Death Crashes the Party (20 page)

Clearly, Andrea's mother is related to Meemaw only by marriage, and I'm sure Meemaw never lets her forget it.

The bride and her friends began arriving in their pretty party dresses. Holly snapped several group and candid shots of the young women and uploaded them to the bride and groom's photo-sharing site on the Web.

After hugs all around, Meemaw fastened a corsage to her granddaughter's dress with an antique hat pin and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Aren't you joining us, Meemaw?” Andrea asked as she paused at the back door.

“Naw, sugar. You go and visit with your friends. I got things to do.”

I switched on the speakers and hit PLAY on an iPod holding a mix of tunes put together by the bride. Then I wrapped my arm around Meemaw, who had tears spilling over her lower lashes.

“You're a sweet granny, Meemaw Carter,” I said, giving her a gentle squeeze.

Maybe not such a prize as a mother-in-law
, I thought to myself,
but a sweet granny
.

“Oh, don't go getting all sappy on me,” Meemaw said before wandering back into the kitchen.

I left Holly to keep an eye on things, and to keep Meemaw company, and arranged to meet her later in the afternoon to break down the tables and load the van.

As I drove home, the last thing on my mind was another party, especially an unplanned, spur-of-the-moment kind of party. But we never know what the day may hold.

I had just kicked off my shoes and plopped down at the kitchen table with a glass of iced tea when the phone rang. It was Di, and she was still fretting over Dave carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I'm not sure Dave will be able to cope if these murders go unsolved,” Di said. “I mean, he was a homicide detective in Nashville for six years, and while he had a good record, some murders just don't get solved. Of course, in a city the size of Nashville there was always a big case to move on to, something to take his mind off the one who got away, but here . . .”

“Yeah. It's been at least five or six years since we had a murder here in Dixie—and that was a clear-cut case of domestic violence. They knew who the killer was,” I said.

“Dave doesn't have the same resources that Nashville does, either. And the Feds are no help. They're really only interested in the drug trafficking, not the murders. And if the murders were committed by professionals hired by some drug lord, how will Dave ever be able to track them down?”

“I don't know about Tim's killer, but I don't think the Farrell brothers were killed by a pro. I mean, they weren't shot in the head. They each had a big hole in their chest. And I don't think a pro would have dumped them in that garage.” I paused. “Wait a minute,” I said excitedly. “What about all those security cameras at the mini storage? Maybe they got some pictures of the murderer.”

“The cameras at the gate and facing the storage unit were bashed in, but they're checking the surveillance footage to see if any images of him were captured, and they're also checking the keypad at the gate to see what code was entered.”

“We'll just have to keep our fingers crossed,” I said.

We both fell silent for a long moment.

“Liv, could you maybe get Larry Joe to talk Dave into playing some golf or going fishing—anything to take his mind off work for a while?”

“I can't even talk Larry Joe into taking a break, with everything that's going on at McKay's and with his dad.”

“You could invite Dave and me over tonight to watch a movie.”

“On our fabulous nineteen-inch television? You know we haven't bought a new TV since Ralph smashed the old one.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I could invite you and Dave over for a fancy dinner. I really would like to do something nice for Dave. The way he rushed over here after the break-in and all. Of course, I'm running short on time to pull together a fancy dinner for tonight.”

“Who says it has to be fancy? We could have a backyard barbecue. I'll help fix the stuff to go with it,” Di said.

“That's a good idea. I'll get Larry Joe to throw some steaks on the grill, and I can pick up some potato salad from the grocery store deli.”

“I'll toss a green salad and ice down a watermelon.”

“Put some beer on ice with that watermelon and I think we're set. Are you sure you can drag Dave away from work?”

“He'll be there, I promise. I mean, the man has to eat, anyway, right?”

“Good. Shall we say about seven o'clock?”

I called Larry Joe, and he was amenable to having Dave and Di for dinner. He was also more than amenable to the idea of a fat, juicy steak.

I went back to Meemaw Carter's to help Holly pack up.

