Women of Washington Avenue

by Linda Apple

  Thirty-five minutes later Nathan walked in holding his stomach. “Man. How do you tell that Cladie woman no?”

  “It’s a problem and the reason the women in this town are so, shall we say, curvaceous?”

  “And just what, pray tell, do you call the men?”

  “Fat.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Mr. Wolfe. Nice of you to drop by.” Vince strode toward him with his hand out and a goofy smile plastered on his face.

  Nathan took his hand. “And you are?”

  “Vince Marshall, editor in chief of the Moonlight Community News.”

  “Good to meet you.” He looked around. “Quite a place you have here.”

  I swear I thought Vince was going to kiss the man’s feet. “Would you like a tour?”

  Peering at me, he covertly grinned. “No, maybe some other time. I’m on my way to Jackson to investigate a lead on a story I’m writing.”

  “Oh? Can you tell me about it?”

  In mock alarm Nathan raised his eyebrows. “What? And have a cracker jack like you scoop me?”

  A blush colored Vince’s cheeks. Clearly pleased, he slid his hands in his pockets. “Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “But I do have an idea.” Nathan put his arm around me. “Send Lexi with me. She can report highlights to you.”

  My mind flew back to my emails. “No, Nathan, I can’t I’m—”

  “—You can.” Vince pointed to the door. “And you will.”

  Sakes. “Is it all right with you if I at least get my purse?”

  He waved me off with his hand and smiled knowingly at Nathan. “Good luck. You are gonna need it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I will.”

  I threw a smirk their way. “Careful or I’ll embarrass you both in my next column.” I have nine hundred readers.

  Moments later we were speeding down Interstate 65 toward Jackson. In all my life I’ve never been known as a person at loss for words—until now. Sitting beside a famous to everyone but me journalist? Let’s just say life had pushed my mute button. When I thought he was a nobody, I had no problem letting him know just what I thought. But when I found out he was Mr. CNN, Mr. FOX, MR. Every Alphabet News Station, even Mr. BBC for heaven’s sake, I felt like a Mississippi hick. White trash. An idiot.

  Nate glanced over and grinned. “You are quiet. I at least hoped you would have insulted me three or four times by now.”

  As bizarre as it seemed, his sarcasm relaxed me. “May I remind you that I am a Southern lady, and we never insult a gentleman unless provoked? And you, sir, have not provoked me—yet.” I returned his grin. “So the ball is in your court.”

  “I guess it will take me a while to learn how things are done in this strange culture.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “New York City, born and bred.”

  “What do your parents do?”

  “Both professors. How about you? Mississippi belle all your life?”

  “Yes. I’m not so sure about the belle part, but Moonlight has always been my home.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Ah. Don’t you know that’s like a carrot dangling before my nose?”

  “No. Perhaps that is why I never made it as a reporter. Investigative that is.”

  “What kind of reporter do you consider yourself?”

  “On life. At least, that is my passion. Maybe I’m more of an observer.”

  “So am I. Being observant is a must in investigative reporting. Seeing what isn’t being said. Watching body language.”

  “Like the other night. I noticed you watching Levi. Reminded me of a hawk watching its prey. You didn’t even blink.”

  “Levi knows what happened to Matthew Abrams. I have no doubt. I saw it in his eyes, his expression. Did you hear how his voice dropped? How he no longer made eye contact? All of a sudden he had an uncanny interest in his shoes. He began to fidget and quit eating.”

  Looking back, I realized Nathan was right. “I did notice but didn’t think anything about it. And then he was gone the next day.”

  Nathan glanced over at me. “Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

  “Well, he never would tell us where he came from or anything from his past.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “He was homeless. You should have seen him. The man was a mess. His hair was long, dirty, tangled. His clothes were filthy and torn. His hands were awful. All that dirt caked under his long fingernails. Blech.”

  “So he came to that homeless shelter, Lifesource, is it?”

  “Uh huh. Jema got to know him first, and then she introduced him to us. She was, is, really drawn to him.”

  “Apparently Miss Cladie is too.”

