Murder at Royal Palms (A cozy mystery novella) (Thursday Club Mysteries Book 1)

by Sheila Hudson

  MURDER AT GOLDEN PALMS

  A Thursday Club Mystery, book 1

  By Sheila Hudson

  Copyright 2015 Take Me Away Books, a division of Winged Publications

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the authors.

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV), Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  ~1~

  What I wanted was a glass of Chardonnay and a foot massage. What I had was a lukewarm Starbucks© peppermint latte and a cryptic note about a funeral. If Clara had given me a few details I might be able to cope. Her instructions only stressed that I be prompt.

  Wilson’s Funeral Home

  10:00 a.m. sharp.

  Wear black and a hat —veil optional.

  It’s still a few weeks until Trick or Treat, so I telephoned Suzy Langford for details. Her housekeeper told me through muffled sobs that indeed Mitchell was dead. Suzy and her sister, Amy, were at Wilson’s Funeral Home.

  I had only known Suzy, Amy, Clara, and Hattie since the beginning of the year, but we already had a tight bond. Together we weathered endless pot luck dinners, endured the annual bazaar, and orchestrated Athena’s community-wide Easter Egg Hunt. I now found myself in a debacle with the Ledbetters over the Christmas Drop In. I grant you this band of merrymakers had done a lot of things since I’d known them, but this command performance seemed over the top…

  Who was this Mitchell anyway? Was he a church member? Tom and I thought we had met all the members and even the shut-ins. The Langfords had never mentioned him. Mitchell must not be a regular attender at First Church where my husband ministered. No matter. I would find out soon enough. One thing was certain about our close knit group; no one was good at keeping secrets.

  Wilson’s parking lot was only a third full. I scanned the parked cars and spotted Amy’s van and the black limo bearing Athena Beacon plates. My ten-year-old PT Cruiser looked a bit shabby next to their rides. Perhaps one day!

  Wilson’s Funeral Home was an Athena landmark with its red brick, Ionic columns, and white porticos at the chapel entrance. Clara had recently written a column about Wilson’s for the newspaper. Those white pillars had to be patched regularly since they were original and the Historical Society wouldn’t grant permission to have them replaced. The original Mr. Wilson died years ago. But the current Mr. Wilson was either a son or grandson of the original proprietor. Rumor was that the Wilsons were Methodists.

  I was never sure why the “girls” accepted me so quickly. On our first encounter, Amy mentioned The Thursday Club, the purpose of which was still a little vague. As I got to know them I understood why. I relished the fact that this madcap senior group accepted me as Roxy Thibideaux – not as the preacher’s wife. Some of our more sedate church members warned me that these golden age mavens were unorthodox and feistier than they might appear. Little did the well-meaners realize that this made them even more appealing.

  Quickly I exchanged my Crocs© for black pumps, plopped the veil over my auburn bangs, checked the mirror, and headed in. Soft organ music played. I slipped into a back pew and allowed my eyes to adjust to the low lighting. My friends were sitting near the front on either side of Clara. It isn’t hard to spot two blonds on either side of a purple French beret even in the dark. Plus, twin wheelchairs are hard to miss. With heads bowed, they undoubtedly were wondering where the hell I was.

  After a few hymns and prayers, the time came for testimonies. I discovered dear Mitchell was a faithful friend, companion, confidante, and perfect sleepover chum. That last one threw me. I peeked under my veil to better survey the dimly lit chapel. The entire audience was composed of females—not just any women but the entire ambulatory citizenship of the Golden Palms Residency Center plus quite a few church members. Seems Mitchell had many admirers of post-menopausal age. Come to think of it, I was the only one under sixty years of age in the room. Mitchell did a lot of tomcatting indeed.

  Could Mitchell have been a member of First Church and his demise completely overlooked? I searched my memory banks again and dashed off a text to my husband. An oversight like that could cost him his appointment with a reassignment in something worse than Siberia.

