Sleep eluded me that night. I tried not to fuss about trivial things—no frilly silk negligées or lacy lingerie. Come to think of it, I didn’t own any sexy sleepwear. Oversized cotton t-shirts were more my thing, cheap and washable. I had just dozed off when Zeke sounded the alarm, Thatcher bolted out of bed and the Malinois assaulted my ears with frenzied barks. So much for sleep—my guest had arrived.
I quieted my herd and whisked Pruett into the house, hoping that the light was too dim for him to observe me closely. Bed head and morning breath were an unappealing combo. Pruett carried a thermos and a wicker basket that emitted a mouth-watering aroma. “Alma fixed us a feast,” he said. “Dig in.”
“Have some coffee while I get ready. It won’t take long. Promise.”
Accompanied by my posse, I zoomed up the stairs and jumped into the shower. Fortunately, my hair was shiny clean, and my jeans were neatly pressed. No sense in trying for glitz. I toweled off and fumbled for Pip’s robe. When I emerged from bathing, a surprise awaited me. He had arranged our breakfast on the side table and positioned himself under the bedcovers. He held out his arms and said in a soft, sultry voice, “Come here, lady. Let’s have that wakeup call.”
* * * *
There was something special about Pruett. It went beyond physical attraction, although that was potent enough. According to the gossip columns, most of his romances dissolved within two months. We’d been an item for well over a year, so I was on borrowed time.
Pruett ran his fingers through my hair. “So lovely, and it’s real.”
“What?”
He chuckled. “Most models and actresses today have that fake hair—extensions they call it. Looks okay until you touch it. Ugh!” He helped himself to espresso and a heaping plate of spinach quiche ala Alma. “Yum! Wait’til you try this stuff. It’s the best.”
I couldn’t wait to devour that quiche. No sense in pretending, he already knew that I ate like a lumberjack. Besides, wasting food was a sin. All the preachers said so. We satiated ourselves and rewarded the dogs with the remaining scraps. Pruett cleaned up while I attended to Zeke and poured water and kibble for the pups. Thatcher was an exception. She refused to eat any pet food except kitten chow although she had long passed any claim to kittenhood.
We drove separately to Babette’s, part of a plan to divide and conquer her little group. Pruett agreed to charm the ladies while I played hostess with my friend. That way if Jakes showed up, I could count on back-up. My neck bruises attested to the man’s strength when angered.
By the time we arrived, the others, with the exception of Jakes, had already claimed their spots. I surveyed them with a jaundiced eye: Sheila, long, lean, and cool; Jacqueline blonde and leonine; Charlotte, notable for too much scent and an inordinate amount of jewelry, and Ken Reedy, watchful and poised. Was one of them hiding the ultimate secret?
Babette immediately hugged me, and clasped Pruett’s hand. Her cheek was ice-cold despite the blazing fire, and the quilted cashmere outfit she wore. Perhaps the presence of her ex-spouse explained her condition. Carleton sat alone on the oversized chair adjacent to the fireplace, grim and forbidding, with his arms crossed. The man radiated disapproval.
“Why don’t we get started,” Babette said with forced cheer. “So much to do, so little time. I think you all know each other.”
Carleton held up his hand. “Wait. Since Mr. Pruett is a reporter, how much of this discussion is on the record?”
I noticed that Pruett was wedged between Charlotte and Jacqui on the down sofa. He seemed perfectly at home there.
“Let me know if something is private,” he said. “No problem. I thought this was just a brainstorming session.”
His claque of admirers nodded and patted his shoulder. Ken Reedy eyed Pruett with that jaundiced stare common to lawyers.
“Wasn’t Jakes supposed to be here?” Reedy asked. “I didn’t see his truck in the driveway.”
I frowned, thinking of the battered van I had seen behind Ethel’s old place. Jakes owned a vehicle very much like that, but then so did half the guys in the county.
All eyes turned to Babette. “He texted me last night and said he’d be here.” She shrugged. “Let’s give him a few minutes more.”
“Anything new about Ethel?” Reedy asked. “It fell out of the news headlines after that triple murder in Richmond last Friday. Sexier, I guess.”
Charlotte shivered. “At least that Bascomb character has backed down. He gives me the creeps, always asking the same questions three different ways.”
I leaned forward and took a risk. “He thinks Ethel was a blackmailer. Can you believe it?”
“Didn’t we meet at Hamilton Arms?” Charlotte said, squinting up at me. “Something about your niece?”
Pruett quickly intervened. “Perri was there as my guest. My daughter adores her.”
“Well, I still think some thief tangled with Ethel and panicked. She was spunky you know. Nosey too. Would have challenged anyone in a heartbeat.” Jacqui folded her arms across her capacious bosom as if that settled everything. To his credit, Pruett averted his eyes.
I moved toward Babette to give her a modicum of support. She had a lengthy agenda typed and ready to distribute, but my normally vivacious friend seemed paralyzed by indecision. “Here,” I said. “Let me do that.”
After each person had a copy, Babette revived somewhat. She led a discussion about Cavalry Farms and its need for financial support, then asked Pruett to share his experience with other groups whose causes challenged the establishment. I had to admit that his comments were concise, witty, and right on point. Naturally, he had no difficulty in holding the attention of every female in the room. Sheila smiled, Charlotte simpered, and Jacqui gaped. I kept my cool while recalling a few pleasurable scenes from our morning tryst. When he finished, I checked my watch, surprised to learn that an hour had passed with no sign of Jakes. If he intended to show up, Jakes had better make a move soon.
