Baby Daddy Mystery Page 7

  Twinkles sat with his legs crossed at the ankles at the white French provincial reception desk. He wore a red jumpsuit with flared white legs and a rhinestone collar studded into the neckline. His whole look tended toward Elvis. His dyed black hair, a Miss Clairol number 124 job if ever I saw one, was piled atop his head, topped with a bun wig. Cute little corkscrew curls fell down to cover where most men might have sideburns. His makeup put me in mind of Elizabeth Taylor in her prime, except for the gray five o’clock shadow.

  He was enjoying lunch. He had a cheesy mystery meat sandwich, a specialty of Pokey’s Tavern, on a paper plate, along with a mess of onion rings. The onion rings were swimming in a pile of ketchup. He had cut the sandwich into dainty finger bites, which he was eating with a tiny plastic knife and fork. He was using a linen napkin to wipe his lips in between bites.

  “Come on in, ladies,” he said. “Just finishing lunch. Got Bromley in the back. April’s with him, finishing his paperwork. You gals come to visit him?”

  “Nah,” said Veenie, eyeing the mystery meat sandwich—I swear I heard her stomach rumble—“we’re after April.”

  “Oh right,” said Twinkles. “Saw in the Hoosier Squealer you two are working the Apple case.” He noticed Veenie’s drool and held out his plate, offering her a bite of his sandwich. “Help yourself. Can’t nobody resist Mama Dolly’s cooking.”

  “Much obliged,” Veenie said as she wolfed down the itty-bitty bite.

  I asked Twinkles how work was going.

  “Splendid,” he said. “I just love, love, love working on dead people. They never complain. Never a bad word. And I just got some new face paints in from Louisville, so Bromley’s got this nice warm apple glow about him. Avonelle was right pleased.”

  “You always do everybody up so nice.”

  “Lord knows I try. It’s their last big shindig.”

  In truth, Twinkles was the best beautician and cosmetician in town, better even than Tinky Sue Knute, who ran the Curl Up and Dye. A lot of folks went with the Reddy Funeral Home when their time came because of Twinkles’ mastery of makeup and hair. With Twinkles working on you, you’d look sharp even if you spent your whole ordinary life looking like you fell out of an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.

  Veenie was already booked with Twinkles. She’d splurged on the down payment for a big send away last spring when Beryl had offered a one-time-only senior layaway plan. Veenie loved a good party, so she’d selected her package up front, sparing no expense.

  The back door to the body prep lab swung open. April peeked out. She wasn’t wearing her customary black sock cap, so her natural salt and pepper curls puffed out like Shirley Temple. “Hi there, gals. Come on back. We can sit and yack in Beryl’s office. He’s out on a pickup. I can fill you all in about the autopsy.”

  We said our good-byes to Twinkles and followed April into Beryl’s office. The room was filled with more white French provincial furniture and red satin drapes. The walls were covered with paintings, mostly of Jesus and angels. A white leather Bible big enough to brain the devil himself was spread open on the desk. The biggest thing on Beryl’s desk was a gold-tinted triple box of tissue. Veenie helped herself to one. When she was done honking, April started in. She didn’t really have a lot to say. And what she did say took us both by surprise.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Bromley died of natural causes.”

  “Come again?” I sputtered.

  “Natural death,” April said as she signed and stamped the last of her paperwork and slid it into the white leather inbox on Beryl’s desk. “Heart stopped.”

  “His ticker popped?” asked Veenie.

  “Not quite. He had a heart defect. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Abnormal thickening of the heart muscles. It’s genetic. The muscles of his heart had been thickening up for some time. Found evidence that he’d had at least one minor heart attack. Recent. Probably thought it was indigestion. May have fainted once or twice. Probably ignored the signs, thought he was getting old, out of shape. People do it all the time.”

  “What about the clothes he was wearing?”

  “What about them?”

  “They came from the scarecrow out in Barbara Skaggs’s garden. Veenie and I saw the scarecrow wearing them when we first arrived that day. An hour later, Bromley was dressed in those same clothes, dead as a pumpkin on the front porch.”

