When Will the Dead Lady Sing? (8 page)

“No, we kept it quiet. Burlin didn’t need those old stories raked up again, so Abigail and I made sure the press didn’t get even a whiff of it. Poor Sperra.” She sipped her wine and seemed to be thinking. “I’ve been helping Burlin out for—golly! It’s twenty years now.” She leaned closer. “Don’t quote that figure to anybody. I don’t admit to a day over fifty.”

“You don’t look even that.”

“Thanks. I try to keep fit. And now that Lance is running for governor and Edward’s running the campaign, I won’t have a minute to call my own.” If she glowed any brighter, Maynard could cut off all his chandeliers.

“You look like you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. I love politics. And if we can get Lance in as governor—well, who knows where he might go after that?” Clearly she had some idea of where she wanted him to go, and I suspected it involved a large white house. But right now a small frown creased her forehead. I followed her gaze and saw that Renée had come back inside and was standing behind Lance. As the businessmen he’d been talking with moved away, she leaned over and spoke urgently into his ear. He shook his head. She narrowed her eyes, flared her nostrils. He gave her a pleading look and stepped forward to greet a couple who’d been looking like they were working up their courage to speak to him. Renée glared at his back.

Georgia spoke very softly. “Do you think it would be terrible if I told Renée she can go on back to the inn for a nap? She is plumb worn out, bless her heart.”

“I doubt if anybody would notice. The only person she might possibly offend is Gusta, and she’s got a granddaughter . . .”

Georgia smiled to show she’d picked up my hint. “Thanks.” She went straight to Renée and put a hand on her shoulder. Renée listened to what Georgia said and gave a relieved nod. Georgia drew her toward the living room arch and spoke in a voice audible from where I stood. “Renée just got back from Paris yesterday in time to drive down here with all of us, because she wanted to be here for this week’s round of events, but she hasn’t gotten her time zones straight yet. Would you mind if she went and took a nap?” She gave a little laugh that implied, “You know how these young women are—no stamina.”

Gusta reached out and patted Renée’s hand. “You go stretch out on your bed and catch up on your sleep. We’ll take care of your husband.”

“Thank you.” Renée started out, then grabbed Lance’s elbow and tugged. “I need to talk to you a minute before I go.” He followed her to the porch.

Georgia moved back into the living room. Conversations dwindled as men watched her walk past with a confident little sway to her hips.

I talked to a few other people, but I was beginning to feel warm and sticky. Maynard was right—the air-conditioning wasn’t up to that kind of crowd. I headed for the porch, trying to walk like Georgia, but I didn’t hear any conversations stop as I passed.

The porch was empty except for Hubert, Lance, and Binky, who were leaning against the railing like cronies. Hubert and Binky were both smoking. “Those things have already almost killed you,” I murmured to Hubert as I joined them.

“You sound like Burlin,” Binky told me. “He’s always on to me about quitting, but I tell him we all need one vice, and this is mine.” She slid something into her pocket with her free hand. “Well, Hubert, it’s been good talking to you, but I’d better get back to the party. You coming, Lance?” She stubbed her cigarette out on a small plastic plate and picked the plate up to carry it inside.

“In a minute.” He craned his neck and peered at the ceiling of the porch. “I wonder if those are the original boards.”

“Gusta would be proud to tell you they are,” I informed him.

“Don’t be long,” Binky warned him as he strolled down the porch looking at siding. The front door closed behind her with a click.

Hubert looked at his cigarette in disgust. “It’s an addiction, Mac. You know that.”

“Fight it,” I advised. “You’re a grown-up.”

“I know.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a book of matches. “But see that? I just got ’em this week. Aren’t they pretty? I had ’em printed for my fortieth anniversary celebration next month. Here, Lance,” he added as Lance headed back our way. “Take home a souvenir.”

The cover was bright cherry red, with SPENCE’S APPLIANCES, HOPEMORE, 40 YEARS dropped out in white. “Thanks.” Lance pocketed it absently, still looking at the ceiling.

“They are nothing but temptation at my fingertips,” Hubert grumbled, taking out another matchbook and frowning at it. “I keep picking up a few and carrying them around, and whenever I want a smoke, there they are.”

I reached for it. “Let me relieve you of temptation, then.”

