You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) (17 page)

This morning at the breakfast table Slim made a point of showing Sugar an article in the paper about how Dick Nixon would likely be the Republican nominee in this year’s presidential election. Sugar had turned back to scrambling Slim’s eggs and smiled.

Maybe those Bodine girls had problems keeping
their
men in line, but that kind of thing was not going to be happening in Sugar Watson’s house, and she was dang sure gonna keep a close eye on her pantyhose drawer from now on.

To Sugar’s way of thinking, that was where Wanda Jean went wrong, buying those extra-large Hanes pantyhose for Hilton. Clearly it just encouraged the man, and God only knows what would have happened if he had been able to get into those white go-go boots.

Sugar’s thoughts were interrupted by yet another loud
pop
from Rolene. Resisting the urge to deliver her own
pop
right to the back of Rolene’s head with the brush in her hand, Sugar said, “You did a real nice job keeping up with all the food for the service, Rolene. I know Wanda Jean really appreciates everything you did to help with the funeral.”

“Well,” Rolene drawled between smacks, “it sure as hell wasn’t because I wanted to. I’d like to give Hilton Milton a piece of my mind for going and getting himself killed.”

“I don’t think Hilton did that on purpose,” Sugar said delicately. “You want me to do these roots for you, honey?”

Rolene stared at herself in the mirror, appraising the state of the black stripe that ran down the part in her otherwise glowing yellow hair. “Do you have my color?” she asked in a discriminating tone, as if any contrast could be worse than the one she was already sporting.

Sugar plastered on her best professional smile and said, “Oh, I’m sure I can match it. What exactly do you use?”

“Whatever blonde Miss Clairol color is on sale,” Rolene said. “That way it’s a custom blend.”

Sugar bit her lip not to say, “You look like an on-sale blonde alright,” and instead purred, “Well, I know it’s a unique look, honey, but I’m sure we can match it.”

“Is that included in the gift certificate?” Rolene asked suspiciously.

“Of course,” Sugar said, reaching for her Camels. “No extra charge.”

“Well, okay then,” Rolene said, as if she’d just wrestled with a weighty decision. “Go ahead and give me a root job. You’ll save me some money this month. Did you know that Miss Clairol has gone up to $2.61 a box?”

Sugar shook her head, which Rolene took as commiseration and encouragement to continue talking. “You know, Sugar,” she said, “the two of us, we’re good businesswomen.”

“Why do you say that, Rolene?” Sugar said, mixing the chemicals for Rolene’s roots.

“Our line of work is never gonna go away,” Rolene said philosophically. “Women are always gonna want bouffants and bourbon. Really, the two lines of work compliment each other.”

“How do you figure that?” Sugar asked.

“No self-respecting woman I know is gonna take a drink on a Saturday night unless her hair’s looking good,” Rolene said. “You go to getting drunk with a bad hairdo and Lord only knows who you’ll wake up with the next day.”

“Put this over your face,” Sugar said, handing Rolene a towel. “I don’t want any of these chemicals to run down and get in your eyes.”

Rolene did as she was told. The instant her face was covered, Sugar’s expression melted into an exhausted scowl. Her cheeks actually hurt from all the fake smiling. She drew in a recuperative lung full of nicotine, held her breath for a second to get the full soothing effect, and then went back to work as the cloud of exhaled smoke circled around her head.

“Well,” she said, as she began to apply the color solution on Rolene’s hair, “I know you all will be relieved for things to settle down again. These last few months have just been awful for your family, what with Blake dying right there at Christmastime.”

A muffled cackle emerged from the depths of the towel covering Rolene’s face. “I told Cooter he better start sleeping with one eye open. Bodine husbands are dropping like flies these days. He’s next in line.”

Sugar joined in the laughter, but thought to herself that Cooter Jackson might do well to follow that particular piece of advice. “At least you all have the comfort of knowing that Blake died of natural causes,” Sugar said.

