by Vickie Fee
I said good-bye and she picked up her ticket and walked to the register to pay. Ever-efficient waitress, Margie, who is surprisingly light-footed for someone of her girth, came over with a tray and started busing the table.
“You want to order something, hon?”
I justified in my mind that a chef salad with bleu cheese wasn’t exactly low calorie anyway and ordered what I really wanted.
“I’ll have a slice of chess pie and a glass of sweet tea, please.”
I didn’t even get the chance to ask Nonie about the cake she and Bernice served up to Bubba at the winners’ dinner. But the fact she was being so guarded made me suspect she might have something to hide.
I spent a good bit of my afternoon on the phone, talking to a couple of prospective clients, getting prices for upcoming jobs, and talking twice to Mama, who was apparently feeling lonely.
* * *
Just before I left the office for the day, I finally decided to walk over to the sheriff’s office and tell Dave my theory that Nonie and Bernice were most likely the ones who slipped the laxative to Bubba. If he wouldn’t see me or wouldn’t listen, at least I could say I tried.
Terry, the dispatcher, was at the front desk, as usual. I asked her to let Dave know I was there and would like to have a word. Before she could buzz him, he leaned around from the hallway and said, “Come on back. I can give you a minute.”
He invited me to take a seat in one of the less than inviting blue vinyl straight-back chairs facing his desk.
“What’s up?”
“I heard about the lab results showing that Bubba was loaded up with laxatives, ensuring that the killer would have a chance to shoot him while he was using the portable facilities.”
“I won’t hazard a guess as to who you heard that from,” he said.
I ignored his remark and continued. “You said yourself that as the event coordinator, roaming all over the festival grounds during the day, I was in the best position to have seen things that went on that might relate to the murder. And I recall seeing something that might be helpful.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“I went into the winners’ dinner tent just as they were serving dessert. There were some high school girls bringing around cakes and pies to the tables. But I remember seeing Bernice Halford hand deliver a big piece of her prize-winning cake to Bubba. It would have been hard to know which of the festival food vendors Bubba might choose to eat at. And it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for the guys at the whiskey cart to slip something in Bubba’s drink without being noticed. The winners’ dinner seems like the most likely spot to have introduced laxatives into Bubba’s food. And since the barbecue was served buffet style, that would have been difficult. But the cake was brought special delivery to Bubba by Nonie Jones’s best friend, just hours after Nonie’s granddaughter was cheated, in most people’s estimation at least, out of the Miss Dixie crown.”
“You’re right,” Dave said without enthusiasm. “The tests of the stomach contents show the cake was laced with enough laxative to give a bull the trots. I thank you for confirming that it was Bernice who served it to Bubba. Witnesses I talked to weren’t in complete agreement on that point.”
He started shuffling papers on his desk like he was getting ready to dismiss me.
“Doesn’t this bit of information point to the killer being someone other than Earl? It’s clear he couldn’t have slipped the laxatives to Bubba to lure him into his rifle sights.”
“That’s true. But it’s also possible someone told Earl about the laxatives. And we don’t have any other evidence pointing to Nonie or Bernice at the moment.”
“You don’t seem to be looking very hard for evidence that points anywhere other than at Earl at the moment, Sheriff Davidson,” I said.
“Look, Liv, this information could help Earl. It’s just not the silver bullet you were hoping for. And you know very well that Ted and I are following up on every lead. We’re still going through photos and video and I’m not letting Bernice or Nonie—or any other suspect—off the hook. Thanks for the information. Now back off and let me do my job.”
He stood up and I turned and walked out before he had the chance to ask me to leave.
* * *
After supper, I went into the den and had just settled into the sofa when Di called.
“I just left the liquor store with a bottle of Merlot. I thought I’d drop by if you care to share a glass with me. It’s Friday night and the man in my life is married to his job.”
“Sure, come on by, if you don’t mind listening to the man in my life bang on the pipes upstairs.”
