Gayle Trent

by Between a Clutch

  “I guess. By the way, did you notice there wasn’t a single photograph in sight?”

  “Mmm-hmm. The living room was beautifully decorated. Maybe he and Flora kept their photographs and other personal mementos in another room . . . maybe in the den or bedroom . . . you know, so the living room would remain more formal for receiving guests.”

  “Maybe,” she said, “but I still think it’s kinda weird.”

  We hurriedly visited the rest of the houses and wound up selling eight more candy bars. We got home about thirty minutes after Faye got home from work. I walked Sunny to the door and stuck my head in to say “hello” to Faye.

  “Hi,” I called. “Whatever you’re having for dinner sure does smell good.”

  Faye stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway. “Hey, Mother. We’re having lasagna.” She saw that Matlock was with me and gave us both a disgusted frown. “I’d invite you to stay, but—” She let the rest of it hang there in the air between us.

  “Mooooom,” Sunny wailed, “come off it. Matlock won’t hurt anything.”

  Faye ignored her protest. “Go get washed up please.”

  “Yeah, honey,” I said. “You go on ahead. Matlock and I have plans anyway.”

  “You sure, Mimi?” Sunny asked. “Really?”

  “Positive. Good-night, sweetie.” I nodded. “Faye.”

  I took Matlock through the drive-through at a local burger place and got us both burgers and fries. I added chicken strips to Matlock’s order. I hoped the extra food would buy me enough time to enjoy my burger.

  On the drive home, I calculated that over the course of a lifetime, I’d made dinner two thousand three hundred ninety two times for Faye when I hadn’t felt like it, not to mention the times I’d made her dinner when I had felt like it. Would it have killed her to give me and my dog a lousy plate of lasagna?

  * * *

  The next morning while me and Matlock were laying on the couch watching “The Golden Girls,” the phone rang. I almost didn’t answer it because it was the episode where Rose was dating a midget, and it’s a real hoot. On the other hand, I thought it might be Faye callin’ to apologize for how she treated me last night; and I certainly deserved an apology, so I answered the phone. Glad I didn’t hold my breath in hopes it was Faye because obviously she hadn’t grown a conscience overnight where her mother is concerned. Instead, it was Jim.

  “Good morning, Myrtle,” he said. “Did you and that darling granddaughter of yours have a successful evening selling candy bars?”

  “I think we did fair,” I said. “Thank you for your support. Did you enjoy any of your candy bars last night?”

  “Unfortunately, no. About an hour or so after you left, I was on my way downstairs with a load of laundry when I took a tumble and broke my ankle.”

  “You, what? You broke an ankle? Oh, my goodness, and you there by yourself!”

  “It was okay. I have a phone down there, so I just crawled toit and called 9-1-1. A friend was kind enough to pick me up at the emergency room after the bone was set and everything.”

  “I wish you’d have called me. I’d have been glad to help out.”

  “I know that, dear, but it was so far out of your way. I didn’t want to be any trouble.”

  “Are you in much pain?”

  “It’s not bad,” Jim said. “Of course, I can say that because I’m on pain killers.” He chuckled.

  “Bless your heart. I’ll go get ready right now, and I’ll be over there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail

  to fix you some lunch.”

  “You’re terribly kind, but I can manage.”

  “I won’t hear of it. See you soon.” With that, I hung up.

  “Come on, Matlock. You and I have to go tend to the sick . . .and snoop around in his house.” I was still bent on finding a picture of Flora.

  Just as I was getting ready to go out the door, Bettie called. I quickly explained the situation and told her I had to go. I noticed Tansie’s living room curtains swishing when I went outside. I’d about bet you a dollar that Bettie had called her before I’d even got backed out of the driveway. Sure enough, when I got to Jim’s house, I saw straight away that another woman had beat me to the punch. But it wasn’t Tansie by a long shot.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I opened the door to get out of the car, and Matlock bounded out over top of me. He didn’t even stop to do his business before loping over to look up in adoration at the lovely blonde princess standing on Jim’s porch.

  “Dang fickle males,” I muttered, as I got out of the car and slammed the door shut. I straightened my back and lifted my chin. The closer I got to the porch, the younger and prettier Blondie got.

  She looked up and smiled as I got to the porch steps. “Hi! You must be Myrtle. Papaw Jim said you were coming!”

  “Papaw?”

  She laughed. “Oh, he’s not really. It’s just that he and my daughter have adopted each other, and now our whole family calls him Papaw Jim . . . even my husband.” She laughed again, and I realized what a sweet little laugh she had . . . sort of like tinkling bells or something . . . . Really. “I’m Cynthia Courte,” she said. “C.C. for short.”

  “Well, you guessed right. I’m Myrtle. It’s nice to meet you.”

  She patted Matlock’s head. “I’ve heard all about this guy, too. Papaw Jim’s a big-time animal lover.”

  “Do you live nearby?” I asked.

  “Just a couple miles away. We met Papaw Jim when he volunteered at Mary’s pre-school. Mary fell in love with him; and when we learned he was a widower, we began inviting him to dinner a couple times a week.”

  “How very thoughtful of you.”

