A Bone to Pick (Teagarden Mysteries,2)

by Charlaine Harris

  ~ Charlaine Harris ~

  answering machine, and its light was blinking when I let myself into my kitchen. I leaned against the counter while I punched the button to hear my messages. “Roe, this is Aubrey. Sorry I didn’t catch you in. I’ll talk to you later. See you at church tomorrow?” Ah oh. Tomorrow was Sunday. Maybe I should go to the Episcopal church. But since I didn’t always go there, wouldn’t it look a little pointed to show up right after I’d had a date with the pastor? On the other hand, here he was inviting me personally, and I’d hurt his feelings if I didn’t show . . . oh hell. “Hi, honey! We’re having such a good time John and I decided to stay for a few more days! Stop by the office and make sure everyone’s busy, okay? I’ll be calling Eileen, but I think it would impress everyone if you went yourself. Talk to you later! Wait till you see my tan!”

  Everyone at Mother’s office knew that I was strictly an underling, and that I didn’t know jack about the real estate business, though it wasn’t uninteresting. I just didn’t want to work full-time for Mother. Well, I was glad she was having a great time on her second (lit- erally) honeymoon, and I was glad she’d finally taken a vacation of any sort. Eileen Norris, her second-in- command, was probably ready for Mother to come ~ 102 ~

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  back. Mother’s force of character and charm really smoothed things over.

  “Roe, this is Robin.” I caught my breath and prac- tically hugged the answering machine so I wouldn’t miss a word. “I’m leaving tonight for maybe three weeks in Europe, traveling cheap and with no reser- vations, so I don’t know where I’ll be when. I won’t be working at the university next year. James Artis is over his heart attack. So I’m not sure what I’ll be do- ing. I’ll get in touch when I come back. Are you doing okay? How’s Arthur?”

  “He’s married,” I said to the machine. “He mar- ried someone else.”

  I rummaged in my junk drawer frantically. “Where’s the address book? Where’s the damn book?” I muttered. My scrabbling fingers finally found it, I searched through it, got the right page, punched in numbers frantically.

  Ring. Ring. “Hello?” a man said.

  “Robin?”

  “No, this is Phil. I’m subleasing Robin’s apart- ment. He’s left for Europe.”

  “Oh, no,” I wailed.

  “Can I take a message?” the voice asked, tactfully ignoring my distress.

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  “So he’s going to be coming back to that apart- ment when he returns? For sure?”

  “Yep, his stuff is all here.”

  “Are you reliable? Can you give him a message in three weeks, or whenever he comes back?” “I’ll try,” the voice said with some amusement. “This is important,” I warned him. “To me, any- way.”

  “Okay, shoot. I’ve got a pencil and paper right here.”

  “Tell Robin,” I said, thinking as I spoke, “that Roe, R-O-E, is fine.”

  “Roe is fine,” repeated the voice obediently. “Also say,” I continued, “that Arthur married Lynn.”

  “Okay, got it . . . anything else?”

  “No, no thank you. That’s all. Just as long as he knows that.”

  “Well, this is a fresh legal pad, and I’ve labeled it ‘Robin’s Messages,’ and I’ll keep it here by the phone until he comes back,” said Phil’s voice reassuringly. “I’m sorry to sound so—well, like I think you’ll throw it in the wastebasket—but this is the only way I have to get in touch with him.”

  “Oh, I understand,” said Phil politely. “And really, he will get this.”

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  “Thanks,” I said weakly. “I appreciate it.” “Good-bye,” said Phil.

  ìParnell? This is Aurora Teagarden.”

  “Oh. Well, what can I do for you?”

  “Madeleine showed up at Jane’s house today.” “That dang cat! We’ve been looking for her high and low. We missed her two days ago, and we were feeling real bad, since Jane was so crazy about that durn animal.”

  “Well, she came home.”

  “We sure got a problem. She won’t stay here, Au- rora. We’ve caught up with her twice when she started off, but we can’t keep chasing after her. As a matter of fact, we’re leaving town tomorrow for two weeks, going to our summer place at Beaufort, South Carolina, and we were going to check her back in the vet’s, just to make sure everything went okay. Though animals mostly take care of them- selves.”

