My sore knee throbbed. I strolled to the car to retrieve my trusty cane. While there, I decided to face the inevitable and call Harv, my editor. A sweet voice answered the phone. “Good morning, Georgia By the Way. This is Belinda. May I help you?”
Lord, please don’t let him be in the office. I had no idea how Harv would react to our circumstances. I didn’t want to know.
“Hi Belinda. This is Trixie.” I fiddled with a string hanging from my shirtsleeve.
“Oh, hi, Trixie. You still in Dahlonega? Do you want to speak to Harv?”
Obviously, my prayer hadn’t reached its destination in time.
“Uh, what kind of mood is he in?” Harv had a heart of gold, but could be quick tempered.
“Well, he’s a little jumpy this morning. But I’m sure he’s feeling much better since he’s had his black coffee and jelly doughnuts. Do you want me to put you through?”
“Sure, thanks.” I watched the flow of tourists as I waited on Harv.
“I thought you’d never call,” Harv’s voice blasted across the line. “What’s going on? Are you making progress on the article?” I could imagine Harv sitting at his desk, phone in one hand and a Tootsie Pop in the other. He’d made the switch from cigars after the scare with his heart.
“Uh, yes and no, Harv,” I said with trepidation in my belly.
“What kind of answer is that?” Harv barked. “Have you or haven’t you?”
“We’ve run into a little snag.” I gave a nervous pull on the hanging thread, and the hem of my sleeve raveled.
“Spit it out. I don’t have all day to yap on the phone. What kind of snag?” I could hear him crunch down. Probably cherry red, his favorite.
While he chewed, I brought Harv up to speed, from the lobby exchange, to the gold museum movie and Dee Dee’s bathroom wandering, finishing with her standing over the bloody corpse.
This was my last assignment before my six-month probation period was over. John Tatum’s murder case could result in the demise of my job. Harv could kick me out on my keister faster than a racehorse springing from a starting gate.
The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening.
Chapter Nine
A roaring boom broke the silence and I jerked the phone from my ear. “Montgomery! What have you gotten yourself into?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Instead of being angry, he actually sounded happy. And then, in his usual fashion, he turned disaster into, “a story that could net us the Georgia Magazine of the Year Award.”
I got out pencil and paper to take notes while Harv barked new orders. “Trixie, you need to research murders that occurred during the original gold rush days. And find out what you can about this Tatum character. We’ll run this as a feature. ‘Gold Rush Days Turn Deadly,’” he tried out a headline, a fresh tootsie paper crackling in the background. “Maybe we could devote the entire issue to Dahlonega if you can pull this off.”
This definitely meant more work. I had my hands full now with the articles and helping Dee Dee. My heart pounded at the assignment. “I’ll do what I can.” My voice squeaked. “I mean, I’ll get the facts, boss!”
The line went dead. He’d hung up on me, leaving me with the task of dredging up old murders.
I exited the car, shoved my cell phone into my pant’s pocket, and grasped my cane tight. It fit secure in my palm, like holding on to an old friend.
The streets boasted an assortment of people coming and going. The blending of colorful clothes reminded me of a patchwork quilt. The clippity-clop of horse’s hooves prompted me to turn in time to see a horse drawn carriage coming down the street. Smiles and squeals of excitement escaped from young children in the carriage.
I stopped a woman towing a child busy with an ice cream cone, and asked her where The Antique Boutique was located. I was more than embarrassed when she said, “Right behind you, sweetie.” She offered me a smile and bent down to wipe her toddler’s chocolate-covered face.
A bell jangled my arrival into the musty shop. Once inside, country charm surrounded me. Reconditioned antique furniture was jammed into every nook and cranny. Handmade wood furniture, from bedposts to birdhouses, filled the right corner of the shop. An attached sign revealed a local man had carved the unique pieces.
“Hi. May I help you?” I turned to see a beautiful woman smiling at me. Her skin reminded me of evaporated milk—creamy but not white. I’d be willing to wager the family farm she’d never been plagued by teenage acne! Dark blonde hair and a figure to kill for completed the look.
“Um, yes. I’m looking for Miranda Tatum,” I stammered.
“That’s me. Are you looking for something special?” She took a rag tucked in her belt and polished the top of a table.
“I love this homemade furniture,” I gushed, running a hand over the smoothed arm of a rocking chair.
“It’s become one of our best sellers. People are fascinated with anything homemade. They can’t get enough of it. This is a great weekend for sales.”
I thought I could see dollar signs in her big green eyes.
“I believe you’re right, but I didn’t come to buy anything. I want to know if I can interview you. Joyce Johnston at the Dahlonega Inn told me you’re president of the Historical Society.”
I looked at the table she’d been polishing and was surprised to see my reflection.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “But this isn’t a good time. As you can see, it’s already hectic.” She smiled politely, but turned to walk away.
“It won’t take long, I promise. I’m writing a story on Gold Rush Days and want to feature The Antique Boutique.” I hurriedly continued. “My name is Trixie Montgomery, and I write for Georgia By the Way.
Her face lit up with instant recognition and her attitude changed faster than a chameleon’s colors. “Follow me and we’ll go somewhere we can talk undisturbed. Let me tell Katy, my assistant, and I’ll be right with you.” She tucked the polishing cloth back into her belt and disappeared through a door marked “Employees Only.”
I plopped in a rocker to ease the pain in my leg. Relief washed a cool wave over my throbbing knee. Rocking back and forth it occurred to me she didn’t seem upset her ex-husband was dead.
“Let’s go back to my office.” Miranda interrupted my thoughts. She led the way, careening through a maze of furniture.
Her so-called office could easily pass for a closet. I felt sure it had been one at one time.
I started with questions concerning her business, and moved on to her position with the Historical Society. I took notes and recorded our conversation.
Time passed quickly. I needed to pick up Dee Dee shortly, and I hadn’t even addressed John Tatum, so I charged ahead like a bull in a daisy patch.
“Thanks so much for your time today, Miranda.” I smiled, closing my little book. “I’m sorry to hear of your husband’s death.”
Her angelic smile faded. “My ex-husband.” She stood up and bee-lined for the door. “I don’t see what this has to do with your article.”
Think fast Trixie. “Joyce mentioned it when she told me about your antique business. That the man who was murdered yesterday was your ex-husband.” I wouldn’t make the mistake of saying “husband” again.
She froze, her hand on the knob.
“I have an ex-husband, too. By the sound of it, I’d guess we have some things in common. My husband and I were married twenty years before he decided to trade me in for a newer model. As far as I’m concerned, he blew his chances of ever repairing our relationship—not that he ever tried.”
She jerked the door back; the little bell almost flew off, tinkling angrily.