Doing It at the Dixie Dew (24 page)

“Unless it's a tomb that belongs to a Merritt.” Scott put the cat down and helped me tuck in the sheets. I liked a guy who could make a bed. Or who didn't feel it beneath him to help make a bed.

I didn't like remembering the Merritt tomb. Sometimes, if I let myself, I could still smell that dry air, dust and darkness. Total darkness had a smell. I'd never forget that smell.

“Did you know when he left?” I wanted to ask a lot of questions, but that seemed the only safe question to start.

“I heard him,” Scott said, “when he left, and earlier. He's a sleepwalker. That noise I heard last night just before … when I got up so suddenly … was Mr. M. standing at the top of the stairs in his skivvies, dead asleep.”

I laughed. “He should have told us. Or locked himself in. What if he'd gone out the door? Walked down the street?”

“I got him all tucked in. Then he woke up and told me about leaving early, at five. I guess so I wouldn't come up and try to tuck him in again.”

So that's where Scott went so abruptly last night. He never said and I hadn't asked. There had been too much to do. Too many new discoveries being made. “No more blackberry wine,” I mumbled.

“What?” He picked up Mr. Murchison's sheets.

“Ida Plum told me about Ossie's call and Miss Tempie confessing. I still don't understand what it had to do with me.”

“You were a threat to Tempie. And she was running scared. You came back to restore your grandmother's old house, turn it into a business.”

“I can't understand how that was a threat to Miss Tempie. What it had to do with anything.”

“Miss Tempie talked about that, too.”

“She must have talked a lot,” I said.

“She had a lot to talk about.” Scott smoothed the bedsheets. “And Ossie listened well. You underestimate him.”

“So who killed Mama Alice?”

“Nobody. She fell. That's what I'm saying. She simply fell down the stairs and never regained consciousness. It was a stroke that caused her to fall.”

“But those notes Verna wrote?”

“Miss Tempie put her up to them. You knew that.”

“Why?”

“To scare you off. To get you to give up the Dixie Dew and leave. Sell. In one word, that's what they wanted.” Scott plumped a pillow, tossed it back on the bed.

“Sell to whom?” I asked.

“St. Ann … the diocese.” Scott stood back to admire his plumping.

“The condominium project.” I grabbed the bundle of soiled sheets and damp towels to take downstairs. Maybe a laundry chute could be built up here to send this stuff downstairs in a fast slide. New project for Scott? “The Dixie Dew stands in the way, I guess. And you saw the architect's drawings, the blueprints?”

“A long time ago.” Scott stood in the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets.

“That's why I had so much trouble getting workmen? Oh,” I said, “it all makes sense now. And you were willing to help me.”

“To save the Dixie Dew.” He grinned.

“Is that the only reason?”

“One of them, and as good a one as any.” He turned, went into the hall.

“About last night…” I started, but didn't get to finish. Scott had disappeared down the hall. I heard the vacuum roar, rattle and whine, thought there's something totally endearing about a man behind a vacuum cleaner.

The next edition of the
Littleboro Messenger
had the headline “Local Crime Solved,” with a picture of Rolfe beneath, who was being held. “They made Rolfe look like the country's number-one threat to society.” Malinda had brought in the newspaper and stood beside me at the kitchen counter reading over my shoulder. Farther down the page was “Local Native Found Dead” and a picture of Miss Tempie from when she graduated from Juilliard. Her body had been found in a wooded area on her vast estate, the article read. There was no evidence of foul play, and none was suspected. Miss Tempie was shown in profile. She was twenty-two, an all-American girl with a blond pageboy, beatific and wearing a single strand of pearls. She looked absolutely beautiful, ready to have the world worshiping at her feet.

“Suicide?” I asked.

“The slime pit.” Malinda shivered. “Maybe her mother didn't tell her a lady never takes her own life. The coroner said she was dressed in white from head to foot. They even found a large white hat floating beside her.”

“My hat,” I said. Somehow it must have fallen off when I jumped up from that tea table. I hadn't missed it. “Lord, she must have looked like a water lily,” I said, “against the black water. Monet would never have been inspired. Or some Pre-Raphaelite gone bad.”

The third item on the front page read: “Evidence in Murder Case Still Missing.” Miss Lavinia's jewels, reported to be worth a small fortune, still had not been recovered.

“I think you better turn yourself in … jewel thief,” Malinda said.

“I forgot!” I said. “How could I have forgotten?”

“Think our local law enforcement will buy your story? Crazy Reba won't be a reliable source … even if she confesses to the original theft.” Malinda flapped the sports section of the paper back and forth.

