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  With the big and little kids taken care of, parents and grandparents could participate in the main event of the night—a Clue-themed murder mystery dinner, followed by a dance at the country club.

  Everything for the event would be donated, from local farmers and grocers sending the food to local chefs preparing the dinner to a local band playing at the dance. At twenty dollars a head for the dance and one hundred dollars a plate for the dinner, we hoped to raise a whole lot of money for Residential Rehab.

  “Hi, Liv. Here’s an updated printout from this morning,” Bryn Davenport said, handing me a short stack of papers. Bryn is the director of the Dixie Chamber of Commerce and had been kind enough to allow people to register for the fund-raiser events via the chamber Web site.

  “Thanks, Bryn,” I said. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you and the chamber board for letting us use the Web site for registrations. It’s definitely made my life easier.”

  “Just about all our chamber members are involved with the fund-raiser, including you,” Bryn said. “So we’re glad to help.”

  Winette placed boxes of doughnuts and a stack of napkins on the table before we got down to business. Dorothy, the mayor’s secretary, immediately scooped up three doughnuts and piled them on a napkin in front of her.

  As chairperson, I brought the meeting to order just after nine. Everyone was present except Morgan, who was reliably late.

  “I have a concern,” Pastor Bryce Downing said. “There’s a cash bar listed here. When was that added? I mean, wine with dinner is one thing . . . but I don’t think an open bar is appropriate. I think most of my congregation would be uncomfortable with that.”

  “Only wine will be offered during dinner. The cash bar will be set up at the dance afterward,” I said, surmising that Pastor Bryce and the more conservative members of his congregation weren’t likely to bust a move or pay to watch other people move their bodies in a rhythmic fashion. “So those who might be uncomfortable with the cash bar may want to opt out of the dance portion of the evening.”

  He grunted and looked sullen, but let it go. Morgan swept through the front door like an ill wind, chattering away about how unbelievably busy she was while her high heels clicked loudly against the tile floor.

  As soon as she sat down in a chair that one of the men had jumped up to pull out for her, she began her tirade without waiting to be recognized by the chair.

  “I see on the mockup for the ad and the posters that Dixie Savings and Loan is way down on the list with all the other contributors for the fund-raiser. While we really should be listed above all the names as a primary sponsor, I’m not asking for that. Daddy’s a very humble man, and we don’t want to put the spotlight on us. But I think it’s only reasonable to put the bank name at the top of the list. Can you take care of that, Liv, when you talk to the printers?”

  The bank wasn’t “way down” on the list. The sponsors were listed in alphabetical order.

  “Morgan, it’s already been printed,” I said, with as much kindness as I could muster. “The committee voted at the last meeting to list the sponsors in alphabetical order. I believe you had to miss that meeting for some reason.”

  “Whatever,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “I should know by now that things are going to get overlooked when I’m not able to make it to a meeting.” She pulled a bottle of mineral water from her large purse and took a sip. She shot a look of disapproval at a man across the table from her who had just stuffed a jelly doughnut in his mouth. He froze for a moment, like a deer in headlights.

  “Liv, I think providing a fruit platter at these meetings would be a better choice than these artery-clogging pastries. Anyway, moving on,” she said without pausing for comment. “Just who are you thinking about asking to judge the costume contest at the dinner?”

  I explained that the judges had already been approved by the committee and had already accepted our invitation to judge the contest. The judges were Mayor Virgil Haynes; Mrs. Cooley, the high school drama teacher; and Hayley Wright, who was crowned Miss Dixie during the annual Dixie Fourth of July celebration.

  “Oh, that’s just ridiculous,” Morgan said, scanning the faces of those seated around the table and looking at us as if we’d lost our minds. “I understand that you asked the mayor as a courtesy. But Mrs. Cooley and Hayley know nothing about fashion or style—it’s obvious by the way they dress. I know I’m probably a teensy bit biased, but Daddy is by far the best-dressed man in town. I don’t think any sensible person would argue that point. And Rowena Whitby, who owns Glad Bags and Fine Rags, sells the only clothing in town that could be described as fashionable.”

