Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “How did you know the key was there?” the prosecutor asked.

  Olive tossed her head and put her nose in the air. “I, sir, am a trained research librarian.”

  When asked about the evening of the murder, she said she had come back from North Augusta because Adney needed for her to go down to Edie’s. “He was worried Genna might be spending the night at Edie’s.”

  “Why?” asked the prosecutor.

  “That would have spoiled everything,” she snapped. She also bragged on Adney for giving her explicit instructions about how to construct her own airtight alibi. I don’t like Adney Harrison, but he did take care of his little sister.

  Any research she does in the foreseeable future, however, will be done in a prison library.

  For me, the case ended as it had begun, sharing tea and cookies in Alex James’s office. It was a cold, dreary winter day with a hint of rain in the air, the perfect weather to sit with a friend sipping tea from china cups. She’d poured a third cup, in memory of Edie. Steam rose from it like gentle prayers for her soul.

  As I reached for a cookie, Alex demanded, “So what would make Olive and Adney do those things? I mean, they both had good jobs, and he, at least, was handsome and charming. He had a great house, he had Genna—”

  I noticed where she’d put Adney’s wife on the list. That was probably higher than Adney had. I had asked Genna after it was all over, “Tell me something. How long did you know Adney before he found out your daddy owned the Hopemore pharmacy?”

  “Oh, he knew from the beginning,” she said in a dreary tone. Genna had not yet begun to find out who she could be without Adney. “He came by the hospital one day saying he’d called on Daddy the week before, and Daddy told him I worked at the hospital in Birmingham.”

  I didn’t bother to color in the lines. One day, maybe she’d do that for herself.

  Alex was still waiting for an answer, and it tied in with what I’d just been thinking about. “Adney was good at seizing the moment. Walker used to talk all the time about how good he was at really listening to what a customer said, then using some small point he’d picked up to put through a deal. When he learned that Whelan Grove Road was going to be four-laned, and knew the land on both sides might be developed—”

  “—he thought Edie was sitting on a gold mine.” Alex looked as sad as I felt.

  “And when he heard she might be changing her will, he decided she had to die.”

  We both looked at Edie’s cup for a moment of heartbroken silence.

  “You got any happy news?” Alex finally asked.

  “I do, actually. For one, guess who’s going to be the policeman in the upcoming production of Arsenic and Old Lace?” I waited to be sure she didn’t know. “Smitty. Ridd says Smitty is amazing onstage.”

  “Smitty as a policeman anywhere would be amazing. I’d have guessed him for the evil brother. Did I hear Ridd is playing the love interest?”

  “Heck, no. He’s the mad doctor. Want to go with us when we see it?”

  “It’s a date.” Alex leaned back in her chair. “You know, Mac, I can’t stop thinking about all this mess, and you know what I think was at the root of it? Entitlement. Remember when I told you I am dedicated to seeing that people get what they’re entitled to? This has made me rethink that. It was because Adney felt entitled to own his own business that he killed Edie. And Olive felt entitled to have Adney take care of her, and thought he was entitled to whatever he could get because he’d worked so hard. From something she said, I think they came up as poor as I did.”

  I sipped my tea as I thought that over. “But Adney was never greedy. One of the things that made it hard for Walker to believe he’d kill Edie for money is that he says Adney was one of the most generous men he ever met. When they read that letter out in court, Walker literally turned pale. Until that minute, he had remained convinced that Adney was innocent, that he wanted Edie to move into town because he was genuinely concerned about her.”

  “Entitlement is different from greed.” Alex wrinkled her forehead, as if working out what she was saying as she went along. “It’s subtler, and easier for people to fall into. We all know it’s wrong to be greedy, but our whole society teaches us we’re entitled. Remember that old commercial, ‘I’m worth it’? That’s the real American dream. We think we are entitled to live in the strongest country, that we deserve to be affluent, live in better neighborhoods, and eat richer food than other folks. And why? Because of our color, or our religion, or where we were born. It’s in the fiber of our being. The U.S. Constitution itself says everybody is entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

  “But the authors of the Constitution were smart enough to spell out the Bill of Rights, to ensure that people don’t feel so entitled that they snatch what they want at somebody else’s expense,” I pointed out. “If you’ll climb down off your soapbox a minute, I have another bit of good news.”

