NINE

“Yoo-hoo, anyone here—a frazzled chef in need of more hands?”

I jumped at the unexpected voice and dropped a glass jar of Blue Agave. The sweet sticky syrup oozed around glass slivers on the kitchen’s old plank floors.

I wet a towel and knelt to clean up the mess. “Mollye, you scared me silly.” I glanced at my friend in the doorway. “Why aren’t you at your shop?”

She smiled. “Told you I might swing by this afternoon. Is interrogation any way to greet a volunteer sous chef? I just finished glazing a batch of pierced vases and put them in the kiln to fire. Not much traffic at Starry Skies so I closed up. One of the perks of owning your own business. I also was more than ready to think about something besides Karen’s murder.”

“Did Danny confirm it was murder?”

“Heavens, no. He won’t tell me squat when he’s working a case. But I’m sure someone killed her. I’m just not sure they planned to. What do you think about my idea?”

“What idea?”

“Erotic asphyxiation. Naked. Scarf around her neck.” Mollye’s voice had gone sultry. “Do you think Karen might have been doing the nasty? Tied to the bed when things went too far?”

“Thanks. There’s a mental picture I won’t be able to purge. What people do behind closed doors is their business. Even church secretaries who accuse me of devil worship.”

“Okay, we’ll shelve that for now. I forgot how sensitive you are.”

“I’m not sensitive. There are just some things I’d rather not imagine.”

Moll closed her eyes and touched her fingers to her temples like she was getting a psychic message from the great beyond. “My powers also tell me you need my wit and sass to keep you from obsessing about tomorrow’s luncheon. Figured you could use help with chopping, stirring, and what not.”

“I was doing okay until you scared the cottage cheese out of me.”

Mollye shrugged. “If you don’t want people barging into your kitchen, you need to lock the sunporch door.”

“Not sure it’s worth the bother,” I answered. “Doesn’t take a lot of talent to pick that old skeleton key lock. I need to install a new lock, but that’s way down my to-do list. Nothing to steal in here except groceries and pots and pans.”

The prior owners had sold Summer Place’s contents to an auction house. They’d cleaned out everything. Not a stick of furniture, a coffee mug, or even a salt shaker left behind. So theft wasn’t a big worry.

Since I didn’t live here, vandalism and the possibility of homeless folks seeking shelter and getting injured in the renovation mess did worry me. But thanks to vigilant—okay nosy—across-the-street neighbors, neither were huge concerns.

“You know the Medley sisters noted your arrival time,” I added. “If my car wasn’t in the drive, they’d have phoned by now to give me an intruder alert. They’re better security than a paid service. That reminds me, I’d better tell them I may have folks renting that cottage out back for a week or so.”

“Really?” Mollye bustled over to a series of wall pegs and grabbed one of the snowy white aprons I’d bought from a supply service. “Who did you con into renting that falling down hovel?”

I hesitated. It was clear Ursula didn’t want her location broadcast. “Ursula Billings may be my new tenant, but please don’t spread the word. She wants privacy. A friend may join her, too. There aren’t any vacancies in hotels or B&Bs within miles.”

“I thought Ursula was staying with your folks. What? Did Iris make her wait in line to use the loo? Can’t imagine abandoning a comfy house to sleep in your rat hole. Insult intended.”

“Insult deserved.” I shrugged. “It appears Ursula’s one of those people who gets squirrely if she doesn’t have her space. Wants to get up, eat, shower, etc. when she pleases without worrying if it inconveniences her housemates. Guess the friend she’s expecting feels the same way.”

“Friend?” Mollye arched an eyebrow. “Are we talking a male friend? Bet the tabloids would pay for that news.”

“No,” I answered. “A woman. A police detective from Miami. Been friends for years. Perhaps they’re consulting on a project.”

All true, and I still hadn’t given a tip-off about their secret mother-daughter relationship. Mollye and I had been best friends since I was eight. But that didn’t excuse me from a promise to keep my lips zipped.

