Tressed to Kill (5 page)

Chapter Five

STELLA LEFT SHORTLY AFTER RACHEL. I WAITED almost an hour for my mom, but she foiled my plan to ask about Althea’s outburst by not coming back. For all I knew, they had gone to a matinee or were having an early dinner at the Lucky Manatee tavern. After mopping the salon’s floor, watering the ferns, and grouting a loose tile by the sink, I was suddenly more tired than a hound after a day’s hunting. Locking up, I noticed a coating of pollen and dust on the veranda and promised myself I’d sweep it in the morning. I drove the couple of blocks to the apartment I rented from Genevieve Jones, an octogenarian whose only son had died of pancreatic cancer at sixty. She had converted her garage into an apartment for him—he’d never married—and she agreed to rent it to me when I moved back.
My mom, of course, assumed I would move back in with her, but I couldn’t. I’d lived with her until I married Hank and then I’d lived with him. I’d even had roommates for my two years at UGA and at beauty school. Now, at thirty, I needed my own place, needed to see what it was like to live on my own, to come and go as I pleased, to answer to no one. I knew if I moved back into my old bedroom, I’d wiggle into my old habits like putting on a comfy slipper. And so would Mom. Mrs. Jones showed no tendency to monitor my comings and goings. She kept busy with tai chi and bridge and visiting shut-ins, and I spent long hours at the salon. I checked in on her a couple of times a week and helped with the gardening in exchange for a reduction on the rent. Other than that, we pretty much left each other alone.
Today, however, she popped out onto her porch as soon as I pulled up to the curb. She was a tall, thin woman with the fragility of an origami crane. Her skin was tissue-paper thin, and I sometimes fancied I could see the bone glowing through. Snow white and thinning, her hair stood up in a pouf around her scalp, heightening her resemblance to a crowned crane. Blue eyes still snapped with life, though the pigment had faded to a pale periwinkle.
She waved an arthritis-gnarled hand. “Yoo-hoo! Grace! I just poured myself some lemonade . . . would you like some?”
“Sure,” I said, resigned. I knew she’d been lying in wait for me, hoping to pump me for details about Constance DuBois’s murder. By now, word must be all over town that Mom and I had found the body. Still, her lemonade was homemade, tart, and refreshing, so I accepted a glass with pleasure and sank into one of the wicker chairs on her porch. A honey bee buzzed among the honeysuckle that twined up the porch slats, and I made a mental note to cut it back one day soon.
She let me take precisely two sips before leaning forward and asking, “Is it true your mama got arrested for the murder?”
“Mrs. Jones!”
“That’s what I heard at the Piggly Wiggly when I went to pick up lemons and white vinegar. It works a treat on mildew in my shower stall, especially in the door track. I pour it in there and—shazam!—no more mildew.” She nodded brightly.
I set my lemonade down with a click on the glass-topped table beside my chair. “Mom and I found Constance DuBois’s body. We went down to police headquarters today to help them with their investigation. Neither of us was arrested.” Of course, if Special Agent Dillon had his way, we still might be.
“I knew Ethel Spillman was wrong,” Mrs. Jones said with satisfaction. “And I told her so. ‘Why,’ I said, ‘Violetta Terhune wouldn’t hurt a fly, Ethel, and you should think shame on yourself for repeating such a rumor. The Good Book tells us in the Psalms to keep our tongues from evil and our lips from spreading lies.’ Ethel went off in a huff after that, I’ll tell you.”
The small-town gossip mill was enough to make me miss the anonymity of Atlanta. But not the traffic and gangs and crowds. “Thank you, Mrs. Jones,” I said. “You’re absolutely right—my mom would never hurt anyone.” Not even an arrogant, know-it-all, trouble-making shrew like Constance DuBois.
“You can count on me to spread the truth, my dear,” she said, patting my hand. “I already called the police to tell them that they got the wrong woman.”
Great, I groaned inwardly. Now Dillon would think we were trying to throw dust in his eyes by having friends and neighbors give character testimonials. “Thank you,” I said again, weakly. “But it’s probably better if you let the police get on with it and don’t make any more phone calls.”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head so the crown of hair quivered around her face. “I learned long ago that you can’t just let things take their natural course. That’s the lazy person’s answer. Not that I’m saying you’re lazy, Grace. But one must be proactive to get things done in this life. That’s the word my great-nephew uses—proactive. He’s an architect, you know, and a very handsome boy.”
