Tall and imposing with her jet black bouffant, Clara was that odd mix of capable ranch wife and society maven that can only occur in a small West Texas town. Legendary in her ability to pull a calf at 6 o’clock in the afternoon and then appear in an evening dress at a dance two hours later, Clara was a larger-than-life presence. She hid her huge heart under the thunderous tones of her booming voice, and quietly dealt with the greatest tragedy of her own life; she and Clint could not have children.
In 1961, two years after the Club was founded, Clara’s younger sister, Mae Ella, joined its ranks as the newly married Mrs. Cletus Gormley. Short of stature and cranky of nature, Mae Ella struck a sharp contrast to her older sister, but the women were devoted to one another. When Mae Ella decided, in 1963, to run for County Clerk, she did so with the full support, and considerable organizational skills, of the Club women, with Clara in the lead. Mae Ella won by a landslide.
That was the same year Sugar Watson took over Dimple’s Style and Set, which she rechristened Sugar’s Style and Spray in recognition of her signature use of Aqua Net hairspray. “It’s the only spray that works in Texas,” she sagely advised her clientele.
Flamboyant in comparison to the majority of the local women, Sugar sported her own well-teased bouffant, a look accentuated by her rhinestone-studded, cat-eye bifocals and omnipresent Camel cigarette.
Her emporium was not just the spot where the town’s women were permed, teased, and sprayed, it was also sacred ground into which men did not trespass. At most, a husband in need of his wife’s attention, might stick his head in the door, only to be greeted by the disapproving glares of every woman in the establishment. In the private and Aqua Net laced air of the Style and Spray, opinions flowed freely with no worry about wounding the delicate sensibilities of the male ego.
Along with Dr. Walter Kitterell’s indispensable and capable nurse, Wilma Schneider, the only single member of the Club, these four women were a force with which to be reckoned. Wilma, a former Army nurse, was reputed to be carrying on a long-standing affair with Walter that began in Korea where they both served in a MASH unit. But, safely ensconced in the membership of the Club, no one dared impeach her honor or expose the liaison to the detriment of Kitterell’s family, including his mentally retarded son, Jimmy, who idolized his father.
Granted, there were other women in the Club, but Clara, Mae Ella, Sugar, and Wilma were its driving force. Highly selective in their membership invitations, the Club women had dealt with an uncharacteristic division of opinion over asking Wanda Jean Milton to join in 1967. The doubts of the less welcoming members were promptly squelched by Clara, who said, firmly, “None of us are highfalutin enough to be passing judgment on that girl. Now vote again and do it right this time.”
Wanda Jean was the eldest daughter of Lorene and Earl Bodine. Her family’s reputation was no small part of the gossip working its way up and down Main Street the day after the discovery of Hilton’s body. Just six months earlier, Wanda Jean’s sister, Maybelline, found her husband, Blake Trinkle, dead in the bathroom reading Playboy, felled by an apparent heart attack.
Did the Bodine girls just “live under a black cloud” or was being married to one of them a dangerous proposition? Youngest daughter Rolene Bodine’s husband, Cooter Jackson, seemed to be faring well enough, and their liquor store was a thriving business, even if it did have to sit just over the county line since the town was dry. But can you really trust people who sell liquor, asked the pious townsfolk? Never mind if those asking the question kept a “medicinal” fifth in the cupboard.
As for their brother Earl Dean Bodine, he was doing a fine job coaching the high school football team, doing his part to hold up the dream that one day the otherwise hapless Eagles might actually flutter their way to a state playoff. Hope springs eternal in the hearts of Texas high school football fans and you can’t hold a man accountable for what his sisters do, after all.
Although Lorene and Earl Bodine were long since dead, their names were being mentioned that day on Main Street as well. An older matron at the pharmacy leaned over the counter and whispered to Marshall McClean, “When Wanda Jean was born, Lorene and Earl didn’t have a pot to . . . well, you know, they were kinda hard up for money because Earl like to play cards — or so I’m told. And then Maybelline, Rolene, and Earl Dean came along so fast, they all kinda raised themselves. But, you know, they are good Baptists, so I guess that counts for something.”
