Do Unto Others (8 page)

Eula Mae played dreamily with one of her errant curls. “Yes, the police have already been here asking me about you and our beloved Beta.” She saw me tense and shook her head. “Junebug can’t possibly think you killed her. You know he’s really a sweet boy underneath all that bluster. Billy Ray’s a different story, though, and Junebug gets pressure from him.” She paused, giving me a speculative stare. “So what was your quote?”

I told her. She shook her head, the ringlets dancing around her face. “Makes as much sense as mine. Job 31:35:
My desire is, that the Almighty would answer me, and that mine adversary had written a book.
Well, I’ve written several award-winning books and I was her adversary. Big whoop. What’s the damn point of it all?”

“I take it Junebug shared the list with you.”

“Just my part. He wouldn’t divulge who else was on it.”

I did. She sat and listened thoughtfully, harrumping at
Tamma Hufnagel and Bob Don Goertz’s names. At my mother and Hally Schneider’s names, she frowned.

“Don’t understand that at all. How could she hate or want to hurt someone with Alzheimer’s and”—she gestured in the direction of her gardener—“someone as sweet as Hally?”

I shrugged. “Mama can’t remember any connection with her. And I don’t know about Hally. Maybe it’s some sick way of striking at me or Janice Schneider.”

“My Lord,” Eula Mae said, but not to me. Her eyes were back in the garden. Hally had removed his shirt and his bunched muscles moved smoothly as he worked. Eula Mae sighed like a dieter in front of a candy store.

“Youth is wasted on the young, Jordy. Remember that.” With Hally out of reach, she appraised me. “You and Hally do favor each other, you know. You both got those fine Schneider looks. Shame you’re still just an infant compared to me. But of course Candace is a different story—”

I rolled my eyes. “Look, Eula Mae, let’s concentrate. You know damn well that I didn’t kill Beta and I’m willing to give you the same benefit of doubt—”

“Are you so sure?” she interrupted, her voice as sweet and fake as sno-cone syrup. I stopped dead.

“I’m kidding!” she exclaimed, but her eyes showed merriment at my discomfort. I ran a tongue over dry lips.

“So when was the last time you saw her?” I asked.

“Oh, that nastiness in the library. When she slapped the tar out of you.”

“Not since?”

“No, Jordy. Lord, what do you want, an accounting of my movements? All right, Perry Mason, I’ll be delighted to oblige. Murder’s one of the few crimes I’m
still innocent of and I want to keep my unstained reputation. After that little scene at the library, I came back here, did some work on the newest book—it features Charity Keepwell, who I am sure you’ll remember from my very well-received
Lily of the Alamo
two books back. Then I had my dinner, watched some television, did a little editing, and went to bed.”

“What time was that?”

“Around ten. And alone.” She seemed to have spotted something interesting on her nail. The cat batted her sleeve, wanting attention.

“I see. And you don’t know of anyone who had a motive to kill Beta?”

“Lord, sure I did. That crazy Matt Blalock for one. And I suppose even
you.
”

I tried not to look menacing. “I hope you didn’t make any such statement to the police.”

Eula Mae leaned close to me and I could smell the slightly sour odor of old perfume. “No, sugar pie, I didn’t. Motive, yes; but you’re not stupid enough to commit murder. But someone like Matt Blalock is, or that Ruth Wills.”

“Ruth?” My dinner date? That possibility didn’t promote good digestion—and it might make conversation just a tad strained.

“Surely you could tell there’s no love lost between Ruth and Beta.”

“I knew they didn’t get along, but—”

“Are you keeping your ears in a jar? Beta tried to get Ruth fired.” Eula Mae leaned back, delighted in the miniature drama she’d caused. A beringed hand ran through her curly mane to heighten the effect.

“What for?”

“I don’t know all the details. I just heard about it from my friend Joan. She’s a secretary over at the hospital
and a very ardent fan of mine. Of course sheer numbers preclude my having a real relationship with most of my fans, but I’ve made an exception for Joan. Such a perceptive reader and an extremely reliable source. Joan said Beta claimed Ruth tried to poison her when she was in the hospital last January.”

“What?” This was news to me.

“Oh, the hospital shut it up because it was groundless,” Eula Mae sniffed. “Just Beta getting a visitation from Satan and blaming it on Ruth. No one filed charges or anything; I think the D.A. over in Bavary talked Beta out of it ’cause it was so blasted silly.”

“So what happened between them?”

