Snoop to Nuts (5 page)

It looked like a jamboree in progress when we pulled up to the Riverville Sheriff’s Department. People were lined down the front steps and hanging on to the brass handrail. Some were on the cement pad, backs pressed against the double glass doors leading into the station. Miss Amelia made her way in front of me, greeting everyone and making a path, like a cruise liner, for me to follow.

Inside the building, the crush was as thick as outside. I spotted Hunter behind the high front counter and made my way toward him.

“What’s going on?” I flipped a thumb over my shoulder at the crowd.

Hunter, as neat and put together as always, looked around at the crowd. “Everybody from the fair. And I mean about everybody. They all want to help. Guess you could say the whole town’s in shock over the pastor’s death. Trouble is, with so many wanting to be interviewed, we don’t have time to talk to the people we should be looking at.”

“I brought Miss Amelia in. You don’t expect her to wait behind all these others, do you? Woman’s as stressed out as a person can get. Not herself at all. I’m worried about her, Hunter.”

“’Course she’s not waiting. Let me go see if the sheriff’s ready for you ladies.”

When he was back, nodding for us to follow him and holding the swinging gate open, I asked, “Anything new?”

Hunter eyed people nearby and lowered his head, dropping his voice to just above a whisper. “The medical examiner was up all night working on this.”

Hunter walked between us, a hand on our back, leading down a long hall. “Didn’t get stomach contents ’til a while ago, but from what he’s seen already, he thinks what did it was what he called ‘a volatile organic poison.’”

I knew what he was talking about from my plant studies. “Alcohol, formaldehyde, ether, nicotine. Things like that.”

Miss Amelia made a dismissive sound. “Nobody drinks or smokes that much at a fair dinner.” She turned eyes with dark circles around at Hunter. “ME find anything besides my Texas caviar in him?”

“Afraid that’s all, Miss Amelia. Bits of those contest dishes but too small to do the damage that was done.”

“There are all kinds of poisons in that group,” I told Hunter. “Maybe you can trace the killer that way.”

“Hope so. The ME’s called in a toxicologist to help. They’ll be doing tests. Tissues and such. Should know later today or tomorrow what we’re looking for. One thing he did say. Kind of smelled like parsnips—you know, mousy. At least that’s what he says.”

I made a face. “Is he sure? I mean—no heart attack or organ failure? Nothing like that?”

“The man’s ninety-nine percent sure it’s poison.”

Sheriff Higsby stood and doffed his wide cowboy hat when we walked in.

“Miss Amelia.” He nodded in her direction, and then to me. “Thought you might bring Ben Fordyce with you.”

“Talked to him on the way in to town,” I said. “He didn’t think it was necessary. Said he’d come right over if we needed him, but he couldn’t believe you were serious about suspecting Miss Amelia of anything, let alone poisoning people.”

We took seats and waited nervously as the sheriff mumbled into a tape recorder then pushed a small microphone toward us across his desk. He leaned back, pulled a pad of paper from the top drawer, and lined up three pens beside it.

He looked up reluctantly.

“Seems we’ve got ourselves a tragedy here, ladies. You know the parson died.”

Miss Amelia tsked and shook her head. “Terrible thing. Poor man. Seems too . . . oh, I don’t know . . . not like something that would happen in Riverville.”

“Know what you mean. A bullet or two over at the Barking Coyote, well, expect that. Happens. Whenever people want somebody to die, they figure a way to do it.”

He adjusted his body in his chair, as if he couldn’t get comfortable.

“I understand you gave the pastor some of that Texas Caviar of yours. That right? That what it’s called?”

“Heavenly Texas Pecan Caviar. If you mean at the Winners’ Supper? Why, yes I did.”

“But that particular entry wasn’t a winner, was it?”

“You’re right there, Sheriff. Not even an honorable mention. I tasted that first one the judges got to taste. Awful. Something happened to it. Nothing in there to spoil. Still, maybe standing out on the table, the way it did. I don’t really know what happened. First time ever in my life. I was ashamed the poor man had to put something that bad in his mouth. But I had another dish so I decided at the last minute to give him another chance. I pulled that second one out of my cooler—it was labeled and all. I took it up to him and he tasted it then took a good-sized helping, saying how good it was. Figured that would take care of it. At least I could hold my head up again.”

