Hell in a Handbasket

by Denise Grover Swank

  Hell in a Handbasket

  Rose Gardner Investigations #3

  Denise Grover Swank

  Copyright © 2018 by Denise Grover Swank

  Developmental editor: Angela Polidoro

  Copy edit: Shannon Page

  Proofread: Carolina Valdez-Schnieder

  Cover by Bookfly Cover Designs

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Also by Denise Grover Swank

  Also by D.G. Swank

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  It was funny how dying put things in a whole new perspective.

  Which was why I found myself at the Henryetta First Baptist Church on a hot Sunday afternoon in late July, going to a church picnic with my older sister, Violet, and her family.

  The Henryetta First Baptist Church was practically the last place on earth I wanted to be.

  I’ll admit that I’d tried my darnedest to get my best friend, Neely Kate, to come for moral support. Turned out there wasn’t enough money in the world to convince her to come.

  “No. Way,” she’d said, shaking her head to make sure her answer was clear. “I suspect if I went anywhere near that church, the women’s group would try me for being a witch. They know Granny claims to see the future.”

  “They’d convict me before they’d get to you.” Neely Kate’s granny couldn’t see the future if it stood two feet in front of her. I, on the other hand, had spent most of my life seeing flashes of other people’s futures and blurting out what I’d seen (an unavoidable, and mortifying, side effect). Plenty of those visions had been in the Baptist church. Fortunately—or not—most people had presumed I was simply a weird child. It helped that I was usually spouting unimportant nonsense about Laura Gurney’s French toast burning or Tim Hinkle getting a ticket for running a red light.

  When Momma died a little over a year ago, I’d stopped attending the First Baptist Church, and no one had been sorry to see me go. I’d told my sister that I never wanted to step inside the church again, something I’d reminded her of when she’d begged me to come to this picnic.

  But Violet was dying, and I’d do nearly anything to make her happy—even go to a place that reminded me of my visions at a time when I would rather not think about them.

  I’d nearly died in the middle of a vision a week and a half ago, and I hadn’t experienced a single one since. Surprisingly, no one had noticed. Over the past year, I’d learned that if I forced visions, I had much fewer spontaneous ones. But after a few days of no spontaneous ones, I was enjoying being normal, so I hadn’t forced any either. Maybe if I didn’t try it, they’d be gone for good. Sure, over the last year I’d learned to see the visions as a gift rather than as the curse I’d always believed them to be, but now I wondered if the cost was too high.

  “See?” Violet said, beaming from ear to ear as we got out of the car. “The picnic’s outside. You don’t have to go anywhere near the church doors.”

  I resisted the urge to make a face at her, mostly because my niece and nephew were watching.

  “What if Aunt Rose has to go to the bathroom?” my niece Ashley asked with a worried look. “What’s she gonna do then?”

  “She’ll just have to hold it,” Violet said with an ornery grin.

  “Don’t you worry,” I said to Ashley. “I’ve got a bladder made of steel.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Somebody steals your pee?”

  Violet started to laugh, but her husband Mike remained silent as he unbuckled my nearly two-year-old nephew, Mikey, out of his car seat.

  Mike had been acting odd the last few months. He and Violet had married young, and he and I had always been close. Living with my mother up until her death hadn’t been easy, and Violet and Mike’s house had always been my refuge. Mike could have resented my intrusion into their family, but he’d always welcomed me, often taking my side when Violet pulled out her bossy tendencies. He and I had even kept in touch after the two of them split, briefly, last fall. So nothing could have prepared me for how distant he’d become after Violet’s cancer diagnosis in February. She’d departed nearly immediately for MD Anderson in Houston, Texas.

  Mike read the papers, which meant he knew I had something to do with the fall from grace of one J.R. Simmons.

  J.R. Simmons had been the most powerful man in southern Arkansas—a successful, influential businessman who’d used his success to interfere with people’s lives in evil and ugly ways that included corruption, extortion, and murder. I’d ended up on his radar as the undesirable girlfriend of his son, Joe Simmons. He’d resorted to bribery to force Joe and me apart, but it hadn’t ended there. The more I’d learned about J.R., the less I’d believed he should be allowed to continue ruining people for his own benefit. The notorious James “Skeeter” Malcolm, king of the Fenton County underworld, and I had teamed up to bring him down, something that had become public knowledge. Tongues were still wagging about it.

  Mike had tarred and feathered me in his mind, and he’d recently admitted his change in attitude was due to his concerns about the company I kept. Little did he know how involved I’d become in the criminal world. If he ever found out I’d slept with James Malcolm, I suspected I’d never see my sister or her children again.

  While I understood Mike’s concerns, part of the reason I’d gone after J.R. was to save him. In the early days of his construction business, he’d bribed an inspector and J.R. had threatened to disclose it. Which made me wonder . . . if Mike had offered bribes in the past, was he still doing it today?