  “Yeah, she paid for him to get his hair cut, loaned him clothes, and gave him a job. But still, I have to admit, he’s a gentle, caring soul. Very quiet.”

  “They always are.”

  “They?”

  “The kind who kidnap billionaires and lock them away for their own good and the good of others. The kind who say, ‘Trust me.’”

  Trust me? Levi tells Jema that all the time. A shiver ran across my shoulders and forced an involuntary swallow. “What do you hope to find in Jackson?”

  “It just so happens some washers and dryers, as well as plumbing supplies, were recently donated to Lifesource. They were purchased in Jackson. The money to pay for them came from a bank account in Canada.” Nathan glanced at me and lifted one brow. “Don’t you find that odd?”

  “Odd? In what way?”

  “You really wouldn’t make a good investigative reporter would you?”

  Ouch. “Depends. It just so happens crime doesn’t interest me.”

  “Cheating husbands do?”

  “Yes. Relationships are my area. Now let’s get back to yours. Crime. So what did you find so odd?”

  “Mr. Abrams is from Canada. I think this guy, Levi, has a Robin Hood complex. And he feels perfectly justified stealing from Mr. Abrams.”

  Of course. It all made sense. Perfect sense. Poor Jema. “Do you think he has hurt Mr. Abrams?”

  “Who knows? These kinds of people are unpredictable. But, if your friend thinks she is in love with this guy, you need to talk to her. That said, I don’t think you will see this Levi character again, under his own free will, anyway. I intend to find him.”

  “So what’s the plan when we get to Jackson?”

  “We’ll go to an industrial laundry equipment distributor where the mystery philanthropist purchased the equipment, ask who gave the order, who signed the check or get the credit card information, see what address was given for the receipt. Any information helps.”

  “What if they won’t show you?”

  “I have my bases covered. All the official-looking papers.”

  “Official-looking?”

  “It’s my turn to say, don’t ask.”

  “Ooooh, I see.”

  When we arrived in Jackson, we made several stops. To Nathan’s utter amazement, he learned Southerners loved to talk about anything and everything. No one, I mean no one, was close-mouthed about the mysterious orders for the washers and dryers or plumbing supplies. Even the delivery companies spilled all they knew. He never had to use his official looking papers.

  Perhaps it is because these folks recognized him, unlike moi.

  Store after store, business after business, the story was always the same. A woman ordered the equipment, gave the delivery instructions, and wired the money. When asked where to send the receipt, she said there was no need. All clean with no hint of who could have been behind the purchase.

  By the end of the day, cool, confident, perfectly coiffed Nathan had raked his fingers through his hair so much it fell across his forehead. We were about to leave the Plumber’s Pal Supply when I noticed the sales clerk lean against the counter, knit her brows, and chew the end of her pencil. Nathan looked her way and waved. “Wel
l, thanks anyway.”

  I touched Nathan’s arm. “Just a minute.” Then I ambled over and leaned next to her. “It’s strange that whoever purchased such a large order didn’t want a receipt, isn’t it?”

  “Yes ma’am. It sure is.”

  Nathan dropped one eyebrow and faced us.

  The salesclerk took her pencil out of her mouth and pointed at me. “I thought the same thing, and I said as much to that woman. And you know what she said? She said her boss instructed her to say he trusted us.”

  Both Nathan and I yanked our heads around and stared at each other.

  She continued, “But that isn’t all. Just the other day, a man in a long black limousine came here asking the same questions that you two are asking. He showed me a picture and asked me if I’d seen the man in the photo.”

  Nathan took over. “Did he say why he was looking for the man?”

  “No.”

  “Did he mention the man’s name?”

  “He told me the name, but I can’t remember what it was.”

  “Matthew Abrams?”

  She waggled her pencil at Nathan. “Yes sir. That’s what it was all right.” She thought a moment. “And he sounded strange. Had a funny accent. She stuck the pencil behind her ear. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but he sounded like you, sir.”

  At this I bit my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. He gave me a wry look then turned his attention back to her. “No offense taken. And thank you. You’ve been a lot of help.”

