Beth awoke with a crick in her neck and a bad taste in her mouth. The neck pain was caused by sleeping on a worn-out mattress that should have been put to the curb years ago. And the bad taste? Too much Diet Coke, fried food, and local gossip she would have preferred not to have heard. Didn’t her mother know about baking or grilling skinless chicken breasts? Couldn’t she steam some broccoli or at least make baked potatoes instead of French fries? And why would she care which of her ex-friends had been dumped by their husbands?
A better question would be: Why did I come home? Beth stood under the shower long after the soap and hair conditioner were gone. It had been years since she attended Calvary Baptist, and the less time she sat around her mother’s kitchen table, the better. Rita never failed to remind her only daughter that she had made a mess of her life. Would she never live down a past mistake? She’d moved on to a new career, while the other party continued his life without a hitch. Surely the gossips in town had found tastier tidbits by now.
Ten minutes later, dressed in navy slacks with a matching jacket, she marched into the kitchen ready to face the music.
“Slacks, Betsy? Didn’t you bring a dress with you?” The furrows in her mother’s forehead deepened.
“First, Mom, please call me Beth. I’m no longer ten years old. Second, I don’t have any dresses unless you count that red strapless number I wore to the prom. That’s probably still in the closet.”
“Don’t be disrespectful. I thought you liked Reverend and Alice Dean.” Rita filled two mugs with coffee.
“I did…I do. That’s why I’m here wearing the most appropriate outfit I own.” Beth rummaged through the cupboard. “Don’t you have Special K or Total?”
“Sit. There’s a ham and cheese omelet warming in the oven, along with hash browns. Who knows how long the funeral will last? It could be hours before we eat lunch.” Rita carried enough food for six teenage boys to the table.
Beth noticed the stiffness in her mother’s gait and deep creases around her mouth and eyes. I’m gone for less than eighteen months, and Mom ages ten years? “Are your hips bothering you?” she asked, taking a small portion of eggs and potatoes. “You should see a doctor.”
“Why should I pay some quack sixty dollars to hear I have arthritis? I’m old. Everybody gets it if they live long enough.” Rita scooped twice as large a portion onto her plate.
“A doctor might prescribe exercises to improve mobility. The copay would be my treat.”
“Save your money. Without a husband to take care of you, you’ll need it for the future.” Rita patted her hand, her brows lifting in anticipation. “Will I ever meet your new boss? Is this Nate Price nice looking?”
“He’s very nice looking in a rugged sort of way—tall, blond, and wait for it…married, for almost two years. They’re finally going on a honeymoon.”
“What a shame!” Rita swallowed a mouthful of coffee.
“For Nate or his bride?” Beth teased.
“For you, of course.” Her mom topped off their mugs. “I’m surprised Nate found another case in Vicksburg. Doesn’t that town have their own PIs? And why would you enjoy living where you don’t know a soul?”
“You hit the nail on the head. Nobody knows me either.” Beth ate three more forkfuls of eggs and drained her coffee. “I’ll wait for you on the porch. I have surveillance tapes to review on my laptop, but I’m ready to go whenever you are.” Halfway to the door, she remembered her manners. “Thanks for breakfast, Mom. It was delicious.”
“You’re welcome. You don’t want to get too skinny. Most men like a little meat on a gal’s bones.”
Gal? What century does my mother inhabit?
Thirty minutes later Rita emerged from the house wearing black from head to toe.
“Let’s take my car since you seldom have more than a quarter of a tank in yours,” said Beth.
“I believe your father filled it up for me, but that’s fine.” Rita climbed in and remained lost in thought for several minutes. Then she swiveled to face her daughter. “Do you think Reverend Dean is in heaven?”
Beth kept her focus on the road. “Why wouldn’t he be? He preached his faith and lived a good life.”
Rita rubbed her knuckles. “Some of the ladies think suicide is an unforgivable sin, especially when committed by a pastor. He of all people should know better.”
“Why would Reverend Dean have an easier row to hoe than the rest of us? Knowing Scripture doesn’t guarantee anyone a bed of roses.”
