Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?: A Thoroughly Southern Mystery (7 page)

Fortunately, she didn’t expect a reply. She strode along the covered walkway and onto the porch, fumbling in her book bag for her keys. I trotted behind like a Lilliputian following Gulliver. “I know they’re in here,” she lamented. “They have to be. I had them at lunch.” Her hair fell in a shawl around her shoulders.

I wished I had hair long enough to warm my neck. “You drove home,” I reminded her.

“Oh, yeah. So they must be here.” She rummaged some more, while I stood there wishing I’d had the sense to wear my trench coat or at least bring an umbrella.

She pulled up the keys like a magician removing her first rabbit from a hat. “Oh! Here they are!” She dropped the book bag with a clunk and unlocked the dead bolt above the ancient knob. Her hands were large and strong, with long fingers.

“You play the keyboard, don’t you?” I wanted to divert her from my chattering teeth.

She turned and looked down at me, obviously pleased. “Have you heard the band?”

“No, somebody told me. But you’ve got good hands for a keyboard.”

She stretched her hands into two stars and considered them like she hadn’t really noticed them before. “I guess. Come on in. I’ll get some lights on.”

She flipped a switch beside the door. The kitchen hadn’t changed much in thirty years. Same brown cabinets with yellow countertops. Same cinnamon-toned appliances. Same table with a wood-toned Formica top and four country kitchen chairs. Same sunflower curtains framing the double window behind the sink.

Valerie locked the dead bolt behind us, then cruised the downstairs turning on enough lights to delight the power company. I took the keys she’d left on the table and retrieved Alex’s files. Valerie and I returned at the same time. “Oh. I forgot all about those. Put them there.” She pointed at the kitchen table toward which I was heading. “That way, Edie will see them as soon as she comes in. Be sure to lock the door, though. We’re real careful about that.”

Locking up seemed silly for the length of time it would take me to drink a cup of coffee, but I honored the request.

It wasn’t until I turned back to hand her the keys and we stood face-to-face under the bright light, that I saw that the left side of her face still showed purple and green. She saw me staring and put up one hand to cover it. “I’m sorry. It looks awful, I know. I ran into a door.”

Denial runs deep.

“That’s what everybody says, honey, but you and I both know somebody did that to you, and whoever he is, he’s not likely to quit.”

“Oh, no, I ran into a door. Honest. I’m very clumsy.” As a demonstration, she walked toward the cabinets and ran straight into the corner of the countertop. With Olive’s accusations rattling around in my head, I remained skeptical.

I watched, puzzled, while Valerie took down two glasses, filled them with ice, and poured in iced tea. She handed me one. “Here you are.”

I stood there shivering so hard the ice clinked in its glass, wondering what happened to that cup of hot coffee she’d offered.

She handed me the other glass. “Hold this and I’ll turn up the thermostat. We turn it way back all day while we’re not here.” I had already figured that out. As soon as she left, I set the glasses on the table to prevent frostbite.

The heat came on with a click and a dull roar, but it would never be able to heat those high ceilings and big square rooms before I finished my glass of tea and left. Chilly wisps of air trailed down my neck and swirled around my ankles, reminding me that when the house was built, Georgians were more concerned about attracting breezes than keeping warm.

I started to pull out a kitchen chair. Valerie asked from the door, “Wouldn’t you like me to make a fire in the living room? It’s all laid and everything.”

“That would be wonderful.” I followed her through the dining room, carrying both glasses and wishing I had grabbed a dish towel to put around them.

The dining room was filled with file-sized cartons stacked shoulder-high and neatly labeled with the names of Edie’s various clubs. Papers covered the table and spilled onto the floor. Valerie looked around and explained, “Edie works in here, and she says you should never throw papers out. You never know when you might need them.”

Across the hall I saw a big room empty except for several card tables and chairs. “That’s where Edie’s bridge club meets,” my tour guide explained.

She led me to the living room, which was as cold as the others. With a wave of one arm, she asked, “Don’t you love her bears?”

Edie’s brocade couch, chairs, and grand piano were mixed in with Josiah’s elderly recliner. On and around all of them were teddy bears. They sat on chairs, lined the mantelpiece, and nestled into the corners of the couch. An enormous bear wearing black tails, white shirt, and Wick’s famous paisley bow tie sat on the bench of the old baby grand.

