You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) (19 page)

Tears filled Wanda Jean’s eyes, but she shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s just a memory laying there squashing down my carpet.”

Clara and Sugar both shook their heads sadly and murmured consoling words. They let a decent heartbeat pass and then began marshaling their cleaning supplies like generals preparing for battle.

“Well,” Clara said, staring in consternation at the dried blood, “it’s been there five days, so the stain is sure as hell set now. I say we start with the hydrogen peroxide and blot.”

Twisting the cap off the first bottle, Sugar said, “I don’t think we brought enough Bounty.”

“I’ve got some Scott paper towels in the kitchen,” Wanda Jean said.

“That’s good,” Clara said, getting down on her knees and starting to pour the hydrogen peroxide. “And bring a big Hefty trash bag if you’ve got one. We’re gonna have a lot of wet paper towels.”

After Wanda Jean disappeared into the back of the house, Clara hissed at Sugar, “Time alone with Hilton’s indentation? Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Well, what else was I gonna say?” Sugar hissed back, unrolling a massive wad of Bounty paper towels. “This damn carpet is so thick it looked like Hilton was still laying here when we walked in.”

Up-ending the bottle with a gurgle, Clara reached for the paper towels and said, “You made the right call about passing on this carpet when T.J. had it on sale. Wanda Jean must have a dang good vacuum cleaner.”

Both women began to blot at the thick stain and were rewarded with a steady flow of crimson absorbing into the Bounty towels. By the time Wanda Jean returned with the back-up rolls of Scott towels and a huge black garbage bag, Clara and Sugar were on their third roll and the carpet was starting to struggle into an erect, albeit soggy, state. The color had faded from deep umber to maroon, but the more they blotted, the more blood came up.

“This is all the way down to the carpet pad,” Clara said, shaking her head. “We can make it better, but I don’t think we’re gonna get it all. The county is just gonna have to pay to have this replaced. I told that idiot Lester Harper he should have let us in here to work on that stain instead of arresting Wanda Jean.”

At just that moment, several things happened simultaneously. First, a short, authoritative rap to the rhythm of “shave and a haircut, two bits” sounded at the front door. Wanda Jean stood up to answer the knock, and Sugar, who had been vigorously blotting blood, drew back her hand with a yelp and exclaimed, “What in the hell is that?!”

“Well,” Flowers said. “Looks like I got here just in time. What’s going on?”

As Wanda Jean let Flowers in, Sugar said, “I hit something sharp in this carpet, that’s what’s going on.”

Gingerly she pawed around in the damp mess, located the offending object tangled in the pile, and began to work it loose. After a minute or so, she held up something small and silver that glinted in the beams of sunlight streaming through the front door.

Squinting at the mystery object pinched between her thumb and index finger, Sugar said, “I think it’s off a charm bracelet. Is it yours, Wanda Jean?”

Wanda Jean looked perplexed. “I don’t wear my charm bracelet anymore,” she said. “It got too heavy.”

“Let me see that,” Clara said, getting up off the floor and holding out her hand.

Sugar stood as well, dropping the small bit of silver in Clara’s palm. They all moved into the pool of bright light by the door to get a better look, and then all four women recognized what Clara was holding. A tiny, glittering tiara.

“I know who that belongs to,” Flowers said. “That’s off Melinda Sue Fairchild’s charm bracelet. I have to make her take it off when she comes in for a manicure or she starts knocking stuff off my table with it.”

As little shimmers of light sparkled off the miniature tiara, other kinds of lights were beginning to go off in Wanda Jean’s brain. “Why would Melinda Sue Fairchild’s tiara charm be laying in the blood stain from my dead husband’s body?” she asked slowly, as if each word required huge mental effort.

No one said anything, just letting Wanda Jean’s mental gears grease themselves until finally she said, with uncharacteristic venom, “That son of a bitch.” She turned on her heel and stomped toward the back of the house, leaving the women at the front door staring after her with a mixed bag of reactions.

Flowers spoke for the group, however, when she said, “Amazing how fast a woman’s brain kicks in when she realizes her husband was getting some on the side.”

From the back of the house they heard the sound of drawers opening, accompanied by rummaging and slamming. Two minutes later, Wanda Jean came charging out of the bedroom waving a pair of pantyhose over her head as if they were the regimental colors.