  Rowena Whitby also just happens to be Morgan’s cousin.

  “Morgan, we clearly can’t withdraw our invitations,” I said. “They’ve already been asked and have accepted.”

  “I don’t know why I bother. I really don’t,” Morgan said before springing up from her chair and storming out the front door.

  After a moment of stunned silence, I smiled, raised my eyebrows, and said, “So . . . is there any other business before we adjourn?”

  Everyone laughed and shook their heads as they began gathering up their meeting notes.

  I helped Winette clear the food debris off the table before heading up to my office.

  Tossing the doughnut remains and Styrofoam coffee cups reminded me that I needed to check the catering contract for my clients’ upcoming engagement party. Sometimes the host or venue handles trash removal and in other cases the caterer handles it. Even though we were using a caterer I had worked with often and one that generally handled trash removal from parties at private residences, I’ve learned never to take anything for granted. The person responsible for cleanup and trash removal should always be clearly spelled out—or things can start to stink pretty quickly.

  * * *

  Just after lunch I had a meeting scheduled with my clients to go over some details for the engagement party.

  I stood to greet recently engaged Rachel and her mother, Jo Ann Dodd. At Rachel’s suggestion, her parents, who were hosting the party, had requested a riverboat gambler theme. Her fiancé, Mark, works in marketing for one of the casinos in Tunica—the Las Vegas strip of the mid-South—and the theme was intended to be a surprise for him. Since this would be the first opportunity for the Dodds’ extended family and all of Mark’s kin to get acquainted, they wanted to create a relaxed atmosphere.

  Like many couples, Rachel and Mark were planning a more traditional wedding and reception, so the engagement party presented the perfect occasion to have some fun with a theme.

  Mrs. Dodd seemed pleased with the details for a whiskey and cigar “lounge” area at the party. I had to play peacemaker at our previous meeting when Mr. Dodd announced that he wanted to pass out cigars at the party like he did when his beautiful daughter was born. Mrs. Dodd had become quite upset and told him that handing out cigars would look as if he were celebrating having finally found a man he could unload their daughter on.

  I had diplomatically suggested a whiskey and cigar lounge, where drinks and cigars distributed by a bartender, rather than by Mr. Dodd, would work perfectly with the riverboat gambler theme.

  Jo Ann and Rachel left smiling—always the hallmark of a successful meeting.

  After seeing my clients out, I gathered up my things to drive to the airport to pick up our celebrity speaker for the PWAD retreat.

  I allowed plenty of time to navigate heavy traffic on Interstate 40 coming into Memphis and made it to the Memphis International Airport well before Lucinda Grable’s flight was scheduled to arrive. The lighted arrivals/departures board indicated that her flight was running on time.

  I had made a little sign that read GRABLE to hold up so my VIP could find me. Spotting her was easy enough. A contingent of fans enveloped her as she stepped off the escalator, taking photos with their smartphones and waving bits of paper for her to sign.

  I approached the circle of adoration and he
ld my little homemade sign aloft to draw Lucinda’s attention. She posed for a few photos, but brushed off requests for autographs.

  “I’m sorry, y’all. But I can’t stay for any more photos or autographs. I’m on a pretty tight schedule, and it looks like my driver has arrived.”

  I didn’t remember ever hearing her say “y’all” on her TV show, so I assumed it was an affectation for the benefit of the locals. I introduced myself as she approached, but she just kept walking. I hurried to catch up with her.

  “Where’s the car?” she asked as we passed through the automatic doors into the sunlight.

  “I lucked out and snagged a spot in the first lot, just across there,” I said, motioning toward the parking lot directly ahead of us.

  Lucinda sighed deeply and stopped dead in her tracks. When she remained motionless for a long moment, I gathered that was my cue to fetch the car and pull around to pick her up.