The imprimatur of “good Baptist” was, indeed, all that was saving Wanda Jean Milton from complete public condemnation at the moment. No one could imagine that she had actually put that knife in her husband’s chest, but all agreed that when a man wound up dead, the wife was the most logical suspect. “Sometimes, a woman just gets fed up with them being, well, you know, men,” ran the general line of thinking — at least among the resident female population of the town.
But Hilton Milton was extremely popular in a land where insects large enough to saddle were the norm. “He completely got rid of the water bugs at my house,” a satisfied customer proclaimed loyally in Vera Maye’s dress shop, adding hastily, “You know they drop off the trees and come inside. I certainly don’t have bugs that stay in the house.”
And then there was the storied meeting of the now infamous couple. Hilton and Wanda Jean met in 1964 at the annual Welcome the Hunters to the County Ball held at the lumber yard. Hilton, who grew up one town over, was new in town, and Wanda Jean was working in the Name That Varmint booth. He correctly identified all the tracks of the local nuisance wildlife and even caught the organizers trying to substitute domestic cat tracks for a mountain lion by just making the picture bigger. Wanda Jean was impressed, and within just a few months, she became Mrs. Hilton Milton.
“It was just so romantic,” related a woman over the produce at Barker’s Grocery. “When he figured it out about those cat tracks, her eyes were just shining with pride. And she’s a good wife. She just keeps house beautifully.”
Reaching over the green beans, another woman added sympathetically, “It’s just so awful that there’s . . . well, you know, a stain on her new shag carpet. And she’s not ever going to be able to use that good carving knife again after this.”
People around town compared notes. Where had Hilton been working that week? Who had he seen? Could any of his clients be responsible for his death? That was the line of conversation Clara Wyler overheard when she stopped at the bakery to pick up the cookies for Club. Light refreshments with coffee were a must after “the program.” It was a matter of some confusion over what exactly the Club women “studied,” but they dressed to the nines to do it and there were always “refreshments and discussion” after the “official” meeting concluded.
When Clara returned to her 1967 cherry red Ford Fairlane, Wanda Jean Milton was sitting in the front seat trying to look inconspicuous. Clara said, “We’re going to have an executive session of the Club officers after refreshments today and you’re staying for it.”
“But I’m not an officer,” Wanda Jean protested.
“No, but you’re the only murder suspect in the Club,” Clara declared, “and we’re going to figure out who killed Hilton. If we leave it up to that idiot Lester Harper, he’s not going to think any farther than the end of his own nose.”
“What does he see at the end of his nose?” Wanda Jean asked, clearly confused.
“The one thing that scares all men half to death,” Clara said as she put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, “a woman with a reason to commit murder.”
“But, Clara,” Wanda Jean said, “I didn’t have a reason to kill Hilton.”
“Sure you did, honey,” Clara said, shifting into second. “You were married to the man.”
Chapter 3
Although the Study Club usually met in a member’s home, this month the ladies were availing themselves of the fellowship hall at the Methodist Church. The arrangement made it much easier for Clara, Mae Ella, Sugar, Wilma, and Wanda Jean to
linger after the meeting.
By announcing her intention to hold an “executive session,” Clara both forestalled any questions about why they were staying, and put the rest of the membership on a razor’s edge of worry until the next meeting. As a leadership principle, Clara believed in the power of fear.
The club members were remarkably restrained in their interactions with Wanda Jean, keeping the room thick with “bless your hearts,” but refraining from overt prying — in part because Clara kept a hawk eye on the proceedings.
As soon as the last well-dressed woman’s shoes clicked down the front walk, Clara turned the lock on the door and slipped off her own high heels. “Okay,” she said, “we’ve studied. Now we can talk.”
“I assume this is about Hilton’s murder and your rescue of Wanda Jean on the courthouse square this morning?” Wilma asked, removing her own pumps and wiggling her toes.
“How long did it take you to hear about that?” Clara asked, opening the white cardboard box from the bakery and putting the remains of the cookie supply in the center of the table around which the women were seated.
