Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case Read online

  Art Fair and Foul Play

  As I climbed the porch stairs, I spotted my five-foot-nothing Aunt Sherry standing behind two six-foot folding tables that blocked the front door. A coatrack held small baskets of woven hemp and willow, and larger baskets made of those and other materials were scattered on the porch floor. A long swath of blue gingham fabric lay in and around the fallen baskets, the edges fluttering as if agitated by the swirling emotions instead of the mild breeze . . .

  Opposite my aunt stood the snarling star of the showdown in progress. She leaned over the folding table, her bloodred fingernails scary long and lethal-looking as she pointed at Sherry.

  “You’ll come to an agreement with me, Mrs. Cutler, and you’ll do it soon or you’ll be very sorry.”

  “But, Ms. Elsman,” my aunt began.

  “No ‘buts,’” the Elsman woman interrupted. “I want that option on your land, and I will by God have it.”

  She tucked her asymmetrically cut black hair behind an ear, lifted a stiletto-shod foot, and deliberately speared one of the medium-sized hemp baskets lying on the porch.

  Blame it on being tired and stressed, but the woman stomped on my last nerve, and my temper flared in a sonic boom of fury.

  “Back up and back off, lady,” I snarled.

  I heard heavy footfalls behind me—Detective Shoar’s, I guessed—but was too incensed to let him take the lead.

  The woman casually turned and arched a brow. “My name is Elsman, Ms. Jill Elsman, and I suggest you stay out of this. It does not concern you.”

  “Actually, it does.” The black-haired, black-eyed demon woman towered over me, but I stood straight and let her have it. “It so happens that Mrs. Cutler, the woman you just threatened, is my dearest aunt.”

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  BASKET CASE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2015 by Nancy K. Haddock.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-16504-5

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2015

  Cover illustration by Ann Wertheim.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  In memory of McSherry Wells Winstead, beach bud, shopping pal, and most dear friend. I miss you!

  In memory of Eugene M. Hendrix, lieutenant colonel, USMC, retired; and Virginia Price Hendrix. Hope you’re smiling on my “real” book, Mom! Dad, here’s the Arkansas story in honor of your side of the family!

  And to Yvonne and Tom Allen with many thanks for being my Magnolia guides and for being dear family friends.

  Acknowledgments

  I love acknowledgments because I get to publically thank everyone who helped make this book a reality.

  I fear acknowledgments because I know I’ll forget to thank someone. It’s happened before. Sooo, if you aren’t listed, it’s only my, ahem, mature memory at fault. That, or I’m protecting your identity as requested (wink, wink).

  Giant hugs go to Leis Pederson, extraordinary editor and fabulous friend, for being her amazing self. I can hardly wait to see you again, Leis!

  More giant hugs go to Roberta Brown, amazing agent and soul sister. Words fail, but you know how I feel, Roberta!

  Huge thanks to the people of Magnolia, Arkansas, for welcoming me, answering my questions, and clarifying so very many points. Among my research angels are Dana Thornton, Columbia County Library; Megan, CID secretary, and Heather, sheriff’s secretary, both of the Columbia County Sheriff’s Office; Brenda, Columbia County Prosecutor’s Office; and Randy Reed, Columbia County coroner. Angela Flurry Lester, former owner of Loft on the Square, and Deb Baker of Magnolia Cove also provided inspiration and information in and on Magnolia, and Frank Harrington of Field’s Cadillac in St. Augustine, Florida, answered car questions. Any goofs I may have made are my fault, not theirs!

  Although I’ve dedicated this book to the Allens, I have to thank them, too. Magnolia native Yvonne Allen and her dear hubby, Tom, of Sapulpa, Oklahoma, met me in Magnolia to drive me around their old stomping grounds and share stories of the past. I’ve known Yvonne and Tom since I was a tyke, and it was a gift to spend such a quantity and quality of time with them as an adult. Thanks, Yvonne and Tom!

  Big ole tubs of thanks to my critical reader Katelin Maloney, and to writing buds Julie Benson, Sandy Blair, Lynne Smith, and Lorraine Heath. And for my Writer Retreat cohorts, Neringa Bryant and L. A. Sartor, well, words aren’t enough. We worked and played together. You gave me the space and encouragement to finish the book. Ma’am, yes, ma’am, you did, and then you joined my celebration afterward. I love you both, and I can’t wait to do another retreat . . . whenever and wherever it might be!

  As always, deep and abiding appreciation for the caffeine and support from my friends at Starbucks #8484, Barnes & Noble #2796, and Second Read Books!

  Last but never least, thanks and love to my hubby for his support and brainstorming and charting help, and to my children for their love and unwavering encouragement.