Eula Mae waved her hand, dismissing the need for details. “I don’t know. Apparently Beta was in the hospital—she’d had some chest pains and they were keeping her for observation—and she said Ruth entered her room and tried to give her an injection, when she’d just been given some medication by another nurse. According to Beta, Ruth told her she was going to get
hers
—and Ruth tried to stick the needle in her. Beta screamed bloody murder—you know what a set of lungs the old witch had—and some other nurses rushed in. Of course Ruth denied the whole crazy thing and there was no evidence to support Beta’s charge.”

“I don’t get it. Even if it were true, why would Ruth want to kill Beta?”

“Back then, who knows? Community service, perhaps? It’s a lot of bullcrap if you ask me. But now”—Eula Mae slid her glance slyly over her shoulder—“who knows? I mean, Beta did try to ruin her career.”

“But she failed. Ruth didn’t lose her job. They didn’t even file charges. Why kill Beta now?” This made little sense to me.

“I don’t know what else might have transpired between them. Ruth supported you in the censorship fight. Maybe there’s some other dark secret between them.” Eula Mae’s eyes glowed with creativity, as though she were plotting her next potboiler. “Was Ruth on that list? What was her quote?”

Ruth’s was easy to remember, especially in light of this revelation. It was 2 Kings 4:40—to wit:
There is death in the pot.
When I read it earlier, I had no story such as this to relate it to. Now it sounded like Beta considered Ruth as Mirabeau’s own Lucrezia Borgia.

I repeated the quote to Eula Mae and enjoyed the momentary silence. “Well, my Lord. Sounds like Beta still held a grudge.”

“Great. I have a dinner date with Ruth tonight.” My enthusiasm waned.

“Mind your cocktail, sweetie.” Eula Mae laughed. Then her merry face darkened and grew serious. “Well, what if it’s not bullcrap and Beta was right? Maybe you shouldn’t go.”

“For God’s sake, even if it was true, she’d have no reason to poison me.” I stood and watched Hally fill a trash bag with pulled weeds. “Hey, maybe Hally’s pulled up a toxic plant I can take with me for defense.”

“Don’t joke, Jordy.” I turned and looked at her. The pretend drama was out of her face. “Someone killed Beta. Maybe someone on that list, maybe not. But it’s for the police to handle. Let them.”

“Ruth called me. She can’t think that I’m snooping into her life.” I brightened. “Maybe because of Beta’s earlier accusation, the police’ll think of Ruth as a bigger suspect.”

“Now you sound guilty,” Eula Mae reproved. “No one looks more culpable than the fellow who goes around trying to prove his innocence.”

I stood and rested my forehead against the porch pillar. “Thanks for the catch-22. Look, if you saw how Billy Ray guns for me—”

“You were panicked this morning, sug.” Eula Mae rested her knobby hand on my arm. “You found the dead body of someone you know in your workplace. That’s a profound shock. I think you’ve borne it quite well. But you’ve got to quit thinking that you’re going to be arrested in the next ten seconds unless you find the killer. It’s not healthy to worry so.”

I hated to admit it, but she made sense. Junebug surely wouldn’t arrest me—or anyone else—without hard evidence. He was a professional, after all. I kept picturing him as the boy I’d grown up with and not as the responsible police chief he was. He’d done a good job for Mirabeau. Billy Ray was another story.

“Thanks, Eula Mae. I appreciate that.”

“Yeah, yeah, right.” She wagged crimson fingernails at me. “Just give me first rights to be your biographer from the hoosegow.”

“Deal.” I nodded toward her scattered pages and then toward Hally, who was drying the sweat from his firm body with his shirt. “I’ll let our beloved Jocelyn Lushe get back to work.”

“Have a good dinner. Don’t let Candace know. She might poison you even if Ruth doesn’t.”

You could always count on Eula Mae for moral support.

I headed back down the walk, watching Hally toss open another trash bag for the mound of weeds he’d pulled. I suppose Eula Mae was right. Even distantly related as third cousins (still considered kin in this part of the country), there was a family resemblance. We both stood tall with thick blondish hair and green eyes, and we had the distinctive stubborn Schneider cheekbones
that could freeze into refusal and mulishness at a moment’s notice. But where I was lanky from running and idle reading, Hally was thickly-built from years of football and work. I’d been a much gawkier kid. Hally was a senior at Mirabeau High and was probably years ahead sexually of where I’d been at that age. I just hoped he wasn’t ahead of where I was now.

I shook his hand, ignoring the dirt on his palms.

“Hey, Jordy. How’s Cousin Anne doing?” he asked.

