The Sow's Ear

by E. Joan Sims

  Contents

  Copyright Information

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © 2015 by Joan E. Garcia.

  All rights reserved.

  *

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  Chapter One

  One August afternoon shortly after her birthday, my handsome old broad of a mother and I had a heated exchange of words.

  “I’m sick and tired of your complaints about growing older,” I said.

  She countered by pointing out that she was now attending more funerals than weddings. Never mind that she had just beat me soundly at tennis and still had enough energy to join my daughter Cassandra for a swim while I, a good eighteen years her junior, was still panting and sweating like a grampus—my pride the only thing keeping me in an upright position.

  Anna Howard Sterling, nattily attired in her trim size-six swim suit and matching chiffon parau, had the last word when she left the women’s locker room of the Rowan Springs Country Club in a graceful and elegant huff.

  As soon as she was gone, I sprawled face-down on a wooden bench and gave in to exhaustion. As tiny silver stars shot up into my brain and burst into an artful display of fireworks behind my eyelids, I wondered if I were having a stroke. At that moment, I really could have cared less—and I would have killed for an icy cold gin-and-tonic.

  I was just about to call on whatever hidden reserves of energy I had to get me to my feet and into the shower when I heard the locker room door open again.

  Attempting to hide my red and sweating face, I struggled to a sitting position and bent over, pretending to untie my sneakers. Fortunately, the two women who entered were so engrossed in their conversation they didn’t even notice me.

  After they passed, I rested my head on my knees and let the sweat roll in a steady stream from my forehead to the end of my nose, watching in a zombie-like trance as drops gathered gathered and fell to the concrete floor—until I heard something that penetrated my mental haze.

  “Do you really think he murdered her?”

  “I tell you, Crystal, she’d never been sick a day in her life! The woman was a walking, talking, medical miracle. Winston used to say if everyone in Rowan Springs were as healthy as Millicent Grazziani, he would have to hang his shingle out somewhere else.”

  “But, murder, Agnes? Isn’t that going a bit too far? Do you really think that puny little guy could get up enough gumption to kill somebody?” Crystal’s laugh was rich and boisterous. “I remember when he was working as a hairdresser in Mildred’s Beauty Box—that’s how he met Millicent in the first place—he used to go to her house and do her hair twice a week. You could have knocked me over with a straw when he moved in with her. The story was that Millicent hated him. Used to tease him all the time. Called him ‘Willie the wimp.’”

  “People are funny,” agreed Agnes. “Rich eccentric little old ladies included.”

  “Well, there’s nothing funny about being the sole heir to one rich, eccentric little old lady’s estate. Especially when she kicks the bucket under suspicious circumstances! I bet the grand jury…”

  As their voices faded under the sound of the showers I hurriedly stuffed my tennis racket and clothes in a bag and headed for my car. Mother had come in her own brand new baby blue Continental. She could give Cass a lift home.

  I had no idea who “Crystal” was, but I was well acquainted with her friend, and I definitely wanted to avoid a meeting. Agnes Wallace was the on-again, off-again ex-wife of a local doctor. From the look of me, it would be an easy assumption that I was about to suffer a heart attack. Gabby little Agnes would delight in spreading the sad news all over town, and my obituary would be in the newspaper before anyone thought to call me up and confirm my passing.

  It was the last day of summer—a beautiful “store-bought” day, with brilliant blue skies and temperatures hovering in the nineties. I stopped by the drive-in window at the Dairy Queen for two large iced teas and two cups of iced water to go. After the initial shock, the cup of cold water between my knees felt wonderful, as did the ice cubes in my sports bra. As I cruised down Main Street with the air conditioner on high, I began to feel a bit more human.

  Several years ago, Millicent Grazziani decided to build an imposing residence next to the bank that her late husband had owned. The local businessmen screamed “zoning violation,” but the dear lady dug in her elegant little heels and stuck out her tongue at the city council. Three months later, her townhouse as well as the bank on Main Street mysteriously burned down in the middle of the night. Her two beloved poodles and several hundred thousand dollars worth of priceless antiques went up in hungry scarlet flames that could be seen for miles.

  Millicent was royally pissed and absolutely refused to allow the bank to be rebuilt. Instead, she donated the blackened rectangle of land between the Rite-Med Pharmacy and Hinkle’s Dry Goods to the town as a park. She also donated a sizeable trust fund for the maintenance of the property. The gift was so generous that the people of Rowan Springs chose to overlook the fact that the park was dedicated to Peachy Keen and Pinky Grazziani and sported their little likenesses carved in imported Italian marble at the entrance. They even went so far as to overlook the fact that Pinky was quite obviously relieving himself against the handsome wrought-iron gate.

  I thought it was a hoot and took my hat off to Madame Grazziani. What was money for if it couldn’t buy you the last word? I usually smiled as I passed the park entrance and saw the life-sized statues of the playful little poodles, but today there was a huge white bow of mourning tied to the gate, and the stone dogs seemed cold and dead and very much alone.

