Chili con corpses, p.7
Chili Con Corpses, page 7
He had never been so confused about a woman before.
James dug his index fingers into his temple, where a headache had sprouted and was boring deeper and deeper into his skull. He groaned as the pain increased. Unbidden, a vision of the ugly red and purple welts around Parker’s throat entered his mind and he shoved his arms into his coat. It was time to retreat to the silence of his bedroom and escape in the fantastical realms of one of his books.
“That word scared you good, didn’t it?” Lucy laughed harshly with no trace of humor. “Such a typical man. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned any kind of a long-term commitment.”
“I don’t have anything against long-term commitments, Lucy.” James sighed. “But we haven’t exactly been happy together lately, so how can I be thinking about the future? The only thing we’ve done well as a couple recently is argue.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Now it’s clear how you feel about me!” Lucy shrugged on her own coat and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Fine then! We’re done with dating. And since I won’t be going to the next Fix ’n Freeze class, I guess I’ll see you when I see you.” Lucy turned and marched out the door.
Sammy came over to collect the empty glasses. He lifted a coaster and showed James the image of Virtue. “I can see a resemblance between those two women.” He chuckled. “And I think you’re lookin’ an awful lot like this guy here with a woman’s foot stompin’ on his chest.”
“Thanks a lot, Sammy.” James ripped the coaster from the barkeep’s hand and stormed out of the Wilson, muttering to himself as the realization of what had just happened sank in. He was unexpectedly, unhappily single again.
“TGIF, Professor,” Scott said the next morning at work. “And no offense, but you look like you could use the upcoming weekend to rest.”
“Look, the next Dune book is out—it’s part of the prequel trilogy by Frank Herbert’s son, Brian,” Francis chimed in, gazing at the hardcover in his hand with a kind of rapture. “I’ll let you check it out instead of me, if you think it might keep your mind off …” He seemed at a loss for words.
“What happened in the caves?” Scott finished his brother’s thought.
James thanked them for their concern, patted each young man fondly on the back, and proceeded to spend the morning repairing the loose spines of the books that saw the most use. The work allowed him to distance himself from the library patrons, who streamed into the building, eager to hear an eyewitness account of Blue Ridge High’s shocking field trip from their own head librarian.
James could only imagine how the phone lines must have been abuzz with gossip until late into the night. Now, with the new day, the story of Parker’s death must have grown so elaborate that the townsfolk would be searching for a reliable source to provide them with some semblance of the truth. And if not the truth, then, at the very least, a few juicy tidbits to add fresh hues to an already colorful tale.
“I’m lucky,” James reflected aloud as he glued down the back cover of the abused copy of Sex After Sixty. “I get to hide in my office. Lindy, the poor thing, has no refuge. The townspeople probably formed a line outside her classroom at six this morning.”
Still, James was hardly chipper. As he worked in welcome silence, he kept thinking back to his heated exchange with Lucy. Why had their relationship fallen apart? Was he really a pig or a Neanderthal because he wanted to respond to his baser nature?
James capped the glue and set the restored books in neat stacks around his office to dry. Next, he printed out a group of postcards meant to remind patrons about their overdue books or fines, and as he stamped them, he ruminated on the value of calling Lucy. Part of him wanted to talk things over, but the other part reasoned that it was too late. He wanted sex and she didn’t—not without a ring, anyway.
“I think that’s just an excuse,” he told the postcards. “I think she wanted an out and I gave her one.” James felt his anger swelling inside his chest. “Marriage? Lord! No way! Lucy Hanover and I are done!”
Scott poked his spectacled face into the office. “Did you need something, Professor? I thought I heard you calling.”
“Ah, no.” James cleared his throat. “Why don’t you take the first lunch today, Scott?”
The young man beamed. “Excellent. I’ll have just enough time to read the last story in this Ursula Le Guin collection while I chow down on the fattest, messiest meatball hero this town has ever seen.” He rubbed his flat stomach. “Made it this morning. It has so many meatballs that I had to use a rubber band to keep the bun from busting open!” Scott dashed away in gleeful expectation.
