Gayle Trent (3 page)

As I made my way on down the refreshment table, I heard a man say, “My, don’t you look striking?”

Turned out, he was talking to me. “Thank you.”

And thank goodness, it wasn’t Wendell Wallace. He was busy following Melvia around.

“I’m usually not so forward,” the man said, “but would you care to take a turn around the dance floor?”

I figured he usually was forward, but he was tall, nice looking and not on a walker. “I’d love to.”

He took my arm and escorted me to the dance floor. A Tony Bennett CD was playing. “I’ll be seeing you,” Tony crooned.

“I’m Jim Adams,” my dance partner said.

“Myrtle Crumb,” I replied.

“It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you, Myrtle.”

“Nice to meet you, too. For some reason, your name is ringing a bell. Did you grow up around here?”

“No, but I have such a common name.” He shrugged and smiled.

“I guess that’s it,” I said. Still, that name sounded so familiar.

The song ended and we walked off the dance floor.

“Myrtle, you naughty girl,” Bettie said, coming at me with something in her hand. “You came in and got right to beeswax without picking up your dance card!”

Bettie looked fairly attractive tonight. She was wearing a pale pink frock, had taken the time to put some curl in that blonde hair of hers, and she wasn’t wearing too much makeup. Still, she could get all over your nerves with that “beeswax” stuff.

I took the dance card. Jim took a pen from his pocket and wrote his name next to the first dance.

“Mind if I sign on for a few more?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

Behind his back, Bettie gave me the big “okay” sign.

After our third dance, me and Jim decided to have some refreshments. I took a piece of my pie, a small piece of Delphine’s fudge, and a preacher cookie Melvia had made. Melvia makes awfully good preacher cookies. Jim took a piece of my pie (after I told him I’d made it) and a couple of Bettie’s chess bars.

We sat down at a table, and Jim went back and got us both some coffee. When he got back, he told me how much he was enjoying my company.

“I was skeptical about this at first,” he said, “but now I’m really glad I came.”

“Me, too,” I said, “on both counts.”

“I’m fairly new to widowhood.” He half-grinned. “In fact, this is my first outing.”

“It’s hard. Being a widow, I mean. You never stop missing your ‘other half.’” I took a bite of my cookie. “I don’t wallow in grief or self-pity or anything. I live a full and happy life. But I still miss Crandall—that’s my late husband.”

“Yes,” Jim said, “there’s always a part of you that feels empty.”

“So, how long has it been?”

“I lost Flora about a year ago.”

Flora. Flora Adams. Jim Adams.

If anything happens to me, look to Jim. He did it.

That’s when I nearly choked to death on my preacher cookie.

“Are you all right, Myrtle?” Jim asked.

“Yes . . . yes, fine.” I dabbed at my watering eyes with a napkin. “I believe I need a drink of water is all.” I got up from the table.

“Shall I go with you?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I gave him as much of a smile as I could manage and hurried off to the kitchen.

I did pour myself a cup of water. I needed it. Plus, I needed to think a minute. I’d been waltzing all over the dance floor with a killer, and revelations like that tend to knock the wind out of your sails.

So, now I had a decision to make: hightail it out of this joint, or go back in there and dance with Killer Jim. I knew down deep in my heart that Nancy Drew, Jessica Fletcher, and even Jaclyn Smith in a Lifetime television movie would march right back in that room and pretend nonchalance. In fact, nobody pretends nonchalance any better than Jaclyn Smith.

They’d all do it. They’d every one gain that killer’s trust, get him to confess while they were wearing a wire, find the murdered wife’s body, and maybe get a little something going on with the police chief while they were at it.

And that’s just what I was gonna do. Well, I don’t know about getting something going with the police chief. Or finding the corpse—that don’t much appeal to me. But I could act nonchalant and solve the crime.

I drank my water, adjusted my bra, and smoothed my dress. Boy, was I nonchalant.

I sashayed back to the table. Wouldn’t you know it? Tansie had done tried to move in on my killer. She’d even sat down in my chair!