He snatched it back. “I’m not handing them out in town before the celebration. You can have as many as you want then.”

“Maybe you ought to advertise on packs of gum instead,” Lance suggested, leaning against the rail again to examine the front of the house.

“Didn’t think of that.” Hubert took one last puff and tossed his lit cigarette over the rail.

It landed in the grass with a little flare. “Maynard won’t have to worry about rings on his furniture if you burn the place down,” I told him.

He huffed, but he trotted out onto the grass and ground the butt under his foot.

“Not again,” Lance muttered, looking toward the street.

The homeless man in the gray suit was shuffling past. At the front walk, he paused to give us a jaunty wave. Lance shook his head and made a small, amused sound. “I don’t know if we’re on his circuit or if he’s on ours, but that man has been in almost every town we’ve been in these past two months. He even shows up at some rallies—the ones that give free food. Watch out, or he’ll be mingling with Mrs. Wainwright’s guests.”

“Not if she sees him, he won’t. Maybe he’s a very loyal supporter.”

He chuckled. “Registered to vote in every county? I could use some of those.”

Before I could reply, Hubert shouted, “Hey! Git out of here! Git, you hear me? Git!” He ran across the lawn, arms flailing. “Git out of my barn, too, and stay out. You hear me? Go back where you came from.” Too busy looking at the homeless man to watch where he was going, he tripped over the buffalo’s chain and fell sprawling onto the grass.

The buffalo gave an angry snort and jerked its head.

“Hey!” shouted Sarge, the keeper. “Watch where you’re going.”

Hubert hauled himself to his feet and trotted on across the lawn. The homeless man had stopped at the corner of the lot to watch him. “Git!” Hubert waved his arms.

He wasn’t getting much reaction from the homeless man, but the buffalo was fascinated. He trotted after Hubert. I guess his chain wasn’t sufficiently anchored, or maybe Hubert had dislodged it, because it came loose and dragged along behind him.

“Hubert!” I yelled in warning. He looked back, and panic spread all over his face. He started running faster. The buffalo picked up speed.

“Oh, Lord,” Lance breathed as Hubert dashed toward the street. The buffalo loped after him. Sarge ran after the buffalo. Lance pelted after Sarge.

Tires squealed. People shouted. I hardly dared to look.

Hubert was safe on the other side of the street, but the buffalo and a Toyota had collided. Thank goodness, nobody had been going very fast. The buffalo shook its head as if clearing flies. The Toyota’s front end had a buffalo-shaped dent.

An angry man got out of the car, waving his arms. “Get him out of here,” Lance shouted to Sarge, gesturing at the buffalo. Sarge grabbed the animal’s chain, shaking his free fist at the driver. Lance went to talk to the driver, who was shouting the kind of words I won’t bother to repeat. Your imagination is at least as good as his.

The homeless man was nowhere to be seen.

People streamed from Gusta’s party to fill the lawn, discussing what might have happened as if they’d been there. Lance continued to talk to the man in the car. Edward hurried out to join him, and pretty soon he and the driver were both writing something down. I saw Edward motion to Sarge, and he led the poor buffalo to a truck parked down the block.

Hubert limped to join me, his face redder than a man’s ought to be after a heart attack.

“That was real smart,” I greeted him. “Just what Gusta expects of her guests. Sit down.”

He was wheezing in a way I didn’t like. He collapsed into a porch rocker. “Dangnabit, that bum is camping out in my barn, and I can’t get rid of him. Leaves out food to attract mice, uses my woods for a toilet—” He obviously wasn’t planning to discuss the buffalo.

“How do you know it’s him?”

He gave me a look that said I didn’t have the sense I was born with. “How many homeless people we got in Hopemore?”

He had a point. We had poor people, of course, but most of them had relatives somewhere around who could squeeze them in during a financial crisis.

“Besides,” Hubert said, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his face, “I saw him once. I’ve run down several times trying to surprise him, and once I saw him out on the edge of the woods, but he saw me, too, and scuttled away before I could catch him.” He stopped to do some more wheezing. “How can I sell the place with him hanging around?”

“Poor Hubert,” I commiserated. “But Lance said the man is following him around, so just wait a week. He’ll leave with the Bullock campaign.”