  I shoved thoughts of Mike away, only to find myself thinking of James. James, who’d given me two weeks to weigh his suggestion that we start a relationship. Time was running out, and I was no closer to an answer than I’d been ten days ago.

  Don’t think about that now. You’re with Violet.

  I needed to focus on spending as much time with my sister as possible—and on making her as happy as possible.

  “Aunt Rose,” Ashley said, slipping her hand in mine. “Will you do the three-legged race with me?”

  “Hey,” Mike said as he stood with Mikey in his arms. “I thought we were doing the three-legged race.”

  “But I get to see you all the time,” she whined, squeezing my hand tighter. “And I hardly ever see Aunt Rose.”

  Violet stared down at her daughter with a confused look, then glanced back up to me and Mike. “What’s she talking about?”

  This wasn’t the time or place to let Violet know Mike had kept me from the kids while she was in Texas.

  “Nothing,” I said, hoping my smile didn’t look forced. “We better get going if we want a good spot. It looks like the hill is pretty full.” />
  “That’s because everyone else went to the church service,” Violet said. “We’re getting all the leftover spots.”

  “There’s no need to push it, Vi,” Mike said. “You’re just now feeling better after your bout with pneumonia. Going to the service would have been too much.”

  That was something Mike and I actually agreed on.

  Mike had popped the trunk open, so I grabbed a quilt and the picnic basket I’d spent the morning preparing. Ashley led the way to a fairly flat spot on the hill that gave us a good view of the grounds where they held the races—not that I knew from firsthand experience. Momma may have been an active member of the First Baptist Church, but the Gardners had never attended the church picnics, which Momma had called “a frivolous waste of time.” This year would mark my first—and hopefully last—attendance.

  “This looks like a good place,” I said. “Your momma can watch us win the three-legged race.” I knew I should back down and let Mike run the race with his daughter, but I also wanted to stand my ground and let him know I wasn’t going anywhere. Not anymore.

  Ashley jumped up and down with excitement. “Yeah!”

  She helped me spread out the quilt, and by the time I set the basket on the corner, Violet, Mike, and the baby had reached us. Mike set his son on the ground and helped Violet sit next to me.

  “Something sure smells good,” she said, peering over at the basket.

  “Did you bring fried chicken, Aunt Rose?” Ashley asked, trying to peek inside.

  “I sure did. It’s one of your mommy’s favorites.” I glanced up at Mike and offered him a conciliatory smile. “And your daddy’s too.”

  His gaze held mine for barely a second before he looked away, but I saw a flash of guilt.

  Why did he feel guilty? Because of the way he’d treated me, or was this something more?

  I realized I was still staring at him, so I looked back into the basket and pulled out a plastic storage container. “And here’s some potato salad.”

  “What about cookies, Aunt Rose?” Ashley asked.

  I chuckled. “No cookies, but there’s a lemon pound cake. Another one of your mommy’s favorites.”

  “How come you made so many of Mommy’s favorites?”

  A lump formed in my throat, but I pushed out the words. “Because I’m so happy your mommy’s back home.”

  The joy in Ashley’s eyes faded, but she didn’t say anything. Did she know? Violet had told me that she and Mike had decided to keep it from the kids, but my niece was a smart girl.

  “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, Rose,” Violet said. “You must have been in the kitchen for hours.”

  “It was no trouble,” I said, pulling out the container of chicken. “Besides, I made the cake last night.” I could have added that Neely Kate had gone on a date and it had given me something to do, but then she’d ask who Neely Kate was dating, and I didn’t want to get into it. Somehow I thought Mike was as unlikely to approve of Jed, James’ best friend and longtime enforcer, as he was to invite James himself into the family with open arms.

  I filled plastic plates full of chicken, potato salad, baked beans, and still-warm homemade biscuits and passed them out to everyone. Violet focused on helping Mikey get situated instead of eating her own food. I almost insisted on taking over so she could eat—she was skin and bones—but the joy on her face stopped me. I knew that she’d hated missing so much of his life while she was in Texas. She wasn’t about to waste any time now.

  I couldn’t keep the tears from my eyes. I could barely handle the thought of losing my sister, but when I thought about Ashley and Mikey losing their mother, a deep well of sadness opened in my chest.

  I didn’t want to cry in front of the kids or Violet, so I put my plate on the blanket next to me. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

  “Is somebody trying to steal your pee, Aunt Rose?” Ashley asked with wide eyes.

  “She’s just tryin’ to make sure they don’t,” Violet teased, then gave me a knowing look. “You go ahead. We’ll be here waitin’ for you.”

  But for how long? A fresh batch of tears flooded my eyes, and I hurried off before I broke down in front of the kids. I didn’t really want to go inside, so I headed toward what looked like a collection of potluck tables, only one was covered with pies and the other with plates of fried chicken. How could I have forgotten the annual pie and fried chicken contest? I may have never attended a picnic before, but the congregants loved to talk about them, so I knew a thing or two about how they were run. I had always wondered if Momma’s aversion to the church picnic was due to the fact that she couldn’t win the pie contest. Not with Anita Raeburn entering every year.

