Southern Comfort (8 page)

“What exactly is ‘this’?”

He glanced at her over one shoulder before dipping his paintbrush in the pan. “When I got back here, the tarp was out, the paint was ready, and the brush was in the hands of your aunt.” He shook his head as if to say, what was a guy supposed to?

He was a gentleman. That was for sure. And he wouldn’t let an eighty-five-year-old woman paint a room in her house. Regardless of the fact that it didn’t need paint or, at the very least, her aunt had enough money to hire it done.

“Next time let me know. I’ll hire painters to come out if she wants something painted.”

Newland stopped and turned to look at her, his brown eyes so intent Natalie shifted in her nude colored pumps. “Is that what you do? Just go around like some sexy fairy godmother making everybody’s wishes come true?”

Natalie scoffed. “No.” She wasn’t making everybody’s wishes come true. Her job was to make things run smoothly. Just the way she liked them.

Wait. Had he just called her sexy?

Newland continued to study her for several long seconds until it felt like it stretched into an hour.

“Did Aubie come home?” She had to change the subject and fast. Something in Newland’s look was wholly unsettling. Somehow it brought back that kiss from the night before, and that was something she didn’t want to experience again. Not in the least.

“He’s in the parlor reading a magazine. He said something about a project due tomorrow.”

Natalie closed her eyes. “The science fair.”

Her brother had put off to the last minute what should’ve been done months ago. Now this biology grade was dependent on his interpretation of the dissection of a bullfrog.

“And my aunt?”

“She’s in the kitchen baking some mini quiches for tonight … ?” His voice turned up on the end as if he wasn’t sure he should tell her that part.

“Of course, chick card night.”

Newland nodded. “She said something about that.”

That was the last thing Natalie needed. She had to make sure that Aubie got the rest of his science fair project done—which pretty much meant
all
of his science fair project done. Now she had Newland in here painting the foyer, and Aunt Bitty getting ready for card night. When would things slow down?

When you marry Gerald.

She sighed at the thought. That was just one more reason to keep that kiss between her and Newland to herself. No sense getting Gerald all up in arms about something that meant nothing. Though there was no reason not to tell him if it didn’t mean anything to her, right?

She shook her head as her thoughts went around in a circle.

“Okay, quiches first, then the science project.” She nodded as if to confirm her decision, then started toward the back of the house.

Newland spoke before she set even one foot out of the foyer. “If you need some help, just let me know. I’ll be done in a little bit.”

• • •

Newland watched her go and hoped his mouth wasn’t hanging open. Didn’t she see? No, she couldn’t. She was too involved. But Natalie Coleman went around sprinkling fairy dust magic everywhere she went to make sure everyone’s life was smooth and bump-free. So much so that her life was one chaotic roller coaster ride of making sure everybody else was happy.

He shook his head and loaded up his paintbrush once again. The last thing he thought he’d be doing when he came to Mississippi was painting the foyer of an antebellum home. But he had time to kill and he liked Bitty Duncan.

There had to be something more to this whole ghost story than was meeting the eye. What kind of ghost only showed up on the last Thursday of the month? And where had all that extra dirt come from in the cemetery?

He shook his head. Painting helped clear his thoughts. He had done a little of that back in the day. Not a lot, just working part-time as he was trying to get through college and earn his degree in journalism. He had fallen short by ten credits and decided that embellishing stories a little bit was much more fun than telling the exact truth. Plus, who wanted to write about car wrecks when they could write about alien visitations and Elvis impersonators from Japan? He knew there were people who thought his job was beneath “real writing.” But he sat down every day to a real computer and wrote on real files and got paid real money for doing it. Well, usually.

With his thoughts clearer since he had been painting, he still had more questions than ever. Like the dirt and that glass car knocked off from the bookcase. He’d tried all day to ask Bitty about anything else weird that had happened besides the stove and the refrigerator door left open, but she had flitted about like a bird not landing on any one topic long enough to get any real information.

He hated to admit it, but he almost agreed with Natalie that some of these occurrences could be just an old lady losing track of what she’d been doing. Hell, he lost track of things himself and he was less than half her age.