  C.C. shrugged. “It just tears my heart out, you know? The poor guy all alone. I don’t know what he’d have done last night without Lawrence—that’s my husband—to drive him home from the ER.”

  I nodded. “I’m glad he has such good friends. How long have you known him?”

  “About a year, I guess. Like I said, it’s a shame such a sweetheart as Papaw Jim is alone . . . no wife, no kids.” She smiled coyly. “But, who knows? Maybe he won’t be alone for long.”

  I smiled back at her but changed the subject. “How’s he feeling?”

  “By now, he’s probably a nervous wreck and in great pain.” She giggled. “I’d better get Mary out of there before she kills him!” She stuck her head in the door. “Mary, darling, come on! We have to get home!”

  A miniature version of C.C.—except this one had a halo of flyaway curls—hopped onto the porch. The blue eyes got as big as saucers when she saw Matlock.

  “Poppy!” she squealed. “Poppy!” She held out a hand and Matlock licked it. She wrinkled her nose and chortled gleefully.

  C.C. picked the child up. “Can you say ‘hello’ to Myrtle? She’s Papaw Jim’s friend.”

  Mary looked at me and then pointed to Matlock. “Poppy!”

  “You like the puppy?” I smiled and ruffled those silky blonde curls. “She’s precious,” I said to C.C. “No wonder Jim adopted her for his granddaughter.”

  “Thank you,” C.C. said. “We’ve adopted him, too.” She shook her head. “It’s so sad. He told us once that he and Flora had always wanted children, but they couldn’t have any.”

  “Hmmm. Wonder why they never adopted?”

  She shook her head. “Dunno. But, I’d better get home and get supper started.”

  “It really was nice meeting you,” I said.

  “Nice meeting you, too, Myrtle. I hope we see more of each other.”

  She certainly hadn’t hidden the fact that she hoped Jim and I would get married and live happily ever after. As I walked into Jim’s house, I couldn’t help but wonder about all the inconsistencies about Flora. He’d been going to Smiddy’s for over two years meeting different women for dinner; C.C. had known him for a year and thought he was a widower the entire time; and the neighbor had never seen the couple together. Weird.

  I stood on the porch and wave
d at C.C. and little Mary as they drove away, and then I went inside.

  “Jim,” I called. “It’s me, Myrtle.”

  “Come on in,” he hollered. “I’m in the den . . . down the hall to your right.”

  Matlock loped ahead of me, following the sound of Jim’s voice.

  “Hey, big fella,” Jim cooed to Matlock in that effeminate dog-talking voice that was really starting to get on my nerves. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

  I walked into the den. It had a manlier décor than the living room, and it seemed much cozier; but I still didn’t spot any family photos. Jim half-sat half-lay on a brown leather sofa with a cream colored blanket over his legs.

  “How’re you feeling?” I asked.

  He lifted one shoulder. “I’m okay. Really. You didn’t have to come all this way and play nursemaid.” His eyes twinkled as he spoke, giving me the feeling he did want me here despite his protests.

  “I didn’t come to play nursemaid,” I said. “I came to play cook. Anything you need before I get started?”

  Jim grinned. “My crutches and the television remote, please. Mary knocked the crutches over, and I don’t know what she did with the remote.”

  I sat the crutches back up against the couch, and I found the remote on a nearby bookshelf. “That Mary is a doll. C.C. seems pleasant, too.”

  “Ah, the Courtes are wonderful people . . . especially Mary. She’s meant a great deal to me.”

  “I can see why. If she lived near me, I’d have her spoiled rotten . . . not that you don’t!” I handed him the remote. “There. You and Matlock find something decent to watch while I get some cooking done.”

  I left “the boys” watching a game show, and I went into Jim’s kitchen to see what I had to work with. I’d stopped by the grocery store and bought the makings for both a tuna casserole and a spaghetti casserole, and I hoped Jim would have the pans I’d need. Thankfully, he did, and I flew in to making my casseroles.

  The kitchen was spotless, which surprised me since Jim was living here alone. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me since the rest of the house was so clean, but it did. If something had happened to me and Crandall had lived in our house by himself for any more than two days, the whole house would have been a disaster area—the kitchen especially so. I could imagine coffee cups and cereal bowls stacked from sink to ceiling while TV dinner cartons overflowed from the trash can. But Jim’s kitchen was all oak cabinets and white tile, and there wasn’t a speck of dirt anywhere.

  As I was rolling me a crust to put on the top of my tuna casserole, the oven light went off, lettin’ me know it was hot enough to bake the tuna pie. I put the crust on and crimped the edges with more care that I usually take. Didn’t want Jim to think I was a sloppy cook, you know. I put the casserole in the oven, checked the clock, and then blew into the spaghetti pot to keep it from boiling over.

  Well, low and behold, the doorbell rang. You ain’t gonna believe who it was. Okay, you probably will believe it—it was Tansie. I went to the door, and there stood the big ol’ blousy thing wearing so much makeup that Jezebel herself wouldn’t have been caught dead in the woods lookin’ like that. That Tammy Faye might’ve, though. Remember her? She’s the one that used to say the Lord loved her and wanted her to be pretty . . . or something like that. Well, God love her, she must’ve thought the Lord wanted her to be a clown; and Tansie was lookin’ a might “Clarabelle” herself today.

