Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?: A Thoroughly Southern Mystery (2 page)

Still, I’d never been invited to meet with a library director in her office before, and I was tired of shifting bales of straw and pumpkins. “Would right now suit you?”

“Great. I’ll put on a pot of tea.”

Hope County is located in that wedge of Middle Georgia between I-20 and I-16, where November is a lovely month. Our fall is subtler than the flaming ones farther north, but equally lovely and a whole lot warmer. The sun blessed my shoulders as I walked the four blocks. Only dogwoods were rusty red as yet. Sweet gums were turning gold from the top down, and Bradford pears were making up their individual minds—some were red, others still green. Birds sang for joy at being back home for the winter, and the sky looked like it had been washed, hung out, and blown dry by sweet breezes. We’d had a long spell of chilly rain, so the air had that fresh, happy smell it always gets rising up from wet ground to meet the sun.

At the library, I admired fat pumpkins lining the library steps and smiled at a scarecrow reading in the new children’s wing. Donna Linse, the children’s librarian, was on the look-out for me. She came to take my elbow and steer me toward the back. “Miss James is expecting you.”

As we passed the checkout desk, I waved to Olive Harrison and Edith Burkett, thinking how odd it seemed to see Edie there. Edie was one of Hopemore’s few claims to fame. She had competed in bridge tournaments all over the world and was expected to come in at least third in the U.S. Women’s Bridge Championship in May. In addition, for years she had been one of Hopemore’s leading clubwomen. There wasn’t a club in the state worth belonging to that Edie hadn’t held office in. She’d even won a Georgia Woman of the Year award for her work with literacy. The previous April, however, her husband—who owned our local drugstore—had closed his pharmacy one night, gone into the back room, and taken an overdose of his own pills. Within three weeks, Edie had gone to work full-time at the library.

She still served as president of the local literacy council and headed up a bridge club that was hosting a big regional championship tournament in January, but she had resigned as chair of the library board when she started work. As I pattered after Donna, I wondered how it felt to move from board to staff and how well Edie fit in with the other librarians. Of course, Edie and Olive Harrison had been friends and played bridge together before Edie went to work, and they were practically family, since Edie’s stepdaughter, Genna, had married Olive’s brother, Adney.

Donna tapped on the director’s door, peeped in, and announced, “The judge is here.”

It wasn’t me Donna was in awe of, it was her boss. Alex stood five foot ten in her stocking feet, taller in the spike heels she preferred. She piled satiny black curls in elaborate styles on top of her head, poured her caramel curves into exotic clothes, and sported nails that were more like talons. Some people might be misled by her glamour into underestimating her intelligence, but her coworkers weren’t among them. Alex had her master’s in library science. I just hoped she didn’t spend spare moments reading the classifieds, looking for a better-paying job.

I stepped through Alex’s office door and saw Natasha smiling from at least two dozen frames. How had the child had time in her four and a half years to do anything but pose?

Across the room, Alex towered over a credenza, pouring boiling water from an electric kettle into a china teapot. An enameled tray held a matching china sugar bowl, creamer, four cups with saucers, a plate full of cookies, orange napkins, and silver spoons.

“Welcome, Judge.” She turned with a smile, setting pumpkin earrings swinging. Colorful cornucopias were knitted into her black cotton sweater, and it looked real good with a long black skirt and boots. “Thanks for coming.”

“You sure do this in style.” I could admire the china cups and saucers, but had to repress a shudder at the tea. I hadn’t drunk tea from a pot since a memorable incident nine months before, when a pot-brewed cup nearly ended my life.
¹

“I don’t tolerate mugs, tepid water, or tea bags in my office. Tea is a ritual I take seriously.” Alex put the lid on the pot and covered it with a yellow cozy to let it steep. “I’m real glad you could come. Won’t you sit down?” She gestured toward one of two visitor’s chairs, and I saw that even her long nails were painted orange with little gold pumpkins on them.

She had lived in the South long enough to know not to rush into a conversation, so while we waited for the tea, we talked about our dogs. Alex’s Poe Boy was the son of my beagle, Lulu. Finally Alex shifted and settled back in a way that made me think we were getting down to business. I figured she had some legal question and didn’t want to pay a lawyer when she could get the same information free from a judge. She surprised me.