“About ten minutes,” Wilma said. “Sud Fennel’s hernia is acting up again.”
“What does Sud Fennel’s hernia have to do with anything?” Sugar asked, munching on cookie.
“He was driving by the courthouse and pretended to park so he could watch Clara dressing Lester down in public,” Wilma said. “Made him late to his appointment at the doctor’s office and then he couldn’t talk about anything else, that is, until Walter pressed on that hernia and got his attention back on business.”
A chorus of chuckles circled the table ending in a trademark grouse from Mae Ella. “It is a mystery to me how Sud Fennel got a hernia in the first place,” she said. “He hasn’t done a lick of work in twenty years and he owes the county a fortune in back taxes.”
“Well,” Wilma huffed, “Sud claims it was a battlefield injury, but I can tell you it happened at the Bloody Bucket . . .”
“Ladies!” Clara snapped. “I don’t give a rat’s furry backside about Sud Fennel’s hernia. We have a murder to deal with.”
Mae Ella arched an eyebrow at her sister. “What do you mean we have a murder to deal with? We do have law in this town, Clara.”
“No,” Clara said, “we have men with fat guts sticking out over their belt buckles who also have badges pinned to their shirts and pistols hanging off their belts. As far as Lester is concerned, he’s caught his murderer, and Wanda Jean says she didn’t do it. I will not have a Club member jailed for murder during my administration. Wanda Jean, tell them what you told me.”
Four heads swiveled toward Wanda Jean Milton, who actually pushed her chair back a bit under the force of their gaze. “Go on, honey,” Sugar purred in encouragement, “tell us what really happened. Tell us everything.”
Wanda Jean glanced nervously around the table. “I told Clara what happened. I went to the grocery store to get ground round on sale and when I came home I found Hilton laid out dead on my new shag carpet in the middle of an awful stain with my good Old Hickory carving knife sticking out of his chest.”
“That would do it,” Sugar said. “Those are good knives.”
“Was anything else in the house disturbed?” Mae Ella asked. “Did he put up a fight or did he just stand there and let somebody put a pig sticker in his chest?”
“Mae Ella!” Clara scolded. “Show a little sensitivity.”
“Dead is dead,” Mae Ella said, turning back to Wanda Jean. “Well?”
“I was just fixated on that stain on the new carpet,” Wanda Jean said, chewing on her lip as if straining to remember more details of the scene. “I straightened up the living room last night. Hilton was working on a new insect identification lesson from SQUASH and he made an awful mess with his flash cards.”
“What in the hell is SQUASH?” Clara demanded.
“Well, it doesn’t really have a ‘q’ in it,” Wanda Jean explained. “They just put that in with the letters to make the word look right and so they could use the vegetable on the advertisement. You know, they put names like that all in capitals because it’s a synonym. Or maybe a homonym? One of those nym things.”
“Acronym,” Wilma supplied helpfully. “What do the letters stand for?”
“School of Unusual Asp Habitations,” Wanda Jean said. “It’s really a course, from the Texas Academy of Insect and Varmint Exterminators. The T-A-I-V-E.”
“That doesn’t spell anything,” Mae Ella said.
“No,” Wanda Jean said mournfully. “You have to say the letters with that one.”
“That’s not true,” Sugar piped in. “A taive is like a crook in the road. I know because I work crossword puzzles in the morning over my coffee.”
“LADIES!” Clara ordered again. “Could we stay on track here, please?” She turned back to Wanda Jean. “So Hilton was studying snakes?”
“Excuse me?” Wanda Jean asked.
“Snakes. You said he was taking a course on asps. Aren’t those snakes?” Clara said.
“Oh, no,” Wanda Jean said. “They’re stinging caterpillars.”
When she appeared ready to launch into a second-hand entomology lecture, Clara stopped her. “So his stuff was all over your living room and you cleaned it up.”
“Right before we went to bed to watch the Johnny Carson show like usual,” Wanda Jean said. “Everything looked fine in the living room the next morning. Well, except for Hilton laying there dead and all.”