  “Do you have any luggage I need to retrieve?” I asked, since she was holding nothing but a small designer handbag.

  “My staff handles that sort of thing,” she said, pausing before adding “Thank you” with a forced smile that looked as if it hurt her face.

  I drove the borrowed Bentley, belonging to Morgan’s parents, around to the curb. Morgan had insisted that Lucinda would be more comfortable in the Bentley than in my SUV. When Lucinda remained statuelike, I jumped out of the car like a good little chauffeur and started around to open the door for her. A curbside porter beat me to it, opening the door to the backseat and telling Lucinda how happy he was to welcome her to Memphis. She flashed him a million-dollar smile and slid gracefully onto the seat.

  The moment I pulled away from the curb, she pulled her cell phone out of her purse and started punching in numbers. She talked all the way to Dixie—but not to me.

  When I delivered her to the hotel, her personal assistant was waiting for her in the lobby. I was more than happy to pass off the thankless job of tending to Lucinda to someone else.

  I called Larry Joe on my cell phone and told him supper tonight would be restaurant or takeout, his pick. He said Mexican sounded good to him. I wrapped up a few things at the office before heading out to meet him for dinner.

  Taco Belles serves an intriguing menu of “South-ernized” Mexican fare. Around six PM, Larry Joe pulled into the restaurant parking lot right behind me. He caught up to me in the lot and gave me a quick kiss just before opening the door to the eatery.

  “Table for two?” Miss Maybelle Wythe said, grabbing a couple of menus and walking toward a table near a window without waiting for an answer.

  “So, how are the McKays doing today?”

  “Can’t complain,” Larry Joe said. “How about you, Miss Maybelle?”

  “I shouldn’t complain, but I don’t let that stop me,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

  Maybelle and Annabelle Wythe never married and, now in their seventies, own and operate Taco Belles, a local institution.

  “Will you and Miss Annabelle be coming to the PWAD retreat this weekend?” I asked.

  “We’re planning to. I always enjoy it, and I think it’s a treat for Annabelle. You know her mind’s just getting worse all the time.”

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

  “The doctor says it’s not Alzheimer’s, still it’s hard to take her places these days—she sometimes wanders off and gets confused. But the retreat should be a safe environment. Everybody knows her, and she can’t get into too much trouble. Is it true that Lucinda what’s-’er-name will be leading us on some kind of ghost hunt?”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Oh, goody,” she said, before buzzing away to welcome another customer.

  “Oh, goody,” Larry Joe said, mimicking Miss Maybelle. “So is Lucinda Grable going to be taping your group for her TV show?”

  “Lord, I hope not. If she does, I’ll be the ghostly figure standing behind a tree.”

  “I can’t believe grown folks are going to be standing out in a graveyard trying to conjure spirits,” he said.

  “It might be fun. Everyone enjoys a good ghost story. You’re just jealous because I’ll be spending the weekend with a big TV celebrity. By the way, what are you going to do with yourself while I’m at the retreat?”

  “I’m going to work on the house, of course. I did promise you a working shower in the upstairs bathroom by Thanksgiving.”

  It was my turn to say, “Oh, goody,” knowing the ongoing renovations on our fixer-upper house weren’t likely to be completed by Thanksgiving—or ever.

  Chapter 4

  Morgan had asked me to accompany her to the retreat venue on Friday morning to make sure everything was in order before the retreat attendees arrived that evening.

  There are three lodges scattered over forty wooded acres at the St. Julian’s Retreat Center. It was originally founded as a church-affiliated property, but was now open for bookings for civic and professional groups as well. The main building, Eagle Lodge, was the biggest, with more private rooms. Lark Lodge, where PWAD was booked, was a bit smaller and less luxe, with mostly dormitory-style rooms. Sparrow Lodge was the smallest and by far the most rustic, with an attached bunkhouse.

