BAD PICK

by Linda Lovely

  “Won’t be home for supper,” she added, “but should be back in time for cake.”

  “Since it’s a vegan recipe, I figured you were just being polite eating a slice this afternoon. I won’t force more down your throat. ”

  Eva, a world-class champion of meat, eggs and butter, issued a deep-throated “grrrr”. I wasn’t quite sure how a human could sound so much like a cranky motor. The salute she gave me didn’t engage all of her fingers. I laughed.

  “Love you, too.” My wave employed all my digits.

  By supper time, I’d caught up on Udderly accounting and was indulging a guilty pleasure—reading a good murder mystery—while I noisily slurped my supper. I’d heated a bowl of my favorite homemade tomato basil soup. My manners took a vacation when I was by my lonesome, a condition I relished now that it was such a rarity. While I loved my aunt, living and working with her 24/7 sometimes wore me out.

  Once the soup was all gone—okay, I licked the bowl—I cut myself a slice of cake and started a lengthy grocery list for my luncheon tasting. I’d almost finished when Mollye’s ringtone sounded.

  “Hey, girlfriend, I’ve been thinking about our True Believer party crashers.”

  As usual Mollye rushed into our conversation before I could eke out a hello.

  “Remember Karen, the church secretary? Back in high school, we were buddies, sat side-by-side in homeroom. Maybe if we had a heart-to-heart Karen could intercede. She didn’t look like she was really into the protest. Maybe she could steer Susan toward a different missionary battle, say picketing that quack’s office on Lucky Lane. I hear the good doctor spits out a tree’s worth of opioid scrips a day.”

  I took a deep breath and broke in on the rapid-fire monologue. “Not interested, Mollye. I’m with Eva. Susan and her followers will probably move on if we ignore them. Doubt they need our suggestions about alternate evil-doers to torment.”

  “What could a little house call hurt?” Mollye cajoled. “Show Karen there’s no hard feelings. You know over spilt milk. You could take a hunk of your cake as a peace offering. Show her we’re normal folks who bake cakes when we’re not hoisting our butts in the air.”

  “Like you’ve ever baked a cake.”

  “Hey, just saying, you’re the one who’s always spouting off about the need for civil discourse,” she added, “bemoaning how people shout at each other and never listen.”

  Mollye had a point. I did tend to yammer on, but talk is cheap. Ringing the doorbell of someone who thinks you’re in cahoots with Lucifer calls for a larger personal investment.

  I mentally shrugged. Maybe making nice could pay off. “Okay, Moll. Guess there’s no harm in attempting a friendly conversation. I’ll bring cake. You talk.”

  Thirty minutes later Mollye and I rendezvoused at Publix where I intended to shop after we delivered our peace offering. We could always beat feet if the church scribe answered the door with pepper spray in hand.

  “The apartments are about six months old,” Mollye commented as I climbed in her van for the five-minute drive to Karen’s. “Still mostly vacant.”

  The apartment complex consisted of four squat brick buildings, each fronted with a dozen uncovered parking spaces. Dead center in the quadrangle a small grassy square broke up the sea of concrete.

  The back of Karen’s building butted up against undeveloped property. A sign declared it was earmarked for phase two of the complex. The developer must be convinced the flood of off-campus housing for Clemson University students would someday bring its high-tide here.

  We entered the common hall inside Karen’s building. According to the central mail slots, she lived in 1-E, an end unit. She appeared to be the building’s sole occupant.

  Mollye’s index finger was poised an inch above the doorbell when I asked, “Do we know if she has a roommate?”

  Moll shook her head as she rang the bell. “She lives alone. Her husband was a real loser boozer. She finally kicked him out a couple months ago. Caught him in bed with some floozy. Good riddance, I say.”

  I never ceased to marvel at how solidly Moll was plugged into the Ardon County rumor mill. Discovering Karen had recently booted a cheat made me feel a certain kinship with the woman. I recalled how sick I’d felt when I learned my fiancé—my ex-fiancé—was boinking two other women. He was among the reasons I’d been happy to depart Asheville when Aunt Eva asked me to help her manage Udderly Kidding Dairy for a spell. The unexpected death of Aunt Lilly, Eva’s twin and dairy partner, made it nigh impossible for her to run the farm alone.