Lance mounted the steps as I spoke. He had been looking worried, but now he chuckled. “That’s me, Pied Piper of the Homeless.”

I liked this fellow. That didn’t mean I would vote for him if he changed parties, mind, but I liked him. He didn’t take himself too seriously, which I always regard as a virtue.

He pulled out his own handkerchief and wiped his flushed face. “I’d better get back inside and soothe Miss Gusta. We’ve spoiled her nice party.”

“You’ve made it a success,” I assured him. “She’ll talk about nothing else for days.”

He sighed. “Maybe so, but it looks like I’m gonna need a lawyer.”

When he’d left, I asked Hubert, “Have you asked the sheriff to get rid of the man?”

Hubert gave a snort. “I told Charlie Muggins at our Thursday-night poker game, but you know Charlie. He loves strutting around in his police chief’s uniform, but he sits there and tells me he doesn’t have the manpower to stake out my barn.”

“It’s not his jurisdiction anyway,” I pointed out. “It’s the sheriff’s.”

Hubert glowered. “I may take my shotgun, climb up in the loft, and just wait for the fella to show up. Then I’ll blow him to kingdom come.”

Guests who were returning to the party looked at him oddly.

I put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t. I don’t want you appearing before me on charges of murder. And think how Maynard would feel if his children’s grandfather was in jail for life.”

“There is that,” he admitted, “but I gotta do something. I’m getting desperate. The Realtor said the last family was pretty interested in the house, but when they got to the barn and saw signs somebody was bedding down, they said they didn’t want to live so far out.”

“Huh,” I grunted. “Folks want to get away from it all, but once they get half a mile from streetlights, they get antsy.”

Hubert gave a bitter laugh. “You got that right. Every city slicker’s dream: a private, gated five country acres smack dab in the middle of town.” He rocked a few minutes, then said, “I’ll tell you what, Mac. Do some of that detecting you’re so good at. Sneak up on him, get him to talk to you. Tell him I’ll buy a bus ticket to anywhere he wants to go. One way.”

Hubert knew I wouldn’t do that, but talking seemed to have helped him let off steam. We were quiet for a spell after that. We’d been neighbors so long, we didn’t need to talk. I don’t know what Hubert was thinking, but I was thinking how terrible it must be not to have a safe place to sleep or a modern bathroom when you needed one.

Out of the blue, he asked, “Did you see the little lady I was just talking to? Her name’s Abigail, and she’s Burlin Bullock’s sister.” He smoothed his hair, which was a bit thin but still wavy. “She’s coming over to our place for dinner tonight. Would it be proper for me to ask if she’d like to go for a little spin afterwards, to see the sights? Gusta and Pooh generally shut down pretty early—” He was looking at me just like Lulu did when she hoped I had a treat in my hand.

I didn’t want to spoil his party. On the other hand, I didn’t want Hubert courting Abigail. Hubert wasn’t any older than us, and he had a sizeable bank account. Now that Pooh and Gusta had taken him in hand, he even smelled good. Georgia hadn’t mentioned any romance in Abigail’s life. Had anybody even mentioned her last name? What if she were susceptible and married Hubert? Could I live in Hopemore with the constant threat that Burlin might come back? Was that reason enough to stand in the way of Hubert’s happiness?

“You’ll have to ask her,” I said.

Maynard’s phone rang just inside the open window. “I’ll get him,” I heard Maynard say.

I heard Joe Riddley’s voice. Next thing I knew, he was striding through the door waving me to follow him. “Come on, Little Bit. That was Bethany. The barn’s on fire, and she can’t get either Martha or Ridd.”

6

“Lulu!” I gasped the word as I hared after Joe Riddley, who was practically running down Oglethorpe. In my mind I saw my dog as I’d found her the year before, lying in a blood-soaked nest of pine straw in the woods after she and Joe Riddley had both been shot. The would-be murderer had left her for dead, but although her left hind leg was mangled beyond saving, that plucky little beagle had burrowed into the pine straw and managed to survive until I found her.

Save her and her pups,
I begged God.
That poor dog has suffered enough.

“Did she get Lulu and the pups out?” I called after Joe Riddley’s back, clutching my stomach to keep my insides from falling onto the street.

He looked around, his mouth grim and set. “I don’t know. Cindy’s horse, either.”