Still he could understand Natalie’s concern. No one in their right mind would want to see someone as marvelous as Bitty Duncan hurt in a home accident that could’ve been prevented.

But even with as many times as he tried to pin her with questions about other occurrences, anything else that might have been broken, any odd happenings, he hadn’t been able to get her to focus long enough to tell him. He was hoping tonight that he might sit in and listen to the old ladies talk. There was certainly information to be had observing four longtime friends chatting about the neighborhood. Some secrets would have to be released. And he was going to sit back and absorb them all.

• • •

He tried to make himself as unobtrusive as furniture. He had helped Bitty set up the card table and pull the mismatched wooden chairs from all over the house to go around the rickety aluminum table. In the true form of a southern gentlewoman Bitty had covered it with a fine linen cloth and set everyone’s place with a saucer and silverware—the real kind—and the finest china she owned.

At six o’clock on the dot the doorbell rang. Newland turned to her. Her eyes were alight like a child at Christmas, and she clapped her hands together. “Oh goody! It’s time to play.”

She all but ran to the door and flung it open to reveal two of the strangest little ladies that Newland had ever seen. One looked as if she had just stepped out of a 1960s fashion magazine. She wore a leopard day coat—even though it was no less than eighty degrees outside—along with black leggings, zebra flats, and a red beret. Extra-large Jackie Onassis sunglasses hid her eyes, and bright red lipstick graced her pouting mouth.

“Darling,” she said, sweeping into the room in front of her companion. She clasped Bitty’s hands in her own and kissed the air near each cheek.

Newland bit back a smile.

Next in was a little old lady wearing a large, floppy straw hat and overalls. The shirt she wore underneath was long-sleeved and plaid, but at least it wasn’t flannel. Her pant legs were rolled up revealing purple Crocs that looked as if they had been rinsed off for the occasion, but not quite cleaned.

“Myrtle,” Bitty greeted, taking the woman’s hand into her own and pulling her farther into the house.

The door shut behind her and Myrtle sniffed the air.

“Why does it smell like paint in here?” Myrtle sounded like she had smoked for forty years, maybe fifty. Her voice rasped with each word and reminded Newland of what a badger would sound like if it talked. She had two silk daisies tucked into the brim of her hat, one yellow one red. They too, like the Crocs, had seen better days.

“Because my man here has been painting,” Bitty said.

Her man? Newland couldn’t stop a smile at the moniker. How could he be anybody’s man?

The lady in the red beret approached. “You must be the reporter. Selma Loveland-Pierce. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She held out one hand, her jewel-laden fingers twinkling. Did she expect him to kiss it?

He guessed so. She smiled at him, revealing her perfect dentures. At least he thought they were dentures. They were so perfect he was unsure they were real teeth.

“And this is Myrtle Meeks,” Bitty explained, motioning to the woman in overalls.

Myrtle Meeks from Turtle Creek? Newland shook his head.

“Where’s Josephine?” Bitty asked.

According to Natalie, Josephine was the voice of reason for the ladies. He also found out today that they had been dubbed the Fab Four by the women’s auxiliary for the Jaycees club, though none of them were actually members.

“Oh, you know Josephine and her boyfriends,” Myrtle said with a frown.

“That Josephine.” Bitty shook her head. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t need a man underfoot. Unless he’s painting.” She winked at Newland.

“Well,” Selma said in that cultured voice of hers. “Josephine’s not as used to being widowed as we are. Especially you, Bitty.”

Bitty gave a solemn nod. “That’s true. I lost my husband fifty years ago, it is now.” She shook her head as the other women murmured things like “tragic” and “just so sad.”

“So how long has Josephine been widowed?” The reporter in Newland couldn’t allow the question to go unanswered.

Selma tapped one perfectly manicured fingernail against her wrinkled cheek. “Let me see now … I suppose it’s been … What? Twenty-five years?” She looked to the others for confirmation.

Newland choked. The other two women nodded.

“About twenty-five, yes,” Bitty said.

Newland supposed that twenty-five years was short term when compared to fifty years, but still, twenty-five years was an eternity to be widowed and alone.

