It's Your Party, Die If You Want To Page 2

  “What time do you expect Larry Joe home?” she asked.

  “Around two in the morning. He had to run a load of freight to St. Louis.”

  My husband and his dad own McKay Trucking. Generally, my father-in-law oversees shipping and administrative matters while Larry Joe handles sales and clients. But in a pinch they both do whatever’s necessary, like most small business owners.

  “Are they still short-handed?”

  “Not so much with drivers, but they’re still short a mechanic,” I said.

  A couple of months back, the FBI had discovered a drug ring operating through McKay Trucking, unbeknownst to Larry Joe and his dad. They were still dealing with the aftermath, including staff shortages due to two employees who were killed and a couple more who were now in jail.

  “The driver who was scheduled for the St. Louis run was involved in a motorcycle accident last night.”

  “Was he hurt bad?”

  “He should be okay, but he has some broken bones and a dislocated shoulder.”

  “Ouch,” she said. “I guess it could’ve been a lot worse.”

  Di leaned back on the chaise longue, stretching out the full length of her frame, which is several inches taller and several pounds lighter than my own.

  “So how was your day, honey?” Di asked.

  “I had lunch with Morgan Robison.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “That’s just what Winette said. The annual PWAD retreat is this weekend and Morgan gave me my to-do list.”

  “So what’s your assignment?”

  “Basically, I’m supposed to babysit our guest speaker, pick her up at the airport, chauffeur her around, and make sure she has everything she requires.”

  “And who is this VIP?”

  “Lucinda Grable,” I said.

  “That woman who talks to dead people on TV?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Lucky you,” she said.

  “Yep.”

  We both spent a quiet moment sipping our iced tea and enjoying the stir of a fall breeze that shook a few spent leaves from the trees and gently ruffled Di’s shoulder-length, strawberry-blond hair.

  “So what’s the story with Lucinda Grable? Didn’t she grow up around here?”

  Having lived in Dixie more than six years now, Di was pretty well acquainted with the locals. But since she’s not a lifer like me, she occasionally asks about the more distant past.

  “She did, indeed,” I said. “She and Morgan were a few years behind me in school. They were both cheerleaders at Dixie High School and went on to be roommates at Ole Miss.”

  “You mean Morgan actually has a friend? One who pees sitting down?”

  “Hard to imagine, but it seems so.”

  “So will Miss Grable be staying at the big house with Morgan and her parents?”

  “No. She’s staying at the hotel.”

  “If they’re such old, dear friends, why isn’t Morgan picking her up at the airport or having her as a guest at her own home?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I didn’t ask. Not that Morgan gave me the chance. But from my experience, it’s probably easier to be friends with Morgan if you don’t spend too much time with her. Besides, Lucinda is going to be spending the night out at the retreat center with Morgan and the rest of the PWAD members on Friday. And her camera crew is also staying at the hotel. Maybe it’s just more convenient.”

  “Her camera crew, huh? So are the women of PWAD going to be featured on TV with the ghost whisperer?”

  “I don’t think so, or at least not according to Morgan. She said they’re filming footage of Lucinda in her hometown and such, and they might include a scene from that little family cemetery behind the retreat center.”

  “Do Lucinda’s folks still live around here?”

  “Actually, her parents died in a car accident when she was quite young. Her grandmother raised her, but her granny passed away a few years back.”

  “Maybe she developed a morbid fascination with ghosts because her mom and dad died when she was a kid,” Di offered.

  “Could be,” I said, wondering just what would entice someone into stalking cemeteries for a living.

  “I wonder if she collects men the way Morgan does,” Di said.

  “I’m not sure even Morgan gets around with as many men as local gossip would have us believe. How could she possibly have the time?”

  “It doesn’t necessarily take that much time—depending on the man, of course,” she said.

  “Speaking of men . . .”

  “Don’t ask me about Sheriff Davidson,” Di said. “I’ve put the lawman on probation.”

