Guess Who's Coming to Die?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “Terrible,” he echoed. “If you ax me, the wrong woman got killed. They’s several others deserve it more. Clarence! I’m powerful thirsty, man. Get your ass down here!”

  Clarence looked at me. I looked away. It wasn’t my business how much Dexter drank unless he committed a crime. When Clarence refilled the glass, Dexter gulped down the gold liquid like it was water. It was a sign of how drunk he was that he wiped his mouth on his forearm.

  His dignity returned as the buzz hit his system. He sat up straighter and rubbed one hand along the fringe of gray fuzz that circled his shiny scalp. “Miss Willena was one fine woman. She surely was. She singing with the angels this evenin’, sure enough.”

  If Willena sang like she did at church, the heavenly choir was now a trifle flat, but I didn’t say that. Given how drunk Dexter was, I decided to conclude my business before he got maudlin or passed out. “So as far as you know, nobody came into the center after we all arrived? Nobody who wasn’t in our group, I mean?”

  He shook his head. “No’m, Judge. Not a single person after Miz Harnett got there. I was on the door the whole time, ’ceptin’ when Miss Wilma axed me to run out to Miss Willena’s car and bring in the refreshments and all that silver. She did come with me to hold the umbrella,” he admitted grudgingly, “and Miss Willena said she’d take care of the door while I was heppin’ Miss Wilma. She stayed right there until I got back.”

  “And you’re sure you locked the door after we were all in?”

  “Just like I always do. Ladies don’t like bein’ in that buildin’ at night ’lessen the doors are locked. ’Specially Miss Wilma.”

  “What did you do after you locked the doors?”

  “Went back to my room and watched Upstairs, Downstairs . I got the whole series on videotapes. It relaxes me, like, to watch them.”

  Maybe that was where Dexter got his airs. Did he fantasize that he was Hopemore’s perfect English butler?

  “Does anybody else have a key besides you?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure. Presidents of all the clubs that meet there got keys nowadays. That’s a change since you was president of the Garden Club. But since I’m not there generally at night, the city council say last year that it’s okay for each club to have a key if they check it out from me. I was there that night because Miss Wilma axed me special, since she had to tote all that silver and dem jugs of punch and Lincoln wouldn’t be there to hep her.”

  “Do any of the women who were there that night have keys?”

  “Most folks. Miss Willena’s got one — or, I should say, had one — bein’ how’s she was president of the investment club. It will go to Miss Wilma next, I reckon, when the police git through with Miss Willena’s keys. Miss MayBelle’s got one ’cause she’s president of the community center board this year. Miz Jensen has a key for the DAR . . .” He paused while an idea worked its way through the foggy reaches of his brain. “I ’speck Miss Gusta’s still got hers, too, from the time when she was president of the DAR some years back. She wasn’t supposed to have a key back then, but she bugged me until I give her one. I don’t recall she ever turned it in.”

  No, Gusta would never have turned it in without a direct request.

  Dexter continued listing the keys. “Miss Meriwether’s got one, ’cause she’s president of the library board. I cain’t mind right off if there are any others. I got ’em all wrote down back in my office. . . .” He thought another second or two, then added, “Oh, yeah — Miss Cindy’s got one. She’s president of the Junior League.” He nodded at me like a wise, drunk owl.

  I toted that up and figured that the two New Yorkers and I were the only members of the investment club who didn’t have keys. That made me feel downright unimportant.

  I also noted that Dexter called Nancy Jensen — an outsider before she married Horace—by her married name, while he considered himself on a first-name basis with the local plutocrats. I wondered what he called me.

  “It’s hard to believe that one of us killed Willena,” I told him. “I hadn’t met with the group before, but they all seemed nice.” I bent my head to my Coke and waited to see if he was drunk enough to take that bait.

  “Seemin’ ain’t the same as doin’,” he informed me with the solemnity of a preacher. “Take Miz Jensen, now. Always acts so nice and proper? But I saw her get real riled up with Mr. Horace ’cause of the way he was jokin’ and carryin’ on with Miss Willena at the country club dance down at the center last month. Miz Harnett’s not the lady she likes to pretend, neither, prancin’ around like a bitch in heat. She was snickerin’ real good, watchin’ Miz Jensen. Wives in this town better hang on to their menfolks when that one’s around. And Miss MayBelle? I’m surprised somebody ain’t shot her years ago. She’s fixin’ to tear down this whole neighborhood. Says she’s gonna put up fancy town houses. Who she thinks is gonna live in all them town houses? And where she thinks these folks already living here gonna find houses? Tell me that. They’s two hundred people or more livin’ in Pleasantville. Where’s she ’speck us to go? Cain’t buy anything with what she’s offerin’ for the houses. Ain’t that right, Clarence? What she offer you for this here bar?”

  “I’m holdin’ out for more,” Clarence allowed without giving anything away.

  “Yeah, but you got . . . what? Two blocks here? You got somethin’ to negotiate with.” Dexter lifted his glass to his lips and dribbled liquor on the bar.