“What could have been so terrible? He had a pretty wife, their daughter got good grades in school, and their house was paid for.”
Beth applied the brakes at the stop sign and then turned to look at her mother. “How on earth would you know all of that?”
Rita replied without hesitation. “Carol Ann works in the school office, and Pam Henderson handles mortgages at the bank they use. And the prettiness of Alice Dean is obvious.”
“Have none of your cronies heard of federal privacy laws? Those women should be fired, and you shouldn’t pass along private information.”
Following the reprimand, both Kirby women remained silent for the rest of the drive. When they reached the church, mourners were already milling on the steps, allowing Rita to join her loose-lipped friends. Beth spotted Nate and Isabelle near the door, along with Michael, the overly enthusiastic but underachieving new PI. Nothing galled her more than when Nate referred to them as “his new hires.” With her years of experience, how could Nate lump her with an unskilled wannabe?
“Good morning, Nate, Isabelle,” she greeted. “Hi, Michael.”
“Good morning,” murmured Isabelle. “I understand Reverend Dean was your pastor, Beth. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, but it’s been a number of years.” Beth suppressed an uncharacteristic twinge of jealousy for Isabelle’s chic dress and high heels.
With a clang of church bells, Nate herded them all inside, where they sat through two readings, three hymns, one off-key solo, and several eulogies about the pastor’s zeal and humanitarian nature. The fact he chose to end his life stood like the proverbial elephant in the sanctuary. Throughout the service, Alice Dean sat with her young daughter in the front row, dabbing her eyes. Odd that no one else had joined her in the pew. Didn’t she have siblings or close friends she could lean on? It would be a question for Beth’s know-all, tell-all mother that evening. After the closing prayer, the assistant minister directed everyone to the cemetery and then invited mourners back to the social hall for lunch.
Outside in the bright sunshine, Beth wandered through a sea of polyester dresses and straw hats trying to find her mother. Unfortunately, Michael found her first.
“Hey, Elizabeth.” He stepped from behind a white column. “Mind if I ride to Natchez City Cemetery with y’all?”
He always used her formal name. Beth considered correcting him but decided she rather liked it. At least he didn’t call her Betsy, a nickname that refused to die. “My mom is with me today,” she said, shading her eyes as she peered up at him. “Can’t you ride with Nate and Isabelle?”
“Nate’s cousin from New Orleans and her husband will be in the backseat. That would mean squeezing five into an Escape.”
Beth refrained from suggesting the cargo area because Michael was at least half a foot taller than her. “Sure, but let Mom sit up front because she gets motion sick.” Beth spotted Rita’s plumed hat in a cluster of busybodies and marched in that direction.
Michael remained on her heels. “Thanks. Having grown up in Brookhaven, you would think I would know my way around Natchez. But I’m still discovering what this city has to offer.”
“Yep. We have ourselves a booming metropolis here. Paris, Rome, and New York must be losing sleep.”
Her sarcasm only increased Michael’s glibness. He chattered all the way to the historic cemetery. Even Rita couldn’t get a word in edgewise. He didn’t stop talking until they parked between rows of blooming crepe myrtle trees, the heavy fragrance overwhelming the senses.
Climbing out, Michael offered her mother his arm. “Would you like to hang on to me, Mrs. Kirby? There’s some uneven ground ahead.”
“Thank you, young man.” Hooking her arm through his, Rita peppered Michael with questions about his people until they reached the gravesite. Then she dropped his arm and latched on to a friend, doubtlessly another gossip.
Beth sighed as Michael joined her side. “I hope my mother didn’t get too personal,” she said. “She feels any question is fair game.”
“Not a problem. She’s really very friendly.”
Beth frowned without looking at her coworker.
For the next ten minutes, the stand-in pastor delivered a final homily and then invited mourners to say their goodbyes. One by one, they stepped forward to place a yellow rose atop the casket. Beth and Michael took their turn and then stood at the back of the group waiting for her mother.
“Know anything about that?” Michael asked, pointing at a stone monument in the distance. “I’ll bet there’s a story.”
