SEVEN

I woke late Monday morning.

Last night, I’d left a message on Udderly’s answering machine to let my aunt know why I was running late. Then I completed my grocery shopping, put all the ingredients away at Summer Place, and returned to Udderly to find a concerned Eva pacing the floor.

Her concern for my mental health actually earned me two extra hours of sleep. She’d tiptoed into my room when she got up and turned off my alarm. She tackled her chores and mine while I snoozed. Eva’s crusty exterior poorly camouflaged her generous heart.

My main morning chore was a visit to the Sheriff’s Office to dictate and sign a formal statement regarding the discovery of Karen Vincent’s body before heading to my parents’ house for our lunch date.

My folks owned a comfortable, two-story brick rancher near the Clemson University campus. My professorial dad, Howard Hooker, heads the Horticultural Department, and Mom—Iris Hooker, Esquire—serves as attorney and prosecutor for the City of Clemson.

Their professional success was one reason I felt my current job tending goats and my future B&B hopes might seem underwhelming.

All members of the Hooker clan were South Carolina transplants from Iowa. I grew up in Ames, Iowa, where Dad taught at Iowa State University. He accepted the Clemson job offer while I was attending Furman University. It gave Dad a chance to live closer to his twin sisters, Eva and Lilly, who’d moved south years before. Mom decided she’d had her fill of snow.

In Ardon County, my folks’ twelve-year residence wouldn’t have counted for much. Anybody whose mamma’s mamma wasn’t born here was considered an outsider—a Yankee if the person hailed from up north, a nebulous direction that seemed to include Iowa. Yet given Clemson’s rapid turnover as a college town, my parents had become community pillars.

When I pulled into the driveway, Mom and Ursula were relaxing in front-porch rockers enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. Mom’s old law school pal had just finished a TV shoot in Buffalo, New York. No wonder she wanted to soak up sun.

Judge Ursula’s Citizens’ Court was a traveling reality show. I’d seen her adjudicating everything from a sled dog’s fate in an Alaskan divorce settlement to a dispute over the color of a Florida van’s paint job. On one show, a deceased man’s wife, mistress, and step-daughter all argued about who should get his frozen sperm. I wasn’t sure any of them should reproduce.

As I climbed onto the front porch, Ursula and Mom both stood—the old friend dwarfing my petite, five foot two mother.

“Heavens, can you really be the same Brie I played hopscotch with?” Ursula asked. “What a beautiful young woman you’ve become. Come here and give me a hug.”

The woman embraced me like we were long lost friends. Though I had no memory of any childhood hopscotch date, I returned the hug.

“I’m so glad you can make the tasting tomorrow,” I said.

“Wouldn’t miss it. I’m not a vegan, but I try to go meatless one day a week. Maybe you’ll inspire me to do even better.”

When Ursula released me, Mom gave me a quick hug and checked her watch. “Howard should be by to pick us up any minute. We’re going to lunch at the Madren Center.”

As if on command, Dad’s SUV materialized. He pulled to the curb and hopped out to open doors for his passengers. Mom offered Ursula the front seat, but she waved her off and climbed in the back with me.

Since Mom hadn’t quizzed me about Karen’s death, I assumed it hadn’t made the news. The Ardon Chronicle didn’t publish on Mondays and, if the local radio station was tuned into the police band on Sunday night, they’d probably only reported a suspicious death. I’d tell my folks about it later. No point ruining everyone’s lunch.

I tried not to stare at Ursula, who was every bit as stunning in the flesh as on TV. Since she and Mom were classmates, Ursula had to be late fifties. But she was definitely well preserved. Not that Mom appeared to be growing mold. I couldn’t spot a single gray hair in Ursula’s shiny black locks and no signs of crow’s feet around her startling green eyes. Her pale skin seemed to glow. Heck, I had more wrinkles than she did.

She was definitely better dressed. The silky green dress cinched at her waist by a wide belt emphasized her hour-glass figure. A muted Merino wool shawl caressed her shoulders like a hovering cloud. Unfortunately, the shawl made me flash back to the colorful scarf around Karen’s neck. I shuddered.

“How long are you staying in Clemson?” I asked to take my mind in a different direction.

“I’m not sure.” A slight frown flitted across her face. “Your mother is helping me with a legal matter and my daughter, Amber, is joining me. We both may be here awhile.”

Hmm. Curious. Mom hadn’t mentioned Ursula’s daughter coming. In fact, Mom had never said boo about her single friend having a daughter.

“Amber’s your age,” Ursula added. “Bet you’ll like her. She’s a police detective in Miami. I’m really proud of her.”

“I’d love to meet her, though if the two of you are staying with my folks, Dad is sure to monopolize Amber. He’s a closet crime novelist, loves reading and writing mysteries.”

