You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1)

by Juliette Harper

  “I don’t have the plants sprayed,” he said. “But I had water bugs upstairs big enough to move furniture and I couldn’t get rid of them, so I called Hilton. He just came right out and asked about the pot. He wanted to do a trade, and I agreed.”

  “When was this?” Clara asked.

  “More than a year ago,” Mike said. “About a month after he was there, Hilton knocked on my door. When I let him in, he said he really liked my weed and he was wondering if he could buy some. I don’t deal. I just sell to a few friends. The money covers my overhead. We set up a monthly ‘appointment.’ Hilton would come over and hang out for an hour like he was spraying the place. Sometimes we’d smoke a joint and talk. He was a good guy. I liked him. And I did not kill him. Why would I?”

  Clara looked at him like he had two heads. “To cover up your illegal drug operation.”

  “Mrs. Wyler,” Mike said sincerely, “I have a dozen marijuana plants in my basement. It’s not a drug operation. And even if it was, I wouldn’t kill somebody over it. I’m a pacifist. Seriously, I didn’t kill Hilton and I have no idea who did.”

  She wasn’t exactly sure why, but Clara believed him. “Well, alright,” she said, standing up. “I think we should just keep this little talk to ourselves, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” he agreed readily. “Absolutely. Thank you.”

  Clara started for the door, but Mike stopped her with a question. “Did the Sheriff find Hilton’s stash?” he asked.

  Clara turned toward him with a perplexed frown. “His what?” she said.

  “Hilton left my place the day before he was killed with a baggie full of pot,” Mike said. “Did the Sheriff find it?”

  “Not that I’ve heard anything about,” Clara said.

  Mike looked relieved. “Okay,” he said. “That’s good to hear.”

  But was it? Did that missing bag of marijuana have something to do with Hilton ruining Wanda Jean’s shag carpet? If Mike Thornton didn’t kill him over the pot, maybe someone else did.

  Chapter 8

  Sugar Watson’s cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, held largely in place by her bright red lipstick. She was using both of her hands to carefully rat and arrange Bitsy Temple’s bouffant, her intense concentration speaking to the seriousness of her work. Sugar liked to think that doing good hair and sculpting marble had a lot in common.

  From time to time, she’d step back and appraise the height and shape of her creation, then strategically apply more Aqua Net before resuming her work, rat tail comb in hand. With a critical eye, Sugar located and covered holes and thin spots, occasionally clipping a section in place to allow the spray to set well before continuing.

  Combing out a new perm was a process Sugar would not allow to be rushed, and her clients knew that if Sugar was faced with a potentially difficult coiffure conundrum on the appointment ahead of them, they’d best pick up the latest copy of Redbook and settle in for a wait. At least they could be assured that Sugar would give them the same meticulous attention when it was their time to sit in her chair and be shaped and molded with her skilled and talented fingers.

  Sugar never applied the finishing cloud of Aqua Net until every errant strand had been carefully coaxed in place, and she guaranteed her styles to withstand even the stiffest breeze. Rain was another matter, but that’s why she sold a full complement of plastic bonnets, always cautioning her clients to have one neatly folded in their purses in cases of an emergency. The new ones with pink polka dots on a clear vinyl background were moving off the counter at a brisk pace.

  Throughout her session with Bitsy Temple, Sugar asked the usual questions about Bitsy’s life. She pretended to listen with interest as Bitsy described her passion — designing and sewing by hand the latest fashions for Barbie dolls. Sugar offered a sincere level of mock sympathy when Bitsy bemoaned the fact that, “All the best polyester patterns are just too big!”

  Mistakenly assuming Bitsy was talking about bringing standard dress patterns down to Barbie’s rail-thin, custom-molded size, Sugar said, “Couldn’t you just make your own patterns out of tissue paper?”

  Drawing in a patient breath and assuming the air of an instructor in a delicate and all-consuming pastime, Bitsy said, “I don’t mean the patterns for the clothes, Sugar. I mean the pattern on the fabric. Why, you find a nice swirl with lots of colors and you cut the material down to Barbie’s size and it just looks like one great big piece of paisley is eating that little girl right up! The people who make the fabric should think about that kind of thing.”