  Take care of themselves? The Engles expected pampered Madeleine to catch her own fish and mice for two weeks?

  “Is that right?” I said, letting incredulity drip from my voice. “No, I expect she can stay at the house for ~ 105 ~

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  that two weeks. I can feed her when I go over there and empty her litter box.”

  “Well,” said Parnell doubtfully, “her time’s almost up.”

  The cat was dying? Oh my Lord. “That’s what the vet said?” I asked in amazement.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Parnell said, sounding equally amazed.

  “She sure looks fat for a cat that sick,” I said doubtfully.

  I could not understand why Parnell Engle suddenly began laughing. His laugh was a little hoarse and rusty, but it was from the belly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he agreed with a little wheeze of joy, “Madeleine is fat for a cat that’s so sick.” “I’ll keep her then,” I said uncertainly. “Oh, yes, Miss Teagarden, thanks. We’ll see you when we come back.”

  He was still barely controlling his chuckles when he hung up. I put down the receiver and shook my head. There was just no accounting for some people. ~ 106 ~

  Chapter Six

  A

  As I retrieved my Sunday paper from my seldom- used front doorstep, I could tell it was already at least 83 degrees. The paper predicted 98 for the day, and I thought its forecast was modest. My central air was already humming. I showered and reluctantly put my hair up in hot curlers, trying to bring order to chaos. I poured my coffee and ate breakfast (a micro- waved sweet roll) while I burrowed through the news. I love Sunday mornings, if I get up early enough to re- ally enjoy my paper. Though I have my limits: I will only read the society section if I think my mother will be in it, and I will not read anything about next sea- son’s fashions. Amina Day’s mom owned a women’s clothing shop she had named Great Day, and I pretty much let her tell me what to buy. Under Mrs. Day’s ~ 107 ~

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  influence I’d begun to weed out my librarian clothes, my solid-color interchangeable blouses and skirts. My wardrobe was a bit more diverse now.

  The paper exhausted, I padded up the stairs and washed my glasses in the sink. While they dried, I squinted myopically into my closet. What was suit- able for the girlfriend of the minister? Long sleeves sounded mandatory, but it was just too hot. I scooted hangers along the bar, humming tunelessly to myself. Shouldn’t the girlfriend of the minister be perky but modest? Though perhaps, at nearly thirty, I was a bit old to be perky.

  For a dizzying moment I imagined all the clothes I could buy with my inheritance. I had to give myself a little shake to come back to reality and review my wardrobe of the here and now. Here we go! A sleeve- less navy blue shirtwaist with big white flowers printed on it. It had a full skirt and a white collar and belt. Just the thing, with my white purse and sandals. All dressed, with my makeup on, I popped on my glasses and surveyed the result. My hair had calmed down enough to be conventional, and the sandals made my legs look longer. They were hell to walk in, though, and my tolerance time for the high heels would expire right after church.

  I walked as quickly as I safely could from my back ~ 108 ~

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  door across the patio, out the gate in the fence around it, to the car under the long roof that sheltered all ten- ants’ cars. I unlocked the driver’s door and flung it open to let the heat blast escape. After a minute I climbed in, and the air co
nditioner came on one second after the motor. I had worked too hard on my appearance to ar- rive at the Episcopal church with sweat running down my face.

  I accepted a bulletin from an usher and seated my- self a carefully calculated distance from the pulpit. The middle-aged couple on the other end of the pew eyed me with open interest and gave me welcoming smiles. I smiled back before becoming immersed in figuring out the hymn and prayer book directions. A loud chord signaled the entrance of the priest, acolyte, lay reader, and choir, and I rose with the rest of the congregation.

