“That’s a lot of money,” Lucy yelled over the cheers of the throng. “You must be so proud.”
James popped a chocolate vampire in his mouth. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier,” he said, chewing, the liquid sweetness spreading over his tongue like ambrosia. “And that’s not just the chocolate talking.”
“I think Whitney made a bargain with the devil,” Gillian announced with her usual dramatic flair over dinner Sunday night.
In honor of Halloween, Bennett had draped his glass dining table with a black vinyl cloth and had laid out five orange place mats and paper napkins covered with flying ghosts. He had also lit two human-sized skull candles to add to the spooky-but-festive ambiance. The candlewicks were located deep behind the eye sockets of the skulls, and their flickering light created the appearance of life within the waxen orbs.
After dining on lettuce wedges covered by blue cheese crumbles, bacon bits, fresh ground pepper, and blue cheese dressing, the supper club had moved on to their main course. Lucy had volunteered to cook the chicken—boneless breasts seasoned with garlic cloves, olive oil, rosemary, parsley, salt, pepper, and lemon juice—and James was pleasantly surprised by how flavorful and tender the entrée turned out to be.
“I thought this would be like eating a dry rubber band,” Lindy confessed, “but this is delicious! Any secrets from the chef on how to cook this on our own?”
Lucy dabbed at her lips with a napkin and said, “Honestly, I called my mom for a bit of advice. She told me to use fresh herbs instead of the stuff in the jars. Guess she was right, as usual.”
Lindy laughed a trifle bitterly. “I’ve got one of those mamas, too.”
“Wait a minute. Gillian was talking about devils, not angels like our mamas,” Bennett said. “What did you mean about Whitney?”
Gillian stared at her forkful of chicken and then, looking as though she were about to swallow a cyanide capsule, replaced her fork on her plate. “No offense, Lucy. It is really good. I’m just apologizing to the spirit of the chicken for eating its flesh.”
“I told you, I bought the Amish chicken,” Lucy huffed. “They’re fed an all-organic diet and are completely free range. Shoot, they’re probably treated better than my dogs!”
“And they probably deserve to be better treated,” Bennett sniggered under his breath. “At least those chickens never tried to attack innocent civil servants.”
“Back to Whitney . . .” James prompted, taking a long gulp of orange Diet Rite.
“Yes, let’s not lose focus.” Gillian inhaled and exhaled deeply. “After we all got off our floats to hear the mayor talk, I realized I had forgotten my evil eye protector. It’s a key chain that I bought a few years ago in Greece and is basically a blue bead painted to look like an eye. Every driver has these beads hanging from their rearview mirrors to prevent accidents. I had tucked it under one of our big potion bottles to ensure that there would be no driving mishaps during the parade. And see!” Her face gleamed. “Not a scratch! I bring it every year to protect the parade.”
“We’re all mighty grateful for the power of your evil eye protector,” Lindy teased, but Gillian took her seriously.
“Thank you.” She bowed her chin as a cascade of marmalade curls fell over her eyes. “So I had to return to the float for my luck charm. I always keep it in my car and I’d be terrified to drive without it. It was then that I saw Whitney, talking to someone dressed up as a devil.”
“What were they talking about?” Lucy asked excitedly.
“I couldn’t hear the exact words, but both of them were upset. Whitney looked like she was pleading with the devil while the devil was waving her hands around like she was really disturbed about something Whitney said. Of course, I have no idea who the devil was, as she had a mask on.”
“How do you know it was a ‘she’?” Bennett asked.
“She had the body of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, for starters. She wore a Lycra cat suit like it was her second skin. Not an ounce of flab on that woman!” Gillian snapped. “And like I said, I couldn’t hear what they said, but I could tell the voices belonged to two women.”
James sprinkled salt over the remainder of his chicken and told Gillian, “The devil was Amelia Flowers.”
“Yes sir. Hard to forget that outfit.” Bennett cackled. “Man, she can take me to the fiery pits of hell anytime!”
The women glared at Bennett.
