Listening to them, I resolved to dig out my own copy of the 1960s classic as soon as I got home. Truthfully, I couldn’t remember much about it other than being scandalized over the active sex lives of all the characters. It probably seemed like a Mother Goose rhyme compared to the kinds of books that were out now.
“Let’s agree to disagree on this one,” Veronica said graciously. “Now if you’ll all adjourn to the dining room, lunch is waiting for us.”
That was my cue. Carrying a platter of freshly made sandwiches stacked artistically on a plain white platter, I eased my way into the dining room too and set the platter down in the center of Veronica’s enormous walnut table. I had fanned the rest of the food out but it looked a little lost on the vast expanse of wood. Maybe I should have brought something else to go with the sandwiches and potato salad. Well, it was too late now and Veronica hadn’t requested anything else. I knew that I was going to have to stop second guessing myself whenever I did a catering job. It was just that I wanted everything to be perfect.
The book club guests slowly surged into the dining room, chatting in small clusters of twos and threes. Standing near the door that led to the kitchen, I did my best to blend in with the beige and white wallpaper and put my ears into Bionic Woman mode.
“DeeDee, I think we’re going to need more sandwiches,” Veronica said, appearing at my side and I saw that the platter I had set out all of two minutes earlier was almost empty. For a group of skinny, intellectual readers these gals were putting away an amazing amount of calories.
“Of course,” I said as I rushed back into the kitchen. I began to make more sandwiches while straining my ears to hear the conversation that was flowing in the dining room. As I worked, a few women wandered in and out of the kitchen, taking the time to nod to me but not engaging me in their conversation. That was fine with me since I knew I’d learn a lot more from listening than I ever would from talking.
“How are you doing, Syl?” a sympathetic voice suddenly asked.
I froze and looked up. Two women were helping themselves to coffee. I had set the coffee urn up in the kitchen where there wasn’t any chance that the heat from it would harm anything. The women were both strangers to me. One was tall with dishwater blonde hair and one was short with a haircut reminiscent of Moe of the Three Stooges fame. While they were both nice looking, neither was a knockout.
“I’m all right,” the shorter one with the Moe haircut responded. “It’s not getting any better though.”
I studied her out of the corner of one eye. The woman was dressed in a navy blue jumper sprinkled with tiny flowers and was wearing a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar underneath. All in all, she was fairly unremarkable. I didn’t get it. From what I’d seen of Frank Ubermann and from what I had heard about him after his death, he’d been a middle-aged metrosexual with a healthy twist of mountain man tossed in. Frank had been tall, handsome and very virile looking whereas his widow looked almost drab. I simply couldn’t picture this woman on Frank’s arm.
The taller woman patted Sylvia gently on the arm. “Give yourself time, hon,” she instructed. “It’s been a very short while since you lost Frank. I’m surprised that you’re here tonight.”
“Oh, I couldn’t miss tonight’s meeting, not when we were all reading the title I chose.”
“You’re very brave,” the first woman said.
Sylvia grabbed for a paper towel and dabbed at her eyes. “Not really but it’s not like I have a choice to be anything else. It’s so terrible, getting up in the morning and seeing his slippers next to mine, seeing his maroon silk robe hanging next to my pink flannel. Frank and I were such a unit. It doesn’t seem right that he’s no longer there.”
“Does it help if I say that he’s in a better place?” The first woman asked.
Sylvia shook her head. “Not really. I don’t want him in a better place. I want him back here, with me. It was a pretty good place here when Frank was still alive. I miss him so much, Martha.”
My heart ached for this poor woman. It was obvious from the way her shoulders were slumped and the vacant look in her brown eyes that she’d been dealt a serious blow. I heard once that losing a spouse was the most difficult thing for a person to go through, harder even than losing a child. Even if Frank Ubermann had been something of a creep and a player, he had been Sylvia’s husband and that was all that mattered. I only hoped that Sylvia hadn’t heard any of the rumors that seemed to have swirled around her late husband like smoke hovering over a campfire. Maybe Sylvia didn’t know that Frank might not have been the most faithful of spouses.