  By the time I arrived at my mother’s sprawling country home on Meadowdale Farm, I had recovered enough to go for a short romp with our—make that, Cassie’s—dog, Agatha Christie. Aggie was a wild and wooly little Lhasa Apso with the face of a fuzzy white angel and the temperament of a cobra. I wore myself out all over again, and by the time I got in the shower, it was all I could do not to collapse under the spray of the water. It would be a shame to avoid a heart attack and t
hen drown in the bathtub.

  I was sitting on the big screened-in back porch sipping a glass of chenin blanc and drying my unruly auburn curls in the last rays of the afternoon sun when Mother and Cassie drove up in the driveway. Mother’s brand new husband, Horatio Raleigh, pulled up right behind them in his gunmetal gray Bentley.

  Mother hopped out of her car with the agility of a sixteen year-old and went to meet Horatio. Her hand on his arm, they followed Cassie up the walk and paused to admire Aggie who was performing one of her welcoming dances for everyone’s approval.

  “Mom,” asked Cassie, “where did you disappear? We looked all over the club. And then Agnes Wallace told us she saw you in the parking lot from the window in the locker room. She said you looked kind of funny and to be sure and call Winston if you needed anything.”

  “Yeah, in a pig’s eye!” I still had some serious problems trusting Winston Wallace’s medical acumen.

  “She told us some other very sad news, Paisley, dear.”

  “Yes, I know, Mother. Millicent Grazziani is dead. She may have been murdered—and there’s a big white bow on the park entrance.”

  Mother looked deflated. It was the first time that day I had beaten her to the punch. I smiled all the way down to my gizzard.

  “Ah, Paisley, what would we do without you to set us all straight?” Horatio laughed softly.

  “Yeah, Mom, you do cut to the chase. What do you think, Horatio? You knew Mrs. Grazziani. Do you think someone killed her?”

  Horatio shook his handsome white head as he poured glasses of wine for himself and Mother.

  “Who knows, my child? A decade ago, I would have denied that anyone in our fair city could commit a violent crime, but the last few years have proved me wrong. And since our Paisley has taken to writing mystery novels instead of children’s books, I have noticed an increasing amount of evil in our midst.”

  “That’s it Mom,” Cassie said. “Because you took the nom de plume of Leonard Paisley and chucked Aunty Jenny and Bartholomew the Blue-eyed Cricket, we’re having a crime wave.”

  “I knew somehow it would have to be my fault,” I grumbled.

  “You must admit that we have had more than our fair share of excitement since you and that dreadful Leonard started the detective business, dear,” Mother said.

  “I don’t know about that,” I said. “You had some pretty exciting adventures when you traveled with Dad, and Cassie and I lived through a South American revolution. Horatio, I’m sure you had some high old times when you were in Europe. I’ve even heard it whispered that you did some undercover work for the CIA. You must have seen your share of excitement doing that.”

  “There you go again, my dear,” he said. “You must be careful not to repeat these creative fantasies in front of people who might believe you.” He smiled benevolently, but under that handsome roguish forehead his bright eyes twinkled with mischief. I wasn’t just spinning tales and he and I both knew it.

  “At any rate,” he continued, “it would appear as though Paisley may be right. We’ve all experienced violence before. Perhaps it’s not the number of violent crimes that has changed, but our ability to find out about them so rapidly. The inventions of modern man have made the ends of the Earth easier to reach. What happens in Melbourne tonight will be splashed across the morning newspaper instead of arriving in the mail packet of a sailing ship in three months time.”

  “Just one thing, Horatio,” said Cassie. “This is not exactly a big wicked city. Rowan Springs is only a quaint, sleepy little southern town, population eight thousand five hundred.”

  “Exactly, my child. Eight thousand five hundred human beings with human passions and frailties—each and every one capable of violence under the right circumstances.”

  “I know what happened to the old lady,” my voice sounding as lazy and relaxed as I felt.

  “What, Paisley, dear?” asked Mother.

  “She had a really bad hair day.”

  I smiled, ignoring their groans. I loved bad jokes—and the darker, the better.

  Chapter Two

  I slept like a log that night—at least, until three in the morning when an owl in the wild cherry tree down by the carriage house decided it was a good time to shout his amorous intentions to any female within hooting distance.

  After forty-five minutes of tossing, turning, and trying to breathe with my head under the pillow, I finally admitted that I was licked and got out of bed. I threw on some jeans and a faded old Atlanta Braves sweatshirt—the one with the autograph of my favorite player on the hem—and tiptoed into the library. After quietly opening the French doors, I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the screen and listened to the lonesome owl.

