by Tamar Myers
“The accused’s fingerprints,” he said carefully, “were found several places in Flora’s room. Including the handle on the door that leads to the outside.”
I snorted. “Again that means nothing. Like we discussed, Sheriff, Flora might have been killed in the bathtub. Now, if you had found her prints there, as well—”
He was nodding.
“You found C.J.’s fingerprints on Flora’s bathtub?”
“Yes, Abby. But like I told you before, I personally don’t believe the girl did it. Still, the evidence so far seems to point that way.”
I sat down in the chair offered. “Poor C.J.’s in a peck of trouble, isn’t she?”
Rhett took a cautious step away from me. “That’s why we want her to stick to her guilty plea. You were right, you know. Miss Cox is a tune short of a songfest. If she pleads guilty, we might get her off on the insanity issue. But it wouldn’t be temporary insanity, of course.”
“You know we can’t lie,” Daniel said, as he wisely took a step away from me, “so we can’t defend her as long as she pleads not guilty. We were hoping you could talk some sense into her. I mean, we tried, but—”
“And you two are the best Buford had to offer?” I roared. “She didn’t do it, and she’s not insane! Sure, she’s a doughnut shy of a dozen, but aren’t we all? In some way? Why just look at the two of you! You can’t lie, yet you became lawyers. That’s as smart a move as training a hen to hunt foxes.”
“We wanted to become ministers,” Daniel said sadly, “but they don’t get paid very much.”
“Well, thank heavens for that!”
“Mmm-mmm,” Sheriff Thompson said, shaking his head. “I always did like a woman with fire.”
I glared at the man behind the badge. “You are happily married, remember?” I turned to the Triplett twins. “Speaking of fire, y’all don’t get to quit. Y’all are fired!”
Tears rolled down Daniel’s cheeks. “We can’t help it if we were born with scruples.”
The mother in me wanted to hug the man, but the friend in me didn’t have time for anything but business. “I want to see C.J., and I want to see her now!”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sheriff said with a twinkle in his eye.
C.J. jumped with joy when she saw me. In fact, she jumped on my foot and nearly broke my arch. The sheriff, bless his soul, had permitted me to enter her cell, an experience I found fascinating.
“Well, dear, this isn’t so bad. You have sheets, and the toilet is behind a screen.”
“It wasn’t always,” said a deep voice behind me.
I turned and beheld one of the homeliest women I’d seen in a long time. She was as tall as two bean poles lashed together and as skinny as a celery stalk. She had a nose like a rutabaga, and virtually no chin. Her eyes were red and protruding, like radishes, and the bags beneath, which were too large to meet airline carry-on standards, were the color of eggplant. She was missing her two front teeth and the top of her left cauliflower ear. Her mousy brown hair was even stringier than C.J.’s, and if she didn’t already represent enough vegetables, there was sufficient dirt under her fingernails to start a garden plot. This less than attractive package came wrapped in a faux python sheath of cheap polyester. The gold lamé sandals on her feet, however, were a nice touch.
“Abby, this is my new friend,” C.J. squealed, clearly delighted to introduce us. “She’s a fellow inmate.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, but did not extend a hand. If you ask me, this whole business of hand-shaking has gotten out of control. It was originally intended to show that one was unarmed, but now it has become the number-one method of spreading colds. We in the Episcopal Church ritually shake hands every Sunday in what is called “passing the peace,” although more often than not it is really passing the virus. Imagine the discomfort of someone as hygienic as myself, having to listen to the wretched souls behind me wheezing and sniffing, and then at an appointed time be forced to shake their moist hands. Why not just press the palms of our hands together and bow slightly like they do in the Orient?
C.J.’s buddy thrust a gnarly mitt under my nose. “Name’s Mozella Wiggins,” she grunted.
C.J. clapped her hands in glee. “Abby, did you get that? Her name is the same as your mama’s!”
“Not quite.” I said, pondering the situation, “Wiggins is Mama’s married name. Her maiden name was Humperdink.” That was an out-and-out lie, but I didn’t trust Garden Lady.