“So she’s not coming tonight?” Bitty asked, looking to each of them again for their nods of agreement.

“What should we do?” Myrtle asked.

“You don’t suppose Natalie … ” Selma asked, but she didn’t finish the sentence as Bitty shook her head.

“She’s got to work with Aubie on something for school. We probably won’t see her for the rest of the evening.”

As if in unison the three women turned to look at him.

Newland resisted the urge to look behind him to see if there was someone else lurking, maybe even the ghost. But he knew that he was the only one in the there.

His mind scrambled around trying to find a perfectly legitimate excuse as to why he couldn’t sit and play bridge with three little old ladies. The first being that he didn’t play bridge. And the second ending with he really didn’t want to. He wanted to use this time to observe and find out more about the neighborhood. The other women lived so close. Had they seen the ghost at night? Did they see it on any other night other than the last Thursday of the month? Maybe one of them had seen something dealing with the dirt that had been dumped in the cemetery.

“I don’t play bridge,” Newland said, hoping that would nip this in the bud.

“Oh that’s fine, dear,” Bitty said with a smile. “We play poker.”

How could Newland say no to that? He vowed to go easy on them as they settled down at the table.

Selma picked up the cards, split the deck in two, and executed the shuffle with all the precision and skill of a Vegas dealer. “Okay, ladies,” she said. “The game is seven card stud, eights or better to open, trips or better to win. Nothing wild. Ante up.”

• • •

Being taken to the cleaners was a mild way to put it. He hadn’t won a hand all night. Well, maybe he’d won two. But not good ones. He’d like to say that he blamed it on the fact that he was trying to gain information about the ghost and other items and details for his article. But the truth of the matter was these women were tough. Whether it was the wrinkles, the sunglasses, or that bright red lipstick, their poker faces were a study of perfection.

Maybe it was their age. Maybe because they’d had a longer life they had longer to perfect that deadpan look that gave nothing away.

Or maybe they were just sharks.

Sharks in flowered dresses, red berets, and overalls. He shook his head. “So, anybody know anything about that dirt in the cemetery?”

“Why, there’s dirt all over there,” Selma said.

“No, this is like a big mound of dirt sitting on the other side of that big oak.”

Bitty shook her head. “I don’t know why there would be any dirt in the cemetery. I mean, not in a pile, anyway. Nothing’s been buried there for a hundred years at least.”

“But there is dirt there,” Newland tried again.

“I don’t think it’s been a hundred years,” Myrtle said. “Maybe eighty.”

“It’s half covered with a tarp.”

“I think that Danny Carstairs was buried there in 1960,” Selma said.

Bitty shook her head. “I don’t think so. No wait, Danny was buried there because his father had bought a plot from his grandfather back in 1920-something.”

“How do you know that?” Myrtle grumped. “You weren’t even born in 1920-something.”

“I listen to people,” Bitty said. “You should try it.”

“Are you in?” Selma asked looking from Bitty to Newland.

He pushed his nickels across the table. What was that saying? In for a penny, in for a pound. As of right now he was in for a nickel in for a dollar.
And
he’d lost twenty dollars already. Good thing they weren’t playing for any more than pocket change.

“I wondered if anybody has seen anything lately. Maybe a bulldozer or some kind of earth moving equipment?” In a town the size of Turtle Creek surely a big bulldozer or excavator would draw attention.

But the women simply shook their heads.

“Not that I know of. Of course they could come in the middle of the night and I would never know it,” Myrtle said.

“I don’t sleep as good these days. So the doctor prescribed me some medication,” Selma said.

Myrtle shook her head. “All you need is a good shot of moonshine and that’ll knock you out.”

Bitty spread her cards on the table in front of her. “Read ’em and weep, ladies. Full house kings over fives.” She scraped the kitty toward her growing pile.

“Moonshine?” Newland asked. Moonshine was big business still, but these women drinking moonshine … it just didn’t seem quite right.

“I got some jars in the cellar,” Bitty said. “You want me to get you some?”

Newland shook his head. The last thing he needed to do was get his mind out of the game by drinking contraband liquor. No, thank you.