Our hostess called for a fifteen-minute break, and the participants scattered. Soon only Pruett, Babette, and I remained in the room. Even Carleton vanished out a side door.
“This isn’t working,” Babette groaned. “Nobody said one incriminating thing.” She twisted to her right side. “Damn. My strap came undone. Turn your back, Pruett. No woman undresses in front of a man.”
I stood lookout while she raised her top, unhooked her bra, and made adjustments. By the time she finished, the group straggled in, one by one. Jacqui had obviously freshened her makeup. She headed straight for Pruett and clasped his arm in a deliberate, proprietary hold. I noticed the muscles in her arms and confirmed what Pruett had said. That woman looked strong! Charlotte filed in a minute later clutching her cell phone. The way she cooed into it convinced me that she had finalized an assignation. I watched her when Carleton rejoined us. He kept his head down, but Charlotte shot a guilty look his way. Poor Babette.
Sheila and Ken were the last to re-join the group. She glided by without breaking stride, but Ken stopped to chat.
“Any decisions about Raza? A couple from Charlottesville are interested in her.”
I shook my head but my heart sank. Could I stand losing the mare to someone else?
Another thirty minutes passed during which Babette described the fundraiser and what she hoped to achieve. Most of the participants wore that glazed expression of polite indifference that meant their minds had wandered elsewhere. Charlotte stared furtively at her phone; Reedy checked his watch. Even Sheila looked distracted as she fumbled in her purse. When my phone pinged, I rose and read the text. “Come over to Ethel’s place in ten minutes if you want to know who killed her. G. Jakes.”
How like that varmint to inconvenience someone else to suit his own needs. It was doubly insensitive to meet at a murder victim’s former home. I passed my phone to Pruett without saying anything to Babette. He leaned back against the sofa and nodded. I was no coward but with a madman like Jakes I was intelligent enough to get backup. Besides, Jakes hinted that he had solved Ethel’s murder and I wanted a witness present when I questioned him.
My heart pounded as I envisioned another confrontation with Jakes. This time at least I was prepared for anything that came my way. Finally, Babette ended the meeting and thanked her guests. I vaulted out the door before the others, but Pruett was detained by Jacqui and Charlotte, both of whom vied for his attention.
I freed Keats and Poe from my truck and sauntered toward the guesthouse. Ethel’s place might be locked, although knowing Babette I doubted it. Just as Ken Reedy had said, a battered Ram pickup was parked in back of the house almost out of sight.
I cautiously twisted the doorknob and entered the house, wary of an ambush. The foyer was deserted so I padded on to the living room. That’s when I saw his body. Glendon Jakes lay face-up on the living room rug, his mouth open wide in a silent scream. A belt was wrapped tightly around his scrawny neck—one of the special belts I had made for Babette.
* * * *
Keats and Poe immediately went on alert, ears pricked, hackles raised. I summoned my dogs with the Schutzhund command Pass auf and carefully backed out of the room. No sense in contaminating another crime scene. As I did, Pruett appeared at the door. I pointed toward the living room but said nothing. Words failed me. I felt shock, not sorrow for Jakes, this deeply troubled man who alienated everyone he encountered. Babette’s loathing of Jakes was no secret and Bascomb might well add up motive, means and opportunity, and again arrive at the wrong conclusion. Come to think of it, I was a potential suspect as well.
Pruett soon joined me, cell phone in hand. He took one look at the corpse and pulled me toward him. Despite the circumstances, he stayed calm and cool, preternaturally so.
“Have you called Bascomb yet?” he asked, his voice rocksteady. “Better back out of here and go to Babette’s while I handle that.”
I shook my head, numbed by unimaginable possibilities. Someone had murdered the unlovely Jakes, someone who recently sat amongst us at Babette’s meeting calmly eating snacks and sipping tea. No one would believe otherwise.
Before the other guests cleared the driveway, Pruett stopped them. I hurried inside to prepare Babette and alert her to the coming storm. The scene was emotional and awkward—one step short of hysteria. Females were often tagged the weaker sex but, in this instance, emotion was generated by Carleton Croy whose volcanic rage dwarfed Vesuvius. He stalked over to Babette, fists clenched, and demanded an explanation.
“Are you trying to destroy me,” he shouted. “How do you think Hamilton Arms will react to yet another murder on these premises?”
I edged toward my friend in case Carleton got violent. Before I reached her, Pruett intervened.
“Calm down, Croy. We’re talking murder here, not some minor faux pas. Now, chill. Bascomb will be here any moment.”
All trace of defiance drained out of Carleton like air from a punctured tire. One look at Pruett apparently convinced him that in this instance silence was the better part of valor. Babette swallowed hard and bit her lip. I knew she was close to tears but who could blame her? When the rest of the committee filed in, I observed them closely for any telltale signs of stress. Sheila entered first looking puzzled but composed. Not so, Charlotte Westly. She made no secret of her displeasure and wore a scowl that was fierce enough to melt steel.
“What’s going on here, Babette? Some of us have a life, you know.”
“Stop complaining,” Jacqui said. “Something must be wrong.” She turned to Pruett, the source of wisdom. “Tell us, Wing.”
Ken Reedy pointed to the window. “Why not ask the cops. They just got here.”
Sure enough, flashing lights announced the arrival of our nemesis, Lieutenant Titus Bascomb accompanied by a contingent of underlings.
Pruett and I locked eyes. “I’m afraid there’s been an incident,” I said. “Glendon Jakes was found in Ethel’s living room. Dead.”
“Murdered, actually.” Pruett scarcely moved a muscle. “Strangled.”