Pretty is as Pretty Dies (A Myrtle Clover Mystery) (3 page)

"Well then, the Good Neighbors column. If somebody wants to
trade their grandma's punch bowl for a few heirloom tomato
plants, the Bugle doesn't have to get in the middle of it, does it?"

Sloan stared blankly at him. He'd no idea Josh Tucker had gotten so completely out of touch with Bradley reality during his time
in New York. "Now you're just talking crazy. If I don't broker deals
between folks trying to trade their National Geographic collection
for a collection of Reader's Digest condensed books, I'll be strung
up in the streets. My seventy-five-year-old neighbor, Miss Sissy?
She'd be out there booing my butt every time I took my trash out.
She's the number one fan of Good Neighbors."

"We're back to Parke then."

Sloan missed the dark undertone in josh's voice. "And like I
told you, Parke is single-handedly financing the dinky amount of
copy we do have. No, it's got to be your articles and Miss Myrtle's
tips. You're winning us awards," added Sloan hastily, "but you can
be edited down a little. Miss Myrtle's column is new enough that
her readers aren't totally rabid fans yet."

Josh crouched back over his article to signal the end of the conversation. He wasn't going to play second fiddle to Parke Stockard
in the newsroom-he didn't care how much ad copy she bought.

Tanner Hayes spluttered wordlessly, perspiration standing in beads
on his high forehead. The fact that his usually ruddy face was
ashen and that he dramatically clutched his chest would have
alerted insightful observers to his sudden, vicious heart attack. But
Parke Stockard, for all her beauty, money, and shrewdness, wasn't
particularly perceptive. Or compassionate. She thought only that
his round, balding head, buggy eyes, and strangled utterances reminded her of a toad.

She lazily batted a buzzing fly his way with a manicured hand,
curious to see if a long tongue would slurp it up. When it didn't,
she was bored with her flight of fancy and returned to the business
at hand.

"Your house," she repeated loudly. Was the old man deaf or just
stupid? "You need to sell it to me. Let me know when you're ready
to sign on. You'll be amazed how much your property will be
worth when we level your house and build three in its place. And
really-your home is completely outdated." She waved her slender
arm dismissively toward the old Colonial. "You won't have a hope
in hell of selling it when you or your wife go to a nursing home.
Which," she pointed out, "could be any day now." She gave him a
hard look, spun on her heel, and walked briskly to her car.

As Parke zipped down the road in her sporty car, she angled
the rearview mirror down to apply more red lipstick. This explains why she never saw Tanner Hayes lying on his cement driveway, still
clutching his chest, or his wife, Althea, hurrying down the long
drive to her husband's side.

It was a short drive to her own home; it had been an old farmhouse with a wraparound porch. At least, it was until she'd razed
it. Now it was a fabulous Mediterranean-style villa named Shan-
gri-La, with real stucco, a tiled roof, and an in-law suite in the
basement. The in-law suite was sort of a dungeon, but it hardly
mattered since Parke had divorced the pesky husband and equally
irritating in-laws.

She began to wonder, however, if she should put her son Cecil in
the dungeon suite. Perhaps under lock and key. She wasn't sure
where all the money she funneled him was going, but if the unsavory tattooed friend with the odd piercings was any indication, Cecil
was once again heading down the wrong road. It would be nice to
avoid rehab this time. Parke wondered if they even had rehab centers in the South.

She was just pulling the massive wooden front door shut behind
her when she heard Cecil's voice echoing through the granitefloored foyer from the balcony above. She whipped off her Chanel
sunglasses, ready for battle. What would it be this time? $25,000?
$40,000? Bracing herself, she put a tanned hand where she imagined
her heart might be. Her son thought she looked as if she was about
to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

"Yes, Cecil," she asked in a faux faint voice. It was a faded enough
tone to give Cecil pause.

"Mother, I need a little money." His mind raced, calculating
how little he could get away with asking.

"Yes, Cecil?" She sank dramatically into a Chippendale chair,
rummaging in her bag for her checkbook.

"Just..." he stopped. "Just ... five thousand."

Parke stopped short. Five thousand? Five thousand what? Surely
not dollars. There had to be a catch. Five thousand pounds? Five
thousand rubies? She wasn't going to give him a chance to revise it.
She snatched the checkbook and a pen out of the bag and scribbled
out a check, chipping a lacquered nail in the process. She slapped it
wordlessly on a marble-topped table in the foyer and swept out of
the room. Cecil thoughtfully watched as her high heels tapped out
of the foyer. He hoped his free-loading days weren't drawing to a
close.

Benton Chambers puffed a cigar (a habit cultivated because he
thought that's what southern politicians were supposed to do).
After flicking off the long row of ash, he set the cigar down on a
heavy ashtray and pulled open his desk drawer for his flask of Jim
Beam and a glass. His pudgy fingers clamped around the flask as
he poured the brown liquid into the glass and downed it eagerly,
wiping a few stray drops off his bloated features with the back of
his wrist.

