Carbs & Cadavers (9 page)

“There are five of us altogether. There will be
three
women at the meeting tonight,” James added proudly.

Jackson’s caterpillar-like eyebrows crawled higher on his forehead in a mocking expression. “Oh yeah, the
Fat
Club.”

“Not for long.” James jerked on his windbreaker. It was an old jacket, left in his closet during a visit home years ago. James now found that he couldn’t zip it closed. Jackson smirked and suddenly anger whirled up from deep inside James like a scorching tornado. “At least I’m getting out of the house!” he yelled. “Do you think Ma would have wanted you to sit inside that shed doing God knows what or waste the rest of your life watching game shows?
You’re
more of a ghost than she is, and
she’s
the one who died!”

Both men were stunned into silence by the fury in James’s voice. He had never spoken to his father in such a tone. Jackson’s eyes flashed with a mixture of ire and pain. Before his father could deliver one of his scathing responses, James fled.

James was the last one to arrive at Lucy’s house. Bickering with his father had caused him to run late. His mouth had gone dry just thinking about how he had screamed at his remaining parent—he felt both ashamed and liberated at the same time. His father was obviously having trouble dealing with his wife’s death and James should be more sympathetic. On the other hand, he had spent a lifetime accepting his father’s criticism and dour moods and he was simply growing tired of being treated like an uninvited houseguest.

Lucy lived about five miles out of town in a clapboard farmhouse. It was painted a cheerful, butter yellow and it had teal-green shutters. Two large planters filled with sedum and marigolds flanked the green door and an ancient maple tree dropped fiery leaves all over the front steps leading up to the small porch, where Lucy had installed a porch swing and two white wicker rockers. Three lopsided pumpkins squatted on the porch swing, covering up several large rust-colored stains. Everything looked like it could use a fresh coat of paint.

Mail was stuffed in the black metal mailbox and dead leaves blew across a ratty doormat. The word “Welcome” was so faded that only the “l” and the “o” were discernible. The lawn had an air of neglect and Lucy’s dormant azalea bushes were in dire need of pruning.

As James approached the house up an uneven brick walkway, a ferocious chorus of barking erupted from behind a green chainlink fence. This barricade surrounded a seemingly endless backyard, where dense woods suddenly swallowed the dandelion- and thistle-pocked lawn. Lucy materialized at the front door and held the screen door open for the final supper club member.

“Come on in.” She smiled thinly. James noticed that the skin beneath her eyes looked swollen, as if she had been crying or had had too little sleep. He wondered if the diet was taking a big toll on her.

“I like your house,” James said brightly, trying to boost her spirits.

“Thanks. It was my grandparents’ place. Built in 1939.” She beckoned him into the eat-in kitchen. “They raised four kids in a two-bedroom house. I’ve managed to fill it up all by myself, though. I’m kind of a pack rat.”

“Don’t forget your roommates, the Hounds of Hell,” said Bennett, coming forward to greet James. “What are their names again?”

“Benatar, Bono, and Bon Jovi, after the three greatest band leaders of the 80s.” Lucy’s eyes twinkled for a fraction of a second. “The best decade of music ever.”

James wasn’t so sure of that, but he wisely decided to keep quiet. Lucy’s kitchen was decorated in blues and creams. She collected blue pottery roosters and had an array of ivory-colored cow creamers displayed on a baker’s rack. There were a number of dirty dishes in the sink, and a pile of
Cosmopolitan
magazines looked like they had been hastily dumped on top of the refrigerator.

Gillian was preparing their side dish—fake mashed potatoes. Every few seconds she stopped stirring in order to yank the bottom of her mango-colored turtleneck over her love handles. Yet no matter how much she tugged, the shirt was too short to completely cover her lowest roll of fat. It snapped upward after each tug like a roller shade. Whenever she lifted her arm toward the stovetop, a pale fold of skin poked out above the waistline of her pants. Finally, Gillian gave up and let her flesh hang out, exposed.

“I
am
among friends,” she said, mostly to herself.

