Chapter Eleven

Allan pulled a recorder from his coat pocket, pressed a button, then stated my name, Harriet Lee Cooks, the date, the time, his name, and credentials. “Are you acquainted with Jonson Leggett the Third?”

I didn’t want to divulge my sister’s private affairs because Tracey should tell the story, not me. Besides, I more than hated Jonson—my mouth would get me into trouble—and could be accused of dispatching his body like I wanted to on multiple occasions. However, when the scandal broke, the public saw my sister’s past based on the vast spread in the paper. “God, yes. My sister was married to Jonson Leggett the Third for one year.”

“What?”

Not often had I startled him.

He recovered his police professionalism. “I mean, would you repeat that?”

“Everyone knows. Jonson Leggett the Third eloped with my sister, Tracey, to Vegas four years ago. The marriage was dissolved within twelve months.”

“I didn’t know all the details. You know how our mothers gossip. I don’t listen. Go on.” Allan scribbled. “Tell me what you know.”

He trotted out his “tell me” phrase to obtain information from people in a gentle, folksy manner, probably part of his detective training. I’d been on the receiving end several times. The first was when he found out I worked at the insurance company where he investigated stolen car parts and a related murder. The second time was when the Blonde Bimbo picked off guys in the accounting office—the same male co-workers I’d been friendly with.

I told Allan, “Jonson and Barbie arranged a consultation with Miss A. to begin the wedding planning process. Preliminary information was inputted via a form on the store tablet and auto-forwarded to our laptops. Barbie tried on several gowns and headpieces and purchased a selection. She looked stunning.

“While Miss A. helped Barbie, Jonson sat in the reception area—in the same chair you’re sitting in now—and thumbed idly through the invitation book, the one on top of the table.” I pointed to the tome by his side.

He glanced at it.

“Yes, that one. When bored, Jonson finally looked in my direction and recognized me. I pretended to be glad to be reacquainted with him. Pretend is the operative word. He disgusted me.”

I relayed all the gory details, the same ones I passed on to Miss A. the afternoon after Jonson and Barbie’s first visit.

Detective Wellborn listened to the whole story. “Anything else?”

“No. On the day of the grand opening of Wedding Wonderland, he rammed his way into the store and insisted, I mean, insisted-insisted on a ten percent discount.”

Again, his eyebrow arched. “And you said—”

“No.”

“Because—”

I shifted to one hip. “I said no because they purchased Barbie’s gown before the opening. In exchange for their help in promo materials, Miss A. prepared a package that reduced their costs significantly. The discount he tried to use became effective on the day of the grand opening, not before.”

“And what did Mr. Leggett do?”

I rubbed the length of my nose. “Jonson made incredibly rude comments. He cursed, called me names, and shoved Barbie. Rather abusive. Probably verbally abusive. Tracey walked in the store, all happy and care-free. I had pre-selected a few gowns for her to try on. At first, she didn’t see Jonson, who stood on the other side of Barbie. But when he interrupted Tracey’s chat with me, everything changed. My sister was not happy. I was not happy. Barbie was not happy. He said ugly things to Tracey, too. He said ugly things to all three of us. So fed up with his nonsense, I informed Barbie about his marriage to Tracey.”

“Yikes. Sounds”—Allan worked his mouth—“combustible. How did Barbie take it?”

“Poor thing. She just about burst into tears. She begged Jonson to tell her the truth. He didn’t pay her any attention.”

“What happened next? Did Tracey threaten Jonson?”

“Fuck no.”

He tick-tocked his finger. “Language, sweetheart.”

I set a finger to my lower lip, letting the endearment pass by. “Sorry. That would be a plain, ol’-fashioned…no. Tracey would never, and I repeat, never-ever hurt anyone.”

The store door banged open as Miss A. shoved her way inside. The bags and laptop she carried nearly made it impossible for her to walk.

Being the polite gentleman, Allan set his notepad and pen on the tabletop and stood to assist her.

“Hi, Miss A.” I rose as well, waving my hand at Allan. “May I introduce you to Detective Allan Wellborn from the Sommerville Police Department?”

Miss A. surrendered her packages to him, and after he set them on the desk, she dropped her handbag and shook his hand. “So nice to make your acquaintance, Detective. Are you a special friend”—she shot me a playful, inquisitive look which had me roll my eyes—“of Hattie’s?”

“Our mothers are good friends,” he said. “And my sister’s Hattie’s best friend.”

“Uh, Miss A…” Summoning the right words wouldn’t be easy. I firmed my lips.

“Yes, dearie?”

“Detective Wellborn is here to interview both of us.”

Her brows notched together. “Interview? Why?”

“I don’t know how to say…” I shot him a look. “Do you want to tell her, or shall I?”