  At first I was amused as I imagined this relatively unappealing creature with his big yellow eyes and pointy beak crying out for love and affection. Then, quite suddenly, I realized I was crying. Before long, big old sobs wrenched their way up out of my chest, and I cried as though my heart were broken. Ten minutes later I was on the hiccoughy end of my crying jag, and searching around in the dark for a box of tissues.

  I finally gave up looking and groped my way into the bathroom. I blew my nose on some toilet paper and splashed cold water on my eyes in the vain hope that tomorrow they wouldn’t be swollen and puffy. As I dried off with my bath towel I glanced out the window and saw a figure crossing out of the shadows under the owl’s tree to the carriage house.

  I opened the screen door as quietly as I could and slipped out. When I stepped in the dew-wet grass I realized I had forgotten my shoes. I knew that I would lose sight of the intruder if I went back so I crossed quickly over the gravel driveway lifting my feet up comically as the tiny rocks dug painfully into the soft flesh of my insteps. I made it to the orchard just as my quarry disappeared around the corner where Mother’s new car was parked right next to Horatio’s.

  Ah, ha! I thought, a car thief. And I had caught him red-handed. Me! All by myself!

  I raced to the corner of the building and jumped out shouting.

  “The jig’s up! Come out and fight like a man!”

  “Oh, Mom, for Pete’s sake!”

  “Cassie! What in the hell are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

  “The same thing as you, I imagine. Listening to that poor lonely old hooty owl and crying like a baby.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I heard you when I walked around from the back porch.” She came over and hugged me. “Are you okay now?”

  I shrugged, and then shivered a bit. After the heat of the day, the night air felt cool and my feet were wet.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Loneliness. It happens to the best of us.”

  We walked slowly—arm in arm—back up toward the house.

  “Guess so,” I admitted. I just thought I was over all that.”

  “You mean missing Daddy?”

  “My God, Cassie, it’s been years since he disappeared.”

  “You loved him very much. And you never really knew what happened to him. That’s enough to give anybody nightmares. San Romero in those last few days was enough to give me nightmares for years, and I was just a little kid. But I remember.”

  “Do you, Cassie? I tried to make everything seem as normal as possible for you.”

  “Even a little child knows something is terribly wrong when her Daddy goes to the jungle and doesn’t come back—when Mommy has to sneak us out of the country in the dead of night and leave all my dolls behind—not to mention my Daddy.”

  “I’m so sorry, sugar.” I squeezed her hand.

  “Me, too, Mom. Sorry for you, I mean.” She squeezed me back. “I know you must have missed him terribly those first few years in New York. Why didn’t you ever find a nice man to share your life with? Was it because of me?”

  I laughed. “You forget. We were living with Pam. You know her preferences. We were surrounded by women!”

  Cassie joined
in my laughter and soon we were happily reminiscing about the “good old” bad old days when we lived with the woman who had been my college roommate.

  Pamela Alison Winslow was now my agent and still my best friend. She was the one to suggest that I write down some of the bedtime stories I made up for Cassie. She had helped me establish a career when I arrived on her doorstep without a dime to my name and a little girl to support.

  I could have gone home to my parents but I wanted to come back on my own terms. I had something to prove. I had been the spoiled daughter of well-to-do parents and the pampered wife of a wealthy foreign diplomat. I had never been a responsible adult taking care of my child alone. With Pam’s help and wise editorial guidance I achieved my goal.

  For almost a decade I enjoyed a certain amount of popularity as “Aunty Jenny.” There was even talk of a television special. Then gradually Bartholomew the Blue-eyed Cricket dropped in popularity, and when my last kiddy book didn’t sell, Pam urged me to find another genre. I started writing hard-boiled detective stories, and Leonard Paisley was born.

  At first, I resented having to share my literary fame with the non-existent hero of my novels, but Pam kept assuring me it was “good for business.” She also said nobody would take a freckled-faced, green-eyed housewife and mother seriously when it came to murder and mayhem. After all, the most violent act I had ever committed was tearing up my panty hose when I came back to live on the farm.

  I had thought I was happy. What was wrong with me?

  Cassie made hot chocolate with tons of marshmallows while I washed and dried my feet. We turned the gas logs in my bedroom on low and sat in front of the fireplace toasting extra marshmallows over the flames.

  “So, are you going to write about Mrs. Grazziani?”

  I laughed. Cassie could always read my mind. “Sure. Why not? She deserves to live on in posterity. I always admired the old bag. She had panache.”

  I swallowed the crusty burnt shell of marshmallow and licked my fingers. “She was a kleptomaniac. Did you know that?”

  “Oh, Mom, you kidding. That old lady had more money than God. Why on Earth would she steal anything?”

  “For the thrill of it, I suppose. Anyway, when she used to go to Chicago every fall people would joke, ‘Millicent’s gone Christmas shoplifting!’ They say she had special skirts made with pockets that had slits so she could swipe stuff and hang it on a belt under her waist.”