Mozella grabbed my right hand, which was still protectively at my side. Her fingers felt like artichokes.
“Why, ain’t that something! Wiggins is only my married name. You ain’t gonna believe this, doll, but Humperdink is my mama’s maiden name.”
“Get out of town!” C.J. squealed. “Abby, isn’t that something?”
“That’s something, all right,” I said, and then impulsively gave her a big hug. The poor girl is an orphan, after all. It isn’t her fault she was raised by a clan of kooks.
Mozella coughed. “Hey, you got a cigarette?”
“No, dear, I don’t smoke.” I turned to C.J. “I really need to speak to you alone.”
“Oh, heck, Abby, you can say anything you want in front of Mozella. She’s my new best friend—well, except for you, of course. And Wynnell. And your mama. And the Alphabet sisters back in Shelby.”
“The Alphabet sisters?” I asked against my better judgment. I was under the impression C.J. had severed all ties with that fair city, except for occasional visits to see her grandmother.
“Well, their last name was really Grafton, not Alphabet. I just call them that to keep their names straight. Let’s see, A is for Amber, B is for Betty, C is for Connie—”
“C.J., please! You have got to get a grip on yourself. What’s this I hear about you changing your plea?”
“Well, I had to, Abby. Mozella, here, helped me figure out that I didn’t kill Flora after all.”
I whirled. “You did? How?”
Mozella picked something out of a clump of hair that was hanging in her face and twiddling her fingers, released it over the floor. I hoped to heaven whatever it was wasn’t alive.
“I listened to her, honey. Apparently no one takes the time to really listen to her.”
“But I listen to her,” I wailed.
Mozella put her grubby paw to one side of her mouth and spoke to me as if C.J. were truly out of earshot. “Look, honey, she might be a couple of cigarettes short of a pack, but she’s one bright cookie.”
“I know that,” I said hotly. “Not many other twenty-four-year-olds are successful antique dealers. But I still say I listen to her.”
“Not really,” said C.J. “Not like Mozella, here. Of course she’s used to listening, on account of her business.”
“Oh? And what kind of business would that be?”
“She’s a sex therapist, Abby. She’s been telling me all about it.”
“Get out of town!” I said. “What do you really do for a living?”
“You see,” C.J. said, “you don’t listen.”
“But I do.” I turned to Mozella. “Are you a certified sex therapist?”
The radishes blinked. “A degree don’t mean nothing in my line of work.”
“I see. And I suppose you don’t have a regular office either, do you?”
“Nah, that ain’t legal in this state. But it is in Nevada, you know?”
I grabbed C.J.’s arm and hauled her clean across the room. “That’s no sex therapist,” I hissed. “Your new best friend’s a lady of the evening!”
“Now, Abby, don’t be jealous just because she makes a good living and you’re broke. I know you wouldn’t qualify as a sex therapist—on account of your problem with Buford—but Mozella is a professional magician, too. Maybe she could teach you how to do tricks.”
“She’s a prostitute, C.J.!”
C.J. recoiled in horror. “You mean she—uh—Lord have mercy!”
I nodded. “Yes, dear, that’s exactly what
I mean. Now what did you mean with that crack about Buford and me?”
C.J. turned the color of Mozella’s nose. “Nothing.”
I took a menacing step forward. I may be half her size and weight, but everyone knows it’s all a matter of attitude. Dmitri, my cat, once chased a pack of dogs out of my yard and halfway down the block. Any one of those mutts could have made short shrift of my lovable fur ball—had he not had an attitude.
“Okay,” C.J. said, putting her hands up in a defensive posture. “I heard that you were—uh—well, frigid. That you were never there for Buford.”
“What? Who told you that?” Let me assure you, it was absolutely not true. Before Buford gained those extra sixty pounds, I was one hot mama. And even after the love handles developed into valises, I played the dutiful wife. It was only after his betrayal that the door to my love palace closed.
“Tweetie told me,” C.J. said smugly.