  “Well, maybe you should write the companies, Bitsy,” Sugar suggested, pinning a carefully shaped bit of hair in place to let it set. “Maybe they could make tiny little bolts of material just for Barbie. You doing anything else interesting these days?”

  “Oh, I’m working on a full set of new sequin ornaments for Christmas,” Bitsy enthused. “It just takes forever to stick all those straight pins through those little holes and get everything right on the Styrofoam balls. I’m doing the twelve days of Christmas and the leaping lords just won’t cooperate.”

  “That’s men for you,” Sugar agreed, ratting the top of Bitsy’s growing bouffant. “Well, all I can say is you sure are looking good, honey. You on a new diet?”

  “Oh, no,” Bitsy said. “I liked doing Weight Watchers, but Tinker just had a fit about me spending the money on gas to drive to Kerrville to weigh in. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t just take the number off our bathroom scale and mail it in or something, and he really didn’t like the recipes. He got me an Exercycle instead.”

  Concentrating on shaping Bitsy’s bangs, Sugar said, “My heavens! Aren’t those things kind of expensive?”

  Bitsy’s faltered a little and said, “Well, Sears & Roebuck was running a sale.”

  “Cover your rings, honey,” Sugar ordered. “I need to do the first layer of spray.”

  Bitsy slipped her hands under the plastic cape and Sugar created an all-encompassing cloud of Aqua Net, moving the can in circles to ensure even coverage. “I do have to say you’re married to an awful sweet man,” Sugar said. “Buying you all those diamonds and an exercise bike. If I want anything new, I best get to licking me some Green Stamps. The plumbing business must be good.”

  “Well,” Bitsy said nervously, “Tinker always says everybody has to flush.”

  “Indoor plumbing does make life more tolerable,” Sugar agreed. “I hope to the good Lord I have used my last outhouse. Come to think of it, I need to call Tinker. I’m tired of having to jiggle the handle at the house. Is he booked up this week?”

  “Actually,” Bitsy said, “he’s, uh, going to a, uh, kind of a convention this coming weekend.”

  “Well, that sounds like fun,” Sugar said. “You going with him, honey? Where’s the convention?”

  “Uh, no,” Bitsy said. “I have to get my paint-by-numbers homework done before art class at the church Thursday night. We’re doing those cats with the big eyes. So Tinker is going to Las . . .”

  She trailed off and her own eyes grew wide. Sugar paused in mid-pick and said encouragingly, “Angeles?”

  “No,” Bitsy said uncertainly. “Vegas.”

  Sugar frowned. “There’s a plumber’s convention in Las Vegas? I thought people just went out there to gamble.”

  “Oh, Tinker would never gamble,” Bitsy said, with entirely too much emphasis on the word. “It’s just not Christian.”

  With a triumphant smile, Sugar said, “Of course it’s not, honey. Nobody would ever think good Baptists like you and Tinker would take to gambling in a place like Las Vegas. I mean, after all, Tinker is a deacon, isn’t he? That’s just the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.” And then she added disingenuously, “Don’t women dance up on stage out there half nekkid?”

  Bitsy gulped, and said in a strangled voice, “Oh, Sugar, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  * * *

  While Sugar worked on Bitsy Temple, Flowers and Ida Belle Banner
s had called a truce over the manicure table in the next room. As an uncharacteristic gesture of good will, Flowers agreed to put out her omnipresent Lucky Strike, which mollified Ida Belle into almost pleasant conversation.

  As the local “information” columnist for the paper, Ida Belle occupied a threat level on par with Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper. Although the town boasted no celebrities per se, none of the leading citizens wanted to risk a mention in Ida Belle’s carefully crafted, prose-based assaults. Millie Houston was still trying to recover from the line in Ida Belle’s Christmas column that read, “Local society maven, Mrs. Jasper Houston, arrived at the Christmas cantata at the Methodist Church wearing the most interesting frock for a woman of her generation.”

  As Flowers stripped last week’s polish off Ida Belle’s nails, she said pointedly, “So who are you sticking it to in your column next week?”

