Gayle Trent (2 page)

“Well, I’ll do a metasearch and see what I can find out.”

“Thank you, sweetie. I appreciate it.” I paused. “You doin’ okay for money?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure? I know how you like to try out new nail polish shades.”

Sunny gave a little laugh.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll pay you ten dollars for doing this work for me.”

“Now, Mimi, you don’t have—”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. I don’t expect you to work for nothing. Why, if I did some work for you, I’d expect to be paid top dollar.”

“You would not. I’ll call you as soon as I know something, all right?”

“All right. Thanks, baby. Hug your mama for me.”

“‘Kay. Love you, Mimi.”

“Love you, Sunny.”

I do, too. Sunny is at the very top of my list of favorite people. Most days she’s even ahead of her mother. But don’t tell Faye I said that.

The phone rang about fifteen minutes after I’d talked with Sunny.

“That sure was quick,” I said when I picked up the phone.

“What was quick?”

It was Bettie Easton.

“Oh, hello, Bettie. Sorry about that. I was expecting a call from my granddaughter.”

“Oh. If you’re busy, I can call you back.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Good, because I have something really exciting to share with you.”

Great. She had to be selling something—probably Mary Kay or Avon. Those Eastons are always sellin’ something. Since I was trying to be nice, though, I kept my mouth shut and heard her out.

“Melons,” she said.

That was it—melons.

“Is the band selling fruit already?” I asked.

School had only started back up a little more than a month ago, but Bettie really goes overboard whenever her grandkids are selling something. The Eastons have a used car business, so I guess it’s in their blood.

“No, hon. I’m talking about us. We’re melons.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Yeah, I’ve got melons, but it takes a bra with the hydraulic capability of a dump truck to hold ’em up these days, so I don’t see what’s to brag about.”

Bettie laughed. “Oh, you. You see, ‘melons’ is an acronym. Mature elegant ladies open to nice suggestions. What do you think?”

“I think it sounds like ‘melons’ are old hookers.”

Bettie laughed some more. “Not at all, silly. We’re only open to nice suggestions.”

I didn’t have a comeback to that, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Here’s how it works,” Bettie continued. “To get the Melons started, we’ll have us a little party. We’ll invite all the mature bachelors to attend. All us melons will have a dance card like in the old days. The bachelors will sign our dance cards—all nostalgia-like. It’ll give us a chance to mingle a little bit. What do you think?”

“I think it still makes us sound like hookers.”

“Not at all.” Bettie had a little bit of a huff to her voice now.

“It’s like that Ya-Ya Sisterhood thing, only we’ll be the Melons.

Get it?”

“Have you been watching “The Golden Girls” reruns again?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, I have. And it makes me realize how silly we are to be sittin’ home alone every evening when we could be gettin’ wined and dined. We’re still vibrant women, so why don’t we act like it?”

“You’ve got a point,” I said.

“So you’re in?”

“I’m in. What do you need me to do?”

“Be at the Center tomorrow morning at nine-thirty for the first meeting of the Melons.”

“I’ll see you then.”

I still thought “mature elegant ladies open to nice suggestions” made us sound like a bunch of streetwalkers, but I didn’t want to miss out on a party.

It wasn’t long after I’d hung up from talking with Bettie that Sunny called me back.

“Flora Adams disappeared about a month ago, Mimi. The papers were asking anyone with information to come forward. That went on for a day or two and then nothing more was said about her.”

“Did you check the obituaries?”

“Yep. Nothing there. Why’d you wanna know about this woman anyway?”

I told her about the note. She thought it was “cool.”

“I printed out the articles I found, and I’ll bring them over on Saturday if that’s okay.”

“That’ll be great, Sunshine.”

Sunny and I try to get together a couple Saturdays a month, just the two of us. It’s nice. A lot of kids her age don’t like hanging around their grandparents, but she does. At least, for now. I’ll treasure it as long as it lasts.

So Flora Adams had gone missing, and somebody had sold Marcia her little black clutch. Had Flora sold the purse herself, putting the note inside as some sort of insurance or act of justice? Or had someone else sold the purse, not knowing about the note inside, but knowing that Flora wouldn’t be coming home?

CHAPTER TWO

I got up the next morning and put on one of them tracksuits like Jennifer Lopez wears—though I have to admit I looked more jiggly in mine that she does in hers. Anyway, I felt it was the perfect thing to wear to a meeting of “Melons.” Mine was even the color of cantaloupe, so there you go.

I got to the Center about a quarter past nine. Bettie was already there and had the coffee started. I looked around, expecting to see doughnuts or muffins or at least melon balls; but there wasn’t the first sign of a refreshment anywhere. Good thing I’d had my raisin bran.

“Hi, hon!” Bettie smiled great big and had some of her red lipstick smeared onto her teeth. I was missing the best part of “The Today Show,” and she wasn’t serving refreshments; so I didn’t tell her about the lipstick.

“Who all are you expecting?” I asked.

“Let’s see.” She started counting them off on her skinny beringed fingers. “Marie, Delphine, Laura, Melvia, and, of course, Tansie.”

“Of course.”

Tansie’s the moneybags of the bunch, so she gets invited to everything. Everybody thinks she might offer to pitch in with the expenses. She usually does, too, but whether it’s out of generosity or to show that she can afford to pitch in with the expenses remains to be seen.

About that time, Tansie and Melvia came in. Tansie pulled Bettie aside as soon as they’d said their hellos—to tell her about the lipstick, I reckon, because Bettie hurried over to the counter and grabbed a napkin. She turned her back to us, so I figured she’d taken her teeth out so she could see what she was doing.

I still have all my own teeth, thank you very much.

I turned to Melvia. “So, what do you think about this ‘Melon’ thing?”

