Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?: A Thoroughly Southern Mystery

by Patricia Sprinkle

  The sheriff’s face has been compared to that of a blood-hound in more than one article. Today he looked particularly mournful. “The forensic specialist who looked them over before taking them to the lab didn’t find any hairs except a couple of Henry’s on the collar. It would be almost impossible to wear them without leaving at least one hair.” He slapped his hat on his knee. “We’re pretty sure it’s him, Judge. We’ll go slow, of course. There’s one puzzling thing. The blood on the coveralls looks more like smears than spurts, and she certainly spurted. Sorry,” he said quickly when he saw my face. “I didn’t mean to tell you that. I mostly came by to verify that I need to request another magistrate and to ask if you’ll send Clarinda over to be with Daisy when the time comes.”

  “Why don’t you ask me to wrestle a couple of pit bulls instead? Or to spend a morning in the den of some hungry lions?”

  He settled his hat on his head and touched the brim in a salute. “I’ll keep you in mind if either of those opportunities comes up.”

  I won’t lie and tell you I got a speck of meaningful work done the rest of the morning. I kept seeing Henry as a winsome little imp and could not believe he had killed Edie Burkett. But I respected our sheriff. He was a good and meticulous lawman. I also remembered that afternoon in the shed. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Henry had intended to frighten me. What frightened me more was the possibility that whatever had happened between him and his wife might have left him with a deep need to terrorize women he felt had wronged him. Donna had said he’d hung up on Edie when she asked for her key back.

  To further spoil my morning, Clarinda’s predicted rain set in before noon, coming down like all the angels in heaven were weeping. I felt more like stomping around screaming, myself. As if it weren’t enough that Edie was dead and Henry likely to be accused, we might as well close up and go home. Business had already been slow. With the rain, it didn’t take brains to figure out shoppers would prefer one of Augusta’s malls or the big, dry superstore to a string of downtown stores joined by a streaming sidewalk. Through the glass pane at the top of my office door, I saw a sea of red poinsettias. Other people might see waves of holiday cheer. All I saw was money down the drain.

  I kept putting off going to lunch, hoping Joe Riddley would show up with his umbrella. Mine, of course, was back home in my car. Besides, I didn’t relish eating alone. I was leaning toward taking one of the business trucks and going home to forage—followed by a nap—when the phone rang.

  “Miss Mac? This is Tyrone. I called to remind you about our sword-fighting demonstration. You said you’d like to come, and it starts in thirty minutes.”

  That was a perfect ending to the morning.

  16

  I slit one side of a big trash bag and pulled it around me like a cape while I dashed to the nearest truck, which happened to be one of our largest ones. Climbing into a high truck in a straight skirt is a feat that deserves a medal, and I hate backing those things in a crowded parking lot. Today our parking lot was so empty I didn’t have to worry about modesty or hitting anything. There wasn’t a soul around to hand me a medal, either.

  On my way over, I drove through Hardee’s to pick up a hamburger. Since you can get almost anywhere in Hopemore in ten minutes, I had time to gulp down lunch in the parking lot before going to my first—and possibly last—sword-fighting demonstration.

  The event was in the old Hopemore elementary school. Joe Riddley and I went there and so did our sons, but after the new school was built, the old one became school administrative offices, then stood vacant for years. Jed DuBose had recently persuaded his grandmother to buy the building and turn it into an endowed community center in memory of his father, who died in Vietnam. I smiled at the yellow sign: ZACHARY’S PLACE. Zach DuBose would have loved that sign, and would have been pleased, I think, to know his old school was now filled with children and adults studying everything from art, music, and drama to karate and sword fighting.

  Tyrone was waiting for me at the door, peering anxiously through the downpour. He didn’t recognize me under my black bag. I almost didn’t recognize him, either, in white cotton pants and a white jacket-shirt with three-quarter sleeves.

  “What did you do with your shoes?” I demanded, shaking my bag and leaving it with the umbrellas in the foyer. “It’s December, remember.”

