by Vickie Fee
“It’ll be interesting to see who the judges pick for best costumes,” Di said.
“I don’t envy their job,” Miss Betty said. “Did you see Connie and Chester Menster? I think it’s cute they decided to swap roles.”
After she pointed out where they were sitting, I couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of Mrs. Menster, who’s maybe five feet tall, dressed in a tuxedo blouse with tie and black pants and her taller-than-six-foot husband wearing a cheap wig and a thrift-shop sleeveless red dress that accentuated his hairy-as-gorilla arms.
Daddy Wayne, who had finally lifted his head from the feeding trough, turned to see what we were talking about.
“Chester looks like a damn fool,” he said a little too loud for my mother-in-law’s comfort.
After the main course had been cleared away, the lights were dimmed and the play opened with all the actors in the library, searching the room. After finding no explanation for the crash they heard at the end of Act 2, the entire cast proceeded to the kitchen through a secret passage that had been pointed out by the butler.
The actors discovered the maid’s body on the kitchen floor. Next to her was a large silver platter along with a scattered mess of food and broken dishes that must have made the crashing noise when she dropped the tray. The victim’s lips and tongue were blue, so they suspected poison. Mrs. Peacock spied a bowl of mouth-watering blueberries on the counter and started to take a bite. Professor Plum yelled, “Don’t eat those. They’re poisoned.”
The scene ended.
Lucinda suddenly stood with a faraway look in her eyes and began speaking to some unseen spirit. The spotlight was once again illuminated and bounced erratically across the room before landing on Lucinda. A hush fell as the confused audience wondered whether this was a continuation of the play.
Lucinda revealed the spirit to be Agatha, the same ghost that “spoke” to her at the cemetery the night of Morgan’s death. She channeled Agatha, the ghost we had heard on the recording, who was now talking about the blueberries, but Lucinda seemed perplexed. “The blueberries are from tonight’s play. Please go back to the night of the retreat.” But the childish voice persisted, saying, “She couldn’t eat the blueberries.”
Nell stood up and hollered, “There were blueberries at the retreat—in one of those teas.” I couldn’t actually see her in the darkness, but there was no mistaking that voice.
“Who couldn’t eat the blueberries?” Lucinda asked the ghost.
Glassy-eyed, Lucinda picked up the blueberries from the stage set and walked to Bryn’s table, holding out the bowl to her. Agatha’s shrill voice accused, “You didn’t eat the blueberries. You gave them to the smiling lady.” Bryn jumped up, screaming, and knocked the dish from Lucinda’s hands, shattering the crystal bowl and scattering the blueberries across the table and onto the floor.
“I insist you end this charade right this minute, Winette,” Bryn called out. “I think it shows extremely poor taste to incorporate Morgan’s murder into the script.”
Winette looked over to me in the dim glow behind the spotlight, and I tried to discreetly hold out my hand in a gesture that said “Wait.”
Lucinda collapsed onto a chair and seemed to start emerging from her trance. The lighting tech killed the spotlight and brought up the house lights. But a tense audience seemed to have grown suspicious of Bryn.
“I remember serving blueberry-hibiscus tea to Bryn, as well as Liv and Morgan and a couple of other women at the retreat,” Jasmine said. “So why would the ghost say she couldn’t drink it? I don’t understand.”
“Because Bryn is severely allergic to blueberries, that’s why,” Dorothy chimed in. “She said so just this morning at the planning meeting. “Liv, Winette, Holly, y’all were there. Y’all heard her say so, remember?”
“This is ridiculous,” Bryn said, with the wild eyes of a cornered animal. “Jasmine would say anything to cast suspicion on me or anyone else. The sheriff’s got her dead to rights. She’s already been charged with Morgan’s murder, or have you all forgotten that?”
Pierce stood up and called for cool heads. “I think everyone’s getting carried away by tonight’s murder mystery and a stellar performance by our celebrity psychic here. But please, folks, let’s remember this is all just scripted fiction.” He reached over and touched Bryn’s hand in a silent admonishment to keep quiet.