Benton had thought his re-election to the city council would
be a cakewalk. Running on the "preserving Bradley's history" platform was a guaranteed winner since everyone was furious about
the Stockard woman sticking McMansions on small lots. Everybody in town was railing against her and his win looked like a sure
thing.

Benton stared morosely at his drink, then laid it down and
picked up the cigar again. He'd thought serving on the city council
would be an easy job. How hard could it be to govern a small southern town with a quaint and vibrant downtown, a pretty lake, and a
healthy tourism industry? If only he'd known. He hadn't counted on
Parke coming after him, pressuring him. He thought they'd had a
totally different arrangement. Who knew someone so beautiful
could be so toxic? Blackmailing harpy. And now he was stuck-if he
suddenly changed platforms, he'd look like a fool at best, and would
lose the election at worst. How could he get Parke Stockard to shut
up? He'd put in the time, shook the hands, shot the bull. He had the
pretty wife, the friends with beach houses. He'd be a monkey's uncle
if that pretty Yankee was going to take him down just when he'd
made it big. His cell phone bleated and he ignored its ring after seeing his wife's number on the display. He smoked and thought while
the air turned blue.

The Methodist minister, Nathaniel Gluck, summoned all his Christian patience to deal with the early-morning visitor in his church
office. Kitty's hair was pulled up in a bun, but in her agitation
some hair had come loose, giving her a most disheveled look. The
seminary had covered weddings, funerals, and board meetings. He
was quite sure there'd been no mention of hysterical church ladies
with mascara rivers running down their faces.

Kitty sopped up her misery with two brand-new boxes of
Kleenex and now Nathaniel rummaged desperately through his
desk for a travel pack he knew was hiding in there. Kitty trum peted into the last remaining tissue and Nathaniel fumbled frantically through the drawer until his long fingers grasped the travel
pack. He feared Kitty might soon be in need of a hug and the gangling man felt ill-equipped to handle the puddling mess she'd become.

What had Kitty been talking about before the floodgates opened?
"So summing up your concerns, Kitty?"

"I'm concerned Parke Stockard is going to hell. Although that
would get her out of my hair. Parke is mean. Parke is bossy. Parke
tells me they do it better in New York. Parke hates my flower arrangements. Parke says my chicken casseroles make her puke."
"

I understand." Nathaniel cut off her litany of loathing and affected a spiritual glow he hoped would transfer to his wretched
visitor. She opened her mouth again and he sighed. The glow
hadn't worked. He'd have to resort to prayer.

"And her Cecil got my Brian into drugs. Now Brian's at reform
school and Parke's son is living high on the hog. It's not fair." Kitty
swabbed her face with one of the travel tissues, succeeding only in
smearing the mascara across her cheeks. "Since Parke moved here,
everything has changed. My church work is just as important to
me as breathing. You know that. The only time I feel good about
myself is when I'm arranging flowers on the altar, or cutting up
communion bread. I don't get that feeling at home with Tiny."

Nathaniel repressed a shudder at her husband's name. Tiny was
the massive, Neanderthal-like redneck who mowed the church
lawn. Yes, she needed to escape her home life as much as possible.
But it presented him with quite a dilemma.

Kitty's face puckered up and a few fat tears squeezed out. "She's
the prettiest woman in Bradley. But Mama always said, `Pretty is as pretty does.' Parke Stockard would be revolting if she looked like
she acts." She heaved a hiccupping sigh and gave a malicious smile
at the enticing thought of a disfigured Parke.

No question about it: Kitty was a valuable resource. She plugged
away at humdrum church chores that no one volunteered to do. But
Parke Stockard had her own good points-deep pockets. Not only
did she donate new hymnals, plush carpet, and fresh paint, but she
had the skills and drive necessary to energize successful fund-raising
campaigns. The church could use a fresh approach and some
younger faces in the congregation ... and Parke was channeling lots
of money into church coffers. He sighed.

"Nothing was ever proven, though, was it?" he asked gently.
"About Parke's son introducing your son to drugs? And it's good to
get a dedicated volunteer in God's house, isn't it? You were doing
so much for us, single-handedly, that I always worried about you.
Maybe you could take the higher ground and befriend Parke. She's
just a newcomer looking for her niche, after all. Won't you prayerfully consider reaching out to her?"

Kitty looked at him sadly. He winced, guessing she must realize
the influence Parke's money exerted on him. Kitty pulled her battered pocketbook toward her and stood up. "Brian never used
drugs. Never. Not until he started hanging out with Parke's son.
Having a new volunteer is one thing-having a dictator is another." She stomped out of his office, ignoring his entreaties to sit
down. Nathaniel wrung his bony hands together. There would be
trouble. Of that he was sure.