  * * *

  Di left for her weekly yoga class. I had quickly dropped the conversation about Dave. From her tone I knew better than to pursue it any further.

  Sheriff Eulyse “Dave” Davidson and Di are two people who obviously have feelings for each other, but just can’t seem to get on the dance floor at the same time. Dave’s a widower who lost his wife to cancer a few years ago. Di suffered through an ugly divorce from a man who had left her in dire straits financially, as well as emotionally.

  I made myself a turkey wrap for dinner and tossed a load of laundry into the washing machine. During the wash cycle, I logged onto the computer to see what I could dig up about Lucinda Grable and what she’s been up to since she moved away from Dixie and became famous. Since I would be stuck in a car with her all the way from the Memphis airport to Dixie, I thought it might be easier to make conversation with the woman if I had a bit of background information.

  After graduating from Ole Miss, Lucinda had started her own business as an event planner. A ghost tour of Oxford she had organized and led for a group of tourists was such a hit that ghost tours soon became the cornerstone of her business. Apparently, traipsing through cemeteries “awakened” some latent psychic abilities.

  She drummed up funding to shoot a documentary of her ghost tour. The short film traded on the atmosphere of Oxford’s ancient cedars, the provenance of William Faulkner’s purportedly haunted home, Rowan Oak, and a fog machine to ratchet up the spooky factor. The documentary was so well received that it had garnered an offer for her own show on cable, which is wildly successful.

  After moving my freshly washed clothes over to the dryer, I checked out the celebrity gossip sites to see if anyone was airing Lucinda’s dirty laundry. It seemed she had developed a reputation for being quite the diva with her staff, changing personal assistants almost as often as most people change socks.

  If rumors were to be believed, Lucinda had been through a series of romances involving a jazz musician, a movie producer, and a talk show host, none of which lasted very long. There was also talk that she and her hunky personal trainer were up to more than Pilates lessons during their private sessions.

  My cell phone buzzed, and I answered the call.

  “I just finished supper at the diner with a couple of women from my yoga class,” Di said. “I’m buying a pie to take home. Since you mentioned Larry Joe wouldn’t be home til late, I thought I might stop by on my way. If you have any interest in pie, that is.”

  “You’re always welcome to come over with or without pie,” I said. “But I certainly wouldn’t turn up my nose at a slice.”

  I put on a pot of coffee, unlocked the kitchen door, and reached in my purse to press the button on the garage opener. I saw the headlights flash across the windows as Di pulled into the driveway. I was retrieving plates from the cupboard when she slipped in through the door from the garage.

  Di unboxed the pie, and I grabbed a pie server from the drawer.

  “Mmm, peach pie,” I said. “Do you want me to warm up your slice in the microwave, too?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  We filled our coffee cups and sat down at the kitchen table. The peachy, cinnamon scent of the warm pie was intoxicating. I savored the aroma and flavor as the first bite melted in my mouth.

  “Do
you want a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of your pie?” I asked.

  “Naw. I don’t think you could improve on this,” she said.

  Di told me about yoga class, and I filled her in on what I’d discovered online about Lucinda.

  After a beat, Di blurted out, “Liv, do you believe the theory that there’s someone for everyone?”

  “I don’t know, I suppose so. Why?”

  “I’ve been thinking about Ted.”

  “Really?” I said, my voice involuntarily rising half an octave.

  “Not for me, you idiot,” she said, giving me the evil eye times two.

  “Okay,” I said, throwing my hands up into a “don’t shoot” posture. “I get it.” Then, in a cringe-worthy homage to Bob Marley, I began singing, “Di likes the sheriff, but she does not date the deputy.”

  “Sometimes I have to strain to remember why I’m even friends with you,” she said, trying hard not to smile. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking how Ted is such a nice guy, but he has absolutely no clue when it comes to women. He’s bound to get lonely. I’m convinced that’s why he joined my class—he certainly has no affinity for yoga. But none of those women will give him the time of day.”

