Looking for Lillian (Hunter Jones Mystery Book 7)

by Charlotte Moore

  LOOKING FOR LILLIAN

  A Hunter Jones Mystery

  Charlotte Moore

  Copyright © 2016 by Charlotte Moore. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the author.

  eBook designed by MC Writing

  LOOKING

  FOR

  LILLIAN

  A Hunter Jones Mystery

  CHARLOTTE MOORE

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Epilogue

  Other books in the Hunter Jones Series

  Chapter 1

  The last day of Buzz McFall’s life was the second Monday in January. It was cold. At mid-afternoon, the temperature in his hometown was just below thirty-five degrees and dropping.

  In downtown Merchantsville, the wind was whipping through the bare branches of the dogwood trees. The antiquated furnace in the storefront office of The Magnolia County Weekly Messenger was not up to the challenge of real winter weather. Even with two electric space heaters going full blast, the three women working there were bundled up in warm clothes.

  Hunter Jones, the managing editor, who usually preferred dresses and high heels, was wearing a red wool cape over jeans and a sweater. She had on fuzzy striped socks inside her boots and had pulled a knitted cap over her blonde curls.

  She had just assured Novena Baxter, who held the double title of advertising director and lifestyle editor, that it was fine if she left work early.

  “I’ve got two bridges to drive over,” Novena said, “And you know that the bridges freeze before the roads do. Bobby called and said he’s keeping his dogs inside. He said it looks to him like it’s going to snow.”

  “It doesn’t look like snow to me,” Mallory Bremmer said, looking toward a patch of blue in the sky beyond the plate glass windows.

  Hunter, who had grown up in Atlanta, agreed.

  “Novena, it’s just cold. It’s not going to snow.”

  “That’s what everybody around here said in 1973,” Novena said, “Not that either of you would remember that.”

  Mallory, who had just turned 24 and looked like a bit like a red-haired elf in her boyfriend’s oversized hoodie, laughed and said, “No, but I’ve sure seen the home movies. My dad said some people kept snowballs in their freezers for years afterward.”

  Hunter, who was studying the weather predictions on her computer screen, said, “There’s no prediction of snow, but it’s supposed to go down into the teens tonight. I’d sure rather stay warm at home than go hear Buzz McFall give a campaign speech.”

  Novena, who had her coat halfway on, stopped, looking interested.

  “I didn’t know you were going to that open house,” she said. “I’m glad you are since they took a half-page ad. Please get a picture of that young wife of his if she comes with him, and get one of his daughter, too.”

  “Sam feels like he has to show up, and I’m planning to get a front page story. Do you want some pictures for the Lifestyle section?” Hunter asked.

  “No, I’m still backed up with holiday party pictures, and we’ve got three engagement announcements,” Novena said. “I just want to see what they look like. I hear Buzz’s wife is in her twenties. We used to call that cradle-robbing. Now they say she’s a trophy wife.”

  “I’m still in my twenties,” Hunter said, thinking of her looming thirtieth birthday. Then she grinned. “And Sam is over forty. Does that make me a trophy wife?”

  “It’s not the same at all,” Novena said, “Buzz is as old as Bobby and me, and she’s supposedly really pretty.”

  “Thanks,” Hunter said, laughing.

  “You know I didn’t mean you aren’t pretty,” Novena said. “I just meant, well, she’s supposed to be a beauty pageant winner or something..”

  Mallory jumped in to change the subject.

  “Does anybody think Buzz McFall can even win the primary election? All I’ve ever heard about him is that he grew up here, he’s Tab McFall’s dad, and he’s rich. He’s never held public office at all.”

  “Sam doesn’t think he has a chance,” Hunter said. “But it’s still news when somebody who grew up here runs for governor.”

  “Bobby thinks he’s crazy to run,” Novena said, “What I’d like to know is what Deb McFall thinks about it. She always had more common sense than he did. If they were still married, she’d probably have talked him out of it.”

  She pulled on her coat, but wasn’t ready to leave, now that she had established her expertise.

  “You know I went to high school with Buzz and Deb, and they were sweethearts from ninth grade on,” she said. “They had this huge church wedding right after they both graduated from the University, and then five years later, she was back here, moving into her parents’ house with a two-year-old. So they got a divorce, and three months later we heard he got married again to this really rich woman from up north—Phoebe something. Deb was broken-hearted, and Buzz’s parents were, too. They always thought the world of Deb. They still do.”

  “So this wife who’s coming with him is the third?” Hunter asked.

