by Linda Lovely
“Um, yes. Here for my pedicure.” I glanced at the nameplate parked on her desk. “You’re Diana?”
“Yep,” she said. “Nancy will be with you in a sec. Have a seat.”
She waved me toward a loveseat that once upon a time might have been daisy yellow. Grime gave it a mustard patina. The phone rang. She answered and laughed. A pal. She turned sideways and put up a hand so I couldn’t eavesdrop. Thank you, Lord, for small favors.
Would she notice I chose not to sit? I studied the mix of licenses and awards lining the entryway. Nancy Watson had earned two atta-girl plaques from nail product manufacturers.
I leaned in to check the dates when a throat clearing told me I wasn’t alone.
The woman who’d crept up behind me pasted on a smile.
“I’m Nancy Watson,” she said. “You here for a pedicure?”
She was shorter than me. Maybe five-three if you included her teased blonde ’do.
“Brittle” was the first word her appearance brought to mind. The skinny broad was flirting with sixty, but she’d had work done. Evident in her taut face and perky headlamps. The skin on her face stretched drum tight, forcing her eyebrows to mosey up her forehead. I wondered if her plastic surgeon had over-inflated her boobies. Helium? Ye gods, they almost pointed at her chin.
I gathered my wits and stuck out my un-manicured paw for a handshake. “Hi, I’m Bea. Here for that pedicure.”
Her red-tipped claw grazed my hand, not quite a handshake. Nancy’s attempt at a smile looked painful. I hoped her skin wouldn’t split like an overripe tomato. Hard to believe this woman and my aunt had once loved the same man. Even though it was the distant past, I couldn’t imagine two females being more different.
“Follow me,” she said.
We walked down a darkened corridor. Though a pedicure novice, I was a big fan of massages, so I was no stranger to salon ambiance. The diffused lighting and the nature soundtrack of tinkling water were on purpose, not the result of unpaid electric bills and leaky plumbing. How could tinkling water make anyone relax? It made me look for the nearest bathroom.
Nancy waved me toward a massive recliner on a raised platform. She plunked her scrawny self on one of those wheeled stools doctors use to play bumper cars with furniture while your bare ass hangs out of a paper gown. Then she scowled at my tennies and crew socks.
Her frown looked a lot more natural than her smile. “You can’t put those shoes and socks back on. Until the polish hardens, the weave in them socks transfers. I won’t guarantee nothin’ if you put socks on.”
Oh, chicken livers, I’d forgotten to bring flip flops. Mollye’d clued me in about footwear when I told her she’d “referred” me. After I admitted I’d never had a pedicure, she heehawed and gave me a Cliff Notes version of tootsie protocol.
“Sorry. I meant to bring flip flops. I forgot.”
“We keep throwaways for people who forget.” Nancy’s tone indicated my IQ didn’t rise to double digits.
She ordered me to take off my shoes as she ran the water for the foot basin and added a green powder. Once I peeled off my socks, she stared at my naked feet with obvious disdain. “When was your last pedicure?”
Like forever. “Um, I’ve been busy.”
“Those callouses are nasty. You spend a lot of time on your feet?”
“Afraid so. I’m a chef.” Careful. Don’t volunteer too much info. Next she’ll want to know where you work.
My worries proved for naught. Nancy wasn’t into chitchat unless it pertained to pricey extras.
“It’ll be another twenty dollars for a foot scrub. You need it.”
I nodded. “Fine.” I wanted to offer Nancy and her hubby a free mouth scrub.
Nancy seized my left foot and plunked it in a pool of swirling hot water. At least my teeth wouldn’t chatter while she did her wheelies.
The floozy made no attempt to talk to me. The hot water felt kind of good, though my dry right foot was feeling a might neglected. Better yet, I’d discovered the recliner had massage functions. Might as well vibrate, give her a challenge. Let’s see her paint my toes while my little wigglies bounced around.
I relaxed more than seemed prudent in the enemy camp. Nancy practically woke me when she yanked my left foot out of the bath, pushed righty into the water, and began pummeling my shriveled left foot.
