Across town, there was a problem.
“I know your mother meant well,” Hunter said in a low voice, “but I wish she hadn’t even mentioned it to Mrs. Ransom. This is going to hold up everything.”
Elizabeth Ransom was a sweet woman whose home was a virtual shrine to her daughter’s triumphs in beauty pageants and talent contests. She was a good grandmother to Bethie, and Hunter was determined to keep things friendly with all of Bethie’s relatives, but the Ransoms always seemed to complicate her life.
Sam had just been talking to his former mother-in-law on the phone.
“She says she can’t take it until next weekend,” he explained. “She mentioned it to Royce and Mary Nell, and they want her living room furniture, but they weren’t expecting us home so soon, and she didn’t know if Royce could do the moving this weekend.”
“Doesn’t she have a garage?” Hunter asked Sam. “Maybe we could move the furniture over there ourselves.”
“She has a garage,” Sam said, “but it’s completely full of Rhonda’s stuff. I’ll call Royce and see if he can come on over today or tomorrow. If we work together it won’t take that long.”
Royce, who lived 30 miles away in Americus, said he was sorry, but his wife, Mary Nell, had him moving all their furniture out of their living room and taking it to her younger sister so that they could paint it before moving his mother’s suite in. As for Sunday, they had to go to Mary Nell’s family reunion.
“Sorry, Sam,” he said, “Mama didn’t say anything about doing it this weekend.”
Hunter closed her eyes and counted to ten after Sam relayed the information. Now she couldn’t do anything about the dining room, or the hall because both of them were full of her furniture.
“It doesn’t have to be done this weekend,” she said resolutely, reasonably, rationally. “It can wait. I was just hoping we could… you know…”
Despite all her efforts to be understanding, her voice gave her away and there were tears in her eyes.
“I really am sorry.” Sam said, “If you had told me how much you hated that furniture, I would have gotten it out of here months ago, I just never really thought about it much because we hardly ever use that room.”
“Well, of course you don’t,” Hunter said with a wobbly smile. “It wasn’t ever meant to be lived in by human beings.”
“Mom,” Bethie called. “Come and look! Hurry! They love the bobcat and they’re being friends.”
Hunter went to Bethie’s room, and had to smile.
Katie the Calico was giving her long-lost son, Tuxedo, a vigorous face washing. Marmalade was lying across the overturned bobcat, waving his fluffy tail and looking triumphant.
“I just shut them up in here together, and they finally remembered each other,” Bethie said. “I told you the bobcat would be a good cat toy.”
“Looks like it,” Hunter said, laughing. Determined to get her mind off the furniture frustrations, she said, “What are we going to cook for supper tonight?”
“Spaghetti!” Bethie said.
“Okay,” Hunter said. “I can do that without a recipe. Let’s go to the store now and get what we need. It needs to simmer on top of the stove for a long time.”
After Hunter and Bethie had gone, Sam reminded himself that he had dealt with much more complex problems than getting a suite of furniture relocated, and had resources.
He called Sgt. Taneesha Martin, his second-in-command at work and Hunter’s best friend in Merchantsville. After they had finished catching up on work issues, he got to the main point.
“How much room do you think we’ve got in the storage building out by the jail?” he asked, “I mean the one where we keep the impounded stuff.”
“It’s only about half full,” Taneesha said. “Remember, we sold that motorcycle and the Jeep we got in the drug bust.”
“Is there enough room to hold a sofa and two chairs, and a coffee table and two… ?”
“You mean that pink stuff in your living room, don’t you?” Taneesha asked, starting to laugh.
Sam explained the problem and she laughed more.
“It’ll just need to be there until next weekend,” he said.
“Jeremy’s here,” Taneesha said, “We can help. Bub’s working today, but I can call Skeet. Between his truck and yours, we can do it. I’ll tell him we’ve got to save your marriage.”
“I honestly never knew she hated that furniture so much,” Sam said.
