Dixieland Dead

by Penny Burwell Ewing

  “What’d the doctor say? I’ve been trying to reach you but your cell phone goes straight to voice mail,” Deena accused.

  My cell phone lay on the table where I’d placed it after my earlier call with her. “I forgot to take it with me. I told you I’d call you later.” My face and other body parts started itching. “What’s got you so riled up?”

  “Sam was in to see me this morning. Someone broke into Scarlett’s house last night!”

  My neck started burning. So Bradford was suspicious? Just my luck. “Is that so? What’d he want?”

  “I do declare, Jolene. You’re getting ornery in your old age.”

  “Look who’s ordering me a cane. You’re only two years younger, so you’d better get one for yourself while you’re at it,” I shot back, my knees and ankle stinging. “Tango tripped me coming in and now my knees hurt. Tell me what Bradford wanted or hang up the phone.”

  “You’d better be glad I’m not Mama or you’d be listening to dead air right about now.”

  “Damn, Deena, I am listening to dead air.”

  “Fine,” she huffed over the line. “Sam came to question us and the staff on our whereabouts last night. He wanted to know how to get in touch with you since you weren’t answering your phone. I told him you were out sick. He said he’d stop by your house. Listen, I’m leaving work early today. I have a date—”

  “He’s coming here?” I slammed down the receiver. Pausing at the counter, I stood frozen with indecision. Bradford would take one look at my swollen, itchy face and know he’d found the guilty party. I had to get out of my house before he showed up and carted me off to jail. With no time to waste, I grabbed my purse off the floor, spilling the keys. Scooping them up, I limped to the door and stopped as I looked through the glass kitchen storm door at the car pulling into the driveway.

  Think fast, old girl. I needed an alibi—one that explained my beat-up condition. The usual stand-by flu excuse wouldn’t work. I looked like I’d been in a boxing match. Nothing came to mind. Throwing my purse back onto the table, I sprinted across the kitchen as fast as my crippled condition allowed, and jerked open the refrigerator door, pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea, and set it upon the counter. From the cookie jar I fished out half-a-dozen homemade chocolate chip pecan cookies and placed them on a platter. Maybe I could dazzle my way out of this with sweet treats.

  I limped down the hall to the bathroom and patted an extra coating of loose powder on my red, bumpy face, retouched blush and reapplied lipstick. I was dragging a brush through my hair when the doorbell rang. Gathering the curls back with a clasp, I surveyed my image one last time in the mirror. My confidence plummeted—God, my skin looked like the Martian surface. How to explain it? I reached the front door just as it rang a third time.

  Bradford zeroed in on my face the second I opened the door. I causally invited him in out of the heat. He remained silent as he followed me back to the kitchen, my flats click-clacking on the hardwood floor. I placed the platter of cookies on the table along with two glasses of iced tea.

  “Deena called and said you’d been by the salon this morning,” I said after we were seated. I grabbed a couple of cookies, needing something in my hands. A trembling had started deep down in my bones.

  His sharp gaze passed over me. “There was a break-in at Scarlett Cantrell’s house last night. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you? The intruder climbed out the master bedroom window.”

  I took a long swig of cold tea. Had the police found the plastic bag with my wet jeans and panties I’d forgotten under Scarlett’s bed? Heat flooded my face as the thought scorched my brain waves like burnt bacon. If they had, there was nothing to tie them to me. Yeah, right. Only DNA.

  Bradford continued to stare at me from across the table. “I noticed you look kind of banged up. Deena said you were out sick, but it appears to me you’ve been crawling around in poison ivy or is it poison oak?”

  Butterflies twittered around in my stomach. Good God Almighty—he knows! Now was the time to confess and climb off this fast-moving train I’d hitched my caboose to. I was a hairstylist, not a PI or a cop. Since taking on this investigation, I’d broken the law left and right. Sooner or later I was gonna end up behind bars for good. But I’d crossed the point of no return, and there wasn’t any going back. I had to see this through all the way to the painful end.

