Bones to Pick Page 5

  At least I hoped so. Lilly had tried to teach me to shoot. I wasn’t a natural. The paper targets she hung in the gully for practice fluttered in the breeze unscathed despite an empty box of buckshot. Maybe I’d ask Eva for another lesson.

  It took less than an hour to pack up my worldly possessions and load them in the truck. Dad and I saved my heftiest object—my stationary bike—as the last to load. Then Jessica treated Dad and me to a leisurely two-hour meal. After dessert, Dad’s fidgeting signaled he was beyond ready to get going. We said our goodbyes and Jessica’s German shepherd sent me off with a final volley of slobbery kisses. Xena never did grasp “Down, girl.”

  Dad and I didn’t talk much on our return trip. As we rounded the last bend in Udderly’s graveled lane, I spotted a strange vehicle in the drive. And I meant strange, even on my scale, which left plenty of room for the peculiar. The van’s midnight blue paint job served as a backdrop for a galaxy of glittering stars and one super-sized harvest moon.

  Dad chuckled. “The van is Mollye’s newest purchase. Says it’s great advertising for Starry Skies.”

  I smiled. “Wow. Should have guessed. Looks like the kind of ride Mollye with an ‘e’ would pick.”

  That’s how my old friend, Mollye Camp, always introduced herself. “I’m Mollye with an ‘e’ hangin’ off the hind-end of my name. Mom says six is her lucky number. The added ‘e’ makes me a lucky ducky.”

  We became fast friends at age eight when I visited my aunts over summer vacation. Mollye kept two ponies at Udderly Kidding. We rode together, camped in the meadow behind my aunts’ cabin, and competed to see who could concoct the spookiest stories ’round the campfire. Not much of a competition. Mollye had a wild imagination. One reason our best adventures often ended with me occupying a chair in the corner, contemplating the wall.

  “I’m glad she’s here,” I added. “Mollye’s sure to cheer up Eva.”

  Dad smiled. “Your friend’s ‘woo-woo’ store is doing a banner business. Starry Skies now sells Udderly goat soap, local crafts, and Mollye’s own pottery as well as homeopathic remedies and astrological doodads. People come from all over to see her for horoscopes, astrological charts, and palm and Tarot readings.”

  “She’s become a psychic?” My eyebrows hiked skyward. This was new. Given that I hadn’t seen Mollye in a year, all bets were off.

  “Not exactly. Just says we ought to keep an open mind about what we can’t see or hear. She does this stuff for fun. Not out to scam anyone.”

  Dad yoo-hooed before we entered the cabin.

  “Come on in,” Eva called from her rocking chair.

  Mollye sat at my aunt’s feet, her legs contorted in one of those yoga poses that looked like a taffy-pull gone horribly wrong. Hunched over, Mollye cradled my aunt’s open palm in her own mitt like a fragile manuscript. When she swiveled to greet us, she didn’t relinquish Eva’s hand.

  “I’d jump up and hug you, but I’ve got Eva’s life in my hands.” She grinned. “Well, maybe just her lifeline.”

  I bent down and kissed Mollye’s cheek. “Great to see you.”

  “Glad you made it back before I had to skedaddle,” Mollye said.

  A good thing the Starry Skies van had announced her presence and primed me for the inevitable surprise. Mollye changed her appearance as often as I traded running shoes. This time I wondered if she’d played pin-cushion with a porcupine. A tiny silver star hung from her nose ring, and, based on the variety of jingle jangles dangling from her ears, her lobes had enough holes to serve as sieves. A tattoo wrapped her forearm. What the frankfurter? First time I’d ever seen an old-fashioned quilt design stenciled on flesh. Old South meets punk rock?

  A vibrant shock of purple ran down the center part in Mollye’s white-blonde hair. The skunk-style streak perfectly matched her purple eye shadow.

  Having called Asheville home till this very afternoon, I was accustomed to seeing people with brilliant swaths of painted hair, tattoos snaking up appendages and down cleavages, ear studs, nose rings, and personal punctures in locations that gave me the heebie-jeebies to contemplate.

  But here? In Ardon County? Mollye clearly wasn’t afraid to push the local envelope.

