CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ELEVENIf someone had told me a month ago that by the end of April I’d have launched my own business, taken a lover, joined the Red Hat Society, been named the chair of a nearly non-existent committee for the Cannon Ball and found a dead body in my backyard, I would have laughed.
I wasn’t laughing now, though.
I dragged my aching body to Jane’s house that night with little enthusiasm for red hats or bridge lessons or even for Linda’s delectable lemon tarts. Per usual, though, the Queens of Woodlawn Avenue refused to let me wallow—or even take a breather for that matter.
Tonight, they intended to teach me how to keep score. I had watched the rest of them scribble down numbers in the “we” and “they” columns, above and below seemingly arbitrary lines, and it was all Greek to me. And I wouldn’t have minded it staying that way.
The other Queens, though, were determined.
“To make game, you have to score a hundred points. The first team to win two games takes the rubber.”
Okay, I could wrap my brain around that much, but things became much foggier when they started talking about bonus points, partscores, and the difference between the numbers above and below the line.
“Let’s say you make game,” Linda said, writing down 100 below the line. “Then you’re vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable? What does that mean?”
“It means you’re halfway there,” Grace said. “But you’re also in more danger.”
“Why would it be more dangerous to be ahead?”
“Because the penalties for not making your contract are doubled.”
“That hardly seems fair. If you’re ahead, you shouldn’t be penalized twice as much for getting set.”
Jane laughed. “Whoever said bridge was fair? It’s a lot like life. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
“It’s like raising the stakes in poker,” Grace said. “The more you wager, the more you win.”
“It still doesn’t seem right.” After all I’d been through in the last month, I was in a frame of mind to be rewarded for the risks I’d taken, not penalized.
“Look on the bright side.” Linda smiled encouragingly. “If you’re vulnerable and you win the next contract, then you win the rubber.”
“Just remember not to overbid when you’re vulnerable,” Jane advised. “By the same token, you can be a little more aggressive when you’re not.”
It was the weirdest definition of vulnerable that I’d ever heard, but it also made a strange sort of sense. At least it did to me. I’d thought I was ahead in my life until Jim had dropped the Tiffany bomb, and I’d suddenly discovered just how very vulnerable I was.
Keeping score, I learned that evening, wasn’t any more straightforward in bridge than it was in real life.
Henri turned out to be as demanding a client as he was a lover, which was saying something on both counts. I spent the next week running back and forth between his office, his apartment, and my house. I was faxing him invoices at a furious pace as my billable hours piled up, but to my consternation, none of them seemed to be getting paid.
“Not to worry, ma chère,” Henri would purr. “The accounting department is a bunch of Italians who take a break every time the wind shifts directions.”
Which was all fine and good except that my mortgage company did not operate on the same leisurely schedule.
“Could you light a fire under them?” I asked Henri one night as we turned out the lights and slid into bed. I was spending more nights at his apartment than at my house. He made a very naughty remark about where else he would like to light a fire, and I forgot all about the unpaid invoices.
Between assignments for Henri and my handful of other clients, I struggled to salvage the transportation for the Cannon Ball as the approaching deadline loomed.
“Vanderbilt Valets,” the man at the parking service said when he answered the phone.
“Yes, my name is Ellie Hall, and I’m with the Cannon Ball. I understand you handled the parking for last year’s event.”
“Yes.”
Okay, he wasn’t very forthcoming, which I took for a bad sign.
“I’d like to book you for this year’s event.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“But you don’t even know the dates.”
“It wouldn’t matter.”
I tried to remember if I’d heard anything about last year’s transportation for the ball—some fiasco or disaster—but nothing came to mind.
“Was there a problem?”
“Lady, we’re still waiting on the last payment on your bill.”
“Oh.” Roz, of course, had failed to mention that little tidbit of information. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”
“I’ve got plenty of paying clients, ma’am. I’ll stick with those.”
The next two services I called were already booked.
“Geez, for a big charity event like that, you’ve got to book six months in advance. A year even.”
And that was the moment when I realized just how much trouble I was in as the chair and lone member of the transportation committee.
“What am I going to do?” I wailed to Linda. We met for lunch at The Picnic Cafe so I could drown my sorrows in iced tea and their fabulous chicken salad.
“I can’t believe Roz did this,” Linda commiserated. “What a rotten trick.”