“How'd the party go?”

“It was lovely,” Holly said. “After taking some pictures and pouring iced tea for the girls, I kept Meemaw company in the kitchen and helped wash up the dishes. Meemaw told me sweet stories about Andrea when she was growing up. It's obvious she worships that child. I have to admit, I think pretty highly of Andrea and her friends after today. The girls were so sweet. After they finished lunch, they all descended on the kitchen, bringing a plate of desserts to Meemaw and wearing her costume jewelry, which they oohed and aahed over, saying how it made them feel so glamorous. And Andrea started telling stories about Meemaw. It just made her grandmother's day.”

“Oh, that's wonderful,” I said. “Holly, I'm so glad you had the idea to put out the jewelry as a table decoration. I think we can mark this bridal tea down as a smashing success.”

As a party planner, I provide the sets and the props, but the real magic happens when the hosts and the guests take the stage and create the kind of special moments that can't be planned.

After we unloaded and stowed the tables and other gear in the office storage area, I ran by the grocery store to get the potato salad and, most importantly, some thick T-bone steaks.

After everything was chilled and marinating, I freshened up my make-up and changed into a cute shorts set that I'd worn only once or twice all summer. By the time I was dressed and had advised Larry Joe to put on a clean shirt, it was nearly time for our guests.

Di tapped on the kitchen door as she entered, with a wrapped salad bowl in hand. Dave went straight through to the backyard with an ice cooler packed with beers and a small seedless watermelon.

“Dave insists he can't stay too long, even though he's not officially on duty. But I'm hoping we can get him to stop looking at his watch, at least for a while.”

“Don't worry. Just firing up the grill seemed to improve Larry Joe's frame of mind. Once Dave's had a couple of beers and inhaled the aroma of that Grade A beef, he'll relax a bit.”

“The scent of charcoal and lighter fluid does seem to put men in a good mood,” Di noted.

The guys were talking baseball when we joined them on the patio. Di and I didn't interrupt but exchanged knowing smiles. Larry Joe put the steaks on the grill, and he and Dave started philosophizing about the perfectly cooked steak, somewhere between still mooing and not quite medium rare.

“You ladies sure are being quiet,” Larry Joe said. “It worries me when they go quiet,” he added, turning to Dave.

“Oh, we're just enjoying the nice weather,” I said.

The temperature was still in the low eighties, but it was shady, with a faint breeze.

“Yeah, in another month the leaves will be changing colors,” Di said.

I requested that Larry Joe make my steak a little less “perfect” and a little more done than his. Di concurred. Larry Joe laid a sizzling steak with a smoky aroma and perfectly seared grill marks on each of our plates. We helped ourselves to the side dishes and gathered around the patio table. An umbrella shaded the table; the scalloped material rimming it flapped gently in the breeze.

“So, Larry Joe, are they going to let your dad come home tomorrow?” Di asked.

“Doc Chase has ordered some tests in the morning. If he likes the look of things, he plans to cut Dad loose tomorrow afternoon.”

“That's great news,” Di said. “Do you reckon he'll think about retirement now?”

“I don't think it's on his mind, but it's on mine and Mama's. I doubt we can talk him into a full retirement just yet, but I'm damn sure going to make him cut back his hours.”

“I just may put in for retirement if there's one more murder in this town,” Dave said. “Although, it might not be up to me. The voters may decide to put me out to pasture when the next election rolls around.”

“Dave, not one single person in town has said a word about getting rid of you,” I said. “My mama's a main branch on the grapevine. If she hasn't heard about it, it hasn't been said.”

“I think folks around here know we're lucky to have someone with your experience on the job,” Larry Joe added.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Dave said.

“Have you had any luck with the footage from the security cameras at the storage place?” Di asked.

“Not yet. Not only did the killer bash in the cameras, but he went in the office and smashed the hard drive, too. I sent the hard drive and the cameras to the state crime lab. They looked them over and say they might be able to retrieve something useful. We should know something in a few days.”