Melvia looked around to make sure Tansie wasn’t listening. “I think it makes us sound like ladies of the evening, but Tansie thinks it’s a grand idea. That’s what she told me—‘This is a grand idea, Melvia.’ What do you think?”

“I agree with you, but I don’t wanna miss a party.”

Melvia grinned. “Me, neither.”

Melvia is a little thinner than Tansie, her hair is gray and no way near as big as Tansie’s and today she was wearing a simple pair of jeans and sweatshirt—as opposed to Tansie’s satiny track suit that had a sparkly design on the top. Tansie glittered like one of them disco balls they used to have at dances when Faye was in school.

When everybody got there, Bettie asked us all to sit down.

We did. She remained standing so she could make an announcement.

Mainly, she likes to put on a big to-do about everything—something else she has in common with Tansie, but I was glad the show was finally getting on the road.

“I’d like to welcome you all to the first meeting of the Melons!” Bettie laughed like a hyena, flinging her Tilt-A-Curl blonde hair over her shoulder. The rest of us smiled. Except Tansie. She horse-laughed and flung her wrist, nearly blinding us all with that flashy watch she wears.

“There’s a sign-up sheet on the counter,” Bettie continued, “so we’ll all know what refreshments everyone is bringing. We want those men to know that we’re not just pretty faces!” She and Tansie laughed some more.

“Speaking of men,” I said, “who are they?”

“Well, after I called all of you, I called the director of the VFW; and I believe some of those gentlemen will be joining us.”

I nodded and got up to top off my coffee cup. I was already thinking this party was gonna be a dud. I appreciate the veterans serving our country and all, but everywhere they go Wendell Wallace has to show up. He was never in the armed services or anything; he only wishes he had been. This summer at the Fourth of July picnic, Wendell showed up with the VFW; and when they set off the fireworks, Wendell got up under a picnic table and yelled, “Incoming! To the bunkers!”

Still, in for a penny, in for a pound, I reckon. I already had the ingredients to make my shoofly pie, so I might as well make it and come on. Besides, Delphine brings peanut butter fudge to every shindig around; and that stuff is out of this world. If nothing else, I’d come load up on fudge and then say I wasn’t feeling good and go home.

* * *

Sunny came over on Saturday. We were having us a “spa day,” you know, where you do your fingernails and your toenails and your hair and your face and whatever else you can think of. It’s something Sunny particularly enjoys; but I was glad of it myself today, what with the shindig tonight and me wantin’ to look my best.

“So, what’d you dig up on Flora?” I asked Sunny while I massaged cuticle oil onto her fingertips.

“She went missing,” Sunny said, “but she never turned up dead.”

“Well, where did she turn up?”

“That’s just it. She didn’t. They found her car—and it even had her purse in it—but they didn’t find any trace of her.”

“Huh.” I took a cotton ball and doused it in nail polish remover. “But there had to be something.”

Sunny shook her head. “Nope. They even brought those hunting dogs to sniff out a trail, but it was like she’d vanished just a few feet from her car.”

“Huh,” I said again. “What color do you want today?”

“Can you do a French manicure, except with pink and pale blue?”

“Can the Pope sing?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Me, neither, so I guess what I’m sayin’ is that I’ll give it a shot.”

“Okay,” Sunny said with a grin.

“Back to Flora,” I said. “Sounds like she might’ve got out—or was taken out—of her car and put into another one.”

“Wow, Mimi, that’s what the papers said!”

“You don’t watch as many detective shows as I do without picking up a few things. I even watch that ‘Forensic Files’ on Court TV sometimes. It can give you the willies, though.” I placed some adhesive guides on Sunny’s nails so I could paint the end parts blue. “Did those papers mention anything about a second set of tire tracks or a suspect whose vehicle matched those tracks?”

“Uh . . . I don’t think so. The papers are on the table, so you can read ’em yourself.”

“Okay, sweetie. Mainly, I was just trying to keep going with the flow while you were impressed with my detecting.”

We both laughed at that. Sunny’s the one person I can be a hundred percent honest with a hundred percent of the time. And you. I’m pretty straight with you.

I had my doubts about anyone abducting Flora—I have to admit. When you get to be my age (even though I’m only a really young sixty-five), you start hearing about your older friends forgetting where they live and wandering off. Thank the good Lord I’m healthy and in my right mind. That’s why a lot of people get put in a home, you know—they start acting like young-uns, runnin’ away from home and forgettin’ how to get back. Still, I wanted to know what happened to Flora.

* * *

I wore me a burgundy Diane Von Furstenberg-style wrap dress to the party. Diane Von Furstenberg didn’t make it, of course; it was a copycat. Still, I figured I’d go with that don’t ask–don’t tell thing. If anybody wanted to believe I’d showed up wearing a designer dress, who was I to burst their bubble?

Besides, I’ve been watching that little ol’ Chip and Pepper on television where they take a designer outfit and then put it together with cheap clothes and make it look just as good. I don’t care to tell you, I’m pickin’ up a few things from them boys.

Sunny had done my nails in a raisin color, and I had on my new black Audrey Hepburn “Breakfast At Tiffany’s” shoes. I was lookin’ good, if I do say so myself.

Delphine was there when I got there, so I made a beeline for her candy. I had to put my pie on the refreshment table, after all. I sat my pie down and discretely grabbed the biggest piece of Delphine’s fudge. My goodness, it was good. Since nobody was looking, I wrapped a couple pieces in a napkin and put them in my black “clutch.” Then I ate another piece before everybody else started handling the food. You might think I’m a hog, but I was probably doing the whole gang a favor. I’d say fifty percent of the people there were diabetic. It’s just possible I was keeping one of them veterans out of a diabetic coma.