I went to the kitchen, where my purse was sitting on the counter, reached inside and pressed the garage door opener, so Di could slip in through the back door.
In a few minutes she knocked as she entered. She walked over to the kitchen table and pulled a magnum of Merlot out of a brown paper bag. I got out the wineglasses and a corkscrew. Since Di’s uncorking skills are superior to mine, she did the honors.
I poured wine into the glasses and Di followed me through to the den.
“So how did the conversation with Dave go about the ex-lax-cake bakers?” she said, her feet propped up in the recliner.
“If my hope was that this would at least move Earl down the list of suspects, then I’d have to say not so good. Even though he confirmed it was the cake that contained the laxative.”
“How can Dave think Earl had anything to do with that?” Di asked.
“He suggested that just because Bernice may have put laxative in the cake doesn’t prove she pulled the trigger, and that Earl could have heard about the laxative from someone else and used that information for his own nefarious purposes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah, well,” I said. “Clearly we can’t depend on Dave to follow this thread to sew up the case. We’re going to have to do that ourselves.”
Di suggested we try to take a look at things from Dave’s perspective and see if there were any obvious holes in our theories.
“Okay, are there witnesses or photographs that show where Nonie and Bernice were during or right before the fireworks?” Di asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, grabbing a junk mail envelope from the end table and scribbling a note on the back of it. “That’s something we should try to find out. But for the moment, let’s assume they have alibis and that’s why Dave seems to be dismissing the idea that either of them is the killer. Where does that leave us?”
“It would mean, I think, that somebody or somebodies also knew about the laxative. That would mean Bernice and Nonie either told someone or someone overheard them talking about it.”
“And the most obvious someone would be Lynn, right?” I said. “I can’t believe her mama wouldn’t have told her about it so she could enjoy watching Bubba suffer, at least a little. And even though she denies it, Earl said he saw her leaving right before the fireworks started—and he’s the one person I believe.”
“So if Bernice or Nonie mentioned it to someone else, Lynn is the most likely suspect. But what about other people who could have known? When Bubba got shot wasn’t necessarily his first trip to the outhouse that evening. Maybe other people noticed him running to the facilities. Maybe he even mentioned the fact that his stomach was upset to someone. That also opens the possibility that whoever he told could have mentioned it to someone else,” Di said.
“I guess someone could have taken note that he made more than one trip to the restroom, but that wouldn’t necessarily mean he had an upset stomach to the casual observer,” I said. “It could mean he just had to pee a lot, maybe prostate trouble. And that kind of pit stop would be pretty quick and might not give the shooter time to get in place and line up a shot. Plus, I don’t think he’d be talking about something that personal with just anybody. But he could have mentioned it to his brother, maybe. And his brother, or anybody who overheard him telling his brother, could have told somebody e
lse.”
“I don’t think so. I mean, honestly how many people talk about their own diarrhea, much less somebody else’s?” Di said.
“That’s a good point. So if we move Nonie and Bernice down the list for the moment, that makes either Lynn or Bruce the most likely suspects. Let’s focus on them for the time being. Since it’s well known I shop at Earl’s maybe you could drop by Rowland’s Building Supply tomorrow after work and chat with Bruce. I’ll stalk Lynn at the seamstress shop. I have some pants I’ve been meaning to get hemmed,” I said.
Di drained the remains of the wine she’d been nursing for half an hour.
“You want another glass?”
“No, I’m heading home,” she said, starting for the door.
Di paused in the doorway and turned around.
“I know Bruce and most of the men around here go hunting. Do you know if Lynn or her mama can handle a gun?”
“Lynn had one sister and no brothers and grew up on a farm. I would suspect she knows how to shoot. I never went hunting, but my daddy taught both Emma and me how to shoot cans off a fence. And when I went away to Middle Tennessee State University, he gave me a small derringer to carry in my purse for protection. He was worried about me living in the big city.”
“Is Murfreesboro a big city?”
