Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case (6 page)

In contrast, today’s Sherry acted unsure, tentative. More passive than assertive. The woman who’d helped me account for every dime of the funeral expenses had accepted Hellspawn’s claims without blinking.

Then again, I didn’t want to question the obnoxious Hellspawn about the time of day either. I wanted her far away. Mars could be far enough.

I just
had
to help Sherry get rid of her by Tuesday.

As for determining if Sherry and her friends had money troubles, that was information I doubted I’d get at all.

However, knowing the explosions and kitchen fires were only booms and smoke bombs was a huge relief. Once Dab dismantled the stills, no more booms, no more bombs, and the neighbors would have nothing to complain about. Detective Shoar would have nothing to investigate. Nothing to plague me about.

I bit my lip as I drained the tub, toweled dry, and considered not Eric Shoar’s many manly attributes, but his manner.

It bothered me that the Six assumed Shoar wanted them out of their home. They lived in this town and had done so most of their lives from what I gathered. They knew how things worked in Lilyvale. So what if I was wrong about the detective? What if Hellspawn was indeed greasing city official palms and he was a pawn to do their bidding? I didn’t for a second consider he’d be complicit with an underhanded scheme. Instinct told me he was too honest, too honorable. Besides, if he wanted the Six out of the farmhouse, he’d want me staying put in Houston, not visiting Lilyvale. Right?

I plugged in my tablet and phone to charge them and thought about Fred’s outraged defense of Sherry. Of them all. I’d surmised from Sherry’s letters and cards and e-mails that she shared a close bond with her housemates, but I’d had no idea how strong their ties were. I couldn’t claim to be that close to my roommate, Vicki, although I counted her as a friend.

Sadly, I had to admit she was one of my few friends. I had drinks with acquaintances now and then, and I used to date often, but I hadn’t met a man who really tripped my romantic trigger. Without fail, sometime between dates one and three, either I got fed up with a guy, or I became his pal instead of a potential partner. I learned a lot of interesting tidbits about a lot of subjects, from law to car maintenance to longhorn cattle ranching, but each relationship that lasted past three dates quickly became platonic. All fizzle, no sizzle.

I snuggled down in Sherry’s bed with a promise to myself that I’d get a life when I got home.

Sunday morning, I dressed for another beautiful Arkansas day. Makeup and hair done, I met the Six in the kitchen. Except for Fred, the seniors wore church clothes. Eleanor again looked elegant enough to belong in a fashion magazine.

Maise handed me a list of people we should be able to corner at the breakfast. Each name was followed with a brief physical description and a notation about where they lived and how long they’d been in their homes. Also where some of them worked. I didn’t know the area, so the addresses didn’t mean a thing to me, but I did note some of these people had been Sherry’s neighbors for thirty years or more.

“We thought this would help you keep everyone straight,” Sherry said.

“Seein’ as how you haven’t been here before,” Fred added, his tone just shy of snide.

Winning Fred over was going to be a challenge. Maybe when I came back for another visit, he’d forgive me for being a bad niece. Make that twenty or thirty visits.

Riding in Dab’s prime-condition Cadillac soothed my nerves somewhat, although they jumped again when we entered the already crowded fellowship hall just after eight. Dab steered us to the buffet tables even as he pointed out some of the neighbors on the list. Sherry hovered over the dishes but didn’t help herself to much of anything. Dab insisted on scooping a serving of egg-and-bacon casserole onto her plate, then served himself.

I had a half serving of the casserole, too, and then all but fell on the platter of biscuits. “Dough Belly,” my dad used to call me, and he was right. Sandwich bread didn’t tempt me, but corn bread, rolls, and biscuits were siren songs to my stomach. With butter and honey? Bliss on a paper plate. Good thing I burned off carbs with ease, though that supposedly changed after age thirty. Fair enough. I refused to worry about it until then.

My guide-to-the-neighbors cheat sheet in my jacket pocket, I followed Dab and Sherry to the last three seats at the end of a table near a concrete block wall. Sherry introduced me to John and Jane Lambert, the couple who owned the house at the end of Sherry’s block. Both wore green—a green shirt and gray tie for him, a long-sleeved shirtwaist dress that looked vintage for her.

