Nobody's Sorry You're Dead: A Hadley Pell Cozy Mystery (6 page)

W
ith the manual in hand
, Hadley carried Bill's camera to the kitchen table and began to study the instructions. A fiddle here and an adjustment there, a quick look at the manual, and then it was time to go see Bill and Maury. She grabbed her purse and headed for the car.

“Hadley,” Bill said, opening the door as Hadley breezed through, “where’s the fire? Or should I say the fight? That’s a nice shiner you got there. How on earth did you get it? You’re not going to tell me some lame story about falling down or anything, are you?”

“No fire,” Hadley said. “No fight either. Not the kind you think. Just a little rough and tumble with Onus in the attic. The cat bumped into a teapot. Knocked it off a shelf. Shall we say I tussled with a dress mannequin, and the mannequin won? Just smile or say ‘cheese Louise’ or give me that big, goofy grin you’re famous for. Do something. I’m wasting precious time, here.”

The manual came in handy. Still, it had taken her several hours that afternoon, but Hadley had finally mastered Harry’s camera.

“You look like that dog on the Little Rascals, Petey,” Bill said.

“And you should get rid of that cat, Hadley. He’s gonna be the death of you, yet,” Maury said, entering the living room and wiping her wet hands on her apron.

“I’m making videos, y’all,” Hadley said, grinning and clearly pleased with her latest accomplishment.

“What’s so special about that, Hadley,” Maury said. “Harry took them all the time.”

“Yes, he did,” Hadley said. “And now I can, too. I finally figured out how to get this thing in focus. Finally. Though, it was touch and go for most of the afternoon.”

“Oh, Lord, preserve us,” Maury moaned. “Hadley, get that thing out of my face. You know I’m camera shy.”

“Oh Maury,” Hadley said, “you got a great smile. You know that. Camera shy, my eye! I see you sneaking a peek at me.”

Maury took the dish towel and popped Hadley with it. It was a thing they might have done as kids. Hadley was delighted.

“That’s it,” Hadley said, glued to the viewfinder. “Give me some real action.”

“You two cut it out before you break a hip,” Bill said. “I’d hate to have to explain to the emergency room doc how you two broke your bums horsing around like kids. Now, go into the kitchen like good girls. My show is coming on in five minutes, and I don’t want to miss it.”

“Oh, Hadley,” Maury said, “Let’s get out of her before Bill’s growl gets any louder.”

“Sounds like Bill’s as crazy over that comedy as Harry was about the Cardinals,” Hadley said.

“Coffee?”

“You bet,” Hadley said. “And don’t think I don’t realize you’re offering me coffee as a way to get me to put down the camera.”

“I go with what I know will work,” Maury said. “No sense remaking the wheel, if I don’t have to.”

Both sisters got busy. Maury began brewing the coffee while Hadley got out the cups and saucers. Maury went to the refrigerator and retrieved the cream. The sisters set up the refreshments on the kitchen table. Maury’s kitchen was warm and inviting. She served coffee cake. Hadley had two pieces.

“How was the show?” Maury asked Bill as he entered the kitchen. “Save some for tomorrow’s breakfast, Bill.”

Bill walked over to the counter and removed the cover from the cake. He opened the silverware drawer and got out a knife. Bill ignored Maury and cut an enormous hunk of scrumptious goodness.

“Right as rain,” Bill said, between bites. “Laughed so much, my side is splitting.”

“Keep eating like that and that’s not all you’ll be splitting,” Maury said.

“Hadley,” Bill said, changing the subject from his expanding waistline, “guess you can start in a coupla’ days.”

“Really?” Hadley said. “Great.”

Retrieving a key ring from his pocket, Bill picked through several keys. Finding the one he wanted, he took it off of the ring and handed it to Hadley.

“I’ll make sure not to lose this,” she said, placing the key safely in her purse.

“Those folks interested in Eustian’s farmland are wanting to get things moving,” Bill said. “I don’t see why we should keep them waiting. They’re gonna plant Eustian in the cemetery day after tomorrow.”

