1 Catered to Death (16 page)

“Well, babe,” Steve remarked, “Sylvia has to know that her husband hit on every woman he met, especially the pretty ones and since you are very attractive she has to know that he flirted with you.”

“Oh, Steve, I’m a middle-aged mom. Not some fresh young thing.”

“Did he flirt with you?”

“A little,” I admitted, “but like you said, the man flirted with any female who was still breathing. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he flirted with Junebug.”

“I thought you said Junebug was an older woman.”

“She is but age didn’t seem to matter to Frank. It was like his flirting mechanism was always on.”

“It also sounds like he was asking for what happened to him.”

“Maybe. That’s what Veronica said too. I wonder if I should talk to Junebug. She might have some insight into who killed Frank.”

 
“Well,” Steve said as he gently put my foot down and slowly stood up, “I can’t say that I approve but I also know that you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Where does Junebug live?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll look her up tomorrow. Should I call her or just drop in?”

“Probably just drop in. You risk her not being there but if she is around, you’ll have the element of surprise.”

“You’re getting into this too, aren’t you, Steve?”

Steve shook his head vehemently. “Not in the least but I have to say that if you’re going to interrogate people, I’d much rather you interrogated little old ladies instead of young, athletic men who are toting bows and arrows around.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t see one young athletic man the entire time I was at Eden Academy,” I assured him. “Now how about a leftover turkey sandwich?”

“I thought you’d never offer,” Steve replied.

Chapter Thirteen

Junebug McClellan lived in a large ranch house in a neighborhood called Equestrian Estates. Steve and I don’t travel in the same social circle as the people who live in Equestrian Estates so I’d never been there before. I did know that the people who lived in the subdivision had a reputation for being Kemper’s version of a “horsey” crowd—most of them either owned horses or hoped to own a horse one day and spent their vacations and retirements either traveling to races or horse shows. The streets had horse-related names and the subdivision had been divided into sections with one called the Kentucky Derby and the other Churchill Downs.

Junebug lived in the Kentucky Derby half at the rear of the development, the half where people with seriously big bucks lived. Pulling up in front of 101 Secretariat Way, I wasn’t exactly surprised by what I saw. Junebug, with her obvious affection for all things Western, had an enormous ranch house with an equally enormous garage door that she’d decorated with dozens of gold-painted horseshoes, each with the open side pointing up to keep the luck inside. A jockey statue circa 1962 graced the front lawn, his red jacket freshly painted and the expression on his face downcast. I can’t say I blamed him: I wouldn’t want to be holding up an iron lantern for fifty years either.

I turned off the ignition and grabbed my prop of red velvet cupcakes. Walking up the slate sidewalk, I noted that money was apparently not an issue in the McClellan household, an assumption that was next to impossible to miss. The yard was perfectly manicured, the bushes perfectly trimmed and the windows on the house had been washed and polished to a high gleam. Junebug wasn’t working at Eden Academy for her paycheck, that much was obvious. Anyone living at 101 Secretariat Way would need a much larger income than Eden Academy could ever possibly pay.

Unless Junebug’s been blackmailing the school.

It was a thought. Perhaps Junebug was holding the school for ransom somehow and they all resented her, especially Frank Ubermann. Over what, I wondered. Had Junebug found out about Frank and Claudine…or Frank and Monica…or Frank and possibly Ruth? Heck, she could have been blackmailing him over an entire score of women. I would have to tiptoe quite lightly and see what I could find out. I had reached the front door, a black lacquered number that was so shiny I could see my reflection in it. After brushing a lock of hair off my forehead, I pushed the doorbell. Instantly, chimes began to play the beginning of “Camptown Races.”

“Come around back!” a voice barked with an amazing amount of volume.

Following the voice, I walked around the house and found myself in an enormous backyard, easily half an acre of grass and trees, all lush and the intense green that told me that there was a watering system in place. I couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of water bill the McClellan’s looked at every month but I was guessing that it was a lot higher than the one Steve and I received. At one end of the yard was an in-ground pool where a pink inflatable chair floated. At the other end of the yard was Junebug.

Dressed in another cowgirl outfit of black pants, a blue bandana print top and a black cowboy hat, she looked far younger than her seventy-plus years. But it was what she was doing that grabbed my attention by the throat and held it there.

