We sat in silence for a good minute, each of us thinking about poor Macon Vance. Player or not, he surely hadn’t deserved to die.
“Anything else you need moved while we’re here?” Will asked after a spell.
I hadn’t planned on imposing anymore, but since he’d asked… “Texana’s old trunk is up there,” I said. It was a conversation piece, as well as a bit of my family’s history. From what I remembered of the stories, it was possible it had belonged to one of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang, if not Butch Cassidy himself.
They hightailed it back upstairs, and within a few minutes, they were situating the oak-slatted, flattopped trunk next to the front door.
“Stabbed,” George said to Buckley, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.” They’d both downed glasses of sweet tea and were walking down the porch steps toward the flower-covered archway leading to the sidewalk.
Buckley shook his head. “What a way to go. Must be a lot of sad women in Bliss,” he added. “A lot of sad women.”
“But a lot of happy husbands,” George quipped.
As their voices drifted away, Will opened the door and started to usher me inside. Before I could thank him for his help, a white Mercedes screeched to a halt in front of my vine-covered arbor. A woman tumbled out of the car and flew up the flagstone walkway. “Harlow,” she called, waving me down. “My dear, wait.”
“Mrs. James.” I scrambled down the porch steps, Will on my heels. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” she said, her voice shakier than a hive of buzzing hornets. “Absolutely everything.”
Chapter 8
Will and Mrs. James sat at the round pine table in the kitchen while, ever the Southern hostess, I busied myself pouring glasses of lemonade and laying out a plate of shortbread cookies. Mrs. James cleared her throat and flicked her wrist to look at her watch. “I suppose it’s a little early, yet, but I might could use a splash of vodka in that lemonade.”
I bit my lower lip, two thoughts racing through my head. It definitely was early in the day to be adding anything alcoholic to a glass of lemonade, but she was clearly agitated and if it would help calm her down, she was probably right. She could use it.
The second thing was that she’d slipped from her careful senator’s wife diction to the down-home country girl she’d grown up as. “Might could” was a verb construction that I bet no other state in the union understood or used. Texans, though, could pull it off… and with finesse.
“Will,” I said, waving him over as I shoved my glasses on top of my head to hold back my hair. “Would you…” I pointed to the cabinet above the buttercup-colored refrigerator. He was a good five inches taller than I was, which put him around six feet. Tall enough to rifle through the few bottles of spirits I’d stashed away for special occasions.
He tilted the bottle over the glass of lemonade, his back to Mrs. James, pretending to pour more than he actually did. He met my eyes and I gave a little nod. It was A-OK with me that he’d added only the smallest splash to the drink. Mrs. James had gone pale since she’d arrived. Half a shot of alcohol wasn’t going to fix whatever was troubling her.
Will and I sat down at the table, sipping our own, straight lemonade. “What’s wrong, Mrs. James?” I asked. “Is it something with the pageant?” She didn’t answer, so I rambled on. “I plan on working on Libby’s dress all afternoon, and Will’s here so we can write up that pedigree thing for Gracie.”
He raised his eyebrows at me and I shrugged. We’d have to wing it if Mrs. James didn’t find her voice pretty soon.
She nodded absently. Her glass was already empty, only a few melted ice cubes skimming the bottom. “What is it?” I asked again. “Did something happen…? Is the senator—”
She waved away my concern. “Jeb’s just fine,” she said, her accent softening the vowel and drawing out her words. “No, it’s worse…”
I snuck a glance at Will, imagining for a second that he was my husband. I’d be devastated if anything happened to him. What could be worse than something being wrong with your spouse—? Oh no. “Is it one of your children? Did something happen—”
She nodded, but said, “N-no… it’s just…” Poor woman. She didn’t know up from down at the moment. Will took her glass and refilled it, adding another splash of vodka. I leaned forward, cupping my hands over one of hers. There was only one other thing that could be upsetting her, at least that I could think of. “What is it? You can tell me,” I urged.
The healthy swig of the drink Will handed her seemed to spread through her like wildfire. Her eyes went from glazed to flashing in a split second and she snapped her hand away from mine. She sat up straight and took another sip. “It’s that damn golfer,” she said, sucking her lips over her teeth after she spoke. “Macon Vance.”
Will sat back down, stroking his goatee. “Did you know him?”
“Know him?” She looked at Will as if he’d suddenly sprouted pig’s ears. “No. Not at all. That is, of course I saw him around the club, but no, I didn’t know him. No,” she added, a touch more thoughtfully. “No,” she repeated hoarsely, “and I didn’t want to know him.”
“What did you want to tell me, Mrs. James?” I asked, wanting to cut to the chase. This conversation was getting us nowhere mighty fast.
“I’d say that I’m in a heap of trouble.” She looked at Will, eyeing him suspiciously for a moment before blinking and shifting her gaze to me. “I can trust you, I suppose? Of course I can. That’s why I came here,” she mumbled to herself.
We waited, again, for her to keep talking, but criminy, she was taking her sweet time—which went against everything I knew about Mrs. Zinnia James. In the short time I’d known her, she’d been brutally honest. So why the sudden closed lips?
She’d come here, I reminded myself, so I had a free pass to pry. “You said that everything was wrong. What’s everything?”
She lifted her lemonade cooler to her mouth and knocked back the last of it. “It’s all gone to hell,” she finally said.
“What has?”
“My granddaughter’s future—”
My eyes flew open wide. “Why? The sheriff isn’t shutting down the pageant, is he?” The streetlights had been adorned with festival flags and the invitations had been sent out. The catwalk was up. The lights were situated. Heck, even the bubble machine was all set. The debutantes would be devastated if the event were canceled. The Margaret Moffette Lea Pageant and Ball was a Bliss institution. A tradition akin to Fourth of July, Blue Bell ice cream, and pecan pie. Not to mention the investment I’d already made in the dress pulley contraption Will had installed. I didn’t have another wedding dress lined up yet. The commission from Libby’s dress was meant to pay for the pulley. I tossed up a silent prayer.
“No. Goodness, no.” She looked at me like I’d plumb lost my mind.
Which is exactly how I was looking at her. “Then what is it, Mrs. James?”
She stood up, did a slow loop around the kitchen, her heels clicking against the tile, then turned to face us. “The other day at the club,” she said to me. “You told me you weren’t there, but you were.” My jaw dropped open, but she continued before I could stammer out an excuse for lying to her. “The day you left your sewing bag.”
“Y-yes—”
“You didn’t wait to talk to me—”
“You were… busy.”
“Busy,” she repeated.
I nodded my head. “Busy.”
“So you heard?”
I nodded. We couldn’t have blocked out the argument if we’d tried.
“You were with the newly minted Mrs. Nate Kincaid, correct?” she continued.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yes.” I’d told the deputy and the sheriff that I’d been there with Josie Kincaid. I tried to shove away the fact that I’d omitted the argument from the story I’d told, but from the tight expression on Mrs. James’s face, I suspected Josie hadn’t left out that tidbit.