Gown with the Wind

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  She didn’t seem like a woman who could have murdered her husband in that moment. Sure, it sounded like they definitely had their differences, but there was also a deep, abiding love present, that had seemed to transcend Glenn’s death. I relaxed a few more degrees, especially now that the gun was confined to Alma’s purse. Eric must have been wrong. There was no way Alma could have murdered her husband.

  Alma gave her purse a sturdy pat. “And even Glenn would have found a Civil War–era replica gun at least marginally interesting, from an historical angle, of course.”

  I wished she’d stop patting her purse. “Is it loaded?” I held my breath, waiting for her reply. Guns made me nervous, no matter how skilled the user was. I knew Truman kept some in his house, but they were kept locked away in a safe.

  “A lady never tells.” Alma was enigmatic as she finally shuffled over to the glass door of The Duchess and held it open for me.

  I gulped with a renewed frisson of nerves and allowed her to usher me in. The lobby space was truly magnificent. The remodel had Jesse’s touch written all over it. The plasterwork had been painstakingly restored, with intricate curlicues and embossed patterns etching the high ceiling in a windowpane pattern. Gold leaf sconces held imitation gaslights recessed in the lobby’s walls, between more posters featuring classic films. Gone with the Wind took pride of place, of course, lit by a small light above the elaborately framed poster. I could envision the party to be held tomorrow night in the lobby, with Port Quincy’s finest gathering beneath the brilliant and traditional chandelier. In the afternoon light, the leaded crystal prisms caught the mid-May rays of sunshine and sent a spill of mini rainbows showering down on the lobby’s walls. A busy evergreen carpet stretched out in the cavernous space, breaking up the distance between the old-fashioned ticket booth, partitioned off by red velvet ropes, and the large concession stand, also outfitted in retro style.

  “Theatergoers will be able to enjoy modern snacks and popcorn,” Alma mused. “And what will we be dining on during opening night?”

  I offered Alma a tense smile and went with the truth. “In light of the caterer being canceled, Rachel and I are still coming up with a menu.”

  Alma blanched. “I trust we will be ready on time?”

  “Yes.” I was firm in my assent. The menu might not be cohesive in theme, but the guests at the premiere would not go hungry.

  “I’m sure you’ll make it right, dear.” Alma patted my arm and motioned me toward the back of the lobby. “Let’s continue our tour. The theater itself is designed to be a throwback.” She led me through a wide, double set of brass doors to theater number one on the ground floor. The space was as opulent as the lobby, but quite obviously a movie theater. Plush velvet seats in dark persimmon red marched in procession across the room. They were packed closely together, in defiance of modern movie theaters’ moves to adopt large, recliner-size seats.

  “Jacqueline keeps warning me that we should have fewer seats in each theater room.” Alma rolled her merry blue eyes heavenward. “But what does she know about running a movie theater?”

  Well, she has studied film.

  I found myself batting down a small edge of annoyance toward Alma. If Jacqueline truly owned half the building, she should be here with us now, helping to finalize the plans.

  “Jacqueline seemed to have some good ideas when I last spoke to her about the theater.” I broached the subject as tactfully as I knew how.

  “Her?” Alma dismissed her daughter-in-law with a wave of her hand. “She can be helpful at times,” she admitted. “She’s more of a Melanie Wilkes, if you know what I mean. All quiet strength and Goody Two-shoes affect. But for this project, we need more of a Scarlett-type woman. Someone like you, dear, or me.”

  I winced. I wasn’t sure if dividing up all the women in the world into a Melanie or a Scarlett dichotomy was very fair. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be categorized as a Scarlett either.

  Alma seemed to sense that she’d made me uncomfortable, and changed the subject. Unfortunately, her choice of topics only made me squirm inwardly even more.

  “Have you made any headway on who killed my dear Glenn?” Alma deepened her Southern belle accent and blinked up at me in a plaintive manner.

  I wished I’d never let her extract the promise to go poking around where I didn’t belong. But her piercing blue eyes brooked no wiggle room, and I found myself spilling my thoughts.

