“Nobody has ever actually proved that story,” Sugar said, and then seemed to ponder the question. “But then, dead men tell no tales.”
“Dead men?” Mae Ella said.
"Enough!" Clara ordered. "Just as long as those Hanes are on Hilton, I for one do not need to know how you managed it. Come on, let's get you gals back to work."
After dropping Wilma and Mae Ella off at their respective offices, Clara pointed the car toward Rolene Jackson's house. "I'm not looking forward to this," she said grimly over the steering wheel. "I never have liked Rolene. She's the only woman I know who has a worse disposition than Mae Ella."
"That is saying something," Sugar agreed. "And those God awful home permanents she gives herself! Perming your own hair is like signing up for do-it-yourself heart surgery. It just does not turn out well."
Clara snorted. "Rolene always looks like she's got a bowl of curly macaroni stuck on her head, and then there’s that dye job."
Sugar rolled down the window and lit a Camel. "It's not like I've got anything against a bottle blonde," she said. "But at least go to a salon and get it done by a professional. The woman looks like a streetwalker."
"Well," Clara said, "she does run a liquor store. That’s just asking for folks to talk about you."
Sugar puffed contemplatively. "I'll give Rolene one thing," she said, reaching up to take a little piece of tobacco off her tongue, "she does have good prices on her vodka."
"I don't know how you can drink that Russian potato juice," Clara said. "Give me a good shot of bourbon any day."
The words came out of her mouth just as they rounded the corner onto Rolene Jackson's street. Cars were parked fender to fender on both sides in a long line stretching back two city blocks in each direction.
Taking a last drag on her cigarette before tossing it out the window, Sugar said, "Looks to me like you're gonna need that drink."
"Merciful Jesus," Clara said glumly, pulling in behind a Ford LTD. "Your flask picked a hell of a time to spring a leak, Sugar."
The news of the impending funeral service for Hilton Milton had spread widely up and down Main Street. The announcement caused a flurry of congealed Jello salad and green bean casserole preparation undertaken by good Christian women who entertained hopes of getting a look at the widow. Some who had failed to spot Wanda Jean on their first delivery were back with more food in hand, expressions of pious concern plastered on their eager faces.
Clara and Sugar got out of the car and approached the house, only to spot Wanda Jean in the side yard waving to them furiously. Cutting across the grass, they joined her in the shade of an old oak tree. “The whole house is full of people,” Wanda Jean said. “You all come on through the back door. It’s not so bad in the kitchen.”
When the trio stepped through the screen door they were greeted by a scowling Rolene Jackson. “Clara, Sugar,” she said in curt greeting. “Please tell me neither one of you made a green bean casserole or anything involving Cool Whip and Fanta soda pop.”
“No,” Clara said, “and I do apologize for that. We haven’t had time to make anything yet, Rolene. You just tell us what you need and we’ll get it here by tomorrow morning before the service.”
“I don’t need a damn bit of any of it,” Rolene said, pointing toward the counter. “I bet there’s not a can of mandarin oranges or a package of green Jello left in this town.”
Clara and Sugar followed her gaze and silently counted no less than ten congealed fruit salads all carefully covered in Saran Wrap.
“I’d say we’re good on the fruit salad,” Sugar said drily. “Are they coming here after the funeral?”
“No,” Rolene said. “I have had enough of smiling and pretending to like all these damn busybodies. We’re loading everything up and taking it to the fellowship hall in the morning.”
Clara peered around the corner of the kitchen door and into the living room where “mourners” occupied every available seat or stood clustered in tight little groups talking. “Rolene,” she said doubtfully, “I think there might be a lot of people at the service. The Baptist fellowship hall isn’t very big.”
“We’re going over to the Catholics,” Rolene said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She held the pot up. “You all want some of this?” she asked.
“Lord, yes,” Sugar said, pulling out her Camels. “Do you have an ashtray?”
“Look under the sink,” Rolene said. “We keep a box of promotional ashtrays from the store under there. Take one with you.”