  Aubrey was just beautiful in his vestments. I drifted into an intoxicating daydream of myself as a minister’s wife. It felt very odd to have kissed the man conducting the service. Then I got too involved in managing the prayer book to think about Aubrey for a while. One thing about the Episcopalians, they can’t go to sleep during the service unless they’re catnap- pers. You have to get up and down too often, and shake people’s hands, and respond, and go up to the ~ 109 ~

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  altar rail for communion. It’s a busy service, not a spectator sport like in some churches. And I believed I had been to every church in Lawrenceton, except maybe one or two of the black ones.

  I tried to listen with great attention to Aubrey’s sermon, since I would surely have to make an intelli- gent comment later. To my pleasure, it was an excel- lent sermon, with some solid points about people’s business relationships and how they should conform to religious teachings, too, just as much as personal relationships. And he didn’t use a single sports sim- ile! I kept my eyes carefully downcast when I went up to take communion, and tried to think about God rather than Aubrey when he pressed the wafer into my hand.

  As we were folding up our kneelers, I saw one of the couples who had spoken to Aubrey while he and I were in line at the movies. They gave me a smile and wave, and huddled to talk to the man and woman with whom I’d been sharing a pew. After that, I was beamed on even more radiantly, and the movie couple introduced me to the pew couple, who asked me about twenty questions as rapidly as they could so they’d have the whole scoop on the pastor’s honey. I felt like I was flying under false colors—we’d only had one date. I began to wish I hadn’t come, but ~ 110 ~

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  Aubrey’d asked me, and I had enjoyed the service. It seemed now I had to pay for it, since there was no quick exit. The crowd had bottlenecked around the church door, shaking hands and exchanging small talk with Aubrey.

  “What a good sermon,” I told him warmly, when it was finally my turn. My hand was taken in both of his for a moment, pressed and released. A smooth gesture, in one quick turn showing me I was special, yet not presuming too much.

  “Thanks, and thanks for coming,” he said. “If you’re going to be home this afternoon, I’ll give you a call.”

  “If I’m not there, just leave a message on my ma- chine and I’ll call you back. I may have to go over to the house.”

  He understood I meant Jane’s house, and nodded, turning to the old lady behind me in line with a happy “Hi, Laura! How’s the arthritis?”

  Leaving the church parking lot, I felt a distinct let- down. I guess I had hoped Aubrey would ask me to Sunday lunch, a big social event in Lawrenceton. My mother always had me over to lunch when she was home, and I wondered, not for the first time, if she’d still want me to come over when she and John Queens- land got back from their honeymoon. John belonged ~ 111 ~

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  to the country club. He might want to take Mother out there.

  I was so dismal by the time I unlocked my back door that I was actually glad to see the message light blinking on the answering machine.

  “Hi, Roe. It’s Sally Allison. Long time no see, kiddo! Listen, what’s this I hear about you inheriting a fortune? Come have lunch with me today if this catches you in time, or give me a call when you can, we’ll set up a time.”

  I opened the phone book to the A’s, looked up Sally’s number, and punched the right buttons. “Hello!”

  “Sally, I just got your message.”

  “Great! You free for lunch since your mom is still out of town?”

  Sally knew everything.

  “Well, yes, I am. What do you have in mind?” “Oh, come on over here. Out of sheer boredom, I have cooked a roast and baked potatoes and made a salad. I want to share it with someone.” Sally was a woman on her own, like me. But she was divorced, and a good fifteen years older. “Be there in twenty minutes, I need to change. My feet are killing me.”

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  “Well, wear whatever you see when you open your closet. I have on my oldest shorts.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  I shucked off the blue and white dress and those painful sandals. I pulled on olive drab shorts and a jungle print blouse and my huaraches and pounded back down the stairs. I made it to Sally’s in the twenty minutes.

  Sally is a newspaper reporter, the veteran of an early runaway marriage that left her with a son to raise and a reputation to make. She was a good re- porter, and she’d hoped (a little over a year ago) that reporting the multiple murders in Lawrenceton would net her a better job offer from Atlanta; but it hadn’t happened. Sally was insatiably curious and knew every- one in town, and everyone knew that, to get the straight story on anything, Sally was the person to see. We’d had our ups and downs as friends, the ups having been when we were both members of Real Murders, the downs having mostly been at the same time Sally was trying to make a national, or at least regional, name for herself. She’d sacrificed a lot in that bid for a life in the bigger picture, and, when the bid hadn’t been ~ 113 ~

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  taken up, she’d had a hard time. But now Sally was mending her fences locally, and was as plugged in to the Lawrenceton power system as she ever had been. If her stories being picked up by the wire services hadn’t gotten her out of the town, it had certainly added to her power in it.

