Read Online Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?: A Thoroughly Southern Mystery by Patricia Sprinkle - Free Book Online Page B

they were childhood heirlooms—
    When I thought about her coming home from a long, wet drive and finding the place like that, I teared up.
    Frank noticed, but he read me wrong. “We better let some of this smoke out.” He reached across the sink and shoved up both windows at once. The wet air was clean, but frigid.
    “Valerie don’t mean any harm,” he assured me, fanning with both thick hands. “She’s a bit what you might call absentminded.”
    I’d be more likely to agree with Meriwether and call it flaky, but I’ve always found it wise to humor folks the size of small mountains.
    I reached for my pocketbook, which was still on the table. “I guess I ought to be going.”
    “Us, too,” he said amiably. “Valerie and me play in a band, and we’re due to play for a wedding reception tonight, down near Sandersville.”
    “Shall I put out the fire in the living room before I go?”
    “I’ll do it.” He tromped through the door, then called back over one huge shoulder, “I can’t understand why she wanted a fire on a day like this, anyway. It’s plenty warm.”
    Not with the rain-filled air pouring through two open windows, reminding me again that this was November and I was soaked. I wanted to get in my nice dry car, turn the heater on high, and find me some supper.
    First, though, I gathered all my courage into one deep breath and said as he returned, “Don’t hit her again. The courts don’t look kindly—” His frown stopped me.
    He looked as fierce as Hagar the Horrible, his bushy reddish eyebrows almost meeting over his nose. “Did she tell you I hit her? I never. She run into a door.”
    “That’s what they all say,” I said grimly.
    He shook his head. “I wouldn’t hit her. Even if I had a mind to, my mama would kill me if I ever hit a woman.”
    I tried to picture a mother who could threaten this man and get away with it, but my imagination boggled. Neither could I picture Valerie simply walking into a door. “Well, just remember what I said. Good night.”
    As I went out, I saw a black leather jacket and a shiny silver helmet slung across one of Edie’s rockers like they were at home. A black-and-silver Harley was pulled to the far side of the carport, out of the wet. On the grass beyond the back steps, the small table and chair sat in the downpour with little dishes scattered about them.
    I called from the porch, “Come help me clean up this mess before we leave.”
    Frank clumped out, carrying a tray. Together we sought dishes in the high grass under a glaring light that was as much hindrance as help. I was soaked and shaking so much my teeth sounded like castanets. He seemed oblivious to the wet and cold. His huge hands were awkward in picking up tiny dishes, but he combed the slick grass with his fingers to find every shard. He didn’t say a word until we were finished, then he held up a handful of pieces.
    “Some of it can’t be fixed, but I think this here’s all the pieces of the teapot and one of the bowls. I can glue them good as new.”
    If they were antiques, Edie would want them glued by an expert. “Let’s leave them on the table. I’ll write her a note,” I suggested. “If she wants you to glue them, you can do it later.”
    When we’d set all the dishes on the kitchen table beside Alex’s files, he muttered, “I’m real sorry I broke some of it. I was thinking more about the fire than the dishes.”
    “You saved her house,” I reminded him. “I’ll call her later to explain what happened.”
    “That’s good. Like I said, we gotta play at a wedding reception near Sandersville, and we probably won’t be back until Edie’s asleep.” Reminded, he turned his head and yelled, “Valerie? Get your tail down here. We gotta go, girl!”
    I found a small pad near the telephone and left a note for Edie explaining the fire, taking equal blame and saying I’d be glad to ask Maynard Spence at Wainwright Antiques to arrange for repair or to look for another tea