A family of Pilgrim bears sat in child-sized chairs at a small table before the fireplace. The table was covered by a pale orange cloth, decorated with short orange candles and dried flowers, and set with miniature china. When on earth did Edie find time to dress bears and decorate small tables, with everything else she had to do?

But a little girl lives and breathes in every grown woman. When I bent closer and saw that the tea set had two serving platters, a lidded serving bowl, and a gravy boat, I itched to pull up a chair and join them.

Valerie straightened Papa Bear’s black construction-paper hat. “I helped make their clothes.” Her voice was shy and proud. “Edie’s teaching me to sew. The material I got today is for their Christmas outfits.” She added, as if it were an afterthought, “I made Mama Bear’s apron all by myself.” She stepped back so I could admire it.

The orange apron was gathered onto a bib and tied at neck and waist. Its stitches were almost straight, the gathers nearly even. “You did a great job,” I congratulated her. “I’d never have guessed you were a beginner.”

“I am, though. I never made anything by myself before.” She stroked Mama Bear’s shoulder as if to assure herself the apron was real.

The chill had reached my bones by then, and my hands and feet were beyond feeling. I set each glass on a coaster on the coffee table and rubbed my palms together. “Were you going to light a fire?” I’d have sat on the couch, but even the furniture looked cold, so I walked around, hoping to warm up. My perambulations took me over to the loveliest piece of furniture in the room—a rosewood curio cabinet with glass doors. It used to grace Edie’s foyer.

“That’s got a light,” Valerie called from across the room. “Down on the right side.”

I pushed a button and illuminated Wick’s mother’s prized set of American snuffboxes, so tiny and brightly colored they looked like jewels. “Those are Edie’s boxes,” Valerie informed me. “Folks used to carry chewing tobacco in them, or something.”

Her voice was muffled. I turned to see her kneeling beside the fireplace, which was laid with wood, but no kindling and no paper. She had her head right down near the logs, peering at them as if waiting for them to reveal their secrets. “I guess I need a match—”

A blind man could have seen she had no idea how to light a fire. “Do you have any newspaper?”

She looked around. “I don’t know if Edie got one today.”

Next to the fireplace, an old copper bath held newspapers. A coal scuttle held kindling, and a china vase held long matches. I headed that way, but before I could reach them, Valerie grabbed a match. She struck it and tossed it into the fireplace. When nothing happened, she tried another. The third time she grabbed a fistful, lit them all, and flung them toward the logs. Several missed their target and bounced on the floor. Wisps of smoke curled from the carpet.

Valerie was still bent over peering at the cold logs. “It’s not burning,” she lamented.

I dashed across the room, shoved her aside, and stamped out embers, so busy looking for every wisp that I heard a motorcycle in the drive only to register that Henry must be going home.

Finally I reached for the lone match left in the vase. “Let me do it.” I wadded paper under the logs, set kindling on top of the paper, and lit the fire.

“Ohhh.” Valerie nodded as she watched flames catch the kindling. “I see.”

I put the screen in front and pressed my hands against it, wondering if we’d need to amputate all my fingers or only a few. It took me a while to realize that the crinkly sound I heard was not the fire in front of me.

I looked around to see Mama Bear and her tablecloth blazing as merrily as the logs, with flames already slithering along the fabric to lick the back of the chair and the table legs.

I gasped. Valerie turned. “Oh, no!” She stood, mesmerized and useless.

I grabbed an afghan from the sofa and started to beat out the flames.

“Valerie?” a gruff voice demanded from the door. “What have you done
now?
”

A life-sized teddy bear, all black and gold, strode into the room, hoisted the blazing chair with one hand and the table with the other, and headed to the kitchen like a waiter bearing a flaming dessert. His heavy black boots squished as he walked. Mama Bear wobbled so in her chair, I followed to be sure she didn’t fall. I reached the kitchen in time to see him tip her into the sink. A second later, the porch’s screen door slammed shut.