Pierce started to say something else to the crowd, but Dylan interrupted him, talking loudly. “I remember showing the hemlock water-dropwort plant to Bryn before the garden tour that the chamber sponsored this spring. She asked me all kinds of questions about it. That’s not fiction.”
Dave walked into the room, and Pierce said, “Thank goodness you’re here, Sheriff. Imaginations are running wild, and things were beginning to get a little out of hand.”
Dylan took a couple of steps toward Dave. “Yeah, I’m glad you’re here, too, Sheriff. That plant the poison came from, the one your deputy confiscated. It was always kept under a bell jar so animals couldn’t accidentally eat any of it. There shouldn’t be anybody’s prints on it except for Jasmine’s,” he said emphatically. “Can plants be dusted for fingerprints?”
An eerie silence fell over the room as everyone waited for Dave’s answer.
“Actually, yes, in some cases they can,” Dave said. “In fact, a forensics expert from the FBI field office in Memphis did just that. He managed to get a clear thumbprint from the root of the hemlock water-dropwort plant stored in the evidence room. And it’s a perfect match to a thumbprint we retrieved from a wineglass cleared from Bryn Davenport’s table after the first course this evening.”
The silent pall over the room erupted into gasps and waves of chatter.
Dave walked directly to Bryn’s table as deputies Ted and Eric moved toward the table from either side.
Pierce, shifting into attorney mode, jumped up and protested. “This is outrageous. If the district attorney pursues this case against my wife, I’ll tear it apart in minutes. Don’t you dare underestimate my reputation.”
“Your wife, your reputation,” Bryn suddenly exploded. “That’s rich. You don’t care any more about me than you did that two-bit floozy, Morgan, even though you’d been sleeping with her for the past two years, and your secretary—and God knows who else.”
Pierce’s face reddened as he ran his index finger inside his formal collar and nervously twisted his neck.
“Sheriff, I implore you to admit my wife to the hospital for psychiatric evaluation,” Pierce said quietly. “She’s been under a tremendous strain, and I’m afraid she may be a danger to herself.”
Bryn scooped up a shard of broken glass and lunged wildly at her husband. She missed slashing Pierce’s face by mere inches as Ted grabbed her shoulders and jerked her back.
“Ted, I think you better cuff Mrs. Davenport and Mirandize her,” Dave said.
“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you lock me up in some loony bin,” Bryn yelled at Pierce. “You’re the one who should be dead. I should have killed you. . . .”
She was still shouting at Pierce as Ted and Dave led her away. Pierce pulled his cell phone from his pocket and started to walk away.
“Not so fast, Pierce,” Dave said. “That thumbprint we retrieved from the poison plant didn’t belong to your wife. It was yours.”
“You can’t be . . . this is j-j-just . . .” the usually eloquent Pierce stammered.
“And another interesting thing. We found a fragment of the blouse Miss Grable was wearing when she was run down the other night. It was caught on the side-view mirror of a dark SUV also belonging to you.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the room.
“Pierce Davenport, I’m placing you under arrest for attempted murder and for conspiracy to commit murder,” Dave said as he snapped handcuffs around Pierce’s wrists.
“Eric, read Mr. Davenport his rights.”
Dave walked behind Eric as he led Pierce out of the building.
&
nbsp; After a few more minutes of chaos, Winette took the microphone and instructed people to take their seats and asked for quiet.
“Our drama students have worked so hard and done such a good job, I know none of us wants to miss the big reveal. If someone from each table will write down the table choice for the killer in the play, I’ll come around and collect them. As soon as they’ve all been turned in, we’ll dim the lights for the final scene.”
The unveiling of Miss Scarlett as the killer was a little anticlimactic after Mrs. White, aka Bryn Davenport, and her husband had just been dragged away in handcuffs. But the students did a nice job with the finale, and the audience gave them a grateful round of applause.
Lucinda, who wasn’t accustomed to being upstaged, tapped me on the shoulder and told me her ride had arrived to take her to her hotel in Memphis.
“Thank you, Lucinda, for playing the part tonight,” I said sincerely. “Bryn’s emotional confession in front of half the town is certainly icing on the cake.”