“So Amelia and Whitney may be friends,” James quickly suggested before Bennett’s flesh was burned to a pile of ash from the heated stares given by their female dinner companions.
“They are the same age.” Lindy rubbed her round chin pensively. “I don’t remember them hanging out in high school, but maybe Amelia was the one at Whitney’s house Labor Day weekend.”
James stood up with his plate, heading toward Bennett’s sink. Some connection between Amelia and Brinkley was tickling at his mind, but he couldn’t think what it was. Clearing his head with a small shake, he said, “We’ll need to find out if Amelia was at Dolly’s on Homecoming Saturday.”
“But what would her motive be?” Gillian asked, exasperated. “Why can’t some crazy person, a stranger, have gotten into the Livingstones’ house and stolen the drugs?”
“That’s not very likely.” Lucy sighed. “I wish it were, but according to my law enforcement textbook, most small town homicides are committed by people who know the victim and have a motive.”
“Still, out of all the nation’s homicides, only 10 percent are committed by women,” Bennett added argumentatively.
Lucy looked over at him wearing a scowl of irritation. “How do you know this stuff, Bennett?”
Bennett examined his palms and shrugged. “I like statistics. I read books of facts in my spare time. One day, I’d really like to be a contestant on Jeopardy! I think I could give those lawyers and stockbrokers a run for their money.” He patted the bulge of his belly and laughed. “One goal at a time though, right?”
“Right,” James answered with an empathetic nod.
“Listen, I’ll go to the bakery this week and find a way to ask Amelia,” Lindy offered. “It would seem a natural thing for me to do, since I used to teach her. I chatted with her all the time when I used to go in there. These days, I’ve been trying to stay as far away from that place as possible.” She gestured toward the bowl of candy they had been using for trick-or-treaters. “It’s bad enough to have to be in the same room with that bowl of candy—my biggest weakness!”
“Never fear!” Gillian rose, her lemon-colored shirt floating behind her as she marched into the kitchen. “I’ve made us a special holiday dessert. And don’t worry, it’s still on our diet.”
“Wow!” James exclaimed as he looked at the contents of Gillian’s tray. “What exactly is that?”
“Dessert pizza,” Gillian replied proudly. “Halloween style. I used low-carb bake mix, cinnamon, and artificial sweetener to make the crust and sugar-free vanilla pudding with sugar-free candies to make the tombstones.”
James could feel his mouth watering as he examined his tombstone. The letters R.I.P. had been formed using chocolate chips and his name was spelled out with red shoestring licorice. Tiny gumdrops formed a floral design on the top of the vanilla grave marker. Without waiting for anyone else, James took an enormous bite of his pizza. As he chewed, his tongue was immediately accosted by the strange flavor of the crust. In his mind, he had prepared for the taste of a sugary dough like that of a donut or at the very least, the satisfying richness of French toast. This dough was dry, crumbly, and carried a strange and unidentifiable tang to his dejected taste buds.
“Too many chemicals.” Gillian grimaced as she bit into her own dessert. “That’s why real sugar tastes so much better. It’s a real plant. A real part of nature. I think we’re supposed to eat things grown from our Mother Earth.” Her shoulders slumped. “I can’t even pronounce half the ingredients in that bake mix. No wonder it tastes awful.”
“You did a great job with these, Gillian.” Lindy pointed at her own tombstone. “You’ve saved us from eating a bunch of empty calories and you displayed creative artistry in decorating these.”
“You must be a fabulous teacher,” Gillian replied, a slow smile igniting her freckled cheeks. “You’re one hell of a good cheerleader when any one of us is feeling down.”
“Well, speaking of feeling down,” Lindy smacked her dainty hands together. “I brought my item of ‘goal clothing.’ I’m going to assume the rest of you didn’t chicken out on me.”
“I hope that means you’re going first, then,” James answered gloomily.
“I don’t care. You two men will probably be more embarrassed by what I brought than I will.”
“Bring it on, sister,” Bennett declared, having finished clearing off the table.
Before Lindy could speak, the doorbell rang.