  “Well,” April stood up and closed her medical bag, which had held the paperwork, “I certainly can’t explain that.”

  Veenie asked if Bromley had been wearing normal underwear.

  “Yep. Blue boxers. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  I asked if Avonelle had been informed about the cause of death.

  “Called her about an hour ago. She didn’t answer her phone. Didn’t want to leave a message or a text. Like to show respect. Do these things in person.” April checked her watch, a cute little red acrylic number with white stripes, kind of like a candy cane. “I’ll swing by the bank, then her place on my way home. If you gals could keep this quiet until tomorrow, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing,” I said.

  “You believe that?” I asked Veenie as we climbed into the Impala.

  “Nah,” she said. “Something’s all cattywampus here.”

  I had to agree, but I had no clue what was going on with this case, and once Avonelle heard the official news from April that Bromley’s death was natural, I was pretty confident she’d pull the plug on our nosing around. She wasn’t one to throw away fistfuls of cash out of sheer curiosity. It didn’t sit well with me, but Avonelle was the client, and it was her dime we’d been dining on.

  By the time we reached home, it was dinner time. We’d stopped at Pokey’s Tavern and picked up a to-go bag of mystery meat sandwiches. We’d recently solved a mystery for Pokey. To pay us back, he gave us an open tab on food items at the tavern. Any drinks we wanted we had to pay hard cash for though.

  Veenie rushed in to have at her sandwich while it was still hot and gooey. Also, it was time for the Grand Ole Opry rerun show. Tonight it was Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs on the dueling banjos. Veenie was a sucker for country boys who loved to pick and grin. Her pappy had been a barn dance fiddle player back in the day. She could still shake a leg when she had a mind to. Truth be told, Veenie knew about every dance from the waltz to the mashed tater. Lately she’d been brushing up on twerking and flossing. She was saving her big moves for the barn dance at Ma and Peepaw Horton’s annual Chickenlandia Festival in a couple of weeks.

  The first thing I saw when we arrived home was Sassy. She sat on the porch swing, all dolled up. She waved at people as they strolled by walking their dogs or strutting it up to whatever marching music they had stuck in their ears. And she wasn’t alone. Fussy Smith was parked next to her. He was dolled up in a navy blazer and a blue button-up dress shirt with a red tie. He wore navy dress trousers with a slick white belt.

  Back in my day, that kind of dress meant a fellow was serious about impressing a lady. I didn’t know when it became ok for men to prance around in sloppy shorts and tongue-wagging tennis shoes. Probably the seventies did that. Fashion went hog wild back then. Most people never recovered. Fussy, who graduated high school with us, was still doing it up old school.

  “Evenin’ Ruby Jane,” Fussy said. He stood up and shook my hand. His silver-gray hair was slicked back, trimmed nice and tight above his ears. He wore shiny white penny loafers, the kind most men in these parts pulled on for weddings or Sunday school.

  “Evening Fussy. You still out there at Camelot?”

  “Still there. Real shame about Bromley. Lived across from me. Right nice fellow. Never gave none of us out at Camelot a lick of trouble.”

  “Not sure his wife would agree with you.”

  Fussy straightened his belt buckle. “Well now, sometimes a fellow has to sow a few wild oats.”

  “You know Bromley well?”

  “Oh, sure. Sure did. Did some investments
together. Real estate. Construction. You know.”

  I nodded, though I didn’t know. None of those things seemed very exciting to me.

  Sassy spoke up. “Fussy here is taking me down to the yacht club tonight. We was just sitting here enjoying the breeze before we hightailed it down there for supper. It’s steak night. A private to-do.”

  By Yacht Club I was pretty sure she meant the White River Boat and Gun Club. Sassy was like that, always sprinkling fairy dust all over everything. Fussy was a bit like that too. The boats most folks put into White River had to be rowed. Nonetheless, Fussy called the place a yacht club and the annual river parade a regatta. He enjoyed swooning around town in a white captain’s hat and navy sailor’s jacket most of the summer.

  Fussy cleared his throat. “It’s a special dinner. Regatta planning committee. Sassy here is my plus one.”