  “What?”

  “I had a visit this week from Frank Sparks. He roared up on his Harley, stomped into my office, and sat down so hard he nearly broke my wing chair. He deposited his silver helmet on my floor, turned beet red, and asked me to preside at his and Valerie’s wedding this spring, down in some pasture. He said he’ll come pick me up in his sidecar.”

  For once in my life, I’d impressed her. “You do weddings?”

  “I never have, but I’m entitled to. Dang, that word’s contagious. What I meant to say is, magistrates can marry people. Joe Riddley never would, because it would have broken his heart if a couple he’d married wound up in divorce court. But I said I’ll do it. I think this one might stick. Besides, I never rode in a sidecar, and I’m dying to meet Frank’s mama. You needing a wedding anytime soon?” I added, trying to sound casual.

  “Dream on, girlfriend. I told you, when it comes to men, I move like molasses on ice.”

  “But I’m the one who got Henry to fix your car. Don’t you forget that.”

  She grew very still, and started doodling on her desk with one long magenta fingernail. “I’m gonna remember if this turns out bad. But right now, we’re what my auntie calls ‘keeping company.’ ” She ducked her head with a grin. “He’s pretty good company, too. But speaking of Henry, I e-mailed several middle-school librarian friends up in South Carolina to see if they could learn anything about the whereabouts of Latoya, and they found her! Never underestimate the research skills of a bunch of librarians. Henry’s driving up to see her next weekend. He said she’s in foster care, and he thinks he and Daisy might have a good chance at getting custody.”

  “Tell him if he needs character witnesses, Joe Riddley and I are available.”

  I looked over at Edie’s cup, which was slowly growing cold. “I sure wish Edie could have known how things would work out. Valerie and Frank getting married, you and Henry ‘keeping company,’ Daisy feeling brave enough to take on a teenager, this year’s harvest safely in and sold, and Josiah able to smile a little when we saw him last week.”

  Alex snatched a tissue to wipe her eyes. I was getting too soppy for even me to stand, so I ended, “Even Genna’s sort of happy. She found a safe-deposit box key after all—Adney rented one to store the antique snuffboxes and Edie’s jewelry.”

  As I left, I paused by the door. “Don’t forget I have a license to marry.”

  She grinned. “You don’t give up, do you? But I’ll keep it in mind. Natasha’s already told me if I don’t marry Henry, she’s going to.”

  “What did Henry say to that?”

  Alex threw back her head and laughed. “He said they’re gonna live in the grove, and I can come see them every Sunday.”

  After supper that night, Joe Riddley came into the living room where I was sitting on the couch with Lulu. “Here.” He dropped something in my lap. “You’ve been hinting about taking a vacation for months now—”

  “I haven’t been hinting,” I objected. “I’ve been downright asking.”

  “Well, here’s somethin
g right up your alley. I’ve already put down a deposit, so there’s no use arguing about it.”

  I picked up a brochure. “Explore Your Roots!” it said in big letters. Inside were pictures of purple mountains and lovely lakes. “A tour of Scotland?” I looked at the little map and felt quivers of excitement in my middle. “Look! They’re going to the village our branch of the MacLarens came from.”

  “Thought you’d like it.” He settled into his recliner and picked up the remote. “Laura MacDonald got this in the mail, and she’s going, too, so you won’t be all by yourself.” Laura MacDonald, owner of MacDonald Motors, is my namesake, although I persuaded her parents that MacLaren MacDonald would be too much of a good thing. She is also one of my favorite people. But—

  “You aren’t going?” I never imagined going overseas without him.

