Who'll Kill Agnes? (4 page)

“How’d it get to be Henley House?”

“When old Miss Briar died some thirty years ago, she left it to one of her nieces who lived in Connor’s Corner. I was a teenager then and didn’t notice people like that. Anyway, Miss Agnes, the niece, married a Lester Henley also from Connor’s Corner. I didn’t pay any attention to them until their son was born and Miz Agnes began spreading her wings in all the social goings on.”

“And that’s why it’s called Henley House now. Well, I always did say that Kevin Henley was a lucky guy.”

“He’s younger than you, isn’t he?” asked Donovan.

“Yeah, by about three years.”

“You know, it’s all so peaceful and quiet out here on this street, it makes you wonder.” Donovan’s voice dropped.

“Wonder what?”

“What goes on behind closed doors, especially the closed doors on this street and especially in the Henley household? What’s going on inside? Is it all just as quiet as it is out here? All lovey-dovey?”

“Why shouldn’t it be? I thought Miz Henley was one of our most prominent citizens,” said Metson.

“She is, but ain’t you forgetting something?”

“What?”

“Who her daughter-in-law is.”

“Oh lord-a-mighty!” exclaimed Metson. “How could I forget that? And us just a minute ago talking about her daddy.”

“Exactly. Miz Henley gives the appearance of being a kind, generous southern lady, always helping out with charities and such. But how did she really feel about Kevin marrying a Tucker? On the surface she seems to have handled the marriage graciously.”

“Yeah, it has been kind of hush-hush, hasn’t it?”

“And look at the rest of the household,” continued Donovan.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re all adults.”

“So?”

“Under one roof you got Miz Agnes and Lester and their son with a socially unacceptable wife. Then there’s Miz Agnes’ sister and that lady companion.”

“What’s wrong with all that except, of course, for Miz Bernadette?”

“They don’t do nothing.”

“You aren’t making sense, Chief. What are they supposed to do?”

“Look at it this way. Miz Henley is the one with the fortune, her aunt’s inheritance, yet she’s the only one that works.”

“Yeah, and she doesn’t have to. I get your drift now. So you think the rest sponge off her?”

“Sort of looks that way, but yet Miz Henley used to always brag what a wonderful family she had. But that was before Miz Bernadette joined the family. It makes you wonder. What really goes on in that house?”

“Maybe they’re kind of like that old TV show Dallas that my mama used to watch. All those grownups having breakfast with Miss Ellie and Jock, J.R., Sue-Ellen, Bobby, Pam.”

“Yeah,” laughed Donovan, “and they sure didn’t get along. Well, if we ever do get called over to the Henley House, let’s hope we get offered some of those fancy oar-doves that you were wanting.”

“Hey! I just thought of something. Their horse-doors-uh-doves couldn’t be too fancy.”

“Why not? They probably got the fanciest food in town considering the kind of job Miz Henley has.”

“Not from what I’ve heard,” said Metson. “I’ve heard tell that Miz Henley has hired Mark Robeson to be her cook or, rather, chef.”

“What the hell! Why on earth would she do that? What kind of food would he cook up?”

“Well, his dad runs The Cracked Cup Diner.”

“That’s what I mean. Why would Miz Henley want down-home cooking? I mean, it’s damn good, but rich folks eat different.”

“Because, according to the scuttlebutt,” explained Metson, “she thinks Mark is French.”

“Daryl, you need to stop listening to scuttlebutt. That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. If there’s one thing in this world that Miz Agnes Henley knows, it’s fancy food. She’s one mighty knowledgeable lady and she’d know Mark wasn’t French.” He paused for a few seconds then said, “But if it’s true, then that’s another adult under that roof.”

“Yeah, but at least Mark’s working.”

“Maybe. Ah well, I’m sure we’ll never have the occasion or privilege of being served his oar-doves.”

“I doubt he’d even know what they are.”

They drove on down the pleasant, quiet street, each immersed in thoughts of living among richness and splendor. Donovan silently wondered if Metson even knew what an “oar-dove” was. The boy was unusually silent sometimes when he tried to insert a bit of culture into their conversation. He wondered what kind of wife he’d end up with. The kid was twenty-seven years old now and if he was going to stay in law enforcement he needed to settle down and present the right image to the community.

