“Flora Adams disappeared about a month ago, Mimi. The papers were asking anyone with information to come forward. That went on for a day or two and then nothing more was said about her.”
“Did you check the obituaries?”
“Yep. Nothing there. Why’d you wanna know about this woman anyway?”
I told her about the note. She thought it was “cool.”
“I printed out the articles I found, and I’ll bring them over on Saturday if that’s okay.”
“That’ll be great, Sunshine.”
Sunny and I try to get together a couple Saturdays a month, just the two of us. It’s nice. A lot of kids her age don’t like hanging around their grandparents, but she does. At least, for now. I’ll treasure it as long as it lasts.
So Flora Adams had gone missing, and somebody had sold Marcia her little black clutch. Had Flora sold the purse herself, putting the note inside as some sort of insurance or act of justice? Or had someone else sold the purse, not knowing about the note inside, but knowing that Flora wouldn’t be coming home?
CHAPTER TWO
I got up the next morning and put on one of them tracksuits like Jennifer Lopez wears—though I have to admit I looked more jiggly in mine that she does in hers. Anyway, I felt it was the perfect thing to wear to a meeting of “Melons.” Mine was even the color of cantaloupe, so there you go.
I got to the Center about a quarter past nine. Bettie was already there and had the coffee started. I looked around, expecting to see doughnuts or muffins or at least melon balls; but there wasn’t the first sign of a refreshment anywhere. Good thing I’d had my raisin bran.
“Hi, hon!” Bettie smiled great big and had some of her red lipstick smeared onto her teeth. I was missing the best part of “The Today Show,” and she wasn’t serving refreshments; so I didn’t tell her about the lipstick.
“Who all are you expecting?” I asked.
“Let’s see.” She started counting them off on her skinny beringed fingers. “Marie, Delphine, Laura, Melvia, and, of course, Tansie.”
“Of course.”
Tansie’s the moneybags of the bunch, so she gets invited to everything. Everybody thinks she might offer to pitch in with the expenses. She usually does, too, but whether it’s out of generosity or to show that she can afford to pitch in with the expenses remains to be seen.
About that time, Tansie and Melvia came in. Tansie pulled Bettie aside as soon as they’d said their hellos—to tell her about the lipstick, I reckon, because Bettie hurried over to the counter and grabbed a napkin. She turned her back to us, so I figured she’d taken her teeth out so she could see what she was doing.
I still have all my own teeth, thank you very much.
I turned to Melvia. “So, what do you think about this ‘Melon’ thing?”
Melvia looked around to make sure Tansie wasn’t listening. “I think it makes us sound like ladies of the evening, but Tansie thinks it’s a grand idea. That’s what she told me—‘This is a grand idea, Melvia.’ What do you think?”
“I agree with you, but I don’t wanna miss a party.”
Melvia grinned. “Me, neither.”
Melvia is a little thinner than Tansie, her hair is gray and no way near as big as Tansie’s and today she was wearing a simple pair of jeans and sweatshirt—as opposed to Tansie’s satiny track suit that had a sparkly design on the top. Tansie glittered like one of them disco balls they used to have at dances when Faye was in school.
When everybody got there, Bettie asked us all to sit down.
We did. She remained standing so she could make an announcement.
Mainly, she likes to put on a big to-do about everything—something else she has in common with Tansie, but I was glad the show was finally getting on the road.
“I’d like to welcome you all to the first meeting of the Melons!” Bettie laughed like a hyena, flinging her Tilt-A-Curl blonde hair over her shoulder. The rest of us smiled. Except Tansie. She horse-laughed and flung her wrist, nearly blinding us all with that flashy watch she wears.
“There’s a sign-up sheet on the counter,” Bettie continued, “so we’ll all know what refreshments everyone is bringing. We want those men to know that we’re not just pretty faces!” She and Tansie laughed some more.
“Speaking of men,” I said, “who are they?”
“Well, after I called all of you, I called the director of the VFW; and I believe some of those gentlemen will be joining us.”
I nodded and got up to top off my coffee cup. I was already thinking this party was gonna be a dud. I appreciate the veterans serving our country and all, but everywhere they go Wendell Wallace has to show up. He was never in the armed services or anything; he only wishes he had been. This summer at the Fourth of July picnic, Wendell showed up with the VFW; and when they set off the fireworks, Wendell got up under a picnic table and yelled, “Incoming! To the bunkers!”
Still, in for a penny, in for a pound, I reckon. I already had the ingredients to make my shoofly pie, so I might as well make it and come on. Besides, Delphine brings peanut butter fudge to every shindig around; and that stuff is out of this world. If nothing else, I’d come load up on fudge and then say I wasn’t feeling good and go home.
* * *
Sunny came over on Saturday. We were having us a “spa day,” you know, where you do your fingernails and your toenails and your hair and your face and whatever else you can think of. It’s something Sunny particularly enjoys; but I was glad of it myself today, what with the shindig tonight and me wantin’ to look my best.