Junebug was holding a bow in her left hand and an arrow in her right and was aiming at a straw target twenty yards away. I watched in stunned silence as Junebug drew the bow back and then shot the arrow. She let out a squeal of triumph when it hit the bull’s eye. “How do you like that?” she chirped, turning to look at me. “Who says old people aren’t good for anything?”

“Not me,” I quickly assured her.

“Me neither and if someone does say it to me, I promise you I’ll rip them a new one. Who are you?”

I covered the lawn between us with slow, even steps, my mind still trying to wrap around the fact that I’d caught Junebug in the act of perfecting her archery technique. Junebug was good, definitely good enough to have nailed Frank in the chest from a much shorter distance than across Junebug’s vast backyard. So much for my theory that she was too old to commit murder. “I don’t know if you remember me, Ms. McClellan,“ I began.

“Call me Junebug. Everybody does.”

“All right, Junebug.
 
I’m DeeDee Pearson. I catered your…retirement luncheon.”

“You mean my birthday bash,” Junebug corrected.

So she still hadn’t admitted that she was retiring. Well, maybe now that Frank was dead, she wouldn’t have to. “All right,” I agreed, “and then we ran into each other in Monica’s office.”

Junebug snorted. “That little bitch has been a burr under my saddle for years! I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention her name on my property. Just thinking about her makes me sick. What are you here for?”

“I wanted to drop off some homemade cupcakes I baked as a sample of my catering company—Classy Catering
.
I’m giving samples to everyone I know.”

Junebug pulled a pack of Marlboro’s out of her shirt pocket, lit one up and then blew a perfect smoke ring that floated slowly over my head. “Well, I appreciate the cupcakes but you said you’re giving them to everyone you know but you don’t know me.”

“Not very well,” I said, “but we have met.” The thought that Junebug was getting a little forgetful reminded me how the other teachers had said the same thing at her retirement/birthday luncheon.

“If you say so,” Junebug said agreeably, “although I have to tell you that whole day is a blur to me. I remember that your lunch was pretty good but my gosh, poor Frank getting knocked off like that made me forget if you served chicken or steak.”

“I served fish, actually,” I said.

“Whatever. Who’d a thunk it? Frank getting killed like that. I mean he could be a real pisser but I never thought someone would actually whack him. And on my birthday! What a bummer.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “it was a bummer. Especially for Frank.” I casually waved a hand in front of my face. “Phew! It’s warm today, isn’t it?”

“That’s because you’re hauling around some extra pounds,” Junebug noted, looking me up and down appraisingly. “You should drop some weight. I suppose that’s hard to do if you’re around food all the time but you should try then you wouldn’t be hot. Now take me; I’m never overheated but I’m twenty-three pounds underweight. I have an extremely high metabolism. As a matter of fact, I’m usually chilly.”

Bully for you
, I thought. I have to admit that I’ve never been too fond of extremely petite women. “How wonderful that must be.”

“It ain’t bad,” Junebug agreed. “Makes me look years younger too.” Junebug looked at the box I was holding. “I’ll take that cupcake sample, if you don’t mind. I could go for a cupcake around now.”

“I wonder if I could bother you for a glass of water?” I made a show of fanning my face again. “I’m just so warm.” The coughing bit had worked with Claudine so maybe asking for a drink would do the same thing with Junebug too.

“Why not? But I’m telling you, lose that furnace you’re carrying around and you’ll cool down quick enough. Come on.” She gestured for me to follow her. We walked across the lawn to a large screened porch and I followed Junebug inside.

“What a lovely porch,” I remarked, trying not to pant as I tried to keep up with Junebug’s pace. The woman trotted like a puppy that had just woken up from its nap and was heading for a bowl of chow. It was a lovely porch, filled with white wicker furniture, green and white cushions and hundreds of plants all in terra cotta planters. The porch was so feminine that it was hard to believe Junebug had decorated it. She definitely seemed more like the type who would lean more toward old wooden wagon wheels and pictures of cowboys on the last roundup.

“I can’t take credit for that,” Junebug said airily. “That was all Jeff’s doing.”

“Jeff?”

“My husband. Jeff loves to decorate. Loves to cook too. What he doesn’t love is to earn a paycheck. Have a seat and I’ll get your water.”