Then he remembered May Belle’s admonition about letting Metson live his own life. Well, he was doing that but he sure wished the boy would get on the ball romance-wise.

He finished his cheeseburger and threw his napkin into the sack it came in, a sack decorated with the logo of a cracked cup.

CHAPTER TWO

Sunday, June 2nd

Relaxing in her elegantly furnished third floor suite, Agnes Henley contemplated her wonderful life. True, she was a little overweight, but at age fifty-plus she carried herself well. She never admitted her age to anyone, not even to herself. The weight gain was due, she was sure, to the fact that she could employ a real French chef. The luxury of eating Marcel’s creamy, buttery sauce was something she had worked hard for and would not relinquish. Besides, she was a nutritionist and she ate enough healthy food. What harm could a little weight gain do? Everything else in her life was perfect. She had a prominent position in the Magnolia Creek School District, although she was disappointed that she had not yet been promoted to director of nutrition. Publicly, she announced to everyone around her that she didn’t want the additional responsibility of the higher position, and privately, she tried to convince herself that she had enough prestige and respect in the community to satisfy her dreams of power.

Although in reality her public career had not reached the magnitude she thought she deserved, her home-life was one of perfection. Her husband Lester adored her. Never mind that each had maintained separate bedrooms for years. Poor Lester had a sleeping disorder. Her sister Audrey had worshiped her all her life, trying desperately but ineptly to follow in her footsteps. Poor Audrey could never have maintained an independent life without her older sister’s direction.

Thank heavens years ago she was able to convince dear Aunt Hilda to leave everything to her. What a tragedy it would have been if Audrey had squandered the family fortune on a modeling career. Agnes shivered at the thought. Her best friend Penelope would always be indebted to her. The pathetic little thing had been such a failure at everything she tried. She was so lucky to have a friend like Agnes to provide her with a home and companionship.
Agnes smiled beneficently.

The crowning jewel of her life was Kevin, her dear precious son, for whom she had worked so hard in order that he might have all the luxuries, comforts, and social prominence that a small community offered. She arose from the purple velvet divan that she had inherited from her aunt and crossed the sitting room to gaze downward through the side window to the pool area below. There was Kevin relaxing on a lounge chair in the late Sunday afternoon sun. Yes, everything in her life centered on him.

The only thorn in Agnes Henley’s perfect life was her daughter-in-law, Bernadette. What a little bitch she was and what nerve she had worming her way into the Henley family. Now, now, she chastised herself, she knew she shouldn’t think bad thoughts. Kevin had made a terrible mistake letting that little hussy entrap him. If only she could have known what he was doing, she would have put a stop to it. But the poor dear boy was just too young and inexperienced. She had no problem convincing herself that she could get Kevin to come to his senses and divorce the skinny little parasite.

In the meantime she would set an example for Bernadette to follow so that, beneath her lower-class exterior, Bernadette would admire and respect her accomplished mother-in-law. But when Kevin did divorce her, she wouldn’t get a dime from the Henleys.

Agnes gazed past her adorable Kevin and the pool and rested her eyes on her other pride and passion, her gardens full of flowers, herbs, and vegetables. Yes, she had proved herself to be quite the botanist, earning envy and admiration from the townspeople of Magnolia Creek. With her combined knowledge in nutrition and botany it was only a matter of time before she was promoted to director of nutrition, not that she really wanted it, she kept telling herself, but she would do her civic duty if asked.

She tore herself away from the window with its views of her two great loves, her son and her gardens. She turned toward her full-length mirror and studied her full figure attired in a tailored beige suite, and then she admired her curly, bright orange-red hair. Just like her darling Kevin. She thought of all of the famous redheads of history, especially Queen Elizabeth I, thinking that in Magnolia Creek, at least, she was just as regal
.
She smiled to herself. Regal was such a lovely word.

Yes, Agnes had never felt better about her life, her family with the exception of Bernadette, her friends, and her career. All admired, adored, respected, and perhaps even feared her, but none of them could exist without her. Life was wonderful.

