Nobody's Sorry You're Dead: A Hadley Pell Cozy Mystery (16 page)

“Well, how about a lighter topic like gardening?”

“Would put me to sleep. No, these will do for a start,” Hadley said.

“Okay,” said Anna, taking out her little ink pad and rubber stamp. “These are due back in a couple of weeks.”

“I’ll mark my calendar,” said Hadley. “Wouldn’t want to break the bank on overdue fees, again.”

Hadley took her books and drove straight home.

Poisons.

There were so many. She never knew how many natural and manufactured toxins there were. They were everywhere, she found, appearing as manmade chemicals or occurring naturally in the food and in the earth.

Hadley mumbled to herself.

“It’s impossible to know where to begin.”

She opened a book.

C is for Cyanide. She began to read. She knew that cyanide was the poison used by Adolph Hitler in World War II to kill all those poor people.

Zyklon B.

Horrible. Horrible.

She continued to skim the pages.

Found in food and plants. In limas. In limas! I love limas. In the seeds and pits of fruits like apples, peaches, apricots. Oh good. The edible parts have much lower amounts. In cigarette smoke. Probably the major source of exposure for people not employed in industries that use it.

“I’d better remember not to stand downwind of Delta,” she muttered.

Cyanide has been utilized in the extermination of pests, in pesticides and fumigants, plastics, electroplating, and mining. It is used in dyes and drugs.

After a few of hours of intense reading, she had a pounding headache and tired eyes. It was late. She decided to call it quits for the night before her head exploded from the vast amount of information she had tried to process and before she needed new glasses.

“
R
ayna
,” Hadley said, “are you sure you want to help out with this bazaar? With everything going on?”

Hadley had driven out to Rayna’s to discuss the bake sale and bazaar.

“Pixies has some pretty good sales this week,” Hadley said. “A 25 pound bag of flour is 10 percent off the normal price. They’re running a lot of things buy one and get one free.

“And coffee’s on sale, too. You grind your own coffee, like me. I’m going to stock up. I don’t know about you, but to me, there’s nothing better than freshly ground beans. Makes greeting the day that much more special.”

Rayna smiled.

“Rayna,” Hadley said, “I live for good coffee. Maury is always trying to convince me that those twigs and leaves she brews is as good for you. Better than coffee, but I don’t buy it.”

“Me either. At our last ladies’ meeting, she served peppermint tea,” Rayna said.

“Stuff was as bland as dishwater,” said Hadley. “But poor Maury’s culinary skills are right up there with Juanita Hide’s.”

“Don’t I know it!” Rayna said. “I told Juanita not to fix a bunch of dishes last year. Nobody ever buys hers. No matter what fancy names she calls them, they always taste like ditchwater.”

“Oh,” said Hadley, “I feel sorry for her, but you’re right. That woman has a green thumb, but she can’t cook worth a lick. All those casseroles! She insists on cooking them every year and bringing them to the bazaar. Then, poor Fred has to tote them home. He’s gotta' have a cast iron stomach or no taste buds on his tongue to digest all that awful food she’s cooked during their marriage. He’s got to eat her cooking or have a stash of food somewhere in a work shed or out building. I mean, he looks healthy enough, and he’s not skin and bones. But I really don’t know how he does it. If I had to live on Juanita’s cooking like Fred has, I’d have starved to death about two weeks into the marriage!”

“I think they call that true love, Hadley,” Rayna said. “Fred still looks at Juanita the same way he did when they were teenagers.”

“It must be. I don’t know,” Hadley said. “But you’d think that with practice, Juanita’s cooking would have inched along toward edible. I mean she’s been cooking for a long time, now.

“It’s sort of sad when nobody buys her casseroles at the bake sale. She dressed up her table so pretty. People pass by her dishes and don’t even give them a second glance. They know not to chance it.

“And by the end of the day, Juanita marks her four- or five-dollar dishes down to little or nothing. Still nobody will fork over the money to buy one.”