  He didn’t meet my eye. “The boys have been talking about taking a deep-sea fishing trip down in Florida. Invited me to come along—” He added quickly, as if that made all the difference, “We’re taking the little fellows. Crick and Tad.”

  “You are taking my only two grandsons on a deep-sea fishing trip? What if they fall off the boat? What if they get sunburned?”

  “We’ll call you in Scotland to let you know. I thought you’d enjoy detecting over there. I figure you can’t get in too much trouble looking up dead people.”

  He was dead wrong, but that’s another story.

  Thanks

  It is amazing what you need to know to write a book. I couldn’t have written this one without several people who have specialized knowledge they were willing to share.

  Fellow mystery author Walter Sorrells gave a fascinating presentation to the Atlanta Sisters in Crime on kenjutsu and how to forge blades of various types, never realizing he was inspiring part of this story. Thanks, Walter, for patiently answering all my questions and checking the manuscript, so Smitty and Tyrone could study at the Hopemore Budokan and Henry could make his machete. If I’m ever in bodily danger, you’re the man I’d like to have at my side.

  Thanks to Shigenobu Machida for translating various Japanese terms related to kenjutsu, so I didn’t inadvertently put the wrong word in the right place.

  I have always loved pecans and once had a tree, but I never appreciated how much is involved in raising pecans commercially until instructed by Bill McGehee of the Big 6 Grove in Fort Valley, Georgia. Thanks, Bill, for explaining complicated processes so I could understand.

  Helen Rhea Stumbo of Fort Valley again let me visit the headquarters of Camellia and Main, one of the classiest home-furnishings catalogues I know. This time we toured the warehouse, and I saw what happens to merchandise from the time we place an order until it gets shipped. Thanks for a great day, Helen Rhea—both the tour and tale of the marauding kittens, which was so good I used it.

  Thanks, too, to Sergeant Holly Lonergan in the Cobb County sheriff’s department, who helped me with Genna’s arrest. “Who’s this woman again?” she demanded.

  “It’s a book,” I assured her.

  I have tried to incorporate what each of them told me as accurately as possible. As always, any errors are my own.

  Donna Linse is a real, live MacLaren fan who read my Web site, entered a contest, and earned the right to have her name in this book. Her name, however, is the only part of her I used.

  My local librarians were so eager to have a librarian “do it,” I wish I could have obliged. After all, when I called to ask, “What do you all call that little doo-hickey you use to demagnetize the books?” they didn’t tell me I was dumb. They just replied, “A magnet.”

  Thanks as always to Judge Mildred Palmer in Burke County, Georgia, who remains my inspiration. To my husband, Bob, for enduring weeks of angst, late meals, and, sometimes, no meals so this book could get written. To my agent, Nancy Yost, who always picks me up and keeps me going when I call to ask, “Why did I ever think I was a writer?” Finally, many thanks to Ellen Edwards, who is not only my patient and persevering editor, but has become a friend as well.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Patricia Sprinkle’s next

  Thoroughly Southern Mystery

  Who Brought the Coffins?

  Coming from Signet in February 2006

  Roddy Lamont charged into the dining room of the Heather Glen guesthouse, interrupting our midday dinner. “Father? Father! Fit’s to be done wi’ the coffins in the narthex, then?”

  I remembered enough of my morning lesson in broad Scots to know that “fit” meant “what.”

  Father Ewan, who ate Wednesday dinner at Heather Glen on his housekeeper’s day off, rose from the table. “Coffins? Whose are they?”

  “I dinna ken.” Roddy’s petulant face was flushed and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead beneath a mop of ruddy curls. He must have run all the way up Schoolhouse Brae. “I just went in to mop the narthex, and the bl—” A quick look at his mother and he finished smoothly—“oomin’ place is full of coffins. I was workin’ in the back, y’ ken, so I never saw them comin’ in, but you shoulda told me if we’re havin’ a funeral—much less two.” He pulled a blue handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face.