“What’s actually in there, Gillian?” Lindy asked as she gazed into the steaming pot, unconsciously pulling her own shirt down over her round, wide bottom. “It smells really good.”

“It’s in this menu packet James made for us. Here it is.” Gillian pointed to the recipe.

The Flab Five’s Phony Mashed Potatoes

Ingredients

1 head of fresh cauliflower

1½ teaspoons of minced garlic

1 teaspoon rosemary

1 tablespoon of whipped cream cheese

¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese

A generous sprinkle of salt and pepper

¹/8 of a teaspoon of chicken bouillon powder

1 tablespoon of butter substitute such as Smart Beat or Smart Balance

Boil cauliflower for five to six minutes until soft. Drain water. Using a potato masher or large spoon, mash the cauliflower, adding in the rest of the ingredients. Don’t use an electric mixer or food processor—it won’t taste as good. Plus, mashing by hand burns calories! Makes 4 servings.

Gillian paused in her mixing. “I was only supposed to use one tablespoon of butter substitute but I used two. I
really
like the flavor of butter.”

Bennett placed two bottles of diet soda on the counter. “You look like you could make this in your sleep.”

Gillian beamed. “I actually did a trial run for myself as I was feeling a little pressured about cooking for others.” She cast a sideways glance at the packages of meat sitting in the sink. “I actually doubled this recipe as I will not be partaking in . . . in the
tragic
consumption of animal meat this evening,” she added theatrically.

“Great. James and I will split the extra one.” Bennett nudged James in the arm. “Right?”

Lindy scowled at Bennett for being insensitive and patted Gillian’s shoulder. “Looks like you did a great job. Bennett and I shared the cost of the meat, but I was in charge of prepping the steaks. I just covered them with some Southwestern meat rub and they’re all ready for the grill. I picked the ones with the least amount of fat. Bennett, did you bring the herb butter?”

Bennett bowed with a toothy grin. “Surely did, ma’am. Half cup butter substitute, one teaspoon rosemary, one teaspoon parsley, and a sprinkle of garlic salt. I then rolled them into balls with a spoon. They’ll melt nice and fast on those hot steaks. That is, if the dogs don’t attack me on the way to the grill.” Bennett eyed Lucy.

“I’ll protect you. Come on, I’m starving.” Lucy led him to the deck where her grill was fired up and ready to cook their sirloin strips.

A few minutes later the supper club toasted their first meal with glasses of diet soda. They agreed to put off the discussion of their weight loss progress (or lack thereof) until after the meal. As they ate Caesar salad, cauliflower potatoes, and steak with herb butter, the conversation naturally drifted toward the most interesting event of everyone’s week—Brinkley’s death.

“So what’s new with the Case of the Has-Been Football Star, Ms. Sheriff?” Lindy teased Lucy.

Lucy’s lip quivered. Wordlessly, she hid her face in her hands as a pregnant silence descended on the table.

Lindy leaned over to clasp Lucy’s arm. “Lucy, honey. What is it?” she asked with concern.

Lucy wiped a tear track from her cheek and tucked a strand of lustrous hair behind her ear. Sniffing, she said, “I’m sorry, everyone. I’ve been trying to act normal all night but . . . oh, I might as well tell you. The sheriff is going to arrest Whitney Livingstone tomorrow on suspicion of murder.”

“What?” Gillian squeaked, dropping her fork onto her empty plate with a clatter.

“The only reason she’s not in jail now is that the sheriff is hosting a family reunion tonight. First thing tomorrow, though, he’s gonna pick her up.”

“That’s absurd!” Lindy banged her fists on the table. “That girl wouldn’t hurt a soul! Are you saying that she
supposedly
killed Brinkley Myers?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Gillian harrumphed.

James looked at Lucy. “Does this have something to do with Coumadin?”

“Isn’t that a drug?” Bennett asked questioningly. “What do
you
know about all this, James?”

James hastily explained Lucy’s telephone call on Thursday and gave a brief definition of Coumadin and its uses.