  I crossed and uncrossed my legs, fighting the burning itch between my legs. Words lodged in my throat as test phrases jockeyed for position. Taking a deep breath, I started to speak when Anthony’s calm voice sounded behind me. “I can tell you how she came into contact with poison oak.”

  My head jerked around as he came into my full view. Fury blinded me at his unwelcome intrusion in my home. I reacted foolishly, bolting out of the chair and almost landing on my face as my ankle gave way. Anger kept me from being embarrassed as Bradford steadied me.

  “Who do you think you are walking uninvited into my house?” I yelled as Anthony seated himself at the kitchen table as if it were an everyday occurrence.

  “I knocked on the front door.” He casually picked up one of the cookies from the platter. “I guess you didn’t hear me. I really needed to talk to Deena, but she stepped out of the salon, so I came over here to speak with you. But I can answer your question, Detective. Jolene was with me last night.”

  Bradford looked at me to confirm his statement. When I didn’t immediately answer, he looked back at Anthony. “You failed to mention this when I questioned you this morning.” He flipped open his notepad. “You said you were alone, and now you’re telling me you lied?”

  “I didn’t think it mattered since Jolene had been there earlier in the evening. She helped me with a shutter that’d torn loose in the storm last week.”

  Bradford waited for me to confirm Anthony’s story. Torn, because I wanted to see Anthony exposed as a liar, I paused to consider several questions building in my mind. What was Anthony’s true motive for being here in my house? It wasn’t to give me an alibi. How would he even know I needed one? My mind wrapped around every reason…when suddenly I knew. The only way he would know I needed an alibi was if he’d been in Scarlett’s house with me and not that guy in the blue sedan. That unlocked a number of questions. What was he searching for? The jade elephant? Or something else that would connect him to the murder? If it were a possibility, no way I’d sit here silent.

  I looked Bradford square in the eye. “He’s lying. I don’t know what his game is, but he wasn’t with me last night. I was breaking into Scarlett’s house.”

  Bradford turned to look at Anthony. “Get out of here, Vogel. I’ll deal with you later. Take notice. You’re under surveillance.”

  Anthony shot daggers at me with his eyes then stood and retraced his steps. I breathed easier when I heard the front door slam.

  “That was strange,” Bradford said, his gaze never leaving my face. “You seem afraid of him. May I ask why?”

  “I suspect he killed Scarlett.”

  He didn’t seem surprised at my statement. “Anthony is a person of interest. Care to share your theories?”

  “Why are you still sitting at my kitchen table eating cookies and drinking iced tea as if this were a social visit? Aren’t you here to nab the perp?”

  Bradford leaned back in his chair. “I still may arrest you. Convince me to do otherwise.” He relaxed and actually smiled. My heart skipped a beat, and I thought I was gonna melt right there in my kitchen. He was one good-looking man, and I couldn’t help but be attracted to him whether I liked it or not.

  My sister’s words echoed through my mind—I’m leaving work early today. I have a date.

  Deena did have first claim on him. I’d even encouraged her to spend time with him. And she’d been wearing that silly grin ever since they’d lunched together. My smile died.

  “I can explain what I was doing in Scarlett’s house. You may not believe me, but I can explain.”

  He gave a slow nod. �
��First tell me why you suspect Mr. Vogel of killing her.”

  If it was possible, the itching increased tenfold. The witch hazel and calamine lotion were wearing off. I kicked off my flats and rubbed my feet together, hoping to ease the itch. It didn’t work. Bending down, I scratched my toes. “Because I believe he was hiding in Scarlett’s house last night.”

  “You weren’t alone in the house?”

  I sat back up in my chair. “I just said that.”

  Bradford scribbled on his notepad. “Why do you believe Mr. Vogel was also present in the house?”

  “Why lie if you’re not hiding something?”

  “You have a point. Anything else of interest?”

  I bent down to scratch my hot ankles. “Anthony was there for a reason. He was searching for something. Same as me.”

  “Such as?” Bradford asked when I righted myself again in my chair.

