by Frankie Bow
“No, I heard you the first time. She’s dead? How? What happened?”
“She was the victim of a hit-and-run last night.”
“Oh. That’s terrible. But what does this have to do with—”
“In the upper parking lot of Mudbug Technical College.”
I instinctively went on high alert. Someone had killed Celia Arceneaux and was trying to pin it on me. But who? This wasn’t Ahmad’s style; too subtle. Anyone else I could think of with a grudge against me would have the decency to refrain from murdering an innocent bystander. Even Celia herself, rest her cranky soul, would never have done something so ruthless.
“Sheriff, I didn’t run Celia down. You can check my Jeep if you don’t believe me.”
“Never said you did.”
“Really? Okay.”
“Now why don’t you tell me about the incident?”
“The incident?”
“The altercation. Between the deceased and your associate Gertie Hebert.”
Uh-oh.
“Um. Which altercation, would this be, exactly?” That was the wrong thing to say, I realized immediately.
“I’d like you to tell me in your own words what happened on Sunday,” Lee said.
“Sunday? What do you know about Sunday? Why are you asking me about Sunday?”
Sunday was the last time I’d seen Carter LeBlanc. When Carter told me it would kill him to lose me. And then he pulled me close and his lips…
“I’d like you to tell me what transpired in the General Store.” Lee was looking at me strangely.
“The General Store,” I repeated. “Of course. I did visit the General Store on Sunday. Now let me think.”
Chapter 2
Last Sunday
Carter LeBlanc climbed into his truck and drove off. As soon as he was out of sight, I pulled out my phone and called Ida Belle, to invite her and Gertie to join me at Francine’s Diner. There, I planned to share my happy news with them while stuffing my face with one of Francine’s deep-fried, gravy-drenched specialties.
I had no food so speak of in my house. Not since Ally had moved out. Losing my culinarily-gifted roommate meant that all meal preparation was now up to me. Which was unfortunate. I have many talents, but most of them involve killing people, not feeding them.
Gertie, Ida Belle, and I met up at the General Store, across the road from the diner. We had a half hour to kill before Francine’s Early Bird Special started, so we’d decided to get some shopping done before we ate. My overpriced just-for-hair-extensions conditioner was running low again, Gertie wanted a new push-up bra, and Ida Belle needed motor oil.
Fortunately, Sinful's little General Store stocked everything we required (along with gas cans, barbecue grills, shop vacs, sunglasses, fishing supplies, boat fuel, kitchen implements, t-shirts, and more kinds of beef jerky than I knew existed). As I browsed the cluttered shelves, I marveled at that fact that I had not one, but two actual friends. It was a first for me. Growing up with the Company hadn’t exactly been conducive to forming normal friendships. Not that I’d ever accuse Gertie and Ida Belle—retired spies, amateur detectives, and professional bootleggers (heard of Sinful Ladies’ Cough Syrup?)—of being “normal.”
And not only had I made friends here in Sinful, I had an honest-to-goodness romance going on. A blend of dread and euphoria (mostly euphoria) churned in the pit of my stomach as I recalled the morning’s conversation with Carter.
Deputy Sheriff Carter LeBlanc had finally figured out I wasn’t actually a children’s librarian. It could have been any number of things that tipped him off. He might have become suspicious that time I singlehandedly saved him from perishing in a sinking boat. Or maybe it was when I was caught on social media parkour-ing down the front of the New Orleans Marriott after searching a murder victim’s hotel room. (At least my face hadn’t been visible, thank goodness.) Or maybe it was the time—
My train of thought was interrupted by the jingle of the General Store’s door bell. Mayor-Elect Celia Arceneaux pushed her way in. Behind her trailed a mouse-like woman with blazing red hair.
Early seventies, five foot nothing, slight build, moderate frailty. Threat level: zero in hand-to-hand combat, but since I moved to Sinful, I’ve learned not to let my guard down around old ladies.
“Well, Mary-Alice,” Celia was saying, “You know I’m not one to brag, but she says I have a natural presence. She invited me personally—practically begged me, if I’m being honest—to sign up again.”
