Guess Who's Coming to Die?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “ ‘We cotton to the whole world,’ ” Slade quoted the business motto. He poised his pen. “So make it clear again how he was related to Wilma and Willena?”

  “He was Wilma’s great-granddaddy and Willena’s great-great-granddaddy.” I settled back in my chair. We Southerners love to trace a family history, even if it’s not our own. “Will had two sons, Will Junior and Frank. They each had a son, Billy and Robison. They had other children, too, but none of them lived to adulthood except, I think, a sister of Robison’s. When Billy and Robison grew up, they went into business with their daddies and granddaddy. During World War Two there was again a rumor that Kenans sold cotton to both sides of the conflict, but nobody ever proved it. Anyway, after the war — about the time old Will was dying — his sons and grandsons took the company public and it began to grow into the multinational corporation it is today.”

  Slade gave me a penetrating look. “You reckon they went public because they didn’t have sons themselves?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but actually, Robison did have a son, John. He was a little older than me, and a talented photographer. He wasn’t the least bit interested in cotton, but he went into the business to please his dad. He left any chance he got, though, to travel to faraway places and take pictures. He photographed several articles for National Geographic.”

  Slade was drawing lines. I figured he was working out the generations. He confirmed that when he looked up and asked, “So how did the generations get uneven?”

  “Billy didn’t marry until he was forty, and he was heading for fifty before Wilma was born. Meanwhile, Robison had had John when he was thirty, and John had Willena when he was in his midtwenties, so the girls were ten years but a whole generation apart.”

  “Did you mention a sister in there somewhere?”

  “I think Robison had a sister, but I don’t know what happened to her. Why don’t you try to track her down?” That might keep him too busy to pay any attention to Cindy.

  No such luck. He pulled himself to his feet. “Maybe later. First I want to talk to Cindy and at least one more member of the investment club.” He rose and stood jingling the coins in his pocket. “MayBelle Brandison might be good for a quick interview, if I mention Brandison Builders. Would you save me a trip back to my office and remind me who else belongs to the Moneyed Ladies?”

  I blushed to realize that nickname was so well-known. “You’d better not call them that. Gusta, Meriwether, Sadie Lowe, Nancy Jensen, and Rachel Ford all belong.”

  “Is Rachel that scrawny lawyer with the messy hair?”

  “It’s curly and she doesn’t straighten it, if that’s what you mean. I think it’s attractive.”

  He snorted. “Looks like she climbed out of bed and discovered her brush had been stolen. And it would be a waste of time talking to her. She’s first cousin to the clam. I tried to interview her right after she came to town, but all she’d talk about was the law center and its work. What I wanted was something personal.” He sketched quotation marks with his fingers. “ ‘International lawyer descends to head small-town Poverty Law Center,’ that sort of thing. Her only response to every question was ‘No comment,’ ‘No comment.’ ” He did a fair job of mimicking Rachel’s New York accent. “Last winter I tried to get the full story behind that big drug case they were involved in, and again, ‘No comment.’ I won’t waste time on her. I’m already past deadline. You sure you don’t have anything else you can tell me?”

  “I could tell you Cindy had nothing to do with it, but I doubt you’d print that,” I retorted.

  “Have to print what people want to read,” he reminded me.

  “Just don’t go putting my name in the first paragraph.”

  He laughed. “Read it and weep, Judge.” He gave me a mock salute and slouched out.

  I planned to start sending out invoices after he left, but he hadn’t been gone five minutes when I heard a crash in the parking lot, then voices raised and shouting. I slipped my feet into my shoes and dashed out to see what was going on.

  Slade stood at the rear fender of his black Lexus waving his arms. Rachel Ford stood at the side of an elderly blue BMW sports car, rubbing the back door and breathing fire.

  “Why didn’t you look before you backed?” she demanded as I came down the side steps from our store to the parking lot. I was surprised to see that she had tears in her eyes.

  Slade jerked his head toward a white van parked beside him. “I couldn’t see around that van. If you hadn’t come barreling in here like this was a NASCAR track . . .” He slapped his fender with his fist. “Look at that! The taillight is demolished. They’ll probably want to put on a whole new fender. I wouldn’t be surprised if the frame isn’t bent, too.”

  “You were clearly at fault,” she replied in an imperious tone. “And my poor baby will have to have a new back door. I need the name of your insurer.”

  “The hell you do. I wasn’t at fault! I was barely moving. You were going at least fifty.”

  “I couldn’t have been going fifty. I had just turned in and was looking for a parking space.”

  I went to join them. “I see you two have met.”

  They both stopped shouting, but each put hands on hips and stood glaring at the other, breathing heavily, like some well-choreographed ballet. I sidled around both cars, inspecting the damage.

  “Doesn’t look too bad to me,” I reported. “I can give you the name of a good body shop, Rachel. They can take that dent out so you’ll never know you got it. And it looks to me like all you need, Slade, is a new back light.”

  They each sullenly inspected the damage again.