James shook his head in amusement. The Fitzgerald twins could pack away startling amounts of food without gaining an ounce. They were pin-thin and ate at every possible opportunity. Bulk bags of potato chips, sub sandwiches the size of footballs, packages of Hostess cupcakes, and liters of Coke would make up a single meal. James thought about the sesame chicken salad and small Granny Smith apple he had waiting in the break room and frowned. He popped half a dozen tic tacs in his mouth in order to stave off the hunger pangs for another thirty minutes.
After lunch, as James continued to avoid his patrons by working on the annual budget, a headache encroached upon his concentration. Pulling open the desk drawer where a bottle of Advil was found, James struggled with the childproof cap. Finally, with the aid of a pair of scissors, he managed to pop the top off, slicing his palm at the same time.
“Damn,” he muttered and then, “Damn!” a bit louder when he realized that only a single tablet remained in the bottle. As he sucked on his bleeding hand, James was both pleased and horrified to see through his office window the figure of Murphy Alistair emerging from her car. For a moment, he stared at her animated face and trim figure and then remembered that she was a reporter, and an aggressive one at that. Plus, she was not alone. Another woman, clutching a legal pad, jumped out of Murphy’s passenger seat.
“Two reporters! I think it’s time to call it a day,” James said, eyeing the clock. He gathered his belongings in haste and then tried to get the attention of the nearest twin.
“Pssst!” he whispered to Francis. “Murphy’s coming! I’m going to hide in the bathroom and then make a break for my truck. Stall her for me?”
Francis grinned. “Sure, Professor, but I wish I had her chasing after me.” Noting his boss’s agitation, Francis grew more serious. “But I guess this isn’t a social call. She’s gonna want to pump you for info about the murder. Hey bro!” he called across the library. “We got a Special Op assignment.”
Scott straightened his spine and pushed his heavily framed glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “Cool. What is it?”
“Mission: Media Evasion,” Francis replied.
James raced to the bathroom, believing that he was safe in the hands of the overly imaginative, ever-loyal Fitzgerald twins. He was wrong. As he stood in front of the mirror, inspecting his teeth for any signs of salad remnants, the door swung open and a young woman carrying a notebook strode in.
“Ha!” she declared. “Ms. Murphy said you might be in here!”
“Yes, imagine that,” James stated acidly. “A man in the men’s room.”
The plain-faced woman, who looked even younger than Scott and Francis, had the grace to back out of the restroom. James was right on her heels, and as she opened her mouth to hail Murphy, he cut her off by saying, “Tell your boss, as I’m assuming you are one of her reporters—though I don’t recognize you—that I’m heading over to Goodbee’s Drug Store. She can follow me, but I’m not in the mood to talk about that field trip. I’ve been featured in The Star more than I’d like as it is.” And with that, James hustled outside to the sanctuary of his beloved Bronco.
“I think your blood pressure machine is on the fritz,” James told the pharmacist as a teenage cashier rung up two giant bottles of Advil.
Mr. Goodbee, the kind-faced owner of the drug store, frowned quizzically. As he did, his multitude of freckles seemed to draw into a line across his brow. “What makes you say that, Professor?”
“I just used it and got results like I’ve never seen before.” James downed three Advil. “We’re talking crazy numbers.”
Mr. Goodbee stroked his chin. “Lemme watch you take another reading.”
James slid his arm into the stationary cuff and then hit the start button. He watched in fascination as the gray cushion inflated with air, constricting his arm like a slow and deliberate python. He observed the red digital numbers in their field of black with wariness, but once again, his results were unlike any he had received before.
“See that?” James pointed at the screen. “One hundred ninety-nine over ninety. That’s got to be an error.”
“Mind if I try?” Mr. Goodbee took the seat and placed his own arm in the cuff. Within a minute, his reading turned out to be 112/70. “Same as I got this morning.” Still seated, the pharmacist looked up at James with concern. “I believe you have a medical problem, son. You’d better see a doctor and soon. Those numbers were no mistake, but if your blood pressure is actually that high and you ignore it, that’s a mistake that could cost you your life.”