She was rewarded with a long moment of silence from beneath the towel, and then Rolene said with entirely fake sincerity, “God called Blake home early even if he was reading a girly magazine with his pants down. That just shows that Jesus really does love us.”

“That’s real Christian of you to say, Rolene,” Sugar said. “Okay. Now, this needs to sit for just a few minutes before we rinse it off. I’m gonna go get a cup of coffee in the back. Can I get you anything?”

Rolene smacked her gum and blew a bubble. “Nope,” she said. “I’m good.”

As Sugar passed through the main room and headed into the back, she gave Flowers a look that said, “We need to talk.”

Flowers, who had just started giving Maybelline a manicure, stubbed out her cigarette and said, “Keep your fingers in this water, Maybelline. I’ll be right back.”

Maybelline, who was engrossed in the copy of
Redbook
on her lap mumbled an acknowledgement without looking up. Across the room, Wanda Jean sat under the dryer, equally preoccupied with a copy of
Cosmopolitan
with Jackie Kennedy on the cover.

“You and your bright ideas,” Flowers hissed, moving to stand beside Sugar at the coffee pot. “If Maybelline Trinkle had two brain cells she’d take’em out of her head and use’em for earrings.”

“You think Rolene is much better?” Sugar snapped back. “She is sitting in there in my chair smacking and popping chewing gum.”

“Did you find out anything?” Flowers asked.

“She uses whatever blonde Miss Clairol is on sale to get a custom- blend dye job,” Sugar said crossly, pouring her coffee. “And she got real quiet and started talking about God and Jesus when I mentioned Blake dying at Christmastime.”

“I have to get back,” Flowers said. “Now that Wanda Jean is under the dryer, I’ve got Maybelline to myself.”

When Flowers sat back down at her table, Maybelline said, “Thank God, I need to turn the page.”

“Sorry,” Flowers said. “I had to go to the little girls’ room. You can take your hands out now.”

After Flowers dried Maybelline’s fingers, she started to work on the cuticles on her left hand, leaving Maybelline free to turn the page in her magazine. “Good article?” Flowers asked.

“It’s about a priest who gets married,” Maybelline said. “I just don’t know how the Catholic Church expects priests not to want sex. Just putting on that little white collar doesn’t mean they’re not men anymore.”

“Which is why I have never wanted to keep a man underfoot,” Flowers said.

Maybelline looked up as if she was really seeing Flowers for the first time. “You’ve never been married?” she asked.

“Nope,” Flowers said, the word making the Lucky Strike dangling from her lips bob up and down.

“Don’t you ever get lonesome?” Maybelline asked curiously.

“Sure,” Flowers said, purposefully letting the statement hang in the air.

“Well, what do you do about that?” Maybelline asked, her magazine forgotten.

“I get in the car and go to the city for the weekend,” Flowers said. “You can’t live in a little ole town like this and screw around without getting caught, Maybelline.”

Flowers didn’t look up from her work, but she felt Maybelline’s hands tense. “You don’t think people in this town can be discreet?” she asked.

“Honey,” Flowers said, removing her cigarette from her mouth long enough to tap the ash out in the tray, “I don’t think people in this town can spell discreet.”

Maybelline shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “How do you think people get caught doing something they’re not supposed to be doing?” she asked.

“Generally by running their mouths,” Flowers said, as if they were just talking about the weather. “Or they start doing something out of the ordinary that make folks take notice.”

“Like what?”

“Oh,” Flowers said, “you know, changing their routine for no good reason. Going out all dressed up. Wearing new jewelry. Getting overheard talking on the phone.” At that, Flowers glanced up just long enough to see Maybelline’s face turn a faint shade of green.

“You really think people notice that kind of thing?” she asked.

“Sure they do,” Flowers said. “Why, I was just talking to Mae Ella Gormley on the telephone before you came in and she was telling me that the Sheriff’s dispatcher, you know, Flossie Henderson? Well, she was noticing that Hank Howard got himself a brand new diamond ring recently.”