“At least you can eliminate some suspects from the list for Tim's murder,” I said. “Since we know Ralph and Rudy and Bobo were locked up.”

“Ralph and Rudy were locked up. Still are,” Dave said. “But Bobo was released before the murder. A couple of top-tier attorneys—way above his pay grade—got him out on bail. Somebody with deep pockets is looking out for him.”

“So Bobo's back on the list,” Di said.

“And don't forget Ray Franklin. He was Ralph's alibi for our break-in, and I just don't trust him,” I said.

“They're both on my list,” Dave said. “Unfortunately, it's a long list. That Carl Adams—the one who broke into the storage unit last week—was supposed to be quietly checking around with some collectors who've been robbed to see if they could identify any of the goods in Darrell's storage room. Any one of those collectors could have broken in, or hired someone to break in, to retrieve their stuff. I'm driving up to Nashville tomorrow to question Adams and find out who all he's shown the photographs to.”

I hated to see Dave so down. He looked like a kid who woke up Christmas morning to find that Santa had passed him by.

We never got around to slicing open the watermelon, but I talked Dave into having some ice cream with chocolate syrup and chopped pecans. If I'd had a candy cane, I'd have given him that, too.

After arguing about who should keep the uncut watermelon, Di carried it into the house and plopped it on the bottom shelf of our fridge. She and Dave said their good-byes to us and left together in Dave's truck.

Larry Joe and I started clearing the patio table.

“Is it getting serious with those two?” he asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “Di won't talk about it.”

“When a woman won't talk about something, it's serious.”

Larry Joe's chauvinist remark rankled me a little. At the same time, I couldn't help wondering if he was right.

Chapter 27

Since it was Monday, I decided to start the week off right by trying to get back into a normal routine. I had breakfast with Larry Joe and got to the office before 8:30 a.m. To my surprise, it didn't look like early risers Winette and Mr. Sweet had made it in when I arrived, which is anything but normal.

At little before lunchtime, I made a trip downstairs to use the facilities. I mentioned to Winette that I had noticed they weren't in the office as early as usual for them. Apparently, Mr. Sweet had had some unpleasant plumbing issues at home that had required immediate attention. Winette said she had had a breakfast meeting with some nervous clients.

“They're a cute little couple looking to buy their first house,” Winette said. “They've been preapproved by the bank for a loan, and they're trying to buy a house that costs less than they're approved for—which I completely support. I'd never try to push people into buying a house they can't afford. But now they've decided that their three-year-old little girl is intellectually gifted, and they want to make sure they'll be able to afford tuition for a private school. Lord, after spending two hours around that child, I can tell you she's just a cute but very average toddler. Of course, I couldn't say that to her parents.”

“Whoa. That's a minefield. How did you handle it?”

“I suggested that they set up a savings account for little Isabella and put a few dollars a month in it for her future. I told them that settling into a place of their own, where they could establish a sense of belonging, would be very healthy for the child. And I also advised them to check out the optional programs at the local public schools to see what they have to offer,” Winette said.

“You're a genius, Winette,” I said with sincerity. “But I think all three-year-olds seem gifted. I know my niece, Lulu, does. Maybe that's just the age when their personalities really start to shine.”

“That's also the age when they start asserting their little attitudes, as I remember from my own son and was reminded of this morning by Miss Isabella. Her parents worship the ground she stomps her tiny feet on. But they're young. They'll learn.”

“Really? Are you trying to convince me that you don't worship the ground Marcus walks on anymore?”

“Clearly, my child is exceptional. He's making straight As in college, and he inherited his mama's good looks.” Winette let loose a laugh track – worthy guffaw, punctuated by a sigh. “So when is Auntie Winette going to get to spoil little Miss Lulu again?”

“I think my sister and her family are coming to Mama's for Thanksgiving. And by that time, Lulu should have a new little brother or sister, too.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Winette said. “I didn't realize your sister was so far along.”

A little before noon, my cell phone rang, and it was Larry Joe, telling me that the doctor would be releasing Daddy Wayne from the hospital this afternoon.