  We met Tammy Gray at the main lodge, who gave us the keys and the security codes—one for the lodge, one for the front gate. She and her husband, Keith, managed the retreat center and lived in a log cabin behind the main lodge.

  Tammy, a sturdy woman wearing an oversized flannel shirt, drove us to our lodge in a golf cart to ensure everything was in order. Naturally, Morgan sat in the passenger seat next to Tammy. I perched on the narrow rear bench, facing backward with my legs dangling, enjoying the scenery of where we’d just been. I bounced along with my fanny spending as much time in the air as on the seat as Tammy navigated a road that was mostly dirt with a bit of gravel mixed in.

  Tammy parked in front of Lark Lodge, which would be our home for the weekend. The log building, framed by large sweet gum trees ablaze with color, was picture-postcard perfect.

  “It’s a busy weekend,” Tammy said. “In Eagle Lodge, three Pentecostal churches are holding a joint choir retreat, so you may hear some Amens and Hallelujahs wafting from that direction. I also wanted to let you know there’s a group of pagans or some such called Sisters of the Full Moon staying at Sparrow Lodge. They said they plan to do some kind of outdoor ritual, and I’m not altogether clear on whether or not this ceremony involves wearing clothes. They paid cash; I didn’t ask. So if you ladies go out for a walk, I’d suggest strolling toward the lake instead of in the other direction.”

  Morgan seemed unsettled at the thought that there might be a group of naked pagans staying at the neighboring lodge. This struck me as a bit ironic coming from a woman who’s president of a group called pee wad that had booked a psychic ghost hunter as its guest speaker.

  After we had finished our inspection at the retreat center, Morgan dropped me off on town square, idling her Corvette just long enough for me to disembark before she sped away.

  After grabbing a quick lunch at the diner, I had a conference call scheduled for an upcoming event. I had recently been hired by a nearby community college to handle plans for its December graduation reception.

  My conference call was a joint meeting with the director of marketing and the director of student services. I always prefer to meet in person, but they had said they couldn’t work it out with their schedules—even though I would have gone to them and their offices are in the same building. My suspicion, which was pretty much confirmed by the phone call, was that there was some marking of territory going on between the two. Unfortunately, I was the one mostly getting tinkled on.

  I’m accustomed, however, to dealing with husband-and-wife clients who are often at odds over party plans. I get to play mediator and try my darnedest to make everyone happy. I can usually figure out pretty quickly which one of the pair I really answer to and which one I merely need to humor. In the case of Who’
s the Boss? at the community college, I was able to ascertain that the marketing director was the one who would be authorizing my payments. This moved her directly to the top of the totem pole.

  I wrapped things up at the office a little early and headed home to pack my overnight bag for the retreat before picking up our guest of honor at her hotel.

  * * *

  I drove the Bentley while Lucinda sat in the backseat like a head of state attending to business on her cell phone. Bits and pieces of her side of the conversations led me to believe she was conferring in turn with her agent, her boyfriend, and her personal trainer. It wasn’t completely clear whether her boyfriend and personal trainer were the same person, although the celebrity gossip sites had suggested they were. She finally spoke to me after losing cell phone reception in the hinterlands of Delbert County.

  “Darlin’, how much farther is it? I never knew Delbert County was so big.”

  I couldn’t help thinking that since she grew up in Dixie, she should have had some idea of how large and rural Delbert County was. I also couldn’t help noticing how she always addressed me as “darlin’” or “hon.” Presumably, this saved her the nuisance of having to remember the names of us little people.

  “It won’t be long now,” I said, speaking to the rearview mirror with a forced smile. Her breast implants seemed to leap out at me. I wondered if the car’s center mirror created an optical illusion in reverse of the “objects may be closer than they appear” way that the exterior side mirrors do. As we approached the driveway to the retreat center, I struggled to remember the gate code Tammy had given us. Fortunately it was a moot point, since the gate was open when we arrived. I drove slowly down the bumpy gravel road. As we approached the main lodge Lucinda said, “This looks nicer than I expected.”