Celia was so wrapped up in her narrative that she barely had time to glare at me as she muscled past on her way to the candy aisle.
“Oh, Miss Tauzin, I said to her, you mustn’t let me get greedy. What about all the other deserving students waiting for a spot in your class? Now don’t you worry about that, Celia, she told me. Did I tell you, Mary-Alice, she says I have a natural presence. Some actors spend their whole lives learning to project, she said, and she told me they can hear me all the way in the nosebleed seats. That’s theater lingo for the back row.”
I picked up my hair conditioner, along with the matching shampoo because it was on sale, and made my way to the cash register. Celia and her friend had gotten there first, so I took my place behind them as Walter prepared to ring them up. (Walter happened to be Carter’s uncle and the nicest man you could ever hope to meet. He’s also been in love with Ida Belle for about a hundred years.)
Gertie and Ida Belle joined me in line as Celia continued to brag (frequently adding “I’m not one to brag, but…”). I felt sorry for Celia’s little redheaded friend, whose job was apparently to smile and nod and say nothing.
“The next summer session is starting tonight,” Celia was telling her silent companion. “Maybe Miss Tauzin would let you sit in and watch me do Blanche’s monologue. I, I, I took the blows in my face and my body! All of those deaths! The long parade to the graveyard!”
Celia was telling the truth about one thing—she really could project to the nosebleed seats. Standing behind her I found myself wishing for my protective shooting earmuffs.
As encounters with Celia Arceneaux went, this wasn’t particularly bad. Celia was too busy boasting to cause any trouble for us today. She’d buy her stuff and leave, and the rest of us could get on with our evening. As long as Ida Belle and Gertie behaved themselves, we had nothing to worry about.
Chapter 3
“Fortune?” Sheriff Lee prompted me. “I believe you were going to relate the events of last Sunday.”
“Yes. Of course. I was just collecting my thoughts. Gertie, Ida Belle and I went to the General Store. While we were there, Celia Arceneaux came in with Mary-Alice.”
“Who, now?” Sheriff Lee leaned forward and squinted at me like that nearsighted character in those old cartoons Ally used to watch when she had a Saturday morning off. What was his name? Mister Moodle? Mister Maglev? Something like that.
“Mary-Alice Arceneaux. Celia’s deceased husband’s cousin’s wife, I believe. No blood relation.”
Sheriff Lee slooowly dragged a notebook over and started writing in slow, shaky fashion.
“Handwritten notes?” I asked. “You’re not recording this?”
“Don’t believe in that newfangled business. Now how’d you get all that information about this Mary-Alice?”
“She volunteered it when Celia and Gertie were getting into it—I mean, having a discussion…”
I didn’t like to put my friends in a bad light, especially where law enforcement was concerned. To be honest, though, Gertie had been the instigator.
“Walter tells me there was a verbal disagreement involving Celia Arceneaux. His account was a little light on detail. Maybe you could fill me in.”
Of course Walter’s account was “light on detail.” As the owner of Sinful’s General Store, Walter was expert at not getting caught between the warring factions of Sinful women. The Sinful Ladies’ Society—or the “good guys,” as I knew them—ran Sinful, and Ida Belle and Gertie ran the Sinful La
dies' Society. Celia Arceneaux had her own group, arch-rivals of the SLS. Celia's crew modestly called themselves the GWs, or God’s Wives.
Every Sunday, the conflict between the groups was reignited by the race to Francine’s Diner. The doors to the Catholic and the Protestant churches would fly open the minute services ended. On either side of the road, a herd of sneaker-shod old ladies would stampede from their respective places of worship. They raced toward Francine’s Diner, hoping to secure the day's limited allotment of banana pudding.
I'd learned in one of my Company briefings that competition for scarce resources was at the root of most conflicts. It was as true in Sinful as it was in Tajikistan.
Chapter 4
Last Sunday
After a solid minute stuck in line behind the pontificating Celia, Gertie had had enough.
“Why Celia,” Gertie chirped, “I can’t imagine why you’d have to take a drama class. Everyone in Sinful knows you’re the queen of drama.”