“Your turn, James!” Lucy sang out, thrusting the candy bowl into his hands. James opened the door to a pair of teenage boys, about five years too old to be out asking for candy.
“Give us a shitload of candy or we’ll egg your mailbox,” the one vaguely dressed as a punk rocker threatened.
“And I’ll toilet paper your trees.” The second boy bared a pair of plastic fangs. It was the only attempt the boy had made at pretending to wear a costume.
James looked out at Bennett’s lawn. Even in the dark, he could see from the light shed by Bennett’s lamppost that the only trees in the yard were mammoth pines. They would be very difficult to paper.
“Be my guest,” James shrugged, withdrawing the candy bowl from the boys’ reach. “The man who lives in this house works for the United States Post Office. If you tamper with his mailbox, which is a federal crime, you’re going to get a hefty fine and I’m going to stand right here and serve as his witness.”
“Yeah right,” the rocker scoffed. “You’re just a fat lard ass and you’re totally full of crap.”
Lucy appeared from nowhere and grabbed the rocker by the oversized shoulder pad of his leather jacket. “Jason Stein, you get off of this doorstep by the time I finish this sentence or I will call your father at work and let him know you are threatenin’ folks to give you candy! You too, Bobby Wilcox!”
The boys hesitated for less than a second, torn between indignation and genuine fear. When Lucy yelled “Git!” they jumped up in their shoes and scrambled across the lawn. James watched them as they ran down the street and were swallowed up by the shadows beneath the hillside.
“I was handling them and didn’t need any help,” James growled at Lucy. “I’m a grown man, after all,” he added huffily.
“Sorry,” Lucy countered defensively. “I just thought we could get rid of them faster so we could get back to business.”
“Fine, let’s go then.” James sulked his way back to the table.
“Before I show you my clothing item,” Lindy said as James and Lucy took their places around the table, “I have to show you a photograph first.” Lindy slid a glossy 8 x 10 toward the middle of the table. It was a picture of a young woman in a one-piece bathing suit, leaning backward into a narrow waterfall. The woman’s body was long and lean. She had waist-length ebony hair and an hourglass figure that Marilyn Monroe would have been envious of. She also had the same light coffee-colored skin as Lindy.
“That’s my mother. She was a famous teen model in Brazil. I’m half Brazilian, but all I seemed to have inherited from my mother physically was her skin tone. My father is a short, round southerner from a podunk town outside of Birmingham. My parents met in an art history class at Washington & Lee and fell in love. Everyone was shocked when they got married, but I think they were even more shocked when I was born. Right away, people could tell I was never going to be any model. In fact, I looked nothing like my mother. At three years old I was already overweight and my father said that I was the spitting image of his own mother. Trust me, being compared to Grandma Bertha wasn’t exactly a compliment. I’ve seen smaller rumps on a water buffalo.”
“Where are your parents now?” Gillian asked as she examined the photograph.
“They live in D.C. My mother manages an art gallery and my father does restoration work for the Smithsonian.” Lindy took the picture and returned it to her purse. “My mother was always putting me on diets and trying to get me to exercise. It drove a wedge between us. My father loved me no matter what I looked like. I tried to teach in D.C., but the schools there are too crazy and I wanted to escape all of the comparisons to my mother. Here, no one knows me. This is my town, a place where I can be myself.”
“You did get her huge eyes and that killer smile, Lindy,” Lucy said soothingly. “And there are a lot of kids who are lucky you came out to Quincy’s Gap.”
“Thanks.” Lindy rummaged around in her duffle bag-sized purse. “But if you thought I was opening up before, then look out.” She pulled a black satin bra out of her bag and tossed it on the table.
“Good morning!” Bennett leapt back as if the bra were a coiled rattlesnake.
“I wore this in high school.” Lindy held out the slinky-looking bra. “Nice size, dainty shape, alluring demi-cups—to me, it was the kind of thing a movie star or one of the prom queens from school might wear. Right?”
The ladies nodded in agreement. James and Bennett looked at one another in helpless embarrassment.