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I’m asking you. What you were searching for?”

  “The jade elephant.”

  “And what is the jade elephant?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Let me get this straight. You broke into the victim’s house to search for an object you know nothing about?”

  I nodded. “That’s correct.”

  He scribbled again on his notepad. “Okay, tell me where you heard about this jade elephant.”

  “Scarlett told me.”

  He frowned. “When did she speak of this jade elephant?”

  “The day she died.”

  Bradford looked none too pleased at my answer. “Why did you withhold vital information? You should’ve disclosed this when you were questioned at the scene.”

  Beads of sweat gathered on my brow, which in turn made me itch more. “I did tell someone,” I snapped, scratching my neck and face nervously, wiggling in the chair to relieve my nether regions. “I told Detective Bulldog, I mean Detective Grant.”

  His pen stopped, and his jaw tensed. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything. Don’t leave out any details. Even if you think they’re unimportant. Got it?”

  And I did. I told him everything that’d happened from Saturday morning when Scarlett arrived for her appointment until my exit from the hospital an hour ago, not mentioning my continuing interaction with Scarlett’s ghost. Some things were best left unsaid.

  “Is that everything?” he asked when I came to a stop.

  I nodded. “That’s all of it.”

  “Good. Now listen to me. First, I’m going to forget the breaking and entering charge if you’ll promise to stay out of trouble. Forget investigating. Let me and my boys do our jobs. Don’t repeat our conversation. Not even to your mother or sisters. Strictly under wraps, understand?”

  He was offering me an out. It was a chance to escape jail time, and I had no intention of wearing prison orange. Scarlett would have to wait for the police for answers. I was through sticking my neck out for her. I stuck out my hand. “You’ve got a deal. What about Anthony? He knows I confessed to breaking into Scarlett’s house.”

  Bradford shook my hand. “You let me worry about him. Write out a detailed statement. Everything you just told me. Add anything you believe would help in the investigation. I’ll pick it up in the morning, understood?”

  I agreed to his terms and watched as his car backed out of the driveway without me handcuffed in the back seat. Mama says that the best lessons in life are the ones you learn the hard way. Boy, she’d nailed that one. For now, I wouldn’t be wearing prison orange, but I wasn’t sure how long that would last.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Good Ol’ Fashioned Candied Secrets

  After dodging the bullet yet again, I placed a quick call to the salon to check with Holly about tomorrow’s appointments and then took another cool shower. A fresh coat of witch hazel, calamine lotion, and a liberal sprinkling of Gold Bond Medicated Powder eased my irritation.

  General Hospital had just started, so I fixed a sandwich and sat down on the couch to watch my favorite soap. The dongs of the grandfather clock woke me at four. In the kitchen I called Mama to get her recipe for chicken and dumplings, my favorite fast food. Ten minutes to prep, ten minutes to simmer, and you’d be sitting down with good, old-fashioned, comfort food.

  She picked up on the third ring. “Hello.”

  “Whatcha up to?”

  “Are you feeling better, honey? Deena said you called in sick. What’s the matter? Is it your time of the month?”

  I made a face. “I wish Deena wouldn’t call and tell you everything that’s going on at the salon. It’s just a bout of poison oak.”

  “How’d you get into poison oak? You know good and well what it looks like. It’s all over the property out here.”

  “I fell into it helping a friend fix his shutters,” I said, figuring I might as well use Anthony’s lie—it being a good one—but I wasted my breath because she’d moved on to another subject.

  “Deena said Scarlett’s house was burglarized last night. She said Sam came by the salon to inquire about everyone’s whereabouts.”

  “He came by here to question me, too.”

  “Humph. Strange happenings going on in this town. Makes me shudder to think about the future. So, what can I do for you, Jolene?”

  “I called to get your recipe for quick and easy chicken and dumplings.”

  “What else are you making to go with it?”

  “Confederate cornbread and turnip greens,” I said. “And a Mrs. Smith’s apple pie for dessert.”