  Clarence wiped the spill with a cloth that looked clean enough, but probably harbored a whole colony of germs. “I keep tellin’ you, Dexter, all you folks who own on Good Hope Lane better stick together and hold out for good prices. Otherwise she’s gonna pick you all off like buzzards on a fence. And she’s gonna win — you need to make your mind up to that. Since they’ve voted to four-lane the state road up to I-20? Folks gonna be movin’ out to Hope County like flies, drivin’ up to Augusta to work. Ain’t that right, Judge?”

  “You’re probably right, although I hate to see it coming.” I refused to dwell on the day when our town became little more than a bedroom community for folks who worked elsewhere. Instead, I honed in on something else Dexter had said. “So you’ve got property around here, Clarence?”

  He continued to wipe the bar without looking at me. “A bit. Been buyin’ a piece here and space there over the years. With this area being so close to downtown, I figured it stood to reason it would be developed someday, so I might as well get me a piece of the action.”

  “Gonna be a millionaire before he’s through,” Dexter boasted. “Old Clarence is a deep one. Ain’t much to look at, but he’s plenty prosperous.”

  I looked at Clarence with new respect. “He always could add two and two.”

  Clarence’s teeth shone in the dim light. “If you do that often enough, it mounts up.” He moved down the bar to take care of a new customer.

  I leaned closer to Dexter, but not too close. I didn’t want to get drunk on fumes. “Can you think of anything — anything whatsoever — that somebody did Monday night that was a little odd?”

  “Sure. Somebody done kilt Miss Willena.”

  “Besides that. Something out of the ordinary?” I lowered myself to quote that old saw from mystery novels. “Sometimes it’s the least little thing that provides the most important clue to a murder.”

  Dexter shook his head. “I ain’t seen nothin’,” he insisted. He lowered his gaze meaningfully to his empty glass.

  As a judge, I would not buy him a drink if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t. Without incentive, he shrugged and slid off his stool. “All I know is, I ain’t done it. You tell that to the chief, you hear me? I ain’t done a dadgum thing.” He left, weaving from side to side.

  Clarence didn’t want to let me to pay for my Coke, but I insisted. “Judges can’t take presents from people. But I appreciate the offer. I’m glad to see you prospering, too.” I looked around the seedy little bar and wondered if prospering was quite the right word.

  His laugh rumbled across the c
ounter. “This don’t look like much, but it’s what folks in this neighborhood are used to. I got two more places over in Dublin that are nicer, and while I wouldn’t want it to get around, I’m working as partners with Miss Brandison to develop this neighborhood. She wanted to buy me out, but I said, ‘Nothin’ doin’. You want my land, we become partners and work together to turn Pleasantville into something nice.’ ” He laughed again. “You may want to move in here yourself one day, Judge.”

  “I have a new house,” I informed him.

  “Yeah, but we’re gonna make part of this area into a place for seniors.” He gave me a speculative look, like he was counting up my years. “In another twenty years or so? You might find it real attractive to have a little place all set up convenient for you. My granny lived with us the last ten years of her life, and I saw what all she needed. I’m plannin’ on building some places equipped for people with disabilities and who are getting old enough to need a little help. Wider doors, bars in important places, no steps, wide sidewalks so wheelchairs and scooters can get to town and back — can’t you picture yourself on a little red scooter, putting off down to the BI-LO?” He laughed again. “Keep it in mind, Judge.”

  As I went back to my car, I couldn’t help thinking that if Clarence had gotten his degree in math, he’d probably occupy a minor position in somebody else’s company. It is lowering sometimes to discover how much your advice is worth.

  16

  According to her office, MayBelle was “in the field” that afternoon. When I followed the directions they gave me, I discovered they meant it literally. MayBelle was in the middle of what used to be two cotton fields separated by a stand of oaks, maples, and hickories. The trees lined a small creek and an unpaved drive that used to lead down to a house and a barn at the far back of the property. Seeing a gap where that old home place had stood all my life gave me a hollow feeling. I wished I had taken a picture before it got bulldozed. So often it is the unremarkable parts of life that we most regret not having recorded before they disappeared.

  Up at the road sat a big green-and-white sign with a huge tree painted to shade the letters. OAK HILLS PLANTATION it announced, even though there were no hills, soon would be no oaks, and never had been what most folks would call a plantation — merely a couple of ten-acre cotton fields and a small white house.

  Oblivious to the deception, pickup trucks, a bulldozer, and a couple of backhoes crawled over the muddy fields like huge beetles while men swarmed over the place like ants.

  I saw MayBelle’s silver Mercedes crouched partway down the drive, so I pulled in beside it. When I saw how muddy the ground was, I wished I’d worn older shoes. I don’t think Dexter had even noticed my good ones in the dim light of Mad Mooney’s.

  I minced my way down the track to where MayBelle stood in the middle of a cleared space beside a bulldozer. The space used to be filled with a tall stand of Formosa azaleas that blazed with color each spring. Now it, like the clearing where the house had stood, was a freshly scraped palette, ready for a new generation to build on.

