Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Teaser chapter
Praise for Patricia Sprinkle’s Mysteries
When Will the Dead Lady Sing?
“Patricia Sprinkle takes the reader on a trip to the ‘real’ South, the South of family traditions, community customs, church-going, and crafty, down-home politics. Reading it is like spending an afternoon in the porch swing on Aunt Dixie’s veranda. Fun and family values triumph in a delightful book.”
—JoAnna Carl, author of The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up
Who Left That Body in the Rain?
“Forming a triumvirate with Anne George and Margaret Maron, Sprinkle adds her powerful voice to the literature of mysteries featuring Southern women. . . . Highly recommended.” —Mystery Time
“Authentic and convincing.”—Tamar Myers
“Who Left That Body in the Rain? charms, mystifies, and delights. As Southern as Sunday fried chicken and sweet tea. Patricia Sprinkle’s Hopemore is as captivating—and as filled with big hearts and big heartaches—as Jan Karon’s Mitford. Come for one visit and you’ll always return.”
—Carolyn Hart “An heirloom quilt. Each piece of patchwork is unique and with its own history, yet they are deftly stitched together with threads of family love and loyalty, simmering passion, deception and wickedness, but always with optimism imbued with down-home Southern traditions. A novel to be savored while sitting on a creaky swing on the front porch, a pitcher of lemonade nearby, a dog slumbering in the sunlight.” —Joan Hess
Who Invited the Dead Man?
“A wonderfully Southern setting . . . MacLaren seems right at home in her tiny town.”—Library Journal
“Touches of poignancy mixed with Southern charm and old secrets make Who Invited the Dead Man? a diverting read.”
—Romantic Times
And others . . .
“Light touches of humor and the charming interplay between MacLaren and her magistrate husband make this a fun read for mystery fans.”—Library Journal
“Sparkling . . . witty . . . a real treat and as refreshing as a mint julep, a true Southern pleasure.”—Romantic Times
“Sparkles with verve, charm, wit, and insight. I loved it.”
—Carolyn Hart
“Engaging . . . compelling . . . A delightful thriller.”
—Peachtree Magazine
“The sort of light entertainment we could use more of in the hot summer days to come.”—The Denver Post
“[Sprinkle] just keeps getting better.”
—The Post and Courier (Charleston, SC)
Thoroughly Southern Mysteries
WHO INVITED THE DEAD MAN?
WHO LEFT THAT BODY IN THE RAIN?
WHO LET THAT KILLER IN THE HOUSE?
WHEN WILL THE DEAD LADY SING?
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, June 2004
Copyright © Patricia Sprinkle, 2004
eISBN : 978-1-101-16160-9
All rights reserved
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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THANKS TO . . .
sister mystery writer Toni Kelner for the diamond story. Steve Kelner also did not propose until he’d earned enough to pay for her diamond, which puzzled and bewildered her. Toni, however, was a more faithful soul than MacLaren. In MacLaren’s defense, she was a little younger at the time, and hadn’t ever had a boyfriend except Joe Riddley. And Burlin was so very attractive.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
MacLaren Yarbrough: Georgia magistrate, co-owner of Yarbrough Feed, Seed and Nursery
Joe Riddley Yarbrough: MacLaren’s husband, co-owner of Yarbrough Feed, Seed and Nursery
Ridd Yarbrough: MacLaren’s older son, high-school math teacher and part-time farmer
Martha Yarbrough: Ridd’s wife, emergency-room supervisor
Cricket (4) and Bethany (17): their children
Hollis Stanton (17): Bethany’s best friend, lives with Ridd and his family
Tad Yarbrough (10): son of MacLaren’s younger son, Walker, visiting Ridd
Hubert Spence: Yarbroughs’ former neighbor, owner of Spence’s Appliances
Maynard Spence: Hubert’s son, antiques dealer
Augusta Wainwright and Winifred “Pooh” DuBose: Hopemore’s elderly aristocrats
Hector Blaine: ne’er-do-well resident of Hopemore
Bailey “Buster” Gibbons: Hope County sheriff
Charlie Muggins: Hopemore police chief
Isaac James: assistant police chief
Burlin Bullock: Georgia politician, former congressman
Lance Bullock: Burlin’s son, running for governor
Renée Bullock: Lance’s wife
Georgia Tate: Burlin’s sister
Edward Tate: Georgia’s husband, Burlin’s partner, Lance’s campaign manager
Abigail “Binky” Bullock: Burlin’s younger sister
1
The Hopemore wa
ter tank murder was news all over the world. It happened right after my own face got plastered on the front page of every major paper in the country, so for a time Middle Georgia had two national celebrities: Judge MacLaren Yarbrough and the Hopemore water tank. I am the shorter of the two.