James rubbed his temples in alarm. “I think I’m going to need something stronger than Advil.”
He drove straight home and flung open the back door.
“Pop!” he yelled into the house. “Where are you hiding that bottle of Cutty Sark?”
“Yep, you’re definitely hypertensive. Two hundred over ninety-five, James,” Doc Spratt declared later that afternoon, clucking his tongue in concern. “These results don’t surprise me, considering what happened to your mama.”
James shivered as the cold metal from the stethoscope touched the bare skin of his back. “What do you mean? I thought she was totally healthy when she died. That’s what made it so hard … such a shock.”
Doc shifted the stethoscope to his patient’s chest. “Deep breaths, now.” He listened to James’s lungs and then straightened. “Your mama struggled with her blood pressure most of her adult life. You and your daddy may not have been wise to that because she kept it under control as long as she could by watching what she ate and by regular exercise.” He sighed. “Sometimes we just can’t cheat fate, son.”
James nodded in resignation. “I wish I had the energy she had. She was always on the move.”
Doc Spratt smiled. “Yessir. That woman loved a project. I can’t tell you how many checks I wrote for her charity endeavors over the years.” He hung his stethoscope around his neck and studied his patient. “You’ve got to start avoiding salty foods, young man. Are you still paying regular calls to the gym?”
“I’m not going as often as I did over the summer,” James admitted.
“You’d better get back on the treadmill then. I’m going to write you a prescription for some pills. You start taking them pronto. I want to see you again in a month, and I’d like to see those numbers down, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Doc Spratt gave James a pat on the head. “Don’t worry, son. With a little discipline, you’ll be right as rain.” And just as he had for thirty-five years, Doc pretended to pull a lollipop from behind James’s ear.
“Nothin’ wrong with a little sugar every now and then,” Doc repeated the same phrase he always did when handing out treats. “Everything in moderation, except for fishin’.” He chuckled and then left his patient alone to change back into his clothes.
On the way home, James unwrapped the translucent green sucker and stuck it in his mouth.
Upon entering the house, he found Jackson seated at the kitchen table.
“What’s for dinner?” his father inquired eagerly.
James dumped his briefcase by the back door and slumped into the chair opposite his father. “Nothing with salt,” he said, sighing heavily.
Jackson’s fuzzy eyebrows drew into a line. “I hope this doesn’t mean another damned diet,” he muttered. When his son didn’t reply, he pushed a piece of scrap paper covered with scratchy handwriting under James’s nose. “That Lindy girl called. You’re supposed to see some McClellan fellow before your cooking class tomorrow.” Jackson’s eyes suddenly glimmered. “I sure do wonder what you’re makin’. I can’t wait to eat your homework.”
“Where’s Lucy?” Gillian asked as she tied on an apron listing both the Latin and common names of the plants used in a wide variety of herbal teas.
“She’s not coming,” James answered, evading Gillian’s piercing eyes.
“Again,” Lindy muttered, most likely referring to the field trip.
Bennett sidled over, proudly displaying a new apron that read Iron Chef of the Shenandoah. “I designed it myself.” He grinned and then immediately grew somber. “How are you guys? James? Lindy? I guess it would be an understatement to say you had a rough week.”
Lindy nodded. “Let’s just say I’m not going to be elected Teacher of the Year anytime soon.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t think the police have any leads about Mr. Sneed’s real identity, either. James and I just met with them, and we just keep repeating our original statements. It doesn’t help that we knew practically nothing about Parker except that she was a friend of Murphy’s, a vet, and seemed like a sweet person.”
“That poor girl!” Gillian clutched her hands into fists. “Who would do such a thing! And what about her sister?” She fanned herself as though she might swoon at any moment. “You know, they say that when a twin loses a sibling, they’re never really the same again.”
“I believe that,” Murphy said from behind them. She had entered so silently that none of the other Fix ’n Freeze students had heard her. “Honestly, I doubt Kinsley will ever recover. She’s racked with guilt over allowing Parker to take her place on the field trip.” Murphy rubbed her forehead wearily. “I think that Kinsley feels as though she’s the one who should be dead.”
