Let There Be Suspects (4 page)

“Yes, and if I pick up enough cans on the street this year, maybe next Christmas we can afford butter to go with it.”

“You were always so funny.” She didn’t crack a smile.

Ginger turned to Sid. “And what a fabulous fruitcake. I have another recipe you might like to try. Of course the ingredients aren’t as easy to find, but I always say it’s worth a trip to a gourmet market for the best.”

She held out her hand to Bix before Sid could choke out a reply. “I’m Ginger Grable. Sid and I were raised together.”

I watched Bix visibly transform from a sulking, slouching pain in the neck. By the time he had finished, he was passably debonair.

“Sid’s never mentioned you.” Bix held her hand just a little too long.

“I guess screaming in my sleep doesn’t count.” Sid took Bix’s arm. “Bix, come help me tack up the mistletoe. I forgot to do it earlier.”

I watched my sister drag Bix into the living room, then I turned to Ginger. This was my house after all, and we might never be alone again.

“I’m all for you being here if you’ve come to make amends, Ginger. Or even if you’re just here to make Junie happy. That’s good enough for me. But make no mistake about it. I’m expecting you to act like the successful, happily married adult you are. Agreed?”

She looked puzzled. “We’ve all grown up, haven’t we? Even Sid?”

The doorbell rang again, and this time I knew the party had begun. Funny how happy I was going to be to see our friends from the church. Twelve sopranos squabbling, eleven board members bleating, ten ladies lecturing. It didn’t matter, bring them on. At that moment, I’d never loved my church family more.

3

Shared history is wonderful. My sisters will never forget that the scar on my left forearm comes from a bicycle accident in Topeka. Of course they will also remember that the bicycle wasn’t mine, and I spent the next two summers frying funnel cakes so I could pay Junie for replacing it.

Vel and Sid know why I check the inside of my shoes before stepping into them—scorpions—and why I despise cauliflower. Here’s a hint. One year during a brief stop in Santa Barbara, Vel and I decided cutting and packing cauliflower would be an easy way to earn spending money.

New friends are wonderful, too. They only know what you’ve told them, or they’ve managed to ferret out behind your back. Lucy Jacobs is my new best friend, and frankly, funnel cakes, scorpions, and cauliflower pale in significance to what we’ve shared. Lucy is even nosier than I am, and without her help, that chalk outline would be a ghost haunting us still.

These days Luce and I have formed a partnership, renovating houses to sell. Our first project, a Colonial across Church Street from the parsonage, sold just days after we cleared out the junk, scrubbed and sealed the floors, installed a new sump pump in the basement and solid surface countertops in the kitchen. We immediately sank our profit into a turn of the century Victorian on Bunting Street that had been sitting empty for more than a year.

Lucy is a realtor, with the breed’s eye for sales potential. I grew up with a mother who could make a home out of the rattiest digs with little more than elbow grease and imagination. Together Lucy and I took one look at the Victorian, which is zoned for both residential and commercial, and guessed that after expenses, we could at least double what we’d made the first time.

Lucy is good for lots of other things, too. Now, as I thanked people for coming to our party and accepted compliments on the food and decorations, I headed straight for her. Lucy was in a little alcove at the end of our bookshelves, chatting with one of the younger members of our Women’s Society.

Even in a crowd Lucy is hard to miss. She has red curls she can’t tame and the dream body of every Generation X woman. Yvonne McAllister is a friend and supporter. She’s also a chain-smoker, and I could tell by the way her eyes kept flicking to the front door that she was ready for another hit. She excused herself the moment I arrived and headed outside.

“Nicotine fix,” I told Lucy.

“She was leaping from foot to foot. How do you think things are going?”

I glanced around. People were talking. People were eating. No one had killed anyone yet, but that’s why I needed Lucy’s help.

“Ginger keeps eyeing Sid’s boyfriend.” The moment Lucy arrived I had explained my family dynamics. She, like Ed, was fascinated.

“I’ve been eyeing him, too. He’s a loser. Can’t you tell?”

“You know better than that. We don’t get to decide.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Actually, I was most worried about Junie. My mother has a heart big enough to include everyone in the world, no questions asked. She really believes inviting Ginger to our reunion is a gift to all of us.