“Is there any cream?” Sylvia suddenly asked, making me jump an inch or so in the air.
“Oh, yes. Let me get it for you.” I went to my cooler and pulled out a small container of cream that I’d forgotten to set out and handed it to Sylvia.
“This is plain,” Sylvia said after sniffing the cream. “Don’t you have anything flavored? I like caramel.”
“No, I’m sorry but I don’t.”
Sylvia looked sadly at the cream container before pouring a large slug into her coffee. “I suppose it will have to do,” she said as she stirred in three teaspoons of sugar. “I don’t know why but lately I can’t seem to find the energy to do anything. I keep on thinking that if I have a few more calories and a lot more caffeine, I’ll be able to wake up and this will all be a nightmare.”
Martha softly tsked-tsked under her breath. “I wish that could happen for you, dear, I truly do.”
“Me too,” Sylvia whispered as her eyes filled with tears again.
I couldn’t stand it. I had to say something. “Excuse me but I just want to say that I was so sorry to hear about the loss of your husband, Mrs. Ubermann.”
The look on Sylvia’s face instantly morphed from woebegone to suspicious as she eyed me from across the granite countertop. “Did you know my husband? How would you know Frank?” in a tone that clearly implied that she couldn’t imagine when someone like Frank would have crossed paths with someone like me, the lowly kitchen help.
“I didn’t—not really. I mean, I met him once but I didn’t know him. I’m sure he wouldn’t know who I was if we’d ever had the opportunity to meet again.”
“When did you meet him?” Sylvia asked.
“I met him at Eden Academy.”
Sylvia’s dull brown eyes swept over my blue jeans and the brand new red T-shirt I had on that had Classy Catering written across the chest. “What were you doing at Eden Academy? Do you work in the lunchroom?”
“No, I was catering a lunch there the day…the day it happened.” I should have kept my mouth shut. This conversation clearly had nowhere to go but straight downhill.
“You were there the day Frank died?” Sylvia asked.
“Yes. He seemed like a very nice man.”
“Oh, he was a wonderful man,” Martha gushed. “Everyone loved Frank Ubermann and I mean everyone! I always said that he reminded me of Burt Reynolds playing an intellectual. The man simply oozed charm.” She blinked a little coyly. “And sex appeal. I hope you don’t mind me saying that, Sylvia.”
“Of course not,” Sylvia murmured. “It’s the truth. Frank had a great deal of appeal to women. I was always aware of that fact. But I also knew that he was always faithful to me.”
I busied myself cutting the sandwiches, taking care not to lop off one of my fingers. So I wasn’t the only one who had noticed the resemblance between Frank Ubermann and Burt Reynolds. Not raising my head, I managed to glance at Martha to see how she was reacting to Sylvia’s la la land remark. Martha looked a bit flustered and also more than a little guilty. Interesting.
“I wonder if there’s any wine in the house,” Martha said. “I would love a glass of Merlot. I know it doesn’t go with turkey sandwiches but it definitely goes with Valley of the Dolls.”
“Martha, don’t you agree that Frank was always faithful to me?” Sylvia demanded. “I mean, it was obvious to anyone who ever saw the two of us together
that neither of us fooled around, wasn’t it?”
“I really wouldn’t know, Sylvia. I didn’t know Frank all that well.”
“Martha, you’ve known us for twenty years! You had to be able to see that Frank was devoted to me.”
“I’m sure he was,” Martha murmured, her eyes looking desperately toward the kitchen door and freedom. An awkward silence filled the kitchen that was fortunately broken by Veronica Everly’s entrance. “Come on, Sylvia, Martha! We’re about to start in on round two of the book.”
Martha looked relieved. “I thought we were finished, Veronica.”
“I thought we were done too but there’s a battle brewing between the members who think Nealy O’Hara was a misguided heroine and the ones who think she was nothing but a conniving little tramp. What are you two doing in here?”