With the town swarming with reporters and cameras, was I going to have to confess what I’d done?
However, I’m getting ahead of my story. For me, it began one September Friday when it was finally cool enough to shove our windows up. I looked out my front living room screen and gasped.
“Joe Riddley, there’s a buffalo in our front yard!”
From the dining room table, where he was trying to summon the energy to lift his first mug of morning coffee, my husband gave a little snort I suppose he meant for a laugh. “Is a coyote slinking through the bushes?”
I have known that man since we were four and six. It’s a miracle I have let him live this long. “No, but there is a buffalo. Shaggy shoulders, big hump on the back, great clumps of manure falling on the grass—”
He sighed, but didn’t bother to turn around. “Then he’s fifteen hundred miles and a hundred and fifty years off course. I’ve been telling you to get your eyes checked. It’s probably a big dog.” I heard the thump as his coffee mug hit the table. “What’s it doing?”
“Cropping grass. And there’s nothing the matter with my eyes. It’s a buffalo, dang it!”
I spoke so loud that Bo, Joe Riddley’s scarlet macaw—prancing around his own placemat—flapped his wings and demanded, “Back off! Give me space!”
At that, the huge creature on the front lawn raised its head and looked straight at me.
There was no mistaking the gleam of interest in those tiny eyes, which were almost lost in its huge fuzzy face. Weighed against its horns and massive head and shoulders, our new brick house seemed real flimsy. Why hadn’t we looked for a place with two-foot granite walls?
The buffalo stood in the grass and stared at me. I stood in the living room and stared at it. My brain was sending frantic signals to my feet and legs, but my lower body had shut off the phone.
Until then, it had been such a normal morning.
I’d gotten up around six, like I usually do, and padded into our new kitchen, thinking how much I liked its yellow walls even if Joe Riddley did ask if the paint came with sunglasses.
I found coffee and filters on my third try. We’d been in the new house nearly four weeks, but our cook, Clarinda, was still shifting things around, trying to find “where they feel themselves to home.” Apparently, only the toaster and coffeemaker had settled in so far, although Clarinda assured me the rest of our stuff was “beginning to get the feel of the place.” A friend who stays abreast of modern trends suggested Clarinda was practicing fêng shui. I figured she was just being Clarinda.
Around six fifteen, Joe Riddley padded in, scratching, unhappy at being up. He invariably is, that early. I took a mug of hot coffee to the dining room table, since our new kitchen was too little to eat in. He slumped into his preferred chair, facing the backyard, and sat there glaring at the coffee like he expected it to rise and meet him.
“You bring in the paper?” he muttered without looking up.
“Not yet, but I will.” I regarded him fondly from the kitchen door while I finished my own coffee. We’d been married over forty years, and I still thought him the hand somest husband in Hopemore. I even liked the touch of gray that was beginning to appear in his thick dark hair. He was generally real sweet, too, so long as you didn’t expect him to be charming before eight.
“Are you going for the paper,” he demanded, “or do I have to go get it?”
“You can’t go outside in white boxers and that tacky robe. I wish you’d let me rip it up for rags.”
“It’s got a little life left in it, just like me.” He shoved back his chair. “I guess I’d better feed Bo.” He left his coffee untasted and pushed past me.
While he opened and shut cabinet doors, I tried to insert a little culture into our morning. “You know that odd red-and-green bird I’ve been seeing over in the woods between us and the next house? I looked it up in Audubon, and it may be a male scarlet tanager, changing from summer to winter plumage.”
Joe Riddley peered into the pantry. “Where’s Clarinda hiding Bo’s food this week?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” He hadn’t heard a word I said. Still, I try to educate him whenever I can. You never can tell how much a husband will absorb unconsciously.