Sheriff Higsby almost smiled. “What I’m figuring is that if any of those other dishes had poison in ’em, people would’ve been fallin’ like flies by now. But that didn’t happen . . .”

Miss Amelia nodded quickly at the man. “I see what you’re getting at. If my caviar was the only thing poor Pastor Jenkins ate that nobody else ate, why, I’d have to be the poisoner.”

“Meemaw!” I sat forward, shocked at what the woman was saying. “Don’t go saying things like that or I’m getting Ben over here.”

“Well, Lindy . . . that’s why we brought the cooler with us.”

She turned to Sheriff Higsby. “Got the contest bowl and the Winners’ Supper bowl in it.”

Tears fogged her eyes. She took a swipe at one eye with her clenched fist.

“Thanks, Miss Amelia,” the sheriff said. “I know you’re not the kind to have switched out the caviar. Glad you brought ’em in without me having to ask.”

He got a sad smile out of her as she slowly got on her feet. Meemaw was showing her age. Her shoulders were bent more than I’d ever seen them bent. Even her usually neat gray hair looked messy.

“You don’t think, for even a second, Meemaw had anything to do with this.” I stood, too, turning from Hunter to the sheriff.

Hunter looked so pained. “We don’t think that for a second, Lindy. The thing is, since we all know it wasn’t Miss Amelia,
who was it
?”

I glanced over at Meemaw. Her fingers were making dents in the leather of her handbag, she was holding on so tight. She’d stopped pretending to smile.

“You’re talking murder,” I whispered at Hunter.

“We know that. And not just a spur of the moment, heat of anger, kind of thing like what happens over to the Barking Coyote. This was planned. Pretty awful. A harsh and cruel death. Nothing to do with Miss Amelia. Still, we’ve got to look at everything.”

“If you ask me,” I said, “you gotta look back to where the parson came from. Why he’d want to move to Texas from Tupelo.”

Hunter nodded, like he knew there was a lot more on the line here than an investigation. “Already in the works. I contacted the sheriff’s office there in Tupelo. Should hear back pretty soon.”

“I got one more thing.” The sheriff put up his hand. “Why’d you take that caviar out to the reverend and not taste it first? Could have been bad, too?”

“Spur of the moment. Some folks were saying I should let the parson taste the real thing. Never thought for a minute anything was wrong with it. Been in the cooler all day.”

“How many people in the kitchen when you took the bowl out? Anybody mention maybe you shouldn’t take it to the big room? Anybody try to stop you?”

“Every woman in town was in that kitchen, getting their bowls ready for the tables if they were winners, or washing up and putting bowls and pans away if they didn’t win anything. Nobody was saying much to anybody. Too busy. Just a few, I remember, said it was a shame the pastor couldn’t taste the real thing.”

“I hear you had dishes at the supper anyway, ’cause you won in other categories.”

She nodded and groused a little. “Sure did. Plenty of blue ribbons. Didn’t need one more.”

The sheriff’s face was just a little sad. “None of those others woulda meant as much as taking a blue in that last contest, now would it, Miss Amelia? You gotta be honest with me here.”

She scrunched up her pretty, lined face and looked over at me as if asking for help. I nodded for her to go ahead, tell the man the truth.

“Guess you’re right, Sheriff. I did want that blue ribbon. Would’ve made me the winningest cook in Riverville history. I suppose I was disappointed. But I’ll tell you something, I’ve lost important events and people before, lost my husband early, but I don’t go flinging poison into my dishes to get even. I didn’t poison the pastor. I wasn’t out to poison all of Riverville. You can accuse me of putting cheap bourbon in my recipes when I’m out of Garrison’s, but I’m no killer and you all damn well know it.”

She was out of there faster than I could keep up—through the crowded front office and out the door. Hunter was a few steps behind.

At the truck, he held the door for her, asking, “Where would you look for a killer, Miss Amelia?”

Mad now, she took a long minute to cool down, then said, “Find out what kind of poison it is and follow that. Maybe somebody buying a lot of ant poison in town or sending away on the Internet for things they shouldn’t have been ordering. I’d start there.”

She turned to Hunter. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” She settled her bag in her lap and straightened her shoulders. “I’m going to talk to Dora and Selma, soon as I can. That is, if they’re up to it. We’ve got to start figuring things out.