I sat down on one of the wicker sofas and looked around the porch. Marching across a rattan table was a line of trophies. Getting up, I hurried over to examine them before Junebug returned with my water. FIRST PLACE-SENIOR ARCHERY TOURNAMENT, 2007. THIRD PLACE-SENIOR GOLF TOURNAMENT, 2011. FIRST PLACE-SENIOR SOFTBALL TOURNAMENT, 2009. And that was just the first row. Behind it stretched a line of more trophies that had to go back decades. Until I’d seen Junebug in action with the bow and arrow and now looking at her impressive array of trophies, I hadn’t seriously believed that someone as tiny as the older woman would have been able to take down someone as vital and as strong-looking as Frank Ubermann. Now I was having serious doubts about my previous assessment of Junebug. I heard tiny footsteps pitter pattering down the hall so I scooted back to the wicker couch and sat down again.

“Here you go,” Junebug said when she came back onto the porch a few seconds later. She handed me a glass half full of tepid water that had the taste of water from a bathroom tap instead of a kitchen. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the glass Junebug had given me was speckled with toothpaste. Junebug must have grabbed the water glass from the nearest bathroom instead of toddling on her black cowboy boots all the way to the kitchen. After pretending to take a sip, I smiled and set the glass down on top of a small wicker table.

“Thank you,” I said, smacking my lips. “That
 
really hit the spot.”

Junebug blinked at me and I had the distinct impression that she’d forgotten who I was again. “I’m sure you’re going to miss Mr. Ubermann,” I said, hoping to steer the conversation back to the murder.

“Who?”

“Frank Ubermann—your boss?”

“Ohhhh, him.” Junebug said, nodding her head slowly. “Well, to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t say ‘miss’ is the word I’d use when it comes to Frank.”

“Really?”

“Yes, ‘really.’” Junebug replied, mimicking me in a way that reminded me of my older brother when he was about twelve and being a pain in the neck. “Frank was one tough nut and about as hard-headed as a person can get. We’ll do better with a new director at Eden Academy. Out with the old and in with the new, that’s what I always say.”

Except when it came to herself, apparently. “Still, it’s terrible how he died,” I pressed. “Murder is so frightening and so unexpected, especially in a town the size of Kemper.”

“Live by the sword, die by the sword.” Junebug chuckled. “Although in Frank’s case, I guess it’s live by the arrow, die by the arrow—although rumor had it that he was quite the swordsman if you get my drift.”

“Not really.”

“He was a real playboy,” Junebug said impatiently. “He fooled around with every women he met—or at least he tried to.”

Now we were getting somewhere. “Surely not
every
woman,” I said, not wanting to come out and ask Junebug if Frank had ever made a play for her. That seemed pretty far-fetched but anything was possible.

“He sure did. He even patted my fanny a few times back when I first started. Of course, I was younger then but even though I thought Frank was one hot-looking man, I set him straight but fast. Junebug McClellan does not fool around.”

“Did any of the other women on the staff fool around?”

“Are you kidding me? They
all
fooled around! Frank moved from one woman to the next one like a bee pollinating flowers.”

“Even Ruth Sparrow?”

“Well, no, but she’s just the receptionist. Frank had his standards.”

“I wonder who shot him,” I said.

Junebug shrugged and looked disinterested. “Could have been any of a whole cast of characters. The whole staff had a bone to pick with him both individually and collectively.”

“The whole staff? Why?”

“Oh, he was always watching us, always coming into the classrooms and telling us how to do our jobs. Like anyone has to tell me how to teach. Why, I’ve been teaching since before Frank Ubermann was out of didies and I do it a lot better than some of those upstarts he’s hired. Jack Mulholland couldn’t teach a tree how to drop its leaves. And Simpson! That idiot wouldn’t be able to tell you how to make two dollars in change from a two dollar bill.”

“My, my,” I said as I pretended to take another sip of water.

Junebug was warming to her subject. “And Frank was
always
picking on the kids. ‘Why aren’t you in class?’ ‘Where’s your hall pass?’ The kids hated him. You might ask a few of the students on the archery team what they thought of Frank if you’re so curious. You’d get an earful for sure.” Junebug’s eyes narrowed. “What’s it to you, anyway? You’ve decided to become a private eye instead of a caterer?”