The Picnic Café was always packed with “ladies who lunch,” and today was no exception. I scanned the close-set tables around us, their blue and white–checked tablecloths practically touching they were crammed in so tightly. A good portion of the tables featured clusters of my new red-hatted sisters. Just as newly pregnant women suddenly see other expectant mothers wherever they go, I had suddenly become aware of all the Red Hat women in the world. Overhead, the unforgiving fluorescent lights reminded patrons that they were, in fact, eating on one side of a drug store. Fortunately, the culinary delights of the cafe more than made up for the mostly sterile ambience.
“I won’t let her win.” I attacked my chicken salad with my fork. “There’s got to be another way.”
“You didn’t have any luck with the shuttle buses either?” Jane sipped her ice tea.
“Nope. They’re all reserved for some country music festival.”
“So what are you going to do?”
I looked at her, stricken. “I was hoping you would have some ideas.”
Linda used her fork to push her chicken salad around on her plate. “You know what this is like, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just like when you’re vulnerable in bridge. The way we showed you the other night.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, Ellie, all things considered, you’re way ahead. You’ve accomplished so much in the last month. But that also means the stakes are higher, and your opponents won’t be above doing some stinky bidding.”
“Stinky bidding?”
“When your opponent is vulnerable, sometimes you bid high enough to get the contract even when you know you can’t make it.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Think about it. Even if you go set, that’s far better than allowing your opponent to make the second contract and win the rubber.”
“Seems counterproductive to me.”
“It keeps you in the game. That’s what Roz is trying to do. Set herself just so you can’t win.”
“I guess that makes sense in a weird sort of way.” I sipped my tea thoughtfully. “So, what do you do when your opponent engages in stinky bidding?”
“You have to decide if you’re going to let them get away with it. And you have to remember that when you’re vulnerable, it’s very important not to overbid.”
My head was starting to spin, and not from the caffeine and two packets of Splenda in my iced tea.
“So I should be aggressive but not too aggressive?”
“Exactly.”
“But what does that mean in this situation?”
Linda sighed. “I have no idea.”
And so I had yet another sin to chalk up against Roz, because after that bewildering conversation, I couldn’t properly enjoy my chicken salad, and my loss of appetite had nothing to do with the lack of ambience.
* * *
Friday afternoon, I was in the process of covering up the evidence of the hole in the backyard with scores of impatiens (it was a rather shady part of the backyard, and Grace had informed me that impatiens adored shade), when Officer McFarland made a return appearance. I was glad Grace had only come by to inspect my handiwork and then returned to her own home, because she and Officer McFarland were clearly like oil and water. So I was alone in the backyard when he appeared from around the side of the house.
“Afternoon, Miz Hall.” He looked even younger than he had last week.
“Hello, Officer.” I set an impatien into its hole, pressed the earth firmly around it, and used the watering can at my side to give it a nice long drink. Frankly, I could have used a nice long drink myself, but I knew from watching all those episodes of Law and Order not to offer an on-duty officer an alcoholic beverage. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to ask you a few more questions about the Etheringtons.” He drew a small notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket.
“Has the case not been turned over to the homicide unit?”
“I just had a few more questions for my report.” He smiled at me, and it was a long moment before I realized it was more than just a friendly expression. Perhaps what tipped me off was the way his eyes traveled up and down my body, lingering far too long for comfort between my waist and neck.
Okay, this man was young enough to be my son, and though I had enough vanity to feel flattered, I also found his attentions somewhat disturbing. I certainly hoped that Connor wasn’t going around ogling middle-aged women in this fashion. The mere thought was enough to sour my stomach.
“What did you need to know?” I resisted the urge to clutch the watering can to my chest. Better to play dumb and/or oblivious. That had always served me well at the country club when some other woman’s drunken husband started to come on to me.
“Mrs. Davenport seemed to know an awful lot about the Etheringtons’ marital difficulties.”
“Mrs. Davenport?”
“Mrs. Grace Davenport.”
“You don’t think Grace had something to do with Marvin Etherington’s death? That’s ridiculous.”
“She didn’t seem upset when you dug up his remains.”
“She’s almost eighty. With all she’s seen in her lifetime, I don’t think much of anything upsets her.”
“What I mean is, she didn’t seem very surprised that you found Mr. Etherington in your flower bed. If he was a player, like Mrs. Davenport said, maybe she was one of his…”
“One of his what?” My disbelief gave way to anger. “You think Grace was involved with Marvin Etherington?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“Grace was happily married. Three times, I might add.”
“Three times? That’s a lot of divorces.”
“She didn’t divorce. She was widowed.”
“All three times?” He raised an eyebrow.
Shoot. I was just digging a deeper hole, so to speak.
“I’m sure if you ask Grace, she’d be glad to give you details about their illnesses.”
“I will. Thanks for the tip.”