I admit surprise; the Schneiders live no more than three houses down from us but they’ve only shown a passing interest in Mama’s decline. Hally’s annoyingly peppy mother Janice boasted a better attendance record at library board meetings than she did in checking up on her neighboring kinfolk.

“She’s about the same, Hally.”

He shook his head. “Damn shame. I know Mom keeps meaning to come over and see you and Arlene and Anne. I see Mark in the neighborhood, but I get the feeling that he doesn’t care to discuss his grandmother.”

I suspected that Hally didn’t do much to curry a friendship with Mark. Hally was a senior, a popular athlete from a perfect family; Mark was a moody freshman loner stuck with a mouthy mother, a mouthier uncle, and a diminishing grandmother.

I sighed. I halfway felt like telling Hally that the Schneiders had been crappy kinfolk, but I decided it wasn’t the time or place. “It’s hard. Listen, Hally, I wanted to see you about something else.”

He looked bemusedly at the porch. “Hope it’s not about Miz Quiff. I assure you my intentions are honorable.”

I laughed. “No, not about Eula Mae.” Curiosity couldn’t resist though. “She hasn’t acted, uh, inappropriately toward you, has she?”

It was his turn to laugh. “Not at all, although I’m sure she thinks I never see her looking at me. I kind of like older women, but Eula Mae’s not my type.”

“No, I need to discuss a different topic with you. I guess you heard about Beta Harcher.”

Hally’s smile faded. “Yeah, I heard. Mom told me about it. You found her in the library?”

“Yeah.” And why didn’t you ask me about that straightaway? I wondered. Not every day someone you encounter has stumbled across a corpse, and you’d think the topic would debut damn early in the conversation. “Did you know her?”

Hally blinked. “Why are you asking?”

I figured a football player like Hally appreciated bluntness. I told him about the list. Shock spilled across his face.

“Honest to God, Jordy, I don’t know why that woman would have my name there.” Hally wiped a sweaty lip with the back of his garden-gloved hand.

“There was a Bible quote by each name. Yours was Proverbs 14:9.
Fools make a mock at sin.
”

Hally’s tongue darted out to his lips and back again, nervously. “Why would she write something like that about me?”

“I thought you’d know. You been doing any sinnin’ lately?” I said it as nicely as I could, but I’ve never believed in treating errant family members with kid gloves. Or garden gloves, in this case.

Hally looked spooked. He took a step backward and fell over the bag of weeds. Dirt and twigs stuck to his sweaty back and he jumped up quickly, brushing them off his jeans and mumbling about being clumsy in the off-season.

I’d seen that boy play football with the grace of a
dancer, so I crossed my arms and frowned at him. “What’s got the chigger in your pants?”

“It’s a little unnerving, you know, to hear some dead person was writing shit—I mean stuff—about you.” Good thing sweet cousin Janice wasn’t there to hear her little boy cuss. Janice would smile big as day while she scrubbed your mouth with lye soap.

“So how did Beta know you, Hally? She must’ve, to write what she did.”

The words came quickly. “She knew Mom from the library and the church. I knew her from Sunday school; I’m president of the youth group there. And she babysat for us sometimes, when I had a date or something for school and Mom and Dad went out.” Hally had been an only, extra-adored child until his little brother Josh arrived five years ago, much to Janice’s embarrassment. She was the kind of woman who’d prefer no one know she was still getting sex at forty.

“So you knew her socially.”

“I saw her at church. She had some definite opinions about how the youth group should be run.” I remembered what Tamma Hufnagel said in the same vein. Beta’s need for control was an equal-opportunity annoyance. Hally continued: “And I saw her about a week ago when she baby-sat Josh. After going to the movies in Bavary, I got home before Mom and Dad did, so I relieved her. Put Josh in the car and took her home.”

I sighed. Hally seemed shook by all this, and I couldn’t blame him. I was shook, too. But I didn’t like that he wasn’t able to meet my eyes for more than a second or two. What was he hiding?

“How did she act when you saw her?” I asked.

Hally shrugged and pulled his T-shirt back on. “Same mean old bat as always, I suppose. She was still mad at Mom for siding with you about banning books. Mom
told her that didn’t mean they couldn’t still get along, even if they disagreed. So I think that’s why Mom asked her to baby-sit Josh, maybe to patch up. Miz Harcher really seemed to like Josh; she’d play games with him, read him Mother Goose and Pooh Bear stories. I kind of thought she’d wished for a grandkid of her own.”