“Fairly big. I’d guess a population of about a hundred thousand. But just about any place would be a big city compared to Dixie. Don’t forget to take your Merlot with you.”
“No, I’ll leave it here for you two, or for another time. I picked up a spare earlier at the liquor store.”
* * *
After Di left, I poured myself another half glass of wine before corking the bottle and putting it in the fridge. I figured a bit more wine might give me the fortitude to handle a phone call to my sister. I hadn’t talked to her since I’d hung up on her when she went all crazy on Earl and Mama’s marriage, like we should have our mother committed.
I supposed I owed her an apology since I hung up on her. But then she had hung up on me during our previous phone call and never offered an apology. However, I decided if I was to have any chance of having an amicable conversation with my little sister about Mama’s impending nuptials, I’d have to be the one to extend the olive branch.
I punched in her number.
“Hi, Emma.”
“Oh, it’s you,” she said with a tone of disdain. I decided to ignore it. I felt my best strategy was to try to get her talking about a less touchy subject.
“How are the kids?”
“They’re asleep,” she said brusquely. I could tell she wasn’t going to make things easy on me.
“Good. Does that mean Trey is a good sleeper now?” I asked, playing the doting aunt card, but she didn’t pick it up.
“Were you calling about something in particular?”
I knew she was fishing for an apology. A knot of anger clenched in my stomach. My gut reaction was to feel like she owed me an apology at least as much as I owed her one. But I resolved to remain charitable and try to work toward getting Emma to be at least reasonable, if not supportive, of Mama’s wedding plans.
“Yeah, Emma, I wanted to apologize for hanging up on you the other night. We’re sisters. We should be able to talk about things, even when we disagree. I think you know Mama’s going to make her own decisions, and I hope you’ll give Earl a chance. But I know it’s a lot to take in, and if you need time to work through your feelings, I’ll try to be respectful of that.”
“You sound just like Hobie. I’m tired of everybody telling me I need to work through my feelings and just accept the ridiculous notion of Mama getting married again and this man she plans to impose on my children as their granddaddy—who’s been charged with murder. I’m the only sane person in this family.”
I heard the phone go click as she hung up on me again.
I tried. I can honestly say I tried. And I might feel differently one day. But at the moment I couldn’t imagine offering another apology to my little sister unless one of us was on her deathbed.
It had been a long day and I was ready to put it behind me and go to bed. I stormed up the stairs to the bedroom.
Larry Joe was standing in the bathroom, fiddling with some sort of pipe fittings as I walked past.
“Just so you know, I’m never speaking to my sister again.”
“That should make holidays interesting,” he said.
Chapter 15
We were just finishing up breakfast Saturday morning when we heard a knock at the front door. I looked out the window and saw Dave’s truck parked in front of the house.
“It’s Dave,” I told Larry Joe.
He went to answer the door and Dave followed him through to the kitchen, while I made quick work of clearing the table.
“Mornin’, Liv,” he said, taking his hat off.
“Hi, Dave. Would you like some coffee or juice? I can make you some scrambled eggs and toast if you’re hungry—won’t take a minute.”
“I’ll take a glass of water, if you don’t mind,”
Larry Joe, who was standing just behind Dave, reached into the cabinet beside the sink, plopped a few ice cubes from the freezer into the glass, and filled it from the tap.
I invited Dave to sit down. We joined him at the kitchen table and he took a couple of big gulps of ice water.
“Larry Joe, I just wanted to give you an update on that information you gave me about Aaron Rankin. I checked with a pal with the Knoxville Police Department and he told me that there’d been quite a few inquiries about Rankin’s dealings and that I should talk to the state bureau. So I had a nice long chat with Kelvin Duffy at the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. He told me unofficially, of course, that Rankin’s investment company is under fierce scrutiny right now. They have the resources for that kind of forensic accounting. When I told him we had some Dixie folks who had also put money into the East Tennesee property, he said he’d keep me posted if they uncovered any fraud or misappropriation.”