  I was tryin’ to think of something clever to say, but she beat me to the punch. “You must be Jim’s house frau,” she said. “Funny, but you bear a striking resemblance to my dear friend Myrtle.”

  “Oh,” I said, forcing a chuckle, “I’m far from being the hired help. I do what I do because I enjoy it . . . and so does Jim.” I stepped back from the door. “Won’t you come in?”

  The angry hiss of water on a stove eye let me know that the spaghetti was boiling over again, so I hurried to the kitchen to blow into the pot some more. This time, after stirring it, I cut the heat down.

  I was surprised to find that Tansie had followed me into the kitchen rather than gone hunting after Jim like a beagle on a rabbit’s trail.

  “So, how is he?” she asked.

  “He’s got a broke ankle,” I replied.

  She rolled her eyes. “I know that—Bettie told me that. How is the poor dear?”

  “I reckon he’ll live.”

  “You don’t sound very sympathetic. I suppose it’s because you know he and I are seeing each other and you’re afraid of getting dumped.”

  I opened the jar of spaghetti sauce I had sittin’ on the counter. “I am sympathetic to Jim or else I wouldn’t be here, and I don’t think I’d go around telling people the two of you are seeing each other if I were you. He told me that when he couldn’t reach me the other night, he called you and had you meet him at Smiddy’s. He said he hates to dine alone.”

  Tansie was carryin’ that new Louis Vuitton pocketbook she’d bought at Marcia’s, and she slammed it down on the counter. “Are you intimating that Jim asked me to dinner merely because you were unavailable?”

  “No, I’m not intimating a thing. I’m flat out tellin’ you—you were second fiddle.”

  She gasped. “You don’t honestly believe that?”

  I took a spoon out of the dish drainer. “I know it for a fact; Jim told me so himself.” I turned and began spooning spaghetti sauce into the bottom of the casserole dish.

  Tansie must not have appreciated my turning away from her in the midst of what she probably considered an important conversation, so she grabbed me by the shoulder. When she did, a spoonful of spaghetti sauce flung itself right at her. I say it flung itself because it was an accident—truly, it was—and one of Tansie’s own making. If she hadn’t grabbed me like that, it wouldn’t have happened. I was just puttin’ together a casserole, for pity’s sake.

  Anyway, she had on this light blue crepe-y shirt, and that sauce spattered all over it. Not only that, it got on Jim’s nice linen tablecloth. I hated that. It was a lovely tablecloth.

  “Now, look what you made me do,” I said.

  Tansie started to ball up her fist; and I thought if she slugged me, she’d better get ready—they hit back where I come from.

  She looked at my spaghetti spoon and then down at her shirt and apparently decided not to tangle with me anymore today. Instead, she flounced out of the kitchen to go find the bathroom.

  I drained the spaghetti, got the cheese out of the refrigerator and finished fixing the spaghetti casserole.

  By the time Tansie emerged from the bathroom with wet splotches all over her crepe-y shirt, the tuna casserole was done. I took it out and put the spaghetti casserole into the oven.

  “I thought Jim might like this tuna casserole for lunch,” I said. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, thank you. I believe I’ll go speak to Jim and then be on my way.”

  “He’s in the den . . . down the hall and to your right.”

  She nodded.

  Suddenly, I felt bad for Tansie and wished I hadn’t rubbed it in her face about her bein’ second fiddle. After all, she didn’t even suspect Jim of bein’ a killer.

  She came back and stuck her head in the kitchen. “He’s asleep,” she said. “The dog is, too. I’ll just give Jim a call later.”

  “I need to go, too,” I said, “as soon as the spaghetti casserole is done. If he’s not awake by then, I’ll leave him a note and let him know you stopped by.” Feeling magnanimous, I decided to smooth over her feelings. “He really does like you.” Boy, did she ruin my magnanimous gesture.

  “Of course. I know he likes me,” she said.

  It took everything in me not to jeer, “Second fiddle! Second fiddle!”

  She went on out; and after getting the other casserole out of the oven, cleaning up my mess, and making sure everything was off, I collected Matlock and we left, too. I did leave the note for Jim, since he was still asleep. I told him I’d prepared two casseroles and that they wer
e in the fridge. I added that Tansie Miller stopped by for a second but had to hurry on her way. (I didn’t want him to think she’d helped with the cooking!) I added that a bit of spaghetti sauce spilled onto his tablecloth and that I was taking it to have it cleaned.

  Wanting to have that stain treated as soon as possible, I went by a dry cleaner’s near Jim’s house instead of taking it all the way back home to my own dry cleaner. Fortunately, they had a drive-through, so I didn’t have to worry about leaving Matlock in the car.

  I handed the tablecloth to the girl at the window. “Hi,” I said. “I got spaghetti sauce on this tablecloth, and since it’s white linen, I’d like to get it treated as soon as possible. Do you think you’ll be able to get to it pretty soon?”