“I called you because you’ve known Edie longer than I have, and I need your opinion. Olive claims Edie is worrying about something, and it’s beginning to interfere with her work. She forgets to run books over the magnet, which scares the pants off patrons when they start out the door and the alarm sounds. At least twice she has sent somebody to the wrong section, when she knows this library as well as anybody. And yesterday she shelved three books somebody donated to the library book sale. I want to get this straightened out so she can get her mind back where it belongs.” Alex tolerated nothing that interfered with the library running smoothly.

“I’m not her priest or her doctor,” I protested. “Edie doesn’t call to tell me her problems.”

Alex reached for her phone. “But you do know her, right?”

“Sure. We’ve served on a lot of boards and committees together, and when Wick was alive, we saw them pretty often at the country club and various events.”

“Then let me call her in and ask her to tell us both what’s bothering her. Afterwards, I want you to tell me what you think. Isaac says you have a good head for solving mysteries.”

While she turned her attention to the phone, I wondered uneasily what, exactly, Isaac had meant. The last time I’d gotten involved with a mystery, I’d nearly got myself and Clarinda, my housekeeper, killed.
²
He hadn’t been particularly complimentary at the time. Was it likely he’d tell Alex I was good at solving mysteries so she’d involve me in another one?

Edie Burkett was neither plain nor pretty, but had what my mama described as “a pleasant face.” Her short brown hair, dusted with gray, fell from a side part to turn under above her collar except for what she called “that one bullheaded curl” that always flipped up at the back. We were about the same height, but she was still slender while I—well, Joe Riddley kindly calls me voluptuous.

“I hate women skinny enough to look good in long denim jumpers,” I greeted her, “but if that cardigan ever goes missing from your closet, you’ll know where to look for it.” It was navy, with a snow-dusted village knit into it all around the bottom.

She smiled. “I’ll stop by Shep Faxon’s office after work and leave it to you in my will.”

I tremble to remember how we all laughed at that.

Alex got up and went to pour tea. Edie held up a hand. “None for me, thanks. I can’t stay long.” She bent to remove a stack of files from the other visitor’s chair. “What are these?”

Alex screwed up her mouth in disgust. “That grant proposal. You would not believe how much piddly information those folks want in it.”

“I told you I’d do it over the weekend.” Edie put the files on the floor, settled herself in the chair, and crossed her ankles. “What did you want to see me about?”

“In a minute.” Alex bent to strain tea into two cups and brought one to me.

Mama always said, “Eat and drink what you’re offered, even if it kills you.” She never imagined that one day it nearly would. However, I spooned in sugar, poured milk, and took a nervous sip. It tasted good, whether it killed me or not, and drinking from real china was a nice change on a workday morning.

However, if I didn’t get back soon, our employees would begin to think I’d absconded to Brazil with their paychecks. I told Edie, “I understand something’s been bothering you.”

Edie frowned at Alex. “Did Olive tell you that?”

Alex sipped her tea and avoided Edie’s eyes. “She said something to make me think you’ve joined the hereafter club. You know”—she waved to show it wasn’t real important—“the one where you go into a room and ask, ‘What did I come in here after?’ ”

Edie didn’t crack a smile. “I hope you didn’t drag Mac all the way over here to talk about something that stupid.” Her voice was cross.

Alex sipped her tea before replying. “Isaac says Mac’s real good at puzzles.”

Edie gave me a sour look. “Alex and Olive ought to mind their own business.”

My employees didn’t talk to me like that, but then, none of them ever chaired my board.

“Since I haven’t,” her boss replied, “why don’t you go ahead and tell us about it?”

Edie heaved a sigh that came from the tips of her clogs. “It’s so
silly.
But since we’re here—I got in my car last Sunday and couldn’t reach the pedals. Since nobody ever drives the car but me, I must have put the seat back to get out and forgotten I did it.”

“I put my seat back almost automatically,” I reassured her. “Don’t you wish somebody would make a car short people could drive without the dashboard bumping our knees and the steering wheel removing our digestive tract as we get out?”

She nodded. “Or one where the seat belt didn’t cut off your windpipe?”