Sherry didn’t have to question them, though. A couple of how-do-you-dos, and John lit into her.

“Sherry Mae Cutler, you have some nerve showing up here. Your family must be rolling in that graveyard out back.”

SHERRY GAPED, AND I WAS RIGHT THERE WITH HER.

“What on earth are you talking about, John?” Dab snapped.

“That developer woman told me you up and sold her the property option on your place. That place has been in your family since they founded Lilyvale. And after all the work you and Bill put into it over the years, too. It’s not right. Just not right.”

Sherry sputtered before finding her voice. “I haven’t sold Jill Elsman a thing, John.”

He lowered a forkful of hash browns. “You haven’t?”

“No. She told me
you
had. That all my neighbors had sold to her.”

“Why, that lying—”

“Now, John,” Jane said, a hand on his coat sleeve. “We’re in church.”

“We’re in the fellowship hall.”

“God can still hear you.”

I choked on a bite of biscuit, but Sherry kept her eyes on John.

“Have you signed her contract yet?” Sherry asked John.

“No, I have not. I told her I wouldn’t unless she showed me
your
contract, signed and sealed.”

“I declare, John. Why would you tell her that?”

“Because of your standing in this town. You were the mayor. I figured if you signed, the deal was legit.”

“What are you talking about?” a big man in blue bellowed from the next table. “Is it that pesky Elsman woman?”

“Sure is, Big George,” John called back.

That name I remembered from the list. Big George Heath looked like a bear in a brown suit. He owned the hardware store.

Heads lifted, chairs scraped on the dull linoleum, and suddenly people swarmed to the table, drawling their words double time. The Southern accents weren’t that different from the Texas drawl I’d grown up hearing—heck, the one I had myself—but the noise grew in volume and bounced around the room.

A rare attack of crowd-induced claustrophobia gripped me, so when Sherry stood, I did, too. Shoulder to shoulder with her, I grabbed my cheat sheet from my pocket. Dab stood behind and between us.

“She’s the rudest person!”

“Marie Dunn,” Dab whispered as the neighbors voiced their agreement with Marie, a petite woman wearing a black pantsuit.

“She acted like she was doing us such a big favor. Just because our home is small and more than seventy years old doesn’t make it worthless.”

“Pauletta Williamson,” Dab provided even as I glanced at my list. Gray permed hair, denim dress, squash blossom necklace.

“That fool woman sets a toe on my property again, and I’ll use Barker to comb her hair with buckshot.”

“Now, Duke, don’t be saying things like that,” Sherry chided.

Duke Richards, I remembered after a peek at my crib sheet. The suit-wearing man with collar-length hair. He owned the Dairy Queen.

“You’ve been the mayor, Sherry. You should do something about that land shark.”

“Bog Turner.” Dab identified the bald man who jerked at the knot of his black striped tie. Ironically, he owned the barber shop.

Silence reigned for seconds. Then Sherry straightened her spine.

“I can’t do anything about her by myself, Bog, but together we can. I’ll organize a meeting, so everyone write down your name and contact information, just in case I can’t find my church roster at home.”

Scribbling quickly ensued, and Sherry turned to me. “You take notes on that list Dab gave you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said as she clapped for attention.

“Friends, I need a show of hands. How many of you have signed contracts with Jill Elsman?”

No hands went up. I dutifully recorded it.

“How many of you were told that I had signed the contract?”

Thirteen hands waved, and I marked the number, though I didn’t have time to mentally connect hands with people’s names.

“Did Jill Elsman tell any of you what she planned to build?”

No one answered, and I jumped in with a question.

“Did she threaten any of you?”

“Who’s asking?” Pauletta demanded.

“I’m Nixy. Leslee Stanton Nix. Sherry Mae’s niece.”

“Sue Anne’s girl? Oh, honey, we prayed for your mama.”

The comment blindsided me. My throat clogged and tears threatened, but I swallowed hard and took a breath. “Thank you, Mrs. Williamson. Now, about the threats. Anyone?”

“She didn’t threaten me, but I heard about the trouble at your aunt’s place,” Bog said. “You think this woman’s behind it all?”

