Playing the Devil Read online

  “I tell you,” Merleece had replied, barely suppressing her amusement, “I don’t know where Miz Crystal come up with this stuff. She got it into her head now that she gone find one a’ them historical names at the courthouse for her gardens that Arden Wilson tend to so well. I mean, she tell me that if she come up with the right name, the tourists who come every spring, they gone think her gardens, they been there since the Civil War. Lord help me, that woman think we all born yesterday. But she do pay me well, so she can pretend all she want. I know the truth.”

  Wendy’s laughter was not meant to be at Miz Crystal’s expense, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “I think she should run a contest and offer a prize.”

  “I wouldd’n put it past her, Strawberry,” Merleece had answered.

  And then, Merleece had agreed to get everything straight with the very social-minded Miz Crystal so they could see each other every two weeks, with a little bit of cleaning on the side. Wendy had also gotten permission from Lyndell Slover to come in a little late on Tuesdays, something she was certain Dalton Hemmings would never have let her do. He might have let a man get away with it, but never a female employee. Wasn’t it heavenly to be working for a woman?

  In the present moment, Wendy and Merleece were sitting down once again at the kitchen table, chatting amiably and sipping coffee before the dusting and vacuuming began in earnest.

  “Strawberry, maybe you could help me with somethin’ that I cain’t seem to figure out.”

  Wendy gave her a bright smile. “Happy to. What’s the deal?”

  “Miz Crystal again. She got this fussy poodle that think it went to college and all, and don’t even bother me ’bout all the things she do for that dog. She treat him like a human, and feed him steak and make him wear sweaters and pajamas and all like that, and he look ridiculous, but I just bite my tongue. But anyways, she call him somethin’ that sound like it spelled H-a-r-r-y for the first name, and then C-o-f-a-i-r for the last name. Harry Cofair. That’s what I think it is, but I could be wrong. So I say to her once why she name him that, and she say, ‘It was after the vegetable, of course.’ Now, I pretend I understand what she sayin’ to me right then and there, but I really don’t. Can you tell me what vegetable Harry Cofair is s’pose to be?”

  Wendy put down her coffee cup and frowned. Her lips moved as she repeated the words several times. Then, there was a slight gasp, followed by a prolonged burst of laughter. “You are absolutely right, Merleece. Miz Crystal is something else. But we already knew that.”

  Wendy paused and leaned in for effect. “What she did was name her poodle after the French term for green bean—haricot vert. I’m sure that’s how she spells it, too. That’s a ridiculous name for a dog, but then, Miz Crystal is rather a ridiculous person from all I’ve heard from you and everybody else in Rosalie. Just as long as she keeps paying you well, I’d continue to put up with her quirks.”

  “You know I will. And thank you for clearin’ that up for me. It was botherin’ me no end.” Merleece took a breath and went down in the mouth. “I read in the paper yesterday ’bout that poor man bein’ murdered out at the country club. And in a hot tub, no less. What is the world comin’ to?”

  Wendy closed her eyes for a second and put her cup down. “I wouldn’t exactly call him poor, but I know what you mean. And I guess you also know I was there at the time—not in the hot tub, of course, but trying to play bridge. I say trying because I didn’t get to play nearly as much as I wanted to.”

  Merleece grinned and eyed her intently. “Now, I know murder not the least bit funny. I’m a God-fearin’ woman who go to church erry Sunday. But it seem like erry time you set out to learn how to play bridge, somebody up and die. Now I’m not imaginin’ that, am I?”

  “My editor said practically the same thing to me. It’s not funny at all, but it’s the truth.”

  Merleece rose up slightly in her chair. “Well, you tell the po-lice that Miz Crystal and her poodle name after a vegetable can vouch for where I was that day. She got one of her big luncheons comin’ up soon, so I was polishin’ her silver all day and even into the evenin’. They can take me off that list right now.”

  Both women laughed, but there really wasn’t anything funny at all about what had nearly happened to Merleece after the four Gin Girls had been poisoned last year. Circumstantial evidence had almost done her in as the killer, but Wendy’s clever solution had exonerated her just in time.