“I know,” said Rayna. “It’s like watching the same rerun on television. It never changes from year to year.”

“It’s almost pitiful,” said Hadley. “And Fred’s practically begging somebody to buy one so Juanita will feel like she’s contributed to the fund.”

“Yeah,” said Rayna. “It is a sorry sight to watch.”

“Remember last year, how Eustian hung around till it was almost over,” Hadley said.

“Fred unloaded several of them on him for free. Eustian would sample one. Smile and say how good it was. Juanita would lap up the compliments like a thirsty dog. Everybody knew that old rooster was lying through his brown teeth. Every dish I ever tasted that Juanita fixed would raise blisters on bricks.”

“Yeah,” Rayna said. “Maybe we should suggest she bring some of her potted plants to sell. We could set up some shelves. Make Juanita in charge of that. We could talk to some of the women and see if they’d donate some, too. We could make a nice display. I’m sure some of our friends would buy them. We could tell them to tell Juanita what a great addition the ‘plants for sale’ was to the bazaar.”

“Eustian’s not around to take the leftovers off Fred’s hands this year, though. Disastrous dishes,” Hadley said. “I think I’d just as soon eat wet concrete. I’m not kidding. But the flower idea’s not bad, Rayna. Why haven’t we thought of it before now?”

“Didn’t need to, I guess,” said Rayna. “Have you given any thought about pony rides this year.”

“Definitely not. I’ve stepped in enough pony poop holding the reins while the little ones go round in a circle to do me a lifetime.”

“Okay. Well, how about . . .”

Hadley and Rayna would discuss recipes and bazaar plans for the rest of the afternoon.

“
H
ey
, Beanie,” Hadley said.

It was a glorious day outside, but Onus, perhaps in protest because he was a house cat, had shredded one of her curtains in the dining room. Hadley went into town to buy material to make some more.

“Hey,” he said.

“You keeping busy?” Hadley asked.

“Umm,” said Beanie.

“What is it, Bean?” Hadley asked.

“Well, nothing, I guess. Montelieu Rivers bumped into me outside Sheriff Bill’s office. Told me to move myself to the other side of the street so he wouldn’t have to look at my ugly mug.”

“Monte’s a jerk, Bean. He was a bully in school. Remember?”

“Yeah. I never liked him.”

“Me neither,” said Hadley. “What’s Monte doing down there?”

Montelieu Rivers printed a local newspaper.

“I don’t know,” Beanie said. “I heard somebody say Gunn’s out and Sandy’s in. Whatever that means.”

“Beanie! Has Bill released Gunn and arrested Sandy Miller?”

“How should I know, Hadley? I been mowing the cemetery all week. That rain we got has really been good for the grass. It’s growing faster than I can cut it down.”

“Good for you, Beanie. Grass needs to be tended like a baby. Take your eye off it, and it shoots up like Jack’s bean stalks after a soaking rain. You got that right.”

“Where’s the fire?” Beanie asked. “You seem to be in an awful hurry.”

“Gotta' run, Beanie. I just remembered I’m late for an appointment at Lou Edna’s.”

Beanie would never understand why Hadley spent her money there. They called it a beauty shop, but Beanie had observed that when Hadley went in, she always came out looking about the same. Hadley wasn’t like so many of the ladies he saw walking around town. She didn’t wear paint. Beanie could not remember the times his friend had told him her hair was a wild mess.

“Why don’t you just go to Ralph’s?” Beanie suggested once. “He’ll give you a buzz cut for a lot less than Lou Edna. Tame that wild mess by cutting it off and leaving it on the barber shop floor. Birds make nests with some of that hair Ralph throws out. Your hair could be all over Hope Rock County, Hadley, in a hundred different nests!”

Beanie thought this was a marvelous idea. But Hadley had only laughed, shook her head, and proceeded back to Lou Edna’s beauty shop.

“
L
ou
,” Hadley said, “is it true they’ve arrested Sandy Miller?”