  “You are both in shock,” I went on. “That’s why you are yelling. It’s scary to hit somebody or get hit. Why don’t you leave both cars here and go down to Myrtle’s for a cup of coffee and some pie while you talk things over?”

  Slade looked at me through narrowed eyes. I could tell he thought I was trying to fix him up again, but nothing was farther from my mind. Rachel had too many brains and too few dollars to attract Slade, and with those tempers, putting the two of them together would ensure that sparks were going to fly. I didn’t want Hopemore going up in flames.

  Emeralds flashed in Rachel’s ears as she turned her head. I wondered again how she had gotten into the investment club. Were the jewels a sign of hidden wealth, as Joe Riddley suspected, or merely the only thing of value she owned?

  The important thing now was to get them out of my parking lot, where they were attracting the wrong kind of attention. I told Slade with a clear conscience, “I thought you all might like to talk about this at civilized decibels. I’m busy, so I can’t invite you into my office, but Myrtle’s isn’t full at this time of day. Go over there to discuss what you want to do.”

  Rachel exhaled a puff of frustration. “There’s nothing to discuss. I know where to find him and he knows where to find me. If you’ll give me the name of that body shop, Mac, I’ll see what their estimate is. If it’s not exorbitant, I’ll pay my part of the bill.” Her generosity was canceled by her begrudging tone.

  I gave her the name and she tapped it into one of those little handheld gizmos modern women seem to use so much nowadays. You have to be below a certain age to appreciate them. I bought one, but never had four free days to sit down and read the manual.

  As she climbed back in her car, Rachel snapped, “You, Mr. Editor, can buy your own taillight. And next time you back up, if you can’t see, then pull out real slow.” With a toss of her head and one last flash of her eyes, she started her engine and drove away.

  Slade rubbed his broken light like a mother rubs a scratch on a beloved child’s face. “That woman is a menace, Mac. Can’t we send her back to wherever she came from?”

  When the Statesman arrived at my desk Wednesday morning, Willena’s murder filled half the front page, and I could cheerfully have throttled Slade. He had managed to unearth head shots of each member of the Magnolia Ladies’ Investment Club, had cu
t them into ovals, and arranged everybody but me at the top of the article like a group of middle-aged debutantes. Willena’s picture was largest and occupied the position of honor, top and center under the headline: “Local Woman Mysteriously Murdered.” My picture was down at the bottom of the article, and the cutline read, “Judge Yarbrough does it again! The newest member of the illustrious Magnolia Ladies’ Investment Club found the body of outgoing senior partner Willena Kenan.”

  If Slade had been in my office, he’d have sizzled from the steam pouring from my nostrils. The volume of steam increased as I read.

  Judge MacLaren Yarbrough got a jolt Monday evening when she opened a door at the Hopemore Community Center and found the body of Willena Kenan, outgoing senior partner (president) of the club and one of the heirs to the Kenan Cotton Factors fortune. The method of murder has yet to be determined by autopsy, but in a bizarre twist, a silver corkscrew was twisted into the victim’s throat. “That was one of the most gruesome sights I ever hope to see,” exclaimed Judge Yarbrough, although she has seen many. The judge has been active in the investigation of a number of murders in Hopemore in recent years.

  The corkscrew was part of a boxed silver bar set presented to Ms. Willena Kenan as the outgoing senior partner of the Magnolia Ladies’ Investment Club (members pictured above). The murder took place at the regular monthly meeting of the club, during a break for refreshments prepared by Ms. Wilma Kenan, cousin of the deceased and her successor as the leader of the club.

  According to Police Chief Charles Muggins, no arrest has been made, but Cynthia Yarbrough is being questioned in connection with the murder. According to another club member, MayBelle Brandison of Brandison Builders, Cynthia Yarbrough and Willena Kenan frequently clashed in various civic organizations. Their latest dispute took place during the meeting prior to the murder, Ms. Brandison reports, because Willena Kenan, in her role as senior partner, deferred a decision made last month to purchase stock in the insurance company Mr. Yarbrough represents until the matter of conflict of interest could be discussed. Mrs. Yarbrough pointed out that the investment club portfolio includes stocks from businesses connected with other members, “and then stomped out, furious,” said Ms. Brandison. Mrs. Yarbrough’s keys were subsequently discovered under the body of Ms. Kenan.

  “I am confident we will solve this murder efficiently and speedily,” declares Police Chief Muggins.

  I sat there glaring at that story for a long time, thinking of appropriate ways to wreak vengeance on Slade. I rejected boiling oil as too messy and tar and feathers as too hard to come by. I was in the process of considering resurrecting the stocks so I could encourage people to throw cabbages at him when the phone rang.

  “MacLaren, did you see this morning’s paper yet?”

  “I saw it, Gusta.”

  “I don’t know where Slade unearthed that picture of me. He must have taken it at last month’s Little Bookclub luncheon, since that’s the last time I wore that dress. I’ve never particularly liked it. It makes my neck look scrawny. Still, the picture wasn’t bad, considering.” Gusta always liked getting her picture in the paper.

  I knew good and well she hadn’t called me simply to preen, though. Sure enough . . .