“Myrtle, dear,” Jim said, “are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “Tansie, thank you for keeping my chair warm while I was gone.”

“You’re welcome.”

I laid my pocketbook on the table and waited for her to move. Believe it or not, she took the hint. As soon as she slid out of that chair, I slid in.

“Mr. Adams was just regaling me with a charming story,” Tansie said, grinning a big shark grin at Jim.

“Oh, it’s . . . uh . . . nothing.” Jim stammered and stuttered and looked embarrassed.

“What was it?” I asked. “A dirty joke?”

“Most certainly not,” Tansie said, planting one hand on her lavender crepe covered bosom. “I find it highly improbable that Mr. Adams would be so crude.”

“Well, he had more respect than that for me, of course, but—” I shrugged by way of finishing my sentence.

“Actually,” Jim said, “I was telling Ms. Miller about an outing I had with my little granddaughter the other day. Her name is Mary; and when I took her to the park, she said she wanted to ride the ‘me-go-round.’”

Tansie laughed and laughed. “Isn’t that a scream?”

“Precious,” I said.

I smiled, but I had to wonder if Jim had ditched poor old Flora in that park next to the “me-go-round.” Ick. Then I remembered my nonchalance and forced out a big laugh. Hey, I don’t want to end up on the other side of that “me-go-round.”

CHAPTER THREE

Well, guess what? I’m seeing Jim Adams again at the Center tomorrow evening for Bingo. I told Sunny, naturally, because she wanted to be kept up-to-date on the investigation. She didn’t approve of my meeting Jim at the Center at first, but since I’ll be in a crowd of people, she thinks I’ll be okay. She warned me not to go anywhere alone with him, though. Isn’t that sweet?

Guess what else? The whole time we were singing that hymn about “our hearts in Christian love” in church this morning, Tansie was looking daggers through me. So much for her and her Christian love. She’s taken a shine to Jim herself; that’s what it is. It’ll be interesting to see how she acts at the Bingo game tomorrow night. You can bet your bippy she’ll be there.

I was so tired this morning I almost didn’t make it to church. Still, I was afraid the good Lord would strike me dead and send me straight to hell if I danced with a killer half the night and then laid out of church the next morning.

Now, sit yourself down, and let’s watch “An Affair to Remember.” I bet I’ve seen it a dozen times, but I still get teary-eyed when Cary Grant realizes Deborah Kerr is the crippled woman who bought his painting. You know, the purpose of that movie is to show you just how out of hand a misunderstanding can get. Jim could be a really good guy and this whole “killer” thing could just be a big misunderstanding.

* * *

Since I was doin’ the Jaclyn Smith nonchalance thing, I wore one of Jaclyn’s outfits I’d bought from K-Mart to the Bingo game. It seemed to put me in that Kelly Garrett/Charlies’ Angels frame of mind. It was a casual knit pants set—black with some red accents. Definitely suitable for detecting. And Bingo. Since my feet had swelled up like pumpkins Saturday night, I ditched the heels and wore black loafers.

When I got there, Jim was waiting for me in the corridor. He told me I looked stunning and paid for my Bingo cards. That’s about as Cary Grant as they come, you know.

Wouldn’t you know it? Jim hadn’t any more than got sat down when Tansie came and plopped herself right down on the other side of him. Tansie was wearing a black pants suit, too. Thank goodness Jim was wearing tan or else the three of us would’ve looked like we were in mourning.

“Hello, Jim! Hello, Myrtle.”

“Hello, Tansie,” I said.

“Tansie,” Jim said, his voice oozing like syrup down a maple tree, “what a pleasure to see you again.”

Naturally, Tansie grinned like a possum at that and spread her cards out real close to Jim’s.

I decided to let on like she wasn’t bothering’ me. Nonchalance, you know. Nonchalance.

James Arthur Preston began calling out the numbers. It’s a little tricky ’til you get used to it, because James Arthur stutters somethin’ fierce.

“Un-un-under the B-B-B t-t-twelve!” James Arthur called. “B-B-B t-t-twelve!”