Sugar opened the cabinet and reached into a cardboard box. She brought out an ashtray in the shape of a whiskey bottle. Peering into the base of the tray, Sugar read, “‘Jackson’s Jug. Beer, Wine and Liquor. Ask about our volume Hit the Bottle discounts.’ These are real nice, Rolene.”
“Thank you,” Rolene said. “They just came in. I ordered extra deep so they’ll hold a lot of butts.”
Sugar turned the ashtray over in her hand thoughtfully. “You reckon they could do one that looks like a can of hairspray?”
“I don’t see why not,” Rolene said. “Remind me and I’ll give you the name of the company. You want any milk with this?” she asked, holding out a cup of coffee.
“No,” Sugar said. “I drink it black. Thank you.” She put her Camel in her mouth, accepted the cup, and then lit her cigarette with her free hand. “So this is all going to the Catholic Annex?” she asked.
“First thing in the morning,” Rolene said. She turned toward her sister, “Wanda Jean, the funeral is at 10 o’clock, right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Unless Brother Bob gets real wound up, we ought to be at the Catholic Annex by noon.”
“Oh, he’ll get wound up alright,” Sugar said. “Something tells me Brother Bob is gonna deliver the funeral sermon to end all funeral sermons.”
“We will fight the good fight,” Rolene said sourly.
“Through the valley of the shadow of death,” Clara added, accepting her own cup of coffee from Rolene.
“Into the house not made with hands,” Sugar said, taking a deep drag on her Camel before the three of them intoned a weary, “Amen.”
Chapter 11
By a little after 9 o'clock on Saturday morning, curious but properly reverential mourners began to claim the best seats at the Baptist Church. Certainly many in the crowd were genuinely saddened by the local exterminator’s death, and many regarded the deceased as a friend. None of that changed the fact that in a small town there are two essential spectator sports; Friday night football and a good funeral.
Many remarked quietly that they appreciated Hilton getting himself killed in June, rather than July or August. The church’s old swamp cooler was not equal to the blistering Texas temperatures during those months. But on this day, with the forecast predicting a comfortable 84 degrees, the temperature in the sanctuary was perfectly agreeable, making the donning of neckties for the men and extra-firm girdles for the women a much more pleasant chore.
The Study Club officers arrived a little before nine, having declined Wanda Jean’s generous offer of a reserved pew. Instead, Clara and Sugar were stationed toward the back of the room on the left, while Wilma and Mae Ella took seats on the right. If the women sat up front with the family and the pallbearers, they wouldn't be able to take note of who arrived for the service or how they behaved during the proceedings.
Ida Belle Banners had given Flowers some unintentional advice the day before at the salon as she waxed eloquent about her theory regarding Hilton’s death. “I, for one, intend to be paying close attention to Maybelline’s comportment at the services,” Ida Belle had said archly as she paid Flowers for her manicure. “Agatha Christie is quite clear that the killer always returns to the scene of the crime in some fashion, and generally attends the funeral.”
Since Wanda Jean and Maybelline were sisters, Ida Belle’s prime suspect could hardly get out of going to the service, but the Club officers agreed that it was highly likely that Hilton’s killer would be at the
Baptist Church the next day.
As for Hilton himself, he now lay in his casket in front of the altar, looking peacefully handsome in his dark suit with his hands properly folded on his chest. No one was the wiser about the presence of his beloved Hanes hosiery under his trousers. If any of the Club women would have recognized the name of the playwright Bertolt Brecht, they would have agreed with him when he said, "From the cradle to the coffin, underwear comes first."
Clara and Sugar came to the church straight from helping transport food from Rolene's house to the Catholic Annex. As they loaded those ten bowls of fruit salad in the back of Clara’s Ford Fairlane, Rolene declared to all present, “If these don’t get eaten today, you all throw them out. When the sun goes down, I don’t want one damn thing in my house made with Jello. You all hear me talking?”
They had, indeed, heard her talking. In fact, she was talking loudly enough for those standing nearest to her to understand immediately that Rolene had taken her morning coffee with a sweetener stronger than a saccharin tablet. “Can you imagine!” Clara said, putting the Fairlane in gear and carefully backing out of Rolene’s driveway. “Drinking the morning of her brother-in-law’s funeral!”