“Wait a minute! That wasn’t a tip. You’re taking this the wrong way.”
“I appreciate you being so cooperative in the investigation, Miz Hall.” He grinned again, only this time it definitely veered into leering territory. “I shouldn’t have to bother you again.” Although his tone made it clear he’d be more than happy to bother me.
What was happening? I hadn’t meant to implicate Grace in any way—the thought had never crossed my mind—and I certainly didn’t have any intention of seducing a police officer half my age.
I clutched the watering can across my chest. “I’m sure Grace had nothing to do with Marvin’s death.”
“Sure. Sure.” He flipped his notebook closed and tucked it back in his pocket. “But if you think of anything else, or if you need me for anything…” His voice trailed off suggestively. “A woman alone should be careful.”
Evidently. And the thing she needed to be careful of was the Metro Police.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I just wanted him to leave so I could make a beeline to Grace’s house and let her know what was going on. It was ridiculous to think her calm response to the discovery of Marvin Etherington’s remains meant that she had anything to do with his death. I told her as much a few minutes later when I found her in her own backyard, planting impatiens just as I’d been doing.
“Some people will tell you it’s too early for annuals,” she said after she’d stood to greet me. I’d wanted to spill the beans the moment I saw her, but the sight of her frail frame bent over her plants stopped me short. She looked incredibly vulnerable, although I knew she must be as tough as shoe leather to have survived the loss of three husbands. “But I don’t believe in waiting until after Mother’s Day.” She flashed me a smile. “After all, I might not still be here then.”
“Don’t say that,” I said, alarmed. Grace raised her eyebrows at my agitation.
“Ellie, dear, is something wrong?”
“Officer McFarland was just at my house.” I looked down at the grass beneath my feet, unable to look her in the eye.
“Did they find out who killed Marvin?”
“No. But he does have at least one suspect.” I forced myself to look up at her.
“Really?” Grace’s eyes widened in surprise. “After all this time? Who is it?”
I swallowed. “It’s you, Grace.”
“Me?”
Around us, bees buzzed in the flowers.
“He thinks you had something to do with Marvin’s death.”
I was prepared for her to be shocked, horrified, scared. Instead, she burst into laughter.
“He thinks I killed Marvin Etherington?”
“Because you weren’t surprised when I dug him up.”
“Ellie, at my age, very little surprises me anymore.”
“That’s what I told him.”
“But he didn’t believe you?”
“He’s so young—I don’t think he gets it yet. Although…”
“Although what?”
“He kept staring at my chest.”
Grace let out a whoop of laughter and wiped a hand across her damp forehead. “Well, you do have that glow about you.”
“Glow? What glow?” I broke out in a sweat as profuse as Grace’s.
“The one Henri has put in your cheeks.”
I clapped my hands to my evidently glowing cheeks to hide them and blushed furiously. “Is it written all over my face?”
“Of course it is. As well it should be. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“So everyone in Nashville can tell I’m—you know—just by looking at me?”
“No. What I mean is that everyone can see that you’re a woman in her prime who’s enjoying her life.”
Was I? Grace’s statement made the ground beneath my feet seem to undulate. I mean, I’d certainly come a long, long way in the last five weeks. I was no longer sitting on my couch consuming vast quantities of snack cakes. But was I enjoying my life? Or was I simply filling it with activity to avoid the underlying problems?
“Wait a minute. Grace, we don’t have time to discuss my love life. We need to get you an attorney.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because Officer MacFarland’s going to come back. I’m sure of it. Maybe he thinks he can get some notice in the department by solving this old case.” I wished we could sit on the lawn chairs a few feet away on the patio.
“Maybe so. But he can’t arrest me for something I didn’t do.”
“Grace, people get arrested for things they didn’t do all the time.”
She waved a hand as if warding off my words. “You watch too much television.”
“I still think you’d better get a lawyer.”
“I don’t need one. I’m innocent.”
I could see it was going to be useless to argue with her. “Well, at least call me if he comes back. You have my cell phone number.”
“Okay. Okay.” She knelt back down by her flower bed. “Don’t you have impatiens to plant?”
“Yes.”
“Then go do it.”
I knew from my experience with my own mother in the last years of her life that you couldn’t help someone without their cooperation. Sometimes you just had to take a step back. So that’s what I did with Grace.
“Okay, but if you need me, please call.”
“I will, dearie.” She flashed me a smile. “You’re sweet to worry.”
Only I didn’t feel sweet. I felt guilty. Because the one thing I didn’t have the courage to tell Grace was that I was the one who had put the idea that she’d killed Marvin Etherington into Officer McFarland’s head.
***********