“Of course there is. This is Natchez,” she said. “That’s the Fallen Angel, but everybody calls it the Turning Angel. A drug company blew up a hundred years ago, killing most of its employees. The owner bought the plot and the monument to commemorate them.” Beth gazed at the fast-growing kudzu barely kept at bay in the cemetery.
“Why did the name change?”
“Because like most places, Natchez has its share of nutcases who swear the angel turns whenever a car drives by. Needless to say, it has to be at night and your headlights must be aimed just right.” Beth offered him an exaggerated eye roll.
“Are you usually cynical or only at funerals?” Michael squinted into the sun.
“I’m always like this, even when nobody cashes in their chips.” The words had barely left her mouth when Beth heard a gasp. She pivoted around to face Alice Dean. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Dean. I meant no disrespect. Your husband was always nice to me.”
Alice’s pale and pinched features softened. “I know you liked Paul, Beth, and he was fond of you. That’s why I wanted to speak to you before the luncheon.”
Michael shuffled his size twelve shoes in the grass. “I’ll wait for you by the car, Elizabeth, and keep your mom company.”
“If you work with Beth, maybe you should hear this too.” Mrs. Dean shifted her weight in the long grass. “Paul didn’t cash in his chips, or choose the easy way out, or any of the other euphemisms for suicide.”
“Please forgive my—”
Alice waved away Beth’s apology. “What I meant was Paul didn’t take his own life. He would never do such a thing. He loved me and our daughter besides the fact his faith wouldn’t condone such an act.”
Beth glanced at Michael, who was studying the widow like a bug under a magnifying glass. “Was there a note or any kind of explanation?” she asked.
“The police found a note, but Paul never talked that way. He wouldn’t have used those phrases. Either he didn’t write it, or he was coerced into writing it.”
Beth reached for Mrs. Dean’s hand. Probably less than a decade separated the two women in age, but vastly different backgrounds and experiences provided little common ground. “I can’t imagine how awful this must be for you and little Katie, but I’m sure the police will investigate your husband’s death thoroughly.”
She pulled her hand back. “Are you really that naive? You of all people should know judgments are made based on appearances that may have nothing to do with the truth.” The woman’s amber eyes filled with tears. “Please help me, Beth. I heard you became a private investigator, and I don’t know where else to turn.”
Now it was her turn to shuffle her shoe leather through the grass. “I am a PI, but I work for Price Investigations. Right now I’m working a case in Vicksburg—a caregiver has been misusing her power of attorney to pilfer money from an elderly woman’s account.”
Mrs. Dean lifted her chin. “As tragic as that sounds, I assure you the dreadful allegations levied against my husband make this case no less worthy of your time.”
Michael took a step forward. “What Miss Kirby is trying to say is we’re not at liberty to accept new work. Those decisions are made by Nate Price, our boss.”
“Yes, that’s correct, and, unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Price will be leaving on their honeymoon Sunday morning.”
Alice consulted her watch. “I must get to the luncheon or people will talk more than they already are. Could you set up a meeting with Mr. Price? Shall we say tomorrow morning?”
Beth opened her mouth to speak, but Michael beat her to the punch. “I’m sure Nate will be happy to meet you, Mrs. Dean. Why don’t you come by his office on Jefferson Street at nine o’clock?” He held out a business card.
“I’ll be there. Thank you.” Alice plucked the card from Michael’s fingers and walked away.
Beth held her tongue until the woman was beyond earshot. Then, “Have you lost your mind, Michael? Nate’s not going to be the least bit happy. He has plenty to do before a three-week vacation.”
“I think you’re overreacting because you knew the deceased personally. The agency is looking for new cases, so why don’t we wait to see what Nate has to say?” Michael stuck out his elbow. “Care to hang on to me on the walk back to the car?”
“You seem to have mistaken me for my mother. That’s not something you should do if you’re hoping for a long life.” Beth marched toward the row of parked cars, annoyed with him for some reason.
Michael trailed at her heels, reminding Beth of a puppy she once owned. However, he was nowhere near as cute or lovable.