  Sassy messed at an imaginary piece of lint on Fussy’s navy jacket. “Fussy here is the High Commander.”

  “Still got that tricked out pontoon boat?” I asked Fussy.

  “Sure do. Hey, maybe you and Boots can come over. Take a river cruise with me and Miss Sassy. Make it a double date.” He patted Sassy’s hand.

  “Boots? Boots Gibson? Why you bringing him up?”

  “Sassy here told me you two were an item now.”

  Sassy nodded so vigorously that her hair, which was piled high atop her head, bobbled a bit. “We could make it a double date, Ruby Jane, like in high school.”

  “I am not dating Boots Gibson. Where’d you get that silly idea?”

  “Veenie told me. Besides, I seen the way he looks at you, all moon-eyed.” She rolled her eyes and giggled.

  And that was that. Our conversation smacked into a brick wall, probably just as well, as my cell was vibrating and wobbling like the Impala trying to climb the knobs. I looked down to see a whole mess of texts with a bunch of squiggly sad faces and exclamation points from my grown daughter, Joyce. Odd, because mostly she kept to herself with her high-powered insurance salesman husband up in the big city of Bloomington.

  “See y’all later,” I said to Sassy and Fussy as I ducked into the house to see what had Joyce’s tail in such a twist.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Boy, oh boy,” said Veenie when I showed her Joyce’s texts. There must have been fifty of them. “That girl done wrote you a novel. Looks like a Gone with the Wind thingy to me. She okay?”

  “Dunno. Near as I can tell, she thinks her husband is cheating on her.”

  “Never did like that fellow. His eyes are too close together.” Veenie slapped a hand to each side of her face and squished her cheeks up. “He’s got a face like a chicken hawk. He’s all squinty-eyed, sneaky-looking, and a southerner to boot. You gonna get involved?”

  “She sounds pretty shook up.”

  “Ruby Jane, that daughter of yours is always upset. She’s wound tighter than a two dollar watch. Always has been. Her life is one big swirling toilet of upset and emotion. Why you want to go swimming in that?” Veenie offered me some of her bag of BBQ pork cracklings by way of comfort, and I popped a few.

  “She’s kin,” I said between crunches. “My only daughter, and you know she only gets so darned upset because her heart’s so big.”

  Veenie shook her fingers at the cell phone. “Put that thingy on speaker then. Let’s get this soap opera going.”

  “I’m too tuckered out,” I said, moving Veenie’s little feet over on the couch and plopping down. “Imagine whatever all the fuss it about will hold till morning.”

  I shut off my cell phone and stretched out in the recliner. Veenie and I snuggled into some afghans and kicked back over a bowl of popcorn as Lester Flatts and Earl Scruggs plucked out “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” on their dueling banjos.

  The next morning, Veenie and I got a surprise when we went to unlock the office door for work. The door was already unlocked. Harry was sitting at his desk, feet up. His fedora hat was still on his head, so I reckoned he hadn’t been there all that long. “You gals are late,” he bellyached, making a to-do out of squinting at his wrist watch. “I need coffee.”

  “Well, well,” said Veenie. “Look what the devil dumped on us. It’s Harry, the man ho.”

  Harry’s face tightened. His little pewter-colored mustache danced in grim disapproval. “Why you always have to sass me, Lavinia?”

  “Why you always have to leave us here to get shot at, Harry?”

  “Shap been sniffing around?” Harry’s eyes darted around the office, across the big plate glass windows in the front. “Shap in town? You see him out there?”

  Veenie put some coffee on to brew. “We told him you were out of town, so he’s leaving us alone, but if we get killed because of your weak zipper, the law says you’d be responsible. It’d be a crime. Testicular manslaughter.”

  Harry puffed. “That is not a real thing.” He sat upright and tightened his tie. “Besides, it’s not my fault. It’s that wife of his. Dottie won’t leave me alone. She keeps following me around, wanting a piece of me. What am I supposed to do?”

  I made a suggestion. “Behave yourself?”

  That got me a snort.

