Murder Takes to the Hills (21 page)

“Dime a point. I feel lucky.”

“Uh-oh.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Fog and drizzle had done little to rain on the Bromfield Inn’s parade. Most of the tables were taken with people having dinner.
 
Lou and Gale were already there.
 
Lou stood and waved us to our table.

As we twisted our way to it, I was surprised at the number of people whom we didn’t know who nodded or spoke briefly or simply smiled at us. I supposed they had heard of our help with the errant cattle and our temporary triumph over Mickey McCurry at the
Delly
. And then a small event occurred that made me think perhaps we had a good press agent.

I noticed Gertrude sitting at a table with three other ladies of uncertain age and unstinting of makeup, all in elegant gowns heavy with jewelry. I gave Gertrude a wave and in return received a broad wave, an inviting smile and an absolutely frightening blown kiss from all four dowagers. I scuttled ahead to our table, leaving Cindy to make her way as best she could.

The buffet was typical of country club offerings, but well cooked and nicely served.
 
The band played light semi-classical music at a volume that provided a pleasant background and allowed easy conversation.

We caught up on the animal casualty report. Jasper was coming along, Sammy was doing well; the problem was keeping him away from his beloved sheep for a few days. Frank Allen was still upset and nervous, but not seriously injured.

“Actually,” Gale opined, “I think Sara is making him more nervous than he needs to be. It’s wise for several reasons to keep him in his stall for a few days, but she’s checking on him every half hour, sometimes crying when she pets him, leaving the stable lights on all night…I think Frank by now thinks
he
did something wrong.”

“It’s a scary situation,” Cindy countered. “That damned man—much as I’d like to see him in jail, I’d be very happy just to see him out of town.
 
Of course, that merely foists him onto another innocent town, but I almost wouldn’t care.”

“A creative police department would help,” I added. “I remember when Provincetown was blessed with a guy who regularly beat up on his wife. She was afraid to file charges for fear he’d kill her and their two- or three-year-old toddler. Sonny, my brother the cop, got a friend of his to buy the husband a bunch of drinks in his favorite spa. When the guy got good and drunk, Sonny casually stopped in the bar for a drink, insulted the man right and left until he took a punch at Sonny—who then arrested him for assaulting an officer. That put him in jail for a few days, while they convinced a neighbor to testify against him. And that gave the wife some courage, and they got him good and proper.”

“Maybe you should tell that story to Deputy Spitz,” Lou said. “That sounds like something he would do.”

“What about the sheriff?” I queried. “Couldn’t he set up something like that?” I was half-kidding, and Gale took me up on it.

“Sure. The friend would be busy getting Mickey dead-ass drunk.
Jeffie
would come in and get drunk with Mickey. They would start to fight and the friend would be afraid someone was going to get shot, so he tries to break it up.
Jeffie
arrests his friend for interfering and forgets to arrest Mickey. Mickey falls asleep while driving back to the No-Tel Mo-
tel
and drives his car into the reception area, which is being burgled at the time. He accidentally runs over both burglars and gets the Good Citizen Award of the Month.”

We all laughed, and I agreed that sometimes it seemed as if justice were indeed blind, if not drunk to boot.

Suddenly Cindy looked keenly toward the outer door and did her eyebrow trick. “Well, well, look who’s here!”

As I turned I was thinking that McCurry combined with square dancing could really make my evening. But it wasn’t he at all.
 

It was Tommy Blackstone, looking very handsome in tan slacks and a dark green or navy blazer, with the strobe lights, it was hard to tell. He was escorting two well-dressed women. The older one was absolutely stunning in an Anne Bancroft sort of way, and it took me a moment to realize it was Sara. Her dark hair was attractively styled and her makeup was just enough and just right. Her well-tanned complexion was set off by her soft peach dress and the single strand of pearls that led to an enticing décolletage. The younger woman had blond hair much like Tommy’s and wore a pale blue dress that let her hair dominate the scene. Her main touch of color was an orange sash, very nearly matching the stripe in Tommy’s tie. I wondered if it was accidental.

“This table excluded,” Cindy gushed, “Tommy’s got the two best-looking women in the room! Sara looks divine and thank God she’s having an evening out. Who’s the pretty girl?”

“Tommy’s girlfriend,
Cissy
Milton—probably his wife in another year or so,” Lou advised.

“That’s great!” I replied. “That family deserves some good things and she looks like a sweetie.
 
Ah, will they be okay living independently?”

“They’ll be fine according to Doc Fisher. Tommy is a little—slow, I guess you’d say, but far from seriously retarded—because of a tangled umbilical cord which caused some trouble at birth.
Cissy
is on about the same level, maybe marginally better, due to an auto accident. Sitting on Grandma’s lap instead of in her baby seat, she had a slight brain injury.”

Lou sipped her coffee and Gale spoke up. “Since their conditions were accident-caused, not genetic, they can have kids without any more than every parent’s worry that the offspring will be normal. And they are far from dumb. Tommy knows more about horses than anyone in the state except Clay. And
Cissy
runs—
is
—the home delivery part of the
Delly
…and we all know, our Gertrude don’t suffer no fools lightly.”

We all laughed, and I asked, “Who are the three Harpies with our Gertrude?
Beulaland’s
retired motorcycle club?”

