YOU CAN’T GET BLOOD OUT OF SHAG CARPET
A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery
BOOK ONE
by
Juliette Harper
You Can’t Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet
By Juliette Harper
Copyright © 2015, Juliette Harper.
Skye House Publishing
Copyright © 2015, Juliette Harper.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
“I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.”
Groucho Marx
Acknowledgments
To our beta reader Brenda Trimble, and beta reader / proofreader Sandra Jackson — you kept us honest. The more we made you laugh, the more we knew we were on the right track with this story. Thank you both! To Jennifer Radcliff — cover designer, pager, and hand holder. Words are not enough. Without these three people, our family and friends, and the original members of the Daedalion Study Club from Junction, Texas, this new series would never have come to glorious, whimsical life!
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Sneak Peek: You Can’t Put a Corpse in a Parade
Chapter 1
Sugar Watson took a long drag on her Camel and critically appraised the height of Clara Wyler’s black bouffant. “You want me to go a little higher, honey?” she asked, punctuating the question with a well-developed smoker’s cough. “If I rat it up real good, I can get you another 2 or 3 inches on top.”
Clara squinted at herself in the mirror. “I think I’m good, Sugar,” she said. “What with Wanda Jean finding Hilton dead in the living room, I don’t want to look insincere at Study Club.”
Sugar leaned in conspiratorially. “I know we don’t ever throw anybody out of the Study Club, but my Lord, what in the world are we gonna do if she really did kill him?”
Clara glanced around to confirm that all the other women in Sugar’s Style and Spray were safely tucked under the dryers. “Well, she called me herself to assure me that she didn’t do it,” Clara said. “She owned up to wanting to, but she didn’t do it.”
“Well, hell,” Sugar said, “we’ve all thought about killing our husbands. That’s just part of being married. But nobody’s ever walked in my house and found Slim laying there with an Old Hickory carving knife sticking out of his chest. What did Wanda Jean say about finding him?”
“She told me the first thing she thought about was how hard it was gonna be to get the blood out of that new shag carpet they put in last month,” Clara said. “You know they went with the deep pile.”
“I know,” Sugar said. “I looked at it too when T.J. put the ad in the paper, but my vacuum cleaner just won’t suck up dirt good enough for that. Is it a light carpet?”
“I didn’t think to ask her,” Clara said, unclipping the plastic cape around her neck and handing it to Sugar. “Anyway, she said she just stood there thinking about how you can’t get blood out of shag carpet. Then it dawned on her maybe she ought to check him for a pulse.”
“I hope it wasn’t a light carpet,” Sugar said, rearranging cans of Aqua Net on the counter. “Those boys from the ambulance service never think to wipe their feet before they go in to get a body. You should have seen the mess they made when Blake Trinkle died. They just ruined Maybelline’s carpet. She spent as much getting it cleaned as she did on the funeral.”
“That’s so inconsiderate,” Clara agreed. “People just don’t think. Now you’re not gonna be late this afternoon, are you?”
“Of course not,” Sugar said. “Flowers knows not to book me on the third Thursday at three. Study Club day is sacred.”
“Good, I have to go by the bakery and . . .”
The look on Sugar’s face stopped Clara mid-sentence. “Good Lord, Sugar,” she said. “You look like you swallowed one of your Camels.”
“I think we’re gonna be one short for Club,” Sugar croaked. “Look.”
Clara glanced out the front window in time to see Sheriff Lester Harper helping a handcuffed Wanda Jean Milton out of the backseat of his car. “What is that man thinking!” she exclaimed. “Parading her in front of God and everybody on the courthouse square!”
“Well, Clara,” Sugar said, “he is the law.”
“Horsefeathers,” Clara snorted, heading out the front door. The minute she hit the sidewalk, she bellowed, “Lester! What in the hell are you doing?”
Sheriff Lester Harper turned toward her and his face fell. “Now, Clara,” he began.
“Don’t you ‘now Clara’ me,” she declared, ignoring the cars that skidded to a stop as she charged across the street. “I don’t care if you do think Wanda Jean killed her husband. Murder’s not a good enough reason to embarrass a woman in public.”
"I had to bring her in for questioning, Clara," the Sheriff said, puffing out his chest a little. "It's my official duty."
"It's your official stupidity," Clara shot back. "Now you take those handcuffs off her this instant."
Lester glanced around and noticed the small groups of curious townspeople starting to gather on the square. The last thing he wanted was for Clara Wyler to chew him out in front of witnesses. By the time the story made it to the other end of Main Street, his already considerable discomfort would grow to full-blown humiliation. Without saying a word, he unlocked the cuffs and slipped them back in the leather holder on his belt.
“She’s still under arrest and I still have to question her," he said, shooting Clara a sullen look. "You have a problem with that?"
"Right now I have a problem with your attitude, Lester Harper,” Clara snapped. “Quit that pouting. If you don't want everybody on Main Street talking, put a smile on your face. And to answer your question, yes, I do have a problem with you asking Wanda Jean any questions. Where's her lawyer?"
