“Carrot sticks,” said Elizabeth. “I mean, I thought we ought to have a relish tray so that people could nibble fresh vegetables, perhaps with a dip alongside it. You know-celery, bell-pepper strips, broccoli…”
R.J. opened his eyes. “No broccoli.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “Why? Isn’t it in season?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he told her, sitting up again and peering at her list. “Broccoli is imported-” He paused for effect. “From Guatemala.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure we can afford-”
“Guatemala has one of the most repressive and brutal military regimes in the world. By buying their agricultural products-”
“Okay! Forget the broccoli,” said Elizabeth quickly. She consulted her list. “Little sandwiches, cheese puffs, mints, coffee…”
R.J. looked grim. “Coffee,” he announced, “is sprayed with a number of pesticides that are considered too dangerous for use in the United States.”
Elizabeth glared at him. “We’ll take our chances.”
“That’s not the point. The workers who grow the coffee are endangered by the use of these compounds, and so are the animal species which make their homes-”
“I want coffee!”
“I guess we could buy Nicaraguan coffee,” R.J. conceded. “They have the strictest pesticide laws in Central America. Fruit juice is healthier, though.”
“Fine. We’ll have an orange-juice punch.”
“Florida orange juice, of course. The South American stuff comes from land that was previously either rain forest or was being used by small farmers to grow subsistence crops to feed their families.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Look,” she said, “do you do much business in catering?”
R.J. shrugged. “Sure. We did the Summer Solstice Meditation Retreat and the Crystal Channeling Workshop, and we always do the beans-and-rice fundraisers for the Central American Prayer and Protest Group. You want references?”
“No, thank you,” said Elizabeth, standing up to indicate that the interview was over. “I’ll be in touch.”
“We also have a minister,” R.J. offered. “In case you want to be married for more than one incarnation.”
“Thanks,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Wesley Rountree left his deputy in charge of the office while he went out to talk to Clarine Mason. He wasn’t sure what sort of crime was involved here, but whatever it was seemed to be going on in California, and Wesley was sure that he could manage Clarine, hysterics and all.
When he got to the old white house on Mason Cove Road, he found Clarine waiting for him at the gate, but the hysterics were not in evidence.
“Stupidest damned thing I ever heard of!” she fumed, when he was within hailing distance.
“Well, it does seem strange,” said Wesley in the mild, amiable tone he used for domestic-violence cases, mental patients, and local politicians. “Why don’t we go in, and you tell me about it right from the beginning, and I’ll make notes.”
Clarine did not budge from the gate. “Wesley, if I’d wanted to be interviewed, I’d have called the National Enquirer. What I want is some action.”
The sheriff sighed. “I’ll do everything I can, Clarine, but first I have to get it to make sense to me.”
She pushed open the gate and motioned for Wesley to follow. “I can fix you some iced tea,” she said in a belated attempt at hospitality. “And I made some zucchini bread.”
Wesley accepted both offers, telling himself that fixing the food would help to calm the witness. Besides, with his job you never knew when you were going to miss a meal. When he was settled in the green velvet armchair, balancing a dessert plate of cake on his knee, Clarine sat down on the sofa facing him and began her story.
“It looks like I am Emmet Mason’s wife twice removed,” she remarked.
“Now, I know Emmet was killed on a trip to California. Was it five years ago?”
His widow nodded. “That’s when he went out there, anyhow. And I got this call from the highway patrol, saying that Emmet had been killed in a car wreck in Los Angeles, which I did not find difficult to believe, considering what I’ve heard about the way they drive out there.”
Wesley set down his iced tea and scribbled a few notes. “Okay. Do you remember the officer’s name?”
Clarine sighed at the stupidity of the question. “The content of the phone call-him telling me that my husband was dead-registered considerably more than the details of the caller.”
“Had to ask,” said Wesley, waving for her to continue.
“Well, the officer-whoever he was-said that Emmet had been burned beyond recognition, that he’d have to be cremated, and that they would send him back.”
“What about insurance?”
“They said they’d send a death certificate, and they did. That’s all Bob Barclay down at Georgia Colonial Health wanted to see. And, of course, the newspaper here did a nice write-up about Emmet, with a photo of him from Our Town, and I enclosed that, too.”
“All I know is what I read in the papers,” muttered Wesley, scribbling again. “So they sent the death certificate-and Emmet-back to you in the mail?”
“UPS,” said Clarine. “Of course, my first impulse was to go to California, and I said so to the officer on the phone, but he said, ‘What for?’ And I had to admit he had me there. It wasn’t like I could do anything out there. Emmet was already dead, and we didn’t know a soul west of Oklahoma. So when he offered to ship the remains back to Georgia, I said fine.”
“So by and by this package arrives, containing an urn and a death certificate.”
“Right. Now, Wesley, I just know that the next thing out of your mouth is going to be to ask me did I keep the wrapping off the package, and the answer is no. But the vase is right up there on the mantel.”
Wesley Rountree looked up at the urn in the center of the mantle. It was dark blue cloisonné, in the shape of a ginger jar, and it was about eight inches high. Exhibit A, thought Wesley. “And he’s in there?”
“Something’s in there,” snapped Clarine. “I never opened the lid to examine the contents.”
“I reckon I will.” The sheriff sighed, starting to get up.
“Not here.”
“Oh, no. I understand about your feelings toward the deceased and all-”
“I just vacuumed,” said Clarine.
The Foxcroft Inn in Milton’s Forge had been Elizabeth’s choice of a restaurant for lunch with Jenny. Although she had never been there, she remembered newspaper ads, showing the old half-timbered building with its inn sign reminiscent of a British pub, and mentioning its Olde Worlde cuisine. It had once been a frontier tavern, back in the days when the hills of Georgia were considered The West. Elizabeth thought that this blend of style and tradition would make a suitable setting for an occasion so momentous as a luncheon with one’s maid of honor.
She parked in the gravel lot that had been laid between the inn and the old stables, then went around to the iron-hinged front door in search of Jenny. I wish I had watched the eleven o’clock news last night, thought Elizabeth. What if I don’t recognize her?
As it happened, recognizing Jenny Ramsay was not a problem, once Elizabeth was able to catch a glimpse of her within the knot of people surrounding her. The smiling blonde in a confection of pink resembled Elizabeth’s high-school friend in the same way that the picture of a rose in a plant catalogue resembles the actual flower in your ill-tended garden. Elizabeth looked at the pink linen suit and then at her own khaki skirt and scoop-neck T-shirt and then back at the vision of loveliness who was now signing an autograph for a man in a three-piece suit. It was going to be a long lunch.
“Reservation for two for lunch,” she said when the hostess finally noticed her. “MacPherson.”