“I’m not saying those fine women had anything to do with it, but they were sitting next to the parson the whole time. Maybe somebody got the poison in after he took that helping out of my bowl.”

“We’ll know right away. Soon as I get your cooler to the medical examiner.”

I looked over at Hunter and rolled my eyes. I felt like running around the truck and twisting the end of his nose as hard as I could—the way I did when we were kids. I knew he was walking a fine line, but if he had to fall off in one direction or the other—it had better be in ours.

*   *   *

On the way back to the Nut House, where Meemaw wanted to go, I almost had to laugh. “Hunter and the sheriff were about accusing you of murder,” I told her. “Then you turned it around so they’re asking your help with things. I don’t know how you do it. Wish I’d gotten a dose of your spell casting.”

“Humph,” she said. “I wish so, too. The way you treat that boy . . .” Meemaw shook her head.

“What boy?”

“Why, poor Hunter. I see how you treat him. How long do you expect a man to take your smart mouth and not start looking someplace else? You’re not getting any younger, Lindy.”

“Meemaw!” I was shocked; she’d never interfered in my love life before. I figured maybe she was still mad at everybody and swinging the tail end of that anger at me.

“Poor man turns red every time you start in on him. Falls all over his own feet around you.”

“Let’s see how
you’d
act if somebody accused
me
of murder. You think I’m gonna be nice about it?”

“I wouldn’t act one way or the other.” She gave a distinct snort. “I’d find me a gun and put ’im out of your misery. I know who we Blanchards are. Still, you don’t have to treat poor Hunter the way you do.”

“Okay,” I said, a little huffy myself by then. “Then we better get busy finding out who’s after you, Meemaw. ’Cause I’m not shooting any cops. Especially one that could be the father of all those babies I could be birthin’ in the future.”

The front part of the parsonage was a historic, restored Sunday House, one of the two-room frame buildings built by early German ranchers whose places were far out of town, too far to make it in and back in one day. Those old families came to Riverville on Saturday, took care of their shopping and doctoring and visiting, stayed overnight in their two-room house, and went back to their ranch after church the next day.

The building was on the register of historic places in Colorado County, but it had been added to and updated over the years though the front was never changed, still low and stone with plain, four-paned windows under a long overhang. A sturdy piece of Texas history. I’d always loved the old house, remembering it happily decorated for a Christmas tour a time or two.

The drive leading up to the house was lined with cars along either side. Parishioners were there already with their casseroles and platters of tacos and jugs of sweet tea. I parked next door, in the Rushing to Calvary Independent Church parking lot. This, too, was almost full of cars.

We got out, me with one of Miss Amelia’s pecan breads in my hands, and Miss Amelia carrying one of her not-too-special pecan pies, meaning no bourbon in this one. We picked our way delicately across the side lawn and up a dirt path that led through Selma’s garden to the house. The garden surprised me since I hadn’t been there in a very long time. As far as I could see, the garden moved up a slope and then down toward the Colorado River, borders and beds all neatly trimmed. Beds of salvia, coneflowers, echinacea, and one bed filled with different sizes and shades of sunflowers. There was hibiscus, and vines—morning glories folded into tight little blue and white and pink funnels. Purple passion vines climbed a lattice fence.

“Look at this garden,” I said. “How on earth does she do it?”

“I’m glad Selma’s got something that makes her happy. Came out of a bad marriage, from what I understand. Guess she started in digging soon as they got settled and the next thing every gardener in the church was giving a day or so a week to help her out. You know, with that bad leg of hers, people thought it was their duty,” Miss Amelia said.

I leaned close to whisper to my imposing grandmother, “Would I look heartless if I came back out to walk around?”

“I’ll bet you anything Selma would be happy to show it to you, if you asked. Can’t imagine the woman loves anything more.”

On the low, wood-floored front porch, I rang the doorbell. Hawley Harvey, dressed in all his Sunday finery, opened the door and invited us in with a sweep of his arm. The voices inside the house were subdued, but still a steady murmur rising and falling as groups in the living room shifted and wandered out to the kitchen, then back.

“Food goes in the kitchen, Miss Amelia,” Hawley directed, more somber and quieter than I’d ever seen him, no Santa Claus “ho, ho, ho”-ing here. “Whole passel of women out there now dishing things up. Rest of the food might go over to the church for after the funeral.”

