Chapter 26

 

“What can I get you ladies?”

Vera had sneaked up on us unawares. Other than Pam, I hadn’t told any of the girls about Vera’s nip and tuck. Didn’t have the heart to spoil the woman’s surprise. The wait had been well worth it as I watched heads swivel, eyes widen, and mouths gape. I sat back and enjoyed the show. Only thing I regretted was not having a camera handy.

“Vera . . . ?” Pam squeaked.

“Ohmigawd . . . !” Connie Sue drawled. “Honey lamb, you look fabulous!”

I had to agree with Connie Sue. Vera did indeed look fabulous. In addition to highlights, new hairstyle, and a firmer, prettier face, she must’ve lost ten pounds while she was away. I could stand to lose a pound or two myself. Tone up some. Maybe time had come to sign up for a session with that new fitness trainer at the rec center.

“Out with it, girl. Who’s your plastic surgeon?”

“Connie Sue!” Monica scolded. “Shame on you. That’s rude. You’re going to embarrass Vera.”

Vera, however, didn’t look a teensy bit embarrassed. In fact, she looked pleased as punch.

“I’d be happy to give you his card, Miz Brody,” Vera said, smiling. “In the meantime, let me take your orders.”

Vera, bless her heart, was her usual efficient self. Without being asked, she brought Connie Sue water, lemon, no ice, and Earl Gray tea for Monica. She filled my cup and Pam’s to the brim with coffee and kept them filled. I let out a blissful sigh. The Cove Café was back to normal.

“Whatever happened to Marcy?” I asked Vera when she delivered my Belgian waffle to the table.

“Marcy’s given up on being a waitress. Said it was too hard on the nerves—and the feet.”

“What’s she going to do instead?” Monica asked, forking into her egg white omelet.

Vera placed an order of wheat toast—unbuttered—and a fruit cup in front of Connie Sue. “She decided to become a manicurist.”

We, the four of us girls, exchanged looks. “Good choice,” we said in unison.

I chose the first lull in the conversation to tell the girls about Bill’s unexpected visit the night before and his invitation to view the baby cradle.

“I think he’s sweet on you,” Pam teased.

A warm sensation started in my chest and crept up to my cheeks. Not a blush, but a flush. Probably another of those power surges. “He just wants a woman’s opinion before he ships it up to Ohio.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stop making it into something it isn’t,” I scolded, trying to camouflage the fact I was secretly flattered at the notion of Bill being sweet on me. “I’m only going to his place to see the cradle, then have a cup of coffee and some Oreos.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s just a very nice man.” I hid my smile behind my coffee mug. “He made me promise to lock up tight at night. He said a woman living alone can’t be too careful.”

Monica nodded. “Sound advice, if you ask me.”

“If I get nervous, Bill said all I had to do was call him. He’d rush over with his Louisville Slugger and bean the bad guy over the head. How’s that for coming to the defense of a damsel in distress?”

I rambled on about Bill’s virtues, oblivious of the looks my friends exchanged, until Vera approached with more coffee.

We were almost finished eating when Brad Murphy sauntered in. Heads turned to watch. Brad had that sort of effect on women. For a man close to forty, he was what you’d call “hot.” A lemon yellow golf shirt bearing the Serenity Cove Estates logo molded broad shoulders and muscular arms. And my, oh my, those khakis! They hugged a set of buns that made old women sit up and take notice.

“Ladies,” he greeted us with a warm smile. “How y’all doin’?”

While we babbled answers, Vera came by with our checks. Brad turned to greet her with his patented grin and his jaw dropped. “Vera MacGillicuddy!” he exclaimed. “Is that you? Or is this your baby sister?”

Vera turned rosy pink. “Aw, Brad, stop. You’re making me blush.”

Brad slung his arm around her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Honey, you’re lookin’ fine. Mighty fine.”

Of course we echoed Brad’s sentiments. And left Vera generous tips. It was just our way of showing her how happy we were that she was “mighty fine.”

It wasn’t until I was in the Buick and driving home that I replayed the scene between Vera and Brad in my mind. In retrospect, their familiarity with each other seemed a bit out of place. Vera had positively glowed at hearing Brad’s compliments. And Brad had had a certain gleam in his eye when he hugged her.

Hadn’t Vera mentioned a new man in her life the other day at the Piggly Wiggly? I wondered if that new man could possibly be Brad Murphy. Brad had to be a good five years younger than Vera. But so what? Polly was always going on about all the older women–younger men that she read about in the Hollywood gossip rags. Said the women who hunted younger prey were called “cougars.” Who’s to say it couldn’t happen right here at the Cove Café?

Only one fly in the ointment far as I could tell. Bill had said Brad harbored quite a temper under that pretty-boy face and sit-up-and-take-notice body.

Another thought struck me as I turned into my drive. Was Rosalie as enamored with Brad as Vera appeared to be? Was there more to their relationship than instructor and student?

 

• • •

 

I sat down to enjoy a cup of chamomile tea before bedtime. Much to my amazement, I had acquired a taste for it. While waiting for my tea to cool, I stared out the window at the Brubaker house, all dark and broody, across the street.

What had Earl been up to all those nights when the house blazed with light? Earl, I knew from listening to Rosalie complain, was not a night owl by nature. According to her, he turned in at nine every evening, not even staying awake long enough for the early news. Why the sudden change in his sleep habits? A nasty thought occurred to me. Had he used those long evening hours to obliterate traces of murder?

Absently I took a sip of tea. And promptly burned my tongue. I put the cup down and folded my arms on the kitchen table. Earl was the logical suspect in his wife’s death, I grudgingly conceded. His story that Rosalie was visiting grandkids in Poughkeepsie was plausible until various body parts—quite literally—surfaced.

The million-dollar question still remained: If Earl was innocent, who killed Rosalie?

My tea forgotten, I hauled Tools of the Trade out of a cupboard. Opening it, I took out the black spiral notebook that I’d recently purchased and scanned my notes—which I had to admit were pretty sparse. Undaunted, I picked up a pen and flipped to a blank page. I needed to make a list. Lists were wonderful things. Don’t know how people manage to accomplish anything without them.

I headed my first list Possible Suspects. Earl’s name was the first one I entered. Under his name, I wrote Bill Lewis’s, only because of Earl’s earlier accusations and because of Bill’s association with power tools. Even though I believed wholeheartedly in his innocence, I needed to stay objective. After all, this wasn’t the time to rely on women’s intuition or consult the Psychic Hotline. I frowned at my list—my very short list.

Trying a different approach, I turned to yet another blank page and headed it Facts. Since Rosalie’s body had been dismembered, I could safely assume the killer had access to power tools or at least some wicked saws. At his press conference, Sheriff Wiggins stated Rosalie had been killed by a blow to the head. Last, but not least, was the question of whether Rosalie had been seeing someone. And if so, who? Under Facts, I scribbled down, Power tools, golf, possible lover.

I took a sip of tea and grimaced. Tepid chamomile tea left much to be desired. I focused on the word golf until the letters danced before my eyes. Brad Murphy was a ladies’ man. He and Rosalie spent an inordinate amount of time together. Off the course as well as on? I wondered.

I flipped back to my list of suspects and added Brad Murphy’s name. My list of possible suspects was growing. I now had three names. How hard could it be to whittle three down to one. Simply apply the process of elimination, and voilà!

But a single problem remained. Bill was on the list.