He found Bo’s cereal next to our own, carried it to Bo’s green plastic place mat on the dining room table, and dumped out a bit. Then he headed to retrieve Bo from what the real-estate agent enthusiastically described as “your screened back porch.” It was scarcely big enough for a large birdcage. We’d put Bo’s perch as far from the screen as it could get and still, on nights when rain blew in, we’d hear him shrieking something he’d picked up from our four-year-old grandson, Cricket: “I need help here. Did you hear what I said? I need help.” Still, he had to stay there. I wouldn’t let him in the new house except for the living and dining rooms, which had floors we could mop. Unless you have had a bird, you have no idea how filthy they can be.
I scowled at the doo-streaked green cement porch floor while Joe Riddley stroked Bo’s bright red breast to wake him up. Bo is even grumpier than Joe Riddley in the morning. He finally hopped onto Joe Riddley’s shoulder and perched there, muttering inaudible words I probably didn’t want to hear. We’d inherited Bo when his former owner, Hiram Blaine, had been killed down at our house,1 and Hiram had a colorful vocabulary.
As Joe Riddley set the macaw down on his green place mat and gently stroked its breast, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time that he loved that bird and it had been real good for him in recent months. I would not suggest that we give it away—yet.
Joe Riddley watched until Bo had started pecking away, then turned to me and announced, “Tanagers don’t generally get this far south. Must be migrating. We’re in a migration pattern.”
How did he know that? I was the one who read bird books. “I suppose you heard that from Audubon personally?”
“Just common knowledge.” He pulled out his chair, fell into it again, and lifted his mug. “Did you get the paper yet?”
“I’m going.” Grumpiness is a contagious disease. “Just let me get some windows open first. This place gets stale, all closed up at night.”
I shoved up the windows in the kitchen and dining room and the side ones in the living room, thinking again how fortunate we’d been to find a house with windows on all four sides. So many builders put up houses with no more circulation than apartments. It was when I shoved up the front window that I noticed the buffalo.
Which was still staring at me.
I gave a little wave.
It nodded its big head and took a step in my direction.
I took a step back.
It took another step.
I froze again.
We stood there for a hundred years.
I wished my beagle, Lulu, wasn’t down in the barn at our old house, recovering from having a litter of pups. She wouldn’t hesitate to take on a buffalo she thought was threatening me. On the other hand, I hadn’t met all our new neighbors yet. I’d hate for them to label me “that woman who ran after the three-legged beagle chasing a buffalo down the block.”
Finally the buffalo got bored or hungry and lowered its head to graze. I stepped out of its line of vision and headed for the kitchen. Let Joe Riddley be the first to face the “dog” if it decided to pay a house call. He’s a foot taller than I am, with longer legs.
At the kitchen door, I muttered, “I’ll call Tad to say we’ve found an ecologically sounder lawn mower. He won’t complain.” Tad was the son of our younger son, Walker, and had begun, reluctantly, to cut our grass each week.
I could have saved my wit. Joe Riddley was feeding Bo from one forefinger, not paying me a speck of attention.
Wit
h a disgusted sigh, I dialed the number for Ridd, our older son. Ridd and his wife, Martha, were keeping Tad that week while Walker and Cindy were up in New York City attending an insurance convention and seeing plays. Part of the deal was that Tad was to feed, groom, and exercise his mother’s new hunter, Starfire, which Cindy was boarding in Ridd’s barn.
With a buffalo on my lawn and my husband in denial, however, it wasn’t really Tad I wanted to talk to—it was Martha. An emergency-room supervisor, she is Queen of Unflappable. She deals daily with situations that would sizzle my gizzard, and that fall she was not only raising her own two children but had agreed to let her daughter Bethany’s best friend, Hollis, live with them for her senior year of high school.2 If anybody would know what to do with a buffalo in the yard, Martha would.
When she answered, though, she didn’t even wait to find out what I wanted before she started right in. “I’m glad you called, Mac. We’ve got a problem, and I need some advice.”
Martha asking me for advice? I was so astounded, I sat down and forgot my own problem for a second. “What’s the matter?”
“Tad. He’s smoking.”
The ice maker rumbled and dumped its load while I thought that over. “He’s ten years old,” I reminded her.
“I know. But Bethany and Hollis caught him smoking down in the woods after school yesterday.”
“Where could Tad get cigarettes?” I was thinking aloud, but Martha answered anyway.
When Will the Dead Lady Sing? Page 1