“Who’s leading the service?” Miss Amelia bent to ask in his ear.

“Guess I’ll be doing it—a celebration of the pastor’s life.” He stopped to sigh and lean back, hands twined together at his chest. “Have to fill in until we get a new parson. Such a shame. Can’t believe the man ate some bad food and died . . .” He whisked his hands together. “Just like that.”

“More than bad food,” Miss Amelia, affronted by the words “bad food,” said back at him. “From what I hear.”

Hawley rocked on his heels, looking disturbed, like an upset cherub. “Now, Miss Amelia, you and I know for a fact nobody in this town’s running around poisoning people. There’ll be some other explanation for it. You watch and see. The man was a pastor of the church, for heaven’s sakes. I wouldn’t go around tellin’ people he was poisoned.” He shook his head hard. “No sir, I wouldn’t go spreadin’ that story.”

Miss Amelia snapped her lips together and said nothing more. I, sticking close behind my grandmother, figured if Hawley Harvey wanted to deny the truth, there wasn’t much we could do about it. Truth did have a way of popping out—no matter how uncomfortable it made people like the deacon feel.

“You go on out to the kitchen,” I urged my grandmother. “I’ll go say a few words to Dora and Selma. I feel so bad for them. It’s good to see everybody here for support.”

At first I waited to talk to the sisters, but they had a solid wall of women around them. I didn’t go to church often, other than dropping Meemaw off for services, so I didn’t know Dora and Selma that well, but it was what I felt I had to do—one human being for another.

I waited for a crack in the wall and slithered up close to where the two were sitting. Little Dora, a brown kind of woman with brown hair and brown eyes and a brown cast to her skin, was dressed in blue, not black, as I’d expected.

Dora sat in a rocker and Selma in a similar rocker next to her. Dora’s face was red with perspiration and exertion. She had the vacant, faraway look of someone in deep shock, blinking hard when she looked up at me.

“You’re Miss Amelia’s granddaughter, aren’t you?” Her voice quivered.

I bent forward and took Dora’s hand to express my sorrow, but Dora pulled her hand away and buried it in her lap. She looked wildly over to Selma, who leaned in and patted her sister’s hand, then smiled wanly up at me, saying something about me having to understand; these were stressful times.

“I just wanted to say how sorry I am . . .”

“Oh, please . . .” Dora waved a hand in my direction. She put a lace-edged handkerchief to her nose. I figured she wasn’t being unkind, just unable to talk about it to one more person.

Selma hesitated and looked around me to where Miss Amelia had come from the kitchen to stand. “This is such an awful thing . . .”

“Dora and I want you to know we don’t believe your grandmother had anything to do with this. Not for a minute.” Selma leaned stiffly toward me. “It’s just all too much for Dora. A terrible shock.”

I turned to the crying woman. “I know you haven’t been in Riverville long, Dora, but . . . everybody knows Miss Amelia. Why . . .”

As my voice dried in my throat, Miss Amelia stepped up beside me. From the look on her face, she’d heard every word.

“I never did anything to hurt your husband, Dora . . .” Miss Amelia started, only to be waved away by Dora. “I never would.”

Selma leaned toward her sister to quiet her. “Now, Dora, we don’t know anything yet.”

She bent to listen when her sister grabbed on to her sleeve and motioned her close. Selma looked up at me and Miss Amelia, her eyes almost begging us to move on.

“I’m so very sorry and Dora says she’s sorry, too, but she can’t help but wonder why you gave poor Millroy more of that dish of yours, when he already passed over it for any kind of award.” She stopped, bending low to listen as Dora whispered to her again. “She says it just doesn’t seem right. And . . . what?”

She listened as her sister whispered behind her hand.

“She says she’s so sorry and she hopes we can all sit down and have a heart-to-heart someday, but not now.”

Selma let out a deep breath. She seemed to wither down into her brown chair. When she finally looked up at us, her words were weak, almost more than she could get out. “It would be best . . .” she said. “Oh my, I hate this, but it would be best for Dora if you . . . came back at a later time. Oh dear, I hope you understand . . .”

Miss Amelia said nothing more. She straightened her back, looked around at the clusters of women pretending not to listen, nodded to the room in general, and taking me by the arm, marched to the front door with her head held high.