  “As a matter of fact,” Wendy continued, “I’m actually a suspect this time, believe it or not.”

  Merleece’s brown eyes widened even farther. “You? Now you really talkin’ nonsense. Who on earth say you a suspeck? You tell ’em to come to me, and I’ll set ’em straight.”

  “It’s just a formality, really,” Wendy told her, waving her off. “I was there in the building when the murder took place. Ross knows I’m not really a suspect, but my fingerprints and DNA had to be collected just like all the others’.”

  “How many others they got?”

  “Seven, leaving me out.”

  Merleece changed the subject with a sly grin. “You and that handsome detective still seein’ each other? He so tall and rugged, and his smile light up the room.”

  Wendy hesitated but finally brightened. “Yes, I guess he is all that. And we’re still seeing each other, yes. But we still haven’t gotten engaged or anything like that. We’re not rushing into anything.”

  “Now don’t wait too long, Strawberry. You gotta know you not the only fish in the ocean.”

  “I’m aware of that little cliché. Just don’t you worry about me and Ross right now.” Wendy took a big sip of her coffee and exhaled. “Anyway, enough about me. What’s the latest on your son?”

  Merleece looked and sounded exasperated. “Well, you know Hyram got that job with the fire department, and he seem to like his new apartment, even though he won’t let his mother in to see it. How ’bout that? But now he tryin’ to win back Charice Robinson. She the same girl that press charges against him when he slap her around a couple a’ years ago. Seem she just broke up with the man she was seein’ behind his back the first time around. If you want my opinion, that girl nothin’ but big trouble, but Hyram not gone listen to his mama. No way. I guess I should be happy he stayin’ down here in Rosalie for now like he say he would, instead a’ bein’ up to no good up in Chicago.”

  “Maybe this time the two of them will get it right.”

  “Maybe.” But Merleece hardly sounded convinced. She glanced up at Wendy’s owl kitchen clock that she’d found at a flea market and gasped. “Oh, the time getttin’ away from me, Strawberry. And you got to head off to the newspaper to work, too. We both gotta get it together.”

  They both rose from the table quickly, and Wendy said, “You’re absolutely right. I need to get cracking on my latest assignment, and I have a couple of important interviews this afternoon to get it off the ground.”

  “You gone solve this one, too?”

  Wendy couldn’t resist delivering a prolonged wink. “Well, you never know. I just might.”

  * * *

  Because the RCC was still considered a crime scene and off-limits to everyone except the Rosalie CID, Deedah had suggested to Wendy that she come to her house for their interview. Although Wendy had had a great deal of contact with Deedah as the two of them had worked hard to create the Bridge Bunch over the past few months, all of those meetings had all taken place in Deedah’s office at the RCC. Thus, Wendy had never been in Deedah’s house before and was looking forward to it.

  As it happened, Deedah and her late husband, Jake Hornesby, had disdained restoring one of the Spanish Provincial town houses on iconic Minor Street. Instead, they had bought an already-restored Victorian raised cottage on Lambert Street, which was also considered a fashionable address in Rosalie.

  As Wendy parked her car at the curb, she had to admit that Hornesby Cottage, as it had been christened by its owners, had great curb appeal. There was a row of matu
re crêpe myrtles lining the walkway leading up to the multi-columned porch; and even though their pink summertime blossoms were all but gone until next season, there still remained the majestic dignity of their gnarled branches to delight the eye. The traditional white clapboard and green shutters completed the impeccable ensemble, even though Deedah had never put the house on tour.

  Wendy had gotten as far as the front stoop when Deedah swept out through the front door to greet her. “You’re right on time,” she said, as the two women embraced warmly. “I’ve been watching for you from the window, and I have tea and sugar cookies for us in the front parlor. Hollis has just left for the art gallery to see if he can scrounge up some bid’ness, so we’ll have the entire place to ourselves.”