“Ain’t that sumpin’?” Lou Edna said from behind the cloud of Beautiful Doo.

Hadley coughed and sputtered.

“One of these days,” Hadley said, “you’re going to kill us all with that lacquer, Lou.”

“Oh, I am not, Hadley. I don’t stand on my feet all day creating works of art in human hair only to have them blown to smithereens by a blustery wind.”

“Blustery wind? Lou Edna, the wind is as quiet as a funeral parlor out there, today.”

“Doesn’t matter. You never know when a gust will blow up. Besides, most of the ladies like to be able to sleep a few nights without messing up their coiffure.”

“A coiffure to go out and hoe beans! If that don’t beat all,” Hadley said.

“Oh, Hadley. Get off your soap box and listen. I just got it straight from Emmaline Zaydelle who heard it from Maxie Deacons that they did arrest Sandy. Maxie told Emmaline she’d been expecting the axe from Sandy any day. Maxie’s only been the secretary over at the metal shop for a little over a year.

“Maxie told Emmaline she never bought into the story that Gunn had killed Eustian. Maxie said Gunn’s got the looks to be a movie star, but he ain’t got the brains to pour milk out of a boot.

“Maxie said between the two brothers, she’d lay her money down on Sandy. Maxie said Gunn’s the brawn, but Sandy’s the brains behind that business. ‘Course, it’s easy to say than since Sandy’s in the pokey. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

“But what she says makes a lot of sense. Business is zilch, and Maxie knew Sandy could not afford to pay her to answer the phone much longer. Besides, Maxie said the phone never rings in the office, anymore. Not since the lawsuit. She told Emmaline all she had to do to occupy her time behind the desk in Sandy’s office was watch the clock, polish her nails, and balance her bank account.”

“Well,” Hadley said, “with Maxie, that’s about a full day’s work, even when the phones rang off the hook. I never could figure out why a good boy like Sandy would hire a woman with more cobwebs between her ears than brains.”

“Hadley Jane Pell,” Lou Edna whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “you know as well as I do that Maxie’s cleavage got her that job as Sandy’s secretary.”

“Uh-huh,” said Hadley. “But what did she say about Sandy’s arrest.”

“Oh that,” said Lou Edna. “Maxie told Emmaline that Bill came bustin’ through the door asking for Sandy. Maxie told Sheriff Bill that Sandy was out back. Bill stormed out to the back of the building and slapped the handcuffs on Sandy before he knew what hit him.”

“Poor Sandy,” said Hadley.

“Then, Maxie said Sandy told her to close up the office and leave the key in her desk. That was all he could say. Bill drove off with Sandy in the back seat.”

“And Gunn. What about him?” Hadley asked.

“As far as I know, Bill let him go,” Lou Edna said.

“Strange,” Hadley said. “Mighty strange.”

“I’ll say,” said Lou Edna. “Who do you think was the first go down to the jail when word got out?”

“I don’t know, Lou,” Hadley said. “I’ve been holed up at home with a cat who thinks he’s a circus acrobat. Onus swung on one of my curtains. Shredded it like you wouldn’t believe. Darn cat thinks he’s a trapeze artist or something. I only heard from Beanie that something was going on when I came to French’s for some material and sewing thread.”

“Maxie said she caught two words that sent chills down her spine,” Lou Edna said, dramatically.

“What,” said Hadley.

“Premeditated murder.”

After doing the Doo at Edna Lou's, Hadley got into her car and drove to Brinkley's service station. She opened the car door and spied Brinkley's grimy denim knees and oily boots sticking out from under an old Ford.

She walked over to the jacked up car and bent down to talk to the busy mechanic.

“Brinkley,” Hadley said, “I need your truck, again.”

“What for?” Brinkley asked. “Can’t be the starter. Your old clunker’s purring like a kitten.”

“No. Nothing’s wrong with the car. It’s running fine. You do good work, Brinkley. I would recommend you to anyone.”

