You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

“Oh, Tinker would never
gamble
,” Bitsy said, with entirely too much emphasis on the word. “It’s just not Christian.”

With a triumphant smile, Sugar said, “Of course it’s not, honey. Nobody would ever think good Baptists like you and Tinker would take to gambling in a place like Las Vegas. I mean, after all, Tinker is a deacon, isn’t he? That’s just the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.” And then she added disingenuously, “Don’t women dance up on stage out there half nekkid?”

Bitsy gulped, and said in a strangled voice, “Oh, Sugar, I wouldn’t know
anything
about that.”

*   *   *
 

While Sugar worked on Bitsy Temple, Flowers and Ida Belle Banners had called a truce over the manicure table in the next room. As an uncharacteristic gesture of good will, Flowers agreed to put out her omnipresent Lucky Strike, which mollified Ida Belle into almost pleasant conversation.

As the local “information” columnist for the paper, Ida Belle occupied a threat level on par with Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper. Although the town boasted no celebrities per se, none of the leading citizens wanted to risk a mention in Ida Belle’s carefully crafted, prose-based assaults. Millie Houston was still trying to recover from the line in Ida Belle’s Christmas column that read, “Local society maven, Mrs. Jasper Houston, arrived at the Christmas cantata at the Methodist Church wearing the most
interesting
frock for a woman of her generation.”

As Flowers stripped last week’s polish off Ida Belle’s nails, she said pointedly, “So who are you sticking it to in your column next week?”

Ida Belle sniffed with professional disdain, “Petunia, I do not ‘stick it’ to anyone in my accounts of life in our community, but I do have a responsibility as a journalist to be accurate in my reporting.”

Reaching for a nail file, Flowers said, “Tell that to Mille Houston. She’s been dressing like a nun ever since you nailed her over that dress she wore to the Methodist Church.”

“The neckline was entirely too daring for a place of worship,” Ida Belle said staunchly, “and I do not approve of this new trend toward short skirts. It might be fine for young girls, but Millie Houston is past 30. She should look to the proprieties and lead by example.”

Not looking up from her work, Flowers said, “Who you figure killed Hilton Milton?”

Ida Belle glanced around the salon and surreptitiously lowered her voice, “It is my personal feeling that the local constabulary is mistaken in their assumption that the wife is always the prime suspect.”

“Do tell,” Flowers said, adding. “Other hand.”

Ida Belle held out her left hand and said, “Well, I am well versed in the works of Agatha Christie. It is rarely the most obvious suspect who is the perpetrator of the crime. Wanda Jean is the least objectionable of the Bodine girls. I think Sheriff Harper should be considering more directly the activities of Maybelline Bodine Trinkle.”

Now Ida Belle had Flowers’ full attention. “And why would that be?”

Leaning forward, Ida Belle said, “Isn’t it just a little unusual for the Bodine girls to each lose a husband in such a short period of time? And it’s all over town that Maybelline is in a liaison with Hank Howard. He has been spotted by concerned citizens going through the boxwoods into her back yard on more than one occasion.”

Flowers arched an eyebrow, “What is it exactly that they’re concerned about?”

Ida Belle regarded her like she had lost her mind. “Why, the moral health of our community, of course. Maybelline has not been widowed a year.”

Biting back the wisecrack that rose to her lips, Flowers said, “And how do you figure Maybelline slipping around with Hank Howard has anything to do with Hilton being dead on the shag carpet?”

Ida Belle leaned in again. “I have it from good authority that Maybelline was, herself, interested in Hilton when he appeared at the Welcome the Hunters to the County ball. It is my theory that she was pursuing her sister’s husband and when Hilton rejected her, Maybelline killed him. After all, there was no explanation for Blake Trinkle’s sudden demise.”

“He died on the can reading
Playboy
,” Flowers said flatly. “Heart attack.”

“Really, Petunia,” Ida Belle said as if she were explaining a simple equation to a dull-witted student, “is it all that difficult to put an incriminating piece of literature in the hand of a dead man?”

Or to pull his pants down
, Flowers thought to herself, as she steered the conversation back to the chore at hand. “Okay, Ida Belle, how about you live it up and get a good red on your nails today?”

Ida Belle’s look of overt disapproval was answer enough. “Right,” Flowers said, “two coats of old lady pink coming up.”