“Hunter’s got good self-control,” Taneesha said. “If it was me, I would have dragged it out in the yard already and set fire to it,” And those drapes, too. And that rug. And those pictures. You know if anybody sees it in there, we could tell them we got it from a drug dealer’s house.”
“It’s not that bad,” Sam said.
“Oh, yes it is,” Taneesha answered. “We’ll see you in about 15 minutes.”
When Hunter and Bethie got home with their groceries an hour later, the living room was empty with sunlight pouring in.
Sam returned to find his wife standing on a dining room chair, hanging her framed print of “The Lady of Shallot” over the mantle. Katie the Calico was curled up in the bentwood rocker, basking in a shaft of sunlight that came through the bay window. The other two cats were watching with curiosity as Bethie pushed an old-fashioned steamer trunk into the room.
“Why don’t we put the rug down first?” he asked his daughter.
Hunter looked over her shoulder and smiled at him.
CHAPTER 2
On Monday morning, Tyler Bankston rolled his wheelchair out from his office, across the worn hardwood floor of the storefront newsroom. He stopped, held up the last issue of The Magnolia County Messenger, and said, “This may not be the most boring front page we’ve ever had, but it is in the top ten. This week’s has got to be better.”
“Well,” Novena Baxter said, snapping her compact shut after repairing her makeup, “The Lifestyle section will sell the paper anyway. Everybody’s waiting to see Hunter’s and Sam’s wedding story.”
“I just looked at the County Commissioner’s agenda,” Hunter said with a good-humored smile, “and it looks like they’re going to put out bids for a new backhoe.”
“There’s a headline for you,” Tyler grumbled.
“And I’ve got Board of Education tomorrow afternoon,” she added. “Nothing exciting, I’m afraid.”
“And I’ve got the Rotary Club today,” Tyler said. “With State Senator Buck Roland talking about what’s coming up in the General Assembly. I can make something out of that, but it won’t be worth much. We need a fire or a crime spree.”
“Don’t even say that!” Novena said.
“Speaking of the Rolands,” Hunter said, “I’m going to that book signing the Literary Guild is having for Hill Roland Thursday night. I thought I’d try to talk him into an interview about his moving back home. It’s not every town this size that has a famous author buying back his childhood home, and I want to know what he’s going to write next. This book he’s signing tonight is supposedly the last in the vampire trilogy.”
“That won’t save this week’s paper, but it’s a good idea for next week,” Tyler said. “Get a picture of him with the house in the background. We’ll put it on page one below the fold. You know he used to work here when he was in high school?”
“I was going to ask him about your influence on his work,” Hunter said, glad to see that she had pitched an idea that made her boss a little happier.
“I taught him how to use apostrophes correctly,” Tyler said, “Rose Tyndale taught him a few things in her high school English class, too, but he had talent even as a kid. Why he’s wasted it writing about vampires is beyond me.”
“I’m not into the vampires either,” Hunter said. “I’m glad somebody agrees with me on that. Maybe he’ll get serious now that he’s made some money and gotten married.”
“I want to know what that wife of his thinks about moving down here,” Novena said, tidying up her already tidy desk befo
re leaving for the day. “Charmaine says she’s a real city girl.”
“Some people said that about me,” Hunter said with a grin, “and I fit myself in pretty well.”
Tyler headed back to his office and Novena got up to leave and sell advertising. She stopped at the door to look back at Hunter.
“You know what everybody’s asking me?” she said. “Everybody wants to know if you and Sam are going to buy a new house or keep on living in the same house he lived in with Rhonda.”
“I like the house fine,” Hunter said, “In case inquiring minds want to know. In fact, we came home early to get some of the old furniture out so we could rearrange things. That living room is beautiful with the big bay window and the fireplace, and I’ve got all my living room furniture in there now. I’m thinking we ought to put in shutters instead of having curtains.”
Then she added, off-handedly, “Rhonda’s mother is going to take that French provincial suite.”
Novena looked happy. There was nothing like having insider information.
