Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky

by Jeanne Glidewell

  Chapter 9

  After sprucing up our guests’ rooms, and putting new linens on their beds, I went outside and found Stone raking leaves on the front lawn. He was filling large black trash bags with the leaves to put out on the curb with the trashcans on Monday morning.

  “What’s up?” He asked.

  “I’m going to run to the post office to buy stamps this morning, because it’s Saturday and the post office closes at noon. I want to get a birthday card off to Sheila today. Her birthday’s on Monday.” Sheila had been my best friend since Junior High, and would no doubt still be my best friend when the preacher read me my last rites. Actually, unless I converted to Catholicism, I probably wasn’t going to be read any rites. But the point is, Sheila and I were as tight as my blue jeans were becoming, and would be best friends forever. The last thing I wanted to do was forget her on her birthday. I also had some bills I’d like to forget, but it would be best to keep the electricity on at the inn for our guests.

  “Okay. Are you going to the store this week? I need some aftershave. Like maybe Brut 33 if they have it,” Stone said.

  “Sure,” I answered, knowing there was no way I was buying Brut 33 for Stone. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it went out of style in the seventies, somewhere between mood rings and lava lamps. I’d pick him up some Prada or Polo, or something else from this century, and he’d never know the difference.

  Speaking of last rites, there was someone out there I wanted to have their rights read to. “You have the right to remain silent,” and “You have the right to an attorney,” to name a couple. I’d better grab a cup of coffee to go, and get cranking if I had any hope of helping make that happen.

  “Say, Stone, when are you planning to talk to Elroy Traylor?”

  “I thought I’d see if I could get in to see Traylor one day this week.”

  “On what pretenses do you need to speak to the city manager?”

  “Well, no pretenses really, because I really do want to discuss the city’s budget allocation for tourism this year,” Stone said. “It’s the driving force behind the economy of this town, and I think more resources need to be pumped in to it. While I’m there, I’ll bring up the library and the rumor I heard about it being relocated. Then I will segue into a discussion about the tragic death of our local librarian, and see where it goes from there.”

  “Good plan, Stone! Thanks so much for helping me. I thought I might call and invite my new boss, Colby Tucker, to supper tonight, or tomorrow night, whichever suits him.”

  “Think there’s a chance in hell he’ll accept your offer?”

  “No,” I replied honestly. “But I didn’t think it’d hurt to be gracious and friendly, and show a desire to meet my new boss. I will have to report to the man, you know. And miracles do happen occasionally.”

  * * *

  There was a long line when I walked into the post office to buy stamps. I waved at a gal toward the front of the line that worked as a stylist at the Klip Joint where I had my hair done. When I looked up at the clerk behind the counter, my jaw fell open. I was almost certain she was the woman whose photo I’d seen on Quentin’s phone, Barbara Wells. When I got up to the counter, I’d have to find out for sure without taking too much time because I didn’t want to hold up the line.

  If the postal clerk was Barbara Wells, the lady who called Quentin while I was at his house, and Quentin had told me it was his brother, my first assumption was they were having an affair. The woman behind the counter was decades younger than Quentin, and tremendously better looking than his late wife, Ducky. I could understand why he’d be attracted to her, and even why he’d want Ducky out of the picture so he could pursue a closer relationship with this buxom blonde, with the gorgeous blue eyes and straight white teeth.

  But would Quentin kill for her, when divorce was always a less gruesome, and at least, a legal, option? He hadn’t really seemed the type to exert cruel and unusual punishment on his spouse, just because she didn’t have the good fortune of looking like she’d just stepped off the front page of Glamour magazine.

  Quentin was attractive in his own way, but certainly not GQ material. He for sure wouldn’t be taking David Beckham’s place in an underwear advertisement any time soon. How would he even manage to catch this woman’s eye? There had to be a different connection between these two. It was my intention to find out what it was.