  “Mollye assures me I have a long lifeline.” Eva snorted. “Hope I don’t spend those extra years in prison. Orange washes out my complexion. I’d look like a pumpkin topped with marshmallows. Sheriff Jones dropped by. Informed me the skeleton’s teeth matched Jed’s dental records. Said the case was now officially being investigated as a homicide, and I should not make any plans to take my caboose out of Ardon County.”

  “Eva, I’m sorry,” Dad managed. “The sheriff’s off his rocker if he thinks you could have killed that skunk.”

  Mollye relinquished Eva’s hand. “Granny agrees. She thinks Nancy Tarbox Watson murdered Jed. Says that witch has a soul uglier than a wart-encrusted toad no matter how much she tarts up her exterior.”

  Dad frowned. “I’ve never heard of this Nancy person. Who is she and why would she want to kill Jed?”

  Mollye patted my aunt’s hand, unwound her taffy limbs and rose gracefully to her five-foot-six height. I wasn’t about to hazard a guess on poundage. Mollye’d always been husky. Never slowed her down in any department—men friends included.

  “Granny says Nancy planned to marry Jed soon as he graduated college. She threw a hissy fit when he came back with a Yankee bride. The little matter of marriage vows didn’t stop the hussy from flinging herself at Jed.”

  My old friend threw an apologetic glance Eva’s way. “Rumor has it they were heating up the sheets again just before he went poof and disappeared.”

  Eva caught my horrified look and sighed. “This isn’t breaking news. I heard her grandmother’s theory years back. When Jed disappeared, I had no idea he might be doing the horizontal mambo with an old sweetheart. But the sheriff will see it as one more motive for me to have killed my husband. ’Course the opposite is true. I’d have helped Jed pack his bags if he’d agreed to split and make Nancy his new punching bag.”

  Mollye frowned. “I’ll tell Granny to zip her lips, but surely Sheriff Jones has heard those tales. Granny claims everyone in the county knew Jed catted around.” She ducked her head in Eva’s direction by way of apology. “Ah, sorry, I guess everyone but you. Granny’s convinced Jed had his fun, then dumped Nancy a second time. Once she figured out the relationship had no future, the bimbo decided Jed didn’t deserve a future either.”

  My aunt snorted. “Wish I could buy that.”

  Eva rocked forward in her chair. “Even if this woman was madder than a wet hen, why dig a grave within sight of our farmhouse? Too risky. One heck of a sweaty job, too. Jed was a big fella. Six foot, over two hundred pounds. She’d have gotten a hernia planting him.”

  “What happened to Nancy?” I asked. “Does she still live around here?”

  “Sure does,” Mollye answered. “She’s been hitched three times. Latest hubby is Eli Watson, one of Jed’s cousins. Nancy’s one of the owners of Hands On, that nail salon on Highway 130. She does manicures and pedicures.”

  I looked down at my raggedy fingernails and had a sudden urge to treat myself to a manicure. Then again, maybe not. A manicure would be a might suspicious. Nail polish and glue-on fakes were no-no’s for professional chefs. Nothing like a patron spotting a blinged-up fingernail swimming in her soup. I wiggled my toes. Maybe a pedicure?

  Mollye gave Eva a hug. “I’ll come by Thursday to pick up more goat soap. It’s one of my bestsellers. Sorry I couldn’t come to Lilly’s farewell. I loved her, too.”

  A minute later, Mollye flung her arms around me and squeezed. She’d always been a hugger, but this was the first time I worried about surviving without any transfer punctures.

  “How about a girls’ night out?” she asked. “Maybe movie and a pizza? I know you’re vegan now. That’s cool. I love veggie pizza
.”

  “Right,” I stammered, not sure what Mollye might cook up for a night out these days. I guessed the entertainment wouldn’t be ghost stories and s’mores.

  Dad, ever the gentleman, rose from the couch to escort Mollye to her glitzy van.

  As soon as the front door closed, Eva chuckled. “You look shell-shocked. I forgot to warn you about Mollye’s new look. Imagine you’ll have a few more surprises living on a goat cheese farm in Ardon County. Hope one of them isn’t seeing your auntie carted away in leg irons.”

  I knew kidding was one of Eva’s ways of dealing with adversity, but jokes about jail made me shudder.