“That’s good,” said Brinkley. “’Cause I’m the only mechanic within 45 miles.”

“Your truck, Brinkley. What about it?”

“Hadley, you’re a good customer, ‘’n I appreciate your biz’ness, but I can’t make a habit out of loaning it to you all the time. Folks see you drivin’ ’round in my truck, why, pretty soon, I’ll have the whole county knocking at my door and askin’ to borrow it. If I say ‘no’ to them and ‘yes’ to you, why lickety-split, I’m gonna have a whole heap ‘a hot-under-the-collars why’d-you-let-Hadley-have-it-‘n-not-me unhappy campers. Talk about tyin’ knots in the bloomers of the good folks of Hope Rock County! Hadley, I’d never hear the end of it. I’m sorry, but I can’t,” said Brinkley.

“You can’t, or you won’t,” said Hadley.

“Well, both, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” Hadley asked.

“I
won’t
because I don’t want every Earl Dean, Buddy Boy, and Bubba Joe who comes in for an oil change or a tire rotation to be hounding me for my truck. And I
can’t
because Mama’s gotta drive it to Doc Emory’s.”

“Brinkley, is your mama ill?”

“Naw. But she does have an ‘perntment with Doc to get her sugar pills.”

“Sugar pills?”

“Yeah,” Brinkley said. “Doc Emory says Mama’s as strong as a mule, but he says she got that, oh what did Doc call it? Hyper-cone-dru-ak’s disease. Nothin’ much to worry ’bout, Doc says. ’Bout as meddlesome as a chigger bite.”

“Your mama’s a hypochondriac?” asked Hadley.

“’At’s it! Wish’t I had me a collitch education when it comes to sayin’ ’em twenny-dollar words.”

“Means it’s all in your mama’s mind,” said Hadley.

“Yeah. Doc Emory said the same thing. I sure wish that mine a hers would turn out a few gold nuggets. I told that to Doc, but he said, ‘don’t count on it.’ Says sugar pills are the only thing for hyper-cone-dru-ak’s disease. Least they don’t cost much.”

“Brinkley,” Hadley said. “Your mama doesn’t drive.”

“Well, she ain’t got no license, but I guess she’ll do okay. She drives a tractor pretty good. Her hyper-cone-dru-ak’s disease don’t seem to hamper her none on the tractor, but I ain’t too sure how good she’s gonna do with my truck.

“That clutch is mighty touchy. If you ain’t careful, you let off it too fast, that darn thing will pop your neck like a whip. I’m takin’ a chance that the sheriff or one of his men won’t pull her over. There’s three of them and a whole county to patrol, after all. Does worry me. I’d take her myself, but I’m slammed today. Too much work and not enough me.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Hadley. “I’d be worried about that clutch and your mama, too. It took me a couple of times to get the feel of it. For a little while, I thought I was driving the lurch-n-go mobile.”

Brinkley laughed.

“Yeah,” he said, “until you get the feel of that clutch, you can make a real big speck-tackle of yourself.”

“Speck-tackle,” said Hadley. “I need to be a spectacle like I need another hole in the head.”

“Like I said, I wish I could take Mama to Doc’s, but I am plumb booked up. I got a radiator to flush out. A flat tire to change. A wash-and-wax later this afternoon. And two alternators to fix.”

“What time is her appointment?” Hadley asked.

“After lunch.”

“I’ll take her if you let me borrow your truck afterwards.”

“You ain’t gonna do nothin’ illegal with my truck,” Brinkley said.

“Me? Illegal? Come on, Brinkley. I need to borrow your truck to carry a load of manure to Delta for her flower beds.”

“Manure!”

“It’s Delta we’re talking about, Brinkley.”

“Well, okay. Just be sure you wash out the bed good when you’re done. You know if it was anybody else, I’d say flat out ‘no.’ Mama or no Mama. But I am afraid Mama would buck all the way to Doc’s like a bronco with that touchy clutch.”

“That couldn’t be good for her hypochondria.”