  As I waited in line, I turned ideas over in my mind, trying to think of some clever way of finding out, in what form or fashion this woman was involved with Quentin Duckworthy. Finally, I decided the best tactic was a direct approach. I’d ask the clerk, if she indeed turned out to be Ms. Wells, flat-out how she knew Quentin. Hopefully, I’d catch her off guard enough that she’d answer me without having time to realize it was none of my damn business, and that I shouldn’t have even had the audacity to ask her such a personal question.

  This course of action might have been successful had Ms. Wells not gone on break, and been replaced by a male clerk, just as I was walking up to the counter. I noticed she was blotting her eyes with a tissue as she walked away from her post. And I heard her blow her nose as she exited the room. Was she upset, suffering with allergies, or what? I wondered.

  I bought four stamps, just enough to mail Sheila’s card, and three utility bills. I knew I’d be back on Monday to buy more stamps, perhaps two or three times, before I was waited on by the gorgeous woman I thought might be Barbara Wells.

  * * *

  Walking up and down the aisles at Pete’s Pantry, twenty minutes later, I tried to think of something special to prepare for supper. I’d been bowled over by Colby Tucker’s acceptance to my invitation to dine with us at the Alexandria Inn that evening. He’d even seemed delighted, stating he needed to have me fill out and sign a W-9 and several other forms, to take over as interim head librarian. He had a busy week ahead, and this would be the perfect opportunity to meet me and take care of required business at the same time, he told me.

  I was almost too stunned to respond. Not to mention, I was practically doing handsprings down the hallway. He asked permission to bring along his wife, and I replied affirmatively, assuring him that I was anxious to meet the both of them.

  Now I was thinking about my repertoire of savory recipes and finding it a pitifully short list. I debated the likelihood of me pulling off a Rack of Lamb Persillade recipe I’d recently cut out of a magazine, and decided it was wedged right between meager and hopeless. I could screw up a bowl of Raisin Bran given half a chance.

  I settled on a menu of roasted chicken, asparagus, potatoes au gratin, and rolls. I could surely handle that menu without any difficulty. I’d make enough to serve the Tuckers, Stone, and I, in the kitchen, and our four remaining guests in the dining room. The Spurleys had left early that morning to return home to Nebraska, and only the two young couples from Florida remained at the Alexandria Inn.

  Then, due to a lack of time to prepare something special, I’d serve a store-bought Dutch apple pie and ice cream for dessert. I still had to stop and purchase some aftershave for Stone if I could squeeze it into my schedule, because the Tuckers were due to arrive at six o’clock.

  As I drove home, I felt queasiness in my stomach, and had a sudden premonition the evening would turn out to be something I’d regret. My intuitions were seldom without merit. Was it too late to withdraw my invitation to the Tuckers? Of course it was, I decided. But I would try desperately to ensure the evening would turn out to be a fruitful and informative meeting over a delicious meal, accompanied perhaps with a tearful, and remorseful, admission of guilt.

  * * *

  The Tuckers arrived promptly at six o’clock. So promptly, in fact, that I wondered if they’d waited at the end of the driveway to pull in just as the cuckoo bird emerged from the clock hanging on our kitchen wall. I admit, I liked to arrive on time at events, as well, but I wasn’t anal about it. Within ten minutes of the scheduled time was close enough for me.

  I hadn’t gotten
the chicken in the oven to roast as early as I’d anticipated, but assumed it would be done enough by the time everyone sat down to eat. Everything else would be ready by then too. As it turned out, we’d be eating in the formal dining room, because the four guests at the inn were going out on the town for dinner and a movie. They’d be taking advantage of a nice Saturday evening in an unfamiliar town, and just enjoying the opportunity to be out and about. I’d suggested a fun restaurant downtown called The Hallowed Hog, because the Kansas City area was known for its fantastic barbecue, and I thought it’d be something they’d find fun, and delicious, as well.