  “That’s a lot of food for one person.”

  “Scarlett’s gonna join me,” I teased.

  “Ha ha, smart-aleck. Hold on,”—there was a clunk of the receiver being laid on the counter, the sound of movement, and finally—“You ready?”

  I told her I was, and she rattled off a list of ingredients and instructions. It sounded easy enough. “Thanks for sharing. I know how much you hate to part with your special recipes. Which side of the family is this one from?”

  “Your father’s side, honey. Mrs. Tucker copied it off the side of a Bisquick box.”

  Sunday’s brief conversation came to mind. “Speaking of Daddy—”

  “You’re not going to let this rest, are you?”

  “I will as soon as you tell me what you’re hiding.”

  “Telling the truth is like opening Pandora’s Box.” Her voice trembled. “But I guess time isn’t going to make it any easier.” A long sigh echoed from her end. “Your father—”

  Call waiting beeped on her line. “I need to answer that,” she gushed. “I’m expecting an important call.”

  “But you were going to tell me about Daddy,” I protested.

  “I’ll call you later.”

  The line went dead. I hung up, discouraged about ever learning the truth. The early news came on as I started cooking. I’d just placed the cornbread in the oven with the apple pie when I heard the anchorwoman mention Scarlett. I placed the pot of turnip greens on the stove and wiped my hands on the front of my apron so I could turn up the volume.

  The anchorwoman reported there were no further leads on the death of the former WXYB employee at a local hair salon. A brief interview with Bradford followed, but there wasn’t any pertinent information forthcoming. He stated that the investigation continued and if any tri-county viewer had any information to call the number at the bottom of the screen or call Crime-Stoppers. The anchorwoman gave the details of Scarlett’s memorial service—in lieu of flowers, the family had requested a donation made in the victim’s name to hospice.

  With the burner on low so the greens could simmer, I grabbed a pen and paper and settled in the den with my notebook. As I wrote more doubts began to surface, and with them unanswered questions.

  First, I made a list of Dixieland Salon’s staff. Beside each name, I recorded their whereabouts as best I knew them, at the time Scarlett was in the facial room. Then I jotted
down a separate list of the salon’s clients I remembered seeing that morning. I noted either a positive or negative mark beside each name depending on the person’s known attitude toward the victim. Leaning back in my comfortable recliner, I let my mind wander over the last couple of months. Little incidents that seemed unrelated then now resurfaced with sinister implications.

  Like the time I overheard Mandy and Scarlett arguing. It was a busy Wednesday before Thanksgiving last fall, and every chair had been filled with last-minute clients looking for a new look for the holidays. As I approached the dispensary to mix color, I heard loud voices coming from behind the closed kitchen door. Thinking there might be a problem, I cracked open the door just in time to witness Mandy handing Scarlett an envelope.

  “Don’t tell them, Miss Cantrell. They’ll never understand.”

  Scarlett tucked the envelope into her purse. “This is our little secret. No one will know unless you miss a payment.”

  Neither woman had noticed me standing in the half-opened door. Not wanting to eavesdrop, I turned to leave and heard Mandy say, “How long must I keep this up?”

  The door closed on, “Until I’m dead.”

  Blackmail seemed to be Scarlett’s hobby. What I had wanted to do was confront the two and demand this injustice stop at once, but wisely, I refrained. This was none of my business. Whatever Mandy’s secret, she was paying for Scarlett’s silence.

  I scribbled all this down, and several other incidents involving Scarlett that had caught my notice in the salon. Then I made a list of questions that stuck out in my mind:

  1. Scarlett was blackmailing Mandy. What for? Scarlett didn’t need the money. Or did she? (Check Scarlett’s finances.)

  2. Was Scarlett blackmailing Anthony? What was he searching for in her house? What’s his motive for lying to Bradford to give me an alibi for the time of the break-in? What’s Anthony’s secret?

  3. Who was the woman, or man—Scarlett didn’t specify—that Robert Burns was seen with at Merry Acres on the morning of Scarlett’s murder?