  Tom texted: No Mitchell in the files either first or last name. So I am left literally in the dark. The dimmed lights went up a notch and the funeral director, one of the Mr. Wilsons I presume, made a few remarks and led the way as the casket was wheeled down the aisle. It was a very short coffin. Was Mitchell a midget? Or more politically correct—a little person?

  I puzzled on this as a voice announced a reception following and encouraged all attending to sign the guest book for Amy and Suzy Langford.

  OMG! Then it hit me. Small coffin. Egyptian Bastet feline hieroglyphic. Mitchell was a cat!!!!

  Now I really needed that glass of Chardonnay plus an explanation. Evidently, there was much to learn about my new friends. Chagrined didn’t cover it. I didn’t know whether to laugh or be sympathetic. I felt like a fool on the one hand and like a caring friend on the other. But the question I had to ask myself was: Would I have responded as quickly if I had known Mitchell was a real tomcat full of years and quite the romancer?

  The reception hall was filled to capacity with those paying their respects to the Langford sisters. Cat fanciers, I presume. Actually they seemed more like cat fanatics than fanciers. Even though I prefer dogs, I would never wish harm to come to any animal. With Mitchell’s reputation I wonder how he met his demise. Maybe a rival tomcat or jealous husband? Once this catered shindig was over, I intended to find out more about our departed furry friend. All I could recall was a passing remark over rescuing an animal from the shelter.

  Suzy and Amy spied me across the room as I nursed my glass of white wine. They had to realize that I was in the dark about Mitchell. On our Thursday Club days, the Langford sisters usually arrived at Golden Palms before me, so if they brought their feline I wouldn’t have seen him. No matter, the sisters also knew that I had more class than to make a scene. Hattie plopped down beside me and placed her walker strategically between me and the buffet line. Aromas from the food table were making my stomach growl.

  “Can I get you something, Hattie?” I offered.

  “No. Clara’s seeing to that. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Tell me the truth. When you arrived were you a bit overwhelmed? Had no idea Mitchell was a cat did you?”

  With that, she cackled and waved to Blanche Ledbetter mumbling “bitch” as she covered her lips with a lace appliqued handkerchief.

  “The girls always were a big vague about the details of how they came to possess Mitchell, but he was the unofficial mascot of Golden Palms. But I’ll tell you what. Whenever they brought him for a visit, Mitchell had complete run of the place. You probably haven’t noticed him because he hangs out in the kitchen begging for treats. Mitchell was no kitten when he took up residence. The vet guessed Mitchell must have been about twelve years old. I suppose he died of natural causes. Still, I wonder.”

  “You wonder what?”

  “I wonder what the necropsy will reveal.”

  As I quietly choked on my wine, Hattie twirled the wisps
of hair surrounding her chapeau. On my visits to Golden Palms, I discovered that Hattie believed in living up to her name. She wore a different hat every day. As Blanche, another blue-haired inmate of Golden Palms approached with a plate loaded with goodies, I snatched Hattie’s lace hanky and covered my face.

  “Clara sent me over with his,” she said flatly. After Hattie muttered a chilly ‘thanks inmate’. She turned back to me.

  “I didn’t think you knew,” she whispered after Blanche sat a platter of fruit, cheese, and chicken wings on her lap. Inmate was a semi-affectionate term that Hattie used for her fellow residents. I looked away as Hattie received the tray. Blanche glanced my way and assumed I was grieving then shuffled away.

  “Did you say necropsy?” I managed to say when my coughing spell ceased.

  Hattie nodded and added, “animal autopsy.” Until that last revelation, I had planned to join the buffet line. The lunch spread looked delicious with ham, cheeses, fruit, salads, and desserts. A tasteful sign at the adjoining table announced to the guests that Pauline’s Café had catered this unusual affair. And I must say she outdid herself. Still thoughts of dissection lingered so I decided to pass for now.