“Naw. Okay, Hadley. Just be sure to wash out the bed, like I said. I don’t want that load to corrode the metal of my truck.”

“Corrode the metal. You’re right, Brinkley. I certainly wouldn’t want that stuff to mar the patina.”

“Yeah. She’s a beaut, ain’t she? Just a few dings ’n’ scratches. Not too many air holes. That ole truck is just gettin’ broke in good.”

“That old truck is a rolling rust bucket,” Hadley said, but soft enough so that Brinkley could not hear.

“Tell mama I said ‘hey,’ Hadley.”

“I surely will, Brink. And Delta says ‘thanks’ for the loan of the truck.”

At the mention of Delta Arden, Brinkley colored like a tomato.

* * *

“
S
o
,” said Delta, “how did you manage to lift this truck off Brinkley?”

“You owe me Delta,” Hadley said, as she leaned over to the passenger’s side and opened the door for her. Hadley wasn’t being nice. Brinkley’s truck had a wire for a door handle on the outside passenger’s door. Few people could get the combination for opening it right. Brinkley said that wire had made his truck burglar-proof. If only on the passenger’s side.

“I had to take Mama to see Doc Emory,” Hadley said.

“Brinkley’s mama is sick? Aw, bless her heart. I hate to hear that Hadley. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Nothing that a big old bottle of sugar pills won’t cure,” said Hadley.

“I don’t follow you,” said Delta.

“Mama has a bad case of hyper-cone-dru-ak’s disease.”

“Oh,” Delta said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Delta.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s in her mind.”

“Oh, jeepers! Hadley, do you think we should be riding around in Brinkley’s truck? I mean what if hyper-cone-dru-ak’s disease is catching! Do you think they’ll have to operate on Mama?”

“No, Delta,” Hadley said. “You don’t have to worry. It’s not contagious. And I think the sugar pills Doc Emory gave Brinkley’s mama will help her just fine.”

“Well! That’s a relief. And I’ll tell you right now, I hope I never come down with hyper-cone-dru-ak’s disease”

Hadley quickly let her foot off the clutch, and Delta’s head lurched backwards.

“Boy, this truck packs a mean wallop,” Delta said.

“Don’t worry,” Hadley said. “If you’re feeling puny, I’ll drop you off at Doc Emory’s for some sugar pills.”

“Hadley Jane,” Delta said. “You’ll do no such thing. Those sugar pills would wreck havoc on my thighs.”

* * *

R
egardless of whether
you were her natural born child or not, most folks in Hope Rock County called Brinkley’s mother ‘Mama.’ She wore the name like a badge of honor. With four sons and three daughters, Mama felt she’d earned it.

Mama was a small woman. On a good day, wearing brand new brogans, Mama might stand four-eleven. But what she lacked in height, Mama more than made up for in sheer will and voice. Mama had a deep voice, and she developed her ‘voice muscles,’ as she called them, by calling the pigs home.

As a young girl, her father raised domestic pigs and allowed his children to nurture the piglets as pets. Once the tame litter had some size, he would release them during the daylight hours from their pens to forage in the nearby woods and fields near the family’s cabin. One of Mama’s many chores was to go out in the early evening and call the pigs back to the safety of their pens.

“Soooouuueeeeeeee!” Mama would yell, until all the pigs were home.

To this day, Mama swore that all that hollering had damaged her goozle.

“I coulda’ sang su-prannie in the Grand Ole Opry, but this strained goozle knocked my sangin’ voice down so many notches, they’d only let me sang bass,” she was fond of saying.

A strained goozle was one of the many ailments that plagued Mama and kept her visiting Doc Emory on a regular basis. The fact that she was positive she’d broke her pizzlin’ string toting so much firewood and water to the house was another.

The broken pizzlin’ string was Mama’s ace in the hole. Her complaints eventually got her indoor plumbing, but not until Brinkley and his brother’s efforts at an elaborate pulley system to wind water from the well into the house failed.