“You have to drink at funerals, Clara,” Sugar said, glancing nervously over her shoulder into the back seat as the fruit salad bowls clinked. “It’s the only way to survive the damn things.”
“Well, I know that!” Clara said. “But for heaven’s sake, not before the service! That’s just acting like white trash!”
Sugar, knowing she would be unable to smoke for the duration of the funeral, lit her fourth Camel of the morning. “Wanda Jean sure did rise above her raising,” she agreed, holding her lighter steady with both hands as she puffed the cigarette to life. “She’s got way better manners than Rolene.”
Blessedly sober volunteers from the Baptist Women's Circle would remain at the Catholic Annex during the funeral to refrigerate new food arrivals, take down the names of the donors, and ensure that gallons of coffee were ready when people began to arrive from the cemetery.
Wilma and Mae Ella caught up with Clara and Sugar at the Annex in time to help them carry the bowls of fruit salad inside. Then, the four of them piled back into Clara’s car for the short drive to the Baptist church. On the ride over, they finalized the details of their plan to seat themselves strategically in the sanctuary. As they discussed the arrangement, Clara glanced in the rear view mirror at Mae Ella, seated in back with Wilma. "I do not want to hear any audible grumbling from you during the service, Sister," she warned.
"I wasn't raised in a barn, Clara," Mae Ella said. "I know better than to talk in church."
Catching Wilma's eye, Clara mouthed, "Watch her."
"I saw that," Mae Ella snapped.
"Well, it's your own fault," Clara said, refusing to back down. "You don't always have to say whatever it is that you're thinking the minute you think it, Mae Ella."
"It’s not my fault that I'm right most of the time," Mae Ella muttered, just as the church came into view. “Land of Goshen!” Mae Ella exclaimed. "It’s worse than we thought!"
Townspeople stood six deep in front of the church, waiting for the doors to open, with more milling around in the parking lot and on the sidewalk. "How are we going to get through that?" Sugar said.
"For starters," Clara said, "we're going down the alley. Hang onto your girdles, ladies."
Cutting the wheel sharply to the right and jostling her passengers in every direction, Clara bounced the Fairlane down the alley and came to a jolting stop by the church’s backdoor. She turned to Mae Ella and said, "I do hope you’ve got your key?"
"I do," Mae Ella said, digging through her purse and coming up with a single silver key on a giveaway key chain from the First National Bank.
In answer to questioning looks from Sugar and Wilma, Mae Ella said, "Well, for heaven's sake! I didn't take the fool thing! Brother Bob gave it to me for Vacation Bible School last summer and I just haven't gotten around to giving it back."
The women let themselves in the church and walked as quietly through the deserted hallways outside the Sunday School rooms as their high heels would allow. They stopped dead in their tracks, however, when they saw the light on in Brother Bob's office.
“Now what?” Sugar hissed.
"Is someone there?" Brother Bob called out.
“Let me handle this,” Mae Ella said. “It’s just me, Brother Bob,” she called out. “Mae Ella Gormley and the Study Club officers. We parked in the alley so we wouldn't take up a space in front."
Brother Bob Murphy came to the door of his office and greeted the ladies in the hall as if it were the most normal thing in the world for the Study Club officers to be skulking around his Sunday School building. "Good morning, Mae Ella, Clara, Wilma, Sugar," he said. "How are you ladies today?"
"Morning, Brother Bob," Clara said. "We wanted to get here early because Wanda Jean is a member of the Club."
The minister smiled beatifically, knowing perfectly well the women were jumping the line waiting outside the front doors in order to get good seats. "Of course, of course," he said genially. "Please go on into the sanctuary ladies. I'll be opening the doors in just a few minutes, but you all go ahead and get settled."
The ladies murmured their thanks and moved down the hall, but Mae Ella lagged behind. "Brother Bob," she said in an odd voice, "may I talk to you for a few minutes?"
"Why, of course, Mae Ella," he said. "Please do come in."
Clara cocked an eyebrow at her sister, only to be dismissed with a wave of Mae Ella’s hand. "You all go ahead," she said. "Save me a seat. I'll be right there."