Strong hands. Hmmm. Given the sheriff’s glee at finding guns at Udderly, I figured a bullet ended Jed’s life. No doubt Nancy could shoot a gun. According to one news report, a Chihuahua had managed to fire one.
The real question: could Nancy dig a grave and wrestle a two-hundred-plus-pound male into the ground without help? Stringy muscles stood out on the woman’s forearms. So, perhaps, given enough time she could. But time would have to be at a premium if you were planting a corpse within sight of a farmhouse. Even if she knew no one was home, she’d have to worry someone might return at any moment.
Nancy retrieved my wrinkled right foot from its baptism and started scrubbing both feet with some sort of pumice. It felt like the stone would go right through to bone. I bit my lip to divert the pain from foot to mouth. I wanted to sing hallelujah when she stopped. My giggles surprised me as much as they did Nancy. Whatever she was up to tickled.
Nancy looked at me like I’d farted in church. “You ticklish?”
“Afraid so.”
She sighed and squeezed my left instep as if she was pulping a ripe orange. Punishment? I flinched. No more giggles.
“Sorry,” she said in a sing-song I-have-to-say-this-but-I’m-not-a-bit-sorry tone. There went Nancy’s tip.
When Miss Personality switched from pumicing to shaping my nails, I asked, “Worked here long?” A friendly, open-ended question.
“Four years.”
“I’m new to the area. Did you grow up in Ardon County? Do you like it?”
She shrugged. “Lived here my whole life. Guess it’s all right.”
After her umpteenth curt, mumbled answer, I surrendered. She had no interest in anything except my feet and my wallet. While I felt grateful she wasn’t as nosy as the woman at the front desk, I was frustrated. Not sure what I’d hoped to find out, but something beyond her willingness to invest in plastic body parts.
“What color you want?” She nodded at a display of polish bottles.
“That one.” I pointed. “The pale pink.”
Her look said, “You wuss. Why bother?”
She slid the promised foam throwaways on my feet. The pink “foam” wasn’t exactly cushy, a might thicker than a human hair. Next she stuck neon green plastic dividers between my toes. My feet looked like they’d sprouted poisonous mini-mushrooms.
Nancy opened the polish. My pedicure was fast coming to an end. My questions had led nowhere. Wasn’t there any topic that would loosen her tongue? Everybody likes food, right?
“What’s your favorite restaurant?” I asked.
“Nothing fancier than meat-and-threes ’round these parts.”
I already knew “meat-and-threes” referred to diners that offer a meat du jour—meatloaf, pork chops, fried chicken parts—plus three sides. Invariably the sides included spuds in several guises, cauliflower, and other vegetables that might have been healthy if they weren’t awash in bacon grease.
Had to admit it. This visit was an intelligence-gathering bust. Time to take a chance. “Say, I heard there was a little excitement in Ardon this weekend. Didn’t someone dig up an old skeleton?”
Nancy’s brush slid right off my nail and painted a pink stripe across my big toe. Her eyes narrowed. “Why’re you interested?”
“Just making conversation. Saw an article in the paper. Sounded like a good murder mystery.”
She glared at me. “No mystery. That Hooker hussy shot her husband and buried him where she could keep an eye on the grave. The bitch is a murderer and a
thief.”
I bit the side of my mouth. Keep cool. After all, I’d baited her. This was what I’d wanted.
“A thief?” I asked. “What did she steal?”
“A farm that shoulda stayed in the Watson family. Then there was Jed’s share of his granddaddy’s timberland up in the mountains. After he was gone and couldn’t say different, they claimed Jed sold it for a dollar right afore he disappeared. He told me he’d never sell land to that carpetbagger Kaiser. He may have pulled the wool over most folks’ eyes, but not Jed’s. The hussy must have forged Jed’s signature and collected money from Kaiser under the table.”
Hmmm. Who in Hades is Kaiser? Keep her talking. “Sounds like you know a lot about this Jed Watson. Was he kin?”
“By marriage.”
She sighed; her eyes had a glazed faraway look. “Jed and I were engaged once. He was a real catch. College boy. Owned his own farm. Don’t know how that Yankee cow seduced him.”
I dug my nails into my palms to keep from slapping her. Nancy’d retreated into silence—a surly, put-upon silence.