  Once we were in the car, Nathan asked, “Okay, how did you know to keep talking to her?”

  “Just seeing what wasn’t being said. Watching body language, you know, investigative stuff like that.”

  “Okay, I deserved that. How about a drink and some supper before we head back? Maybe we can connect the dots.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  I could really get into this investigative stuff. And if I saved Jema from this impostor, all the better.

  Over a few drinks, we discussed our suspicions of Levi and how the evidence had coalesced into his obvious guilt as a kidnapper or possibly worse, a psychopathic murder.

  Then we moved on to my article. To my utter surprise, he’d been following me. And those nine hundred men? He had put something in his column challenging men to read my column and answer me. I wanted to get angry with him, but between the twenty-five dollar an ounce bourbon drinks he kept ordering and the fact I was getting national attention, I found it in my heart to forgive him.

  We ate a nice supper and then drank coffee. Lots of coffee before we felt safe enough to drive. It was a fabulous evening, and I had to admit he wasn’t all that bad. In fact, he was kind of nice in a rude sort of way. I guessed it took all kinds. Right then and there I made it my goal for the word y’all to roll off his tongue like it was his mother language.

  The next morning when the alarm clock rang at six, I got out of bed and emailed Vince informing him I wouldn’t be in to work because Nate and I didn’t get home until after two in the morning. I could get used to this. It was like having a permission form from the principal. He’d forgive anything as long as Nathan’s name was attached.

  My real reason for staying home, however, was to get to Jema before she left for work. I prayed all morning, “God, please help her to see reason. Please.”

  I downed two cups of coffee, pulled on my sweats, and jogged to her house. The steel-gray sky threatened snow. A rarity in Moonlight. Another thing to worry about.

  Please hold off until after the wedding, okay?

  When I came to her door, I rang the bell. No one answered. Then I started beating on it. No response. The wind blew icy daggers through me. I hugged myself and pounded again. Where was she? Surely not at work this early? The shelter?

  “Lexi?” Jema stood on Miss Cladie’s porch.

  “Hey, I came over for coffee. We need to talk.”

  “Come on over here. I’m helping Cladie with the reception food.”

  “No. I need to talk to you alone. Please. I’m skipping work. It’s that important.”

  She wrinkled her forehead and said, “Okay, just a sec. Go on in. I’ll tell Cladie.”

  I hurried inside and started the coffee, all the while rehearsing what I would say and how to phrase it in a delicate and diplomatic way.”

  “Whoa, it’s cold out there.” Jema draped her coat on the back of a chair. “Okay, here I am.” She took the cup I handed her. “What’s all this about?”

  “Oh Jema, Levi is a psychopathic kidnapper and murderer. Nathan and I investigated him yesterday. I’m so sorry.”

  She stared at me and sat down. “What?”

  So much for delicacy.

  Over coffee I related all Nate and I had learned. Her face remained relaxed, no sign of distress. Odd. I’d be over the moon. When I finished she smiled and shook her head. “No.”

  “No? What do you mean no?”

  With a tenderness one uses with a cranky child, she put her hand on mine and smiled that huge, beautiful smile. “That isn’t Levi. I can’t explain it, but while I don’t know his history, I know his soul. Whatever has happened, I’m sure of this, he’s a good man.”

  I wanted to slap sense into her. “Jema!”

  She patted my hand. “Stop. Don’t go there. I won’t hear it. And for Molly Kate’s sake, we must forget all of this. I won’t have her special day ruined because of such nonsense.”

  Jema had a point, to a certain degree. I didn’t want this investigation to detract from Molly’s wedding either.

  If Jema wanted to be a fool... No. I couldn’t let her destroy her life.

  Even so, we women of Washington Avenue would deal with her after Molly left on her honeymoon, make no mistake about it. So I patted her hand right back. “You’re right. Let’s protect her day at all costs.”

  But what price would our dear Jema pay?