  Moll rang the buzzer and waited. No answer. My friend put her ear against the door—well as close as she could get it given her intervening collection of earrings. “I hear the TV. She’s got to be home.”

  Mollye knocked. Waited a moment and knocked again. Then again. Without enough warning for me to stop her, she turned the knob and opened the door. It was unlocked. Risky for a woman living alone in a mostly vacant apartment complex.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Mollye called as she stepped into the apartment. “Karen, are you home?”

  I yanked on Moll’s billowy top. “Breaking and entering is illegal.”

  “We didn’t break anything. We just entered.”

  “Still not a good idea. We weren’t exactly invited. We probably shouldn’t surprise her.”

  Mollye shook her head. “I’m worried. Maybe Karen fell down and hit her head or something. We need to make sure she’s all right.”

  “Why not call Danny, you know your deputy sweetie?” I suggested. “We can wait outside till Danny or one of the other sheriff’s deputies can check on her.”

  Naturally I was speaking to Moll’s back. While I hovered in the open doorway, she crossed the spartan living room with its blaring TV and disappeared down a hallway. “Karen?” she repeatedly called. “Karen, you here?”

  Though reticent, I tiptoed after my friend. While I thought it was dumb to tramp through a stranger’s open apartment, I didn’t think Mollye should tramp alone. I’d just entered the hall when I heard Mollye gasp, “Oh, no. Lord in heaven, no.”

  I ran toward Moll’s voice. She stood in front of a large bedroom closet, her back to me. “Don’t come any closer. Don’t touch anything. Karen’s dead.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Moll answered. “You were right. I shoulda called Danny. Let’s go outside. I’ll call him now. You don’t want to see this.”

  But, unfortunately, I did see. As Moll turned toward me, Karen’s crumpled body came into view, naked except for the long colorful scarf knotted around her neck. Her back sagged against the wall. Her legs splayed out in front of her. I imagined I could still read panic in the dead woman’s wide-open eyes.

  My breath hitched. The poor woman. I wanted to scream. Instead I stood silently as tears pooled in my eyes. Mollye seized my arm and turned me away.

  Sheriff’s Deputy Danny McCoy arrived in under five minutes with another Ardon County officer. They found Moll and me sitting in the apartment hallway on opposite sides of the door to 1-E.

  Danny’d grilled Moll on the phone as he drove to the crime scene. Having heard all of her answers it didn’t take much brainpower to figure out his questions, which pretty much mirrored my own. He’d first asked if we were sure the woman was dead. Next he wanted to know how we got inside, and if we’d touched Karen or anything in her apartment.

  “Only the front door,” Mollye’d answered. “I know how you feel about people who contaminate a crime scene,” she added rather peevishly. “And, no, if anyone else was here, they’re long gone.”

  Was it a crime scene? Danny hadn’t asked Mollye her opinion of what caused Karen’s death.

  After Moll ended her phone call and we began our floor-sitting vigil, I asked, “Murder?” I was no coroner but my guess was she’d been strangled.

  “Well, it sure wasn’t suici
de.” Moll answered without pause. “It’s been years since Karen and I hung out, but I know she loved her folks. If she’d wanted to hang herself, she’d have done so fully clothed. No way she’d subject her grieving parents to the added humiliation of finding her nude.”

  I nodded. “So murder?”

  “What else?”

  Minutes after Danny arrived, he politely told us to scram. “Drop by the Sheriff’s Office in the morning to give a formal statement. Nothing more for you here.”

  I was more than happy to follow his suggestion. Mollye seemed less thrilled about being shooed away. She didn’t utter a word on the short drive back to Publix.

  “I’m so sorry Karen’s dead,” I said when we reached the parking lot. “I know you two had gone separate ways, but it’s still hard to lose an old friend, especially like this. I might not have seen eye-to-eye with her on religion, but she was way too young to die.”

  Moll nodded. “Thanks. Right now, I don’t feel much like talking. I keep asking why. Maybe I’ll drop by Summer Place tomorrow afternoon. See if you need help with your tasting.”

