Read Thoroughly 03 - Who Invited the Dead Man? for Free Online Page A

smile. Her voice was softer, too, as she said, “I really need to work right now. It didn’t take long to clear out both our apartments, and there wasn’t any reason to stay there. So I came on.” She looked at her watch. “I’d better be getting over to Miss Wainwright’s. I told her I’d arrive around four.” Fumbling in her purse again, she brought out a black cloth scrunchy and, with one smooth motion, pulled all that lovely hair to the nape of her neck and fastened it back like some old-fashioned schoolmarm. She also brought out a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and set them on her nose, and she went from lively and pert to quiet and drab in three seconds. I thought about telling her Gusta appreciates women who look nice, but decided that was their business.

    As we slid out of the booth to pay our bills, she left half a cup of the coffee she’d been so insistent about getting.

    At the curb she started toward a little white Acura with a Georgia vanity plate: TERRI. When she saw me reading it, she explained, “It was my sister’s. Her name was Teresa. I didn’t have a car, so—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I need to transfer it into my name and get a new tag as soon as I can.”

    Just then a man from our church ambled down the sidewalk. “Afternoon, Judge Yarbrough.”

    I couldn’t help laughing at how upset Alice looked. She’d plumb forgotten what I was. “I won’t have them lock you up today. Just get that tag as soon as you can.”

    “I will. I sure will!” She slid easily into the driver’s seat and drove away.

    I stared after her, thinking how fragile life is, how it can shatter in one afternoon—or one evening when your husband goes out for a routine walk. I felt like shouting to everybody passing me on the street, “This day is precious. Do you know that? Enjoy it while you can. Your whole life may be different tomorrow.”

    As I walked back to my office, I winged a short prayer that Alice Fulton would find peace and comfort in Hopemore. Whichever angel was supposed to carry that prayer must have been on its cell phone, though, because in another few weeks Hiram Blaine would come home and Hopemore’s peace would be shattered.

5

    Slade Rutherford came to town first, and caused his own kind of ripples.

    I heard he’d come, but before I could get down to the Statesman to introduce myself and ask tactfully whether he planned to keep my garden column, I bumped into him as I was coming out of the bank. Literally. I was saying “good morning” over my shoulder to Vern, the security guard, and wasn’t looking where I was going. I didn’t know a soul was there until my nose hit a dark green tie with gold fleurs-de-lis. Mortified, I turned my head and got my new perm tangled on his tie tack. We stood on most intimate terms until he could disentangle me. After that it seemed odd to introduce ourselves.

    My son Walker could have told within a few dollars how much he’d paid for that light camel jacket, matching slacks, soft creamy shirt, and tasseled loafers, but all I knew was they’d cost a lot. He looked to be around Walker’s age, too—thirty-five or so—and had a high forehead, dark, fuzzy black eyebrows, and eyes so brown they looked black. They burrowed into my own without giving away any secrets.

    I could see myself reflected in his pupils—a short plumpish woman wearing a cotton knit sweater with a coordinated print skirt. Joe Riddley used to say, “Honey, you aren’t plump, you’re just voluptuous.” How I missed having somebody who thought I was the most special person in the world. The man I’d run into seemed to be deciding whether I was worth another second of his time.

    “I beg your pardon.” I knew I was pinker than a sunburned flamingo. “I don’t generally make a habit of running into people. I am MacLaren Yarbrough.”

    “You all own the big nursery business?” As soon as I nodded, his eyes crinkled in delight. “I’m Slade Rutherford,