Chapter Four

Mint Julip Tea and Murder

Tuesday morning dawned bright and warm. I had slept well after a disastrous Monday, and when I studied my image in the mirror after my morning shower, a banged-up face smiled back. However, my nose had swollen to the size of a small dill pickle, and after I removed the clear hospital tape, it appeared slightly crooked and sore to the touch. Makeup would disguise the worst of it, as well as my yellowing eyes and scratched chin. All in all, I was optimistic that, with time, I would heal up nicely and no one would be the wiser of my latest mishap.

To booster my confidence and draw the eye away from my face, I dressed in a form-fitting, knee-length faded blue denim dress and matching heels. Since Deena and I were conducting tours at Pineridge Plantation later in the morning, I styled my hair into a becoming chignon.

Dressed and ready to leave, I fed Tango, my orange tabby, poured coffee into a disposable cup and headed out the door, my period antebellum gown slung over one arm. The sight of the dress brought the vintage key to remembrance, and I was anxious to return to the mansion and begin my search for the mysterious lock the key fitted.

Traffic was light as I sped down Main Street toward the salon. I flashed by the courthouse square, made a right on Love Avenue and pulled into Parkers Place—a small cluster of boutiques and a quaint café. As I came around the corner, to the back of the salon, I spied Deena’s green Buick. She was in the kitchen when I came through the back door.

“Is that you, Jolene?”

I stepped into the small kitchen. “Yep, in the flesh.”

She spooned coffee into the paper filter. “You sound chipper. I thought you’d be more subdued after your run-in last night with Theo Herrington and another trip to jail.” She giggled. “I wish I had thought to take a picture of you when you jumped on his back. We could’ve had two prints made. One for my scrapbook and have the other framed and hung in the reception area for our clientele to enjoy.”

“Don’t mention his name to me.” I sat down at the small dinette table. “Because of him I have to take anger management classes.”

She turned around. “Oh, Jolene, your face! Does it hurt? What did Sam say after we left? I’m sure he was upset to see your beautiful face messed up.”

“You wouldn’t believe what he said,” I murmured.

“Oh, yes I would. His face said it all. I know Sam. Pissed off for sure.”

I started to share the details of his anger when the sound of a female voice drifted from the front of the salon. There would be plenty of time to pass along my single status to her on the long drive out to Pineridge Plantation.

“Nancy’s here,” I said, glancing at my watch. 7:00 a.m. “I’ve got one perm and a head of foils scheduled before we leave at ten so I’d better get to work.”

“We’re not finished with this conversation,” Deena said. “I can tell that something’s bothering you.”

“My nose is bothering me,” I said as I exited the kitchen. Nancy and another woman were waiting in the reception area.

She greeted me with a, “Oh, my dear, you look dreadful. I regret telling you about Herrington being responsible for Lynette losing her crown. How is Billie Jo taking it?”

“I haven’t talked to her this morning.” I led the way to my stylist chair. “But I’m sure she’s fine. One of Lynette’s friends filmed the whole damn scene and uploaded it to YouTube. Her friends thought it was the coolest thing. You know how teenagers are.”

Holly, our receptionist and shampoo girl, hadn’t arrived for work yet, so I draped Nancy and led her back to the shampoo bowl.

“I’m sorry you were arrested. Detective Bradford wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to explain the situation.”

I wet her hair and squirted a generous dollop of shampoo into my hand. “Yeah, I know. I appreciate what you tried to do for us. Thankfully the charges were dropped and we were released.”

“Too bad Detective Bradford couldn’t have left Theo behind bars,” she said. “He’s making my life miserable. Thanks to him this may be my last year as director of the Pecan Festival. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years, you know.”

“I’m sorry to hear he’s giving you a hard time. The committee would be lost without your expert direction. They should rethink their position.”

We finished at the shampoo bowl and returned to my chair. As I wrapped her hair in perm rods we chatted about tonight’s pecan pie bakeoff. Nancy tried to steer the conversation back to last night’s fight, but I remained resolute. Theo Herrington was one subject I wanted to put to rest.

By the time I finished wrapping her hair, the staff arrived, and the salon began filling with clients and their excited chatter. I had a hard time keeping my temper reined in. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about my arrest or my face being plastered all over YouTube.

With twenty minutes to burn before I had to rinse the permanent wave solution from Nancy’s hair, I headed back to the kitchen to find Billie Jo seated at the table nursing a cup of coffee.

“Morning.” She yawned sleepily into her mug. “We had a late night with a house full of teenagers.” She glanced up. “You might need to call a plastic surgeon like Mama suggested.”

“Morning to you too, sis. And thanks for the compliment.” I laughed. “Deena said the same thing. How’s Lynette after last night’s fiasco?”

“Better than expected. You’d think she’d invented Facebook the way those friends of hers are carrying on. They’ve started a petition online to have the Miss Pecan Festival Queen title rescinded. At last count I believe they had collected over two hundred signatures.”

I poured a glass of water and joined her at the table. “The salon is buzzing with it this morning and it’s all over the morning news. Kandy’s picture is plastered across the front page of the Whiskey Creek Gazette. She seemed delighted with the reversal last night.”

“Herrington is an asshole,” Billie Jo spat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t bribe Miranda Moore to confess to padding Lynette’s scores. She’d do it just to spite me.”

“Actually, Barbara Herrington officially lodged the complaint. Not Theo.”

“Did Nancy tell you that?”

“Yes and no. She didn’t say Barbara’s name but it doesn’t take a master’s degree to know she’s the guilty party. It had to be her acting on his behalf.”

“So besides that, what else is bugging you?”

“Bradford dumped me last night.”

“Why?”

“My screwed up personality, what else?”

“I don’t see it.”

