I felt restless, despite my exhaustion, and I opened a cold beer and paced around the living room. Someone had broken in and searched my house for something damned important to them. And I thought I knew what it was.
One event, as far as I could see, had triggered two murders and the attack on Junebug: Trey’s arrival home. Regardless of whatever side issues might be attached to this case, Trey’s homecoming seemed the hub that the entire case turned upon, the firecracker thrown into the crowd to stampede them into action. So the ransacking of the house had to be related to Trey’s return. The only link I could see was Scott’s shocking claim that Trey corresponded with Mama. The people present when Scott made that announcement were my family, Candace, Eula Mae Quiff, Wanda Dickensheets, Hart Quadlander, Steven Teague, and Bradley Foradory. The only reason I could think of for a burglary where nothing was taken was that someone was looking for Mama’s correspondence with Trey-perhaps because a letter of Trey’s might have very well mentioned why he left Mirabeau. And that secret, too long in shadow and threatening to be brought to light, might have been the reason for his and Clevey’s deaths.
So, I reasoned, our burglar had to be one of those present-or someone they’d told with a vested interest in rinding the letters. Bradley might have mentioned Scott’s news to his parents; Wanda could have told her mother, Ivalou, or her husband, Ed. I doubted that Hart would have told Nola that he’d brought Scott to our house, but perhaps Scott had finally told her about his burgeoning friendship with Mark. It didn’t do much to weed out the suspect list.
Suspect list, I thought in some disbelief. Because not only had I been prepared to believe that my sister had a hand in murder, I was now ready to accuse people I’d known my entire life. I set my beer down on the table. Ridiculous, I told myself, you’ve watched too much Murder, She Wrote.
But the house had been searched. That was undeniable.
I could pare the list down further, I thought, by bringing Rennie Clifton into the equation. Who could have had motive to kill her twenty years ago? I’d found that she’d worked occasionally for Hart Quadlander and regularly for Ivalou Purcell; she’d secretly wooed a boy Wanda Dickensheets claimed; and although I couldn’t discern a connection between her and Steven Teague, he’d left town shortly after her death. If her alleged white beau, Glenn, was still alive, I’d have wondered about him as well, but he’d already gone to his reward.
The phone ringing interrupted my mental ramblings. It was Candace, sounding overly polite and none too pleased.
“Get your butt over here right now, Jordan Poteet.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Never you mind. You and I are going to have a conversation.”
“Aren’t we doing that right now?”
“No. Get over here, please.”
“Look, I’m not leaving Mark and Mama here. Not after our house was broken into yesterday!” Whatever bee had gotten in her trousers was going to have to just buzz.
“Fine. We’ll be over in a bit, just as soon as I close up.” She slammed the phone down before I could answer.
We?
It turned out we meant Candace and the estimable Miss Ludey Murchison, the noted reader during the library’s Story Day presentations for the poppets of Mirabeau. Miss Ludey appeared resplendent in mismatched galoshes (the rain had abated yesterday, as I’ve already mentioned), white athletic socks that peeked above her inclement weather footgear, a full denim skirt with a rodeo’s lasso embroidered across it, a blouse that could only be described as Pepto-Bismol pink, and a Houston Oilers baseball cap. She greeted me with her usual friendly smile (helped, no doubt, by her dentures). Candace had a smile for me, too-tight and annoyed.
I quickly made Miss Ludey comfortable in the living room with a glass of iced tea and a slice of buttermilk pie. (Miss Ludey had said she’d prefer pecan pie, but told us-in gratuitous detail-of the shoddy adhesive qualities of her denture sealant, and she didn’t want to risk gumming a nut.) I, on the other hand, was quickly made to squirm by Candace.
“Miss Ludey says,” Candace began, “that you’ve been snooping again.”
“Pardon?” I said faintly.
“You went to see Thomasina Clifton and grilled her about her daughter’s death.”
“I had a talk with her. I would hardly call it a grilling. We had Kool-Aid.”
“Damn it. Listen to me, Jordan. This is a case for the police to solve, not you! Stay out of it. Why do you insist on sticking your nose in where it has no business?”
“Wait a second! Two of my friends are dead. Another may never wake up. My nephew and my sister have been put through hell. Someone broke into my house. And it’s not my business?” I turned to the inoffensive Miss Ludey, who apparently had already heard all Candace’s complaints against me. “Why’s Candace bothering you, Miss Ludey?”
As Miss Ludey had her mouth full of buttermilk pie, Candace deigned to answer for her. “Miss Ludey stopped in for dinner.”
“I don’t cook much since the kitchen fire,” Miss Ludey offered through half-swallowed pie crust. I didn’t ask for an explanation of what incendiary event she referred to.
“And she and I had an interesting chat. Did you know that Thomasina Clifton used to clean for Miss Ludey? They’re still old friends. Mrs. Clifton told Miss Ludey all about your visit.”
“Well?” I demanded. “What’s your point?”
“Jordan!” Candace said. “You have an unfortunate habit of playing detective. You shouldn’t. You’ve managed to get yourself involved in two murder cases, and both times you narrowly escaped with your life. I want to keep you safe!” Her voice rose in pleading.
I truly hate to see Candace beg, but I smiled anyway. She was worried about me. It was sweet. But I was not going to be deterred by baseless fears.
“Look, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And I’m not investigating. Franklin Bedloe’s doing that. I’m just asking questions.” I considered it prudent not to mention to Candace my perusal of old papers, my discussion with Ed over Clevey’s plan to buy into KBAV, or my hiding of the scrap of cloth Sister left at the crime scene. Those activities didn’t exactly fall under asking questions.
Candace regarded me with a raised eyebrow. “Please don’t insult my intelligence, Jordan. You fancy yourself a regular bloodhound. Well, I think it’s time for a leash. How would you feel about New Orleans?”
“Huh?”
“I adore New Orleans,” Miss Ludey piped up. “I met a sailor there once who could-”
“That’s nice, Miss Ludey. You can tell us all about it in a second.” Candace patted her knee kindly to avoid any detailed discussions of Miss Ludey’s past nightlife. “I think you could do with a change of scenery, Jordy. My brother and his wife would love to have you for a visit. I’ve already talked to Peter, and he said their house is open to you.”
“Excuse me? I’m not about to leave Mirabeau while Junebug’s in the hospital.”
“Someone,” Candace said, her usually calm voice growing strident, “put bullets in Trey, Clevey, and Junebug. Presumably that same someone broke into your house. You’ll excuse me if I prefer my men bullet-free.”
“Candace-”
“Begging’s never been my strong suit,” she said, her voice steadying. “But now I’m pleading. Please, get out of town for a while. Go to New Orleans. You and Peter can party on Bourbon Street and drink at Pat O’s and take in a Saints game. Have a wild time. Drink and leer at women. I promise I won’t mind. Just go. ”
“I am,” and I made sure I enunciated clearly and calmly, “ not leaving Mirabeau. My sister needs me. My nephew needs me. Junebug needs me. And while I appreciate your concern, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“This is not Cowboys and Indians, Jordan. This is real life. You could be a target and I won’t just stand here and-”