I shrugged. “Detective Shoar thinks kids are pulling the pranks. Back to what this project could be, what about contacts at city hall? Does anyone have an in with a secretary? A clerk?”

“I play checkers with Scooter Morgan at the shop,” Bog admitted. “But he’s the janitor. I doubt he knows much.”

“The thing is,” John said, “if there were plans afoot to build anything new in Lilyvale, it’d be all over town.”

While voices raised in general agreement, a bell sounded in the hall, the signal that services would begin in ten minutes. The exodus began.

“We did good, didn’t we, Nixy?” Sherry said quietly.

“You did great, Aunt Sherry, and you didn’t have to be nosy.”

She beamed. “You’re right. I hope the others had as much success.”

“Whether they did or not,” Dab said, “we have a good start on the resistance movement. I think Elsman’s days here are numbered.”

•   •   •

I HOPED WE’D BE ABLE TO LEAVE RIGHT AFTER THE
service. That plan pretty well tanked with the last “Amen” when one person after another stopped to say hello. Sherry introduced me, and while I understood the small-town social convention, what touched me was hearing the pride in Sherry’s tone. Pride in me. Shoot. I
had
been a bad niece. I’d make it a priority to come back soon to spend a weekend.

I spotted several people who looked familiar from the folk art festival and one man I absolutely recognized from yesterday. Bryan Hardy, the county’s baby-faced deputy prosecuting attorney, escorted a middle-aged lady across the church lawn—a lady who seemed to be talking Bryan’s ear off. The sum total of his responses? Nodding like a bobblehead doll. Was the woman his mother?

“That’s his aunt.”

I startled at Dab’s voice beside me.

“Was I staring?” I asked.

He grinned. “I don’t think anyone else noticed. Most people avoid Corina Hardy because she talks nonstop.”

“Mostly about herself and her exalted pedigree,” Sherry added.

“She’s hot stuff around here?”

Dab snorted. “More a legend in her own mind.”

“Sherry Mae,” a new voice called. “I need a word with you!”

Dab, Sherry, and I turned in sync. A lady in her early fifties wearing a pretty sky-blue shirtwaist dress hustled to my aunt’s side.

“Nixy, this is Lorna Tyler. She and her husband, Clark, own the Lilies Café and Inn on the Square.”

I’d met a lot of people in the last day, had a lot of names tossed at me, but Detective Shoar had mentioned the café and inn.

“Where that horrible Elsman woman is staying, God help me,” Lorna said, not bothering to lower her voice. “Nice to meet you, Nixy. Hello, Dab. Clark’s playing golf later, so I made him take the early shift at the café, but I heard about the to-do y’all had here during the church breakfast.”

“To-do?” Dab echoed when Lorna ran out of breath.

“You know. The discussion about the trouble all y’all are having with Jill Elsman,” Lorna clarified. “She can’t get our property even if she wanted it, but I’m right sorry about the problems she’s causing. I’d kick her out if it weren’t that she and her assistant are our only paying guests since your festival is over.”

Sherry patted Lorna’s arm. “It’s not your fault, dear.”

“No, but I can’t wait to see the back of her,” Lorna fumed. “She’s buttering up Clark like he’s hot toast about getting approval for this project of hers when the time comes. I swear, we’re going to come to blows if she doesn’t leave Clark alone.”

“Has she told your husband about her project?” I asked.

“Not that I know of, but, Sherry Mae, you know him. He’s tight-lipped about city business when he needs to be.”

“Which is an admirable trait,” Sherry said. “We don’t need unfounded rumors flying around town.”

“So true, especially when any news at all flies through town like lightning.” She paused and smiled. “Well, at least you know you have my support. Now, you bring Nixy by for lunch when you have time.”

Lorna departed, and Dab offered Sherry his arm. We started toward the all-but-empty parking lot when my steps faltered.

“Dab, isn’t that Detective Shoar hunkered under the back end of your Caddy?”

“Looks like him, but why’s he holding a paper bag?”

“Let’s find out.”

I led the charge, ready to nail him about those vandalism incidents he’d failed to mention.

