Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky (15 page)

I sprinted to the kitchen from the dining room, like O. J. Simpson running through an airport. Smoke was escaping around the top door of the double oven. Grabbing a potholder, I flung open the door to release a cloud of black smoke. The rolls looked like something that had been belched out of the Mt. St. Helens volcano. I set them aside to toss in the trash once they’d quit smoldering. Thankfully, I had an extra package of rolls, because, when I was grocery shopping earlier in the day I’d been expecting to also feed the four Floridians.

I’d already set the table, so I pulled the potatoes au gratin out of the top oven to cool, and replaced them with the new rolls. I left the chicken in the bottom oven to give it as much roasting time as possible. The rolls would be ready about the same time as the asparagus. I set the timer on the stove to make sure I wouldn’t forget them again.

Dinner turned out to be an interesting experience. Colby pulled a chair out for his wife before sitting down at the table. As he plopped down, I could hear the ominous sounds of a wooden chair trying to hold up more weight than it was designed to handle.

“Should we begin by blessing the food?” I asked, as I always did when entertaining guests. It wouldn’t hurt to tack on a prayer that God please keep Colby’s chair intact, so it didn’t dump an estimated four hundred pounds of pure lard onto the hardwood floor. That would put such a damper on the evening.

“No,” Colby replied to my question regarding a prayer before supper. “Let’s just eat! My stomach’s beginning to think my throat’s been cut. I haven’t had a bite to eat since lunch.”

With that, he began filling his plate with enough food to feed a family of five. His wife put one tiny slice of chicken, a spoonful of potatoes, and 2 asparagus spears on her plate, and said, “I usually wouldn’t eat this much, but I just love asparagus.”

I was further amazed when she tore a roll in two and put half of it on her husband’s plate alongside the other two he’d already removed from the wicker basket. I put less on my plate than I normally would have, had we been dining with normal people. For one thing, I didn’t want to look glutinous sitting next to someone who didn’t have enough on her plate to keep a baby sparrow alive. For another, I was suddenly concerned there wouldn’t be enough food on the table to satisfy Colby’s massive appetite. I noticed Stone restricted himself to much less than usual, too.

The conversation at the dinner table was minimal. Mrs. Tucker seemed to be just naturally introverted, and Colby never stopped chewing long enough to form a sentence. To fill the awkward silence, Stone and I discussed normal, everyday things like the delicate floral pattern on the china I’d chosen to serve supper on, the upcoming mayoral election, the rising price of beef, and what kind of toothpaste Stone should buy to brighten his teeth. When we grew weary of searching for topics to make small talk about, I got up, turned the radio on, and tuned in a country music station. I’d rather listen to someone singing about a love affair gone wrong, than to a sound reminiscent of a starving hog bellied up to a trough. Listening to Colby’s incessant chewing was grating on my nerves.

“I believe that was the best chicken I’ve had in weeks,” Colby said after he’d polished off everything on the table.

“Did you get enough?” I asked, already thinking about what else I could pull out of the pantry to fill this bottomless pit.

“Oh, sure, thank you. I can grab a couple hotdogs when we get home, and that should tide me over until my evening snack. I like to have a little something to satisfy my sweet tooth while we watch the evening news,” Colby said. What in the world would this man have for an evening snack? I wondered. A two-pound box of Russell Stover’s chocolates?

“Speaking of sweets,” Stone cut in. “Didn’t I see a delicious-looking apple pie in the kitchen? Are you two ready for dessert?”

“Of course,” Colby replied.

“I’ll pass,” his wife said. “I’ve already eaten so much my stomach hurts, but thank you for the offer.”

Her stomach probably hurt, I thought, because there was nothing in it to stick to her ribs. But I merely smiled, turned to Colby, and asked, “Would you like vanilla ice cream with your pie?”

“You bet!” He said, enthusiastically. Of course he wants ice cream. What a stupid question. That’s like asking someone who’d been floating in a life raft on the Pacific Ocean for a week if they’d like some fresh water to drink. Or maybe a large boat to climb aboard.

* * *

Grouped around the fireplace after supper, the four of us chatted about inconsequential things. I signed several documents, establishing my employment. Colby Tucker was relaxed and friendly, and was gradually changing my first impression of him as being a rude jerk with an over-inflated ego, to something slightly less repugnant. His wife sat quietly, sipping at her cup of coffee.

Before I forgot, I asked Mr. Tucker about letting Tom take on a full-time position, instead of replacing Carolyn Aldrich with another untrained, part-time employee. I was greatly relieved, for both my and Paul Miller’s sakes, when he had no problem with my solution to both dilemmas.

When I felt the time was right, and everyone was relaxing with a cup of after-supper coffee, I asked, “How well did you know Ducky, Mr. Tucker?”

“Call me Colby, please,” he said. “I’ve known her for about fourteen years. She was already working at the Rockdale Public Library when I took over the job as the county library system director.”

“What was your impression of her?” I asked.

“Ducky was unique. She was very headstrong and opinionated, and could be very hard to reason with occasionally.” So far, Colby had said nothing I didn’t already know. “Ducky could be a bit cantankerous at times, and I never knew what kind of mood she’d be in when I called her.”

“Go on,” I prompted, when he’d stopped speaking. I was thinking I’d just heard the pot calling the kettle black, knowing Tucker wasn’t always the friendliest soul in the world either, especially on the phone. But silently I listened to his response.