  Eva turned toward me. “I wasn’t surprised by my earlier drop-ins—Paint in the morning and Andy in the afternoon. They were plum disappointed you weren’t here. Told each of ’em I was sure you’d love to have them show you the local sights. Gave ’em your cell phone number. I’ll let you pick. Sure I kid Paint about his playboy reputation, but he’s got a good heart, and it’s high time Andy spent some time cuddling a two-legged companion. They’re both good company and good-looking to boot. If I were your age, I might try and juggle the two of them.”

  Eva snickered at my panicked expression. I wasn’t sure I was ready to climb aboard the dating train with one man. Two at once? No way.

  EIGHT

  Dad and I headed to the truck to cart my belongings inside. Eva followed, bound and determined to help schlep my worldly goods.

  “I cleaned out Lilly’s room,” she said. “All ready for you to move in, Brie.”

  Dad and I stopped dead in our tracks and turned as one to face Eva. Her announcement left both of us momentarily speechless.

  “Oh, Sis, you should have waited. We’d have helped you,” Dad said.

  I chimed in. “I didn’t want you to clean out Lilly’s room.”

  Eva harrumphed. “Stop it. I’ll do much better if you all quit treating me like I’ve been diagnosed with a fatal illness—or maybe a mental defect. Lilly’s gone. I’ll grieve in my own way, thank you. I don’t need to hang on to Lilly’s bunny slippers to remember her.”

  “But I’m fine with sleeping on the couch.”

  “Not what Sis would want. Plenty of desperate folks will be more than pleased to wear Lilly’s fuzzy slippers or her plaid parka. We finished loading Mollye’s van just before you got here. She’s distributing the bounty. Lilly’s nicest things are headed to that new shelter for women escaping domestic abuse. Now there’s a cause I’m glad to help.”

  Eva marched past us to the bed of the truck and plucked a shopping bag stuffed with my doodads. “Come on. What’s wrong? Got a hitch in your get-along? Let’s unload this truck before nightfall. Brie and I need time to squabble over the dinner menu.”

  I smiled and saluted. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be happy to whip up a tofu scramble for supper. That big blue cooler is full of goodies from my Asheville refrigerator.”

  Eva raised her hands in front of her face and made a ward-off-evil cross with her fingers. “Lordy, Lordy, protect me from tofu. Only way I can choke it down is if I top that mess with enough melted cheese and crumbled bacon.”

  Dad laughed. “Don’t believe I’ll stick around for dinner. I think I just witnessed the opening salvo in the great culinary war. You’re both hardheaded. Wouldn’t want to put money on a winner.”

  As it turned out, the night’s menu was decided quite peaceably. My cooler included a container of my roasted tomato basil soup. I snarfed mine down minus the hunk of cheese Eva floated in her bowl.

  After we washed the dinner dishes, I asked about the next day’s chores. Eva smirked as she dried her hands on a dishtowel.

  “Well, dearie, you need to set your alarm for five.”

  “As in a.m.?” I whined.

  “Yep. Tomorrow’s Wednesday, and selling cheese at the Ardon Flea Market was Lilly’s gig. I figured you’d rather woman that booth than hang here and milk goats. Plus we never know when our about-to-be mama goats might need a nursemaid. But if you’d rather stay here…”

  “No, thank you. You’re very persuasive.”

  “Thought so. I’ll pack three coolers with goat cheese and send you off with a thermos of coffee. We’re table 117 right next to the egg lady.”

  “You’re sure I need to get up before dawn?”

  Eva chuckled. “I’m letting you sleep in. My guess is it’ll be six thirty before you get set up. By then the parking lot will be half full and your double-yolker neighbor will already have sold a couple dozen hard-boiled eggs to regulars and several dozen raw eggs to early shoppers.”

  I knew the egg lady. First time Dad took me to Ardon’s Flea Market I’d nudged him when I saw the hand-lettered sign: Fresh Double-Yolk Eggs! “What?” I’d asked. “Do her chickens live next to the nuclear power plant? How else could she glom on to so many freakish eggs?”

  “Big chicken farms candle eggs—hold ’em up to a light to peek inside,” Dad explained. “Since double-yolkers tend not to hatch, they sell ’em off. Twin yolks aren’t common, but if you’re raising thousands of chickens, the oddities add up.”

  Since the Udderly farm includes a flock of free-range chickens, I wondered if I’d find any double yokers when I gathered eggs.

  “So what’s my job at the flea market?” I asked Eva. “Please don’t tell me I have to dicker. I hate that.”