I was not optimistic we were going to make it through the afternoon without a scene of some sort. I knew Lucy would have no luck keeping Ginger from ogling Bix, but she might have some keeping my mother out of the fray.

“Can you keep Junie occupied? And if it looks like trouble’s brewing, can you keep her out of it?”

Lucy grabbed one of her long snaking curls and held it out. “I come from a family of redheads. Look at this. And we never have scenes like this.”

“I’m delighted to share.”

“What is it about Christmas that does this?”

“You can’t blame it on Mary and Joseph. Sid and Ginger would act this way if it was National Kite Flying Day. Can you help me here?”

She must have heard my frustration. Lucy tsk-tsked a time or two, then waltzed off to find Junie. And how hard could that be? Junie’s caftan lit up even the darkest corner.

I wasn’t sure where to go next, but Sid found me before I could decide.

“Don’t start,” I said, holding up my hands. “I told Ginger to act like a grown-up. It’s up to you now. Can’t you just ignore her?”

Normally Sid looks like a twenty-first-century Botticelli angel, but now she looked more like something from Dante’s fifth circle of Hell. “
The souls of those that anger overcame.
”

“If I ignore her, she’ll just keep escalating!” Sid said. “Don’t you get it? She thrives on hurting me. She’s some kind of emotional vampire.”

This was true, of course, which was the reason I really couldn’t jump all over poor Sid. But it was also true that the only way Sid could stop the cycle was to find a way to move beyond Ginger’s abuse. I didn’t know how to help her there.

I did my best. “Just keep your head down, and maybe she’ll go find another neck to sink her fangs in.”

“At least
I
know
why
she’s here. Didn’t you wonder?”

The question had crossed my mind. I was hoping she had come out of genuine affection for Junie, but I wasn’t counting on it.

“I’ll tell you why,” Sid said before I could answer. “Junie won a big award at the international quilt show in Houston last month. Did you know?”

Quilts are Junie’s most recent artistic endeavor. She’s been quilting for a while now, and I don’t think she plans to move on anytime soon. She seems to have found her medium.

“I didn’t know,” I said. “Junie never thinks to brag about herself.”

“Well, she just told me her quilt won a prize, then some corporation bought it to hang in their offices. She came away with a lot of money!”

I saw where Sid was heading. “So you think Ginger found out about this somehow? How? I don’t see her subscribing to
Sew and Know
.”

“I imagine Junie stopped in Indianapolis to persuade her to come here, the subject came up, and wham, Ginger was suddenly interested in our reunion.”

I wondered if even Ginger was that devious. How much money were we talking about here? Enough to make the drive to Emerald Springs in the winter? Enough to face old enemies who know her for the woman she is?

“I hate to throw myself in the middle of a family feud,” I said, “but I would very much appreciate it if you and Ginger wouldn’t catfight about Junie’s money until say, dinner-time? If we could just get through the open house? Please?”

Contrition defused Sid’s anger just a crumb. She sighed. “I know.”

“Take Bix somewhere. Go for a ride. Feed him grilled cheese at Lana’s Lunch. Tell him the cows are fed on pesticide-free clover and gently herded by Costa Rican milkmaids. You have my heartfelt assurances deserting the party will be okay.”

“I’ll see if I can pry him from Ginger’s side.”

I couldn’t help myself. “You know you can do better, don’t you?”

She whirled, her eyes narrowed. “You never like the men I bring home!”

I couldn’t refute it. Ed and I have been married longer than all of Junie’s marriages put together. So far neither Sid nor Vel have caught on to choosing men for whom marriage is an acceptable goal. But clearly they come by their confusion honestly.

I touched her arm. “Let me arrange a marriage. It’s the best way. You and Vel can sing ‘Matchmaker, Match-maker. ’ It’ll bring you closer.”

She couldn’t stay mad at me—she had Ginger for that. “You are certifiable, Aggie.”

I watched her wend her way toward Bix-the-prick before I wound mine to the front door to greet more of our guests.