“You say you’re kin by marriage?” I prodded.
“Yeah. My husband, Eli, is Jed’s cousin. Eli’s all het up about the murder, says he’ll make sure the Hooker broad pays this time.”
“You think a jury will find her guilty?”
She shrugged. “Don’t matter,” she mumbled. “She’ll pay.” Nancy stood and commanded me to do the same. “The dryer’s in the room across the hall.”
I tried to walk with dignity. Wasn’t going to happen. I squeezed my toes together in an attempt to keep the throwaways from sliding off. The flimsy soles had a mind of their own. When the front edge of the left floppy curled under, I almost head-butted the wall. Time to quit trying for poise. A duck could waddle with more class.
When I finally sat at the dryer station, she flipped a switch and air blew across my feet.
“I’ll be back in a few,” she said.
Mollye’d warned me about toenail drying time, so I’d brought my Kindle. I opened a recent download. When I reached the end of the second page, I had no idea what I’d read. My eyes roved over the words; my brain had other ideas. I gave in and let my mind churn while I stared into space.
Nancy reappeared, shut off the dryer, and led me to the front desk. I followed at my fastest duck waddle. A large sign on the desk claimed a twenty percent tip was customary. Nancy stayed glued to my side as I fumbled with my purse. A form of tip intimidation? It had less chance of working than an ice cube’s chance in the Carolina sun. I opened my wallet, careful to keep my thumb over my driver’s license.
“That’ll be thirty-five dollars,” Diana twittered. I fished out two twenties, well aware that Nancy Watson didn’t expect me to ask for change.
The receptionist grabbed my money. “It’s Bea Snooker, right? Should we add you to our email list? That way we can send you coupons.”
Nancy Watson snagged my arm above the elbow and squeezed. “Snooker?” Her eyes narrowed. “Never heard that name before. Rhymes with Hooker.”
Before I could blink, she snatched the wallet from my hand and stared at my driver’s license. “You’re a Hooker,” she spat. “Don’t know why I didn’t see it. You look like that murdering witch did years back. You’re kin, aren’t you? Bet she sent you.”
I grabbed my wallet, shoved it in my purse, and smiled at the front desk lackey who still held my twenties. “You owe me five dollars change.”
Straw blonde’s mouth opened in an imitation of a hooked bass. No sound came out.
I heard chatter. Another Hands On manicurist was escorting a client to the front door. Diana quickly threw five ones in my direction, probably hoping to avoid a scene. About the same odds of that happening as Eva taking a second helping of tofu.
“Think you’re real cute, don’t you?” Nancy hissed. “Waltzing in here. Pretending to be someone you aren’t. Well, we’ll see who has the last laugh.”
Nancy trailed me outside, running through her entire vocabulary of curses. Wasn’t like I could make a rapid escape with my toes divided by green mushrooms and foam floppies determined to veer off in odd directions. Straight ahead wasn’t one of them. My slower-than-a-snail pace offered her the opportunity to insult my mother, both of my aunts, my intelligence, my virtue, and my dog.
It was all I could do to keep my mouth clamped shut. I was dying to let loose with a few curdling cheese curses but figured they’d go right through the holes in her Swiss cheese brain.
My mission hadn’t quite gone as planned.
I gracelessly flopped into my car, locked my doors, and buckled my seatbelt before I dared to look at Nancy again. She leaned in, her nose pressed against the driver’s side window. Her glare had the same hateful intensity as her axe-wielding hubby had when he rounded on me that morning. While Nancy lacked Eli’s size, she shared his volatile disposition.
“Don’t you dare come back here, bitch.”
I put the car in reverse, smiled, and gave a jaunty wave as I backed up. Then I hauled butt like a Formula One racer.
FOURTEEN
I parked in front of my new log home and waved at Eva, who seemed to be taking out her frustration by beating the front porch with a stiff broom. She stopped when she spotted me with an armload of groceries.
“Need help?” She smiled.
“No, thanks, got it.”
Had I not known better, her smile would have told me the broom therapy was working and everything was hunky-dory.
Eva checked her watch. “Better hustle. Not a lot of time before two hungry gents arrive on our doorstep. What are you cooking?”