“Dave, do you think Rankin could have been involved in Bubba’s murder?”
“I’m not ruling it out, but the biggest problem with that theory is that nobody I’ve interviewed remembers seeing Rankin at the Fourth of July festival, and he hasn’t shown up in any of the photos or video we’ve viewed so far. Do you recall seeing him at any point during the day?”
I thought for a moment.
“No, I can’t honestly say that I do. I saw him at the town hall meeting about the development and I’ve spotted him a couple of times around town. But I don’t remember ever speaking to him.”
“We’re looking into Bubba’s financials. But he had a reputation for under-the-table deals, which would be hard to track. In the meantime if you two would keep mum about any possible misdeeds by Mr. Rankin, I’d appreciate it. We don’t want to give him any warning. And we don’t want folks to start worrying about their investments unneccesarily.
“Larry Joe, thanks again for bringing this to me.”
“Thank you for checking it out,” Larry Joe said.
“By the way, Liv, Bernice admitted to lacing the cake with ex-lax. She put it in the frosting. But she insists it was only to cause Bubba to suffer a little discomfort and indignity in retaliation for him robbing Cassie of the Miss Dixie crown. Bernice told Nonie about what she’d done so she could also enjoy watching his torment.
“Well, thank you kindly for the water. I’d better get back at it,” Dave said, rising from his chair.
Larry Joe walked him to the door.
When my husband returned I was sitting at the table sulking over my coffee. I’ve never had a poker face and Larry Joe can usually read me pretty well.
“Honey, I know you’re disappointed it looks like Rankin wasn’t on the scene when Bubba got killed. But Dave is sharp and he’s following every lead. He’ll get to the truth.”
“I hope so. I’d hate to go through the ordeal of planning Earl and Mama’s wedding and Earl not be able to attend.”
>
* * *
Larry Joe said he was going to play golf and then run by the office for a while. I gathered up items of clothing that would give me a plausible reason for dropping by the seamstress shop to have a chat with Lynn Latham. She was a suspect I needed to take a closer look at. I didn’t like that she’d said Earl had lied about seeing her leave the festival area before the fireworks. And I found it curious that Cassie was lying to give her mom an alibi.
I had a pair of Bermuda shorts in need of hemming—they fell below my knees—and a pair of khakis belonging to Larry Joe that needed a new zipper. I placed them both in a plastic bag to take to the seamstress shop after lunch. With any luck, Lynn would be working today.
At about a quarter to one, I grabbed a quick soup and sandwich lunch at the diner before walking to All Sewn Up, about a block off the town square.
Lynn was sitting at a table in the work area behind the counter. Two sewing machines and a cutting table lined the interior wall.
I spoke as I stepped up to the counter. Lynn looked up but didn’t seem glad to see me. I laid my bag on the counter and she looked resigned to the fact she’d have to wait on me.
“What can I do for you?”
I told her about the pants and shorts.
“Should have them both ready in a week, if that’s okay?”
“That’s fine,” I said.
She filled out a ticket, ripped the numbered stub off the top, and handed it to me before turning to walk back to her workstation.
“Are you on your own today?” I asked.
“Mrs. Anderson’s still out to lunch. She should be back soon.”
“Does your mama do much sewing anymore?” I asked. “I remember her making some beautiful bridesmaids’ dresses for a high school friend’s wedding I was in ages ago.”
“No. She still does a bit of mending for folks, but these days she mostly likes to knit.” Changing subjects, she said, “Look, Liv, I’m sure you’re really here to quiz me about seeing Earl in the parking lot as the fireworks were starting up. I’ve told the sheriff more than once I didn’t see him. I can’t help it that he thinks he saw me. Maybe he saw someone who looks a bit like me from a distance, and he assumed it was me, but it wasn’t. I’ve always thought Earl Daniels was a decent man, and even if it turns out he killed the likes of Bubba Rowland, it won’t change my opinion of him one bit.”