  The only gentleman in the place was Golden Palms’ own Gerald Ramsey, the designated driver of the people mover. Gerald was dozing with the newspaper spread across his midsection. Occasionally he roused, reached around his newspaper, and stabbed an item on his plate with a toothpick.

  I finished my white wine and began working my way through the crowd toward the sisters. A text signaled me that I was overdue at home. The monthly Elders and Deacons meeting was scheduled for tonight at the parsonage. That entailed coffee and desserts afterward along with pleasant small talk. Tom was still finding his way in the congregation and I vowed to help him with all the good will I could muster. I figured Suzy and Amy would be at Wilson’s for hours touting Mitchell’s virtues and greeting friends from out of town. I waved goodbye to the Langfords across the room, hugged Clara, and gave Hattie a peck on the cheek.

  I reassured myself that I would have plenty of time to ask my questions at our regular meeting. It wasn’t like we had an agenda anyway. So far our “club meetings” consisted of knitting, bitching, playing cards, and sharing opinions about movies, books, neighbors, and anything else that came up. We were much too creative to stick to the same format every week. Clara was the current president. I was elected vice president if I ever figured out what that entailed. No one seemed too concerned about duties. We sort of winged every meeting.

  I looked upon The Thursday Club as a sort of secret outlet for me to get out of the parsonage, meet with interesting people, and not feel constricted by the watchful eyes of church members. These girls could care less what the leaders of First Church thought. They had undertakings of their own. I only wish I knew what they were.

  ~2~

  Although it was late September I knew the church fall activities would be quickly upon us. The community typically hosted back to school fairs plus an October harvest festival. This time of year became an avalanche of meetings planning this and that. Autumn days seemed shorter than others and before you know it Thanksgiving and Christmas were just around the corner.

  Thoughts of Mitchell’s elaborate funeral and reception pushed my mind off task. It took all of my mental energy to stay focused. I had read of famous animals getting special treatment like Mitchell, but never experienced it. How did they pull off having a funeral for a cat in a regular funeral home? I must remember to ask someone.

  To keep myself occupied I worked on my squares for the ‘love blanket’ project. When my yarn ran out, I pulled out some holiday recipes for the Christmas Drop In. I jotted down a shopping for Thanksgiving. I missed my entourage. As peculiar as our little troupe was, we did have style. I smiled when I remembered the elaborate ceremony and catered reception for Mitchell Langford. It made me more anxious to hear the whole story.

  I phoned the sisters. No answer. I telephoned Clara. She said the Langford sisters were out of town. So our Thursday Club meeting was cancelled. Clara’s informants said the sisters went to “scatter Mitchell’s ashes.” Wonder where that would be? Wait a minute! How can you scatter ashes if there’s to be necropsy? Either it was finished or they changed their minds. Clara didn’t know anything about a necropsy.

  I was still mulling over the weird happenings surrounding Mitchell as I made my regular Thursday visit to Golden Palms. I eased into a parking space and pulled out my tote. The first time I met Hattie at Golden Palms she and Clara were playing cards. Clara said Hattie was cheating and she probably was. Hattie had that spirit of adventure and a twinkle in her eye that I couldn’t resist. I wonder what nuggets of information she had for me today.

  Clara Nesmith was Hattie’s opposite— a dear quiet soul. Our Thursday get-togethers were about all that would pry Clara from the newspaper office. Clara’s family founded the Athena Beacon. It was said her family had ink in their veins instead of blood. Since the Langfords were gone, Clara was probably catching up and wouldn’t visit Hattie today. The funeral and reception had put a dent in everyone’s week, even though we all were supposed to be retired.

  Whoever named this facility Golden Palms was a marketing person par excellence since it was neither golden nor palm-filled. Golden Palms was Athena’s retirement community. Most of its residents were still active or as energetic as their physicality allowed. Nevertheless GP as it was sarcastically referred to, was the home for many of First Church’s senior saints including Hattie Sewell and Elvira Honeycutt. These two were founding members of First Church, the Mountain View Garden Club, and the Society of Sisters. The latter was out of existence, but lingered in the minds of these two matriarchs who had competed since grade school.

