The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set

by Margaret Moseley

  “Clover? You’ve talked to Clover Medlock about me?”

  THIRTY

  Sixteen hours later, I sat at my own kitchen table, eating fresh tuna sandwiches that Janie had arranged attractively on a large glass plate and greedily drinking cold iced tea. The interview with Babe seemed like a dream. In fact, the whole Las Vegas interlude seemed incongruous with my small kitchen and the warm, yellow dog that snuggled close to my side. I gave Bailey a hug and part of my sandwich.

  I reached for another one. “I ought to save one for Steven, I guess.”

  “There’s plenty,” Janie argued. “Eat. Eat. So, you can tell me everything.”

  “It was strange. Not at all as I had imagined it would be,” I told her.

  “And you’ve got to know, Janie, Honey doesn’t follow game plans,” said Steven as he came in the back door. I had left him to bring in the luggage while I ran into the house, eager to see Janie and Bailey, eager to be with their energy and enthusiasm for life.

  I protested. “Steven, how could anyone be a bad guy to that poor woman? Honestly, Janie, she was just worn out. I’m surprised she saw us at all.”

  Janie poured Steven a glass of fresh tea. “But did she answer any questions?”

  “Oh, my, yes. What do you want to know? That she’s retiring from show business? Or that she didn’t love Twyman one little bit? That her scary friend Kevin actually wrote Casa Rojo?”

  “Well, I’ll be hornswoggled. She told you all that?”

  “Right. And when I asked her why Twyman would have asked me about someone trying to kill him, she just said, ‘Who wouldn’t want to kill him?’ ”

  Janie stood with her hands on her ample hips and shook her head in amazement. “Good lord, did she confess?”

  “No,” Steven answered for me as he reached for a piece of chocolate cake, having eaten three of the sandwiches. “She just said it was time for everyone to know the real Twyman Towerie. That they had married because she had fallen for his fame and what she supposed was genius. Sort of like Marilyn and Arthur Miller. How she had introduced him to Kevin Richardson and encouraged him to read Kevin’s manuscript.”

  I chimed in, “Yes, and how shocked they both were when Casa Rojo came out, and it had Twyman’s name on it. That’s when she left him.”

  “But she didn’t tell?”

  “No, and neither did Kevin. She didn’t want her public to think her a fool. She has a certain image, you know.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why didn’t Kevin Richardson tell?”

  “For the same reasons,” Steven answered. “He didn’t want scandal to touch Babe; they’ve been friends for ages, and he couldn’t prove he had written the book. He’s her sorta manager and no one knew he was writing. Twyman was the only one he had shown his work to.”

  “So why did she tell all of this to you two?”

  “She told us that Clover had called her, told her about what Twyman had said to me before he died, and that I was asking a lot of questions. Babe said if the story was going to come out, she wanted it to be the truth,” I told her.

  Janie rolled her blue eyes heavenward. “What a tangled web we weave … .”

  “Well, I’m weaving my next web in bed,” announced Steven as he grabbed his bag and headed outside to go to his third-story room. “I’m exhausted.”

  “I’ll bet you are tired, too, Honey,” said Janie.

  “Yes. No. I’m still too wound up, and I slept on the plane, believe it or not.”

  Janie sat down at the picnic bench kitchen table and took the last sandwich, much to Bailey’s dismay. She looked down at the dog and said, “Don’t even think about it. I made them, I’m eating it.” To me she said, “Wait a minute. I thought all of Twyman’s wives hated each other. Why was Clover calling Babe?”

  “I have no earthly idea, Janie. Even with so many of our questions answered, there is still a lot we don’t know.”

  “Like, if Clover wrote For All the Wrong Reasons, and Kevin Richardson wrote Casa Rojo, who wrote Down by the Riverside?”

  “Right,” I agreed. “And who actually killed Twyman?”

  “You still think he was murdered?”

  “Yes, I’m more sure of it than ever, but I can’t go to Silas with just my hunches. We still have to prove it.”

  “Well, I know the perfect place to do it.” Janie smiled as she spoke.

  “Yeah? Where?”

  She cut her bright blue eyes to the side. “You remember that ten thousand dollars I wanted from you?”