  The chicken contest had a perennial winner too—Patsy Sue Clydehopper—and she was currently standing in front of the chicken display with a woman who looked an awful lot like her. Though both contests were supposed to be blind taste tests, Barbara, the church secretary, always made sure the pastors knew which plate of chicken was Patsy Sue’s. She was used to winning, and if she ever lost, she’d likely up and move her membership to the First Baptist Church in Pickle Junction. The church bank account needed the support of one of its richest and most influential members—hence the cheating.

  Only it looked like something had gone wrong this year. Both pastors stood behind the chicken table, staring dumbfounded at Patsy and her bleached-blond look-alike. Barbara, who stood tugging at Reverend Baker’s arm, looked like she was either going to cry or start throwing the plates of chicken.

  “That’s my recipe, Carol Ann, and you doggone know it.”

  Now I knew who she was. Carol Ann Nelson was Patsy’s cousin, although rumor had it that she’d run off to LA to get famous acting. Looked like she was back.

  Carol Ann put a hand on her trim hip. “You sure as Pete don’t own it, Patsy Sue. It’s Grandma Nelson’s recipe, and she gave it to both of us.”

  “She may have given it to both of us, but we all know I’m the cook in this family. You can barely make it through the drive-thru of McDonald’s up in Magnolia, let alone figure out how to navigate a kitchen.”

  “If that’s true,” Carol Ann said as she curled up her bright red top lip, “then how come I just won the grand prize?”

  “Uh . . .” the reverend said, holding up his hands, “there’s no grand prize.”

  Carol Ann turned her attention to him. “Well, did I win or didn’t I?”

  “Well . . . you did . . .” But he didn’t seem so certain as he shot an apologetic look at Patsy Sue.

  Carol Ann’s chin lifted in a gloat. “That’s grand prize enough.”

  “If that’s prize enough, why were you darkenin’ my doorstep last Thursday askin’ me for thousands of dollars?” Patsy asked.

  “I needed the money to buy the ingredients to make the fried chicken that beat yours!”

  “You’re just mad that I refused to give you one more dime,” Patsy said. “So instead, you decide to get even and use my recipe in my church to try to look better than me!”

  “I don’t have to prove that I look better than you!” Carol Ann shouted back. “All anyone has to do is take one look at your dumpy self then take one look at me to know I look ten times better.”

  While I was no fan of Patsy Sue Clydehopper, her cousin had just told a bald-faced lie. Patsy may have been in her mid-forties, but she used her resources well in her quest to look thirty-one, the age she’d been claiming for the past decade. Rumor had it she’d started saying she was thirty-two. She had too many crow’s-feet to get away with her preferred age anymore. While she wasn’t as thin as her cousin, Patsy also looked ten times classier. But then, I guess she had to be since her face was posted all over town on her Clydehopper Realty real estate signs.

  “Why, I never!” Patsy said in outrage and slapped Carol across the face.

  I wasn’t the only onlooker. At the first sign of the trouble, a crowd had gathered, and milliseconds after Patsy’s hand connected with Carol
Ann’s cheek, the crowd collectively released a loud gasp.

  Carol Ann pointed a red-painted fingernail at the other woman. “You’re gonna pay for that!”

  “I’ve already paid, Carol Ann. I’ve paid and paid and paid, and I’m not payin’ any more. And neither is Aunty Lucille. You’ve bled her dry. Everyone knows you’re here to weasel more money out of all of us. Why do you think nobody’s excited that you’re home? Go back where you came from, Carol Ann. There’s nothin’ for you here.”

  “Ladies,” Reverend Baker said, finally coming out of his stupor and walking around the edge of the table. “Let’s all take a breath, and maybe take this inside.”

  “No,” Patsy said with a firm shake of her head. “I’m not going anywhere with this fool. Now, if you’ll hand me my blue ribbon, I’ll head back to my blanket.”

  Reverend Baker looked sheepish. “I can’t do that, Patsy. Carol Ann won.”

  “She cheated! She stole my recipe! She broke one of the Ten Commandments to win.”

  “And you broke a commandment in your temper tantrum when you lost,” Carol Ann said with a satisfied grin, despite the red handprint on her cheek.

  “You stole my recipe!” Patsy shot back.

  “Like I said, it’s Grandma Nelson’s recipe.” She gave her cousin a smirk. “I can’t help it if I make it better than you do.”

  “Why you—” Patsy lunged for her cousin, clipping Reverend Baker’s arm. It threw both of them off balance, giving Carol Ann an opportunity to shove him to get to Patsy.

  The pastor fell into the pie table, his face landing in the middle of a chocolate meringue while one of his hands slapped into a cherry pie.