Sunflower curtains dangled dangerously near the blaze, so I hurried over to turn on the water. Pain seared my right wrist as I reached for the tap and got too close to the flames. A hiss of steam filled the room. I choked as smoke filled my eyes and lungs.

My poor jacket was singed and my wrist burned like—well, fire. I was on my way to the fridge for ice when the gruff voice announced, “I beat out the fire, but the furniture’s charred and some of the dishes got broke. Valerie?” he raised his voice. “You get in here, you hear me?”

The only answer was a whimper from the living room.

He called, unmoved. “Don’t you cower in there like this ain’t your fault. We all know it good and well is. You come on in here, now.”

He stomped over to the sink and peered down at the bear. “Rest in peace, Mama.”

While he examined the bear, I examined him. He was tall and stocky with a wiry red-gold beard and frizzy gold hair holding a glint of red. It was pulled back in a wet braid about a foot long, tied with a leather thong that matched those on his wrists. The rest of his hair was dry except for a few springy tendrils that were oddly soft against his heavy face. He was dressed all in black. Black jeans, slung low and drooping, soaked by the rain. Wide black belt dotted with huge silver studs. Black short-sleeved shirt to show off a tattoo of a golden sword with red flames all around it. Appropriate.

I didn’t see Valerie until she gasped, “Oh! My apron got burnt up!” Forlorn, she peered down at the mess in the sink. “It’s absolutely ruined.” She lifted one charred orange scrap and held it to her cheek. Tears rolled past it and through it.

“The whole house nearly got burnt up.” The man reached around Valerie and poked the bear with a wooden spoon from the dish drainer. “Poor Mama Bear is done for. What were you doing, Valerie?” His voice was both disgusted and puzzled.

“Lighting the fire.”

He started toward the living room. “Omigod, the whole place’ll be burning down.”

She caught his arm. “It’s okay. There’s a screen in front of it.”

He shook his head in dismay. “I’ve told you not to play with matches.”

“I know, but I wanted her to get warm.” She pointed my way. “She was shivering.”

Her past tense was correct. There’s nothing like a good fire to warm a body up.

The man turned to look at me good for the first time. With two blue-eyed golden giants standing before me and the sink sending up intermittent wisps of steam, I felt like I’d wandered into Valhalla. He’d have looked at home in a horned helmet, she in flowing robes holding a giant chalice of mead.

“Who are you?” he demanded. Or maybe, given his size, that was his normal way of asking for things. I suspected he usually got what he asked for.

“Judge Yarbrough.” I emphasized the first word, although I seldom introduce myself that way. He was the person most likely to have given Valerie that bruised cheek, and I wanted him to know who and what he was dealing with. “I came to see Henry, and Valerie invited me in for—a glass of tea.” No point in reminding Valerie she had offered hot coffee. The way her mind worked, she’d probably insist on making it right then. “When she tried to light the fire, a stray match must have landed in Mama Bear’s lap.”

He grabbed Valerie’s arm and gave her a shake that would have felled a lesser woman. “She’s sweet, but not wholly reliable around dangerous objects. Not real punctual, either. We need to get going, hon.”

“Oh!” She clapped a hand to her mouth in dismay. “I need to change. I only got home a few minutes ago. And I’ll need to cover—you know.” Her hand reached toward her eye and poked her cheek. She winced.

“Go, then.” He ignored the wince and pushed her toward the door.

As she ran up the stairs, I said, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Maybe because we’ve been too busy for me to give it. Frank. Frank Sparks.” He gave a rumble of a laugh. “You’ve had enough sparks for one day, ain’t you?”

I thought of Henry’s fire in the shed and Valerie’s in the house. “Just about.”

I was feeling sick about Edie’s house. The air was smoky, her carpet was pocked with burns, her little tableau was ruined, and I had no idea how much she valued the table, chair, dishes, or Mama Bear. If they were childhood heirlooms—

When I thought about her coming home from a long, wet drive and finding the place like that, I teared up.

Frank noticed, but he read me wrong. “We better let some of this smoke out.” He reached across the sink and shoved up both windows at once. The wet air was clean, but frigid.

“Valerie don’t mean any harm,” he assured me, fanning with both thick hands. “She’s a bit what you might call absentminded.”