  Colby Tucker didn’t look anything like I’d pictured him. Not very tall, and very rotund, he looked as wide as he was tall. His wife, on the other hand, looked like she’d given up eating for Lent and had never started up again. She was a little wisp of a thing. Both of the Tuckers were dressed very dapperly, making me glad I’d at least changed out of my blue jeans with the ragged, but now stylish, rips in them. Fortunately, I’d chosen to wear black slacks and a black and red sweater. Black was thinning, so hopefully I didn’t look too much like a linebacker compared to Mrs. Tucker, who practically disappeared standing next to her husband.

  After introductions were made, I led our guests into the parlor, and Stone fixed them a cocktail at the rustic wet bar that looked like it was straight off the set of a John Wayne movie. Stone and the Tuckers visited in front of the roaring fireplace, while I readied the table for supper. Mrs. Tucker offered to assist me, but I turned her down, telling her I didn’t have much to do and I’d rather she relax in the parlor. Actually, I didn’t want her to see the horrific mess I’d made of the kitchen, or watch me rush around it like a kitten who had overdosed on catnip.

  “Is something burning?” Stone hollered.

  “Oh crap!” I said, with one hand over my mouth.

  I sprinted to the kitchen from the dining room, like O. J. Simpson running through an airport. Smoke was escaping around the top door of the double oven. Grabbing a potholder, I flung open the door to release a cloud of black smoke. The rolls looked like something that had been belched out of the Mt. St. Helens volcano. I set them aside to toss in the trash once they’d quit smoldering. Thankfully, I had an extra package of rolls, because, when I was grocery shopping earlier in the day I’d been expecting to also feed the four Floridians.

  I’d already set the table, so I pulled the potatoes au gratin out of the top oven to cool, and replaced them with the new rolls. I left the chicken in the bottom oven to give it as much roasting time as possible. The rolls would be ready about the same time as the asparagus. I set the timer on the stove to make sure I wouldn’t forget them again.

  Dinner turned out to be an interesting experience. Colby pulled a chair out for his wife before sitting down at the table. As he plopped down, I could hear the ominous sounds of a wooden chair trying to hold up more weight than it was designed to handle.

  “Should we begin by blessing the food?” I asked, as I always did when entertaining guests. It wouldn’t hurt to tack on a prayer that God please keep Colby’s chair intact, so it didn’t dump an estimated four hundred pounds of pure lard onto the hardwood floor. That would put such a damper on the evening.

  “No,” Colby replied to my question regarding a prayer before supper. “Let’s just eat! My stomach’s beginning to think my throat’s been cut. I haven’t had a bite to eat since lunch.”

  With that, he began filling his plate with enough food to feed a family of five. His wife put one tiny slice of chicken, a spoonful of potatoes, and 2 asparagus spears on her plate, and said, “I usually wouldn’t eat this much, but I just love asparagus.”

  I was further amazed when she tore a roll in two and put half of it on her husband’s plate alongside the other two he’d already removed from the wicker basket. I put less on my plate than I normally would have, had we been dining with normal people. For one thing, I didn’t want to look glutinous sitting next to someone who didn’t have enough on her plate to keep a baby sparrow alive. For another, I was suddenly concerned there wouldn’t be enough food on the table to satisfy Colby’s massive appetite. I noticed Stone restricted himself to much less than usual, too.

  The conversation at the dinner table was minimal. Mrs. Tucker seemed to be just naturally introverted, and Colby never stopped chewing long enough to form a sentence. To fill the awkward silence, Stone and I discussed normal, everyday things like the delicate floral pattern on the china I’d chosen to serve supper on, the upcoming mayoral election, the rising price of beef, and what kind of toothpaste Stone should buy to brighten his teeth. When we grew weary of searching for topics to make small talk about, I got up, turned the radio on, and tuned in a country music station. I’d rather listen to someone singing about a love affair gone wrong, than to a sound reminiscent of a starving hog bellied up to a trough. Listening to Colby’s incessant chewing was grating on my nerves.

  “I believe that was the best chicken I’ve had in weeks,” Colby said after he’d polished off everything on the table.