  “Actually, yes. I’ve wondered why you needed the money. Not that you’re not welcome to it,” I added quickly.

  Tears came to Janie’s eyes, “Oh, Honey, I know that. I haven’t said enough how grateful I am for your letting me stay here. I know how you feel about the house and having strangers in it.”

  “That was then, this is now, Janie. I seem to be getting used to people in the house. I’m growing up, and next year I’ll be thirty and know everything. And”—I reached over and patted her arm—“you’re no stranger. You’re my best friend.”

  “Well, now I am officially your mother.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “See, it’s like this. You got several phone calls while you were gone. You remember Elaine Madison?”

  “Yes, from the Arlington Friends of the Library.”

  “Right. She called early Saturday morning. Wanted to know how you were and so forth. I really like her. Anyway, we got to talking; she’s still upset about Twyman dying at the luncheon, and she said something that surprised me.”

  “What?”

  “Elaine said that she had known that Twyman was not well. When I asked what she meant, she said that was why his ex-wife Marcie had catered the lunch. I about fell over on the floor.”

  “No!”

  “Yes, Elaine said that Marcie had called and volunteered to do the catering—for free—under the condition that no publicity was generated about it. Marcie said Twyman was ill and needed a special diet and she wanted to make sure he got it.”

  “But that’s not true, Janie. Twyman had the same meal that I had. That you had. Baked chicken and mashed potatoes and lemon pie. Oh, and green beans,” I added as I remembered one of them stuck up Twyman’s nose.

  “Ah ha … Did he? Elaine says not. She says his meal looked like everyone else’s but was actually special stuff. Like fat-free potatoes and no sugar in the pie.”

  “Fooled me. Fooled him, too. You shoulda seen him dig into that pie. Hey, did he know that Marcie was catering?”

  “No, Elaine said that was part of the condition. Marcie said that since the divorce and all, she had kept a watch on Twyman’s health but that he resented it, so she did it surreptitiously.”

  “Janie, this is very serious. Does Silas know?”

  She looked a little shamefaced. “Yes, he called, too, and I told him. He wants to see you. I lied—Silas is so easy to lie to—and told him you wouldn’t be back till late tonight. I wanted to talk to you, and I knew you would need a nap. Oh, lord, I hated betraying Elaine, but, Honey, I agree with you, this is serious. So, you can see why I did what I did.”

  “Does what you did have something to do with your being my mother now?”

  Janie beamed. “See, Honey, how clever you are. Went straight to the heart of the matter. I just knew you would want to investigate this new turn …”

  “Oh, right,” I interrupted. “Janie, for the last time, I am not an investigator.”

  “You went to Vegas to see Babe.”

  “But I didn’t know I was going to Vegas. I was shanghaied,” I protested.

  It was all the same in Janie’s mind. “Nonetheless, you did go and meet Babe. And you’ve met Clover.”

  “That was because of the ring.”

  Janie raced on. “So, it made sense to me that you would want to meet Marcie. That’s why I called The Bargello on Saturday.”

  “Marcie’s spa?”

  “Yes, that’s why you need to take a nap. We�
��re going to The Bargello for a week.”

  “Janie, even if we went to Jefferson to meet Marcie, it won’t take a week; it’s only a few hundred miles. And that’s a big if.”

  I’m getting used to how Janie cuts her eyes around when she has an important announcement to make. “No, we’re gonna be guests. Won’t it be fun? I knew I couldn’t use your name so I used mine.”

  “And said you were my mother,” I added.

  “Honey, that was the only spot that was open. Well, immediately. The Bargello mother and daughter week at the spa is next week. We leave in the morning. Early.”

  “And it costs ten thousand dollars?”

  “Yes, isn’t that amazing? Well, eight thousand with an extra thousand for Bailey and one for incidentals.”

  “We’re taking Bailey?”

  “Of course. What else would we do with him? Steven told me he had to get back to Hollywood to do some publicity for the movie, and I don’t really know any kennels here in Fort Worth. I just figured you would want him with you.”

  “I didn’t know Steven was leaving. And, Janie, what name did you use for me?”