“So, what’d you dig up on Flora?” I asked Sunny while I massaged cuticle oil onto her fingertips.
“She went missing,” Sunny said, “but she never turned up dead.”
“Well, where did she turn up?”
“That’s just it. She didn’t. They found her car—and it even had her purse in it—but they didn’t find any trace of her.”
“Huh.” I took a cotton ball and doused it in nail polish remover. “But there had to be something.”
Sunny shook her head. “Nope. They even brought those hunting dogs to sniff out a trail, but it was like she’d vanished just a few feet from her car.”
“Huh,” I said again. “What color do you want today?”
“Can you do a French manicure, except with pink and pale blue?”
“Can the Pope sing?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Me, neither, so I guess what I’m sayin’ is that I’ll give it a shot.”
“Okay,” Sunny said with a grin.
“Back to Flora,” I said. “Sounds like she might’ve got out—or was taken out—of her car and put into another one.”
“Wow, Mimi, that’s what the papers said!”
“You don’t watch as many detective shows as I do without picking up a few things. I even watch that ‘Forensic Files’ on Court TV sometimes. It can give you the willies, though.” I placed some adhesive guides on Sunny’s nails so I could paint the end parts blue. “Did those papers mention anything about a second set of tire tracks or a suspect whose vehicle matched those tracks?”
“Uh . . . I don’t think so. The papers are on the table, so you can read ’em yourself.”
“Okay, sweetie. Mainly, I was just trying to keep going with the flow while you were impressed with my detecting.”
We both laughed at that. Sunny’s the one person I can be a hundred percent honest with a hundred percent of the time. And you. I’m pretty straight with you.
I had my doubts about anyone abducting Flora—I have to admit. When you get to be my age (even though I’m only a really young sixty-five), you start hearing about your older friends forgetting where they live and wandering off. Thank the good Lord I’m healthy and in my right mind. That’s why a lot of people get put in a home, you know—they start acting like young-uns, runnin’ away from home and forgettin’ how to get back. Still, I wanted to know what happened to Flora.
* *
*
I wore me a burgundy Diane Von Furstenberg-style wrap dress to the party. Diane Von Furstenberg didn’t make it, of course; it was a copycat. Still, I figured I’d go with that don’t ask–don’t tell thing. If anybody wanted to believe I’d showed up wearing a designer dress, who was I to burst their bubble?
Besides, I’ve been watching that little ol’ Chip and Pepper on television where they take a designer outfit and then put it together with cheap clothes and make it look just as good. I don’t care to tell you, I’m pickin’ up a few things from them boys.
Sunny had done my nails in a raisin color, and I had on my new black Audrey Hepburn “Breakfast At Tiffany’s” shoes. I was lookin’ good, if I do say so myself.
Delphine was there when I got there, so I made a beeline for her candy. I had to put my pie on the refreshment table, after all. I sat my pie down and discretely grabbed the biggest piece of Delphine’s fudge. My goodness, it was good. Since nobody was looking, I wrapped a couple pieces in a napkin and put them in my black “clutch.” Then I ate another piece before everybody else started handling the food. You might think I’m a hog, but I was probably doing the whole gang a favor. I’d say fifty percent of the people there were diabetic. It’s just possible I was keeping one of them veterans out of a diabetic coma.
As I made my way on down the refreshment table, I heard a man say, “My, don’t you look striking?”
Turned out, he was talking to me. “Thank you.”
And thank goodness, it wasn’t Wendell Wallace. He was busy following Melvia around.
“I’m usually not so forward,” the man said, “but would you care to take a turn around the dance floor?”
I figured he usually was forward, but he was tall, nice looking and not on a walker. “I’d love to.”
He took my arm and escorted me to the dance floor. A Tony Bennett CD was playing. “I’ll be seeing you,” Tony crooned.
“I’m Jim Adams,” my dance partner said.
“Myrtle Crumb,” I replied.
“It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you, Myrtle.”
“Nice to meet you, too. For some reason, your name is ringing a bell. Did you grow up around here?”
“No, but I have such a common name.” He shrugged and smiled.
“I guess that’s it,” I said. Still, that name sounded so familiar.
The song ended and we walked off the dance floor.
“Myrtle, you naughty girl,” Bettie said, coming at me with something in her hand. “You came in and got right to beeswax without picking up your dance card!”
Bettie looked fairly attractive tonight. She was wearing a pale pink frock, had taken the time to put some curl in that blonde hair of hers, and she wasn’t wearing too much makeup. Still, she could get all over your nerves with that “beeswax” stuff.
I took the dance card. Jim took a pen from his pocket and wrote his name next to the first dance.
“Mind if I sign on for a few more?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
Behind his back, Bettie gave me the big “okay” sign.
After our third dance, me and Jim decided to have some refreshments. I took a piece of my pie, a small piece of Delphine’s fudge, and a preacher cookie Melvia had made. Melvia makes awfully good preacher cookies. Jim took a piece of my pie (after I told him I’d made it) and a couple of Bettie’s chess bars.