"She didn't ask for one," the Sheriff said. He couched the reply in amiable tones, but he couldn't keep a red flush from creeping up out of the neck of his shirt.
"Did you ask her if she wanted one?" Clara demanded. When the Sheriff's face only grew redder, Clara regarded him with a gleam of triumph. "I didn't think so." She turned toward Wanda Jean, who had remained silent during the entire exchange. "Are you alright, honey?"
Wanda Jean's lower lip trembled. “Oh, Clara! I’m so glad to see you! I tried to tell Lester I didn't kill Hilton. I just came home from the grocery store and found him bleeding on my new carpet with my best Old Hickory carving knife sticking out of his chest. It was right between the ‘l’ and the ‘t’ in
his name where it’s embroidered on the short pocket.”
“Bless your heart,” Clara said, patting her on the arm. “That’s just awful about Hilton. Is the carpet ruined, honey?”
“Thank you, Clara,” Wanda Jean said, tears rolling down her face. “It’s beige. I don’t know if the blood will ever come out.”
“There, there,” Clara said soothingly. “We can try hydrogen peroxide.” She turned back to Lester. “Can’t you see this woman is beside herself with grief? She told you what happened. She’s got a husband to bury and a carpet to clean. She doesn’t have time to be messing with your fool questions.”
“Well, first off,” Lester said, “she can’t clean the carpet until we figure out what happened. Second, like I already told you, she’s under arrest, so I have to question her.”
“You’re not gonna do any such thing unless her lawyer is present. And if that blood has already set and we can’t get it out, the county is paying for that carpet,” Clara fumed.
"Clara," Wanda Jean said in an urgent whisper, "I can’t afford a lawyer."
“We’ll just see about that,” Clara said, glaring openly at Lester. “We’re all gonna walk over to D.T. Armstrong’s office and hire him for you, and I dare Mr. Local Law Dog here to try to stop us.”
Lester Harper pushed his hat high on his forehead, lifting it just enough to scratch his scalp. He looked down at this boots and breathed a heavy sigh. "Clara, do you always have to be so damned difficult?”
“Only when people force me to, Lester,” Clara said, sounding mightily put upon. “You brought this on yourself.”
"Fine, fine," he said in a voice heavy with resignation. “Have it your way."
The trio crossed the street to the law offices of D.T. Armstrong, Esquire. Clara threw open the door and marched past the secretary, who merely looked up from her typewriter long enough to say, "Morning, Clara. Your hair looks good today."
“Morning, Marvel Ann and thank you,” Clara called over her shoulder as she stormed down the hall with Wanda Jean and Lester Harper trailing in her wake.
The door of D.T.'s office was open when the small procession entered. The lawyer glanced over his half-glasses, taking in Clara’s irritated scowl and Lester's mix of consternation and embarrassment.
"Lord, Clara," D.T. said, putting down his pen. "Now what?”
Clara was already rummaging around in her over-sized, hand-tooled leather saddle purse looking for her wallet. She fished out a dollar bill and handed it to Wanda Jean. "Hire him," she ordered.
Wanda Jean took the crumpled bill and held it out to Armstrong. "Would you represent me, D.T.?”
“I’m guessing this is about Hilton?" he asked, allowing the bill to hang there quivering in Wanda Jean's grasp.
“Lester thinks I killed Hilton,” she said weakly. “He arrested me on suspicion of murder.”
“Well, murder’s more interesting than anything else I’m doing right now,” D.T. said. He took the bill from her and looked at the Sheriff. "You can leave now, Lester. I need to confer with my client."
"Damn it, D.T., quit encouraging them,” Lester said. "I just want to ask her some questions."
"Which you can do after I've talked to her," D.T. answered. "Go on up to the front. Marvel Ann went to the doughnut shop this morning. Ask her to put on some fresh coffee. Take a load off. We won’t be long.”
Harper's face brightened at the mention of free food, but he worked to mask his eagerness. "Well," he drawled theatrically, "I guess it won't hurt to give you all a few minutes."
"Thank you, Lester," D.T. said, affecting an expression of professional solidarity. “I knew as an officer of the court you’d understand. Close the door behind you, please."
Lester started out the door and then stopped and looked back at Clara. “She’s already been arrested, Clara. No matter what, somebody has to pay the bail to get her out.”
Clara waived a dismissive hand in his direction. “Quit your squawking. Go on now.” As the sound of Lester’s boots on the hardwood floor retreated toward the front of the building, Clara asked Wanda Jean, “You want me to go or stay, honey?”
“Oh, Clara, please stay,” Wanda Jean said, tears spilling out of her eyes again.
D.T. Armstrong offered the weeping woman a tissue and then said, “Can you tell us what happened yesterday, Wanda Jean?”