Red-haired, freckle-faced, good-natured Kevin opened his eyes and, like his mother, gazed past the pool to her gardens. Laconically, he smiled as he fleetingly thought about the vegetation mish-mash his mother so carefully and lovingly planted. His thoughts wandered back to the pool and how good a dip would feel before dinner, a dinner prepared by Mark-er-Marcel.

He remembered that day at the diner when Bernie had jokingly bet him that Mark could fool Agnes into believing that he was a French chef. Mark had replied that he was too well known around town, and Bernie said she bet Agnes had never seen him and had never entered The Cracked Cup. Kevin had agreed and told Mark that it was worth a try. And sure enough, Mark showed up one day at Henley House, dressed like a butler, and put on a very convincing act. His mother had been enthralled and Mark was hired.

But, he thought to himself, what the hell? ‘Marcel’ was a damned good cook!

While Agnes was admiring herself in the mirror and Kevin was looking forward to Mark-Marcel’s cuisine, downstairs in the library three of Agnes’ admirers were toasting her health.

“Here’s to the early demise of my beloved sister,” proposed Audrey, scornfully.

“Here, here!” concurred Lester, her husband.

“Don’t we wish,” agreed Bernie, her daughter-in-law. She didn’t really wish it, at least not now, but this seemed to be a daily ritual and one she thoroughly enjoyed, as her mother-in-law’s anticipated opposition toward her had been worse than she had imagined. She had found it refreshing to learn that the other household members shared her dislike of Agnes.

As they clinked their glasses, Penny, Agnes’ companion for many years, strolled into the opulently yet comfortably furnished room.

“So you’ve begun without me again.”

“Sorry, honey, but we couldn’t wait,” said Audrey, exhibiting her never-realized-model’s smile. “We have to fortify ourselves before dinner and we need as early a start as we can get.”

“Sure, sure. You seem to get earlier every afternoon. And don’t try to tell me the sun has long gone down over the yardarm,” joked Penny as she mixed herself a diet cola and rum at the elaborately carved mahogany wet bar, a priceless antique purchased over a hundred years ago by Agnes and Audrey’s great-great-grandfather.

“Well, it has somewhere,” replied Audrey caustically, “and it will soon do it here, not that we have a yardarm I don’t suppose.”

“Just what does that mean anyway, ‘the sun over the yardarm’?” asked Bernie. “You all mention that everyday.”

“Some kind of sailor talk, I think, about when to start drinking,” feebly explained Penny.

Lester snorted into his drink but said nothing.

“I really don’t think sailors need a reason to start drinking,” said Audrey.

“And neither do we,” asserted Bernie, “as long as we live under the same roof as Mother Witch.”

“Gee, Bernie, you usually use stronger language when referring to your beloved mother-in-law.”

“So sorry, Penny, I guess I’m slipping. Maybe all those lectures she gives me are paying off,” she said, smiling.

“Well, don’t worry about it. Agnes lives to lecture other people on how to live their lives,” said Audrey, “and please forgive my alliteration. Blame it on Agnes.”

“Of course,” laughed Penny. “We blame everything on Agnes.”

“Who says I’m worrying?” asked Bernie, ignoring the alliteration reference because she didn’t understand it. “I don’t worry about nothing.”

“And why should you?” asked Audrey rhetorically. “None of us would worry about anything if something would just happen to my dearly beloved sister.”

“You been wishing for something to happen to her for a gawd-awful long time,” grumbled Lester who had been more silent than usual.

“Yes,” added Penny, “nothing’s going to just happen to her. Let’s admit it. She controls our lives and we hate her for it, but none of us has the gumption to do anything about it.”

“Maybe someday someone will kill her,” said Audrey rather hopelessly.

“Like who?” asked Bernie. Not giving anyone a chance to respond, she added, “Amen to the thought, anyway.” She downed her Tom Collins and walked over to the bar and began mixing another one.

This, she thought, was what she liked about living at Henley House. She was only twenty years old and could have all the fancy drinks she could ever want and, except for that bitch Agnes, they all treated her like she was really one of them. Bernie didn’t want her dead, exactly, but it was fun pretending that she did.

“Besides,” she continued, “what better way to go into dinner than with the thought that someone is planning to kill her?” Bernie didn’t think any of the others really wanted a dead Agnes either, that this was just their way of letting off steam
.