“Tweetie is a liar! When I get back to Charlotte I’m going to—” I clamped a hand over my own mouth. As usual, C.J. had managed to divert me from the business at hand.
“Oh, Abby, please don’t be mad at her. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. And I wouldn’t have, except that you were putting down my new best friend. And, anyway, I wouldn’t dream of telling you what Tweetie said about your housekeeping skills.”
I bit my tongue. “Well, we’ve somehow managed to get off track, dear. I’m definitely listening now, so tell me all about what happened last night, and how you first came to the conclusion that you stabbed and killed Flora, and then what made you change your mind.”
C.J. smiled. She is really not an unattractive girl, and is intensely loyal, and thus would make the right person a good wife. Not that unattractive girls don’t make good wives, but in C.J.’s case it wouldn’t hurt to have a little something extra going for her.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll tell you everything. But this might take a while. Abby, maybe you should sit down—on account of your age and all.”
“I’m forty-eight, dear. Willard Scott won’t live long enough to wish me Happy Birthday.”
I glanced around. Besides the toilet, which was definitely out of the question, the only other furniture in the room was a set of bunk beds. I’ve always wanted bunk beds—perhaps it has something to do with me being altitudinally disadvantaged. At any rate, I would have happily perched on the top bunk, had there been a ladder. But, alas, there wasn’t even a conveniently placed support bar upon which to step. Unless I asked for a boost, or hitched a ride with a hot-air balloon, I was out of luck.
Mozella must have read my mind. She trotted over.
“Top bunk is gonna be C.J.’s, on account of she’s tall. Stretch, I call her. But you can sit on my bunk, if you like. Them sheets ain’t dirty. They gave me clean ones just last week.”
All right, so it was kind of her to offer. But the woman looked like she was host to more diseases than a third-world country. I forced a smile.
“That’s very kind, dear, but I’ve been sitting all morning.” I turned to C.J. “Now, tell me everything. Don’t leave a single thing out. And I promise not to interrupt.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Stick a needle in my eye.”
“Gross,” Mozella said.
I nodded to C.J. to begin.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” she began solemnly.
“You heard the storm, too?”
“Of course, Abby, but you’re interrupting already.”
“Sorry, dear, it’s just that I didn’t hear the storm.”
“It was a real shutter-banger,” Mozella opined. “Even I heard it in here.”
I arched my eyebrows to communicate my displeasure at her uninvited participation in a private conversation. “Go on, Stretch,” I said pointedly to C.J.
My friend took a deep breath. “Well, Abby, like I said, it was storming to beat the band, and I—uh, well, don’t do too well in storms. Maybe it has to do with that time I got hit by lightning. Granny Ledbetter had sent me up on her roof to clean out the gutters, see, when this big thunderstorm came out of nowhere. I should have gotten down right away—I mean, I was already five at the time—but Granny had promised me a nickel for each gutter I cleaned, and the carnival was coming to town and I wanted desperately to see the two-headed billy goat. Have you ever seen a two-headed goat, Abby?”
I shook my head.
“Well, it was real disappointing. One of the heads was just a lump. It didn’t have any eyes or ears, but it did have a nice beard. Both heads did—although not as nice as Granny Ledbetter’s. Anyway, that’s why I’m afraid of storms. Because of the lightning, of course. Not on account of the goat or Granny’s beard. Does this make any sense, Abby?”
“More than you’ll ever know, dear.”
She smiled broadly. “Good. So, anyway, to calm me down, Granny Ledbetter used to make hot chocolate with—”
“Lots of little marshmallows?” You can’t believe how hungry I was by then.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Abby. I said ‘hot chocolate,’ not ‘tomato soup.’ Everyone knows you put those minimarshmallows in tomato soup. And you interrupted me again.”
“I’m sorry,” I wailed. I really was.
“Okay—but, this is your last chance. Now, where was I?”
These lips did not move.
“You were telling us how your granny put crackers in your cocoa,” Mozella said.
