“Was there a problem?”
“Lady, we’re still waiting on the last payment on your bill.”
“Oh.” Roz, of course, had failed to mention that little tidbit of information. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”
“I’ve got plenty of paying clients, ma’am. I’ll stick with those.”
The next two services I called were already booked.
“Geez, for a big charity event like that, you’ve got to book six months in advance. A year even.”
And that was the moment when I realized just how much trouble I was in as the chair and lone member of the transportation committee.
“What am I going to do?” I wailed to Linda. We met for lunch at The Picnic Cafe so I could drown my sorrows in iced tea and their fabulous chicken salad.
“I can’t believe Roz did this,” Linda commiserated. “What a rotten trick.”
The Picnic Café was always packed with “ladies who lunch,” and today was no exception. I scanned the close-set tables around us, their blue and white–checked tablecloths practically touching they were crammed in so tightly. A good portion of the tables featured clusters of my new red-hatted sisters. Just as newly pregnant women suddenly see other expectant mothers wherever they go, I had suddenly become aware of all the Red Hat women in the world. Overhead, the unforgiving fluorescent lights reminded patrons that they were, in fact, eating on one side of a drug store. Fortunately, the culinary delights of the cafe more than made up for the mostly sterile ambience.
“I won’t let her win.” I attacked my chicken salad with my fork. “There’s got to be another way.”
“You didn’t have any luck with the shuttle buses either?” Jane sipped her ice tea.
“Nope. They’re all reserved for some country music festival.”
“So what are you going to do?”
I looked at her, stricken. “I was hoping you would have some ideas.”
Linda used her fork to push her chicken salad around on her plate. “You know what this is like, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just like when you’re vulnerable in bridge. The way we showed you the other night.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, Ellie, all things considered, you’re way ahead. You’ve accomplished so much in the last month. But that also means the stakes are higher, and your opponents won’t be above doing some stinky bidding.”
“Stinky bidding?”
“When your opponent is vulnerable, sometimes you bid high enough to get the contract even when you know you can’t make it.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Think about it. Even if you go set, that’s far better than allowing your opponent to make the second contract and win the rubber.”
“Seems counterproductive to me.”
“It keeps you in the game. That’s what Roz is trying to do. Set herself just so you can’t win.”
“I guess that makes sense in a weird sort of way.” I sipped my tea thoughtfully. “So, what do you do when your opponent engages in stinky bidding?”
“You have to decide if you’re going to let them get away with it. And you have to remember that when you’re vulnerable, it’s very important not to overbid.”
My head was starting to spin, and not from the caffeine and two packets of Splenda in my iced tea.
“So I should be aggressive but not too aggressive?”
“Exactly.”
“But what does that mean in this situation?”
Linda sighed. “I have no idea.”
And so I had yet another sin to chalk up against Roz, because after that bewildering conversation, I couldn’t properly enjoy my chicken salad, and my loss of appetite had nothing to do with the lack of ambience.
* * *
Friday afternoon, I was in the process of covering up the evidence of the hole in the backyard with scores of impatiens (it was a rather shady part of the backyard, and Grace had informed me that impatiens adored shade), when Officer McFarland made a return appearance. I was glad Grace had only come by to inspect my handiwork and then returned to her own home, because she and Officer McFarland were clearly like oil and water. So I was alone in the backyard when he appeared from around the side of the house.
“Afternoon, Miz Hall.” He looked even younger than he had last week.
“Hello, Officer.” I set an impatien into its hole, pressed the earth firmly around it, and used the watering can at my side to give it a nice long drink. Frankly, I could have used a nice long drink myself, but I knew from watching all those episodes of Law and Order not to offer an on-duty officer an alcoholic beverage. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to ask you a few more questions about the Etheringtons.” He drew a small notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket.
“Has the case not been turned over to the homicide unit?”
“I just had a few more questions for my report.” He smiled at me, and it was a long moment before I realized it was more than just a friendly expression. Perhaps what tipped me off was the way his eyes traveled up and down my body, lingering far too long for comfort between my waist and neck.
Okay, this man was young enough to be my son, and though I had enough vanity to feel flattered, I also found his attentions somewhat disturbing. I certainly hoped that Connor wasn’t going around ogling middle-aged women in this fashion. The mere thought was enough to sour my stomach.
“What did you need to know?” I resisted the urge to clutch the watering can to my chest. Better to play dumb and/or oblivious. That had always served me well at the country club when some other woman’s drunken husband started to come on to me.
“Mrs. Davenport seemed to know an awful lot about the Etheringtons’ marital difficulties.”
“Mrs. Davenport?”
“Mrs. Grace Davenport.”
“You don’t think Grace had something to do with Marvin Etherington’s death? That’s ridiculous.”
“She didn’t seem upset when you dug up his remains.”
“She’s almost eighty. With all she’s seen in her lifetime, I don’t think much of anything upsets her.”