“You wouldn’t, Billie Jo. You’re a lot like me.”

“So what did you say back to him?”

“I told him that I liked myself just the way I am.”

“Good for you.” She squeezed my hand.

“And I wasn’t going to change. Even for him.”

“Good for you. Do you think he’s been thinking about this for a while? Or was it your arrest that sealed the deal?”

I shrugged. “He’s had a hard time accepting certain things about me since we started dating.”

“Like seeing dead people?”

“That’s one of them. Bradford doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

“I used to believe the same. Remember when you told me about Scarlett hanging around after she was murdered? Well, I came around didn’t I? Hey, speaking of coming around, did you encounter any ghosts while you were out at Pineridge?”

“Billie Jo, you’re incorrigible.”

“No, seriously, Jolene, answer the question.”

“Why are you interested?”

“Because I ordered one of those Paranormal Investigative Kits online,” she said. “Next time I’m out at Pineridge, I’m gonna see if I can communicate with one of ’em.”

I grinned at her. “You ordered a ghost-hunting kit?”

“Nooo. I didn’t order a ghost-hunting kit. It’s a Paranormal Investigative Kit. You know, for us amateurs. Not everyone can communicate with dead folks, and I don’t have your special talent.”

“You should be thankful,” I said with a sigh. “My life would be easier if I was normal like you.” The timer on the table buzzed, and I pushed back from the table. “I’ve got to rinse Nancy’s hair.”

“Hey.” Billie Jo grabbed my arm. “Have you told Deena about your breakup with Sam?”

“I haven’t said anything to her or Mama. Would you mind if we kept this between us for now? There’s been so much for the family to deal with lately, and I don’t want them worrying about mine and Bradford’s relationship.”

She nodded. “I will if you answer my question.”

“Yes, Billie Jo. I saw the ghost of Josiah Redding. Happy?”

“Extremely.”

Nancy was on her cell phone when I approached my workstation. “But Mr. Lampton, you’ve only heard his side of the story.” She sputtered. “I can explain myself if you would give me a chance…yes sir, I understand. I’ll be there as soon as I’m finished here.”

She threw her phone inside her purse. “Another anonymous complaint filed against me. I have to appear before the festival board to answer the charge.”

I led her to the shampoo bowl. “I’m sure you’ll be able to answer the allegations to their satisfaction.” I turned on the warm water, removed the plastic cap, and leaned her head back into the tepid spray.

“Jolene, if I lose my position as director of the Pecan Festival because of this ridiculous trumped up charge, I promise you I’ll be gunning for Theodore Herrington.”

Silently, I wagged my head in response to her passionate declaration. In my opinion, it might be a good idea to cancel the festivities before someone else got hurt. Theodore Pain-In-The-Ass Herrington seemed determined to collect enemies, and this situation stunk worse than a politician’s opinion.

****

“The manor house at Pineridge Plantation is a two-and-a-half-story red brick mansion standing amid a tranquil garden of pines, live oak, magnolias, and azaleas. The century old Shortleaf pines towering over the house brings cooling shade from the scorching sun and gives the plantation its name.”

“I’m glad you’re rehearsing your lines,” Deena said as we were changing into our period costumes in the back bedroom of the mansion. “Your southern drawl needs work, Jolene. Not enough twang.”

I plopped down onto one of the brightly colored upholstered chairs and tried to take a deep breath. “I don’t think I can lace up these boots. My nose throbs every time I bend over, and I feel like I’m going to faint in these tight stays. Can you help me?”

Deena sank to her knees and grabbed my foot. “So are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

I pointed at my face. “Isn’t this enough?”

She finished lacing up one foot then grabbed the other. “No, it isn’t. I know you’re neurotic about your appearance, but something’s up. I only want to help, you know.”

The old idiom Take the bull by the horns came to mind as I listened to her prattle. Deena’s like a bull with a cow in heat. Once she smells a problem, she’ll bang the hell out of it until it’s either dead or pregnant with the solution.

Her cell phone rang as she finished lacing up my boot. “You’d better answer your phone,” I said, relieved for a short reprieve. “It could be important.”

She picked up her purse from the bed, and dug out her phone. “It’s Summer.”

I tried not to eavesdrop as I stood before the full-length mirror fastening a snood over my hair. The conversation was brief. Deena snapped shut the phone, threw it in her purse, and began fumbling at the buttons on her gown.

“Summer found a lump in her breast. She’s at the hospital for a biopsy. I’ve got to go. I’m sorry but you’ll have to handle the tours on your own.”

Butterflies assaulted my stomach. Cancer popped into my thoughts and fear like the quick, hot touch of the devil’s pitchfork shot through me. I swallowed with difficulty and found my voice. “Don’t worry about the tours. I can handle them. Your daughter needs you.”

“I’m scared.” She spoke in a suffocated whisper. “What if it’s cancer?”

“Don’t say it, Deena. Never say that word.”

Together we stripped off her gown and somehow managed to get her redressed into street clothes. She grabbed a hanger and reached for her gown, but I stopped her.

“Leave it. I’ll take care of your things. Get out of here. And call me with any news.”

Deena started toward the door, but stopped and turned back. “I rode with you. How am I going to get back to town?”

“Take my car.” I dug through my purse for the keys to my new red Mustang. “I’ll hitch a ride with one of the other volunteers.” I tossed them to her.

“Call Sam,” she suggested before she disappeared into the hallway.

“I’m the last person he wants to hear from right now,” I said to the empty doorway. “Of course, you don’t know yet.”

A quick memory of our last date shot through me and the urge to call him had me reaching for my phone, but Rebel pride overrode the impulse, and I dropped it back into my shoulder bag. Called me a wild horse, did he? Well, here’s one wild horse that wasn’t gonna slip on a bridle!