  “We fight barefoot. Come on in. It’s down this hall.” I followed him down halls I knew better than he. As we reached the old cafeteria, a tall, stocky figure came toward us. The light was in my eyes, so at first all I could see was a white cotton shirt, a floor-length black skirt, and long white toes peeping out. I was racking my brain for any woman that big in Hopemore when a husky voice called, “Tyrone, you’re supposed to be inside.”

  It was Frank Sparks, Valerie’s friend. He turned and entered the cafeteria by another door.

  “Is he studying sword fighting, too?” I asked as Tyrone ushered me in the main door.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. He’s our sensei.” Tyrone uttered the word with a glow of pride.

  “What’s a ‘sin-say’?” I was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

  “The master. He studied at a dojo in Macon, and he’s really good. He and his friend will do a demonstration at the end of the day.”

  Across the room, Frank was talking to another man wearing a white shirt and black skirt. Each held long golden scabbards that I presumed held long, sharp swords.

  I faltered, thinking of Edie being killed by someone with a sharp blade. If Frank had killed her, though, would he coolly demonstrate his blade skills today? While I watched, he went to speak to an agitated knot of young men and boys, all dressed like Tyrone, in white cotton shirts and pants. At his words, they all looked more hopeful. It reminded me of that instant after a chaplain prays with a football team before a championship game.

  This group of fellows, however, also reminded me of something else. A year before, Smitty was the head of a sizeable gang of young thugs. He ruled by being the meanest dude around. I eyed the pack across the cafeteria and was not surprised to pick out five or six members of his former gang. Was Hopemore about to have a resurgence of that particular group, now trained to fight? The idea of a sword-brandishing high school gang almost made my heart stop.

  “You coming?” Tyrone had picked up a folding chair from a cart by the door and was carrying it toward red mats in the middle of the room. I approved of the red mats. They’d be easy to fall on and would hide any blood.

  “Just getting some brochures.” I grabbed a yellow and a green one to make it true.

  As we reached the small semicircle of chairs around the mats—no more than twenty in all—I saw the back of one familiar head. “I’ll sit by Ridd,” I told Tyrone.

  “Here’s your mama,” Tyrone told Ridd in the tone of one delivering a package. He unfolded my chair, then lumbered across the room to join his friends and await the starting bell, whistle, or whatever.

  Ridd grinned up at me. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I promised Tyrone. And I know your daddy says I’m prone to think I have to take care of the world, but I wouldn’t have missed the look on his face when I showed up.”

  Ridd looked around. “Unlike his mama, or Smitty’s. But I do see somebody I know. Be right back.”

  I settled onto one of the most uncomfortable folding chairs I’d ever encountered, and I’ve met a few. This one had a list to the right, which meant I had to lean to the left to stay balanced.

  Once I’d gotten the hang of that, I took time to look around. I had no idea what we were in for—whether they would fight two by two, in lines facing each other, or in a general melee. I made sure I knew where the exits were, in case somebody got too rambunctious with his sword.

  While I waited, I read the brochures. The yellow one described upcoming programs at the DuBose Center. They were offering classes in oils and watercolors, starting up a community chorus, had a quilting society meeting there on T
uesday mornings, had a puppet theater class for children on Saturdays, and a writing workshop scheduled for January. I could even take “Self-Defense for Seniors.” That might come in handy if Joe Riddley got obstreperous. A new chamber music group was holding a Christmas concert that sounded interesting.

  As Ridd sat back down by me, I asked, “You interested in trying out for the new Hopemore Thespians’ performance of Arsenic and Old Lace? You used to be real good in drama.”

  He laughed. “In high school. But who knows? I might give it a whirl.” He took the brochure and started reading.

  I turned to the green brochure, which offered specifics about the Hopemore Budokan. It informed me that budo meant “the Way of the Warrior.” I looked over at Frank, Smitty, and Smitty’s friends, and shuddered. But it also said that the student of budo aimed not for trophies but to better understand the world and oneself—mind, body, and heart. That sounded like a good, if improbable, aim for those particular teens to pursue. I also learned that students began with jodo, which was the art of using a fifty-inch staff, and then progressed to kenjutsu, or sword fighting. I wondered how far Smitty and Tyrone had come. I’d enjoy the afternoon better if I didn’t have to worry about one of them cutting off somebody else’s arm.