Lou raised her chin high and pursed her lips. “Honey, you ah
speakin
’ of the very
coah
of the Ladies’ Altar Guild of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church. The flowers don’t dare to wilt in
theyah
presence.”

We laughed so loud, we got looks from around us. Fortunately, before we could carry this conversation further, waiters began clearing the tables, and the orchestra grew silent and departed the stand.

 
In a few minutes a whole new group of musicians filed in, wearing blue overalls and
workshirts
, topped with various styles of straw hats. Last in line was a thin man dressed in jeans and white shirt with a string tie and tuxedo jacket. He had to be the caller.

Tuning procedures complete, the band struck up a brisk tune and the tuxedo man called, “Pick
yo
pahdners
and form in
foahs
.”

Lou and Gale excused themselves and headed to the dance floor. Other twosomes joined them, including Gertrude and her companions—who else would have dared partner them? Cindy looked at me, and I said, “Don’t be absurd.”

At that moment Peter Minot approached with a wide grin. “Which of you ladies will do me the honor?”

“
Cindywillbedelightedto
,” I blurted. I was taking no chances.

“I
am
 
delighted,” she said as she rose and took his arm. “See you later, chick-chick-chicken.”

The participants made their way ’round and ’round the room, docilely following the high-pitched instructions. I sat happily alone. I love to dance, and I am pretty good at it. But I feel that, unless you are in a Broadway chorus line, dancing is a two-person contact sport, not a groupie affair. I do not like being yelled at while I am dancing, and told what steps to take, when I am perfectly capable of following the music without directions from the sidelines.

I was basking in my superiority, when a figure appeared beside the table.

“Howdy, Ms. Alex, would you do me the favor of the next set?” It was Branch Redford, looking quite gentlemanly in light gray pants and a darker blazer.

“Thanks, Branch, but I don’t square dance.”

“Don’t square dance or don’t dance with me?” He sat down, uninvited. “Ms. Alex, I am
persona non grata
in my own hometown. Part of it is my own fault, I freely admit, but part of it ain’t.
 
For example, those photos of the old-folks home. Yes, I got the county to pay for half of it and a couple of banks to pick up the slack in a mortgage. But the trouble there isn’t that I sold sub-par work.” He took a generous sip of a dark highball.

“Then what is it?” I smiled, disbelieving.

He waved at a waiter and ordered a drink for us both. “The units were built on limestone with hollow areas underneath. The weight of the buildings caused some of it to collapse. So now one building slants, and the other opened up a spring. Now,
that
was for the engineers to realize and tell us not to build there! I think maybe they did know and just took a chance. But
I
didn’t know it when I sold it! Now the old folks are in ‘temporary’ quarters I wouldn’t wish on a weasel, and I would never have done that to them. I sincerely would not!”

“So why did you stay with Advantage?” I looked for our waiter. By now, I wanted the drink.

“I was so naïve,” he explained, “I believed ’em when they said it would never happen again. And this mountain development sounded great. I figured if I did an effective, fast job, it would put me in good with Advantage and be a gold mine for
Beulaland
. We might well become another Gatlinburg!”

“Didn’t it occur to you, not everyone might want to be another Gatlinburg?”

“Frankly, no. I figured property values would go up, businesses would have more traffic. There’d be lots of B&Bs and restaurants and…oh! Just loads of things. But I was wrong. These damned old dirt farmers don’t know
nothin
’ about business. And then Advantage saddled me with Mickey.”

“Ah, yes. Mickey. Are you aware of what he’s been doing? What he did to your own sister?”

“I know what they say he’s been doing. I haven’t seen him do anything. He’s got a rough tongue. He scared the
bejesus
out of some old people. And I tell you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he hurt them dogs and shot that sheep and all…though I can’t prove it. You cross him and you’re on his shit list forever.
 
Pardon my language, ma’am. But I never
saw
anything, so what can I do?”

I realized Branch had had a drink or three, and I wanted to keep him talking.

“Branch,” I suggested, “let’s go in the bar. I need a drink, and these waiters are all jammed with orders.”

“Dance one set with me, Ms. Alex, and I’ll buy you the whole bar.”

I finally figured out that he simply wanted to be seen dancing with me. I was staying at Ken Willingham’s. I had made friends with
Beulaland
locals. I would clothe him in my respectability. Okay fine. I’d get what I wanted out of him in the bar.

“All right, Branch, you win.” The band was tuning up again. “Just don’t blame me if I step all over you.”

He offered me his arm. “You can’t hurt these shoes, ma’am. Let’s go trip the light fantastic.”

I automatically looked down and saw he was wearing the sneakers like mine, and probably the same size. Even for a short, chubby guy he had small hands and feet. Maybe I couldn’t hurt the shoes, but I could sure hurt the tops of his toes. Well, he had asked for it. On whether we would trip the light fantastic or trip each other, the jury was still out.

The less said of our dance, the kinder.

In the crowded bar I managed to get Joe’s attention and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. Branch duplicated my order and doubled it, and then leaned forward and said softly, “Run this on Clay’s tab, will ya, Joe?” Joe looked unhappy, but complied. I figured it was to the Bromfield benefit.

“Clay was pretty upset about Frank Allen, wasn’t he, Branch?”