  Chapter 20

  MOLLY KATE

  Attacked

  Martini Monday! No better time to show the girls the wedding dress Carli and I found in Memphis. While I made cheese straws, I pictured their shocked expressions. Would it be the crimson red fabric? The beading and sequins? Maybe the strapless bodice? Most likely it would be the figure hugging lines that revealed every lovely bump and bulge of my bountiful frame.

  Whatever. I simply didn’t care what anyone thought. I’m a full figured gal, and I love it. Even more important, Stan loves my fat. Besides, if I lived in the sixteenth century, I would have been a sex symbol.

  Last week the girls and I chose their dresses—strapless hunter green velvet gowns with green satin sashes. Of course, they all looked amazing, but if they had lived in the sixteenth century, they would have been pitied for their figures. Ha!

  The only thing that bothered me about tonight was Avalee’s insisting Scott come. So strange. Why in the world would a man want to have martinis with a bunch of women discussing a wedding? Sure, they are best friends, former roommates no less. Something has to be going on. I don’t care what Avalee says about their relationship being strictly platonic. That boy’s way too handsome. Maybe they were rekindling the fire? If so, I felt for poor Ty.

  The doorbell rang, and I nearly jumped out of my apron. Before I answered, I slipped the straws into the oven and wiped my hands on a dishtowel. It rang again, and Avalee called through the door. “Hurry up. It’s freezing out here.”

  “I’m coming.” Sakes alive why don’t you just walk in like you always do? When I got to the door, I realized it was still locked. Well no wonder. I swung the door open. “Come in before you catch your death. Sorry about the locked door. I’ve been so busy today, I haven’t even gone outside to get the paper.”

  Scott grinned. “You girls call this cold? Come see me in the city and let’s take a walk down Rector Street and get blasted by the wind tunnels. Then you will experience cold.”

  Avalee flipped her hand up. “And when you call it hot in August there, come here. Hell is just around the corner.”

>   “Yup.” I took their coats. “As my father-in-law used to say, ‘Everything is relative.’ Avalee, honey, why don’t you mix us up a martini, and I’ll get the cheese straws out to cool and crisp up. Oh, and make mine with gin.” I turned to Scott. “How do you want yours?”

  “Vodka.”

  “Did you hear that Avalee?”

  “Yeah, I know how he likes them.”

  Of course you do. She wasn’t fooling me one little bit.

  “Mmmm, cheese straws huh? Smells delish.” Scott followed me to the kitchen. “What’s in them?”

  I lifted the cooking stone from the oven and set it on the stovetop. “Oh, we Southerners have all kinds of recipes for them.”

  Avalee chimed in from the living room, “And we all think ours is best.”

  “Think?” I smirked at Scott and answered back, “I know mine are the best.” I scooped one up with the spatula and put it on a napkin, then handed it to him.

  He took a bite, closed his eyes, and inhaled. “Oh my, I’m having an out-of-body experience.” He pointed to the stone. “What did you say were in those?”

  “I didn’t, but, if you’ll include me in your book, I’ll tell.”

  “Done. So tell me.”

  “Flour, butter, cheese, and lots of cayenne pepper. Some people put spices, but I like to keep it simple and let the cheese do the talking.”

  “I taste cheddar.”

  “Sharp cheddar. None of that wimpy mild stuff. And I add Gruyère for its nutty, sweet flavor.”

  Avalee eased in the kitchen balancing three drinks. “I hope you don’t mind us coming early, but we wanted to discuss your bridal bouquet. Scott had some concerns.

  “Concerns?” I sipped my Rangpur gin martini. I loved the hint of citrus.

  “Well...” Scott glanced at Avalee and she nodded. “What you’ve described has a lot going on. Red roses, white poinsettias, holly berries and magnolia leaves, calla lilies and baby’s breath. Honey, you will need a sling to help you carry it. It’ll be so big no one will see you.”

  I waved him off. “Oh pshaw. The gaudier the better.’”

  “I get that. My boyfriend says the same thing. We argue all the time about how to decorate our apartment.”

  “Boyfriend?” I shot a look at Avalee. Then back at Scott. “You? You’re...?”