  “Right,” Novena said, wrapping a scarf around her neck. “He was Mister Eligible Bachelor for a good while, as old as he is. They’ve only been married about a year, and somehow they wound up with his daughter by his second wife. The second wife, Phoebe, has gone off to Spain and finally caught herself a new husband. My nephew is one of Tab’s friends, and he says Tab says the daughter doesn’t much like her stepmother, but Tab thinks she’s all right. I mean his stepmother. Well, why wouldn’t he? She’s a lot closer to his age than she is to his daddy’s.”

  Having exhausted her
information on the candidate’s personal life, Novena finally headed for the door.

  “You know,” Hunter said to Mallory after Novena was gone. “I have to feel sorry for Buzz McFall’s wife if she’s got a teenaged stepdaughter who doesn’t like her. I really lucked up with Bethie. Of course, she wasn’t in her teens when I met Sam.”

  “Bethie lucked up with you, too,” Mallory said. “Do you want me and Tucker to babysit tonight or is Sam finally letting Bethie babysit with Ty?”

  “He’s agreed that Bethie’s going to be in charge,” Hunter said with a smile, “But only because the open house is right across town, and we won’t be gone long. He’ll probably call her at least twice. I don’t think he’s worried about her being able to take care of her little brother. He knows she can do that. He’s just protective of both of them.”

  “Miss Rose told me you and Sam were going to pick her up,” Mallory said. “It sounds like all the old ladies in Pink McFall’s bridge club are fixing mountains of refreshments. Do you think there’ll be a crowd with the weather being so cold?”

  “I think probably it will be the bridge club ladies and the elected officials and Chamber leaders and some friends of the family,” Hunter said, with a grin. “Of course, since the ad said ‘The public is invited’ there might be some nosey people who just want to see the trophy wife or tour the inside of that grand old house. I know I do. I’ve never been inside.”

  “I’ve only been to the front door,” Mallory said. “That reminds me… the first time I went there trick-or-treating when I was a kid, I was a little scared because Mindy Morris had told me it was a haunted house.”

  She smiled, remembering the long-ago Halloween, with a mother who had died in her teens, and her sister, who was married now, and living in Mobile.

  “I got Miranda scared, too, and Mom told us that was silly nonsense. I believed her, but Miranda wouldn’t go up the steps when we got there, so I had to share my candy with her. I can still see her, standing there in her Snow White costume, howling.”

  “How was it supposed to be haunted?” Hunter asked. “Was there a ghost?”

  “I don’t remember,” Mallory said. “I had this idea of the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz coming to the door, and it was Miss Pink McFall instead.”

  Across the street at the Magnolia County Courthouse, Hunter’s husband, Sheriff Sam Bailey, was talking with County Commissioner J. Burton “Jaybird” Hilliard.

  Jaybird Hilliard, who had been famously handsome in his youth, was still an imposing man in his mid-fifties, but his classic features showed the effect of decades of eating fried foods and drinking bourbon.

  Sam Bailey was in his early forties. At six-four, he was at least four inches taller than the commissioner and weighed only twenty pounds more than he had as the scrawny captain of the Magnolia County High School basketball team.. He was relaxed and good-natured as he stood his ground.

  “You’re not getting an escort,” he said. “My office doesn’t provide sirens and flashing lights to lead private citizens to the country club to have dinner.”

  “I just want to avoid any traffic problems,” Jaybird said. “And get there on time. They cut things pretty close. Open house at six and dinner at seven fifteen.”

  “The only traffic problem is going to be that people will wind up parking on both sides of Literary Lane,” Sam said. “I might have to go outside in this freezing weather and direct traffic. I don’t know what came over Buzz putting that big ad in the paper saying his parents’ house was open to the public.”

  “His mother had a fit about that, too,” Jaybird said, nodding in agreement, “Buzz’s campaign manager’s son placed that ad. He’s just out of college with a marketing degree… thinks he knows everything, and didn’t run it by Buzz. I’d already told Buzz we could invite everybody who ought to be there by phone from my office. I think that boy probably set up the country club dinner, too. Didn’t really leave us enough time to get there after the open house. No common sense.”

  “How about Buzz’s dad?” Sam asked, changing the subject. “How’s he doing?”

  “It’s sad,” Jaybird said, “He’s still got those old-fashioned manners, and he looks great for his age, but if you talk to him a while you can tell he probably doesn’t remember who you are.”

  “Is it Alzheimer’s?” Sam asked.

  “They don’t know,” Jaybird said. “Apparently, he’s sharp as a tack if you’re talking about when he was a kid, but he forgets what happened yesterday. They’ve got Augusta Wren living in the guest house now, because Pink can’t manage him by herself.”

  Then he tried one more argument on the subject of the escort.

  “The country club has a great prime rib,” he said. “You lead us out there, and I’ll treat you and Hunter to dinner. There’s an open bar, too.”