“I was starting to get some complaints from patrons of the library. They thought she was quick to lose her temper, often over small, insignificant matters,” he said. “She was at an age she could retire and not lose her pension. So I suggested she do exactly that, and make room for some younger person to take over the reins of the library. I was really trying to replace her, while still letting her save face, so to speak.”

“I take it that didn’t go over well?” Stone asked Colby.

“Not well at all. But we’d argued about every little thing for years, so her contempt for me ‘forcing’ her out, as she put it, was not unexpected. We couldn’t seem to agree on anything. If I told her broccoli was good for her health, she’d flat out refuse to touch the perilous stuff. She was that hardheaded. But the idea of retirement seemed to grow on her, and I actually think she was looking forward to it as the time grew nearer.”

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more. She told me she was excited to finally have the time to do things on her bucket list,” I said. “By the way, was there any particular reason you never filled her request for a new keyboard? It really is defective.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is, but the cranky old broad got on my nerves sometimes, always trying to tell me how to run the entire county library system. I basically just put off replacing the keyboard to put a fox in Ducky’s chicken coop—you know—ruffle her feathers just to amuse myself. Given the circumstances, it sounds a little juvenile now, I’ll admit.”

“So, Colby, were you as surprised as I was when her death was ruled a suicide?” I asked. I didn’t want to agree or refute his admission of acting childish. I found it best to avoid insulting my dinner guest, who was also my soon-to-be new boss.

“Yes and no. She was incredibly unpredictable, and so terribly moody. But, yet, she also seemed to have a zest for life, and, like she told you, she had things she was anxious to do during her retirement.”

“Yes, she even went into detail about a few of them. Some were expected, some not, but all of them showed a desire to live and enjoy life. I still don’t believe it was a suicide, and I told the detectives so.”

“Really?” Colby asked. “What was their response?”

“They said there wasn’t enough concrete evidence to prove otherwise, but if anything came to light that pointed to murder, they’d take another look at the case. So, I’m trying to uncover the truth about what happened Tuesday night in the library after I left to go home.”

“I don’t think it’s wise for you to get involved in something of that nature. Probably best to leave well enough alone, and spend your time and efforts concentrating on working at the library.” He looked a bit agitated, but I didn’t really take his suggestion as a threat. It was said more in a fatherly fashion, as if trying to steer one’s child down the right path, and protect them from some unforeseen danger. “Besides, it’s pretty apparent she actually did kill herself, and I guess no one ever really knows what goes on in other people’s minds.”

I merely nodded, not agreeing or disagreeing with his remarks. I watched Colby swipe the back of his hand across his forehead, and thought he looked a little flushed. His wife was yawning on the couch next to him. I was not surprised when they rose in unison, thanked us for a wonderful supper, and said it was time for them to head home.

We walked them out to their car, and waited while they drove down the driveway. I asked Stone for his opinion of Colby Tucker, and if he thought he might have anything to do with Ducky’s death.

“I’m not really sure how to take him, but I got the impression that, although he and Ducky had their differences, none of them were significant enough to kill her over. He did seem a little uncomfortable when he left, however,” Stone said. “Oh, well, at least he doesn’t seem as disagreeable as I thought he might. Sometimes people under a lot of stress at work can be short-tempered, or incredibly unpleasant, and nice as can be in a more relaxed setting. And I think that might just be the case with Colby Tucker.”

“Probably so,” I said. “Guess I’d better get the kitchen cleaned up and get ready for bed. Something tells me tomorrow might be a long day.”

Chapter 10

Sunday morning was bright and sunny, but I felt a bit unsteady as I descended the stairs and entered the kitchen. I nearly tripped over the throw rug at the bottom of the staircase.

Stone was leaned up against the sink, holding his right hand against his belly. I’d seen the look on his face before, and it was not a good omen.

“Wow, my stomach is sure churning. Something must not be agreeing with me.”

By the time we got settled into chairs at the table, I was feeling a bit nauseated myself. When I realized a cup of coffee did not sound appealing, I knew something wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t remember the last time coffee had sounded unappetizing to me. In fact, before that moment, I didn’t even know if it was possible.

However, being a creature of habit and somewhat insane, I poured myself a cup of coffee anyway. Then another, and another, and then one more, even though none of it tasted even remotely good. I sipped at the strong brew while I struggled through the motions of fixing bacon and eggs for our guests, who would be checking out shortly after breakfast. Neither Stone nor I felt up to eating breakfast, and I found the smell of bacon frying unsettling to my stomach. Now I knew something was dreadfully wrong. If there were bacon-scented candles, I’d have one burning in the kitchen all the time.

An hour later, I joined Stone on the back porch with another cup of unsavory coffee, which I felt obligated to drink whether I was enjoying it, or not. Stone’s complexion was a ghastly shade of green, his face appearing completely drained of blood. Before we knew it, Stone and I were both throwing up what little we had on our stomachs, which in my case was nothing but coffee. It tasted even worse coming up then it had going down.

“My goodness, Lexie, what could be affecting us this badly? Was it something we ate?” Stone asked, as he staggered back into the kitchen, where I was resting with my head on the table. I was experiencing severe stomach cramps, and puking up a full carafe’s worth of coffee had zapped my energy. I very slowly lifted my head off the table to answer Stone’s question, trying to prevent the room from spinning in circles and making me dizzy as a loon.

“Well, I’m starting to wonder if the chicken was thoroughly cooked. I did leave it in the oven at least an hour less than the recipe called for, but I figured it was long enough to kill any bacteria that might have been in it.”