  I had always seen Sally very well dressed, in expen- sive suits and shoes that lasted her a very long time. When I reached her house, I saw Sally was a woman who put her money on her back, as the saying goes. She had a little place not quite as nice as Jane’s, in a neighborhood where the lawns weren’t kept as well. Her car, which hadn’t been washed in weeks, sat in dusty splendor uncovered by carport or garage. Get- ting in it would be like climbing in an oven. But the house itself was cool enough, no central air but several window air conditioners sending out an icy stream that almost froze the sweat on my forehead. Sally’s hair was as perfect as ever. It looked like it could be taken off and put on without one bronze curl being dislodged. But instead of her usual classic suits, Sally was wearing a pair of cutoffs and an old work shirt.

  “Girl, it’s hot!” she exclaimed as she let me in. “I’m glad I don’t have to work today.”

  “It’s a good day to stay inside,” I agreed, looking ~ 114 ~

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  around me curiously. I’d never been in Sally’s house be- fore. It was obvious she didn’t give a damn about decor. The couch and armchairs were covered by throws that looked very unfortunate, and the cheap coffee table had rings on top. My resident manager’s eye told me that the whole place needed painting. But the bookcase was wonderfully stuffed with Sally’s favorite Organized Crime books, and the smell coming from the kitchen was delicious. My mouth watered.

  Of course I was going to have to pay for my dinner with information, but it just might be worth it. “Boy, that smells good! When’s it going to be on the table?”

  “I’m making the gravy now. Come on back and talk to me while I stir. Want a beer? I’ve got some ice cold.”

  “Sure, I’ll take one. It’s the ‘ice cold’ that does it.” “Here, drink some ice water first for your thirst. Then sip the beer for your pleasure.”

  I gulped down the glass of ice water and twisted the cap off the beer. Sally had put out one of those round plastic grippers
without my even having to ask. I closed my eyes to appreciate the beer going down my throat. I don’t drink beer any other time of the year, but summer in the South is what beer was made for. Very cold beer. “Ooo,” I murmured blissfully. ~ 115 ~

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  “I know. If I didn’t watch out, I could drink a whole sixpack while I cooked.”

  “Can I set the table or anything?”

  “No, I already got everything done, I think. Soon as this gravy is ready—whoa, let me look at the biscuits— yep, they’re nice and brown—we’ll be ready to eat. Did I get the butter out?”

  I scanned the table, which at least was a few feet from the stove. Sally must have been burning up over there.

  “It’s here,” I reassured her.

  “Okay, here we go. Roast, biscuits, baked pota- toes, a salad, and for dessert”—Sally took off a cake cover with a flourish—“red velvet cake!” “Sally, you’re inspired. I haven’t had red velvet cake in ten years.”

  “My mama’s recipe.”

  “Those are always the best. You’re so smart.” A good southern compliment that could mean almost anything, but this time I meant it quite sincerely. I am not a person who often cooks whole meals for her- self. I know single people are supposed to cook full meals, lay the table, and act like they had company, really—but how many single people actually do it? Like Sally, when I cook a big meal, I want someone else to appreciate it and enjoy it.

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  “So, what’s this about you and the man of the cloth?”

  Closing in for the kill already. “Sally, you need to wait till I’ve eaten something,” I said. Was the roast worth it?

  “What?”

  “Oh Sally, it’s really nothing. I’ve had one date with Aubrey Scott, we went to the movies. We had a nice time, and he asked me to come to the church to- day, which I did.”

  “Did you now? How was the sermon?”

  “Real good. He’s got brains, no doubt about it.” “You like him?”