Celia stopped talking to her friend Mary-Alice and turned slowly to face Ida Belle and Gertie.
Walter didn’t quite duck behind the counter like the bartender in those old Western movies when the bar fight breaks out. He did the next-best thing: quickly busied himself rearranging the beef jerky display next to the cash register. I feigned intense interest in the rack of ten-dollar sunglasses.
“Why Gertie, as a former schoolteacher, you of all people should appreciate the value of education,” Celia cooed poisonously. “In fact, I hear they have beginner writing classes over at Mudbug Technical. Maybe you should think about signing up.”
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Celia twisted the knife:
“I was in Harriet’s bookstore the other day and happened to read a few pages of your latest—what is it called, Passion’s Promise?—and I thought, why, bless her heart, our Gertie may turn out to be a fine writer one of these days.”
This is what Gertie should have done: Nothing. Let it go. Instead, she turned red to the roots of her cottony-white hair, clenched her tiny fists, and pressed her lips into a dangerous line.
Celia had hit her where it hurt. Gertie had just started a second (or third, if you count her time a spy) career as a self-published romance author.
“Why Celia,” Gertie hissed through a stiff smile and clenched teeth, “I never imagined you as a reader. What a surprise. Well, glad to hear you’re having fun in your playacting class. How does that saying go? I hope you break your neck?”
“It’s break a leg,” Celia snorted. “I might have thought someone who called herself a writer would know—”
Mary-Alice spoke up.
“Celia, dear, we’re holding up the line.”
Celia harrumphed and dumped the contents of her shopping basket onto the counter: hemorrhoid cream, dandruff shampoo, and a pile of candy bars.
As Walter rang Celia’s items up, Celia’s companion turned around and introduced herself to us.
“I’m Celia’s cousin. Mary-Alice Arceneaux.” She extended a manicured hand, the nails painted a demure peach. I was surprised that someone so well-mannered could be related to Celia, but she went on to explain that they were actually cousins-in-law. Celia’s late husband had been cousin to her own.
“It’s so important to stay active and social at our age,” Mary-Alice said. “Isn’t it wonderful that Celia’s found a creative outlet? I could never go up on stage in front of all those people. But I do enjoy my gardening. And my crafts.”
She lifted up the glasses chain she was wearing to show us. It was made of pale-green plastic, studded with pearls and faceted plastic stones. A pair of thick-lensed reading glasses with cherry-red frames dangled from it.
“I took a class at the big craft store out in Lake Charles to learn how to make these. This one is my first, and it’s still one of my favorites. When I get a few more done I think I might get a vendor booth at the Mudbug Festival.”
“That’s very nice.” I was less impressed with the gaudy glasses chain than with Mary-Alice’s deft de-escalation of the Gertie-Celia conflict.
“Looks real useful,” Ida Belle said. “Gertie, you like the color? It looks like it’d go with your chartreuse pantsuit.”
“Oh, you noticed?” Mary-Alice beamed with pride. “This was my own idea. The chain is made of a material that glows in the dark. You can go online and buy a whole spool of it directly from the Chinese. It’s quite inexpensive.”
She peered at me. “You’re young, dear, and you might not understand, but when you’ve mislaid your reading glasses in the dark, it’s nice to have a way to find them.”
“That is clever,” Ida Belle agreed. “Gertie, you should get one of those. That way you won’t keep forgetting your glasses. In fact, maybe that’ll be your Christmas present.”
Ida Belle knew very well that Gertie never “forgot” her glasses. The trouble was that Gertie didn’t think she needed glasses in the first place.
“I don’t need glasses,” Gertie proclaimed. “I have the visual acuity of a forty-year-old.”
“A forty-year-old bat,” Ida Belle muttered.
Celia whipped around again.
“We’re done here, Mary-Alice.”
She snatched her bag off the counter and marched out without a word, leaving Mary-Alice to follow her.
“Nice to meet you.” Mary-Alice smiled and gave us a little wave, then hurried out after Celia.