I did know. She’d been trying to fix me up with the thirty-five-year-old “boy” since I moved into the garage apartment. I had no interest in dating. Zero, zilch, none. The wounds from my divorce were still too raw. But Mrs. Jones didn’t get the hint. “Thank you for the lemonade,” I said, standing.
“Anytime, dear. And you tell Violetta that I’ll help any way I can with her defense. If the police are foolish enough to arrest her, of course. We could put those collection jars at some of the businesses around town. You know, with a picture of Violetta and a sign saying ‘Violetta Terhune Defense Fund,’ or something like that so she can afford a really good lawyer. Did you know I have a great-nephew who’s a lawyer? But he lives in Richmond. And two of my great-nieces are lawyers, too.”
Waving a hand in farewell, I escaped before she could think of any more schemes to “help” my mom or any more great-nephews to fix me up with. The heavy scent of the honeysuckle followed me down the stone path to my apartment. It sat back a little ways from the house and gleamed with the same pale yellow paint. Azaleas, hibiscus, and oleander flourished along the sides and back, and a huge pecan tree shaded the apartment and screened it from the house and street. Unlocking the door, I let myself in and immediately punched on the window air-conditioning unit. After my absence of more than twenty-four hours, the apartment—single bedroom, old-fashioned bathroom, and kitchenette with a two-burner stove—smelled musty. The answering machine’s blinking light caught my eye, and I listened to the messages while standing in front of the air conditioner, letting the cool stream play over me.
The messages were evenly split between those who wanted to know if Violetta was in jail and those who proclaimed their faith in her innocence. Vonda was among the latter. She ended her call with a brisk, “Call me.”
I picked up the phone to call my best friend, but then thought better of it. Right now, people were behind Mom, sure of her innocence. But I’d lived in St. Elizabeth long enough to know that if the police didn’t arrest someone else pretty soon, people would begin to talk. The mere association of the words “Violetta Terhune” and “murder” would make people think twice. Business at the salon would drop off. Friends would call less often. I’d seen it happen to a high school teacher, Tim Moore, who coached the girls’ softball team. The police had questioned him when Debbie MacArthur disappeared; he’d apparently been the last one to see her after practice one Friday. Everyone protested his innocence at the beginning, but as the weeks went by and Debbie remained missing, the rumors turned ugly. Someone egged his house. He moved away before the start of the next school year—to Biloxi, I think—and got a job with a Catholic school. Debbie turned up a year after that with a baby boy. She’d run away when she’d found out she was pregnant by her boyfriend. Then, everyone said they knew all along Tim hadn’t done anything, was a great guy, but it was too late. I wasn’t going to let something similar happen to my mom. Reaching for the phone book, I started calling hotels.
I FIGURED DEL RICHARDSON, MR. MORESTUF, AS A room service and valet parking kind of guy, and I was right. The clerk at the Sea Mist Plantation Inn, the largest and swankiest hotel in St. Elizabeth, immediately connected me to Richardson’s room when I asked for him. After I fed him the story about needing some data from him about a Morestuf’s impact on the local economy, he agreed to meet with me. I assumed we’d meet in the hotel lobby or café, but he had other ideas.
“Meet me at the Morestuf site. You know where it is, darlin’? Just north of the intersection of SR 42 and Forest Boulevard. You need to see the land to get a feel for what we can accomplish in your community. Say, in an hour?”
I took some care dressing for the meeting, wanting to strike an appropriate note between businesslike and casual enough for a building site. I finally settled on a sea green linen pantsuit that brought out the green in my hazel eyes and that I hadn’t worn since leaving Atlanta. A cream shell went under the three-quarter-sleeve jacket, and low-heeled pumps finished the look. I pulled my light brown hair into a quick French twist and even applied a little mascara and lip gloss. There. No one would mistake me for a high-powered Wall Street executive, but I looked professional enough that Richardson would take me seriously. I hoped.
The building site was a field bounded on one side by the road and on two sides by scrub pines and kudzu, the imported Japanese vine that smothered everything that couldn’t outrun it. I was pretty sure that campers who spent the night outdoors would awaken to find their tents overgrown by kudzu. A boggy area sulked to the east of the site, studded with cat tails and scummed with algae. It looked like prime alligator territory, although the only wildlife I saw was a pair of redwing blackbirds. The area was also deserted, which I hadn’t anticipated. I guess I’d thought there’d be a housing tract within a stone’s throw or surveyors taking measurements or a gas station on the corner. But there was nothing except an occasional car speeding past on SR 42 and a dark blue Cadillac Escalade parked on the side of the road. Richardson stood beside the driver’s door, a brawny figure with a bull neck and a white Stetson hat. A leather sports coat added to his bulk, and cowboy boots made of some exotic hide encased his feet. The hint of jowl at his jaw line and the mesh of lines around his eyes put him in his mid-fifties. I got out and we shook hands. A large school ring glinted on his finger, and his grip nearly crushed my hand. The swamp smells of mud and rotten eggs filtered my way as the wind kicked up.