“But who would want to do either of those lovely girls harm?” Gillian wailed. “And how does the fake grandfather guy fit in? What kind of person could do that? It’s like pretending to be Santa and then stabbing someone with a candy cane!”
No one could think of an appropriate comment to make following Gillian’s bizarre comparison, so the five of them stood quietly, sadly reviewing the fate of Parker Willis.
As Murphy hung up her coat and began to tie on her apron, James took a long look at her. He saw the deep shadows encircling her bloodshot hazel eyes and the slump in her shoulders. He was used to seeing Murphy alert and filled with determination. Here she was, mourning the loss of a friend, and he had run away from her when she had come to see him at the library. Ashamed, he averted his face as she spoke.
“I can’t make sense of any of this, Gillian. Parker and I were really close in college, but we haven’t seen each other much recently. I just met Kinsley, so I couldn’t say what skeletons were in either of their closets.” James could feel Murphy staring at him. “Believe me, I’m trying to gather as much information as possible, but at this point, I haven’t uncovered anything useful.”
James met her eyes. “I’m really sorry I didn’t catch up with you the other day. I wasn’t thinking about how much this must be affecting you.” He felt like reaching out to her, but didn’t. Instead, he simply said, “I’d like to help you.”
Lindy touched Murphy on the arm. “Me too. What can we do?”
Murphy was clearly moved by the offer. “I’d like to hear every detail about the mysterious Mr. Sneed. He’s got to be the killer. He’s the only unknown out of the chaperones, and you all saw him that day.”
Bennett nodded. “The five of us have solved a few murder cases together. Maybe we can join forces and help you figure out what happened to your friend.”
“I’d really appreciate that, you guys. And Lucy? She seems to have a knack for detective work, too.” Murphy turned to James. “Do you think she’d be willing to help?”
“Um.” James couldn’t think of a response. He didn’t think Lucy would want to be within fifty feet of him at the moment. Luckily, he was saved from having to answer by Milla, who burst into the room bearing two enormous trays of hors d’oeuvres.
“Ready to eat, cook, and be merry, my dears?” she trilled as she deposited the trays on the center island. “Oh my. This class is shrinking.” She looked crestfallen. “Were my chicken enchiladas that bad?”
“No, no,” Lindy hastened to comfort her. “The class is smaller because …” She cast a glance at Murphy.
“Because we’ve recently lost a friend,” Murphy said softly, as if she were fighting to maintain a steady voice. “Sorry, Milla, but we’re a bit downhearted. It may take us awhile to get back to normal.” She looked back toward the door. “I don’t think we can expect Colin tonight either. He’s probably too …” she broke off, unable to keep the tremors from her speech.
Milla wrapped an arm around Murphy’s back and gave her a maternal hug. “Oh, my dears,” she said gently, looking at her class. She then rubbed her hands together and smiled. “Let’s hope that cooking will cheer you up a bit. And if that’s not therapeutic enough, there’s always eating!” She gestured at the trays. “For your snacking pleasure we’re having a few Spanish tapas treats tonight. Try saying that a few times fast.”
James inhaled the aromas of food fresh from the oven and immediately felt some of the tension stored from the past week melt away. He examined the beautifully arranged appetizers with interest.
“Tapas?” he asked. “I’ve heard the term before, but I’m not sure exactly what it means.”
“Tapas are like a special snack,” Milla replied. “You can just have a few like we’re doing now, or you can serve a bunch of different tapas dishes and create an entire meal. Tonight we’re sampling peeled almonds fried in olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt; rosemary bread sticks served with slices of Serrano-style ham; green olives in a bath of olive oil, garlic, and fresh parsley; and some mushroom fritters. Now, for our liquid refreshment.” Milla disappeared and returned again bearing a bottle of wine and some pottery tumblers. “I think we could all use a glass of Spanish red tonight. This is an affordable and tasty Rioja called Monticello.”