“I'm going to the hospital to fetch Daddy. Could you go to the house and help Mama? She's all in a dither, saying she needs to get things ready before he comes home. I don't think there's really anything that needs to be done, but some hand-holding might calm her down.”

“Sure, honey. Have they fed your dad lunch?”

“No. I think he'll need to eat when he gets home.”

“Okay. I'll help your mom fix lunch. That should keep her occupied, and then we can all sit down at the table and eat with your dad. Maybe that'll help him feel like things are getting back to normal. See you two in a bit,” I said before hanging up.

“Did I hear you say Mr. McKay is coming home today?”

“Yes, finally.”

“Well, praise Jesus. That is good news.”

I phoned my mother-in-law to set the plan in motion. Larry Joe was right; she was beside herself, trying to decide whether to set up Daddy Wayne in the downstairs bedroom or in his recliner, which of his pajamas would be most comfortable, if there was a clear path for his walker, and so on. I could tell right away I needed to get her focused on lunch.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said. “It didn't even occur to me that they wouldn't serve him lunch at the hospital. I've been thinking only about what to make for supper, and I'm not sure what I have—”

I interrupted. “Miss Betty, I think we should just keep it simple for lunch. How about tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches? Larry Joe and I will join you two for lunch, and I think Daddy Wayne will be happy just to sit down at the table with his family and eat something other than hospital food.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I suppose you're right, dear. I guess soup is okay, but do you think grilled cheese is healthy? We're going to have to watch his diet closely from now on, you know.”

“You're right. Tell you what, you brew some fresh iced tea, unsweetened, and I'll run by the grocery store and pick up some whole-wheat bread and low-fat cheese—and low-sodium tomato soup, just for good measure.”

She was pleased with the menu and asked me to purchase a few other groceries, as well. At the store, I also picked up some salt substitute, which Dr. Chase had suggested. I figured we could replace the salt in the shaker with it and hope my father-in-law wouldn't notice the difference.

After lunch, I cleared up the dishes, while Larry Joe helped his dad get settled in. Daddy Wayne decided it would be easier to get up and down from the recliner, since his leg was still paining him. Miss Betty tucked a sheet around the recliner seat and back so he wouldn't get too hot against the leather. I walked into the den just in time to hear my father-in-law pumping Larry Joe for information about work.

“I know you've been keeping me mostly in the dark about this murder and drug-smuggling business, and honestly, I couldn't think about much of anything with that blasted heart monitor constantly beeping at me. But now I need you to bring me up to speed on things, son. I need to know what's going on in my own company, damn it. I'm not a child. It's more stressful for me not knowing.”

“Okay, Dad. Tomorrow I'll come by and fill you in on everything. But today I just want you to rest. Plus, I need to go to the office and take care of some business. I already spent half the day hauling your carcass home, you know.”

“All right, go on. Get out of here.”

We left as my mother-in-law smothered Daddy Wayne with attention, and he complained with a smile on his face.

Larry Joe and I held hands as we walked down his parents' driveway. He kissed me before I climbed into the SUV and he walked to his truck, parked by the curb.

“Are you really going to tell your dad
everything
?” I asked doubtfully.

“Everything he needs to know.”

I had planned to head straight to the office. But I glanced at my watch and noted that Di was probably getting home from work about now. I decided to drop by and visit for a few minutes, let her know the good news about Daddy Wayne coming home.

She was standing on her front deck, just unlocking the front door, when I pulled up. She turned and waved at me to come on in.

“I'm glad Larry Joe's dad finally got to come home,” she said, pouring us a couple of glasses of iced tea. “Maybe now he and Miss Betty can get some rest. Nobody ever gets a decent night's sleep at the hospital, with machines beeping and nurses coming in and out all the time.”

“I hope so. The old coot really gave us a scare,” I said. “You should have seen Miss Betty fussing over him—and him loving every minute of it, complaining all the while.”

