The Cradle Robber. E. Joan Sims
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reluctantly. Her voice was high and thin and full of decades of sour disapproval.
“I brought you all some hot soup and corn muffins.” Mother waited politely for a response, and getting none, pressed on. “I hope Miss Hannah is well?”
Suddenly Lolly Parsons turned on her talking machine.
“Yes, yes, but of course she’s fine. Fit as a fiddle she is! Why do you ask?” she inquired nervously.
“Why, er, the storm,” stammered Mother. “It sometimes puts people out of sorts. Even Paisley was…”
“Paisley Sterling! That young rascal! Is she with you!”
“She’s, ah, waiting in the car,” admitted Mother reluctantly.
“Well, she’d better not put a foot on my lawn! That’s all I have to say! You and John really failed to do your duty with that child. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Your Paisley is a perfect example of that.”
“Miss Lolly, I’ll have you know that Paisley is quite a successful novelist!”
“Not in my book! Did she help you make these corn muffins?”
“Well, no.”
“The soup?”
“She peeled the potatoes.”
“Keep it!”
A dry, withered, old arm snaked out the door, grabbed the picnic basket off the stoop, and quickly pulled it into the house. I heard the front door slam, and saw Mother’s right foot stomp once with vexation. By the time she got to the car, I was laughing out loud.
“Stop it, Paisley!” she ordered as she blotted her damp upper lip with a dainty linen handkerchief. “My, it’s gotten hot!”
“You just got a mite agitated, that’s all. By the way Mother, thanks for the ‘successful novelist’ bit.”
“Why in the world did you ever have to mess with that old hag’s cat?” she asked crossly as she checked her makeup in the mirror.
“Because it was there!” I answered with an evil grin.
We decided to take the leftover Thermos of soup to Andy Joiner. Mother was quite fond of our Chief of Police, and I knew he would be working overtime because of the storm. His wife, Connie, had probably sent him lunch, but it was already dinnertime.
This time, I left Mother resting in the car while I ran into the police station. It was absolute bedlam—with phones ringing off the hook and people scurrying in every direction shouting clipped orders to each other.
I hugged the Thermos to my chest and backed into a corner out of the way, I finally spotted Andy standing in the middle of a group of firemen and policemen. They were crowded in front of a large wall map of Lakeland County. Andy was obviously giving out work assignments. I knew he wouldn’t welcome an interruption now if I were bearing champagne and lobster tails.
I turned to leave and ran smack dab into Horatio Raleigh, knocking a large brown envelope out of his hand. We both stared down at the floor where glossy photographs of an obviously very dead gentleman were scattered.
“Oh, my!” stated Horatio.
I bent down hurriedly and picked up the pictures before Horatio could get to them. “My indeed,” I observed wryly. “Since when does a tornado victim have his throat slit from ear to ear?”
“Please, Paisley! Keep your voice down.”
I put my head closer to his but didn’t soften my voice.
“Relax. There’s so much going on in here nobody would notice if we both stood here stark naked.”
Horatio raised an elegant eyebrow and looked around the room.
“I suppose you’re right, my dear,” he laughed.
“And Andy doesn’t have time right now for anything. Why don’t you come out in the car and share these photos with ghoulish little old me. You know how I love tidbits like this for my books.”
“I shouldn’t,” he protested. “This is strictly a matter for the police.”
“You look tired, Horatio. How does some of Mother’s delicious cream of potato soup sound to you?”
Chapter Eight
Mother sat with Horatio on the concrete bench in front of the courthouse while he enjoyed her superlative soup and she enjoyed watching the passers-by. It was the cool of the evening—that lovely time in a summer’s day just before nightfall, when the breeze picks up and the first stars begin to twinkle above a golden sunset.
Mother wasn’t the only one glad to be out and about. Lots of folks had been unable to leave their homes after the storm. Now with some trees cleared from streets and driveways, they were free to stroll around town and exchange their storm experiences with friends and neighbors.
I had lingered for a moment by Mother’s side and chatted with Horatio before I crossed the street again and climbed into the car to examine the photographs of the dead man who had been found on our farm.
Horatio hadn’t given me permission, but he had deliberately left the envelope in the front seat of the car when he helped Mother out. I slipped the pictures from the envelope and held my breath when I saw the full horror of the gaping wounds. I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t eaten any of Mother’s soup as I choked back the sour taste in my mouth. The photographs were in living color, and Horatio had made certain from every angle that not a single gruesome detail was left out.
The dead man appeared to be a foreigner, although it was difficult to tell. His facial features were distorted, flattened almost. He had dark hair and eyes and a thin mustache over full lips. He could have been Asian, or Hispanic, or anything in between. It was hard to imagine what he had looked like when he was alive. What was easy to deduce was the cause of death. He couldn’t have lived very long with his throat cut wide enough to expose his cervical vertebra.
I didn’t know much about forensic science, but as I flipped from one picture to another in the waning light it seemed to me that the dead man was oddly deformed. His joints were hyperextended and his limbs—even his feet—were at odd angles.
I banged my head painfully on the steering wheel when Horatio startled me by opening the car door.
“Ouch! You scared me.”
“Sorry, my dear,” he said as he slipped in beside me.
“Where’s Mother?”
“Mavis Madden.”
“Oh.”
Mavis was an erstwhile friend of Mother’s who talked a mile a minute about absolutely nothing but everybody else’s business. Mother tolerated her out of good manners and as an investment against becoming a target for her considerable venom.
“I’m afraid we should stem your morbid appetite, my dear,” Horatio observed. “A pretty young woman like you should…”
“Thanks for the ‘pretty’ and the ‘young,’ Horatio, but I’m a mystery writer. I need to keep things authentic. For some time now I’ve been meaning to ask you to let me view some of your, ah, clients, especially ones who have come to a violent end. Leonard’s always coming across dead bodies and sometimes I’m at a loss to describe them.”
“Oh, dear, why couldn’t you have found your muse in pastoral verse? That’s such a lovely occupation for a Southern lady.”
“For God’s sake, Horatio! You don’t really mean that, do you?”
Even in the deepening twilight I caught a glimpse of the amused twinkle in his eyes. We both shared a companionable chuckle as he tucked the photographs of the dead man back in the envelope.
“By the way, what was wrong with his arms and legs? Did he have some kind of congenital defect?”