“Yeah, but they have to be those little oyster crackers. Saltines won’t do. Anyway, so I went down to Mrs. Latham’s kitchen to see if I could find some cocoa mix and a box of crackers, when all of a sudden I heard her cry for help.” She paused, and stroked her chin. “Actually, at first I thought it was a mouse squeaking, and, ooh, Abby, I hate mice. Did I ever tell you about the mouse I found in my lunch box in third grade?”
I nodded vigorously. It was a lie, I’m not ashamed to say.
“Oh. Well, anyway, I found some cocoa, and made myself a cup in the microwave, but I didn’t find any crackers. I was just in time with the cocoa, too, because there was this real loud crack of thunder and the lights went off.” She paused, perhaps for drama’s sake.
“Go on.”
“So, I was sitting at the kitchen table sipping my cocoa in the dark when I first heard the mouse squeak. Real high-pitched little cries, like this.” She demonstrated in falsetto. “I tell you, Abby, I was about to run, but then it squeaked a couple more times and I figured out it was Mrs. Latham crying for help, and that she had to be in Flora’s room. So I picked up the kris and—”
“Hold it,” I ordered, risking her wrath, and losing her cooperation altogether. “Where was the kris at this time?”
“On the kitchen table.”
“Who put it there?”
“I did, of course. Abby, I had a lot of cupboards to look through. You wouldn’t expect me to hold on to the kris the whole time, would you?”
“Where was the kris when you entered the kitchen?” I asked with remarkable patience. Thank heaven I had all that experience interrogating my kids when they were teenagers.
C.J. rolled her eyes. “In my hand, where else?”
I slapped the palm of my hand to my forehead. “When and where did you first pick up the kris?”
C.J. paled. “I couldn’t help myself, Abby. It was so beautiful—that gold handle, and all those gemstones. I’d never seen anything like it before.”
“You stole the kris?”
Mozella clapped her filthy hands. “You go, girl!”
“I only borrowed it, Abby. I would have given it back, I’m sure. Only not right away.”
I put my hands on my hips, a stance stern mothers have taken ever since the first cave woman caught her child playing with flint too near the tinder pile after one too many warnings. Like the first reprimanded cave child, C.J. regarded me sullenly.
“Shame on you, Jane Elizabeth Cox! Stealing is stealing. What would your granny Ledbetter say if she knew you had
stolen that valuable sword from a sweet old lady like Mrs. Latham?”
“She’d tan my hide.”
“You’re darn tootin’, dear. So think about your granny the next time you’re tempted to steal.”
“You’re absolutely right, Abby. I should have gotten something for her. Granny loves presents.”
“What? Didn’t anyone ever teach you that—oh, never mind! Now get back to your story. So you picked up the kris—which didn’t belong to you—and then what?”
“Then I ran into Flora’s room and stabbed her.”
17
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. You saw Flora lying on the floor with the kris sticking out of her chest.”
I shuddered. The image was still very fresh. I could almost smell the sweet-musty odor of death.
“Yes, I saw her.” I breathed deeply. “But, C.J., honey, just a minute ago you said you didn’t kill Flora. You can’t have it both ways.”
The poor girl burst into tears and covered her face with her mannish hands.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Mozella said accusingly.
“Oh, shut up,” I said, causing generations of well-bred southern ancestors to simultaneously turn over in their graves. I swear the jailhouse began to rock.
“Why, I never!”
“I’m surprised ‘never’ is even in your vocabulary, dear.”
“Please,” C.J. sobbed, “don’t be mad at her. It’s me who’s all screwed up.”
I fished a wad of tissues out of my bra and handed them to her. Don’t get me wrong, I am not flat-chested, I just like to be prepared.
“You’re not screwed up, dear, you’re just confused. Did you, or did you not, stab Flora?”
“I don’t know!”
Extracting information from C.J. is like tacking in a sailboat on a narrow canal. “Okay, let’s say you did stab Flora. Then what? What did Mrs. Latham do or say? Was she hurt?”
C.J. shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess not. She seemed all right this morning, didn’t she?”
“But what about last night? Didn’t Mrs. Latham say anything to you?”
“The funny thing is, Abby, I never even saw her.”