“I’m glad I could play a small part in finding justice for Morgan. I especially enjoyed the part where the high and mighty Pierce Davenport suffered utter humiliation,” Lucinda said with a weary smile. “I can’t believe he tried to kill me.”
Actually, it wasn’t that hard for me to imagine someone wanting to kill Lucinda, but I didn’t say so.
Lucinda made a less than grand exit through the side door.
I wasn’t terribly surprised when Mama was announced as the winner for the best Mrs. Peacock costume. The audience was wildly enthusiastic when Chester Menster was awarded the best Miss Scarlett prize. I was just happy the judges didn’t give it to Miss Fake Bosoms Grable, since Larry Joe had been nearly hypnotized by her silicone implants all evening.
However, I thought the judges’ shining moment was awarding the Mrs. White and Mr. Green awards to Jasmine and Dylan. Everyone viewed it as a gesture of the town’s support for Jasmine, who had been unjustly jailed after being framed for murder. Jasmine burst into tears when the audience gave her a standing ovation.
All the McKays gathered around to congratulate Mama on her win. She was clutching her trophy like an Academy Award.
Despite the tense drama of the arrest, everyone was so relieved to have Morgan’s killer in custody that the mood was festive. The alcohol flowed liberally from the cash bar, and folks were just as generous in opening their wallets for the silent auction. The fund-raiser for Residential Rehab was a resounding success. Several people told me that they thought we should make this an annual event. That was not something my brain could even begin to process at that moment.
As we made our way to the ballroom for the dance, I caught a glimpse of Di making a discreet exit. It looked as if this wouldn’t be the night that Dave and Di finally made it onto the dance floor at the same time after all.
When I had finished off a glass of wine, added to what I’d already imbibed with dinner, I accepted Larry Joe’s offer for a spin around the dance floor. As the music began, I kicked him in the shin for good measure.
“Ouch. What was that for?”
“That’s for staring at Lucinda Grable’s chest all during dinner.”
“Aw, Liv, I couldn’t help but notice. But you know you’re the only woman in the world for me,” he said, flashing me a smile framed with dimples on both sides.
“I’m not quite ready to forgive you,” I said. “But I’ll think about it.”
Larry Joe and I danced until our feet hurt. But we cut off our alcohol consumption by ten-thirty since we felt certain we would need to give somebody a ride home. In fact, after the hayride crew shuttled the kids back to town, a number of teens ended up being the designated drivers for their parents. Those with young children had left right after the dinner to pick up their tots from the Halloween carnival at the church hall.
Winette took charge of assigning drivers to everyone who needed a ride home.
Our plans had included lining up a few designated drivers, but we had woefully underestimated how many we’d need.
Larry Joe drove his mom and dad home around one AM while I shuttled Mama and Earl to their respective abodes. Mama insisted she wasn’t tipsy, but said her feet hurt too much to drive.
Chapter 27
Larry Joe and I fell into bed bone tired and didn’t stir until well after noon. My guess was that the congregations were a bit sparse at most of the churches around Dixie this fine Sunday.
After putting on a robe and slippers, I stepped onto the front porch to retrieve the Sunday newspaper. This turned out to be a mistake on my part.
Edna Cleats waved and yoo-hooed to me from the end of her driveway before barreling across the street toward me. I stepped down from my porch and into the middle of the front yard to avoid having to invite her to come inside.
“Oh, Liv, I see you and Larry Joe are finally up and at ’em,” she said.
I happened to know my early-rising neighbor thought sleeping in was akin to sloth.
“I heard y’all had big excitement at the mystery dinner, what with Lucinda Grable being visited by a ghost and the Davenports getting arrested.”
“It was something, all right,” I said. If she was interested in details, she was going to have to drag them out of me. I wasn’t really in the mood to be chatty. I thought about suggesting that she call my mama for details, but I decided that wouldn’t be Christian of me. Then again, Mama had practically pushed me into the fangs of a serpent on her back porch.