  “No thanks,” Sam said with a grin. “We’re having chili and cornbread. I’m going to go home right after that shindig and build a fire. After supper, we’re going to toast marshmallows with the kids.”

  Jaybird rolled his eyes and gave up.

  A half mile away, Buzz McFall’s first wife, Deb McFall, was arguing with her son, Tab.

  “You need to get back to college,” she said. “You promised me you would, and now your father’s going to drag you all over the state.”

  “Mom,” Tab said. “I’ve already promised him I’d work on the campaign. He’s going to pay me, and it will be good work experience. I’ll go back to school after that.”

  “Well, I would hope he’s going to pay you,” Deb said. “But, Tab, I don’t know how good the experience will be. There’s not a chance he’s going to win the primary.”

  “You don’t know that!” Tab countered. “Dad’s succeeded at a lot of things.”

  Deb sighed, and Tab changed the subject to one he knew would distract her.

  “Grandma Pink really wants you to come to the open house.”

  “I know. She called me,” Deb said. “That was sweet, but I think it might be awkward, and honestly I’d rather stay at home with a good book. How’s your granddad doing?”

  “Not too bad,” Tab said. “He told me ‘Buzz is coming.’ Augusta says he’s better in the morning, and he gets more confused toward night. She’s staying in the house now until he goes to sleep.”

  “I’m glad Augusta’s there,” Deb said, speaking of the McFall family’s longtime housekeeper. “It was a good idea for them to let her live in the guest house rent-free. I just hope she gets to stay out there now and then, and that she has time for her own family.”

  The McFall family home on Literary Lane was Victorian, with a wraparound front porch and gingerbread flourishes. It sat on an acre of land, with the guest house—renovated from a carriage house—in the back.

  Built in 1899, it had belonged to the same wealthy family for three generations. Buzz McFall, who had spent his adult life in Atlanta, represented the fourth generation, and Tab was Barnard Talbot McFall V.

  There were five upstairs bedrooms, but Barnard McFall and his wife Penelope, who had been called “Pink’ from childhood on, now had their bedroom downstairs in a room that had once served as a library. They were in their mid-eighties and the stairs were too much for them.

  That morning, a team from Squeaky Cleaners had been paid to make the upstairs ready for overnight guests. They had mopped and waxed the hardwood floors, vacuumed the many carpets and changed the bed and bathroom linens.

  They were gone now, and Augusta Wren was cutting the crusts off tiny chicken salad sandwiches. Her granddaughter, Kenyatta, a pretty fifteen-year-old with masses of braided hair, had come straight from school and was checking the latest batch of cheese straws every few minutes to make sure they didn’t brown.

  Pink McFall, a slender, gray-haired woman, came into the kitchen.

  “Buzz just called and said they’d be here a little after four,
” she said. “Did the cleaning service do a good job upstairs this morning? They certainly made enough noise about it. Is it warm enough up there?”

  “They did a very good job,” Augusta said. “Everything’s nice and fresh. I told them not to bother with the turret room, but they did those stairs anyway. I opened some of the windows for a while just to air things out, but I’ve closed them again. Kenyatta just checked, and it’s getting warm. It will be fine.”

  “Thank you, Augusta, and thank you, dear,” Pink said to Kenyatta. “I wish I could go up there myself, but I just can’t trust these old knees coming back down.”

  “You could put one of those chair lifts on the front staircase,” Augusta said, not for the first time.

  “I know. I know.” Pink said. “But it’s such a beautiful staircase, and that would look so tacky. If we could fit one into the back staircase, I wouldn’t mind, but you know, now that we’ve had the downstairs bathroom remodeled, I like being all on one floor, close to the kitchen and the den. I think Barnard does, too. It’s cozier.”

  “He’s looking forward to seeing Buzz,” Augusta said. “He was telling Tab about it this morning. Now, tell me again. Which of your friends is bringing refreshments? And what are they bringing?”

  “Ellie Bankston is going to bring cream cheese and olive sandwiches and pimento cheese sandwiches,” Pink said. “Rose Tyndale is bringing two lemon pound cakes. You know her pound cake slices beautifully. And I’m afraid Annie Laurie Wooten is bringing a chafing dish full of those meatballs she always makes, and toothpicks to eat them with. She’s already made them, even though I specifically asked that they not bring things that might drip on the tablecloth or carpet. Lord knows who may show up since they put that notice in the paper that everybody’s welcome.”

  Barnard McFall had been watching television in the den across a small hallway from the kitchen. Hearing his wife’s voice, he came to the open door of the kitchen and watched the three of them for a moment. At 85, he was still a grand looking old man, with perfect posture and a mane of white hair.

  “Is company coming?” he asked.

  Chapter 2