  Dad loved haggling and went to the weekly market whenever his teaching schedule allowed. Unfortunately, he had Wednesday morning classes this semester. Otherwise I’d have sweet-talked him into pinch-hitting. Dad had so much fun bargaining he often bought…well, how to describe it? Ah, yes, junk. Mom slipped most of his “finds” into the trash within a month, and he never missed them.

  Aunt Eva smiled. “It won’t be as bad as you think. Just shrug if they don’t want to pay what we’re asking. We package our cheese in three-, five- and seven-dollar sizes. Even dollar prices make life a lot simpler. I’ll pack Lilly’s money belt with a wad of ones for change.”

  “Can I borrow your cell phone?” I asked.

  “Why in the world would you want my phone?”

  “I don’t have a credit card app on mine. I’ll get it tomorrow but not before morning.”

  Eva rolled her eyes. “You’ve been to the market. How many vendors do you suppose take credit cards? Granted we get some well-heeled retirees. They visit for entertainment as much as for deals. But they all know cash is king at the flea market.”

  Oh, boy. I was so looking forward to this. Not.

  “It’s simple. Offer cheese samples and smile. We make chump change, but we hook new customers. Encourage anyone who wolfs down a sample to take a flyer. It’s got product prices, directions to Udderly, and phone and email order info. Watch out for moochers who make a breakfast out of free samples.”

  Eva started to offer detailed instructions on how to prepare and present cheese samples. I cut her off. “Hey, I’m a chef. I think I can handle a cheese platter for this swanky crowd.”

  A sudden crack of thunder shook the house and raindrops pitter-pattered on the cabin’s tin roof. I grinned. The flea market sat on bottomland and, during my last visit, heavy rains had the tables floating in three feet of water. I could only hope.

  Eva caught my merry expression.

  “Forget it.” She chuckled. “The grounds may be muddy tomorrow, but it’ll be a go. Checked the weather forecast. Light showers ending before midnight. Which reminds me, it’s past time to hit the hay.”

  Past time? Eva’s grandfather clock had yet to chime nine. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone to bed this early. Heck, at the Asheville restaurant where I work—correction, worked—we’d be serving dinner for two more hours and cleaning up past midnight.

  I counted the hours of potential sleep between now and five a.m. and sighed. Might as well pull on PJs and try to snooze. Not likely though. I considere
d downing one of the antihistamines I keep for allergies to put me to sleep. Nope, I’d be groggy enough getting up at that time of day.

  Eva walked over to where I curled on the couch, reading a mystery. She tucked the afghan around my shoulders and kissed my forehead. “Better get to bed, Brie. I can’t tell you how much it means to have you here. I love you, honey.”

  My throat tightened. “Goodnight, Aunt Eva. Love you, too.”

  Eva chuckled. “Let’s see if you feel the same at five a.m.”

  NINE

  Ardon’s Flea Market meandered over an expanse of at least three football fields. I’d visited plenty of times and knew how to find Udderly’s assigned retail stall. I turned in at the third entrance. Six thirty a.m. was dark, damp, and downright chilly. Fog swirled around my sporty Prius C. I shivered. A perfect setting for one of Dad’s murder mysteries.

  Pools of water camouflaged the potholes that occupied half the graveled roadbed. My bouncing headlamps lit up the rutted drive like a reverse Rorschach ink blot test. The water appeared as blobs of shimmering yellow splattered across a black canvas.

  Oops. One of my wheels kerplunked to the bottom of a giant muddy gully. My compact car tilted like it had downed one too many shots of Paint’s moonshine. Struggling to gain traction, my captive tire flung mini mud pies in its wake.

  “Sorry, car.” I hated subjecting my new hybrid to a mud-wrestling contest. I’d made all of four car payments on my once-shiny red chariot and now it was becoming a country junker. I hoped my as yet unknown “salary” would let me make car payments five through sixty.

  I maneuvered down a row of reserved parking spaces behind the section of warped wood tabletops set aside for “regular” food vendors. Udderly was in the “high-rent” district where the sagging tables merited an even more sagging, corrugated tin roof. For the most part, folks in this stretch sold fresh-from-the-farm produce, though some also hawked bananas, grapes, and other perishables on life support after they’d passed use-by dates. Where did they find these goodies? Did they wait in the road for these delicacies to fall off a truck?