  Ida Belle sniffed with professional disdain, “Petunia, I do not ‘stick it’ to anyone in my accounts of life in our community, but I do have a responsibility as a journalist to be accurate in my reporting.”

  Reaching for a nail file, Flowers said, “Tell that to Mille Houston. She’s been dressing like a nun ever since you nailed her over that dress she wore to the Methodist Church.”

  “The neckline was entirely too daring for a place of worship,” Ida Belle said staunchly, “and I do not approve of this new trend toward short skirts. It might be fine for young girls, but Millie Houston is past 30. She should look to the proprieties and lead by example.”

  Not looking up from her work, Flowers said, “Who you figure killed Hilton Milton?”

  Ida Belle glanced around the salon and surreptitiously lowered her voice, “It is my personal feeling that the local constabulary is mistaken in their assumption that the wife is always the prime suspect.”

  “Do tell,” Flowers said, adding. “Other hand.”

  Ida Belle held out her left hand and said, “Well, I am well versed in the works of Agatha Christie. It is rarely the most obvious suspect who is the perpetrator of the crime. Wanda Jean is the least objectionable of the Bodine girls. I think Sheriff Harper should be considering more directly the activities of Maybelline Bodine Trinkle.”

  Now Ida Belle had Flowers’ full attention. “And why would that be?”

  Leaning forward, Ida Belle said, “Isn’t it just a little unusual for the Bodine girls to each lose a husband in such a short period of time? And it’s all over town that Maybelline is in a liaison with Hank Howard. He has been spotted by concerned citizens going through the boxwoods into her back yard on more than one occasion.”

  Flowers arched an eyebrow, “What is it exactly that they’re concerned about?”

  Ida Belle regarded her like she had lost her mind. “Why, the moral health of our community, of course. Maybelline has not been widowed a year.”

  Biting back the wisecrack that rose to her lips, Flowers said, “And how do you figure Maybelline slipping around with Hank Howard has anything to do with Hilton being dead on the shag carpet?”

  Ida Belle leaned in again. “I have it from good authority that Maybelline was, herself, interested in Hilton when he appeared at the Welcome the Hunters to the County ball. It is my theory that she was pursuing her sister’s husband and when Hilton rejected her, Maybelline killed him. After all, there was no explanation for Blake Trinkle’s sudden demise.”

  “He died on the can reading Playboy,” Flowers said flatly. “Heart attack.”

  “Really, Petunia,” Ida Belle said as if she were explaining a simple equation to a dull-witted student, “is it all that difficult to put an incriminating piece of literature in the hand of a dead man?”

  Or to pull his pants down, Flowers thought to herself, as she steered the conversation back to the chore at hand. “Okay, Ida Belle, how about you live it up and get a good red on your nails today?”

  Ida Belle’s look of overt disapproval was answer enough. “Right,” Flowers said, “two coats of old lady pink coming up.”

  * * *

  Sugar Watson, Flowers Wilkes, and Clara Wyler sat together in Sugar’s small office at the back of the salon. Although Clara had initially been annoyed by Sugar’s admission that Flowers was now in on their efforts to gather information about Hilton Milton’s death, she soon relented.

  Unlike many women who would have attached themselves to the project of clearing Wanda Jean Milton’s name with the ulterior motive of worming their way into the Study Club, Flowers was frank in her disdain for all women’s groups. She was simply being loyal to Sugar, which was a quality Clara admired.

  After each of the women revealed the efforts of their sleuthing, Flowers summed it all up in her trademark fashion. “So we’ve got a pot-smoking, cross-dressing exterminator, who may have had dirt on a gambling Baptist deacon, and who might have been sleeping with his wife’s sister, whose husband croaked in the john reading a dirty magazine. That about cover it?”

  “At this point, yes,” Clara said, making notes in a steno pad, “but I think we can pretty much rule out Mike Thornton as the killer. He’s just too much of a tree-hugging hippie. Knowing that Hilton was smoking pot on top of his other . . . habits . . . just tells us Hilton wasn’t the man Wanda Jean thought she met at the Welcome the Hunters to the County Ball.”

  Lighting a fresh cigarette, Sugar said, “And that’s a damn shame. I remember how handsome he looked that night. You reckon he had panty hose on under his jeans?”

