Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?: A Thoroughly Southern Mystery Read Free Page B

Alex’s office, until I suddenly realized Olive was staring at me. Had I quoted some of that out loud? Probably not. She looked more like we were teammates on Jeopardy! and she was willing me to ask the winning question. I gave it a try. “Could Valerie have let anybody else drive your car?”
    Edie gave an impatient huff and stomped to the door. “She wouldn’t. And I can’t see that this is anybody’s business but mine. Is that all?” she asked Alex. “I need to get back to the desk.”
    I was sorry we’d upset her. Edie had been deluged with despair that year, between Wick’s death and Josiah’s stroke. “None of this sounds like much to worry about,” I said. “Stress makes all of us forgetful, and you have every reason to be worn out, with all you’ve been through. Are you still driving back and forth every evening to see your daddy?”
    “Yes.” One short, abrupt syllable.
    I was ready to end the conversation and head back to the store, but Alex must have wanted me to have the full picture. “You’re still president of the literacy council, right?”
    “Just until June.”
    “And tutoring every week?”
    “Just one student right now.”
    “And playing bridge?”
    Olive put in her oar. “She doesn’t have to run the tournament. I told her I’d be glad to—”
    “You don’t know all that’s involved,” Edie said impatiently. “It would take longer to explain it than to do it myself.”
    How many times have I heard that from women who claim they are doing too much, but never let go of anything because they don’t really believe anybody else can do it as well as they can? It’s such a small step from knowing you are competent to believing you are indispensable.
    Olive’s eyes narrowed into dime-sized slits. “But with that new committee you agreed to serve on at your church—”
    Edie’s color flared high. “That’s just for a year, while we raise money for repairs.”
    “Honey!” I exclaimed in dismay. “Between ‘just this’ and ‘just that,’ it’s a wonder you aren’t plumb nuts. You can’t do all you used to do and work. And you don’t need to see Josiah every day. That’s two hours round-trip, plus time to visit. Your daddy doesn’t want you killing yourself coming to see him.”
    Edie sighed. “I keep hoping one day he’ll talk a little, or move his hand. I don’t want to miss being there that day.” Her voice trembled, and she took deep breaths to steady herself.
    Olive made a movement with one hand like she wished she could help but didn’t know how. “I’d better get back to the desk. I came in to see if I could take an early lunch.” Nobody believed that, but when Alex approved the request, she backed out of the room.
    I couldn’t offer Edie much hope that her daddy would get better. Instead, I asked, “Speaking of nuts, are you going to be able to get in this year’s crop without Pete?”
    Josiah Whelan owned a thousand acres of pecan trees that had to be harvested between October and February if he was to have any income for the year. Harvest required at least thirty workers to bring in the crop, run the cleaning and sorting operation, and keep the machinery going, and Pete Joyner, Josiah’s harvest foreman, had suffered a fatal heart attack the same morning Josiah had his stroke. Nobody knew exactly what had gone on out at the grove that day, but something terrible had blown up between them after a lifetime of working together.
    In addition to my concern for Edie, I had a personal interest in her answer. Yarbrough’s might weather the superstore, but if Whelan Grove went under, we’d have a hole in our bottom line. A thousand acres of pecans need a lot of herbicides, pesticides, and fertilizer in a year, and Josiah purchased them all from us.
    “This year’s crop will be okay if the rain lets up. Henry came home for his daddy’s funeral, and he said he’ll stay to get the harvest in.”
    Henry was Pete’s son, and he must be about thirty