He nodded his head. “Go ahead.”

“I’m afraid it’s not good news. I’m sorry.”

Miss A. gripped the back of a chair. Her fingers curled into the wood. White creases striped her knuckles.

I inhaled deeply. “Someone found Jonson Leggett in his car in Super Saver’s parking lot. He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

Miss A. looked from Detective Wellborn to me and back again. Her face dissolved of all color to sickly white. She stumbled backward.

I shot a hand her way to grasp her elbow before she crashed.

“I-I don’t believe it,” she spluttered.

“I’m sorry.”

She stared at Allan.

He nodded. “Yes, ma'am, it's true.” He filled her in on all the gruesome details.

“How surreal,” Miss A. said.

My employer shifted again in a wobbly way. Concerns for her well-being took precedence. “Do you need to sit, Miss A.?” I asked.

“I believe I will, my dear. Shopping—what a nightmare. And the awful news on top…” She touched her forehead. “I think I'll go to my office.”

Allan said, “I need to conduct a one-on-one interview with you, Miss A. Can we have a private chat?”

“Of course. Hattie, can you manage?”

Comprehending what Miss A. hadn’t said, I smoothed my hand over her arm, feeling the crisp white fabric of her store jacket. “I can. You’re just a phone call away. No worries.”

“I’ll carry your packages.” After Allan stuffed his pen, notebook, and recorder in his suit pocket, he picked up her purchases.

Miss A. led the way to the office in the back, closing the door behind them.

Approximately thirty minutes later, Detective Wellborn and Miss A. emerged.

I looked their way, noting she looked less pale, undoubtedly due to the never-ending pot of coffee she brewed in her office. She gave a brief tour of the premises and, with a wave, also gave Allan an abbreviated version on how the wedding business operated.

While they talked and strolled about the store, I did data entry work on the computer—Misses Jacobs, Watson, and Wilson would be notified by email of upcoming decisions regarding flowers; however, I kept one eye on the twosome. And sharpened my hearing, too. I didn’t want to miss any details, although I believed Miss A. would fill me in later.

Their excursion ended at the transaction desk.

I stopped typing and launched myself to my feet.

“Anything else you need, Detective Wellborn?” Miss A. looked from him to me as a small cagy smile rippled her mouth.

“No, ma’am,” he said, shoving his notebook in his jacket pocket. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

“Absolutely.” She held out her hand. “Please let me know if I can do anything for you and the Sommerville Police Department. Anything. Anytime.”

He shook hers. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your help.”

She peeled away, pausing to tidy the leaves on the artificial flower arrangement by the dais. She returned to the office, where she shut the door.

Allan shifted his focus. “She seems like a nice lady.”

“She’s a pro. I’m fortunate to be learning from her,” I said. “I remembered something you’ll be interested in…about Jonson.”

He lifted his right brow. “Tell me.”

“Well, my sister said something long ago in passing—”

“Which is—”

“He liked to play poker.”

Allan snorted. “Most guys play some.”

“Ha. More than some. He played a lot. High stakes. Which would explain why he had money issues.”

“Okay.” Allan removed his pad and scribbled. “And this is relevant to his murder…how?”

I shrugged and dragged a finger in a phantom line across the desktop. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe Jonson lost a lot of money or borrowed a lot of money from some kind of mafia guy—”

“You’ve been reading mystery-thriller books again.” He snapped shut his notebook.

I stomped my foot. “Be serious.”

“Fine. I’ll check. Poker-playing mafia guys. It’s worth a shot.”

While stowing his pen and pad, he glanced my way. “Good to see you.”

Good to see you? Could he have used better words for more than a friend? I’m thinking stupid. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. “Bye.”

When he reached the door, he stopped long enough to rock his hand in the “I’ll phone you” signal.

Seemed destined to talk. I trailed Allan and glared at his truck as he drove away. When I couldn’t see him anymore, I turned my attention to Miss A. She had looked distraught over the news about Jonson’s departure from the earthly realm to the underworld. I should feel some remorse as well. I mean, murder was gruesome and all. But I didn’t. I couldn’t say or think enough of what an asshole Jonson was. The big wide world should be greatly rejoicing because he couldn’t dupe any more young women to the altar.

As I made my way to the back office, I plucked blue puffballs of lint off the carpet. I knocked on her office door. “Miss A.? May I come in?”

“Of course, dearie,” she called.

I opened the office door and stepped inside, depositing the balls of carpet lint in the trash can. I brushed my hands. “You seemed distraught about, er, what happened to Jonson. Maybe you might want to talk about it?”

“Oh, Hattie,” Miss A. rubbed the space between her eyes. “I feel so sad for Barbie.”