“That’s Monday. Why the delay?” asked Hadley. “Is he back at the funeral home?”

“Yeah. Bowey Hill sent him back. Guess the good folks ‘round here don’t want him disturbing the digestion of their Sunday meal.”

“Good point, Bill,” said Hadley. “Eustian did his best to keep the stomach acid of a lot of folks in this county churning.”

* * *

H
adley was
hungry when she returned home from Maury’s. Two pieces of coffee cake was only a snack in Hadley’s book, and she not just hungry for any old store bought concoction. Hadley was in the mood for a great big, creamy, rich, homemade chicken pot pie.

The cell rang.

“Hey,” Maury said. “Just checking to make sure you got home okay.”

“What is it?” Hadley asked. “You don’t usually keep tabs on me. What do you want?”

“Well,” Maury said, “I forgot to mention this to you. I was so caught up in starring in your latest video. I was wondering if you’d like to deliver the meals to the shut-ins in a couple of months.”

“The surprise shut-in boxes? Hot meals to the elderly. We’ll see. There’s a lot on my plate at the moment, but maybe things will settle down, by then. Is that list long?”

“Not very.”

Maury read Hadley the names off the list.

“Touch base with me in a few weeks. I’ll let you know, ‘kay?”

“Sure thing. Later, Sis,” Maury said.

“Later.”

Walking to the corner shelf where she kept all her recipe books, she ran her thumb over the titles until she spied the one she wanted.
James Beard’s American Cookery.
That’s the ticket. Opening in up she found the section on chicken pies.

“Serves 6, it says. Okay, this will cover my lunches for the week,” Hadley muttered.

First ingredient – chicken. Just reading that word brought to mind Eula Miles and her pet chicken, Roosevelt.

Delano Roosevelt Miles.

An awfully long name for a chicken. Why name a chicken after a president to begin with?

Even if it is your pet.

Okay, Hadley reasoned, perhaps that bird carried itself grandly or nobly.

Or like a president, but Hadley doubted it.

She’d seen Roosevelt with her own eyes – in the flesh and feathers. That was a proud chicken to be sure, but Hadley could not see any resemblance to Franklin or Teddy. The hen did not wear glasses. She did not smoke cigarettes in a long holder, and she had never been, to Hadley’s knowledge, chauffeured anywhere in a limousine or charging about on horseback in a fierce and raging battle.

The second thing that puzzled Hadley was why, if you are naming your chickens after world leaders, you picked a male name for a hen, but it went without saying that Eula Miles was a little eccentric.

In the South, eccentric is the polite term for
weird
. And Eula fit “eccentric” to a tee. Hadley had never known another human being to give a grown hen regular baths. While delivering a shut-in box one Wednesday, Hadley had knocked on Eula’s back door.

“Come on in. Door’s open,” Eula said.

Hadley had entered carrying the box in front of her. To her utter surprise, there stood Eula at the kitchen sink. Roosevelt was standing amid a cloud of vanilla scented bubbles.

Eula had a blob of bubbles on the side of her head.

“I always find a good soak in the bubbles so relaxing, don’t you Hadley?” Eula asked. “Roosevelt has been a little stressed out lately. You know a lot of things have been happening on the soap operas, and I just thought she could use a little spa time.”

Hadley had to admit, the chicken did look relaxed. Hadley wondered if a chicken could lay an egg in the bubbles, but she was afraid to ask.

Eula had been on the shut-in list since last spring when her eyesight had gotten so bad, she gave up driving. It was just as well.

Luther Abraham was sure to lay an egg if Eula didn’t retire her car keys.

Luther had been delivering the mail in his postal van. Eula was tooling around in her big, old sedan. Tooling is a word that hints Eula was moving steadily along down the road. But that might be misleading, since Eula never topped fifteen miles per hour, even going downhill with a strong tailwind.

She pulled right out into the road in front of the postal van, causing Luther to swerve into the ditch at her driveway. Luckily no one was hurt, but it put the fear of driving into Eula.

She started having her groceries and medicines delivered to her house. The church added Eula’s name to the list of elderly folks receiving a once-monthly care package: a hot meal cooked by the ladies from the ladies’ group.