  “Did you get enough?” I asked, already thinking about what else I could pull out of the pantry to fill this bottomless pit.

  “Oh, sure, thank you. I can grab a couple hotdogs when we get home, and that should tide me over until my evening snack. I like to have a little something to satisfy my sweet tooth while we watch the evening news,” Colby said. What in the world would this man have for an evening snack? I wondered. A two-pound box of Russell Stover’s chocolates?

  “Speaking of sweets,” Stone cut in. “Didn’t I see a delicious-looking apple pie in the kitchen? Are you two ready for dessert?”

  “Of course,” Colby replied.

  “I’ll pass,” his wife said. “I’ve already eaten so much my stomach hurts, but thank you for the offer.”

  Her stomach probably hurt, I thought, because there was nothing in it to stick to her ribs. But I merely smiled, turned to Colby, and asked, “Would you like vanilla ice cream with your pie?”

  “You bet!” He said, enthusiastically. Of course he wants ice cream. What a stupid question. That’s like asking someone who’d been floating in a life raft on the Pacific Ocean for a week if they’d like some fresh water to drink. Or maybe a large boat to climb aboard.

  * * *

  Grouped around the fireplace after supper, the four of us chatted about inconsequential things. I signed several documents, establishing my employment. Colby Tucker was relaxed and friendly, and was gradually changing my first impression of him as being a rude jerk with an over-inflated ego, to something slightly less repugnant. His wife sat quietly, sipping at her cup of coffee.

  Before I forgot, I asked Mr. Tucker about letting Tom take on a full-time position, instead of replacing Carolyn Aldrich with another untrained, part-time employee. I was greatly relieved, for both my and Paul Miller’s sakes, when he had no problem with my solution to both dilemmas.

  When I felt the time was right, and everyone was relaxing with a cup of after-supper coffee, I asked, “How well did you know Ducky, Mr. Tucker?”

  “Call me Colby, please,” he said. “I’ve known her for about fourteen years. She was already working at the Rockdale Public Library when I took over the job as the county library system director.”

  “What was your impression of her?” I asked.

  “Ducky was unique. She was very headstrong and opinionated, and could be very hard to reason with occasionally.” So far, Colby had said nothing I didn’t already know. “Ducky could be a bit cantankerous at times, and I never knew what kind of mood she’d be in when I called her.”

  “Go on,” I prompted, when he’d stopped speaking. I was thinking I’d just heard the pot calling the kettle black, knowing Tucker wasn’t always the friendliest soul in the world either, especially on the phone. But silently I listened to his response.

  “I was starting to get some complaints from patrons of the library. They thought she was quick to lose her temper, often over small, insignifica
nt matters,” he said. “She was at an age she could retire and not lose her pension. So I suggested she do exactly that, and make room for some younger person to take over the reins of the library. I was really trying to replace her, while still letting her save face, so to speak.”

  “I take it that didn’t go over well?” Stone asked Colby.

  “Not well at all. But we’d argued about every little thing for years, so her contempt for me ‘forcing’ her out, as she put it, was not unexpected. We couldn’t seem to agree on anything. If I told her broccoli was good for her health, she’d flat out refuse to touch the perilous stuff. She was that hardheaded. But the idea of retirement seemed to grow on her, and I actually think she was looking forward to it as the time grew nearer.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree more. She told me she was excited to finally have the time to do things on her bucket list,” I said. “By the way, was there any particular reason you never filled her request for a new keyboard? It really is defective.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is, but the cranky old broad got on my nerves sometimes, always trying to tell me how to run the entire county library system. I basically just put off replacing the keyboard to put a fox in Ducky’s chicken coop—you know—ruffle her feathers just to amuse myself. Given the circumstances, it sounds a little juvenile now, I’ll admit.”

  “So, Colby, were you as surprised as I was when her death was ruled a suicide?” I asked. I didn’t want to agree or refute his admission of acting childish. I found it best to avoid insulting my dinner guest, who was also my soon-to-be new boss.