  MayBelle wore bright orange coveralls, but their resemblance to Nancy’s prison jumpsuit was almost nonexistent. With MayBelle’s mahogany hair, they called to mind the forests of mountain autumns — which was odd, considering that her primary relationship with trees was to cut them down. She must order the coveralls custom-made, too, the way they fit her shape. As I got closer, I saw that even wearing coveralls and sturdy work boots, she had put on mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow, and blusher. I’d roomed with her once at a chamber of commerce convention, and MayBelle scarcely got out of bed in the morning before she fixed her face.

  “What you want us to do about all these here trees?” the bulldozer man called down to her as I trudged up.

  “Push them over, except that big one up near the road with the divided trunk. It has a nice shape, so we can use it as a focal point at the entrance.” She turned to me with a wide, professional smile. “Hey, Judge.”

  “Leave the tree behind it, too,” I advised as I got close enough for her to hear me. “The divided tree is a silver maple, and they are apt to split, but the oak is at least fifty years old and probably good for another fifty. Besides, it looks like the tree on your sign.”

  “It’s in the way.” She gave the bulldozer man a wave. “Take the divided tree out, too, Billy. The judge knows more about trees than I do.”

  I looked at that poor silver maple and silently begged its forgiveness. I hadn’t meant to cause its death. I’d hoped to save the oak.

  As the driver growled away on his huge machine, she called to me over the noise, “Are you looking for a building lot for a new house? You can pretty much have your pick right now. We’re just starting this development.”

  I wouldn’t have one of her houses if she gave it to me. I’m not into ostentation for the sake of ostentation. Besides, I prefer homes with some light and air around them, and MayBelle built her monster houses so close together that if she had put windows in the sides, folks would only have to subscribe to the paper in every other house and let their neighbors read over their shoulders.

  Still, Mama didn’t raise me to be rude. “I’ve got all the house I need, but thanks. I wanted to talk to you a minute about Monday night.”

  She looked disconcerted, but waved toward a muddy green Land Rover with BRANDISON BUILDERS painted on its side in white. “Come ride with me. We can talk while I make sure folks are doing what they’re supposed to.”

  Climbing up into that Land Rover in a skirt was an interesting experience, but at least MayBelle used the vehicle for the purpose for which it was built: riding over rough ground and fording the little creek.

  “About that night . . .” I held on tight as she downshifted and headed down the slippery bank.

  “I’m fixing to dam the creek about here and create a little pond down at the back, next to the clubhouse.” She slowed down in the creek and waved toward the flattened field.

  “That’s nice. Do you remember where people were sitting when we passed around Willena’s present?”

  “The clubhouse will be over there.” She waved to the right as the Land Rover lurched up the far bank. “With a swimming pool behind it. I’m thinking of putting swans on the pond. Doesn’t that sound classy?”

  “Real classy. Did you see who had the corkscrew last?”

  She waved toward a string of small markers to the right. “We’ve already begun laying out lots down that street.” She reminded me of a child playing in an imaginary playhouse who knows exactly where the living room, bedroom, and kitchen are. For MayBelle, those empty fields were already full of houses.

  I suspected they were also full of illegal immigrants. Most of the workers looked Mexican, and my guess was that not all of them had green cards and none were paid a fair Georgia wage. MayBelle suffered from what Joe Riddley calls “slave owner syndrome,” which makes employers believe other folks ought to work for a pittance so they themselves can live in high cotton. If they can’t find legal workers willing to live in poverty so they can make the profit their lifestyle demands, they employ desperate people from other countries. This syndrome is so rampant in America today, I’m surprised the CDC hasn’t declared an epidemic.

  However, as the Bible says, there is a time and season for everything, and that afternoon I hadn’t come out to discuss MayBelle’s business practices. I had come to pump her about her quarrel with Willena — if she ever stopped talking and gave me a chance.

  “I’m getting twenty-seven houses from each of the fields and six where the old house used to sit. Can you believe how much space people used to waste?”

  I took a deep breath and plunged in. “I believe you are trying to avoid talking about Monday night. Somebody killed Willena, MayBelle, and chances are real good it was one of us.”

  A red flush stained her cheeks, and she jerked on the wheel with such force, I was thrown toward the window in spite of my seat belt. By the time I had righted myself, she looked amused.
“You think it was me?”

  “You and Willena disagreed over a land deal, right?”

  “Come on, Mac. Everybody disagreed with Willena at one time or another. That’s what she was like. Nancy fussed at her for dancing three times with Horace at the country club dance, belly to belly. Sadie Lowe was mad at Willena for telling her she had to tone down her clothes if she came to meetings, and for landing Grover when Sadie Lowe wanted him for herself. Wilma and she often went hammer and tongs over Willena volunteering for something, then dumping it all in Wilma’s lap. And you heard Willena and Cindy at the meeting Monday night. Hell, Judge, if you’ll pardon my French, the only person in the club Willena didn’t fight with was Rachel, and that’s because Rachel toadied up to her. What I don’t understand, though, is why Willena let somebody get close enough with that corkscrew to kill her. She had her purse with her, and she always carried a gun.”