“Mrs. Nixon...” he began.
“Mary, please.”
“Mary.” He squeezed her hand, and she actually fluttered her lashes. I managed to hide my amusement, though it wasn’t easy. “How did you manage? Hearing about something like that? You must have been devastated.”
Oh, the smooth talker. She didn’t even know what hit her. I had to admit, Lucas had a way with the ladies. If I were a lesser woman, I’d have been a seething mass of jealousy. As it was, things were working in my favor. Go, Lucas.
“It was such a shock,” Mary Nixon agreed. “I couldn’t believe it. That, at the very time I was enjoying myself at the movies with friends, my poor dear August was lying dead.” She let out a little sob and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
I wasn’t sure if she was being genuine or having a case of the dramatics. And a movie as an alibi? I’d seen enough Perry Mason to know that could be faked. I wondered how I could finagle her friends’ names out of her so I could question them.
“I do hope you had someone to stand by your side.” He patted her hand and gave her a look of deep sympathy.
“Oh, yes. Roger Collins was lovely. Took care of everything. That man has been a godsend.”
“Oh, please, mother,” the son snapped, standing up so abruptly from where he’d been lounging on the folding chair that the chair toppled backward with a crash. People turned to stare, but he ignored them. Instead, he gave his mother a hard glare. “Do you have to be so obvious?”
She touched her strand of pearls, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you mean, Blaine.”
He snorted in derision. “Sure you don’t, mother.” He turned and stomped off toward the stairs leading up and out of the ballroom. I gave Lucas a look, hoping he’d interpret that I wanted him to stay and pump Mary Nixon for info while I took off after Blaine Nixon.
Blaine was quick on his feet, I’d give him that. By the time I made it up the stairs, he was nowhere to be seen. He could be in the men’s room, which would be a rather awkward situation should I barge in, or...
I shoved open the front door and stepped out onto the porch. Sure enough, Blaine was standing on the front lawn, but he wasn’t alone. He was having a loud argument with a balding man wearing an ancient, beige suit and horn-rimmed glasses. The two were shouting at each other like a couple of fishwives. Being the nosey git I am, I moved closer so I could hear better.
“Listen, you old—” (I won’t repeat the word Blaine used, but it was quite the insult.) “Get out of here before I call the cops.”
“I came to pay my respects, you arrogant waste of flesh. Your father and I may have had our differences, but never let it be said that I didn’t observe the proper etiquette.”
“That’s rich,” Blaine sneered. “I don’t give a flying—” Again with the language. “Get out of here.” He grabbed the older man by the lapel and dragged him across the lawn toward the street. With one hard shove, the older man stumbled off the lodge’s property, and Blaine stomped back toward the building. Right before he went inside, he turned and shouted, “You better not show your face again, old man, or you’ll regret it.”
Chapter 8The Feud
THE MAN IN THE BEIGE suit shot Blaine an angry look before going on his own merry way. I dithered. Should I go after Blaine? Or question the man in the beige suit?
I knew who Blaine was. I could easily track him down and question him later. I had no idea who the older man was or how to find him again. Beige Suit it was.
I hurried across the lawn, heels sinking into the soft soil. Really, I had to get better funeral footwear if I was going to go chasing suspects through rain-softened grass. I made it to the street without breaking an ankle and clattered after Beige Suit as quickly as I could. He must have heard me, because he turned around as I came huffing up to him.
“May I help you?” He seemed only mildly interested.
Bracing my aching side with my palm, I gave him what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. “Viola Roberts. I saw what happened between you and Blaine Nixon. I don’t know what sort of history you two have, but I thought he treated you terribly. And I, uh, just wanted to tell you that,” I finished lamely.
The smile he gave me was genuine. He was a pleasant-looking older man with a round face and overly exuberant white eyebrows. They sort of made up for the lack of hair on his head. I caught a whiff of Old Spice, which I found quite pleasant. It suited him.
He held out his hand. “Charles Phillips. Pleased to meet you.”
We shook hands. “How do you know the Nixons?” I asked.
“I’m their neighbor, actually. Have been for over twenty years.”
Color me surprised. Blaine had acted like the man was the anti-Christ. “Well, that was awfully nice of you to show up. I can’t believe Blaine was so nasty about it.”
He shook his head and gave a little sigh. “Not really his fault, poor boy. His father and I never got along, you see.”
“I see. And yet you still came to the service. That’s quite mature of you.” I nearly smacked myself in the head. Of course it was mature. The man must be near on to seventy. He’d better be mature by now.
Charles Phillips chuckled, not at all offended by my gaffe. “I do try.”
“Can I ask why you didn’t get along? Was it because Nixon was The Louse?”
His grin widened. “Is that what they call him?” He appeared incredibly cheered by the thought.
I returned his smile. “Well, that’s what