We sat down at a table, and Jim went back and got us both some coffee. When he got back, he told me how much he was enjoying my company.
“I was skeptical about this at first,” he said, “but now I’m really glad I came.”
“Me, too,” I said, “on both counts.”
“I’m fairly new to widowhood.” He half-grinned. “In fact, this is my first outing.”
“It’s hard. Being a widow, I mean. You never stop missing your ‘other half.’” I took a bite of my cookie. “I don’t wallow in grief or self-pity or anything. I live a full and happy life. But I still miss Crandall—that’s my late husband.”
“Yes,” Jim said, “there’s always a part of you that feels empty.”
“So, how long has it been?”
“I lost Flora about a year ago.”
Flora. Flora Adams. Jim Adams.
If anything happens to me, look to Jim. He did it.
That’s when I nearly choked to death on my preacher cookie.
“Are you all right, Myrtle?” Jim asked.
“Yes . . . yes, fine.” I dabbed at my watering eyes with a napkin. “I believe I need a drink of water is all.” I got up from the table.
“Shall I go with you?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I gave him as much of a smile as I could manage and hurried off to the kitchen.
I did pour myself a cup of water. I needed it. Plus, I needed to think a minute. I’d been waltzing all over the dance floor with a killer, and revelations like that tend to knock the wind out of your sails.
So, now I had a decision to make: hightail it out of this joint, or go back in there and dance with Killer Jim. I knew down deep in my heart that Nancy Drew, Jessica Fletcher, and even Jaclyn Smith in a Lifetime television movie would march right back in that room and pretend nonchalance. In fact, nobody pretends nonchalance any better than Jaclyn Smith.
They’d all do it. They’d every one gain that killer’s trust, get him to confess while they were wearing a wire, find the murdered wife’s body, and maybe get a little something going on with the police chief while they were at it.
And that’s just what I was gonna do. Well, I don’t know about getting something going with the police chief. Or finding the corpse—that don’t much appeal to me. But I could act nonchalant and solve the crime.
I drank my water, adjusted my bra, and smoothed my dress. Boy, was I nonchalant.
I sashayed back to the table. Wouldn’t you know it? Tansie had done tried to move in on my killer. She’d even sat down in my chair!
“Myrtle, dear,” Jim said, “are you feeling better?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “Tansie, thank you for keeping my chair warm while I was gone.”
“You’re welcome.”
I laid my pocketbook on the table and waited for her to move. Believe it or not, she took the hint. As soon as she slid out of that chair, I slid in.
“Mr. Adams was just regaling me with a charming story,” Tansie said, grinning a big shark grin at Jim.
“Oh, it’s . . . uh . . . nothing.” Jim stammered and stuttered and looked embarrassed.
“What was it?” I asked. “A dirty joke?”
“Most certainly not,” Tansie said, planting one hand on her lavender crepe covered bosom. “I find it highly improbable that Mr. Adams would be so crude.”
“Well, he had more respect than that for me, of course, but—” I shrugged by way of finishing my sentence.
“Actually,” Jim said, “I was telling Ms. Miller about an outing I had with my little granddaughter the other day. Her name is Mary; and when I took her to the park, she said she wanted to ride the ‘me-go-round.’”
Tansie laughed and laughed. “Isn’t that a scream?”
“Precious,” I said.
I smiled, but I had to wonder if Jim had ditched poor old Flora in that park next to the “me-go-round.” Ick. Then I remembered my nonchalance and forced out a big laugh. Hey, I don’t want to end up on the other side of that “me-go-round.”
CHAPTER THREE
Well, guess what? I’m seeing Jim Adams again at the Center tomorrow evening for Bingo. I told Sunny, naturally, because she wanted to be kept up-to-date on the investigation. She didn’t approve of my meeting Jim at the Center at first, but since I’ll be in a crowd of people, she thinks I’ll be okay. She warned me not to go anywhere alone with him, though. Isn’t that sweet?
Guess what else? The whole time we were singing that hymn about “our hearts in Christian love” in church this morning, Tansie was looking daggers through me. So much for her and her Ch
ristian love. She’s taken a shine to Jim herself; that’s what it is. It’ll be interesting to see how she acts at the Bingo game tomorrow night. You can bet your bippy she’ll be there.
I was so tired this morning I almost didn’t make it to church. Still, I was afraid the good Lord would strike me dead and send me straight to hell if I danced with a killer half the night and then laid out of church the next morning.
Now, sit yourself down, and let’s watch “An Affair to Remember.” I bet I’ve seen it a dozen times, but I still get teary-eyed when Cary Grant realizes Deborah Kerr is the crippled woman who bought his painting. You know, the purpose of that movie is to show you just how out of hand a misunderstanding can get. Jim could be a really good guy and this whole “killer” thing could just be a big misunderstanding.
Gayle Trent Page 2