  “I agree,” I said. “It’s too bad Ted can’t find a girlfriend. His job can be pretty stressful. It’d be nice if he at least had someone to hold his hand and listen to him after a rough day. Of course, in a town as small as Dixie there’s a limited pool of prospects.”

  “Hmm, I wonder. . . .” Di mumbled, staring into space.

  “You have someone in mind, don’t you?” I said, dying to know who she thought might be a good match for our lovelorn deputy.

  “Maybe,” she said. “There’s a woman who recently moved to town. She’s renting the Woodleys’ house over on Willow Street.”

  “They went to live with their daughter somewhere in Kentucky, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t want to sell the house in case it didn’t work out, so they put it up for rent. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, their tenant joined my yoga class.”

  “What makes you think she’d be a good match for Ted?”

  “She seems as shy and awkward as he is. And it could be my imagination, but I think I’ve seen her stealing glances at Ted. Then again, he is the only straight man in the class.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Short, mousy. Kinda cute, in a pixie sort of way. She’s at least as good looking as Ted, and she doesn’t have a bad figure,” Di said. “Here’s the thing: Even if they’re perfect for each other, they’re both so shy I don’t think they’ll ever get together without some outside help. Would you be willing to help me work a little matchmaking magic?”

  “Sure. I’m a hopeless romantic,” I said. “But I’m a little surprised you’d be willing to dabble in matchmaking. It’s a bit out of character for you. No offense.”

  “None taken. I know I’m not a hopeless romantic, as you say. But I do occasionally have a compassionate streak. Dave mentioned that Ted’s seemed pretty down lately. And when a man actually notices someone else’s feelings, especially another man’s, I figure it must be pretty serious. Dave would never come up with the notion that a girlfriend is what Ted needs—he’d more likely just take him out for a beer. So it’s pretty much up to you and me to cheer up Ted, or at least give him a shot at finding happiness with someone.”

  “I’m on board. What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, I’ll try to find out more about the new kid in town,” Di said, “what she does for a living and if she has any outside interests, besides yoga.

  “Since Ted eats lunch at the diner most days, I thought you could stake out a table and ask him to join you one day this week. Just casually try to find out what kind of movies and music he likes and inquire about the yoga class to see if he mentions anyone in particular, like the new chick. Once we have some background information, we can cook up a plan to bring them together.”

  “Okay, I’m game.”

  Di took the rest of her pie and headed home. I wondered if she’d be sharing some peach pie with a certain handsome sheriff later on.

  Chapter 3

  After Di had gone, I glanced at the clock and noticed the time. It was only a little after seven PM, but that made it after eight Eastern time. I decided to give my sister a call before it got too late. She was well into her third trimester and tended to go to bed pretty early these days.

  She answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, Liv,” she said, followed by a labored sigh.

  “Hey, little sister. Are you okay?” I asked. “You sound a little pained.”

  “I was just sitting down,” she said. “Everything’s awkward and uncomfortable when your stomach’s the size of a watermelon.”

  “Aw, Emma, it won’t be much longer now until you’re carrying that baby in your arms instead of your belly.”

  I asked her what my adorable three-year-old niece, Lulu, was up to these days. She’s becoming quite the little diva.

  “Lulu never wants to wear any of the clothes I pick out for her,” Emma said. “She’s got her own fashion sense. Something best described as gaudy sparkle.

  “I’d been keeping some of Lulu’s out-of-season clothes in the chest of drawers that I’d moved into the nursery. I had cleared out a couple of the drawers and started putting some of the baby’s clothes in there. Lulu went through those drawers and tossed all the baby clothes onto the floor. When I got onto her about it, she told me I’d have to find somewhere else for the baby’s clothes because she couldn’t spare the drawer space.”

  Emma and I both laughed, and I asked her if Lulu sounded like Mama when she said it.