  Veenie was pouring us coffee when Dottie Reynolds blew in the door. She was a holy mess. Her hair, which was a white-blonde wig, was a wee bit sideways. She was wearing bug-eyed, lime green sunglasses and a yellow mini-skirt. Her legs were skinny as matchsticks, and she was more than a little pigeon-toed. She ripped off her sunglasses and lit into Harry like it was time for Sunday dinner and he was the pot roast.

  Veenie made a gagging sound with her fist pressed to her mouth.

  Dottie hugged Harry so tightly I thought she was going to squeeze him right out of his three piece suit. “Sugar buns,” she said, “Dottie has been dying for you. Why’d you up and leave town?”

  Harry squirmed loose. He stood on tiptoe, trying to see out the front office window over Dottie’s shoulder. “Shap with you?”

  “Heck no. Old fart is gone for the day. Went to Seymour to pick up some seed.”

  “You sure?” Harry ran to the window and checked the street in both directions.

  “Sure, I’m sure. We got time for a quickie.” She tugged at Harry’s hand, pulling him toward the back staircase that led up to his bachelor pad above the office.

  Harry looked hesitant, but after Dottie slapped a few kisses on him, hoovered his neck, and yanked off his tie, he crumpled. The two disappeared up the stairs, clothes flying off as they headed up to Harry’s love nest.

  Veenie smacked down her coffee cup. “I ain’t sitting here listening to Harry get his banana peeled.”

  The building was old—used to be a Rexall drugstore, back in the day—so neither the floors nor the walls had much insulation. We’d learned from experience that if Harry had sex upstairs, we were going to get treated to some free, cut-rate porn.

  I grabbed my messenger bag and the keys to the Impala. “Let’s see if we can find Avonelle. Imagine she’s heard from April by now. Reckon she’s going to fire us, but we should hear it from the horse’s mouth.” I wasn’t all that eager to lose the Apple case. We didn’t have work to replace it, and gosh darn I was certain Bromley’s death was not natural. I just hated to leave a case open with so much doubt poking at me.

  We drove across town and checked Avonelle’s house, a fancy Dutch Colonial with a wooden porch big enough to serve as a roller skating rink, but it was locked up tight. The morning paper was still tossed up on the steps, and no one answered when we rang the doorbell.

  Veenie tried to peer in a picture window, but the drapes were closed tightly.

  I eyed Veenie, who was on tiptoe trying to see in the big window. “Avonelle sees you, she’ll call the law.”

  “Avonelle can bite me,” said Veenie.

  We were about to climb back in the Impala when Bert Apple pulled into the driveway. He drove a white Lincoln, same as his mother and brother, only a newer model. He wore a white dentist coat and gray flannel work slacks. “Can
I help you?” he asked. He had his hand cupped over his eyes, shading them from the sun.

  “Just us,” I hollered as I stepped away from the house. I scooted to the edge of the porch into a spot of sunshine, waving. “Me and Veenie.”

  Veenie popped up next to me. “We was looking for your mama.”

  “Probably down at the bank. Quarterly director’s meeting is this afternoon. She’s doesn’t work full days, most days, but she never misses a director’s meeting, her being the president and all.”

  Bert hopped up on the porch and stood next to us. “Can I help you?”

  I said we were there to check in about Bromley and the case.

  “Oh,” he said. “Thought that was all wrapped up. Coroner told Mom and me he died of natural causes. Some kind of genetic heart condition. Told me it there was a fifty-fifty chance I might have it too. Me and the kids, we all have to be tested.”

  Bert plopped down on the porch swing. He looked tired, and his face was a little puffy. His hair had been whipped up into forked gray fingers by the wind. “To tell the truth, it’s got me a little spooked.” He smoothed his tie, or maybe he was patting at his heart.

  “I’d reckon so,” I said. “They have a test for it though?”

  “Seems like it. Doc Scarborough said they do. When I leave here, I’m going down to his office to let them draw some blood and give me a heart monitor to wear. They can tell from that.” He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and mopped at his forehead. “Man, you just never know.”

  Bert stood up and pulled a key out of his pocket. It was a single key with a spot of red nail polish on the head. He headed to the front door. He turned to face us after he keyed the door open. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “No,” I said. “We’ll go on down to the bank. See if we can catch your mama.”