Di kicked off her shoes and joined me at the dining table next to the front window. She pulled back the tinfoil covering the plate between us, which I'd had my eye on. Underneath were a half dozen chocolate-chip cookies that a lady at the post office had sent home with her. I helped myself to one. Savoring a moist, chewy bite, I looked out through the blinds and spotted a car parked across from Di's trailer.

I didn't recognize the driver. Taking a closer look, I noted that both the driver and the passenger were wearing dress shirts, unbuttoned at the throat, and black sunglasses and were sitting in a nondescript American-made sedan. I could feel the heat of flames rising up my face.

“The nerve of those, those . . . FBI agents,” I blurted out.

“What?” Di said. She peered out the blinds and added, “Yeah, they look like some kind of cops, all right.”

“After all they've put us through,” I said, still steamed. “Hauling Larry Joe and his dad in for questioning, stressing Daddy Wayne into a heart attack. Now they've got the nerve to put me and my best friend under surveillance. I'll not have it, not on the very day Daddy Wayne finally got to come home from the hospital.”

I jumped up and stormed out the door. Di tried to tell me to wait a minute, but I was filled with a righteous wrath.

They averted their eyes as I walked toward the car. The passenger even held up a newspaper to pretend he was reading.

I tapped on the car window. The driver rolled it down slightly and said, “Go away, lady. We're working here.”

“I know you're working, Mr. FBI man. You're working overtime at harassing my family, and I'm fed up with it. Why don't you try tracking down some real criminals for a change, instead of persecuting innocent people—”

The driver interrupted me, saying that they weren't interested in me or my family and that I should get lost before I blew their cover.

“I'll blow your cover, all right. I'm calling the sheriff right now and filing a complaint.”

The driver started the engine and said, “You just do that, lady. We'll call him, too. I'm going to circle the block. And when I get back, you'd better be gone.”

He drove off.

“I'm not going anywhere,” I said, shaking my fist at his taillights.

I went back into Di's, still shaking, and started digging around in my purse, looking for my phone. As soon as I pulled it out, it buzzed. It was Dave.

“Dave, I was just about to call you,” I said, oblivious to the obvious irony of his calling at that precise moment.

He dressed me down in his bad-cop voice, without letting me get a word in.

“They were running surveillance, but they were not watching you.”

“Dave, they were parked directly in front of Di's. Who else could they have been watching?”

“If they were watching Di's, they would not have been parked right in front of her place,” he said in a condescending tone, which didn't sit well with me. “They're staking out her neighbor three doors down. Bobo has been known to spend time with the woman who lives there.”

After a stunned silence, I quietly said, “Oh.” Then my anger flared up again. “Well, you could have told us about her.”

“I didn't tell you, because I didn't want you two to go in and try to question her yourselves. Now, stay away from the neighbor and stay the hell away from the FBI agents, or so help me, I'll throw you in a cell. And you better hope and pray that the neighbor was too busy to overhear your little snit. If you've blown their cover, I won't intervene when the FBI takes you into custody for interfering with a criminal investigation,” Dave snarled before hanging up.

I collapsed onto the dining chair and looked at Di with the humiliated eyes of a puppy that had just gotten spanked with a rolled-up newspaper. “Since Dave wasn't exactly whispering, I assume you heard what he said.”

“Most of it.”

“So Bobo's girlfriend lives just a few doors down from you,” I said. “Do you think she knows what kind of man he is, what he's mixed up in?”

“I'm not sure she cares as long as he pays cash,” Di said nonchalantly.

“Are you saying there's a hooker living just a few doors away from you?”

“Everybody has to live somewhere,” Di said. “Anyway, it's not like it's a full-time gig. She also works at a strip club.”

“And you never told me this?”

“I only know her to speak to. We don't hang out or anything,” Di said. “Besides, I wasn't really sure she was hooking until recently, when I saw Jake Robbins leaving her place with a smile on his face. I knew there was no way anybody would make out with Jake unless there was money involved.”

I mulled that over as I crammed half a cookie into my big mouth.