Wanda Jean dabbed at her eyes with the tissue and tried to compose herself. Sniffling loudly, she launched into an account of the previous day. The morning started like any other at the Milton household. Hilton got up early to mix his chemicals for work. As the owner of Hilton Milton’s Pest Service, he was proud of his ad slogan, “Hilton Milton Kilt’em.” He took pains to ensure his pesticides were top-shelf poison, equally effective against all varieties of Texas creepy crawlies.
“We had breakfast together,” Wanda Jean said, “and then I had to go to the grocery store to get hamburger because today is Study Club.”
D.T. frowned, “What does hamburger have to do with Study Club?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, D.T.,” Clara snapped. “We’re at Club until after five. If the husbands want to eat, they fire up the grill. I know you’re an old bachelor, but use your brain.”
“My mistake,” D.T. said, holding his hands up placatingly. “Go on, Wanda Jean.”
“Well, that’s it,” she said. “I went to the store and got the ground round and came home and found Hilton dead in the living room.” She turned to Clara and added earnestly, “Barker’s got a good price on the hamburger, Clara.”
“Darn it,” Clara said, “I don’t have any place to refrigerate it before I head back to the ranch.”
“If Lester will let me go home,” Wanda Jean said, “you can put it in my refrigerator.”
D.T. cleared his throat to steer the conversation back on track. Both women turned toward him. “Wanda Jean, can you tell me what you saw when you walked in the door?”
“Well,” she said, “usually I’d go in through the kitchen, but Hilton had all his sprayer stuff out there on the porch and I don’t really care for the smell of DDT, so I used the front door and there was Milton laying there on my new shag carpet. The stain was just awful,” she finished, her voice breaking.
“And you say it was a carving knife?” D.T. asked. “Was it one of yours?”
“It was my best Old Hickory,” she said. “The one we use at Thanksgiving with the turkey.”
“Now, Wanda Jean,” D.T. said, clearing his throat, “you’ve hired me so we have something called attorney-client privilege. That means you can tell me the truth and I have to keep it just between us. Did you kill Hilton?”
“No, D.T.,” she said, without blinking. “I didn’t.”
“Okay,” he said. “You tell Lester what you told me and nothing else. I’ll be sitting right there with you, but you just tell the same story. Since you’ve already been arrested, we’re gonna have to get you out on bail. Can you afford that?”
Wanda Jean shook her head and whispered, “No.”
“I can afford it,” Clara said, reaching for the phone. “Just let me tell Clint I’m gonna spend the money.”
With purposeful strokes, she dialed the number to the ranch. When Clint Wyler came on the line she said, by way of greeting, “Clint, I need bail money.” Then, after a pause, she added, “No, it’s not for me. Don’t be ridiculous. I need to take the money out of the First National Bank to pay Wanda Jean Milton’s bail.”
Another pause.
“Murdering her husband,” Clara said.
Still another pause, broken by Clara’s exasperated words, “Clint Wyler, if I thought she did it, would I be paying her bail? I have no idea what it’s going to cost. I’ll let you know. We’re trying to take care of this and get to Study Club at 3 o’clock. Don’t forget to stir those beans I left on the stove.”
She returned the receiver to the cradle with a resounding thump and said, “Okay, D.T., we’re good on bail. Now can we please get a move on here? Wanda J
ean and I have to get to Club.”
Chapter 2
From the moment Sheriff Lester Harper’s car pulled up in front of the Milton house the day before, talk had surged up and down Main Street. Now, with the added salacious detail of the sheriff putting Wanda Jean Milton in handcuffs, the surge had become a veritable tidal wave of “information.”
The “facts” shared varied in accuracy from “Wanda Jean just found him dead” to “the house was ransacked” and “Hilton fought for his life.” In truth, Hilton Milton looked like he stretched out for a nap on the new shag carpet in the living room — except for the Old Hickory carving knife sticking out of his chest.
In a small Texas ranching community where the best price for an Angora goat at the auction ring constituted “big news,” the untimely demise of the local exterminator set tongues wagging. The event was compared to other historic tragedies and seemed to only pale in comparison to “when the Browning girl got killed in that wreck at Christmas time.”
A nervous vein of concern filtered through the speculation. Did someone have a reason to kill Hilton Milton or was there a crazy person loose in their midst? The idea of purposeful murder was far more palatable to worried townsfolk than a random killing.
The fact that the prime suspect in the crime was also a member of the Study Club only fueled the flames of gossip to a hotter level. There was more than one women’s study club in town. But the Study Club gained its prominence based on the sheer reputation of the women who were its members and officers. A hint of scandal associated with the Club was almost more delicious than a skewered corpse.
It came as no surprise to anyone who witnessed the event that Clara Wyler had charged out of Sugar’s Style and Spray that morning to come to the aid of Wanda Jean Milton. The Club took care of its own.
Although she was only 29 years old, Clara had already staked what appeared to be a lifetime claim on the presidency of the Club. Recently installed for the 1968 term, she was on her ninth administration after helping to found the club in 1959, the year after she graduated from the local high school and married rancher Clint Wyler.
You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) Page 1