Hadley smiled. Maybe she would deliver the shut-in surprise boxes, just for Eula’s sake. It would be nice to see the old girl again.

Hadley retrieved her four pound bird from the refrigerator. She peeled off the plastic and reached into the dark cavity to dredge out the giblets.

Ora Blair came to mind.

Another name on the shut-in list.

Ora had brought chicken stew to the church pot luck several years ago. Ora was well known for her homemade chicken stew in the church circles where pot luck dinners rolled around as quickly as wash days for dirty underwear. That particular chicken stew made Ora Blair legendary. But not in a good way.

Ora had always been the flighty, forgetful type. She was forever misplacing things, and it was the running joke among her friends that she would lose Peabody Blair, her husband, had he not been securely chained to Ora by the vows of matrimony.

The turnout for this dinner was notable. And so were the dishes. The table strained beneath the weight of platters piled high with homemade biscuits, deviled eggs, a garden variety of vegetables, slices of ham, fried chicken, and cakes and pies galore. Ora’s stew looked so inviting sitting on the long table with all the other home cooked dishes.

Hadley filled a great big bowl full of Ora’s piping hot stew and sat down to enjoy it. She dipped her spoon into the luscious richness, popping a huge spoonful into her mouth. She began to chew and chew and chew.

Something was not quite right.

Hadley looked around, making sure no one was watching. She brought her napkin up to her mouth. She spit out the chewy thing into the napkin. Seemed Ora had forgotten to remove the giblet packet that was always included in Pixie-Square’s chickens.

Good thing the packaging had not melted.

To this day, it was a secret Hadley had told no one. Not even Harry.

Ora was like everyone else. She was getting a little older and maybe a bit more forgetful. She rarely was able to get out to church. Gout was giving Ora fits.

Another name on the list.

Hadley rinsed the chicken and put in a large stock pot. Grabbing an onion, she chopped it into several chunks. She added a couple of chopped carrots into the pot.

Onus slinked into the kitchen to see what Hadley was doing.

“The smell of chicken get your mouth watering, Onus?” Hadley asked.

She went to the refrigerator and grabbed her celery.

Essie Macy immediately jumped into her mind. Essie had lived next to Hadley’s family when she was a child. Even back then Essie was known for her frugality. That was just a nice way of saying Essie Macy was a tightwad. How many times had Hadley’s mother complained about her neighbor’s frequent trips to borrow ingredients.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“It’s just me,” Essie Macy would say through the screen door. “You wouldn’t have a couple of stalks of celery I could borrow, would you?”

Hadley’s mother would get out two stalks and hand them to Essie.

“Thanks a bunch. I d’clare if this stuff ain’t high as a kite at Pixies. It’s flat out robbery what they charge for celery. I ain’t gonna pay that for it. I ain’t. Much obliged till you’re better paid.”

Essie Macy waddled back across the well-trodden path and disappeared into her house.

Hadley wondered if Essie thought her mother stole the celery from the vegetable bin at the grocery store or if Pixies just gave it away for free to certain special customers like the green stamps that accompanied your cash register receipt.

Essie Macy had to be pushing a hundred. She had seemed ancient when Hadley was a youngster. Essie stayed at home with her memories. She had outlived all of her family and childhood friends. Another name on the list of shut-ins.

Three chopped celery stalks, some peppercorns, and a garlic clove. Hmmm, Hadley wondered, did Astrid Larue still grow that wonderful elephant garlic. Astrid had taken a tumble and was recovering from a broken hip. She was able to get around her house with the help of a walker, but she wasn’t getting out yet, except for checkups with her doctor. Another person on the list.

“Need to send her a get well card,” Hadley muttered, covering the chicken with water. A dash of Kosher salt. Pop the lid on. Just simmer for about an hour and a half and the chicken was good to go.

While the chicken was cooling, Hadley added about a dozen small peeled onions, a couple of thinly sliced carrots, a quarter cup of chopped parsley, and a clove of crushed garlic in a pan with some reserved chicken broth to cook.