“What I mean is, she didn’t seem very surprised that you found Mr. Etherington in your flower bed. If he was a player, like Mrs. Davenport said, maybe she was one of his…”
“One of his what?” My disbelief gave way to anger. “You think Grace was involved with Marvin Etherington?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“Grace was happily married. Three times, I might add.”
“Three times? That’s a lot of divorces.”
“She didn’t divorce. She was widowed.”
“All three times?” He raised an eyebrow.
Shoot. I was just digging a deeper hole, so to speak.
“I’m sure if you ask Grace, she’d be glad to give you details about their illnesses.”
“I will. Thanks for the tip.”
“Wait a minute! That wasn’t a tip. You’re taking this the wrong way.”
“I appreciate you being so cooperative in the investigation, Miz Hall.” He grinned again, only this time it definitely veered into leering territory. “I shouldn’t have to bother you again.” Although his tone made it clear he’d be more than happy to bother me.
What was happening? I hadn’t meant to implicate Grace in any way—the thought had never crossed my mind—and I certainly didn’t have any intention of seducing a police officer half my age.
I clutched the watering can across my chest. “I’m sure Grace had nothing to do with Marvin’s death.”
“Sure. Sure.” He flipped his notebook closed and tucked it back in his pocket. “But if you think of anything else, or if you need me for anything…” His voice trailed off suggestively. “A woman alone should be careful.”
Evidently. And the thing she needed to be careful of was the Metro Police.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I just wanted him to leave so I
could make a beeline to Grace’s house and let her know what was going on. It was ridiculous to think her calm response to the discovery of Marvin Etherington’s remains meant that she had anything to do with his death. I told her as much a few minutes later when I found her in her own backyard, planting impatiens just as I’d been doing.
“Some people will tell you it’s too early for annuals,” she said after she’d stood to greet me. I’d wanted to spill the beans the moment I saw her, but the sight of her frail frame bent over her plants stopped me short. She looked incredibly vulnerable, although I knew she must be as tough as shoe leather to have survived the loss of three husbands. “But I don’t believe in waiting until after Mother’s Day.” She flashed me a smile. “After all, I might not still be here then.”
“Don’t say that,” I said, alarmed. Grace raised her eyebrows at my agitation.
“Ellie, dear, is something wrong?”
“Officer McFarland was just at my house.” I looked down at the grass beneath my feet, unable to look her in the eye.
“Did they find out who killed Marvin?”
“No. But he does have at least one suspect.” I forced myself to look up at her.
“Really?” Grace’s eyes widened in surprise. “After all this time? Who is it?”
I swallowed. “It’s you, Grace.”
“Me?”
Around us, bees buzzed in the flowers.
“He thinks you had something to do with Marvin’s death.”
I was prepared for her to be shocked, horrified, scared. Instead, she burst into laughter.
“He thinks I killed Marvin Etherington?”
“Because you weren’t surprised when I dug him up.”
“Ellie, at my age, very little surprises me anymore.”
“That’s what I told him.”
“But he didn’t believe you?”
“He’s so young—I don’t think he gets it yet. Although…”
“Although what?”
“He kept staring at my chest.”
Grace let out a whoop of laughter and wiped a hand across her damp forehead. “Well, you do have that glow about you.”
“Glow? What glow?” I broke out in a sweat as profuse as Grace’s.
“The one Henri has put in your cheeks.”
I clapped my hands to my evidently glowing cheeks to hide them and blushed furiously. “Is it written all over my face?”
“Of course it is. As well it should be. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“So everyone in Nashville can tell I’m—you know—just by looking at me?”
“No. What I mean is that everyone can see that you’re a woman in her prime who’s enjoying her life.”
Was I? Grace’s statement made the ground beneath my feet seem to undulate. I mean, I’d certainly come a long, long way in the last five weeks. I was no longer sitting on my couch consuming vast quantities of snack cakes. But was I enjoying my life? Or was I simply filling it with activity to avoid the underlying problems?
“Wait a minute. Grace, we don’t have time to discuss my love life. We need to get you an attorney.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because Officer MacFarland’s going to come back. I’m sure of it. Maybe he thinks he can get some notice in the department by solving this old case.” I wished we could sit on the lawn chairs a few feet away on the patio.
“Maybe so. But he can’t arrest me for something I didn’t do.”
“Grace, people get arrested for things they didn’t do all the time.”
She waved a hand as if warding off my words. “You watch too much television.”
“I still think you’d better get a lawyer.”
“I don’t need one. I’m innocent.”
I could see it was going to be useless to argue with her. “Well, at least call me if he comes back. You have my cell phone number.”
“Okay. Okay.” She knelt back down by her flower bed. “Don’t you have impatiens to plant?”
“Yes.”
“Then go do it.”
I knew from my experience with my own mother in the last years of her life that you couldn’t help someone without their cooperation. Sometimes you just had to take a step back. So that’s what I did with Grace.
“Okay, but if you need me, please call.”
“I will, dearie.” She flashed me a smile. “You’re sweet to worry.”