“Well, while you all were whooping it up, dancing and drinking, I was among the brave souls at the church hall looking after the children.
“I tell you they were a rowdy bunch. Not bad kids, just overexcited from too much candy. I had one little preschooler with a cone of cotton candy in her hand get away from me and make a beeline to the bouncy house. I went running after her, thinking what a nightmare it would be if she and those other kids bouncing around were to get cotton candy in their hair.
“By some miracle I snatched her back just before she climbed inside. I managed to keep her out, but I lost my balance and tumbled headlong into the bouncy house myself. Oh, my word, there must’ve been a dozen kids jumping and somersaulting in there. Just when I’d start to get my balance, a gaggle of kids would land beside me, shifting the floor, and I’d end up on my tushy again.
“Thank goodness the kindergarten teacher finally leaned inside, clapped her hands, and instructed the kids to exit single file, or I don’t know if I ever would have made my way out.”
She barely took a breath before continuing. “I had such a sick headache by the time I made it home last night, I had to take a half a Valium to calm my nerves.
“Mr. Winky and I plan to take it easy today. We’ll probably just snuggle up on the sofa and watch some old movies.”
Mr. Winky is her cat. The Newsoms swear he’s the one that keeps setting off their car alarm by jumping up on the hood in the middle of the night, but Mrs. Cleats flatly refuses to believe Mr. Winky could do such a thing.
“Mrs. Cleats, I really appreciate you and the other volunteers who ran the festival and looked after the kids while their parents were at the dinner. We raised a lot of money for Residential Rehab, and you were a key part of making that possible.”
“Now, hon, I don’t need any thanks or recognition,” she said. “I’ve never been one to seek the limelight. I prefer to work quietly behind the scenes where my good works are known to God alone.”
I resisted a strong urge to say Amen.
“You should get some rest,” I suggested. “I’d better go inside and make some breakfast for Larry Joe and myself.”
“You might as well move on to lunch at this point,” she said with that judgmental tone that made it hard for me to love my neighbor—even if it was Sunday.
Larry Joe had already made the coffee by the time I came into the kitchen with the paper.
“You have a nice chat with Mrs. Cleats?”
“About as nice a chat as I ever have with Mrs. Clea
ts,” I said. “She was telling me about all the good works she does that nobody except God knows about.”
“Just God and you, right?” he said with a smirk.
“Uh-huh.”
“Since you had such a jam-packed day yesterday, why don’t you sit down and read the Sunday paper while I whip us up some French toast,” Larry Joe said.
I flipped through the sales circulars and drank coffee while Larry Joe gathered bread, milk, eggs, and the skillet.
“Oh, Liv, after Mr. Crego dropped off the teenagers at the country club, I talked to him a bit while you and Winette were matching up kids with driver’s licenses to take their parents home.”
I could smell the cinnamon and vanilla extract as he began frying the toast.
“Seems they had a bit of excitement out at the bonfire,” Larry Joe said. “Apparently some junior high kid managed to set his pants leg on fire when a flaming marshmallow fell off its skewer.”
“Oh, my goodness. Was he hurt?”
“No. In fact, a senior high school cheerleader flung herself against him, knocking him to the ground, and rolled them both over a couple of times in the dirt to put out the fire. Mr. Crego said by the time he made it over to check on him, the boy was smiling from ear to ear with firelight glinting off his metal braces. Catching fire was probably the best thing that happened to that kid all night.”
“Good for him,” I said. “Mrs. Cleats got knocked around in a bouncy house by some preschoolers hyped up on sugar.”
“Good for them,” Larry Joe said.
He slid a plate of French toast in front of me and gave me a kiss before sitting down across from me at the table. He’s pretty sweet, so I decided to forgive him for eyeing Lucinda at the dinner.
As Larry Joe got up to refill our coffee cups, the landline rang.
“It’s your mama,” Larry Joe said, glancing at the caller ID.
“I might as well talk to her,” I said. “She probably wants to tell me that there weren’t many people at church this morning.”
“Hi, Mama.”
“Lord love a duck, Liv, you’ll never guess what Earl Daniels did to me this morning.”