I was gratified by the turnout. If people worried they were taking their life in their hands walking into the parsonage, they didn’t show it. Bells jingled on corsages; battery-powered Christmas tree ties and Rudolph socks provided spontaneous, festive carols. My arms were filled with gifts of homemade cookies and bottles of wine that had not arrived via the discount bin at Krogers. Six members of the choir were singing “Angels We Have Heard on High” in the hallway where Teddy, in a blinking Santa hat, was stationed to usher people inside.

For a moment all seemed right with the world.

Then the door opened and Fern and Samuel Booth pushed their way past my darling Teddy, followed by their hapless son and daughter-in-law and worst of all, baby Shirley.

Every minister has his or her detractors. Dealing with them is one of those subjects seminaries don’t teach. Sometimes the detractors are powerful, and sometimes they’re clueless. Often they have unresolved issues with authority figures, usually parents. Sometimes I think they just make trouble for the fun of it. Sometimes, sadly, they are right.

In the fall the Booths took over as Ed’s greatest detractors when a woman who tried valiantly to fire my husband disappeared forever from the Emerald Springs scene. She’d had her own reasons, which hadn’t had anything to do with Ed, but that little fact seems to have bypassed the Booths. They are watching, waiting, and hoping for Ed to slip up. I know the signs.

Potbellied Samuel Booth is more or less a cipher. Fern is the voice of authority in the family. She’s a square-faced woman with a Dutch-boy bob and eyebrows that form a solid, unforgiving line.

Howard Booth, their son, must be an adopted child, because he’s a foot taller than either of his parents and has a face that was clearly pleasing enough to attract Mabyn, his wife.

Mabyn is what’s known as a catch. She’s petite, with shiny chocolate-colored hair, flawelss pale skin, and outstanding fashion sense. Today she was wearing a black dress topped with a delicately beaded gold sweater that had just a hint of shimmer. I would love to go shopping with Mabyn.

Actually I’d settle for just having enough money to go shopping with Mabyn.

Then there’s little Shirley. Maybe Howard Booth isn’t adopted after all, because at eighteen months Shirley is already the spitting image of Fern. I really love children. If Ed didn’t expect to see me sitting in a pew, I’d cuddle babies on Sunday mornings. Or I would if Shirley Booth weren’t among them. Unfortunately little Shirley resembles her grandma in every possible way.

Right now Shirley was dressed in green organdy with a red velvet bow clipped to a black topknot. She was squealing furiously. Had she been my daughter I’d have eased her out of the stiff, itchy dress in a heartbeat, but she wasn’t mine. And Mabyn looked as if she wished Shirley wasn’t hers, either.

“Welcome,” I said pleasantly. “I’m so glad you could come.”

Of course Fern did the talking. “Yes, well, considering everything that’s gone on here, it’s nice to see the parsonage in happier times.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” I smiled. I had the feeling I’d have to slap my cheek three or four times to melt back to a normal expression.

But Fern was ignoring me. She had turned her churlishness on her daughter-in-law. “Mabyn, can’t you stop that child from fussing?”

Mabyn looked suitably cowed. I felt a spark of camaraderie. “We’ve got all kinds of goodies in the other room,” I told Mabyn. “I know there’ll be something Shirley will like. Why don’t I clear a path for you?”

“I think we know where the dining room is,” Fern said. “You’re not the first family to live in
our
parsonage.”

Since this was “our” parsonage, I wanted to ask why Fern didn’t help me scrub and wax the antique linoleum floor in the kitchen. I’d been promised a new one, but it had yet to materialize. Meantime I threw biweekly paste wax parties, but nobody came.

I stepped back, smile still firmly in place, and resisted the urge to remove the flailing Shirley from her mother’s arms and tuck her into Teddy’s bed for a nap.

The stream of partygoers slowed to a dribble, and the carolers moved off toward the punch bowl, now brimming with Vel’s spectacular nonalcoholic eggnog. Arteries might clot today, but no eggnog imbibers would stumble out my door.

I went into the living room and found poor Cliff looking lost beside our Christmas tree. I hadn’t seen him with Ginger at any point during the party. When not pursuing Bix, Ginger was busy introducing herself to every male in attendance as my “special little sister,” and no matter how old the men, they were clearly appreciative of her efforts. Although I hadn’t yet had a chance to talk to him, Cliff didn’t look like a man who would be comfortable introducing himself to anyone.