“I was just thinking that a glass of wine might be nice,” Martha said. Her cheeks had turned rosy, so rosy that DeeDee was hit with an uncomfortable thought: surely Frank hadn’t been bopping her too? “Do you have any, Veronica?”
“Sure. I could open a few bottles but it might spoil what DeeDee has planned for dessert.”
“You ladies go ahead. I brought along apple pie but I also have fresh fruit and a selection of cheeses that would go well with Merlot.”
“Yum,” Veronica said. “I think we hit the jackpot when we hired you, DeeDee.”
I smiled my thanks but as I looked from Veronica, who seemed sincere, to Martha, who seemed desperate for that glass of wine, to Sylvia, I noticed that Sylvia seemed suspicious. Of me.
“I don’t get it,” I said later that evening as Steve rubbed my aching feet. “Ooooh, don’t stop. That feels heavenly.”
“What don’t you get? Did you know you have a callus?”
“Yes, I know. It’s from the elliptical. I’m firming my thighs and wearing out my feet. I don’t get why Sylvia acted like I had been sleeping with her husband. That was how she looked at me—like I was lying about having just met him.”
“She was probably mad because that Martha woman didn’t say right away that Frank was the good and faithful hubby that his wife has apparently deluded herself into thinking that he was.” Steve started in on my left foot.
“I’m sure you’re right but why be mad at me? I told her that I’d only met Frank once but every time I went into the living room with food or to collect plates she was glaring at me. It was unnerving.”
“Well, babe,” Steve remarked, “Sylvia has to know that her husband hit on every woman he met, especially the pretty ones and since you are very attractive she has to know that he flirted with you.”
“Oh, Steve, I’m a middle-aged mom. Not some fresh young thing.”
“Did he flirt with you?”
“A little,” I admitted, “but like you said, the man flirted with any female who was still breathing. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he flirted with Junebug.”
“I thought you said Junebug was an older woman.”
“She is but age didn’t seem to matter to Frank. It was like his flirting mechanism was always on.”
“It also sounds like he was asking for what happened to him.”
“Maybe. That’s what Veronica said too. I wonder if I should talk to Junebug. She might have some insight into who killed Frank.”
“Well,” Steve said as he gently put my foot down and slowly stood up, “I can’t say that I approve but I also know that you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Where does Junebug live?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll look her up tomorrow. Should I call her or just drop in?”
“Probably just drop in. You risk her not being there but if she is around, you’ll have the element of surprise.”
“You’re getting into this too, aren’t you, Steve?”
Steve shook his head vehemently. “Not in the least but I have to say that if you’re going to interrogate people, I’d much rather you interrogated little old ladies instead of young, athletic men who are toting bows and arrows around.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t see one young athletic man the entire time I was at Eden Academy,” I assured him. “Now how about a leftover turkey sandwich?”
“I thought you’d never offer,” Steve replied.
Chapter Thirteen
Junebug McClellan lived in a large ranch house in a neighborhood called Equestrian Estates. Steve and I don’t travel in the same social circle as the people who live in Equestrian Estates so I’d never been there before. I did know that the people who lived in the subdivision had a reputation for being Kemper’s version of a “horsey” crowd—most of them either owned horses or hoped to own a horse one day and spent their vacations and retirements either traveling to races or horse shows. The streets had horse-related names and the subdivision had been divided into sections with one called the Kentucky Derby and the other Churchill Downs.
Junebug lived in the Kentucky Derby half at the rear of the development, the half where people with seriously big bucks lived. Pulling up in front of 101 Secretariat Way, I wasn’t exactly surprised by what I saw. Junebug, with her obvious affection for all things Western, had an enormous ranch house with an equally enormous garage door that she’d decorated with dozens of gold-painted horseshoes, each with the open side pointing up to keep the luck inside. A jockey statue circa 1962 graced the front lawn, his red jacket freshly painted and the expression on his face downcast. I can’t say I blamed him: I wouldn’t want to be holding up an iron lantern for fifty years either.