  I nearly dropped my brochure when a gong sounded. My first impulse was to fall to the floor and cover my head, but two young men walked out onto the mat, bowed, and began to fight with long bamboo sticks. I didn’t understand much of what was going on, but they used careful, practiced maneuvers, almost like a dance. At the end of their fight—if that’s what it was—they again bowed. Several grown-ups across from us clapped with pride.

  After the first couple of rounds, watching a sword-fighting demonstration where I only knew two performers got to be as exciting as attending my grandchildren’s annual piano recital, where I only knew three pianists. I started watching Frank instead of the folks in the middle.

  He sat cross-legged near the far wall, hands resting lightly on his thighs, and looked away from the action only occasionally to scan the crowd. I wondered if he was disappointed in the turnout. He certainly wasn’t disappointed in his pupils. Several times I saw his face brighten and guessed somebody had done something right.

  His companion sat beside him, also watching, but his face was impassive.

  Two teams were changing places when I heard the door open and a breathy whisper. “Oh, good! I didn’t miss it all!” That was followed by the sound of a falling chair.

  I turned and saw Valerie Allen, her face as rosy as her sweater, righting a chair and carrying it toward us. She tiptoed with her shoulders hunched, as if she hoped stooping would make her less visible. Why should she want to be less visible? She was lovely and feminine in her fuzzy pink sweater and slim black jeans.

  When she saw me, she smiled and carried her chair over on the other side of mine. She more fell into it than sat, and I noticed that Frank held up the action until she was done.

  “I had to finish a paper,” she whispered as two more combatants moved onto the mat and bowed. “But I told Frank I’d come if I could.”

  He didn’t smile at her, but he sat up straighter, if that was possible, as he turned to watch the current performers.

  When the duo I’d been waiting for came to the mat, I was astonished at the pride I felt as they bowed to one another. Tyrone still looked like a big, bumbling boy trying to be dignified, but Smitty was calm and controlled. His bare head looked appropriate with that outfit, and as he bent his slender body toward Tyrone’s, he looked more natural than I’d ever seen him.

  Ridd leaned over and muttered, “If Smitty had been born in an earlier era, he could have become a warrior hero.”

  I nodded. “Too bad our current society doesn’t have a place for swashbucklers.”

  The two were new at the art, and it showed, but the whole time they fought I kept wishing I’d brought my video camera and the whole family. I don’t think I felt any more pride back when Walker carried a football sixty yards for a touchdown or when Ridd made the winning putt in a high-school golf tournament. When Smitty and Tyrone gave each other a solemn formal bow and left the mat, I clapped so hard my palms stung.

  After them, fellows with real swords started demonstrating how they could slice a bundle of bamboo with one blow. Every time a sword split the air, I thought of Edie, though, and it took all the self-discipline I possessed not to run from the room. Valerie may have had similar thoughts, because she kept one fist pressed to her mouth, and her eyes were wide and frightened.

  Finally Frank and the other man rose and approached the mat. Each carried a sword. As they turned and bowed, the sun came out and streamed through the western windows, edging the men in gold. Valerie leaned forward in her seat and clasped her hands so tightly in her lap that the ends of her fingers turned pink. The men raised their swords and began to fight.

  With the first clash of swords, my whole world went dark except for the glint of sunlight off the flashing blades. My ears roared. Sweat broke out on my forehead and ran down my back. I took deep breaths, willing myself not to faint, and my hamburger churned within me. Again and again the blades rose, clashed, rose, and clashed. By the time the two men finished and bowed to each other, I could not have left my chair if my life had depended on it. I felt like I’d been soaked in water and wrung out hard. I fought to control myself so Ridd wouldn’t notice anything was wrong.