  Hattie owned Total Image Hair Salon and Day Spa. She relished the position of the ultimate dowager with stories about every skeleton in the community closet. Hattie was a veritable font of knowledge and gossip. She lived in a duplex with Grace Satterfield until she locked herself out one too many times. It was general knowledge around town that Hattie Sewell was a handful. After Hattie came to GP, her niece continued to run the day spa but the grapevine reported that it wasn’t doing too well. Not surprised, Bella didn’t have her aunt’s vivacious spirit.

  Hattie’s independent and flamboyant personality endeared her to me immediately. She was my favorite person to visit. With each social call only one thing was certain, you never knew what you were going to get. And there she was in the rec room sporting today’s millinery selection, a dealer’s visor with its green plastic shield tilted sideways. Could this be Casino Day?

  “Hello Roxy,” she shouted as soon as I turned the corner. Hattie clutched a piece of needlepoint.

  “Hey Miss Hattie. What’s with the visor?”

  “This?” She swiveled her head piece.

  “It was in the rotation after yesterday’s sombrero and just before the flapper headband with the mauve ostrich plume.”

  Hattie could tell you in detail how, when, and where she obtained each piece of headwear. Hattie had flaws, but memory loss was not one of them. I was full of questions about the funeral, but decided to make small talk while her fellow residents were milling about.

  “What are you working on?” I pointed to the needlework she held in her lap.

  “Oh. Some holiday scarf thing. But it’s not doing it for me. What’s the latest scuttlebutt?” She chucked the unfinished piece into her tote and focused her attention squarely on me.

  “I was counting on you to tell me,” I said. As usual, I went to the reception area and brought back a tray with refreshments.

  “You pour the coffee and serve up the treats. The warden served only soft stuff today. One of the inmates had dental work done. Drat! I wanted pecan chocolate chip cookies.”

  I did as Her Royal Highness commanded. We chatted about the Baptists’ mile long yard charity sale and the Lutheran’s plans for a live manger scene.

  By my third cup of coffee
I had to ask, “Tell me more about Mitchell and this necropsy stuff.”

  I felt like I was in that television commercial where all conversation stops and life is in slo-mo. Hattie’s expression suddenly changed. Was that fear in her eyes? She glanced around the room to ensure that everyone else was out of earshot.

  “Come close, Roxy,” Hattie motioned for me to lean in. “I believe we are being poisoned,” she whispered.

  “Poisoned!” I gasped.

  “Shh. Pipe down Missy,” Hattie shushed. She poured more coffee into the saucer and slurped it loudly. When she was satisfied that everyone within a thousand feet was deaf, she motioned for me to slide my chair closer.

  “You mean poisoned as in air and water pollution, lead paint, and aspartame – stuff like that. Right?”

  “No. I mean someone is knocking off old coots like me. If you want to know the truth, I believe Mitchell just got in the way.”

  “Why Hattie! What an imagination.”

  This ninety-year-old if she’s a day rolled her eyes in a way only she could. She swallowed a bit of soggy doughnut and gently resettled her coffee cup. Pretending to stretch, she systematically scanned the room. Then in a muted voice Hattie continued, “Mark my words. You heard it from me. Someone is poisoning the inmates at Golden Palms.”

  I spewed coffee down the front of my denim skirt, grabbed a handful of napkins, and tried to pry Miss Hattie off the subject.

  “Not here,” I said all the while surveying the room for a reaction. Then I did what we all do so well. Ignore the elderly and act as if this conversation never occurred. I picked up Hattie’s tote and placed the walker in front of her chair. Taking her elbow, I began to herd her back to her room like a toddler who needed a nap.

  “Here. Let me help you back to your room,” I made sure that bystanders heard. “You must rest before the Scrabble tournament.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Hattie murmured. She pointed an arthritic finger at me, “But as sure as I am Hattie Sewell, you’ll see that I’m right.”