  His mother twisted her hands under her apron and practically glowed with pride at how seriously Roddy was finally taking a job, until he added in indignation, “I’m off to the bike rally at three, and this has put me behind.”

  Father Ewan looked with regret at his gooseberries with vanilla custard. He’d already said how fond he was of gooseberries with custard. But he laid down his napkin and gave those of us around the table a slight bow. “Excuse me, Mrs. Yarbrough, but I’d better go see what this is about. I’ve had no notice of anyone dying hereabouts.” He motioned me with one hand. “Come along when you’re done with your meal. This shouldna take long—there’s obviously been some kind of mistake. And I can take you on that wee look ’round the chapel as soon as I sort this out.”

  I put down my napkin. “Why don’t I come with you now? I can be looking at the grounds while you’re occupied.” It was a perfect excuse for me to skip the gooseberries, which lay in my bowl like pale green eyeballs. I’d been wondering how to get out of eating them.

  I trotted after the two men as they strode out the back door and down the hill. Fortunately, the priest was as short as I am, and a little older, so I had no trouble keeping up. Roddy was still full of grievance. “1 saved cleanin’ the narthex til the last, y’ ken, so I could mop the flair and front steps last, then leave them to dry while I came up for my dinner. I must have been hooverin’ at the back when Ian brought them in, but you’d think he’d have the sense to give me a shout. He shouldna just dump people like that and go away.”

  The priest and I were both panting from trying to keep up with Roddy’s long legs. Father Ewan waved for him to stop opposite the schoolhouse, half-way down the hill—or “brae”—and reached into the pocket of his black suit for a cell phone. “Stop a wee whiley and let me give Ian a ring. Ian Gettys is our local joiner,” he added to me as he punched in a number.

  As he sidled away to talk, I asked Roddy, “What’s a joiner?”

  Roddy—who never stood if he could lean—propped himself against a house that abutted the sidewalk across from the school and gave me the look Middle Georgians would give somebody who asked, “What’s a bird dog?”

  “Y’ dinna have joiners in America?” Clearly, he wondered how we managed to survive.

  I shook my head.

  He reached down the neck of his gray pullover and brought up a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. The way the sweater sagged, that must be a frequent habit. He held the pack out to me, and when I refused, he took time to light up and exhale slowly. The way his brow was furrowed, he was trying to figure out how best to explain something obvious to an ignoramus. “He’s a sort of builder, y’ ken? He makes coffins and kitchen cabinets, lays carpet, puts up wallpaper—he joins things.” He flapped one hand to conclude the explanation.

 
; Father Ewan snapped his phone shut, stowed it in a pocket, and came back to us with a broad smile. “False alarm, lad. The bloomin’ things are empty. Ian is out, but Barbara said the coffins are for that play the Americans are putting on tomorrow night.” He nodded my way.

  Guilt by association made me say quickly, “1 don’t know anything about coffins, and we aren’t putting on the play. It’s just being put on while we’re here. Our tour guide wrote it.”

  “Och, that must be the way of it, then.” Roddy nodded with enlightenment. “The lass said to take them to the chapel, and that dunce Ian didn’t ask what she meant by that.” He squinted down at me through another cloud of smoke, “Folks not from here look at the sign that says St. Margaret’s Chapel and think it’s called ‘the chapel’—never knowin’ our lot’s got the chapel and St. Margaret’s is just St. Margaret’s—not the chapel a-tall. Used to be Church of England, but nowadays it’s just a meeting hall.”

  “I’m Presbyterian.” I felt a continuing need to distance myself as far as possible from those “folks not from here” he was ridiculing.

  “Och, then ye’ll be goin’ to the kirk, down by the manse woods.” He pointed to the right, obviously glad to get all that cleared up for my benefit. Then he added to the priest, “Shall I shift them to one side, just, until Ian can fetch them? I’ve still got that flair to mop.”