The opening bars of Madonna’s Material Girl filled the car. Mollye’s ringtone. I’d forgotten to silence my phone. Strapped down in my seat with the contraption in my back pocket there was no graceful way to stop it. “Sorry,” I apologized, “I’ll put it on vibrate as soon as I can get at it.”

Ursula seemed amused by the look Mom gave me. “Your folks are super, but I’m hoping a room opens at a nearby hotel before Amber arrives on Thursday. I’m an obnoxious guest. I keep odd hours and I like my space. Given the conversation I plan to have with Amber, she may want alone time, too.”

I nodded. What kind of conversation would make Ursula think her daughter needed alone time? I was dying to ask though it was clearly none of my business.

“Just tell my folks you need some personal space. They’ll respect that. I doubt you’ll find any hotel vacancies. Clemson’s hosting an international high school science fair, and there’s a Clemson-Duke basketball game this Saturday.”

“So I learned.” Ursula shrugged. “Think I’d have an easier time booking a suite in Beverly Hills during Oscar week.”

I wondered why Judge Ursula was consulting Mom on a legal matter. Did it involve her daughter? Mom was a firm believer in that old saw—“only a fool acts as his own attorney.” But given Ursula’s celebrity status, and I assumed fat bank account, she could hire any hotshot lawyer she wanted in NYC or Los Angeles, the two cities where she spent the most time.

My mother’s skills and intelligence were mighty impressive, but she didn’t practice the type of law a celebrity generally needed. When Mom wasn’t acting as the City of Clemson attorney, her private practice focused on real estate transactions and wills. She didn’t negotiate entertainment contracts or broker book deals. Then again maybe the daughter was coming to discuss provisions of a will?

I was trying to figure out what I could ask next without overstepping “none of my business” bounds when Dad let us out at the Madren entrance. While Dad parked, we claimed our reserved table, a prime one overlooking a portion of the Walker Golf Course and sparkling Lake Hartwell. The early warm spell had even coaxed a Bradford pear tree into a showy display of white blooms.

My father joined us as the waiter handed out menus. I had my fingers crossed there’d be plenty of veggie sides and appetizers. While most restaurants offered lots of a la carte options, it was sometimes a challenge to order sides that hadn’t been baptized in butter or performed a backstroke in cheese sauce.

Madonna’s Material Girl sounded again. I’d forgotten to switch the phone over. I pulled it from my back pocket to silence it before I forgot again. A glance told me the text was from Mollye. What could be important enough for her to disturb my lunch?

Returning my attention to the menu, I spotted a spinach salad and ordered it minus bacon and cheese with oil and vinegar dressing.

Since my parents and I are curious souls, our dinner guests must sometimes feel they’re being interviewed by a 60 Minutes’ tag team. Judge Ursula reversed the roles. As interrogator, she made us Hookers look like amateurs.

Before we finished our entrées, Ursula had quizzed Dad about the poisonous plants he grew for cancer research, grilled Mom about town-college battles over legal jurisdiction, and peppered me with questions on a seemingly endless array of topics. Why did I leave the banking job I took after getting an MBA? How had I become a vegan? How long did I think my boyfriend trial would run before someone was declared a winner? When she asked about the upcoming goat yoga my mind crashed back to that closet and Karen’s naked body.

Apparently, my face didn’t show my dismay or Ursula would have noticed and asked about it. She didn’t seem the least bit shy. Instead, she honed in on my upcoming tasting. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

“Want the short answer or the long one?” I asked.

“Long, of course,” Ursula replied.

So I did a conversational rewind to explain how I’d inherited Summer Place. My twin aunts bought the dilapidated Southern mansion after I shared a pipe dream of turning it into a B&B that catered to vegans and vegetarians. They’d planned to start restoration and surprise me with Summer Place on my thirty-fifth birthday.

My phone vibrated my butt, and I couldn’t take it anymore. What was so important?

“I’m sorry, but someone really wants me. Do you mind if I look at this text?

“No problem,” Ursula said.

I ignored my mother’s nonverbal response and read Mollye’s text. Just two words: Erotic asphyxiation.

What in blazes? I’d heard of erotic asphyxiation but why was Mollye texting me about it? I wouldn’t find out until I called my friend back. And that wasn’t going to happen during lunch. Not if I wanted Mom to continue speaking to me.

When I looked up, all eyes were on me. “I’m sorry. Just Mollye. Anyway, when Aunt Lilly suddenly died in an auto accident, the plan changed. I inherited the mansion three years early.

“Restoring an old structure requires money,” I added. “The sweat equity part is going great thanks to friends and family.” I paused to smile at Dad. “But I need to hire pros to tackle essentials like a new roof. I’d like to start catering events and hosting occasional dinners on Summer Place’s winterized sunporch to pocket money for repairs. My second goal is to start building a clientele. Fingers crossed tomorrow’s tasting will generate some glowing reviews.”

“Who’s coming?” Ursula’s follow-up question helped push Moll’s puzzling erotica text further to the back of my mind.