Lucy issued a heavy sigh. “The problem is, Whitney’s daddy is the only person in Quincy’s Gap taking Coumadin. He had that massive heart attack earlier this year and had to have emergency surgery. I remember Mrs. Livingstone telling me that he needed a heart valve replacement. According to Donovan’s interview with the pharmacist, Mr. Livingstone was prescribed Coumadin right after that surgery. Seems he needed a blood thinner to prevent clots from forming on the new valve. Donovan believes Whitney gave Brinkley the entire contents of her daddy’s bottle.”

James frowned. “So Whitney’s father used the drug. Whitney wasn’t fond of Brinkley. Those are pretty flimsy pieces of evidence. There were no eyewitnesses, right?” Lucy shook her head. “How can an arrest be made on such insubstantial facts?”

“There’s more,” Lucy began.

“Let me hazard a guess,” Bennett interrupted. “It was what she said yesterday at Dolly’s that did her in, wasn’t it?”

Lucy looked at him in surprise. “How did you know?”

“I was there.” Bennett explained. Looking at the perplexed faces of his tablemates, Bennett went on. “I only work until noon on Saturdays, so I always go to Dolly’s for lunch after my shift. I had a package to deliver to Clint so I went in through the back. Whitney was working behind the counter. I could see three customers sitting there. Two of them were football players, catching some lunch before tonight’s game, and the third was Lucy’s favorite person since Milli Vanilli, Deputy Keith Donovan.”

“Who, in this overly polluted world, is Milli Vanilli?” asked Gillian, momentarily distracted from the main narrative.

“Pseudo-rock stars from the 1980s with cool hair,” Lindy replied. “Go on, Bennett.”

Bennett took a swallow of Diet Dr. Pepper and continued. “As Whitney was handing a check to the football players, one of them asked her if she missed Brinkley. She looked as though she could fire missiles out of her eyeballs when he asked her that, but she just said ‘No, why should I?’ Apparently, the boys thought Whitney was one of Brinkley’s girlfriends.”

“Ha! She’s
way
too good for pond scum like that!” Lindy asserted.

“That’s about what
she
said, except not in such nice terms,” Bennett smiled. “But the boys wouldn’t let up. They taunted her, saying, ‘Brinkley said he would meet you behind the movie theater so you could give him what he had comin’.’” Bennett tugged on his toothbrush mustache and then laughed nervously. “My mama would have put all those boys over her knee if she had heard the rest of what they hinted at.”

“And Deputy Donovan just let this go on?” James asked, shocked. It was a man’s duty to intervene when a young lady’s reputation was being insulted. Then he remembered how he had done nothing to stop Brinkley’s insinuating remarks to Whitney on Homecoming Day.

Lucy jumped in. “That man is a walking toad. He was probably enjoying every minute of it. He loves to see any woman kept down.”

“If we could all just learn to
love
one another!” Gillian wailed.

Bennett ignored her and turned to Lucy. “He
did
seem to be wearing a sheep-eatin’ grin, Lucy, I won’t lie to you.”

“So that was it?” James wondered.

“No. Whitney leaned over the counter and grabbed one of the boy’s shirts. She practically pulled him out of his chair she was so spittin’ mad. ‘I’m glad that son of a bitch is dead!’ she yelled. ‘I hope it was slow and painful and bloody as hell!’”

There was a long stretch of silence.

“Right in front of Donovan.” Lucy looked at her friends mournfully. “He hears her say that and then finds out about her daddy’s Coumadin and . . .”

“So she hated Brinkley for how he treated her.” Lindy threw her hands in the air. “Who wouldn’t? Doesn’t mean she killed that boy.”

“I’ve got to find a way to help her.” Lucy gave an appealing look around the table. “Any ideas?”

“Can you get in the . . . ah . . . prison cell to talk to her privately?” James asked.

“I think so. Why?”

“The more we all know about Whitney and her relationship to Brinkley, whatever it was, the more info we’ll have on what both of them are like as people. It could only help.”

“That’s true,” Bennett agreed. “But aside from trying to clear this little lady, we need to put our sights on who could have given him the Coumadin instead of Whitney.”

“Exactly!” Lindy joined in. “Do you know when he was supposedly given the drug, Lucy?”