Alex stretched long arms above her head and preened like a cat. “You all should have taken your vitamins. But Olive said something about a door.”

Edie’s returning good humor evaporated in a huff of disgust. “I left it unlocked that same night. I’m usually careful about locking both the door and the dead bolt since Daddy left, but I guess I forgot the night before.”

Her daddy, Josiah Whelan, hadn’t exactly “left.” Edie had put him in Golden Years Nursing Home up in Augusta the past September, after a massive stroke left him paralyzed on the left side and unable to speak.

“What was most puzzling,” Edie continued, “was that the cat was inside. He’s an outdoor cat. He
never
comes inside.”

No wonder she was troubled, if she was forgetting to lock her door. Hope County isn’t the crime capital of the South, but isolated women are vulnerable wherever they live. Still, there could be a rational explanation. I suggested one possibility. “Could Genna have used your car while you were asleep?”

Like I said before, Genna was Edie’s stepdaughter—Wick’s child by a previous marriage. When her husband, Adney, was out of town on business, Genna often slept over with Edie. My daughter-in-law Cindy, who was Genna’s friend, said Adney was nervous about Genna sleeping in their house alone.

“Genna wasn’t there that night.” Edie’s fingers twisted like mating worms. “Olive should never have mentioned this. Now you all are worried, and Genna and Adney will have one more reason why I ought to sell the grove and move into a nice little town house in town.” Her tone said exactly what she thought about a nice little town house in town and that she was quoting somebody—probably Genna. “Forget it, okay?”

She rose, but before she could leave, Olive stepped into the office after the slightest of knocks. As a judge, I had no business convicting Olive of eavesdropping without evidence, but she convicted herself when she joined our conversation right away with no apology. “What about that girl who lives with you?”

Edie gave her the impatient look she gave persons who attended board meetings uninvited and spoke out of turn. “Valerie is good about locking up. She also has a car.”

Edie had been a lot more willing to consider Genna than Valerie, but she was irritated enough with Olive right then to reject anything she suggested. Olive must have understood that, for her pale, plain face flushed, and she said, in the same drab, uninflected voice that never held the children’s attention when she took over story hour for Donna, “I was just trying to help.”

Poor Olive was less like an olive than anything I could imagine. A woman named Olive ought to be sophisticated and interesting, with sleek dark hair worn in a knot at the nape of her neck, slim little black dresses that cost a fortune, and a face you could put on a magazine cover. This Olive had a square jaw and eyes like unpolished pewter, and she invariably wore a black skirt, a light gray sweater with long sleeves and a V-neck, a single gold chain, and small gold balls in her ears. For winter she added black blazers. For summer she substituted short-sleeved gray cotton sweaters with scoop necks. For dress-up she wore gray silk blouses. For golfing she changed the skirt for black pants and the V-neck for a gray polo shirt or sweatshirt.

She even drove a gray car, a Nissan SUV exactly like her brother’s, suitable for rough-track adventures, although I doubted Olive ever took hers anywhere more adventurous than the Bi-Lo. Cindy said Adney bought her the car soon after he bought his own. Apparently they were the only two left of their family, and very close. She had certainly moved to Hopemore not long after Adney and Genna.

Joe Riddley claimed Olive had a secret desire to be a nun. I suspected she had drawers full of red bikini underwear and a closet full of slinky negligees. However, I was unlikely to ever know. Olive never invited anybody to her apartment except Adney, Genna, and Edie. She didn’t seem to have any other friends. It wasn’t just that she was a newcomer. She made it clear she preferred books to people. She also apparently preferred solitary rounds on the golf course to foursomes, if the gossip was right down at Phyllis’s Beauty Parlor.

“She’s real good at golf,” I’d heard one woman say, “but when people ask her to play with them, she says she prefers to play alone. Can you imagine?”

“She plays bridge like that, too,” said another. “Makes it clear it’s cards she likes, not the company.”

“Poor honey, can’t you do something about her hair?” a third asked Phyllis. “I mean, that short straight look doesn’t do a thing for her, thin as she is, and that color of red—Well, all I can say is, if you and she are trying to match Genna’s color, one of you is color-blind.”