*   *   *
 

Sugar Watson, Flowers Wilkes, and Clara Wyler sat together in Sugar’s small office at the back of the salon. Although Clara had initially been annoyed by Sugar’s admission that Flowers was now in on their efforts to gather information about Hilton Milton’s death, she soon relented.

Unlike many women who would have attached themselves to the project of clearing Wanda Jean Milton’s name with the ulterior motive of worming their way into the Study Club, Flowers was frank in her disdain for all women’s groups. She was simply being loyal to Sugar, which was a quality Clara admired.

After each of the women revealed the efforts of their sleuthing, Flowers summed it all up in her trademark fashion. “So we’ve got a pot-smoking, cross-dressing exterminator, who may have had dirt on a gambling Baptist deacon, and who might have been sleeping with his wife’s sister, whose husband croaked in the john reading a dirty magazine. That about cover it?”

“At this point, yes,” Clara said, making notes in a steno pad, “but I think we can pretty much rule out Mike Thornton as the killer. He’s just too much of a tree-hugging hippie. Knowing that Hilton was smoking pot on top of his other . . . habits . . . just tells us Hilton wasn’t the man Wanda Jean thought she met at the Welcome the Hunters to the County Ball.”

Lighting a fresh cigarette, Sugar said, “And that’s a damn shame. I remember how handsome he looked that night. You reckon he had panty hose on under his jeans?”

“Sugar! Keep your mind on the business at hand,” Clara scolded. “Now, what do you all think about Tinker Temple as a suspect?”

The trio considered the question, and then Flowers said, “Well, I don’t know what Tinker’s playing in Vegas, but he must be pretty good at it. I know his mama would have a heart attack if the gambling story got out, but other than getting run out of the church, he’s not doing anything wrong unless he’s not reporting what he wins to the Internal Revenue Service.”

Clara frowned. “You mean if you win money gambling in Las Vegas, it’s taxable?” she asked.

“Far as I can tell,” Flowers answered, “damn near everything you do is taxable until they plant you six feet under.”

“I can see a skinflint like Tinker Temple wanting to dodge the tax man,” Sugar said, “but what would that have to do with Hilton?”

Clara scribbled a few words in her steno pad. “I don’t know,” she said, “but it would be worth trying to figure out. What about this business with Maybelline?”

“As much as I hate to admit it,” Flowers said, “Ida Belle does have a point. Blake Trinkle was an awful young man to be dropping dead just from looking at a girly magazine.”

Sugar snorted. “Slim says he buys
Playboy
for the articles.”

“Clint says the same thing,” Clara said. “Like they really think we believe that nonsense. As long he’s just looking, not chasing, I could care less if he’s looking at girly magazines. He wouldn’t know what to do with one of those ole gals if he caught her anyway. If he even thinks a woman is making a pass at him, he can’t latch on to me fast enough to protect him.”

“They’re all big talkers,” Sugar agreed. “Slim’s so out of it, he doesn’t even realize when some old hide is trying to put the moves on him.”

“Well,” Flowers said, “if we go with Ida Belle’s theory, then it would mean Maybelline killed Blake and then went after Hilton, and when he wouldn’t go for it, she killed him, too.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Clara said. “But she might have found out that he liked to dress up in women’s clothes. Maybe she killed him over that.”

“Or maybe Hank Howard found out Maybelline was sniffing around Hilton and he got jealous,” Flowers said. “Wouldn’t a sheriff’s deputy know how to kill a man and not get caught?”

“That’s a good question,” Clara said. “How do we find out more about Hank Howard?”

Before anyone could answer, the phone rang. Sugar picked up the receiver and said, “Sugar’s Style and Spray. Sugar speaking.”

She listened for a minute and then said, “Clara’s with me, honey. We’ll call Wilma and Mae Ella and meet you up at the funeral parlor.” She hung up and turned to Clara, “We have to get up to Simmons’ and help Wanda Jean pick out a casket for Hilton. They’ve released the body and she’s trying to get the service arranged.”

“Call Sister first,” Clara said. “She can just walk across the street from the courthouse, and we’ll pick Wilma up on our way to the funeral parlor. I’m glad Wanda Jean called us. She’s in such a state Bill Simmons could really take her to the cleaners on the burying. The whole town is gonna be watching this funeral and we have to make sure it’s done right.”

“I’d a hell of a lot rather plan a funeral than a wedding,” Sugar said, stabbing out her cigarette. “Corpses are more cooperative than brides.”