I made no attempt to be stealthy, but stopped short when Shoar suddenly stood. “Did you pull litter patrol this morning, Detective?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he replied, all cop-faced.

“Then nothing has happened at the house?” Sherry asked as she and Dab came up behind me. “Fred is okay?”

“Everyone is fine so far as I know, Miz Sherry Mae. I’m here for another reason.” He opened the bag and tilted it toward us—well, mostly toward Dab, but I got a quick look at the partly black, partly rust-colored metal rod inside.

“Mr. Baxter, is this your tire iron?”

“Nope, and I don’t remember the last time I even saw a tire iron like that, though Fred had one for prying off bicycle wheels,” Dab answered. “There’s a four-way wrench in the trunk with my spare. You want to see it?”

“I’d appreciate your permission to look in the trunk,” Eric said.

I bristled. “What’s going on, Detective?”

“About an hour ago, Jill Elsman reported vandalism to her Hummer,” he said, his tone flat. “From the dents in the car, looks like a tire iron could’ve done the damage. The one I bagged has flecks of blue paint on it. I found it under Mr. Baxter’s back bumper.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said, hands on my hips, temper suddenly on high simmer. “Hellspawn is accusing us of wailing on her Hummer, and then leaving the evidence in plain sight? Seriously?”

He didn’t answer me. He simply stepped around me to look into Dab’s trunk. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter. How long have you been at church?”

“We arrived for breakfast,” Sherry answered. “We’ve been here since about eight this morning.”

“And we got an earful from Sherry’s neighbors,” I said as I stepped into his space. “Hellspawn has lied left, right, and sideways about who’s sold property options to her. I wouldn’t put it past her to lie about this and have done the damage herself.”

“That’s a theory, and I’ll investigate every angle.”

“Like you’re investigating the dead bird, barn break-in, and mailbox bomb at Aunt Sherry’s? You could’ve told me about those incidents yesterday. Or, gee, you could’ve called anytime last week to give me a heads-up before I got here. So what’s that about, buster?”

“I told you that you needed to talk with Miz Sherry to get answers.”

“Which I obviously did, but you still could’ve prepared me, and I resent that you’d think even for a minute that Sherry would vandalize someone’s property.”

“Now, Nixy,” Sherry said, patting my arm when I ran out of breath. “We’ve wondered if Ms. Elsman is behind the vandalism at my house. It’s not a stretch for her to believe the same of us.”

“I disagree,” I shot back. “It’s a stretch from here to Houston that you’d bash on her car, but it’s a devious way to divert suspicion if she’s the one who . . .” A thought hit me. “Uh-oh.”

I rushed to the front passenger side of Dab’s Caddy, ran my hand over the smooth fender while peering at the hubcap.

“What are you doing?” Shoar testily asked.

“Looking for damage.”

“I did that,” he said with exaggerated patience. “There’s not a ding or scratch on the Caddy.”

“This wheel cover is scratched.”

“Where?”

I hunkered down by the tire as he moved nearer. Reached to touch the lug nuts. The loose lug nuts.

“Where is the damage?” he asked.

I pointed. “There. And look at the nuts. Somebody’s messed with them.”

Sherry made a sound of distress, but I stayed focused on Eric as he looked, really looked at where I’d pointed. In a few heartbeats, he let out a low whistle as he pulled out his phone and snapped several pictures. “Dab, you ever have trouble with these lugs coming loose?”

“Never, and the car drove fine this morning. Just like always.”

Shoar stood and faced Dab. “If you’ll get your four-way wrench out of the trunk, I’ll get these tightened so you can be on your way.”

Dab hurried to the trunk while I glared at the not-so-eagle-eyed detective. He merely took more photos until Dab handed him the X-shaped tool. Then he knelt by the tire and I stood right over him.

“You know that tire iron wasn’t used on those lugs,” I said conversationally. “You’d use it to pop off a hubcap but not to loosen the nuts. You tested the wrench end against Dab’s lugs, didn’t you?”

“I did against one of them,” he said without looking up.

“And they didn’t fit.”

“Nope.” Still no eye contact.

“That type of lug wrench is old and probably came with a particular make and model of car. They aren’t all interchangeable.”