janie caught it for me, talked a few minutes, and came into the kitchen with a satisfied smile on her face. “So much for coincidence,” she said.
Continuing, she answered my unasked question. “That was Elaine from Arlington on the phone. She’s still shook up about Twyman’s death. Wanted to know if you were all right. Seemed to think you knew Twyman.”
“Everyone knew Twyman Towerie. He wrote three of the greatest books in the world,” I said.
“No, she meant really knew him.” She smiled smugly. “Seems the great man agreed to come to the Friends of the Arlington Public Library luncheon only when she agreed to invite you and have you sit beside him.”
“Good lord,” I said.
FOUR
I couldn’t believe I diverted Janie from Twyman talk by actually saying “Wow.” (I’m practicing my wows.) “Let’s see what’s in our goodie bags.”
She grinned as she remembered the unsorted treasure. “You clear the table, and I’ll spread it all out. One side for you and one for me. We’ll add Twyman’s lot later.”
I chose the left side of the table and received:
1 white coffee cup from First Bank of Arlington
1 red notepad with RX from Eckerd Drugs
1 flat twelve-inch wooden ruler from Mrs. Baird’s Bakery
3 after-dinner mints (no logo)
6 shrink-wrapped paper plates from Jason’s Deli
1 30%-off coupon from Shelton’s Beauty Salon
1 navy blue sun visor from the Star-Telegram
1 fall class catalog from the University of Texas at Arlington
1 paper bookmark from Barnes & Noble
1 coupon good for 50% off a frozen coffee from Borders Books
Janie got:
1 white coffee cup from First Bank of Arlington
1 red notepad with RX from Eckerd Drugs
1 flat 12-inch wooden ruler from Mrs. Baird’s Bakery
3 after-dinner mints (no logo)
6 shrink-wrapped paper plates from Jason’s Deli
1 30%-off coupon from Shelton’s Beauty Salon
1 navy blue sun visor from the Star-Telegram
1 fall class catalog from the University of Texas at Arlington
1 paper bookmark from Barnes & Noble
1 coupon good for 50% off of a frozen coffee from Borders Books
Janie smiled. “What a haul.”
“Well, yes,” I replied weakly.
“Now to divide Twyman’s bag. Honey, do you mind if I take the coffee cup? I always keep free coffee for customers at Pages, and I just hate paper cups.”
“Be my guest.”
“And what do you want in exchange?” she asked seriously.
; “Oh, well, the after-dinner mints, I think. And—” I reached into the plastic bag, “—this.” I held up a small white box.
“What’s that? We didn’t get a box. How come Twyman got a box? Who’s it from? What’s in it?”
“I don’t know. Honest. I just reached in and came up with it. You can have it.”
“Oh, no, you chose it. It’s yours. But what is it?”
Janie could hardly wait for me to open the small package. It reminded me of Christmas or birthdays where you were almost beside yourself over a wrapped box until you opened it. Then you said, “Oh, a robe. Just what I wanted.” And turned your enthusiasm to the next mystery package.
“It’s from Haltom’s,” I said, reading the gold letters embossed on the box.
“We didn’t get anything from Haltom’s,” Janie said. “Reckon it was special because it was for the guest of honor’s bag?” Just to make sure we hadn’t missed a surprise box in our bags, she ran a hand over both the empty sacks. “Wonder if he got anything else special?” She overturned Twyman’s bag onto the table. “Nope, just the regular stuff left here. Come on, Honey, open it, for Pete’s sake.”
“Do you think we should?”
Janie gave me a bear’s-in-the-woods look, which I took for a yes.
“Hmmm.”
“Let me see,” she clamored.
“It’s a ring.” I held it up.
“A diamond ring,” Janie gasped.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not. Real, that is. A giveaway gimmick from Haltom’s. How clever of them to put it in the bag of the only person in the room who could probably afford a ring this size.” I laughed.
Janie took the ring from me and turned it around her hand. “No, Honey, it’s a real one.” And she pointed to the hallmark inside. “Eighteen-karat gold.”
“Couldn’t possibly be,” I replied just as if I knew what a real diamond looked like. “It’s not even diamond-shiny. It’s sorta pink.” I repeated firmly, “It’s a gimmick, Janie.”
“Yes, I guess you are right. We’d be too lucky to have a real diamond fall into our hands.”
The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set Page 21