“I think as soon as the Mr. Green Polyester Pants Cousin gets his loot he'll be gone within the hour. No questions asked.” I fixed Malinda a glass of iced tea. “Want a sprig of mint in it?” I asked. “Or parsley?”

“I never want to see another sprig of parsley in my life,” said Malinda. “In fact, I almost break out in a rash when I hear the word.”

I guess Miss Lavinia had been trying to write in her farewell note something about how it wasn't parsley. Or “That is hemlock” or “That is the last time I have tea with Tempie Merritt.” I would never know.

Malinda and I spread the newspaper on the counter between us and read bits aloud.

“I really don't think our Ossie, as you call him, will question anything as long as he gets the rocks back.”

Malinda turned the page to “Society News,” which I always thought was an oxymoron if there ever was one. “Look,” she said.

“Engagement Announced.” There was Ossie in full uniform, badge shining like a prize medal, his arm around Juanita with her two-level teased hair. He wore a fat-cat grin and Juanita's blinding white smile was as tight as her last face-lift and new set of dental implants would allow.

“Well, what do you know!” I said.

“Her third.” Ida Plum came through with a set of sheets fresh from the ironer. “And who knows which it is for him.”

“Going to the wedding?” Malinda asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “I already know what I'm buying for a wedding gift.”

Malinda shook her head, hand on the back door, heading out. “Aren't you suddenly the benevolent one!”

“A set of knives,” I said. “And depending on my mood from now until then, I may or may not decide to enclose a coin to cut the bad luck.”

Malinda left laughing.

I could truly wish both Ossie and Juanita happiness. And a long life. Longer than Miss Lavinia, Father Roderick and Miss Tempie, too, wherever her little soul had flitted to.

On the back page of
The Mess
was a reprint of an article that had appeared in the
Baltimore Sun
travel section: “Yankees Going South, Go to the Dixie Dew.” The byline was of a Dillon Lucas, who must have been my mystery guest/travel writer who had spied on me and taken the photo of the Dixie Dew printed with the aritcle. In the picture on the walk in front of the Dixie Dew was a woman strolling a big white rabbit on a leash. The rabbit seemed to be smiling as if he'd just eaten something green and delicious. The woman looked like she owned the street, the sidewalk, the world.

If you looked closely at the photo you could see someone sitting on the front porch in the swing, wearing a bulky blanket and enough jewelry to almost be considered a breastplate. She seemed to be singing and had her arms raised toward Heaven.

Happy is as happy decides to be, I thought.

All was well in Littleboro. The rest of the world I couldn't worry about.

The doorbell still rang, and I picked up Sherman on the way to the front door. The Dixie Dew was still in business.

Maybe.

Acknowledgments

This is not to thank the members of my long-ago Charlotte writers' group who disliked this manuscript from word one.

My husband, who said “Whatever you do, don't write a novel. It takes too long. You'll never get it published and you can't plot.”

My sons, who asked, “What do you know about running a bed and breakfast?”

Note to my academic cell mates:
Doing It at the Dixie Dew
has the only two subjects W. B. Yeats said were worth writing about: sex and death. Plus the third one: food.

Seriously: I
do
want to thank my good friends Mignon Ballard and Molly Weston, who eat, sleep, and breathe mysteries. A trillion thanks to Jane Dunlap, who is my computer guru and best buddy. Judith Stanton, who alternately calmed and cheered. The Saturday group at Joyce Allen's. Also, more thanks to Karen Pullen and Sisters in Crime. Plus the Writers' Police Academy. Cathey Kidd—and she knows why. And more thanks than anyone can imagine to my genius editor, Toni Kirkpatrick, whose talented pen made this a better book in every way.

Also by Ruth Moose

Short Fiction

The Wreath Ribbon Quilt

Rules and Secrets

Neighbors and Other Strangers

Dreaming in Color

Poetry

Tea and Assorted Poems

The Librarian and Other Poems

About the Author

RUTH MOOSE is the 2013 winner of the Malice Domestic Best First Traditional Mystery Novel Competition. She won the PEN award for Syndicated Fiction, the Robert Ruark Award for the Short Story, and the Sam Ragan Fine Arts Award. She has received three Pushcart nominations and a National Endowment of the Arts Fellowship. She's published three collections of short stories and six collections of poetry. She was on the Creative Writing faculty at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill for fifteen years and received the chapman Award for teaching. She lives in Pittsboro, North Carolina.

Visit her on the Web at
www.ruthmoose.com
.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martin's Publishing Group.

DOING IT AT THE DIXIE DEW.
Copyright © 2014 by Ruth Moose. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.minotaurbooks.com

Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein

Cover illustration by Tom Hallman

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

e-ISBN 9781466846555

First Edition: May 2014