Looking a little uncertain about the unexpected turn of events, the other three Club officers left Mae Ella alone with Brother Bob, who gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit down,” he said with a smile. “What can I do for you, Mae Ella?"
"Is it true about you and Mrs. Brother Bob dancing to honky-tonk music in the parsonage?" she blurted out.
If anything, Brother Bob’s usually happy countenance only grew more cheerful, which was the last reaction Mae Ella expected. "Yes," he said, "it is. I guess Hilton went home and told Wanda Jean, and she told you all?"
"She didn’t tell us to be gossiping," Mae Ella said shortly. "She may come from a trashy family, but she's a good girl. She just told us about it after she found Hilton dead and when we started trying to figure out who did it."
"‘We’ being the Club officers?" Brother Bob asked.
"Sister says it's because she won't have a Club member accused of murder while she's the president, but it's because she knows Wanda Jean is innocent," Mae Ella said. "Sister always has been one to take up for anybody getting picked on."
"Your sister is, indeed, a formidable woman," Brother Bob agreed. "And she has a heart as big as yours. Surely you don’t think I would have killed Hilton because he caught me dancing with my wife, do you?”
Mae Ella fidgeted in her chair looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Certainly not,” she said. “I’m just . . . well, I’m just . . .”
“Disappointed?” Brother Bob asked.
"You're the preacher!" she exclaimed. "You're not supposed to be doing things like dancing in the parsonage to Ernest Tubb music. That’s just not good Christian behavior!"
Brother Bob leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I may be the preacher," he said, "but I'm a sinner like everyone else, and there isn't anything un-Christian about a man dancing with his wife. Even to Ernest Tubb music."
Mae Ella's jaw dropped. "Brother Bob!" she gasped. "How can you say that?"
"We could sit here a long time and debate the theological implications of dancing and the merits of Ernest Tubb’s songs," he answered patiently. "But the general line of thought is that dancing leads to other behaviors that might not be Christian, especially if they occur outside the bonds of matrimony. Since my wife and I are indeed married, we have God’s permission to engage in those behaviors, so dancing isn’t such
a problem. Do you see my point?"
At the thought of what those "other behaviors" might be, Mae Ella's shocked expression turned to outright horror. Her mind was already having too much trouble processing the image of Mr. and Mrs. Brother Bob doing the two step, and mercy, surely they didn’t do the Cotton Eyed Joe, too! Taking out a Kleenex, she coughed quietly into the tissue, feeling a little sick at her stomach.
Seeing her distress, the minister went on kindly, "I'm sorry I’ve disappointed you, Mae Ella. You see, the thing is, I love my wife very much and, well, she loves dancing very much. I can only hope the Lord understands that."
"I wouldn't know what the Almighty does and doesn't understand," Mae Ella said curtly, "but you're still the preacher and it just doesn't seem right. That’s all I’m saying."
He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and then asked, with no hint of accusation in his voice, "You don't really believe in God, do you, Mae Ella?"
A look of instant guilt rushed over her features as words of ardent protest rose to her lips. "Why, you know perfectly well that I'm in church with Cletus every Sunday morning!"
"You are in church every Sunday morning with Cletus because you love him and he does believe in God," Brother Bob replied. "But you haven't really trusted God since Alice Browning was killed, have you?"
To Mae Ella’s surprise, and considerable consternation, tears filled her eyes and her lower lip began to tremble. The idea that she might cry in front of the preacher seemed to make her instantly furious, because she gave a vigorous shake of her head, and said stoutly, "Well! God didn't do Alice very much good that night at the bridge, now did He? Alice was my best friend. If God wouldn't save her life, then no, I don't have much use for Him, but for Cletus’ sake, I do try."
"Alice was on her way to a dance that night, wasn't she?" Brother Bob asked.
Mae Ella regarded him with flashing eyes. "Now that you mention it, yes, she was," Mae Ella snapped. "So you can see why I might find that particular activity a little suspect."
"Mae Ella, God wasn't punishing Alice Browning because she was going to a dance,” he said. “And I don't think he's going to punish me and my wife, but I do think you’re punishing yourself, Mae Ella, because you’re alive and she isn’t."
You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) Page 8