  As Deedah led the way in her colorful floral caftan, Wendy noted how sumptuously but properly appointed the house was: Great Persian rugs over polished hardwood floors, dignified ancestral portraits on the walls, rose-colored window treatments, Waterford crystal chandeliers, and there was even a very delicate-looking harpsichord in one corner of the parlor. Wendy wondered if anyone at Hornesby Cottage had ever played it or if it was there merely as an upscale conversation piece. She leaned toward the latter interpretation.

  After Deedah had served them their Earl Grey tea from the coffee table next to the rose-colored Belter two-seater, Wendy complimented her hostess on the elegant Southern ambience. Then, the interview began in earnest.

  “I’m excited about this opportunity to strike a blow for the achievements of Rosalie women,” Wendy began. Then she explained the decision she and Lyndell Slover had made together regarding the slant on the feature. “I don’t think we should ignore progress like this.”

  “You’ve come to the right woman, then,” Deedah said. “There’s so much I’ve wanted to say about how difficult it was for me to get the board on my side in the first place. It’s common knowledge that Brent Ogle opposed my getting the directorship with every fiber of his being. The man very seldom failed to get what he wanted.”

  Wendy poised her pen above her notepad and said, “Yes, I’ve heard that. But what I don’t understand is why he just didn’t run for the directorship himself. Didn’t he think he could win?”

  Deedah quickly put down her teacup as a stern expression and rigid posture overcame her, muscle by muscle. “That’s not his style. He’s too lazy . . . or was, rather . . . to do the actual work or put in the hours the directorship requires. He preferred to run things with a puppet in place, and he had that very arrangement in William Voss. I think William was a little soft in the head, if you ask me. He was little more than a glorified secretary. Apparently, he didn’t realize that he was also there to take the fall for any improprieties that came to light. Then, poor William up and died of a heart attack, and Brent was no longer in control of the RCC. That’s when I decided to make my move, and it took all the courage I could muster to do so. Fortunately, my late husband, Jake, had made friends with several of the board members back in the day, so Brent Ogle’s thuggery didn’t work like it usually did. I can tell you that he was furious.”

  Wendy finished up what she was writing and changed the subject. “Did everyone out there cooperate with you once you took the reins, or did you have to work to win them over? ”

  “Every single person stepped up to the plate and played ball with me,” Deedah said, puffing herself up. “Mitzy Stone loved the changing of the guard, she told me. Mitzy’s tough, don’t misunderstand me. But she also told me how difficult it was dealing with the ghost of William Voss and Brent at the same time. She understood in retrospect that they were one and the same. Carlos Galbis felt the same way about me when I came aboard. It was a welcome and respectful change for him. And then there’s poor Gerald Mansfield, of course.”

  Wendy looked puzzled and cocked her head. “I’ve heard the name before, but I’m not sure I know who he is.”

  “He’s the greenskeeper,” Deedah said. “He takes care of the course, the greens, the pin placements, everything. Hardworking young man. His office is out in the equipment shed. He works closely with Mitzy. Brent Ogle was hell-bent on having him sacked, always complaining that he didn’t like the way Gerald was maintaining the sand traps and the rough, too. Brent thought it was . . . well, too rough and too overgrown everywhere. What that really meant was that Brent couldn’t hit his way out of it like he used to. His game was starting to fail on him, Mitzy told me from her observations of him on the course. And she would certainly know what she was talking about being the talented golfer that she is.”

  Deedah paused and started to say something, then backed off.

  “What is it? Remember, this is your chance to truly make an impact in this feature,” Wendy said.

  “Just that . . . Brent would get furious every time he saw Mitzy using the men’s tee. If you want my opinion, I think it threatened his masculinity, or his version of it, anyway. It really seemed to drive him to drink even more than usual, and he’d come into the clubhouse and verbally abuse Carlos even more when he ordered from the bar on those occasions.”

  Wendy’s expression was glum. “Not a pretty picture of manhood, is it?”