“Now this,” Lindy began, yanking a flesh-colored object out of her purse, “is what I wear now. This is a full-cupped, reinforced underwire bra, size 44 EE.” She tossed it on the table next to the black one.
James couldn’t help but notice that each cup of Lindy’s current bra looked like it could successfully hold an entire cantaloupe.
“Watch this. This is the scary part.” She held up the enormous biscuit-colored bra and then placed the black bra inside of it. “At one time, my bra size was a 38 D. My, how I have grown.” She sat back, hands folded across the round shelf that formed her chest, and frowned at the amazing difference between the two bras.
Lindy’s current bra could hold five cups the black bra’s size. It was like comparing small, sweet oranges to massively overripe and distended honeydew melons. She picked up the high school bra and held the delicate piece of lingerie over her chest. James could clearly see that only a portion of each breast would be able to fit into the old bra.
“I could never fasten this around my back, either. I’m just too wide now.” Lindy dropped the bra back into her purse. “It would take an entire box of rubber bands to close the space between each set of hooks. So that’s my goal, my friends. I want to slim down enough all over, but I especially want to get back into that bra. After all, can you imagine me out on a date with Principal Chavez, things getting kind of hot and heavy, and . . . Bam! He sees my fat lady underwear and drops me off at the curb.”
Lindy’s audience of four remained silently stunned. Luckily, the doorbell rang and the supper club members could hear a group of children giggling outside, along with the sudden patter of raindrops hitting the metal roof of Bennett’s carport.
“I’ll get it!” the men shouted simultaneously and dove for the candy bowl.
“That was very brave of you,” Gillian said, gently covering Lindy’s hand with her own. “You’ve given us all the inspiration to bare our souls to one another.”
James returned from answering the door to a pack of hobbits hiding under umbrellas. He held out an old belt. “Wow, the rain is really coming down out there. Um, I don’t have anything quite so interesting as Lindy, but this is a belt I could wear about five years ago. I might be able to use the last hole these days.”
“I want to fit into these,” Lucy said, holding up a folded pair of pants. “If I can get myself into these, then I might be inspired to keep losing weight and get in good enough shape to pass the physical I need to enroll in the deputy training program.” She looked down at the faded denim on the table. “Fitting into these would be a big step toward a whole new me.”
Benn
ett coughed. “Mine’s a little embarrassing, too. It’s a wrestling outfit. Lemme give ya some background on this thing. See, I didn’t go to college like you folks. I had to work two jobs out of high school to help raise my brothers and sisters. There were eight of us and I was the oldest.”
“So you felt responsible?” Gillian asked.
“I didn’t feel anything.” Bennett pulled roughly on his mustache, a flash of annoyance sparking in his dark eyes. “My folks said ‘you’ve got to help,’ and that was that. We lived in an even smaller town than this outside of Lynchburg. My folks scratched out a living working on other people’s farms. White people’s, mostly. Now I’m forty, a bit older than the rest of you, and back then, the black families all still lived in one part of town. Our neighborhood was growin’ poorer and poorer and way too rough around the edges. My folks wanted to move to a better place but there just wasn’t enough money. So I started commuting to Lynchburg College to work as an assistant wrestling coach. I was an all-American wrestler at my high school and I had a whole bag of tricks to pass on to those college boys. The only other job I could work while coaching was a part-time postal route. That’s how my family got to Quincy’s Gap and also how I became a mailman.”
Lindy pointed at Bennett’s uniform. “What happened to your wrestling gig?”
Bennett frowned. “Budget cuts. Not in the football program, of course, but wrestling was cancelled altogether. The sport just wasn’t popular enough with the alumni, I guess. Anyway, this is a suit I wore a couple of times to demonstrate moves with my players. I’d look like a pound of soft butter sitting in a hammock if I wore it now. I’d sure like to leave this spare tire on a car somewhere and build up some of that muscle I used to have.”
James smiled as Bennett held up the wrestling uniform, gazing at it nostalgically. It looked a bit like a mustard-colored slingshot.
Carbs & Cadavers Page 11