The four Club officers telegraphed each other looks that plainly said, “Somebody needs to ask her.”
Naturally, it was Clara who seized the bull by the horns. “Were you all getting along, honey?” she asked gently, but with a definite gleam in her eye.
“Of course we were getting along!” Wanda Jean cried. “I wouldn’t hurt Hilton!”
“Well, honey,” Clara said sincerely, “we believe you. But when you called me early this morning to tell me what happened, you did say you had thought about killing the man. Why was that exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?”
The women leaned toward her again in sympathetic, but obvious expectation. Wanda Jean’s head swiveled back and forth and she stammered, “Well – well, you know. You said all wives kinda want to kill their husbands sometimes. They are men after all.”
“Was there something in particular this man did you didn’t like?” Mae Ella asked, pinning Wanda Jean with a penetrating stare over the top of her wire-rimmed spectacles. “Was he especially irritating as men go?”
They were rewarded with a veritable flood of uncertainty washing over Wanda Jean’s features.
“Come on, honey,” Sugar said, a little too triumphantly. “You can tell us. We’re your friends.”
Wanda Jean looked down at her lap, dithered on an edge of indecision for an instant, and then said, all in a rush, “I really didn’t like it when he stretched out my pantyhose.”
Silence descended on the room. Finally Clara said, as diplomatically as she could muster, “We don’t need to know what you all did in the bedroom, honey.”
“Clara!” Mae Ella hissed. “Don’t bring up the bedroom in the house of the Lord!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mae Ella,” Clara shot back. “This isn’t the house of the Lord, it’s a fellowship hall.”
Wanda Jean looked about ready to burst into tears. “It wasn’t a bedroom thing,” she wailed.
“We don’t need to know where you were doing any thing like that any time,” Mae Ella snapped. “We all put up with antics in that department.”
Now four heads swiveled in her direction. Mae Ella glared back and said, “Or so I’ve been told.”
“What is it about the pantyhose exactly, honey?” Clara said. “If it didn’t have anything to do with your . . . marital activities . . . was he using your pantyhose for something else? Like maybe to seine for minnows?”
“How in the hell did you come up with that, Clara?” Wilma said. “What’s going on a
t your house with your pantyhose?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Clara said. “Let the woman answer the question.”
Wanda Jean looked back down at her lap and mumbled something.
“What was that, honey?” Clara pressed, leaning closer. “Hilton liked to do what?”
“He liked to put on my clothes and look at himself in the mirror,” Wanda Jean said, her face turning beet red.
They all sat in thunderstruck silence until Wilma stood up, sagely declaring, “We’re gonna need more coffee for this one.”
“Coffee hell,” Clara said. “I don’t suppose anybody happens to have a bottle in their purse?”
“I am so sorry,” Sugar said. “My good flask sprung a leak and I haven’t had time to replace it.”
Clara fixed Sugar with an incredulous look and said, “You haven’t had time?”
While Wilma put on a fresh pot of coffee in the hall’s tiny kitchen, the women dispensed more Kleenex and comfort to the sobbing Wanda Jean Milton.
When Wilma returned with a tray of cups, Clara said, “Alright now, Wanda Jean, you need to get a hold of yourself and tell us everything.”
Although she continued to hiccup and sniffle, Wanda Jean launched into an explanation. The four Study Club officers listened as the younger woman described how, in the first year of her marriage to Hilton Milton, she walked into the bedroom one day to find her husband admiring himself in a pink-and-white polyester sleeveless go-go dress.
“He was so upset the white boots wouldn’t fit him,” Wanda Jean said sadly, her voice breaking again. “His feet were just too big. Not getting to wear the boots ruined the look for him. Now he won’t ever get the chance,” she finished, breaking down all over again.
Sugar patted Wanda Jean on the arm. She hesitated and then cleared her throat. “Uh, honey? I am so sorry to have to ask you this, being as how it’s kind of a private thing, but was Hilton light in his loafers? Because I knew boys like that in beautician school and it doesn’t mean they’re not good people.”
You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) Page 2