  “It certainly isn’t. Anyway,” Deedah continued, “getting back to poor Gerald, Brent and William Voss had this case built up against him, and they were going to the board with it to get him fired. But then, William had that heart attack, and then . . . as you well know, someone conked Brent over the head this weekend with that pestle.” Then Deedah gasped. “I just realized. That doesn’t put Gerald in a very good light, does it? I mean, Brent’s out of the way just in time.”

  “Offhand, I’d say you’re right about that.” Wendy thought for a moment. “But Gerald wasn’t in the building Saturday, was he? I don’t remember seeing anyone I didn’t recognize.”

  “No. I believe he had the day off. Mitzy started not to come in herself because of the bad weather. She was surprised that Brent, Tip Jarvis, and Connor James ventured out with that forecast.” Wendy could see the wheels turning in Deedah’s head. “But now that I think about it, Gerald could have come out here on his own unseen, even in the bad weather. Do the police know about him?”

  “That, I don’t know. But if Mr. Mansfield doesn’t have a solid alibi, it would appear there’s another suspect for them to consider. I can ask Ross or my father if they have him on their list to interrogate.”

  Deedah offered the plate of sugar cookies to Wendy, but she declined politely. “Well, I trust the police have taken me and Hollis off the list,” Deedah said while helping herself to a cookie and taking a bite.

  “I don’t know. It’s still a crime scene out there. I know they’re still processing inside and around the perimeter, too. They’re going over everything and every room. You may be asked to come down to the station for further questioning at some point. And Hollis, too.”

  “But surely you . . . I mean, surely they don’t think either of us killed Brent Ogle, do they?”

  Wendy took a deep breath and patted Deedah’s shoulder reassuringly. “As the daughter of a police chief, I can only tell you that following the evidence is what always counts in law enforcement. If nothing comes out that points to you or Hollis, then you have nothing to worry about.”

  Deedah took another bite of her cookie and then a sip of tea to chase it down. “I’ll admit to you that there were times I devoutly wished Brent could be banished from the face of the earth. And he gave my Hollis nothing but holy hell all the time. Hollis is who he is, and apparently that was also threatening to a macho man like Brent. I know for a fact that Hollis never made a pass at him, though. Hollis told me he wasn’t the least bit interested, or in anyone else out at the club. So why did Brent get so riled up all the time about his mere presence? Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Carly told me more than once that theirs was not a happy marriage by a long shot.”

  “I know this much,” Wendy said. “Brent Ogle was an equal opportunity offender. I know he made Carlos’s life miserable, and now you�
��re telling me that he was on Gerald Mansfield’s case hot and heavy.”

  Deedah managed a strange little shiver. “I guess from the police department’s point of view, there are plenty of suspects.”

  “That’s an understatement.” Wendy looked down at her notes and a question she had printed beforehand got her attention. “I know that you were a C.P.A. at one time. Do you find that that has come in handy in running the RCC? I would imagine it makes you extremely qualified.”

  Deedah seemed delighted with the question. “Ha! That’s another thing you should mention in this article of yours. People don’t regularly associate women with the C.P.A. profession all that much. But I can assure you we are there and there’s nothing in our brains that prevents us from managing the bottom line with the best of them.” Then her face darkened slightly. “Would you believe Brent even brought that up when he was trying to derail me as director at the last minute? I can still hear him in that boozy voice of his: ‘What does a woman know about crunchin’ numbers, now I ask you? What? What? What? ’ ” She let out a contemptuous little snort. “I’m not the least bit sorry that someone got the last word on crunching his number, so to speak.”

  Wendy nodded, but she was not smiling. “A word of advice, though. If you should get called down to the station for interrogation, I wouldn’t joke around like you just did there at the end with the police. They might take you seriously and read more into what you say than you intended.”

  “Duly noted,” Deedah said, “but I have to tell you honestly, when Hollis would tell me about the things Brent Ogle would say to him, I wanted to go after him like a tiger or a bear protecting her cubs. It made me so mad because some people seem to think that someone like my Hollis is fair game for their constant insults and rude behavior. But Hollis is a gentle soul trying to find his way in life, and it’s the Brent Ogles of the world who stand between him and the right to go about his bid’ness like everyone else.”