I turned off the ignition and grabbed my prop of red velvet cupcakes. Walking up the slate sidewalk, I noted that money was apparently not an issue in the McClellan household, an assumption that was next to impossible to miss. The yard was perfectly manicured, the bushes perfectly trimmed and the windows on the house had been washed and polished to a high gleam. Junebug wasn’t working at Eden Academy for her paycheck, that much was obvious. Anyone living at 101 Secretariat Way would need a much larger income than Eden Academy could ever possibly pay.
Unless Junebug’s been blackmailing the school.
It was a thought. Perhaps Junebug was holding the school for ransom somehow and they all resented her, especially Frank Ubermann. Over what, I wondered. Had Junebug found out about Frank and Claudine…or Frank and Monica…or Frank and possibly Ruth? Heck, she could have been blackmailing him over an entire score of women. I would have to tiptoe quite lightly and see what I could find out. I had reached the front door, a black lacquered number that was so shiny I could see my reflection in it. After brushing a lock of hair off my forehead, I pushed the doorbell. Instantly, chimes began to play the beginning of “Camptown Races.”
“Come around back!” a voice barked with an amazing amount of volume.
Following the voice, I walked around the house and found myself in an enormous backyard, easily half an acre of grass and trees, all lush and the intense green that told me that there was a watering system in place. I couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of water bill the McClellan’s looked at every month but I was guessing that it was a lot higher than the one Steve and I received. At one end of the yard was an in-ground pool where a pink inflatable chair floated. At the other end of the yard was Junebug.
Dressed in another cowgirl outfit of black pants, a blue bandana print top and a black cowboy hat, she looked far younger than her seventy-plus years. But it was what she was doing that grabbed my attention by the throat and held it there.
Junebug was holding a bow in her left hand and an arrow in her right and was aiming at a straw target twenty yards away. I watched in stunned silence as Junebug drew the bow back and then shot the arrow. She let out a squeal of triumph when it hit the bull’s eye. “How do you like that?” she chirped, turning to look at me. “Who says old people aren’t good for anything?”
“Not me,” I quickly assured her.
“Me neither and if someone does say it to me, I promise you I’ll rip them a new one. Who are you?”
I covered the lawn
between us with slow, even steps, my mind still trying to wrap around the fact that I’d caught Junebug in the act of perfecting her archery technique. Junebug was good, definitely good enough to have nailed Frank in the chest from a much shorter distance than across Junebug’s vast backyard. So much for my theory that she was too old to commit murder. “I don’t know if you remember me, Ms. McClellan,“ I began.
“Call me Junebug. Everybody does.”
“All right, Junebug. I’m DeeDee Pearson. I catered your…retirement luncheon.”
“You mean my birthday bash,” Junebug corrected.
So she still hadn’t admitted that she was retiring. Well, maybe now that Frank was dead, she wouldn’t have to. “All right,” I agreed, “and then we ran into each other in Monica’s office.”
Junebug snorted. “That little bitch has been a burr under my saddle for years! I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention her name on my property. Just thinking about her makes me sick. What are you here for?”
“I wanted to drop off some homemade cupcakes I baked as a sample of my catering company—Classy Catering. I’m giving samples to everyone I know.”
Junebug pulled a pack of Marlboro’s out of her shirt pocket, lit one up and then blew a perfect smoke ring that floated slowly over my head. “Well, I appreciate the cupcakes but you said you’re giving them to everyone you know but you don’t know me.”
“Not very well,” I said, “but we have met.” The thought that Junebug was getting a little forgetful reminded me how the other teachers had said the same thing at her retirement/birthday luncheon.
“If you say so,” Junebug said agreeably, “although I have to tell you that whole day is a blur to me. I remember that your lunch was pretty good but my gosh, poor Frank getting knocked off like that made me forget if you served chicken or steak.”
“I served fish, actually,” I said.
“Whatever. Who’d a thunk it? Frank getting killed like that. I mean he could be a real pisser but I never thought someone would actually whack him. And on my birthday! What a bummer.”
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