“A restaurant reviewer for the Greenville paper, a popular farm-to-table blogger, and the owner of a company that provides concierge services to people who rent luxury lake properties. Mom also invited Dr. Swihart, a professor who helps decide who caters Clemson faculty events. Honestly, I think they all agreed to come in order to meet you. So thanks.”

She waved off my expression of gratitude. “Nonsense,” she began, “I—”

Ursula’s gaze caught on something or someone across the room. Her mouth hung open a second, then her eyes narrowed and her breathing became audible. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam erupt from her ears.

I looked to see who or what had riled unflappable Judge Ursula. A lanky gentleman, probably late fifties or early sixties, strode toward our table, right arm outstretched for a handshake. Two women followed in his slipstream. His wife and daughter? He seemed confident they’d docilely follow wherever he led.

Had I met this man? I had a hard time telling some of my dad’s male faculty members apart, especially if I’d only been introduced once or twice. They all seemed to shop at the same frameless eyeglass store and wore the “casual” academic uniform—pressed khakis, open collared shirt, and sports jacket. This gentleman was no exception.

His sparse hair, a wishy-washy color between sandy blond and gray, was combed back from a widow’s peak on his prominent forehead. I could practically see each comb mark.

Dad rose to shake the man’s hand, bolstering my assumption he was a university colleague. “Lawrence, I’d like to introduce my wife, Iris, my daughter, Brie, and our friend, Ursula Billings.”

Father’s smile matched the stranger’s toothy display. “Ladies, this gentleman is Lawrence Toomey. I just learned he’s been nominated to be a Justice on the Supreme Court. Congratulations, Lawrence.”

Mom gave Dad one of her coded cease-and-desist looks. “Howard, you don’t need to introduce Mr. Toomey to Ursula and me. We attended law school together.”

Given my mother’s uncharacteristically frosty tone I leapt to the conclusion Iris Hooker and Ursula Billings weren’t Toomey fans.

Yet the Supreme Court nominee either wasn’t a genius at interpreting social signals or was determined to paper over the awkwardness by exposing a full-mouth dental display. “Yes, I’ve known these lovely ladies a long time. So happy to see you again, Ursula and Iris.” He turned his gaze on me. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Brie.”

He finally seemed to remember his female shadows. “Oh, I should introduce my lovely wife, Esther, and my daughter, Ruth,” he added.

“Pleased to meet you,” Dad said and nodded at the women, who made no move to shake hands. Mom and Ursula remained mute, granting only obligatory nods of acknowledgement. The wife, Esther, was quite attractive though model thin. The fattest thing about the woman was her hair, a throwback bouffant do. The daughter, Ruth, was really pretty, and would have been more so if she’d smiled. Sandy hair, hazel eyes, full lips, and a slightly pointed chin.

Mom interrupted my visual inspection when she pushed her chair back with an almost violent burst of energy and stood. “If you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving. Ursula and I want to stop in the ladies’ room. Howard, Brie, we’ll meet you at the car.”

Mom and Ursula made a point not to acknowledge the Supreme Court nominee or his family members as they walked briskly away. I kept my seat. My curiosity whetted. How had this man made enemies of my mother and Ursula?

Dad, looking puzzled, signaled a waiter to bring our bill.

Time for me to take up the interrogation slack. “Congratulations on your nomination,” I began. “I hope you’ll excuse my ignorance but are you a judge here in South Carolina? Do you live in the area?”

“Yes, on both counts.” He smiled. “I serve as a judge for the 13th Circuit Court, located in Greenville. But my family and my wife’s folks”—he paused to nod at Esther—“have lived in Ardon County for four generations. We’re continuing that tradition, though I keep an apartment in Greenville for convenience during the week. That also lets me keep tabs on Ruth here.” Another slight dip of the chin, this one toward his daughter. “She’s a nurse practitioner and has her own apartment in Greenville.”

Not a word from the women.

“So how are you and Dad acquainted?” The relationship seemed curious. Weird, given my father’s friendly attitude and my mother’s clear distaste.

“We just met,” Toomey answered. “I’m on the University’s Board of Directors and Howard made a wonderful presentation yesterday. He has some great ideas for expanding the school’s horticultural curriculum.”

Got it. They were strangers, didn’t know beans about one another.

Dad put down his pen after adding a tip to the bill. “Guess we’d better be off. Don’t want to keep the ladies waiting.”

“No, can’t have that.” Toomey chuckled, though it seemed forced. “Have a good day.”

As Dad and I stood, Toomey turned toward his wife and daughter. “Esther, Ruth, come along. I see some more friends I should greet.”

I nudged Dad’s arm as soon as we spotted Mom and Ursula outside the restaurant. Heads close together, features grim.

“What’s the deal with Mom, Ursula, and the Toomey clan?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“Not a clue,” he replied. “But I’m pretty sure your mother will set me straight soon enough.”