“Break a neck,” Gertie called after them as the door closed behind them. Then to us: “That woman chaps my hide. How dare she say I ‘may’ turn out to be a fine writer? I’d like to see her try to sit down and write an entire book without changing any of the characters’ names halfway through by accident. I’ve a good mind to—”
“Careful now, Gertie,” Walter warned. “Don’t do anything that’s gonna get you arrested. I don’t wanna lose one of my favorite customers.” He seemed more relaxed now, with Celia gone.
“I wasn’t thinking of doing anything illegal,” Gertie huffed. “I was just going to say, I’ve a good mind to show her up. Drama classes. Hmph.”
“Don’t worry about her, Gertie. She’s just jealous. I thought Passion’s Promise was a terrific read.” Walter smiled as he rang up our purchases item by item. The General Store must be one of the last retailers in the United States without scannable bar codes.
“You read Passion’s Promise?” Ida Belle exclaimed.
“Didn’t you read it, Ida Belle?” Walter asked.
Ida Belle’s cheeks turned pink and she changed the subject.
“Walter, I couldn’t find the Pennzoil 10w-40. Are you out?”
“I believe I just got a case in. You wait right here. I’ll get it for you.”
“Gertie,” I whispered as Ida Belle watched Walter stride into the back, “Isn’t Passion’s Promise the one with the main characters ‘William’ and ‘Ida Mae’?”
Gertie nodded. “They grow up together in the same small town, and William is hopelessly in love with Ida Mae. Ida Mae loves him too, but she’s holding back, afraid to lose her independence, and then when Ida Mae’s about to celebrate her seventy-fifth birthday—”
“Don’t spoil it,” Ida Belle interrupted. “I haven’t gotten to that part yet. Oh, here’s William. Walter. Here’s Walter with my motor oil.”
Chapter 5
“Maybe Mary-Alice did it,” I blurted out to Sheriff Lee.
“What’s that, Miss Morrow?
“More than half of murder victims in the United States were killed by someone they knew.”
Sheriff Lee squinted at me.
“How do you happen to know that?”
I shrugged.
“I'm a librarian. Facts and figures are my thing. Celia and Mary-Alice were related through marriage. They’ve probably known each other for many years. And now that they've both lost their husbands—”
Sheriff Lee scratched his mustache.
“Lost their husbands...Are you telling me Celia Arceneaux killed Mary-Alice’s husband?”
“What? No. Wait. I mean, huh. I don't want to throw accusations around, Sheriff. But isn't it possible that there was some long-standing grudge between Celia and Mary-Alice? Maybe things finally boiled over, and Mary-Alice lost her temper and ran Celia down with her car.”
I honestly didn’t believe my ridiculous and completely improvised scenario for a second. But if it could take the heat off Gertie, at least temporarily, it was worth a try.
Sheriff Lee frowned.
“Well, I suppose I can talk to this Mary-Alice. She seem like the type to you?”
“They don’t always ‘seem like the type’, Sheriff.”
“So now what was the nature of the altercation at the General Store, between Gertie and Celia?”
“I wouldn’t call it an altercation. Gertie said she was surprised to hear that Celia was taking acting classes. Celia said Gertie might be interested in taking classes also. That was about it.”
“Sounds pretty tame. That was it?”
“Pretty much.”
“Anything else remarkable or noteworthy that you can recall?”
“No. Not that I remember.”
Sheriff Lee wrote something on his pad.
“So are we done here?”
“Not so fast, Miss Morrow. I’d like to hear how you came to be enrolled at Mudbug Technical College. If you would oblige me.”
Chapter 6
Last Sunday
Ida Belle, Gertie, and I walked across the road to Francine’s and put our names down to be seated. The post-church rush for banana pudding was long over, but the Early Bird specials were starting. Ally spotted us and waved as she hurried from one table to another. I was happy she’d finally gotten her house fixed up, but it was a little lonely around my place with her gone. Of course, after what happened this afternoon with Carter, my place might not be lonely for long…
Ally appeared at the front counter.
“Hey, y’all. I can seat you now. We only have three servings of our seafood special left, so—”