  SEVEN

  I woke late Monday morning.

  Last night, I’d left a message on Udderly’s answering machine to let my aunt know why I was running late. Then I completed my grocery shopping, put all the ingredients away at Summer Place, and returned to Udderly to find a concerned Eva pacing the floor.

  Her concern for my mental health actually earned me two extra hours of sleep. She’d tiptoed into my room when she got up and turned off my alarm. She tackled her chores and mine while I snoozed. Eva’s crusty exterior poorly camouflaged her generous heart.

  My main morning chore was a visit to the Sheriff’s Office to dictate and sign a formal statement regarding the discovery of Karen Vincent’s body before heading to my parents’ house for our lunch date.

  My folks owned a comfortable, two-story brick rancher near the Clemson University campus. My professorial dad, Howard Hooker, heads the Horticultural Department, and Mom—Iris Hooker, Esquire—serves as attorney and prosecutor for the City of Clemson.

  Their professional success was one reason I felt my current job tending goats and my future B&B hopes might seem underwhelming.

  All members of the Hooker clan were South Carolina transplants from Iowa. I grew up in Ames, Iowa, where Dad taught at Iowa State University. He accepted the Clemson job offer while I was attending Furman University. It gave Dad a chance to live closer to his twin sisters, Eva and Lilly, who’d moved south years before. Mom decided she’d had her fill of snow.

  In Ardon County, my folks’ twelve-year residence wouldn’t have counted for much. Anybody whose mamma’s mamma wasn’t born here was considered an outsider—a Yankee if the person hailed from up north, a nebulous direction that seemed to include Iowa. Yet given Clemson’s rapid turnover as a college town, my parents had become community pillars.

  When I pulled into the driveway, Mom and Ursula were relaxing in front-porch rockers enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. Mom’s old law school pal had just finished a TV shoot in Buffalo, New York. No wonder she wanted to soak up sun.

  Judge Ursula’s Citizens’ Court was a traveling reality show. I’d seen her adjudicating everything from a sled dog’s fate in an Alaskan divorce settlement to a dispute over the color of a Florida van’s paint job. On one show, a deceased man’s wife, mistress, and step-daughter all argued about who should get his frozen sperm. I wasn’t sure any of them should reproduce.

  As I climbed onto the front porch, Ursula and Mom both stood—the old friend dwarfing my petite, five foot two mother.

  “Heavens, can you really be the same Brie I played hopscotch with?” Ursula asked. “What a beautiful young woman you’ve become. Come here and give me a hug.”

  The woman embraced me like we were long lost friends. Though I had no memory of any childhood hopscotch date, I returned the hug.

  “I’m so glad you can make the tasting tomorrow,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t miss it. I’m not a vegan, but I try to go meatless one day a week. Maybe you’ll inspire me to do even better.”

  When Ursula released me, Mom gave me a quick hug and checked her watch. “Howard should be by to pick us up any minute. We’re going to lunch at the Madren Center.”

  As if on command, Dad’s SUV materialized. He pulled to the curb and hopped out to open doors for his passengers. Mom offered Ursula the front seat, but she waved her off and climbed in the back with me.

  Since Mom hadn’t quizzed me about Karen’s death, I assumed it hadn’t made the news. The Ardon Chronicle didn’t publish on Mondays and, if the local radio station was tuned into the police band on Sunday night, they’d probably only reported a suspicious death. I’d tell my folks about it later. No point ruining everyone’s lunch.

  I tried not to stare at Ursula, who was every bit as stunning in the flesh as on TV. Since she and Mom were classmates, Ursula had to be late fifties. But she was definitely well preserved. Not that Mom appeared to be growing mold. I couldn’t spot a single gray hair in Ursula’s shiny black locks and no signs of crow’s feet around her startling green eyes. Her pale skin seemed to glow. Heck, I had more wrinkles than she did.

  She was definitely better dressed. The silky green dress cinched at her waist by a wide belt emphasized her hour-glass figure. A muted Merino wool shawl caressed her shoulders like a hovering cloud. Unfortunately, the shawl made me flash back to the colorful scarf around Karen’s neck. I shuddered.