  Contents

  Art Fair and Foul Play

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Crafting Tip

  Recipes

  Excerpt from Goodbye, Gourdgeous

  Chapter One

  I, LESLEE STANTON NIX, NIXY TO MY FRIENDS, HAD never been called on the carpet for anything. Up until four days ago, that is.

  Now I had third-degree rug burns and the
risk of being jobless.

  Why? Because my boss at Houston’s Gates Fine Arts Gallery, Barbra (like Streisand) Vole, had blown her nonexistent fuse when the Lilyvale, Arkansas, police detective Eric Shoar had called me at work. His fifth call in the last month, the second in the past ten days. Shoar’s deep, dreamy Southern drawl had stirred my feminine interest, but deep and dreamy hadn’t softened his complaints.

  “We had another incident at Miz Sherry Mae’s yesterday,” he’d begun. “Neighbors across the road reported booming sounds and smoke coming from the kitchen.”

  “Is anyone injured?” I’d asked on a gulp, my cell phone slick in my suddenly moist hand.

  “Thankfully, no.”

  “Did the fire department respond?”

  “They don’t respond anymore unless I call them, but do you want whatever the problem is to go that far?”

  “No, how can you think that?”

  “Then prove you care. You have one week to get up here and see to your aunt and her housemates.”

  “A week?” I’d echoed stupidly.

  “This needs to be an in-person visit, ma’am. Not a phone call.”

  “I hear you, but why the rush?”

  “First, because the situation—whatever it is—seems to be escalating. Second, because my chief of police is asking questions about all the complaints coming in and why I’m taking the calls instead of the patrol units. I can’t deflect him much longer.”

  “You’re investigating, so you’re doing your job. What’s there to question?”

  He coughed. “My reports might be on the sketchy side.”

  And the light dawned. “You’re protecting Sherry.”

  “Miz Sherry’s ancestors founded this town, and she’s served on the city council. Even been the mayor.”

  “That’s enough to cut her some slack?”

  “That and having had her for a teacher, but understand me, Ms. Nix. This is serious. I don’t want a tragedy on my hands, and I don’t want Miz Sherry and her friends to be declared wards of the court.”

  “What?” I’d gasped.

  “If the chief believes that Miz Sherry and her friends are a danger to themselves or others, he’ll have to act.”

  “You’d tell him they’re dangerous? You’d take away their independence? Their freedom?”

  “Not if I can help it.” He’d paused, then continued, “I understand that you don’t think you know Miz Sherry well enough to stick your nose in her business, but none of her housemates have people left. We need this resolved, and you’re the only relative in sight.”

  “I’ll get up there as soon as I can,” I’d said as I sagged against a wall.

  “Good. Come by the station when you’re in town. I’ll be happy to help you if I can.”

  With the threat of legal action against my aunt, I might’ve panicked and dashed off to Arkansas then and there. My mother, Sue Anne, had been a late-in-life child, ten years younger than Sherry Mae. I was a surprise late-in-life baby, too, and we’d lived in Tyler back then. Though Sherry and her husband, Bill Cutler, made trips to visit us in Texas, I didn’t remember visiting them in Arkansas. The families exchanged cards and letters and phone calls, but I didn’t know my aunt well. Not until my mother had suffered a stroke a year and a half ago and Sherry Mae had come to say good-bye to her sister.

  Sherry’s husband had died just over three years earlier, but she had housemates—a temporary arrangement that had become permanent. Because she didn’t have a deadline to be home, she’d been able to stay and support me through my mom’s death and through the myriad of funeral arrangements. Always calm and steady. Always ready to advise me without being the least bit pushy. Always ready to share stories of herself and Mom as girls and young women. I’d grown close to Sherry Mae during those weeks, and I was grateful for the chance to relate to her as an adult. It had been fun to stay in touch since then with regular e-mails and holiday cards, phone calls and photos. So many photos that I should recognize each blade of grass and every plank of the original hardwood floor when I saw it.

  Surprisingly, Barbra had given me time to be with my mom those precious days before she died, and time to take care of the services. After that, I’d used my weekends to wrap up her estate. Now, however, livid as Barbra was about my “sordid involvement” with the police, she wouldn’t give me emergency leave. She had demanded that I finish out the week to complete our latest art installation—work overtime, in fact. Four days of Shoar’s deadline shot, and Barbra had given me just until the middle of next week to return.

  Which is why I’d packed a small suitcase on Thursday night, finished every task Barbra dreamed up until we closed on Friday, and then finally hopped into the no-frills white Camry I’d inherited from my mom. Purse. Check. Directions to Sherry’s. Check. Sunglasses. On. I was ready to fight the weekend traffic leaving downtown Houston.