Only I didn’t feel sweet. I felt guilty. Because the one thing I didn’t have the courage to tell Grace was that I was the one who had put the idea that she’d killed Marvin Etherington into Officer McFarland’s head.
***********
CHAPTER TWELVE
Doubling and Hedouolmg
That Saturday afternoon, as I baked Tollhouse chocolate chip cookies for the Red Hat meeting that night, I spent as much time angsting over the state of my life as I did sifting flour and transferring baking sheets from the oven to the hot pads on the counter.
“I’m in way over my head,” I murmured to no one in particular. Talking to myself was probably another bad sign, as was avoiding Henri’s phone calls for the past twenty-four hours, but I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the non-response to the invoices I’d been sending to his office. Somewhere in the last few weeks, everything had become so jumbled. Business mixed with pleasure. Social mixed with more personal concerns. On top of it all, I had experienced my first hot flash at the Harris-Teeter the day before. Fortunately, the aroma of baking cookies soothed my soul somewhat.
At least, it did until the phone rang. I picked it up automatically, a reflex action, and regretted it immediately.
“Hello?”
“Ellie? It’s Jim.”
“I told you two weeks ago to quit calling me.”
“I know. But—.”
“No buts, Jim. We’re done. Leave me alone.”
I expected him to respond with some defensive, sarcastic remark. Instead, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“What?” I could barely hear him as I opened the creaky oven door and pulled out another sheet of cookies. I had made enough to supply a good-sized Girl Scout troop—another sign of how unsettled I was feeling despite the gains I’d made in the last few weeks.
“I’m sorry for the last year. I never meant to hurt you like this.”
“Ouch!” The cookie sheet scorched my hand around the edge of the hot pad. I dropped it with a clatter on top of the stove.
“Are you okay?” Jim actually sounded concerned.
“I’m fine.” I flipped on the faucet and ran cold water over my hand. “Look, Jim, if you need to assuage your guilt, I’m sure you can get the name of a nice therapist.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
He paused. Then, “Never mind.”
“Gladly. Good-bye, Jim.” And I slammed down the phone, harder than I’d intended, but it felt good. The last thing I needed right now was another complication, especially in the form of a remorseful ex-husband who I still hadn’t exorcised from my heart.
* * *
I was still feeling guilty about implicating Grace to Officer McFarland when I arrived at her house that evening, tollhouse cookies in hand.
“There you are.” Grace greeted me at the door with a warm smile, and I felt like an amoeba on a flea on a rat. At some point, I was going to have to confess that I’d spilled the beans about her three-time widowhood to the police.
“Sorry I’m late.” At the last minute, I hadn’t been able to find my hat. Grace would have let me borrow one, but I had begun to feel the need to wear a hat of my own rather than borrow one from the other women.
“The others are already here,” Grace said, leading me to the dining room through the spade-shaped arch.
“Hello, ladies.” I greeted Linda and Jane, who were already sitting at Grace’s dining room table. “So, what am I learning tonight?” I had come to expect that each of our sessions would be the next in my series of bridge lessons, and I wa
s right.
“Doubling and redoubling,” Jane said with a smile. “For when things get really wicked.”
Since things in my life in general already felt pretty wicked, the topic seemed apropos.
“So what’s a double?” I asked as Linda began to deal the cards.
“Remember I told you the other day about stinky bidding?” Linda said.
“Yes,” I said, recalling our conversation at the Picnic Cafe about bidding simply to thwart your opponents.
“Well, instead of stinky bidding to keep your opponents from taking a contract, you let them have it and double them instead.”
“So it’s a bid?”
“Right. It says, ‘I don’t think you can make your contract, and if you don’t you get double the penalty.’”
“Then what’s redouble?”
Jane, who had been sipping decaf from a mug with her real estate logo on it, set her coffee on the table. “If your opponent thinks she can make the contract, she redoubles. She gets even more bonus points if she does succeed.”
Near as I could tell, bridge seemed to be more about constantly upping the ante than anything else. In a way, it was nothing but a more refined (and intricate) version of poker.
The other three ladies went on to demonstrate the different kinds of doubles (takeout and penalty), and I grasped the general concept pretty quickly. In a way, it reminded me of my phone call earlier in the day from Jim. By refusing to let him hook me in to whatever drama he was currently involved in, I was doubling him. Of course, the fact that he kept calling meant he was redoubling. I took a bite of a cookie and savored the chocolate and butter on my tongue.
Clearly, Jim hadn’t given up on the game, and I felt a pang at the thought. A pang that I shouldn’t be feeling if I’d moved on with Henri.
Doubling and redoubling. Definitely something to think about.
* * *
Sunday afternoon, almost two weeks after Roz had announced the date change for the Cannon Ball, I was searching the Internet for other valet parking options when Linda appeared on my doorstep, every brunette hair immaculately in place per usual. I invited her into the living room, but she declined my offer to have a seat. Instead, she crossed her arms and struck a militant pose just inside the doorway.
The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue Page 12