  “How long are you staying in Clemson?” I asked to take my mind in a different direction.

  “I’m not sure.” A slight frown flitted across her face. “Your mother is helping me with a legal matter and my daughter, Amber, is joining me. We both may be here awhile.”

  Hmm. Curious. Mom hadn’t mentioned Ursula’s daughter coming. In fact, Mom had never said boo about her single friend having a daughter.

  “Amber’s your age,” Ursula added. “Bet you’ll like her. She’s a police detective in Miami. I’m really proud of her.”

  “I’d love to meet her, though if the two of you are staying with my folks, Dad is sure to monopolize Amber. He’s a closet crime novelist, loves reading and writing mysteries.”

  The opening bars of Madonna’s Material Girl filled the car. Mollye’s ringtone. I’d forgotten to silence my phone. Strapped down in my seat with the contraption in my back pocket there was no graceful way to stop it. “Sorry,” I apologized, “I’ll put it on vibrate as soon as I can get at it.”

  Ursula seemed amused by the look Mom gave me. “Your folks are super, but I’m hoping a room opens at a nearby hotel before Amber arrives on Thursday. I’m an obnoxious guest. I keep odd hours and I like my space. Given the conversation I plan to have with Amber, she may want alone time, too.”

  I nodded. What kind of conversation would make Ursula think her daughter needed alone time? I was dying to ask though it was clearly none of my business.

  “Just tell my folks you need some personal space. They’ll respect that. I doubt you’ll find any hotel vacancies. Clemson’s hosting an international high school science fair, and there’s a Clemson-Duke basketball game this Saturday.”

  “So I learned.” Ursula shrugged. “Think I’d have an easier time booking a suite in Beverly Hills during Oscar week.”

  I wondered why Judge Ursula was consulting Mom on a legal matter. Did it involve her daughter? Mom was a firm believer in that old saw—“only a fool acts as his own attorney.” But given Ursula’s celebrity status, and I assumed fat bank account, she could hire any hotshot lawyer she wanted in NYC or Los Angeles, the two cities where she spent the most time.

  My mother’s skills and intelligence were mighty impressive, but she didn’t practice the type of law a celebrity generally needed. When Mom wasn’t acting as the City of Clemson attorney, her private practice focused on real estate transactions
and wills. She didn’t negotiate entertainment contracts or broker book deals. Then again maybe the daughter was coming to discuss provisions of a will?

  I was trying to figure out what I could ask next without overstepping “none of my business” bounds when Dad let us out at the Madren entrance. While Dad parked, we claimed our reserved table, a prime one overlooking a portion of the Walker Golf Course and sparkling Lake Hartwell. The early warm spell had even coaxed a Bradford pear tree into a showy display of white blooms.

  My father joined us as the waiter handed out menus. I had my fingers crossed there’d be plenty of veggie sides and appetizers. While most restaurants offered lots of a la carte options, it was sometimes a challenge to order sides that hadn’t been baptized in butter or performed a backstroke in cheese sauce.

  Madonna’s Material Girl sounded again. I’d forgotten to switch the phone over. I pulled it from my back pocket to silence it before I forgot again. A glance told me the text was from Mollye. What could be important enough for her to disturb my lunch?

  Returning my attention to the menu, I spotted a spinach salad and ordered it minus bacon and cheese with oil and vinegar dressing.

  Since my parents and I are curious souls, our dinner guests must sometimes feel they’re being interviewed by a 60 Minutes’ tag team. Judge Ursula reversed the roles. As interrogator, she made us Hookers look like amateurs.

  Before we finished our entrées, Ursula had quizzed Dad about the poisonous plants he grew for cancer research, grilled Mom about town-college battles over legal jurisdiction, and peppered me with questions on a seemingly endless array of topics. Why did I leave the banking job I took after getting an MBA? How had I become a vegan? How long did I think my boyfriend trial would run before someone was declared a winner? When she asked about the upcoming goat yoga my mind crashed back to that closet and Karen’s naked body.

  Apparently, my face didn’t show my dismay or Ursula would have noticed and asked about it. She didn’t seem the least bit shy. Instead, she honed in on my upcoming tasting. “What do you hope to accomplish?”