“A pleasure to meet you, Grace,” he said, the Texas twang as bright as his smile. “I can call you Grace, right?”
“Sure, Del,” I agreed. This “let’s be buddies” approach told me he was fairly desperate to find some allies in St. Elizabeth. Maybe I could make use of that.
He handed me an inch-thick manila envelope. “I think you’ll find all the stats and data you need in there,” he said. “Environmental impact statements, reports on the boost to local economies when a Morestuf goes up in the community, et cetera, et cetera. But numbers only tell part of the story, right?”
I nodded. He strode toward the middle of the field, and I followed, walking on tiptoe to keep the heels of my pumps from sinking into the sandy soil. The humidity had increased, and moisture quickly slicked my skin. Great drops of perspiration beaded Richardson’s forehead, and he swiped at them with the back of his hand.
“People are the real story. You saw that mobile home park we passed on the way out here, darlin’?” He flung his hand in the direction of town. “Well, when this Morestuf gets built, those people will have jobs, good jobs, with benefits. And they’ll be able to walk to work. What do you think about that?”
I thought it sounded good, in theory. “But what about the business owners in St. Elizabeth proper?” I asked. “What will happen to their livelihoods?”
“They’ll adapt, Grace, they’ll adapt. That’s how business works. The tourists will still buy the pricey clothes and local paintings in the downtown area because it’s so ‘charming and Southern.’ Real people like you and me, we’ll have options when the Morestuf opens. Options that better fit our budgets.”
He was good . . . I had to give him that. Linking us together as if my income weren’t a light-year away from his. He probably got his boots at Neiman Marcus and bought Christmas gifts at Tiffany’s. My shoes came from Payless, and I made my Christmas presents by hand, more often than not.
“It sounds good, Del,” I said, putting all the open-eyed innocence I could into my voice, “but I know Constance DuBois was dead set against it, and her opinion carried a lot of weight in St. Elizabeth.”
“She came ’round to our side before she died, God rest her soul,” he said. “She was a reasonable woman—a businesswoman—and those facts convinced her.” He nodded at the envelope in my hand.
I gaped at his bold-faced lie. “So, you were able to talk her around after the town hall meeting? I thought I saw you escorting her to her car. That was very gentlemanly of you.” If he could lie, so could I.
A tide of red seeped from his neck, over his jaw, and flushed his cheeks. “Cut the crap,” he said, all trace of friendliness gone from his voice. “I didn’t lay eyes on her after I left the building. If you’re implying—”
“I heard you threaten her,” I said, my voice cold. “And I heard her say she’d make damned sure you didn’t get to build your store.” A mosquito whined in my ear, and I shook my head. The sun was drifting down the horizon, and the lengthening shadows had brought out the little bloodsuckers.
Richardson’s large hand slapped at my arm. I gasped and jerked away from his grasp, almost falling. My twenty-twenty hindsight told me I should have insisted on meeting at the hotel when I saw how isolated this place was. I half turned to run.
“Mosquito,” he said, holding up his palm to show a spot of blood. His thin smile told me he had read my thoughts and was enjoying my fear. I rubbed at the welt on my arm.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“You are in way over your head, Miss Terhune,” he said, smoothing the sleeve of his jacket. “Go back to your shampooing and hair-cutting. Oh, yes, I made a few calls after we talked,” he said, correctly interpreting my expression. “Take a look at the information in there.” He tapped at the envelope, and I had to keep myself from jumping back. “And then convince your Save Our Downtown friends to get on board. Or maybe I’ll remember seeing you walk the DuBois woman to her car. Or your mother . . . aren’t the cops already talking to her?”
With a final flash of his big teeth, he headed toward the SUV. I stayed put, shivering despite the heat, until the Escalade was out of sight. Then I hurried toward my car, slapping at mosquitoes as I jogged. Once inside with the doors closed, I sat for a moment, catching my breath and scratching at the bites on my arms and face. That went well, I told my wide-eyed reflection in the rearview mirror. The flushed face looking back at me didn’t agree. I’m sure I saw the glint of red eyes at water level in the bog as I turned on my headlights, reversed, and sped toward the welcoming lights of St. Elizabeth.