Once she was alone, Hunter swiveled back to her computer and took another look at the wedding photos her friend Nikki from Atlanta had taken.
She had already picked the one for the paper. It was of the two of them close-up with Bethie, whose wispy blond hair had been in curls for the wedding. She was saving the one where Sam’s bare feet showed to frame for home.
She smiled over the rest — the one of Taneesha Martin, former tennis champion and current law enforcement officer, leaping in the air like a ballerina to catch the bridal bouquet, and another of her former landlady, Miss Rose Tyndale, looking out at the ocean as if she were eight instead of 80.
Across the street in the Magnolia County Courthouse, Sheriff Sam Bailey’s mind was on a less romantic subject. He was listening to Aaron Twitchell’s explanation of why he had shot the headlights out of his wife’s car.
The two men had known each other since grade school and played basketball on the same championship team, but while Sam had gained 10 pounds since then, Twitchell had more than doubled in size and lost most of his hair.
“I didn’t point the gun at Nancy or shoot anywhere close to her,” Twitchell said. “Give me credit for some sense, Sam. I’m gettin’ the lights replaced. She’s drivin’ it today, and there ain’t nuthin’ wrong with the motor. I don’t know why you hauled me in here anyway. Nancy’s already back home, and she told Skeet and Bub that same night she wasn’t pressin’ charges. She knows she pushed me to my limit.”
“Aaron, I’m worried that one of you is going to wind up getting seriously hurt if you don’t get control of your tempers,” Sam said. He pointed to a file folder Shellie had put together for him that morning, and added for emphasis, “This is the fifth time we’ve had to send somebody out to your house in two years.”
“You would’ve lost your temper, too,” Twitchell said stubbornly. “That woman was havin’ a fit for me to get up and get dressed to go to this thing at our church about money management, and I had told her twice already I wasn’t goin’. All I did was change the channel, and she slapped the remote right outa my hand and started stompin’ on it with her high heeled shoe. I was havin’ trouble gettin’ outa my recliner so I tried to stop her by grabbin’ her ankle and she fell down, and then she started hollerin’ that I had throwed her down on purpose and broke off one of her new fingernails, and…” he stopped for a breath. “And she picked up the whole tub of fried chicken I had brought home and just flung it all over the room, and then she started laughin’ because I couldn’t get outa the chair fast enough and the dogs were gettin’ it all.”
“Maybe you two ought to think about getting marriage counselling,” Sam said, knowing it would never happen.
“We already made up,” Twitchell said. “Well, sort of, anyway. I mean she’s back home. You’ve just forgot what married life is like, once the honeymoon’s over.”
And then he grinned. “And by the way. Congratulations.”
Sam sighed and got up to walk out of his office with Twitchell.
“You know what they’re saying about you and her going all the way to Jekyll Island to get married, don’t you, Sam?”
“What are they saying, Aaron?”
“That if you had got married here, you woulda had to invite every registered voter in the county, so you just left town instead.”
“That’s just about right,” Sam said. “Now, how about staying out of fights with Nancy?”
“You ever have a woman stomp your remote and throw your fried chicken all over the room?” Aaron asked. “Why don’t you talk to Nancy about that part of it?”
Three blocks away at Hilliard House, Magnolia County’s only bed-and-breakfast, Colin Fletcher was explaining to his partner, Robin Hilliard, why he had just fired the chef.
“I didn’t take him to raise,” Colin said about the man who was already backing out of the driveway. “He’s been pouting all morning, and when I tried to reason with him, he started crying and said I didn’t respect his craft. You told me I could manage the kitchen my own way, and I think that if our guests don’t like quiche and ask for a simple breakfast of bacon and eggs instead, we should accommodate them. It’s bed and breakfast, not bed and quiche.”
”I would have cooked the bacon and eggs if you had told me about it,” Robin said.