  “Why does Eric Dempsey blame Glenn for the breakup of his marriage to Becca?” I decided to counter an uncomfortable question with another one, and observe how Alma answered or deflected.

  She gave a mirthless chuckle. “Glenn never thought Eric was good enough for our Becca, that’s all. Perhaps,” her eyes focused on the stage where the red curtain was drawn, “if Eric had still lived in the United States when Glenn was murdered, I would have suspected him of exacting revenge for the dissolution of his marriage.” She took in what must have been my shocked look and continued. “But he was far away from my Becca then, thank goodness. Canoodling with Piper by that time, as well.” A wounded look stole over her features.

  “Glenn introduced Piper to Eric.”

  “Yes, she ran off with Becca’s husband, though their marriage was mainly over by then.” Alma shook her head. “Piper was Glenn’s star student. She was often over at Tara for dinner and discussion. She was like a third granddaughter to me. Until she hooked up with Eric, of course.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d loathed Becca when I first found out Keith had stepped out on our relationship to be with her. But then I’d come to realize it was Keith’s betrayal that mattered, not Becca’s choice to be with him. It stunned me to realize that Becca had gone through a similar situation with Eric and Piper.

  But Alma continued to muse aloud, breaking me from my thoughts. “No, I’ve been thinking about it more, and I keep coming back to Tanner Frost.”

  “Felicity’s fiancé?”

  Alma nodded and leaned more heavily on her cane. “It didn’t seem like such a big deal at the time, but it could have been significant. Glenn opposed Tanner making tenure in the history department at Quincy College. He was going to recommend to his fellow colleagues that Tanner be denied tenure, and as chair, Glenn’s suggestion would have had great weight.”

  I leaned against a plush red seat and nodded for Alma to continue.

  “Glenn was murdered in cold blood, with only Wilkes as witness. With Glenn gone, Tanner made tenure. End of story.” She neatly held up her hands in a kind of shrug, allowing me to draw my own conclusion.

  “The timeline is significant,” I agreed. “But don’t you think Truman knows all this?”

  Alma deflated and finally sat down in a theater seat. “One would assume he does. But why hasn’t he acted on it?”

  I shook my head and decided to defend my boyfriend’s father. “I’m sure Truman has exhausted all the leads, Alma. That doesn’t mean Tanner didn’t do it, but if he did, there’s some reason why Truman can’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  Alma bristled at my defense of Truman, and delicately folded her gnarled hands together. “Be that as it may, I won’t ever rest until I find out what happened to my dear Glenn.”

  “Christmas on a biscuit.” Jesse Flowers’s voice rang out from the lobby. Alma and I hurried out of the theater, our tense discussion cut blessedly short. I waited with the door held open as Alma slowly made her way up the wide aisle and emerged into the lobby.

  “What is it, Jesse?” Her tone was imperious and tinged with a dismissiveness I hadn’t picked up on before. It was an affect perfected by Becca as well. No wonder Jesse was tired of working for Alma. Her sweet Southern lady routine was gone, replaced with a demanding tone.

  “I stepped out to the hardware store while you and Mallory were touring the place.” He ran a colossal hand over the brim of his Pittsburgh Penguins hat. “Someone trashed the bathroom I’d just finished.” He motioned for us to follow, and we peered into the small
space. The bathroom was as opulent and old-fashioned as the lobby, complete with a small sitting area with brocade fainting couches in an antechamber abutting the room with the sinks and toilets. The gorgeous gilt mirror facing the couches was dripping with magenta paint, a crudely drawn skull marring the smooth glass surface. A cryptic warning was spelled out in black paint on the opposite wall.

  Mind your own beeswax.

  Alma went white and sank into one of the couches. Her cane dropped to the floor.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I’d been happy to leave Alma and Jesse at The Duchess. Jesse had a full afternoon of work ahead of him if he was going to restore the bathroom in time for the grand reopening. But there had been one wrinkle: Jesse insisted on calling Truman to examine the scene, and Alma had been vehemently opposed. I’d left the two bickering in the theater bathroom to head home and figure out what food Rachel and I would serve at the premiere.