When I was a kid, my aunts sweet-talked my folks into letting me stay part of each summer on their goat farm. Moll boarded ponies at Udderly and we hit it off instantly. No matter how much time passed between visits, our friendship rekindled instantly.

“Now and again, I feel the same way Ursula does about privacy,” I said, nudging the conversation in a different direction. “I love Aunt Eva but it’s sometimes heavenly to be alone. One of the benefits of having Summer Place as a solitary refuge.”

Mollye pretended to pout. “Is this your way of asking me to leave?”

“No, just limit yourself to one apron. Want to make sure I look clean and spiffy for the photos Dad plans to take of me performing vegan magic in the kitchen.”

“Not a problem. You know how neat I am.”

“Right.” Neat was not an adjective normally associated with Mollye.

“I love your Aunt Eva,” Moll added “But I couldn’t live with her. Especially cooped up in a cabin, year-round. And you two get up so danged early. If I see the sunrise, it’s because I’m just getting home. You have any regrets about committing to live at Udderly?”

“Not a one. Even though working at a goat dairy was never on my list of desirable, or even possible, occupations.”

I thought back to last March when Aunt Lilly, Eva’s twin and partner in managing the dairy, died in a car accident.

“I really enjoy helping Aunt Eva. She’d have had a tough time alone on the farm. Though I loved Asheville, it was time to leave. My life at Udderly makes humdrum sous chef duties seem boring, and I was constantly afraid I’d bump into my cheating ex-fiancé. The move’s been a welcome change.”

Mollye tied her apron. “So what can I do?”

Since vegan cuisine requires lots of chopping, I pointed Mollye toward a cutting board. “How about getting the celery out of the fridge? It needs to be washed and chopped, really fine. I need two cups.”

Mollye grabbed a knife while I dumped water off the raw cashews I’d soaked overnight. Prep for making a big batch of cashew cheese—a building block for several entrées. A rich cashew pot pie with a golden flaky crust was among tomorrow’s options.

As we worked side-by-side, I decided to tap into Mollye’s knowledge as a native Ardon County resident. If there was any dirt about Lawrence Toomey, I figured my friend would have heard it.

“We had lunch at the Madren Center today,” I began. “Lawrence Toomey waltzed over to our table to greet Dad. I was surprised to hear an Ardon County resident had been nominated for the Supreme Court. What do you know about him?”

It didn’t take much encouragement to get Mollye to share. Between my pal’s mom, her granny, and the cross-section of locals who visited Starry Skies, my friend was a treasure trove of longtime Ardon lore and breaking-news gossip.

Mollye quickly filled me in. Larry Toomey had a wife, Esther, and a daughter, Ruth, an only child. His in-laws were none other than Guy Nickles, the pastor of the Temple of True Believers and his wife, Jeannie. While ultra-conservative appeared to be an apt label for all of Toomey’s kin, Mollye said his wife—the former Esther Nickles—and her parents dropped completely off the end of the liberal-conservative spectrum into a black hole of religious bigotry, nationalistic paranoia, and conspiracy theories.

Mollye paused in her genealogy rundown to look down at the first two stalks of celery she’d diced. “Is this fine enough for you, ma’am?”

I nodded.

Moll dumped the chopped celery into a large measuring cup. “I’m fairly certain Susan wouldn’t have stormed our goat yoga session yesterday without the approval of Toomey’s in-laws, Guy and Jeannie Nickles.”

“Wow. Does Toomey share his in-laws’ ‘goats are devils’ baloney? If so, it’s hard to imagine he could be confirmed to the high court.”

Mollye shook her head. “Oh, I have no doubt he’ll be confirmed. Questioning a Protestant about his religious beliefs is unsporting, un-American, and blasphemous. Officially, Toomey and the missus belong to a mainstream Protestant congregation in Greenville. My bet is Toomey picked the church with the wealthiest parishioners.

“Of course, Judge Toomey and his wife are in Ardon County more Sundays than not. When they’re here, they attend the Temple of True Believers. If asked, I’m sure Toomey would claim he goes out of respect for his fruitcake father-in-law.”

“What’s Toomey’s daughter like?” I asked.

