Death Crashes the Party

Death Crashes the Party

Vickie Fee

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

I offer my heartfelt thanks to the Lord for his goodness, to my husband and first reader for his unflagging support, to my family for their love, to Melissa and Patty for their contagious enthusiasm, and to my agent, Jessica Faust, for bringing a dream to reality.

Chapter 1

Monday was a scorching August day that had turned into hell for me when the Farrell brothers crashed a party that already had disaster written all over it.

I was repeating the dreadful details for the umpteenth time to Sheriff Eulyse “Dave” Davidson.

At 10:00 a.m. I met yet again with the Erdmans to continue negotiations for their fortieth-anniversary party. Making all Mrs. Erdman's peculiar dreams come true, while still pacifying her husband, was a complicated balancing act—like spinning plates on poles. This is a skill every good party planner must learn.

Mrs. Erdman, her red hair sticking out in barbed curls, sat on a chintz sofa in the couple's expansive living room. We discussed every tedious detail of a moonshine- and magnolias-themed party. Mr. Erdman sat in a recliner, paying scant attention to anything that didn't require personal effort on his part.

In a nutshell—the Erdmans being the nuts—she wanted an elegant party with frills, fancy foods, and elaborate decorations. Mr. Erdman wanted to wear comfortable clothes and drink lots of liquor. So he and his buddies would sample generous servings of different whiskeys, including moonshine from his cousin Vern's still. The ladies would dress as Southern belles, sip mint juleps, and listen to a Dixieland band on the veranda. The men, at the insistence of Mr. Erdman, would be dressed as bootleggers. Picture
O Brother, Where Art Thou?
We finally ironed out a major wrinkle when Mr. Erdman acquiesced to one dance with his wife. Hopefully, the other husbands would follow suit.

Mrs. Erdman's most recent vision for the party—and she'd had many—included ice sculptures. She wanted a giant forty perched atop a 1973 Plymouth Barracuda carved in ice, which would be displayed on the buffet table, with icy bare-butted cherubs to either side. The Barracuda was the car they took on their honeymoon. Not sure about the cherubs, but ours is not to reason why. After consulting with the ice sculptor, I now had to figure out how to store 250 pounds of ice—in August—so it wouldn't melt before the party. Although the Erdmans had two refrigerators with freezers in their kitchen, they were nowhere near large enough to accommodate the sculptures.

Mrs. Erdman offered that they had a deep freezer in the garage, which stored her husband's bounty of venison and catfish from his hunting and fishing exploits. She assured me that any game left in the freezer could be given away to friends and neighbors to make way for the sculptures. Mr. Erdman didn't dispute her assertion. I followed them into the garage, with tape measure in hand, to make sure the freezer could contain the ice sculptures.

“And . . . well, you know what happened next.”

“Humor me,” Dave said, with absolutely no sympathy for the day I was having. So I went through it—again.

I opened the freezer to measure the interior. Unfortunately, what we beheld was the frosty remains of Darrell Farrell, staring up at us like a fresh-caught walleye.

Mrs. Erdman screamed and ran back into the house. Her rotund husband stood for a moment, stunned. I backed away from the freezer, looking at a still slack-jawed Walter Erdman, trying to think of something to say. Instead, I tripped, knocking over a big green garbage can, and found myself sprawled on top of Darrell's very dead brother, Duane, who had toppled out with the trash. He was wearing what for the life of me looked like a Confederate uniform.

Walter Erdman screamed like a young girl and ran across the three-car garage and back into the house. I'd never seen anyone haul that much ass in one load. The Erdmans, who had the nerve of a bad tooth, had left me to deal with the problem at hand, despite the fact that it was not my house and it was definitely not my party. I dialed 911.

After phoning the police, I went into the house to let my clients know the sheriff was on his way. I found Mr. Erdman in his study, stretched out on a leather sofa, staring at the ceiling and clutching a bottle of Scotch. Sobs from the hallway indicated Mrs. Erdman had locked herself in the powder room.

“I went to the entry hall and sat on the stairs, waiting to open the door when you arrived.”

The only fortunate aspect of this tiresome inquisition was that Sheriff Dave was conducting it in the air-conditioned comfort of the Erdmans' roomy kitchen, appointed with gleaming commercial-grade appliances and marble countertops. I helped myself to a Diet Coke from the under-counter fridge stocked with bottled water and soft drinks.

“Dave, you want something to drink?”

No, ma'am. I'm good.”

Presumably to emphasize that this was official business, Dave made a point of calling me “Mrs. McKay” and “ma'am,” instead of “Liv,” despite the fact that we'd long been on a first-name basis. Tall, lean, and not bad looking, our normally genial sheriff could, nonetheless, present an imposing demeanor when he had a mind to.