“These are not Hanes,” she declared. “They’re control top from J.C. Penney, and they’re not my shade or Hilton’s. The son of a bitch was cheating on me.”

“Now, Wanda Jean,” Clara said, “you just simmer down. All you know for sure is that Hilton had some other woman’s pantyhose in his drawer. Did he spray bugs for Melinda Sue?”

“Let me look at the calendar on his desk,” Wanda Jean said. Still clutching the control-top pantyhose in her fist, she marched over to the desk and started flipping pages on the calendar, stopping abruptly and stabbing with her finger. “There it is. Right there. The day before he was killed he was at that hussy’s house.”

Clara cleared her throat and said, as diplomatically as possible, “Wanda Jean, is it possible that Hilton helped himself to a pair of Melinda Sue’s pantyhose and she just came over here to get’em back?”

“Hilton wasn’t a panty thief,” Wanda Jean said loyally. “He just liked to wear panty
hose
. There’s a difference, Clara.”

“My mistake,” Clara said, holding up her hands in apology.

Wanda Jean’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Clara,” she said. “It’s just the idea of Hilton putting on some other woman’s pantyhose. I just can’t stand it!” At that, the tears began to flow freely, interspersed with wails of “how could he?”

Clara took Wanda Jean by the arm and led her over to the sofa while Sugar went in search of Kleenex and Flowers retreated to the kitchen to make coffee. After a few minutes, they had Wanda Jean settled down and were all seated in the living room with fresh cups of coffee, and cigarettes for Sugar and Flowers. The blood stain on the carpet, encircled by a ring of cast-off, crimson-hued Bounty towels, was forgotten.

“So are we changing our theory about the murder?” Sugar asked.

“After what I heard last night, I’d have bet good money that Hank and Maybelline killed Hilton,” Flowers said. “And Hank sure as hell was up to no good about the hardware store fire. But if Melinda Sue’s tiara charm was laying under the body, doesn’t that have to mean she’s guilty?”

“It certainly means Lester Harper is an idiot,” Clara said stoutly. “He should have found that charm the first day and saved us all this trouble, not to mention saving that carpet. I am telling you, the county is paying to have it replaced.”

“Clara,” Flowers said, “you’re fixated on that damned rug. How are we gonna find out if Melinda Sue really did kill Hilton?”

“We’re going to ask her,” Clara said with a dismissive snort. “That gal is dumber than a sack of hammers. Not to be maligning your product of choice, Sugar, but the Aqua Net long ago seeped into Melinda Sue’s skull and killed off the top layer of brain cells.”

“And the one under that,” Flowers growled. “If I have to hear her tell me one more time how she was robbed of the Miss Stink Bait title, I’ll be the one guilty of committing murder.”

“I say we do it,” Wanda Jean said.

All four of the women turned to look at her in shock. “Flowers, did you put something in her coffee?” Clara asked.

“Nope,” Flowers said. “She’s drinking it straight.”

“I mean it,” Wanda Jean said. “As soon as Mae Ella and Wilma get out of work, let’s go over there and talk to that prissy little pageant . . . witch.”

“The word is bitch, honey,” Flowers said. “It’s okay to say it when you’re getting ready to accuse a woman of killing your husband.”

Screwing up her courage, Wanda Jean said, “Bitch. We need to go talk to that bitch. Because that’s the bitch that was after my man. The bitch.”

Sugar turned to Flowers and said accusingly, “Now you see what you’ve done?”

Flowers lit a fresh Lucky and let out a tubercular wheeze of a laugh. “You know what they say, Sugar, let it all hang out. Being a good little girl hasn’t gotten Wanda Jean a damn thing up to now except getting accused of murder. I thought the point of all of this was to clear her name, not worry about her calling somebody a bitch.”

“Flowers is exactly right,” Clara said. “And this afternoon we’re going to see just how well Miss Melinda Sue Fairchild scores with the judges. All six of us. And she’s not getting the “world peace” question.”

Chapter 21

The women convened at the Style and Spray a few minutes after 5 o’clock that same afternoon. The discovery of the tiara charm sidelined any attempt to save the shag carpet, which Clara declared a total loss and the responsibility of the county.

She ordered Wanda Jean to gather up all the receipts for the carpet's purchase and installation with the firm declaration, “Lester Harper
will
be talking to me about this whether he wants to or not.”