  At least the April weather was on my side. Not too hot, not too cold, not storming. I had daylight saving time in my favor, too, though I saw more buildings than roadside bluebonnets on the way out of town.

  Daylight melted into dusk, then dark, and my thoughts turned back to what waited in Lilyvale, southwest Arkansas.

  Lilyvale. The town my mother’s family had founded, but I’d never visited.

  Lilyvale. The town my stupid portable GPS unit probably couldn’t find.

  Lilyvale. The place I didn’t want to be, or at least not now. Not when I was so close to earning a promotion at the gallery.

  Okay, so I was only next-in-line to the assistant director’s assistant. Still, I’d made the gallery my life since owner Felina Gates had hired me. I’d busted my butt to earn double majors in fine art and art history, a minor in marketing, and a masters in art history. I excelled at my job, and I’d paid my dues. And now that Barbra was supposed to retire, I deserved the promotion.

  I deserved a massage, too. The Shreveport motel bed I’d fallen into after midnight left me with more aches than I’d had after my first and final kickboxing class. Up again at the crack of dawn, I showered, went through my pre-drive checklist, and hit the highway for the last leg of the trip.

  Though Sherry had mentioned that winter had lingered in Lilyvale, the day was sunny and clusters of early blooming wildflowers lined the two-lane country roads. The sight brightened my mood as I mentally made my schedule for the day. First, drop in on Detective Eric Shoar at the police station to prove I was in town as ordered, and then visit Aunt Sherry Mae.

  Just after nine, I cruised north on what appeared to be the Lilyvale main drag. The British male voice on my portable GPS kept telling me to make a U-turn as soon as it was safe. I ignored it.

  Not a minute later, I found the picturesque town square my mother had spoken of, and felt the oddest tug of comfort. A sign proclaimed that Hendrix County Courthouse stood before me, a two-and-a-half-story limestone structure on slightly elevated ground surrounded by magnolia trees and a riot of lilies. Lilies graced the base of a small white gazebo on the courthouse grounds, too. Businesses lined each side of the square, and yet more lilies, tulips, and even daisies bloomed in large cement planters outside the shops.

  Spring had not merely sprung here. Spring had reared up and slapped the soil into giving up riots of color.

  As I looked for the police station, I circled the entire square and noticed how it was laid out. An inner circle ran closer to the courthouse and served through traffic. Two outer sections opposite each other held two rows of diagonal parking spaces for shopper convenience, and parallel parking slots lined the other two streets that bordered the square. After circling the inner street twice, I hadn’t seen the police station, but did spot a shopkeeper opening her clothing store.

  In a sleepy Southern town, I didn’t give a second thought to asking for directions, so I parked in a diagonal slot next to a behemoth Buick land-boat with an elderly woman hunkered behind t
he wheel. The pristine powder-blue paint gleamed as much as the woman’s coifed gray hair, and I gave her a friendly nod as I beeped my locks and took the two steps up to the broad sidewalk.

  “Honey. Oh, honey,” I heard behind me.

  I turned to see the blue-Buick lady beckoning.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I put my sunglasses on top of my head as I neared her.

  “Honey, would you do me a little favor? Would you go in there”—she paused and pointed—“and tell Miss Anna that Miss Ida Bollings is waitin’ for her medicine.”

  I glanced up at the picture window reading simply PHARMACY in old-fashioned lettering. Mental shrug. I didn’t have an actual appointment with Shoar and had decided not to forewarn Aunt Sherry I was coming. Why not do a good deed? I’d deliver Miss Ida’s message and ask directions to the station.

  “That’s Miss Anna for Miss Ida’s medicine?”

  “That’s right, honey. They’ll put it on my account.”

  Right, and let a perfect stranger walk off with a prescription. Possibly a controlled substance.

  The inside of the store was as quaint as its sign. An antique oak glass-front cabinet dark with age sat along the left side of the space. Wood shelves filled with typical drugstore products ran down the middle and along the right wall of the store.

  “Help you?” The question came from one of the two middle-aged clerks seated behind the oak cabinet.

  “Um, yes. I’m a visitor in town, but Ida Bollings is outside and wants me to tell Miss Anna that she’s waiting for her medicine.”

  “Sure. That’s Miss Anna in the back.”

  I’d expected a clerk to take over, but what the heck. I approached Miss Anna, another woman of middle years who stood behind a raised counter, also made of oak, and also glowing with a dark patina.

  “May I help you?” she asked brightly.

  “I’m a visitor in town, but Miss Ida is in her car outside waiting for her medicine.”

  “Good. I have it right here.” Anna produced a brown glass bottle that looked like it had been made in the 1930s. “Now tell Miss Ida to take just one tablespoon full at a time. A tablespoon from her silverware drawer will do, and no more or it’ll make her drunk.”