Chapter 9

Wanda Jean Milton was waiting on the front porch of the Simmons & Insall Mortuary when the Study Club officers pulled up in Clara Wyler’s red Ford Fairlane. The grieving widow greeted the ladies tearfully as they came up the steps, “Thank you all so much for coming.” Wanda Jean sniffed, “I’ve never arranged a funeral before.”

Taking a final draw on her Camel before flicking the butt into the urn placed by the front door for that purpose, Sugar said, “Make sure you’re talking to Bill, not that little weasel Harold Insall. He’ll run the bill up so high you’ll have to sell the gold in your teeth to pay for it.”

“Sugar’s right,” Clara said firmly. “And remember that the caskets out in the show room are the most expensive ones. You want to ask to see the ones in the back.”

Wanda Jean’s face crumpled. “But, but . . . ,” she choked back a fresh wave of tears. “I want Hilton to have the best.”

“Honey, Hilton is dead,” Wilma said practically. “Funerals are for the living.”

“Well,” Wanda Jean said doubtfully, “Mama is always telling me we have to live in this town. I don’t want it to look like I threw a cheap funeral for my murdered husband. Wouldn’t that make me look sorta guilty?”

Mae Ella snorted. “Well, you do have a brain in there after all.”

“Sister!” Clara hissed. “That will be enough out of you. Wanda Jean, honey, we’re not saying give Hilton a shoddy funeral, but if you’re not careful, Bill and Harold will charge you better than $700.”

“Really?” Wanda Jean said, in a frightened voice. “I only have about $500. We were saving our money to take a trip to New York City so Hilton could see the dress department at Saks. It was his dream, so don’t you think it’s okay if I spend that money to bury him?”

“Of course it is, honey,” Clara said. “Don’t you worry. Bill and Harold will behave themselves when they see us with you.” She glanced down at the shopping bag beside Wanda Jean’s feet. “What’s in the bag from Hemphill-Wells, honey?” she asked.

“Those are Hilton’s clothes,” Wanda Jean said. “They told me to bring something for him to wear. And, well, I . . . I . . . I have an awful problem.” The words trailed off into gasping sobs.

Four hands dove into four purses and came up with various shades of Kleenex. Wanda Jean accepted the tissues and sobbed into them amid a chorus of “there, theres.” Finally Sugar said, “You have to stop that crying long enough to tell us what the problem is, honey, or we can’t help you.”

Wanda Jean looked up over a soggy baby blue Kleenex and said, “I brought his panty hose.”

“Lord have mercy,” Mae Ella said. “Why in the hell did you do that?”

“Hilton loved nice hose,” Wanda Jean said loyally. “I just don’t think it’s right to send him to his Maker without a brand new pair. The package has never even been opened.”

Clara started to say something, but Wilma Schneider beat her to it. “You leave that part to me, Wanda Jean.” This won Wilma a round of curious stares.

“How are you going to pull that off?” Clara asked.

“You just let me have a private conversation with Harold Insall and I assure you that Hilton will arrive at the pearly gates in his Hanes,” Wilma said, as if the matter had already been settled.

“Well, alright Wilma, you’re in charge of the panty hose issue,” Clara said. Then she turned to Wanda Jean. “You ready, honey?”

Wanda Jean nodded, and Clara held the door open as the group filed into the dimly lit front foyer of the funeral home. They were instantly assaulted with a heavy scent of roses and the mournful tones of “Nearer My God to Thee” being played on an organ over the speakers hidden behind the ferns on either side of “the book.”

Without missing a beat, each woman stepped forward, removed the pen from its base and signed her name to the register, even though the widow herself was standing right there with them. “Signing the book” was a propriety even more sacred than delivering funeral food to the home of the departed.

Just as Mae Ella finished writing her name, the group heard a well-staged cough behind them and turned to find themselves under the solemn professional regard of Bill Simmons and Harold Insall, each dressed in a somber black suit.

“Mrs. Milton,” Bill said, stepping forward. “Please accept our condolences for this terrible loss. Hilton was a fine man. We appreciate your confidence in Simmons & Insall to handle the arrangements.”

“For God’s sake, Bill,” Mae Ella snapped. “You’re the only undertaker in town. Who else is she gonna get to plant him?”

A muscle in Simmons’ cheek twitched, but his voice still undulated with practiced comfort when he said to Wanda Jean, “How lovely that your girlfriends are here with you at this difficult time. Shall we step into my office? Harold, a few more chairs, please.”