“Esther—Toomey’s wife—married him when she got knocked up at seventeen.” Mollye began to warm to her tale. “A hurry-up wedding, though no one mentions baby Ruth made her seven-pound arrival a short five months after they tied the knot. Ruth was in my grade. Quiet, shy. Went to some religious college. She’s some sort of health care practitioner up in Greenville.”

Figuring I’d learned as much as I could about Toomey’s pedigree and family, I gently steered the conversation back to Susan, the goat hater.

“Do you really think Nickles encouraged his parishioners to harass our goat yoga group?” I asked as I started peeling avocados, a secret ingredient in my chocolate mousse. “I grew up in a Methodist Church with a pastor who preached a loving, forgiving God. I still hold on to that vision. I’ve attended a variety of religious services over the years—Protestant, Catholic, Jewish—and I can’t recall a single sermon on satanic goats or Baphomet. Where does this come from?”

Mollye laughed. “I asked Granny about this goat nonsense. She shook her finger and said, ‘Where do you think the term scapegoat comes from?’ Granny insists sex is the reason goats have been slandered.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve seen firsthand how billy goats behave during rutting season.” Moll giggled. “Even if they don’t have horns, they’re horny buggers and danged determined to boink any female in the vicinity. According to Granny, folks who believe sex is sinful latched onto randy goats as the embodiment of lust and evil.”

I shook my head. “And I thought snakes were the only members of the animal kingdom to get a bad rap. Me, I’d nominate mosquitoes and fire ants as the real devils.”

  

About four o’clock, Ursula arrived to inspect the pig-in-the-poke she’d agreed to rent. I introduced Mom’s friend to Mollye before guiding her down the gravel path that linked the ramshackle cottage to the front of the property.

“There’s no place to park a car back here,” I noted. “I’ll be happy to help you move your suitcases in. But, if you stay, you’ll have to schlep groceries a fair piece.”

Ursula waved off my concern. “I travel light and so does Amber. I’m betting most of our meals will be takeout.”

I opened the door to the cottage. It took under three minutes for my prospective renter to do a walk-through. “It’s just fine,” she said. “I’ll move in tomorrow after the tasting.”

While I still had trepidations about renting the sorry excuse for a building, who was I to argue with Judge Ursula?

Thanks to Mollye’s willingness to serve as sous chef, we quickly finished all the advance prep. I glanced at my watch—5:35 p.m. I was beat. I wanted to kick off my shoes and sit. The only downside of being a chef is the hours spent on your tootsies. Yet the occasional twinge in my lower back was far less painful than sitting at a bank desk staring at rows of numbers.

Moll shucked her previously white apron. It looked like modern art with green and purple swirls blending into tomato-red blotches.

“I know you ate lunch out,” my friend began. “But let’s go wild and crazy and go out to dinner, too. You’re tired and you deserve a meal you don’t have to make. Call Eva and see if she wants to join us.”

“Eva has plans. It’s her Red Hat group night,” I answered.

“Oooh, cool,” Mollye cooed. “I’m gonna join one of those groups soon as I turn fifty. Love that they wear outrageous red hats and purple tops and have no purpose other than having fun with other ladies.”

I smiled. “You wear red and purple together now so the wardrobe requirements won’t be a strain. And my answer to dinner out is yes. Let someone else do the cooking. Just give me a sec to check in with Eva and make sure our part-timers and Gerri can handle the evening chores.”

Four students in Clemson’s Ag school provided our part-time labor force, and we’d recently brought Gerri Woods on full time as a farm hand. On weekends, Tess, a friendly retired school teacher, smiled her way through our retail sales on the two days we invited the general public to visit.

I phoned Aunt Eva on our cabin’s landline. She was far more likely to answer it than her seldom-activated cell phone. Eva picked up on the fourth ring. Not one for idle phone chatter, she told me all was well, ordered me to have fun, and hung up.

“Where do you want to eat?” I asked Mollye.

My pal tossed out three suggestions. I accepted her second choice as we walked out to Moll’s Starry Skies van parked behind my Prius. I’d collect my car after dinner.