  “Why, your secret name, Honey. Lydia. You’re Lydia Bridges for a week.”

  “And you’re Mom?”

  “Yes. I knew you’d understand.”

  THIRTY–ONE

  I slept so hard that Janie had to come and wake me up to tell me that Silas had arrived. It took me another twenty minutes to shower and slip on a clean pair of denim shorts and a T. Steven and Janie were sitting out back in the gazebo with Silas when I finally stumbled into the twilight of my backyard. Bailey was staked nearby, chewing on a rawhide bone.

  Although I waved her down, Janie insisted on jumping up and getting me a fresh glass of iced tea. Steven followed her in the house with the tray, leaving me alone with Silas.

  “I hear congratulations are in order?” he asked.

  “For?”

  “Why, you and Steven Hyatt. Janie’s been filling me in. Well, she was before Steven came down. I always thought you and Steven were just buddies. Guess I was wrong and I’m shit out of luck.” He grinned to show me there were no hard feelings.

  I laughed. “Janie does have a motor mouth, it seems,” I said without denying or confirming.

  The detective went on. “I always thought there was something going on between you and that Brit down in south Texas, the one I met when that guy Jimmy was killed. Hey, I mean, you’ve got his dog, after all.”

  Before I could fully explain about either Steven or Harry, Silas continued, “Actually, it’s okay. You were right about that Abbie Gardenia. See, I’ve called her a few times; we’ve had some drinks, did a flick. I kind of like her, you know. But, reckon I’ll always wonder whether you and I could have hit it off.”

  Silent, I pondered on his backhanded compliment as I watched Steven Hyatt return with a laden tray. His frizzy hair stood on end from his nap, his long legs were bowed and pale extending from his rumpled Australian khaki shorts, his skinny arms supporting the tray looked inadequate for the job. Squinting my eyes, I thought I could see the beginnings of a receding hairline above his crooked wire-framed glasses.

  I watched as he handed first me and then Silas a frosty glass from the tray. For a brief second, he and Silas stood side by side. Silas’s blond hair stirred in the warm breeze that signaled the first of the night’s relief from the heat of the day. His sky-blue eyes crinkled in a smile, and his square, solid jaw looked as strong as a bank vault. I looked him over slowly and appreciated the way his tanned muscles rippled with the movement all the way up the sleeves of his stylish pastel madras shirt, which was neatly stuffed into crisp, pleated chinos. Oh, my. They both turned to me and grinned, the detective raising his glass in salute. “Here’s to you and Steven,” he said.

  For another brief second, I scanned my mind for all the options. Then I looked over at Steven’s astounded hazel eyes. To my surprise, I just smiled and said, “Thank you, Silas.”

  Steven dropped the tray, of course, and in the confusion to clean up, Bailey gleefully snuffled over to eat the sandwiches Janie had made. I noticed that they were both cheese and tomato and potted meat sandwiches as they disappeared into Bailey’s mouth. “Reckon y’all know what this means,” I said.

  I am learning to be so bad.

  “Marriage?” asked Silas with a knowing grin on his face.

  “Marriage?” croaked Steven with a caught-in-the-headlights look.

  “Oh, you sillies,” I answered in my best Southern belle imitation. Eat your heart out, Scarlett, I thought as I told the Tarleton twins, “I mean I reckon we’ll just have to go out to eat. Y’all want barbecue?”

  Over ribs, ranch beans, and potato salad at the Railhead, Silas once more expressed his concern about my so-called investigation of Twyman Towerie’s death. With all the blabbing Janie had been doing, I wondered if she had clued him in to Babe’s motives for killing her ex-husband. Still in my GWTW mood, I said sweetly, “Oh, you goose. You know I’m not an investigator. Why, I don’t have an idea in the world about who would kill Mr. Towerie. I’ve forgotten all about that. Steven and I just went out to Las Vegas to get me over my fear of flying.” I did clean up the act a little bit as I declared, “I don’t know anything about murders and investigating.”

  Silas bought it, but Janie and Steven looked like I had lost my last marble. “You’ve got that right, Honey,” he said as he hoisted his ice-encrusted beer glass. “I’ve talked to Lennox, and he says to forget it all. Like I said from the first, it’s over and done with.”