When Wanda Jean arrived at the salon she handed the papers to Clara, who tucked them in her purse with grim determination. "You just leave the shag carpet to me, honey," Clara assured her. “I will
not
let this go until the county makes it right.”

Then, surveying the group as if she were about to lead them into battle, Clara said, "Alright, ladies. Are we ready to deal with Melinda Sue?”

“No, we sure as hell are not ready,” Mae Ella said. “You need to explain your thinking to me on this one, Sister. You just want us to march right up to Melinda Sue’s front door without so much as a pecan pie in hand to make us look less like a lynch mob? How, exactly, do you think we’re gonna pull this off?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sister,” Clara said. “We are not a lynch mob. We just have some questions to ask the woman."

"Questions that could get her arrested for murder,” Mae Ella pointed out. “I don’t reckon that’s gonna win any one of us the Miss Congeniality crown. Have you thought about that?”

"Well, it’s hardly our fault that the woman is a suspect, Mae Ella," Clara said with annoyance. "If Melinda Sue didn’t kill Hilton then she can just explain the tiara and the panty hose and we’ll apologize and leave.”

“And what about if Wanda Jean here doesn’t like the explanation?” Mae Ella persisted. “Maybe she doesn’t need to hear whatever it is Melinda Sue might have to say.”

Wanda Jean cleared her throat and all the women turned toward her. “I do need to hear what she has to say, Mae Ella. If Hilton was wearing another woman’s panty hose, I have to know.”

“Are you sure, honey?” Sugar asked. “That’s gonna be an awful hard thing for you to take.”

“I know,” Wanda Jean said, her lip quivering. “But I think I was awful understanding about his need for nylons. If that didn’t mean anything to him, then he’s the one who put a run in our relationship, not me.”

All the women nodded sympathetically. Clara looked pointedly at Mae Ella and said, “Alright, are we ready to go
now
?”

“Fine,” Mae Ella said, throwing her hands up. “Heaven forbid anybody in this group be the voice of reason.”

It was a tight fit, but all six women crammed themselves into Clara’s car for the drive to Melinda Sue’s house. The former, and rapidly fading, beauty queen lived on the edge of town in her grandmother’s house, which sat well back from the street down a long dirt driveway.

When Melinda Sue answered the door, her eyes flicked rapidly back and forth across the women as if she was, indeed, facing a lynch mob. Then her native pageant instincts kicked in and she switched on her most brilliant smile. In a sugar-sweet molasses drawl, she said, “Well, my heavens! Now isn't this just the nicest surprise! Ya'll come on in!”

Wincing just slightly at the shrill greeting, Clara said, "Hello, Melinda Sue. We apologize for not calling first, but there's something important we need to talk to you about.”

“How thrilling!" Melinda Sue enthused. “I just can’t wait to hear what! Please, sit down. Can I get you ladies some iced tea or something?”

“No, no,” Clara said. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

The group walked into the living room, trying not to stare at the dozens of framed photographs of Melinda Sue covering the walls. Each image told the story of a pageant she entered and didn’t win. From the wide-eyed girl who had been crowned Miss Bait and Ammo to the disillusioned veteran who failed to capture Miss Cockle Burr, the pictures illustrated Melinda Sue's commitment to refining her stage presence and trying just
one
more time.

From frame to frame, her immaculately teased bouffant climbed ever higher. Her waist diminished to near-starving-refugee circumference. Teeth tortured into perfect alignment by a succession of braces gleamed in the spotlight. The already ample bosom stood at perky attention under the influence of underwires and strategic padding.

And then there were the batons. The simple silver stick from Melinda Sue's first talent segment became a duo that were then doused in something flammable and set ablaze. From there she graduated to flashing, machete-like blades and the signature mock throat slitting move guaranteed to generate a gasp from the enthralled spectators.

But of all the details of desperation in those photos, the look in Melinda Sue's eyes was the worst. Once clear and innocent, Melinda Sue's expression morphed into a mildly psychotic pleading mask that communicated the one desire that drove her every thought and motivation -- “pick
me
.”

Once the group was seated on the disturbingly mauve living room furniture, Clara took the initiative. "Melinda Sue, I'm sure you know that Wanda Jean's husband was killed last week."

"I do," Melinda Sue said. Turning toward Wanda Jean sympathetically, she added, "Bless your heart!"