Since Eva played it cool with no mention of the sheriff or search warrants, I did the same and rattled off my proposed menu. “Stuffed portabella mushrooms, asparagus-orange salad, spiced quinoa, and pumpkin brownies with coconut whipped cream. I had no time to bake bread, so I cheated. Bought a rosemary olive oil loaf at Dee’s Bakery. I’ll whip up pumpkin brownies first and get them in the oven.”
En route to the kitchen, I peeked in Eva’s bedroom. Neat and tidy. No sign of the sheriff’s frenzied dump-every-drawer search. A frilly comforter I’d never seen covered my aunt’s bed. Not her taste. And it didn’t exactly coordinate with the rifle resting against her chest of drawers. Where had the gun and the box of shells on her pillow come from? Should I ask?
Later. If she didn’t mention it first.
“I’ll leave the kitchen to you,” Aunt Eva said. “I set the table and straightened the cabin a bit. Now I have some dairy chores to finish. Yell if you can’t find something. I’ll be in the milking barn.”
I hummed as I started cooking. I loved everything about my profession. The road from banker to chef wasn’t exactly straight, but the rewards were awesome. I loved the colors and aromas. The textures and tastes. The chance to experiment. The immediate gratification when a perfectly browned entrée popped out of the oven.
Becoming a chef wasn’t a lifelong dream. When I graduated high school, I planned to follow in Mom’s footsteps, become a lawyer. Then I interned freshman summer with one of Mom’s attorney friends. Ugh. Research in musty county court offices proved mind-numbing. Searches of online databases involved less sneezing but equal tedium. As a lawyer, I figured I’d spend more time pushing paper than interacting with people, especially people I actually liked. So I switched to a business major and wound up at a bank, doubling-down on ugh.
As a chef, I had a smidgeon more control. I wasn’t forced to consort with dumb or vicious criminals, arrogant judges, or greedy developers.
Thinking about my stint as a legal intern and my years as a banker inspired me. I did know how to research, and I didn’t mind tackling a project when I had a clear-cut mission, one that meant something to me. With all this talk of Eva “stealing” Watson land, I wanted facts.
Though it might have zip legal bea
ring, it would be nice to prove her ingenuity and hard work were the sole reasons for Udderly’s profits. I bet I could prove Dad’s contention that the farm had been next to bankrupt when she inherited it. It would help erase one murder motive. Tomorrow I’d search deeds and tax records at the Ardon County courthouse.
Mom was on my mind when she phoned. With the help of the County Solicitor, the sheriff had been forced to return Eva’s address book and photo albums after copying items “of interest.”
“He was fishing,” Mom said. “I’m surprised the judge gave him so much latitude with the search warrant. Tell Eva I’ll bring the returned items back tonight. Why don’t your dad and I join you two for dinner? I can pick up a couple of pizzas, one vegan, of course.”
“Uh, sorry but Andy and Paint are coming to dinner at seven thirty,” I stammered. “You’re welcome to join us. I’m sure we have enough food.”
Mom chuckled. “No. We’ll pass. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing those young men compete to impress you. Should make for lively dinner conversation. How did you wind up with the two of them as dinner companions?”
I explained the overlapping invitations—me asking Paint, Eva inviting Andy. I didn’t say why Paint visited my flea market booth. I also skipped any mention of my encounter with Nancy Watson and the appearance of a new gun in Eva’s boudoir. No point compounding my parents’ worries. They’d just insist once more that we pack up and move in with them. Pointless. Eva wouldn’t budge.
“I’ll be by for breakfast,” Mom said. “Unless Eva tells me she needs something the sheriff carted off sooner.”
Good. A chance to pick Mom’s brain about my research project. She wouldn’t object to a paper chase.
Paint arrived first with two bottles of wine, one Chardonnay, one Zinfandel. “Didn’t know the menu so I brought white and red,” he said. “Of course, my moonshine goes with everything, but I figured we’d save it for dessert.”
Andy showed up five minutes later with his own dual wine supply.
“Guess I’d better find a wine opener.” Eva chuckled. “Don’t mean to insult either of you fine gentlemen, but this could be a spirited evening if we down all four bottles—one a piece.”