“There weren’t any eggs,” Colin said. “He used them all up in the three quiches he made last night. That’s why I had to run over to R&J’s and get take-out. They loved the cheese grits, by the way, and it all looked nice on our china. I had to do everything, and he just sat there acting like it was all a big insult to him.”
“We’ll never find anybody else willing to work for that salary,” Robin said.
“We can’t afford to pay anybody,” Colin said. “I’ll do the cooking myself, or we can work out something with R&J’s.”
“I can help and we’ll do it ourselves,” Robin said. “We’re going to be the laughingstock of the county if it gets around that we’re running a bed and breakfast and can’t even serve our own breakfast.”
Hilliard House was still a fledgling venture as a bed-and-breakfast, and Robin was torn between wanting to make the best impression possible on guests and worrying that there wouldn’t be enough profit even to pay the property taxes. He had inherited the splendid ante-bellum mansion, along with a hefty amount of money, from his Aunt Mae-Lula Hilliard, and had spent most of the money on renovations and period furnishings.
Now what was needed was a steady flow of paying guests to fill the six upstairs bedrooms.
“If we’re going to do the cooking,” he said, “We need to get organized real fast. You never know when somebody might just arrive without reservations, and remember we’ve got that reviewer coming from Southern Journey on Thursday afternoon. We need to have some kind of light supper for her, too.
“I thought she was coming Friday,” Colin said.
“She was,” Robin said, “until she found out on our web page about Hill Roland being here Thursday night for the book signing. Apparently, she’s a big fan.”
“I still think you ought to charge that ladies book club for having an event here,” Colin said.
“You’re missing the whole point,” Robin said. “It’s Hill Roland’s first public appearance back in his home town, and there’ll be people coming here who haven’t seen the house since we did all the renovations. It’s like having another open house.”
“And you couldn’t say no to Miss Rose Tyndale,” Colin said.
“That, too,” Robin said, and then he grinned. “And that gives me an idea. She owes me a favor and she can help us. Let me see if I can talk her into coming over here and teaching us how to make biscuits the way she does.”
“And cheese grits, too?” Colin asked. “Do you think we could get her over here today?”
In her rambling Victorian house on Walnut Street, Miss Rose Tyndale, Hunter’s former landlady, was having a feeling she’d never had before. She coul
dn’t quite put her finger on it, but it wouldn’t go away.
She already missed having Hunter coming back and forth, stopping for a cup of tea, talking about what was going on in town, and it had made her feel secure to have the sheriff visiting so often.
More than that, it had made her feel almost young again to watch that romance develop, to engage in a little behind-the-scenes machinations when things seemed to have stalled, and to be the first one to see that beautiful engagement ring on Hunter’s finger.
Well, in fact, she had seen Sam Bailey put the ring on Hunter’s finger, but that was just because the two of them were sitting on the outside stairs, and she had accidentally been at her dining room window, and glanced out.
She smiled at the memory, but then there was that feeling again. It was a feeling that was restless and pointless at the same time.
“Ozymandias,” she said to her aged Himalayan cat, “I think I’m bored. What am I going to do?”
Like an answer to a prayer, the phone rang.
She listened and smiled, but when she answered, she was back to the firm voice she used to use with her high school English students when they had term papers to write.
“I’ll need to come over there and check out the kitchen and make up a list of things you need to buy,” she said, “I certainly can teach you both to cook a good breakfast, but you have to have a properly stocked kitchen, and the right equipment. I hope you’ve got an oven thermometer if you’re still using Mae-Lula’s old oven.”
She listened some more.
“We can start tomorrow,” she said. “And of course it’s no problem. I needed to come over there anyway and see how we should set things up for the book signing. And while I’ve got you on the phone, Robin, do you know of anybody who might want to rent my little upstairs apartment now that Hunter’s moved out?”
“Let me think about it.” Robin said.
“I don’t want to advertise,” she said. “It’s just got to be somebody I’m compatible with, and I’d honestly rather have a young person, and single, because… ”
When I am Dead, My Dearest: A Hunter Jones Mystery Page 2