  I found my sister pacing in the kitchen. She was gnawing on her shiny purple acrylics, a practice I knew belied some small crisis.

  “What’s up?” I slid into a chair and prayed whatever had come up would only be a minor catastrophe that we could easily handle.

  “There’s been a teensy, eensy, weensy mistake.” Rachel grimaced and resumed her gnawing and pacing.

  “Spill it, Sister.” I wanted her to tell me now, and get it over with, akin to ripping a Band-Aid off a wound. Delaying the news wouldn’t make it any easier.

  “It’s been hard to keep track of what’s going on with Keith and Becca’s wedding.” Rachel held up one hand and ticked off themes on her fingers. “First it was Japanese cherry blossom–themed. Then Helene took over. Then it was Gone with the Wind. Then back to Helene’s choices.”

  I nodded to encourage her to spit it out.

  “I-forgot-to-cancel-the-food.” Rachel hissed out her admission in a flurry of speech.

  “You what?” I willed my brain to pause and tried to remember who was supposed to do what.

  “I think you asked me to cancel the food for the Gone with the Wind–themed plans. I wrote it down, then immediately forgot.” Rachel moaned and slid into a chair opposite mine. “I know I wanted to take on more events, but you were right. It’s too much, and we’ve both been slipping.”

  I sat for a moment and considered what Rachel had told me. “Where’s the food?”

  “In the fridges and freezers downstairs.” Rachel dared to look up. She stared at me quizzically as I felt a slow smile steal over my face.

  “Rachel Marie Shepard, you’re a genius.”

  “I am?” Rachel’s eyes widened and she took a gulp of air.

  “Alma’s premiere is Gone with the Wind–themed. We’ll just repurpose Keith and Becca’s menu into the theater premiere hors d’oeuvres!”

  Rachel’s eyes sparkled as she considered the idea. “Everything is ready for tomorrow’s Mother’s Day tea. We’ll have to start right now on the prep for Alma’s new menu if we want to get everything done on time for the theater reopening the next day.”

  I thanked my lucky stars that we’d had the forethought to prepare the food for tomorrow’s event beforehand. We could use tonight to start on the now-finalized menu for Alma’s event, and finish tomorrow night with hopefully some room to spare.

  My sister and I tore into the basement and hauled food up the steep stairs to the kitchen. We fished out the recipes we’d crafted for the Gone with the Wind tasting and got to work. I beamed as I prepped, happy not to be wasting the food we’d accidentally procured for one of Becca and Keith’s canceled wedding plans.

  “Everything works out for a reason,” I gushed. Alma would be ecstatic that we’d been able to whip up a themed menu for her theater relaunch.

  “Except with Becca’s family,” Rachel countered. “All the hinky and crazy things that have happened are in some way related to the Cunninghams.”

  I cocked my head and considered what Rachel had said. It was basically true.

  “First, someone broke into Alma’s house, strangled her, and stole her collection.” Rachel set down a gleaming butcher knife on the counter and raised her brows.

  “And then Felicity was murdered in Becca and Keith’s pool.” I tidied my pile of sliced green tomatoes.

  “Today, you saw the theater had been vandalized,” Rachel added.

  “And let’s not forget Glenn was shot last year.”

  We stood in silence for a full ten seconds, contemplating the strange series of mishaps.

  “So how does it all fit together?” I turned back to my pile of tomatoes, committing myself to keep working if Rachel and I were going to do some armchair sleuthing.

  “Who would want to kill Alma? She’s such a sweet little old lady.” Rachel resumed her chicken carving. I gulped as the butcher knife flashed in her capable hands.

  “That’s the thing, Rach. Alma isn’t all sweet, Southern hospitality.” I recounted her imperious tone with Jesse. “And although Jacqueline technically owns half of The Duchess theater, Alma didn’t include her in any of the plans for the reopening. Jacqueline studied film. She has some great ideas.”