She mopped her tears with an old-fashioned hankie trimmed with yellow and purple crocheted pansies, the kind my grandmother had crafted.

“I’m incredibly disappointed. I hoped Barbie and Jonson’s nuptials would be a good launch for the shop and give us publicity,” she said. “I hoped Sommerville’s poshest clientele would follow their lead.”

“I know. It’s just awful.” I circled her desk and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Miss A. We'll think of some other plan for Wedding Wonderland. It’ll be good, I promise. For certain, I’ll hook my mom and her mahjong buds into telling everyone they know about the store.”

“I appreciate anything anyone can do, Hattie. I feel so low right now. I left everything behind.” She looked in my direction through water-filled eyes. “Can you imagine?”

“No, I can’t.” Although I nearly could. When my life didn’t work out like I wanted, I considered relocating to New York for a coveted buyer’s position with a prominent department store. But final decision time came, and I said no. In my heart, leaving my family and friends was not an option I could bear. Ultimately, leaving Allan and the unknown gray void between us—I just couldn’t. I had to know if “he and I” would become “we.”

I gave her another comforting shoulder massage. “I admire how it takes a lot of chutzpah to make a new start in a new town.”

Miss A. didn’t say anything except to press the cotton square to the drops trickling down her cheeks. Once under control, she squeaked, “Yes, it does. But I had to make a life change. Nothing—”

“Change can be good. Change means a new life adventure, doesn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Now, don’t you worry.” I sounded just like my mom. A section from her pep talk on “Consolation” sprang forth. “We can do it. Everything’ll be just fine. You’ll see.”

Miss A. glanced my way. “Are you a special friend of Detective Wellborn? I felt something like”—she shook her head—“vibes, maybe more than vibes. Maybe electricity. The unmistakable chemistry kind linking a man and woman. Whatever I sensed, it danced in the air.”

My body still vibrated just from being near him. I tilted my head from side to side. Something popped in my neck. “Sorta.”

“Sorta?”

“Allan Wellborn and I have tried to date. We ate dinner together the other night.”

“I see.” Miss A. dipped her head. “Tried to date? I would try harder. He’s extremely handsome.”

“Yep. Migh-tee fine.” I sketched an outline of his physique in the air, which I followed with a thumbs up. “Our mothers have planned our wedding for years, like since the Wellborn family moved to Sommerville when their kids were toddlers, but lately, it’s…he’s… Everything’s hopeless.” I lifted then dropped my hands.

“Surely not hopeless, dearie.”

Miss A. looked clueless. Telling all would take a freakin’ eternity. Time to find out what Allan had discussed with her. Nonchalantly, I rubbed my finger over my pursed mouth. “Did he say anything important?”

She sighed. “Detective Wellborn asked about Barbie and Jonson’s appointment. I explained how you visited with him more than I did—sorry if I threw you under the bus—and how I helped Barbie try on gowns. How we’ve been emailing and phoning Barbie about the planning after Jonson’s squabble here. That’s all.”

With nothing else to occupy my hands, I selected a yellow sticky note pad and ripped off a sheet. I creased it into a perfect square. “I didn’t kill Jonson, Miss A.”

“No, dearie, you didn’t. I bet my life on it.” Miss A. stood, stuffing her fists in her jacket pockets. She sniffed. “Barbie’s account should be on hold. I’ll phone her. Maybe a family member will answer and can help.”

“I’ll get her cell number.” Returning to the reception desk, I ripped off a new sheet from the sticky pad. I typed Barbie’s name in the database and retrieved the information. I ferried what Miss A. needed to her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, dearie.” Setting her hand on the handset, she studied the paper.

Her pause worried me. “Miss A.?”

“Hmm, dearie?”

“Anything else you need?”

“No.” She tweaked her mouth to one side. “I hate to disturb Barbie in her time of grief. Maybe I should leave a message, asking her to call when convenient.”

“Your plan is very considerate.” After I backed out of her office, I quietly closed the door.

Returning to the reception desk, I plopped in the chair, setting it to swivel from side to side. I propped my chin on my tented fingers and reflected on what transpired this morning. Not every day a cop visited and informed one about the murder of someone you hated. I had no idea Miss A. put a lot of promo eggs in the Jonson and Barbie basket. Her plan not working out? Devastating.

I stilled the chair, selected a pen, and rat-a-tat-tatted a silly beat on the desk. I would have to rely on the adage Mom shared: time will pass, and all will be better. One day. Not today, nor tomorrow. But eventually.

Miss A. and I could think of something new. I resumed swiveling and tapping, fixing a drawn-out look on her closed door. What Miss A. did in her office—I hadn’t a clue.

Did I want to know everything?