  Watching Frank had not affected Valerie as it had me. “Weren’t they great?” she said, bouncing up and down in her chair. The way her eyes followed him as he spoke to the boys again, I felt a pang for her sailor out at sea, but at that moment I didn’t care about Valerie’s love life. I only hoped she’d survive if it turned out Frank had killed Edie.

  As she turned, I saw a bruise on her chin. She saw me looking at it, and put up long fingers to hide it. “I bumped my head on a desk, leaning down to pick up a pencil.”

  This was a conversation we’d had before, with similar results. “That’s a creative explanation,” I told her. “I never heard that one before.”

  “It’s true!” She drew away from me. “I know people don’t believe me, but I’m real clumsy.”

  “Well, you know where I am if you need me.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t sound like she planned to come.

  “Are you doing okay since Edie’s death?”

  The little light that was left in her face disappeared. “Not very. I can forget for a little while, but then I remember again, and I feel like I’m drowning. That’s the worst thing that ever happened in my whole life.”

  The worst that ever happened in Edie’s, too, but I didn’t mention that. I was looking for words to console her when Tyrone spoke above us, his voice cracking with excitement. “What did you think? Did you like it?”

  Smitty stood at his elbow, not saying a word, but watching Ridd and me with those cold gray eyes, waiting for something. I wished I knew what.

  I smiled at both of them. “You did great. I was real proud to know you.”

  Tyrone, ever aware of unhappiness around him, turned to Valerie. “Didn’t you like it?”

  “Oh, yes,” she told him. “But I got sad afterwards, thinking about my friend Edie and her poor old lonesome daddy. She died, you know, and I used to live with her. But you all did great.”

  “Poor old daddy, nothing,” Smitty muttered with a scowl. “Got what was coming to him.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that murder getting solved,” Tyrone assured Valerie. “The judge here will take care of that. She’s real good at finding out stuff. Folks can’t hide anything from her.”

  Tyrone beamed. Smitty smirked. Ridd frowned.

  Valerie cried, “Oh, no!” She jumped to her feet, knocked over her chair, and stumbled toward the door.

  17

  When we got outside, the sun shone on waterlogged streets. Ridd looked at his watch. “Looks like I’ll have time to get my car serviced before I pick up Cricket. He’s been over at
Natasha’s all afternoon. Alex closed the library until Monday.”

  “Let me pick him up,” I offered. “I have to go to the beauty parlor, and Alex’s is on my way home. We’ll feed Cricket supper, then bring him home.” Only later did I remember that Alex had kicked me out two days ago. I hoped she’d at least welcome me long enough to pick up Cricket.

  Never underestimate the reconciliation powers of two exuberant prekindergartners. They greeted me jumping up and down and yelling, “Look what we got! Look what we got!” Poe Boy joined in enthusiastically, leaping and barking.

  Cricket waved a familiar wand with a star on one end, now painted gold. A circlet of gold metal adorned with a silver diamond shape perched on Natasha’s head. “Henry brought ’em! And the teera fits, too. Look!” She felt to make sure the “diamond” was properly situated in front.

  “I see it does. You are a real princess.”

  “ ’N’ this is a real magic wand, Me-Mama, so don’t go waving it around without thinking,” Cricket warned.

  “I won’t. I hate to break this up, but I came to pick you up, Cricket.”

  Two lower lips poked out and two little faces fell. “I could visit with Natasha’s mama a while first,” I offered, hoping Alex wouldn’t evict me right away.

  Natasha’s pearly little teeth flashed. “She’s in the dinin’ room, talkin’ to Henry.”

  That was certainly worth seeing. I let them lead me to the dining room table, where Alex sat turned sideways toward her small kitchen. Today she wore a cherry-red velour jogging suit with Santa on the front. Her feet were bare, her toenails silver. The armchair of her dining room chairs rested upside down on top of the table, but I didn’t see Henry.

  “Miss Me-Mama came to talk to you,” Natasha announced, conveniently forgetting my original errand—or maybe hoping I would. “Come on, Cricket. Let’s go back to our kingdom.”

  “Why, hello.” Alex was still wan, but she seemed to have forgotten our last parting.