  “Sugar! Keep your mind on the business at hand,” Clara scolded. “Now, what do you all think about Tinker Temple as a suspect?”

  The trio considered the question, and then Flowers said, “Well, I don’t know what Tinker’s playing in Vegas, but he must be pretty good at it. I know his mama would have a heart attack if the gambling story got out, but other than getting run out of the church, he’s not doing anything wrong unless he’s not reporting what he wins to the Internal Revenue Service.”

  Clara frowned. “You mean if you win money gambling in Las Vegas, it’s taxable?” she asked.

  “Far as I can tell,” Flowers answered, “damn near everything you do is taxable until they plant you six feet under.”

  “I can see a skinflint like Tinker Temple wanting to dodge the tax man,” Sugar said, “but what would that have to do with Hilton?”

  Clara scribbled a few words in her steno pad. “I don’t know,” she said, “but it would be worth trying to figure out. What about this business with Maybelline?”

  “As much as I hate to admit it,” Flowers said, “Ida Belle does have a point. Blake Trinkle was an awful young man to be dropping dead just from looking at a girly magazine.”

  Sugar snorted. “Slim says he buys Playboy for the articles.”

  “Clint says the same thing,” Clara said. “Like they really think we believe that nonsense. As long he’s just looking, not chasing, I could care less if he’s looking at girly magazines. He wouldn’t know what to do with one of those ole gals if he caught her anyway. If he even thinks a woman is making a pass at him, he can’t latch on to me fast enough to protect him.”

  “They’re all big talkers,” Sugar agreed. “Slim’s so out of it, he doesn’t even realize when some old hide is trying to put the moves on him.”

  “Well,” Flowers said, “if we go with Ida Belle’s theory, then it would mean Maybelline killed Blake and then went after Hilton, and when he wouldn’t go for it, she killed him, too.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” Clara said. “But she might have found out that he liked to dress up in women’s clothes. Maybe she killed him over that.”

  “Or maybe Hank Howard found out Maybelline was sniffing around Hilton and he got jealous,” Flowers said. “Wouldn’t a sheriff’s deputy know how to kill a man and not get caught?”

  “That’s a good question,” Clara said. “How do we find out more about Hank Howard?”

  Before anyone could answer, the phone rang. Sugar picked up the receiver and said, “Sugar’s Style
and Spray. Sugar speaking.”

  She listened for a minute and then said, “Clara’s with me, honey. We’ll call Wilma and Mae Ella and meet you up at the funeral parlor.” She hung up and turned to Clara, “We have to get up to Simmons’ and help Wanda Jean pick out a casket for Hilton. They’ve released the body and she’s trying to get the service arranged.”

  “Call Sister first,” Clara said. “She can just walk across the street from the courthouse, and we’ll pick Wilma up on our way to the funeral parlor. I’m glad Wanda Jean called us. She’s in such a state Bill Simmons could really take her to the cleaners on the burying. The whole town is gonna be watching this funeral and we have to make sure it’s done right.”

  “I’d a hell of a lot rather plan a funeral than a wedding,” Sugar said, stabbing out her cigarette. “Corpses are more cooperative than brides.”

  Chapter 9

  Wanda Jean Milton was waiting on the front porch of the Simmons & Insall Mortuary when the Study Club officers pulled up in Clara Wyler’s red Ford Fairlane. The grieving widow greeted the ladies tearfully as they came up the steps, “Thank you all so much for coming.” Wanda Jean sniffed, “I’ve never arranged a funeral before.”

  Taking a final draw on her Camel before flicking the butt into the urn placed by the front door for that purpose, Sugar said, “Make sure you’re talking to Bill, not that little weasel Harold Insall. He’ll run the bill up so high you’ll have to sell the gold in your teeth to pay for it.”

  “Sugar’s right,” Clara said firmly. “And remember that the caskets out in the show room are the most expensive ones. You want to ask to see the ones in the back.”

  Wanda Jean’s face crumpled. “But, but . . . ,” she choked back a fresh wave of tears. “I want Hilton to have the best.”

  “Honey, Hilton is dead,” Wilma said practically. “Funerals are for the living.”