Some nights it seems to take forever before somebody hollers “Bingo.” This was one of them nights. When somebody finally did yell “Bingo,” it was Jim. He won a cut and style down at the Tilt-A-Curl. He gave it to me. It was a good thing. I didn’t win nothing else. Not that that’s unusual. By the time poor James Arthur calls one or two games and then does a full card, it’s about quitting time and everybody’s ready to go home whether they’ve won anything or not.

Jim walked me out to my car after Bingo. “I enjoyed tonight,” he said.

“Me, too.” And I did, sorta. Hey, I got a cut and style out of it, didn’t I? “Thank you for giving me your prize. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather keep it?”

He smiled. “I’ll derive more pleasure from the fact that you’re enjoying yourself than I would get from a hundred haircuts.”

“Well, then, I thank you.”

And then he kissed my hand. And then he asked to take me to dinner on Friday. And I said I’d love to. A man that gallant couldn’t possibly have killed his wife, could he? Of course, King Henry VIII was probably gallant on occasion, too, and he killed a whole bunch of wives. I believe his last wife outlived him, or he’d have probably done her in, too.

* * *

“Mimi! You’re going to dinner with this freak?” Sunny shouted.

I held the phone away from my ear. “Well, yes, I—”

“I’m . . . I’m tellin’ Mom!”

“Now, Sunshine, don’t do that. You know how she gets all up in the air.”

“Somebody needs to! You won’t listen to me!”

“Honey, I am listenin’,” I said. “I just feel like I ought to find out what happened to Flora . . . seein’ how I’ve got her pocketbook and everything.”

“Let the police find out what happened to her.”

“Well, I’m sure they’re doin’ what they can on their end, but I’ve got an inside track. Besides, he might be innocent, you know.”

“And he might not!”

“But the more I think about it, the more I think maybe he didn’t do a thing. Maybe Flora’s mind wasn’t right and she blamed poor old Jim for things and then—”

“You like him,” Sunny said. “You like him, and that’s why you’re actin’ all crazy and makin’ excuses for him. The other night you thought he was guilty as sin, and now he’s Saint Jim.”

“He is not Saint Jim, and I’m not makin’ excuses for anybody. I’m merely trying to be objective and learn the truth of this situation. Ain’t that what detectives are supposed to do?”

“You’re not a detective, Mimi! You’re a grandma!”

“You don’t think I can be both? Here I’ve told you your whole life that you can be anything you wanna be, and you’re telling me I can’t?”

“Mimi—”

“And what about Tansie’s daughter, Ada? Didn’t I keep her brassy little butt out of the hoosegow?”

“I’m tellin’ Mom,” Sunny said. “I’m tellin’ her you’re going out with a guy that might’ve killed his wife.”

I was quiet for a few seconds, and she was, too. Finally, I said, “If you feel you have to tattle on me, then go ahead. I don’t owe you or your mama any explanations or excuses for how I live my life.”

“But, Mimi, I don’t want you to disappear!”

She started crying, and I felt like a big, smelly pile of cow poop. But, I stuck to my guns. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” I said. “I’ll be careful. Your ol’ Mimi knows how to watch her back.”

Sunny sniffled.

“I’m meeting Jim at the restaurant,” I said. “We’re going to Smiddy’s, and it’s half way between my house and his, so we’re meeting there. See? I won’t even be alone with him.”

“Well . . . okay . . . but please be careful, Mimi.” She sniffed.

“And don’t forget about Flora.”

“I don’t intend to, baby. In fact, I plan to find out all about her.”

* * *

I wore another Jaclyn Smith outfit to Smiddy’s. I was still in my Kelly Garrett mode. This time I chose a conservative gray suit with a white blouse. The swelling was down in my feet, so I wore the black pumps again. I figured it’d be all right—we weren’t gonna be dancing or anything.

Smiddy’s is a nice restaurant. Crandall and I used to go there two or three times a year before he got so sick. It felt odd to be meetin’ another man there, but I figured Crandall would understand.