“I know you didn't ask me, Sheriff Davidson,” I said, following his cue on formality, “but, despite the fact the bodies were found at their house, which would naturally make them prime suspects, I can honestly testify that the Erdmans were both completely shocked by the discovery.”

“Can't rule anything or anyone out at this juncture, but I take your point,” he said.

After he finally stopped probing my brain for details, I had to ask, “Dave, do you have any idea why Duane was wearing a Confederate uniform?”

“He and his brother were both involved with one of those Civil War reenactment units,” he said. “As to why he was dressed out in uniform, I can't say. They've got some big reenactment event coming up in a few weeks.” He went on. “Now, let me ask you a question, Ms. McKay. You seem to keep your ear to the ground. Do you have any idea who might have had a reason to kill the Farrell boys?”

“Seems obvious to me, Sheriff,” I said. “It must have been some damn Yankee.”

Dave did not seem at all amused.

Chapter 2

After Dave finally allowed me to leave the crime scene, I went to my office. Not that I felt like working and not that anybody would let me get any work done. My phone rang all afternoon, and I contended with questions from inquiring minds. Apparently, everyone in the miniscule town of Dixie, Tennessee, had heard about the murders. And most of the nubs on the grapevine knew as much about the case as I did.

Liv 4 Fun, the party-planning business of which I am the owner and only full-time employee, is operated from a second-floor office above Sweet Deal Realty on Town Square. Our motto is “We plan so you can party.” I rent the space from Nathan Sweet, who owns the real estate business, as well as the building. Liv 4 Fun has a separate entrance. My street frontage is literally the width of the plate-glass door, which opens to a steep staircase leading to my modest office.

After fielding phone calls for as long as I could bear, I switched on the answering machine, locked the front door, and went into the real estate office, which is both downstairs and next door, depending on how you look at it. Since there isn't a restroom in the upstairs space, my rent includes access to the facilities in my landlord's business for me and my clients. Such is life in a small town.

Winette King, the only agent besides Nathan Sweet who works at Sweet Deal Realty, gave me a sympathetic look as I collapsed into a chair facing her desk.

“Girl, I hear you had quite the morning.”

Mr. Sweet wandered out of his back office, which is crammed so full of files and signs and other miscellanies that it looks more like a storage room. He sat down at the desk next to Winette's and launched into a story of how he once discovered a body while giving a house tour to prospective buyers.

“Not murder, like you came across this morning. Turned out to be natural causes,” he said, stroking the stubble on his chinless jaw and gazing up at the acoustical tile ceiling. “Still, the sight of Mrs. Woods in the bathtub, gray and bloated as a beached whale, nixed what had seemed like a sure sale. Mind you, the sight of Mrs. Woods naked would have frightened away the buyers even if she hadn't been dead.”

Mr. Sweet got up from his chair. The bell rang as he opened the front door, and he ambled across the street, where he joined a group of old men chatting in front of the barbershop.

“Is that man for real?” Winette asked rhetorically after he had gone. “Sometimes I think I'm working in a nuthouse. And I don't know what you're even doing here, Liv. You know anybody who sees you is just going to pump you for information about those poor dead boys. Speaking of which, if your clients, the whatsits . . . ?”

“The Erdmans,” I said.

“Yeah, the Erdmans. If they didn't kill those young men, it seems to me someone who really hated the Erdmans must have killed them. Why else would someone leave bodies in
their
garage, instead of dumping them in the river?”

“I had the same thought. But Dave said it was actually a pretty handy spot to stash a body. You know what that neighborhood's like—a big cul-de-sac of McMansions. I'd never thought about it, but it has a service road running behind the properties that's used by lawn maintenance, landscapers, pool cleaners, and such. Apparently, workers are coming and going all the time. Dave says anyone with a work truck who looked like they knew what they were doing could have plopped a dead body in a wheelbarrow, thrown a tarp and a bag of fertilizer on top of it, and rolled it right up to the garage without anyone taking notice.”

“I'll keep that in mind if I ever have a body to get rid of.” Winette took a mirrored compact from her desk drawer and carefully painted on a fresh layer of violet lipstick, a shade that nicely complemented her creamy caramel complexion. She tidied her desk, scooping papers into her briefcase and dropping her cell phone and reading glasses into her purse. “I'm going to get my nails done. I got a date tonight. And you should go home.”

“You're probably right,” I said, rising from the chair and following her out the front door. She flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED.

I watched as Winette walked away confidently in heels higher than I'd dare to wear, her ample hips accentuated by a snugly fitting skirt. Mr. Sweet and the other men evidently had retreated into the air-conditioned barbershop.

I got into my car and backed away from the curb. But I didn't go home.