  “You tell them, Silas,” agreed Steven. “And while you’re at it, tell them how stupid it is to be going to meet Marcie.”

  “You’re going to see Marcie?” asked Silas.

  Janie jumped in with, “Oh, no, Silas. It’s just with that story on CBS about Twyman, they showed some shots of The Bargello, and Honey and I got to talking about how out of shape we are—and of course, I’m a few pounds overweight. So, we thought what fun it would be to spend a week doing girl stuff and getting back in shape and all. I’m sure we won’t even see Marcie Coleman.”

  Silas being Silas, he bought it. “Good. ’Cause Lennox told me to tell you two to back off. He’s worried that y’all will do something dumb and get in trouble.” He laughed as he finished his beer. “Reckon you can’t get into trouble going to a carrot farm, can they, Steven?”

  Dubious, but loyal, Steven said, “Reckon not, Silas.” It was a true macho moment as the men joked about facials and massages. I pinched Janie’s arm hard as I watched her try to control her tongue. We both sat there with barbecue sauce smiles pasted on our faces.

  Back at the house, as Silas drove off with a wave, Steven turned to us. “I’ve just thought of something. This little trip to The Bargello, it wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I told you that I saw on Gabriella’s calendar that all the exes are meeting there on the eighth, would it?”

  “Was that the date? I’d clean forgotten that,” said Janie as she tripped up the front steps to the house.

  “Right,” called Steven after her. “Like hell you did.” He turned to me, abandoned by my cohort. “And as for you, you’ve got some explaining to do. Although I think Silas is right; you won’t be in any danger at The Bargello with all those fat women and celery stalks, I still think it’s a dumb idea. Ah ha, not so fast, young lady, you’ve got another question to answer.”

  “Oh?” I stopped in my flight to join Janie. “And what would that be?”

  “Are we getting married, or what?”

  THIRTY–TWO

  “Janie, tell me again when you became obsessive about murders and mysteries,” I said to her as we sped along 1-20 to Jefferson. I was trying to figure out why I was a passenger in my own Plymouth Voyager, sipping hot coffee through a plastic vent in the travel cup Janie had pressed into my hands as she steered me in the early morning cool before the sun dried out the day again.

  “The very first mystery I read—well, t
he first one I remember registering—was John D. MacDonald’s The Deep Blue Good-Bye. I had a broken leg, fell off my clog in the garden, but that’s another story, and someone brought me some books. Blue was one of them. Back in seventy, I think. I followed Travis McGee all through the rainbow of his mysteries after that. Then, you’re right, I just became obsessed. Went back and did Christie and then Chandler. Oh, and James. The new ones, too.”

  The steam gradually dissipated from my new sunglasses and I could actually gulp the caffeine stimulant. I was getting out of shape. With my work schedule shot, I didn’t know whether I was coming or going these days. “But the idea that you can get involved, solve mysteries? That came from reading books?”

  There had to be some reason we were headed for a showdown with the ex-wives club.

  “Yes, sorta. Mystery critics are such purists. I don’t know if Robert Ludlum is considered a mystery writer or not. There’s protocol to a real mystery, you know. You have to have a crime, an investigator, clues, and finally, retribution for the crime. What I liked about Ludlum is that he always had an innocent person who, by accident or coincidence, became very much involved in villainy and was in great danger before solving the murder, rape, or conspiracy.”

  “I don’t like the great danger part,” I said.

  She ignored me and went on, lost in her justifications. “So, yes, I always kinda fantasized about being the innocent one caught up in a major crime.” She laughed as she cut her eyes toward me. “And solving it, of course.”

  “You may be right about this being a major crime, but not for the reason we think. It’s not Twyman’s death that is going to create headlines, unless we amateurs get lucky at The Bargello; it’s his life. Listen to this.” And I read her a letter I had received from Kantor, thanking me for including him in the Jacksboro workday at Papyrus. “He goes on to say he still has the same lowly opinion of computers, but all in all had a great day. What is really interesting is that he is still on the trail of who wrote Twyman’s books. Says that’s the real scandal. Wants to know more if we find anything out.”