  “Don’t even go there,” Emma said. “Although I might as well accept it. She’s definitely got Mama’s eyes, so I shouldn’t be surprised if she’s got some of her meemaw’s attitude, too.”

  “Speaking of attitude . . .” I said, and proceeded to tell Emma about Mama calling me to kill a snake for her.

  “I rushed over there like a crazy woman, thinking she was dying,” I said. “Of course, by the time I left I was ready to kill her.”

  “That’s Mama all over,” Emma said, laughing. “Dear one minute and deranged the next. You remember at family reunions how she always made Uncle Junior roll up his pant leg and show everybody the hole in his calf?”

  “Then she’d tell everyone what a traumatic ordeal it had been for her,” I noted with a giggle.

  “Liv, you have to promise me that when I have this baby you’ll make the trip up to Charlotte with Mama. I know she can handle watching after Lulu and helping with the baby, as well as doing the cooking and the cleaning. But I need you to take care of the more complicated job of handling Mama—so Hobie doesn’t kill her and so I can get some rest.”

  “That depends somewhat on when you have this baby, little sister,” I said. “I can’t possibly leave town until after Halloween.”

  “I feel pretty confident, and so does my doctor, that this baby won’t make his or her debut until after Halloween.”

  “In that case, you couldn’t keep me away,” I said.

  Emma sounded tired, so I encouraged her to get some rest while Lulu was asleep.

  I had planned to stay up until Larry Joe made it home. About midnight, I propped myself up on a pile of pillows against the headboard and started reading Lucinda Grable’s book, Ghost Encounters, which I had downloaded to my Kindle. I fell asleep while reading, but woke up screaming and leapt out of bed when Larry Joe kissed me on the forehead.

  “Whoa, there. It’s just me,” he said, standing on the other side of the bed already stripped down to his plaid boxers.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I was reading ghost stories before I went to sleep. I guess I’m kinda jumpy.”

  Truth is, I never used to be jumpy in my own home. But during all the unpleasantness surrounding the murders and drug smuggling, two men had broken into our house. The intrusion had left a lingering uneasiness that
was going to take some time for me to get past.

  My husband got into bed and I snuggled up next to him, nuzzled my nose into one of his irresistible dimples, and traced a line through the cleft in his chin with my finger.

  “Since when do you read ghost stories?”

  “Since Lucinda Grable is going to be the guest speaker at our retreat this weekend. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

  We cuddled and nuzzled and more before drifting off into a contented sleep.

  * * *

  When I woke up Thursday morning, Larry Joe had already left for work. I wished he would have slept in after getting to bed so late, but I can’t trust him to take care of himself when it comes to business. Things have gotten even worse since his dad had a heart attack a couple of months ago. Larry Joe tries to head off any problems at the office before his dad has time to worry.

  Since I had left my car parked at the office the day before and I didn’t get up early enough to catch a ride with Larry Joe, I had to depend on my feet to get me to work. I poured some coffee in a travel mug, slipped on a light jacket, and headed out.

  A few minutes before nine, I walked into Sweet Deal Realty. Winette was making coffee, both high-octane and decaf varieties. We chatted as I placed information packets at each seat around the conference table.

  Members of the planning committee for a charity fund-raiser began arriving one or two at a time. We were there to iron out the final details of an ambitious Halloween event to raise money for Residential Rehab, which provides house repairs for the elderly and disabled in our community.

  Nearly everyone in town was pitching in to make this fund-raiser a success. People’s excitement about the project could be attributed to the fact that it’s a worthy cause and to the hard work and enthusiasm of RR’s director, Winette. At least those are the reasons I had agreed to sign on as chairperson.

  On Halloween night, there would actually be a series of fund-raisers happening simultaneously. A haunted hayride and bonfire for the teens would be held at a farm just outside town, with some parents for chaperones. A local church with a large hall and gym would be hosting children’s activities. Parents could drop off their kids, who would enjoy games and candy under the reliable supervision of local teachers and church workers.