with no problem, but, I reminded myself, she hadn't been there.
We chatted for a few minutes until she asked what I'd heard from Garnet. I really wanted to ask her how many letters she had received, but didn't, because that would mean I'd have to admit I'd had none. So I switched the subject to the real reason I was here-finding out who had a motive to kill Bernice Roadcap.
Greta spilled coffee down the front of her T-shirt. “You think Bernice was murdered?”
Was she putting me on? Greta usually knew about everything that went on in town-often, it seemed, even before the people involved were aware something had happened to them.
A voice behind me screeched, “Did I hear you say Bernice was murdered? Impossible. Now, if it had been Oretta, I'd understand.”
I swiveled to see who it was. I didn't recall ever having seen the pudgy gentleman in a stained artist's smock and beret who had pushed his way into our conversation. He was Hollywood's idea of an artist, I thought, right out of a forties movie.
“Why do you say that?” I asked him.
“Oh, my dear, that Oretta is such a bitch!” He pulled a chair over from the next table and sat without being invited. “Greta, why don't you introduce me to your lovely friend?”
Greta rolled her eyes so only I could see. “Tori, this is Raymond… uh, Raymond… Zook.”
“
His snide reference implied we were just a couple of silly women exchanging neighborhood news over our morning coffee. His attitude irritated me, because I was only tapping into the Lickin Creek Grapevine in order to solve a crime-serious business, hardly a gossip session!
Because his lips were hidden beneath a handlebar moustache, I couldn't see them move as he said, “The line of people who'd like to see Oretta dead forms behind me.” His eyes sparkled.
“What do you have against Oretta?” I asked.
“It's more like what Oretta has against me. Why, the woman actually had me arrested once. She called your brother, Greta, and insisted he raid my studio. He and Luscious kidnapped my darlings and took them to that hellhole she calls a shelter.”
“I heard about that,” Greta said. “Something about abusing cats you got from the shelter, wasn't it?”
He placed a soft white hand over his heart. “I have never-I repeat, never-abused a cat.”
Up till then, I'd been totally confused by their conversation. But when I heard mention of cats, I perked up. There's nothing I enjoy more than talking about cats. “You're a cat lover? So am I. I have two. Fred and Noel. Noel's the quiet one, but Fred's quite a show-off.”
“He's something of an artist, too,” Greta said, laughing. “Didn't you tell me he tracked paint all over your apartment last year when you had it redecorated?”
“Indeed he did. I happen to think his little antique-white footprints have improved the otherwise drab linoleum.”
Raymond turned to me, showing interest. “I'd like to meet him someday.”
“He'd love that,” I said. “He's a very outgoing cat.”
“You'd better get over to your booth,” Greta said. “I think I see an art connoisseur looking over your paintings.”
“Oh, my!” He jumped up, hands fluttering, and ran down the aisle, calling, “Yoo-hoo. I'm here.”
“Oh, my!” I said. Greta began to laugh heartily, and I soon joined in.
After we finally regained our composure, I returned to the subject I'd come to discuss-Bernice.
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted her dead?” I asked.
“Follow the money. Isn't that what they always say?” Greta said. “I'd take a long close look at that young boyfriend of hers. I've heard rumors that she bankrolled his new restaurant.”
“What restaurant is that?”
“It's called the Fields of Glory.”
“The one where the waiters and waitresses dress in Civil War costumes?”
“That's it. You can have your soup served by Clara Barton and your table bussed by George Custer.” She sniffed. “Some people will go to any lengths to attract tourists. Maybe the payback she expected was more than he wanted to give, so he decided to get rid of her.”
“I'll check him out,” I said. “Also her soon-to-be-ex-husband. He might have been crazy with jealousy.”
“Stanley? I hardly think he's the type.” She appeared to think for a second. “But to get back to what I said about following the money-Stanley stood to lose a bundle in the divorce.”
“Have you heard about someone threatening Bernice? Shortly before she died she showed me a note she'd received, warning her to drop her plans to create a San Antonio-like development along the Lickin Creek.”
“I thought she'd given up on that wacky idea a long time ago.”
“She was pitching it to the council this week.”
“I wonder if she gave any thought to the environmental impact that would have on the river…”
Before she could climb on her soapbox, I steered her back to the subject by saying, “Buchanan is watching out for the river-and the brown trout in it.”
“This town is only big enough for one mall,” Greta said.
“Are there plans to build another?”
“Indeed there are. Ask Oretta. She and Matavious own part of the old Clopper tract on the edge of town. They've been trying to beat Bernice to the punch by selling their land to a mall developer before her project gets under way.”
“Interesting. I'll have to talk to Oretta about that.”
Greta was thinking out loud now, paying no attention to what I said. “Or maybe Bernice made some enemies when she left Trinity Church. I hear she had a shouting match with Reverend Flack and stormed out.”
I smiled at the thought. “Are you suggesting Reverend Flack eliminates any sheep who stray from his flock?”
Greta laughed. “Put that way, it does sound silly. Forget I said that.”
She stood. “I've got some customers waiting for me. Lots of folks believe eating sausage on New Year's Day will bring them luck.” She hugged me. “You'll come for dinner Christmas Eve, won't you? That's when our family always has its celebration.”
I accepted her invitation, although I had some trepidation about facing an evening of Greta's famous “down- home” cooking. I hoped she wasn't planning to serve one of her specialties like stuffed beef heart or hog maw.
She returned to her booth, and I picked up my packages and strolled down the aisle toward the exit. Suddenly, I spotted Alice-Ann, who at five feet eleven towered over most of the people in the market. Her streaked blonde hair gleamed in the light from an overhead bulb, and she was smiling warmly at a chicken vendor. My heart did a little flip-flop at the sight of the woman who'd been my dearest friend since we'd met on our first day at college. I wondered how she'd react if I dared go over and say hi. She glanced up, our eyes met for a moment, I took a step forward. She turned away.
I knew that Alice-Ann was not yet ready to reconcile, and for the time being it was best to let her mourn in her own way. But it still hurt. It hurt a lot.
On my way across town, I stopped at the state liquor store and bought a bottle each of port wine and brandy for Praxythea's fruitcake. Although I usually think of fruitcake as a close relative to a boat anchor, so far this one looked promising.
When I reached my office, I noticed the cleaning crew had again left the broom on the stoop. How careless! I really would have to speak to them. Inside, I discovered it was the twin of the first broom, which was still propped up in the corner where I'd left it. I placed the second broom next to the first, went to my desk, and began to write.
I had the