  “Alma is a force of nature,” Rachel considered “I could see her getting her way as a matter of course.”

  “She and Glenn may have gotten their way in regard to Becca’s first marriage. It sounds like they were both integral in breaking up Eric and her.”

  “Then maybe Eric strangled Alma to get back at her.” Rachel continued her butcher routine.

  “I already thought of that. But Eric and Piper were still in Colombia when Alma’s house was broken into. And,” I admitted sheepishly, “I like Eric and Piper. I can’t see them murdering anyone. One person who could have done it, and is conveniently out of the picture, was Felicity.”

  “Okay, now that you mention it, Alma does have some enemies.” My sister separated chicken pieces into different piles.

  “And according to some, she had a rocky marriage with Glenn.” I pondered the different versions of her marriage I’d heard about. “Glenn apparently didn’t like Gone with the Wind. Alma sunk their joint savings into expanding her collection after he died.”

  Rachel waved the butcher’s knife in the air in a dismissive gesture, and I resisted the urge to duck. “Oh, c’mon. There’s no way you could get me to believe Alma murdered her husband.”

  “I don’t really believe it either.” I recalled Alma speaking of Glenn with such love. But then again, as Eric and Becca had shown, who really knew what went on in a marriage?

  “Well, then, maybe Tanner Frost did it, so Glenn wouldn’t oppose his bid for tenure.” I moved on from slicing tomatoes to creating a breading of crumbs and spices.

  Rachel snorted from across the room. “Tenure isn’t worth killing over.”

  “I’m not so sure. I bet Doug would disagree.” I remembered our stepfather’s nervousness about making tenure soon after he married our mother. He wanted the security of tenure to assure that he could provide for me and Rachel.

  “And there’s the connection to Felicity. She had just gotten engaged to Tanner when she was murdered.” I gulped and stopped assembling ingredients. “And that’s not all. According to Eric, Felicity was seeing someone besides Tanner.”

  Rachel sucked in her breath. “Do you think Truman knows all this?”

  I felt a blush steal over my face as I pondered my sister’s question. Truman would flip out if he knew I was asking people questions, and that Alma had deputized me to look into Glenn’s killing.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  * * *

  The inaugural Mother’s Day tea event was off to a smooth start. I surveyed the setup of the backyard as I finished setting the small, round tables we’d placed around the back porch. We’d decided to schedule and serve brunch rather than a usual afternoon tea, so that our attendees could spend the rest of the holiday doing other things with their families. I was shaken by the dark whirlwind of events involving Becca’s family but determined that this event would
go off flawlessly. Though I couldn’t help but also wait for the other shoe to drop. I’d lain awake in my bed the night before, Whiskey and Soda dreaming at my feet. I’d finally fallen into a fitful sleep. But now, watching the party come together, I chastised myself for worrying at all.

  “This was a great idea.” I beamed at my sister as she poured water into the glasses on the tables.

  “It’ll be a blast,” Rachel agreed. “And I’m glad you hired more help for the occasion.”

  I’d put out a frantic call earlier this week for extra servers to help with the tea. Rachel was right; we needed to hire more to staff our gigs. I had plans to find some permanent additions to our team as soon as I had the Cunninghams out of my hair.

  “If this goes well,” Rachel beamed “we can regularly add holiday-themed events. And start advertising that we’ll throw retirement parties, rather than accepting the occasional one that comes our way.” Her pretty green eyes sparkled with plans of expansion and worldwide event-planning domination.

  Give her an inch and she’ll take a mile.

  “Hold the phone, Sister. I like booking the random shower or retirement party at the B and B. It’s good to expand our business organically, by word of mouth.”

  “And it’s good for our pocketbooks and bottom line in general,” Rachel interjected.

  “True. But do you really want every week to be like this one, with an event scheduled nearly every day?” I placed my hand on my hip and put down the striped turquoise and lime-green tablecloth I’d been spreading out on a table. The jaunty colors heralded the upcoming change from spring to summer.