“Oh, he got that . . . .” The words were out of Maybelline’s mouth before she could stop them. When she realized what she was saying, her lips moved up and down like a perch laying on the bank of the river waiting for somebody to take the hook out of its mouth. Instead, Flowers set that hook a little bit deeper.

“Oh,” she said, “do you and Hank know each other?”

Maybelline’s eyes widened, moving back and forth as if in search of the right answer. Finally she said, “Hank investigated Blake’s death. He’s been nice enough to call and check on me since December. He’s very . . . professional.”

“I imagine that’s hard on a young feller,” Flowers said, picking up a nail file.

“What do you mean?” Maybelline said, eyeing the older woman with open caution.

“Well, it must be hard to be a professional and stand your ground on things like that fire up at John Powell’s hardware store,” Flowers said, working rhythmically with the file. “Flossie told Mae Ella that John Powell came down and talked to Lester about Hank’s report. John says that fire was arson and Hank kept him from getting the insurance money.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Maybelline said.

“Really?” Flowers asked, looking up again. “I thought maybe since Blake was a volunteer fireman he might have talked about the hardware store fire.” She let a long beat pass, and then she said, “Wasn’t Hilton a volunteer fireman, too?”

“Yes, he was,” Maybelline said curtly. “Can we take a break for a minute, Flowers? I just remembered I need to make a phone call.”

“Sure, honey,” Flowers said. “Why don’t you use the phone in the back so you can hear yourself think?”

Of course, what Maybelline could not know is that the instant she left the room, Flowers moved swiftly to the reception desk and watched in the big mirror on the west wall, which gave her a perfect view into the rear area of the shop.

The instant Maybelline picked up the receiver, Flowers copied her action with perfect timing and a practiced hand. She listened while Maybelline dialed a number. A man answered and Maybelline said, “You have to come over to my house as soon as it gets dark. We have to talk.”

Chapter 19

As soon as the Bodine sisters left the salon, Flowers dragged Sugar into the office and closed the door. They both lit cigarettes and wearily agreed that dealing with Wanda Jean, Maybelline, and Rolene all at one time -- even in the interest of solving a murder -- was above and beyond the beautician’s call of duty.

“For the life of me,” Sugar said, “I cannot figure out why Lorene and Earl kept having kids. Did they think if they just kept trying they’d do better on the next one?”

“Damned if I know,” Flowers said. “Wanda Jean is sure as hell the pick of the litter. They should have stopped with her. I’d have drowned Rolene and Maybelline at birth and told God they died.”

Both women laughed. “They’re a piece of work alright,” Sugar said. “So, you’re thinking from what you overheard on the phone that Howard is gonna be going through Maybelline’s back hedge tonight?”

“Yep,” Flowers said. “He couldn’t say ‘yes’ fast enough.”

“But how does knowing that help?” Sugar asked. “That just tells us those two are up to something. The whole town knew that already. Now what do we do?”

“Now,” Flowers drawled, “somebody has to be outside that house tonight listening at the window.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Sugar said. “If the whole neighborhood already knows that Hank is slipping through the boxwoods, how are we supposed to get in there without being seen? And how do you know she’ll even have the window open?”

“Her air conditioner is busted,” Flowers announced triumphantly. “She was going on and on about how miserable she is at night with just the fans on. All I can say is she and Hank must be working up a pretty good sweat for her to be complaining that much. The thermometer on my back porch said it was 69 degrees when I got up this morning.”

Sugar held up her hand. “Stop,” she said. “I do not want to be thinking about Maybelline Trinkle’s bedroom activities.”

“Can’t say as how I blame you,” Flowers said. “Anyway, the windows will be open.

“Okay.” Sugar said. “But you still haven’t answered me about how we’re supposed to get back there without getting caught.”

Flowers took a drag on her Lucky and said, “First off,
we
aren’t going to be doing anything. Me and Wilma are gonna have to handle this one.” She paused for another puff, and then said, “That is unless you married women want to explain all this to your husbands.”