  “I do think you might have exercised a little restraint. You didn’t need to boast about finding the body and worm your name into the first paragraph twice! And why MayBelle had to bring up that little disagreement Willena and Cindy had at the meeting . . . All I can think is that Slade charmed it out of her.”

  “No doubt,” I agreed. “Just like he charmed me into confessing I found the body.”

  “Well, please remember in the future that the club does not need this kind of notoriety.” Before I could reply, she added, “I have to go now. I don’t have time to gab all day. Meriwether and I are going down to Hilton Head for the rest of the week, to let this blow over and give little Zachary a look at the ocean.”

  “Chief Muggins told us not to leave town,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, I had a little talk with him. He knows Meriwether and I didn’t have a thing to do with that mess.” I could almost see her little wave of dismissal. Queens don’t have to obey the same rules we common folks do.

  As I hung up, I looked out my window. A CNN van was turning around in our parking lot. The national networks had arrived. Where could we send Tad and Jessica until all this “blew over”?

  9

  I wasn’t the only one worried about Cindy’s children. When Joe Riddley and I got home that evening — having spent the day holed up in our office to avoid reporters — Walker had left a message on our voice mail. “This is for Daddy, Mama. Don’t listen. Please!”

  I handed the phone to Joe Riddley and watched his face turn to stone as he pressed the receiver too close to his ear for me to hear a word. Lulu, our three-legged beagle, sensed that something was wrong. She inched up against my ankles and whined, a wriggling mass of anxiety.

  “What is it?” I demanded. “What’s he saying?”

  Without a word, Joe Riddley pressed a button to delete the message, and hung up.

  “What was it?” I demanded again. “What was Walker saying?”

  “You don’t want to know.” He headed for the cabinet where we keep animal feed. “I need to feed Bo.” Bo was a scarlet macaw we had gotten stuck with a couple of years before when his owner turned up dead at Joe Riddley’s birthday party.3 Joe Riddley dotes on the creature. I tolerate him because Bo was helpful in Joe Riddley’s recovery after he got shot. However, I know Joe Riddley as well as he knows me. If he was trying to divert me from asking questions about one of our sons, things were serious. A chill started in my feet and rose up my entire skeleton.

  I grabbed his arm. “You know as well as I do that Bo won’t starve if you wait a few minutes to feed him. What did Walker say?”

  Joe Riddley gave a huff that means he is plumb fed up with my contrariness. “You don’t want to know, Little Bit. You are an officer of the court.” He grabbed up the bag of feed and strode onto our back porch, which we had glassed in and converted into a glorified birdcage.

  I followed him to the door and could hardly speak the words. “You mean he’s done something illegal?” Walker was our impulsive son, the one who raced off on tangents without thinking things through.

  Bo flew to Joe Riddley’s shoulder. Joe Riddley stroked the scarlet breast with one forefinger while a vivid rainbow of tail feathers spilled down his back. “Let it go, Little Bit.”

  I dismissed the notion that Walker had shot Slade over the article, but what else had he done to upset his daddy enough for Joe Riddley to be curt with me?

  I knew in an instant. “He hasn’t taken Cindy out of town, has he? She can’t leave while she’s under suspicion of murder.”

  Joe Riddley turned without a word and carried Bo past me into the house. “I gotta run an errand. I’ll be back for supper.” He slammed the door behind him. I could still hear Bo squawking on his shoulder. “Little Bit? Little Bit! Back off! Give me space.”

  I am never sure whether that bird knows what he’s saying or whether he’s real good at picking up on Joe Riddley’s moods.

  As soon as I heard the automatic garage door shut, I tried Walker’s cell phone. I got voice mail. I tried Cindy’s and got voice mail, as well. This was serious, if they had turned the telephones off. They never turned their cell phones off. Joe Riddley and I suspected they slept with them on under their pillows. Each of their children has a phone, since Cindy likes to stay in touch, but those phones were off, too. Walker must have taken the children, wherever they’d gone.

  In that Corvette, they could be in Alaska pretty soon. Walker often fails to demonstrate what I would call good sense, but if he had whisked Cindy out of the county while she was a suspect in a murder case, this was the dumbest thing he had ever done, and the most potentially dangerous.

  I couldn’t talk about it with a living soul, even Joe Riddley, because as an officer of the court, I was under oath to r
eport any infraction of the law I even suspected had been committed. That was why Joe Riddley had stomped out. He was a magistrate for thirty years and has more integrity than any man I know. If he so much as hinted to me what Walker had done, he’d insist that we report Walker and Cindy so Chief Muggins could alert authorities to pick them up. In all probability, they’d be tried. And while Joe Riddley and I trust the courts to execute justice in most cases, we also know that courts can be fallible. This was our son and his family in jeopardy. Their marriage had nearly fallen apart two summers ago, and they were working hard to rebuild it. Walker’s parents couldn’t fault Walker for wanting to take care of and protect his family. Still, if I’d had him in grabbing range right that minute, I’d have shaken him until his teeth rattled and fell out one at a time.