Charlaine Harris - Poppy Done to Death

In one of those unexpected little moments of clarity that make life so frightening, I realized (as I sat by the pool of a murdered woman, being comforted by an attentive lawyer) that my first marriage had not been such a partnership.

“All right?” Bryan was saying anxiously.

“Yes, I’m fine.” I sounded like a polite robot. I shook myself a little. “Thank you for asking.”

At that awkward juncture, another presence made itself known. Teresa Stanton, Uppity Woman par excellence, swept through the patio gate.

“Poor Aurora!” Teresa called. Teresa was a terrifying woman. I hadn’t known that a pantsuit with matching jacket was the appropriate outfit to wear to the house of a murdered woman; until I saw Teresa, that is. She wore one, dark burgundy with golden brown touches, and so that was exactly the right thing. Teresa’s dark hair was beautifully cut and blow-dried, so the short sides fanned back from her face, her makeup was discreet, and her teeth were perfectly white. Intelligence gleamed through her contact lenses.

“Teresa,” I muttered. Bryan, of course, stood. I suddenly remembered that the woman to whom Bryan had been married was the newly rewed Teresa Stanton. Teresa Pascoe Stanton.

“I’ve had the devil’s own time catching up to you,” Teresa said.

I hardly felt I needed to apologize. “This has been a very busy day,” I said noncommittally.

“Oh, of course! No doubt! Hello, Bryan.” Teresa made sure we knew she was adding the greeting as an elaborate afterthought.

“Teresa, good to see you,” he said, his voice cool and un-inflected.

I tried real hard to think of a good excuse to get up and run away, but none popped to mind.

“What’s that man doing there?” Teresa asked, distracted by Zachary Lee, who appeared to be wearing a space suit. He was working right inside the sliding glass door.

“He’s cleaning up the blood,” I said. Of course, that didn’t faze Teresa.

“I’m so glad you were able to find someone who does that sort of thing,” she said conversationally. “Where’s your Mr. Crusoe?”

“I don’t know.” I refused to explain or elaborate. I wondered what she would do if I asked her where Shorty Stanton was. I was so powerfully tempted that I actually opened my mouth, but then common sense prevailed.

“Of course, all the women in the club want to know what we can do to help,” Teresa said.

“Maybe Melinda needs some baby-sitting,” I suggested. “Since she’s got her own two kids and Poppy’s boy, too.”

Teresa wrote this down on her little pocket notebook. “What else?” she asked. “We’ve already taken food to your mother’s house.”

“I’d rethink backing Bubba Sewell for representative.”

“Do you think he is involved with Poppy’s death?” Teresa was nothing if not direct, if she thought directness would serve her purposes best.

“No, actually, I don’t, but I think his reputation may take a beating if the investigation ends in a trial.”

“So it’s true: He was messing around with Poppy.” Teresa looked very cross.

I didn’t meet her eyes.

“Someone who can’t keep his pants zipped,” Teresa said flatly. “We don’t want that in a public servant. I think we’ve all seen enough of that.”

“True,” I said.

We all fell silent, and in that sudden hush I could hear the splash of the pool across the privacy fence. Some music was playing, too; it sounded like Handel.

“Cara!” Teresa called. “Are you doing your laps? Can you take a break?”

“Is that Teresa?” a high voice hooted back.

“Yes, girl. Come over here!”

There was a little-used gate in the high privacy fence between the two properties. It made a high-pitched squeak as Cara Embler pushed it open. Cara was pulling off a swim cap as she walked toward us, and she’d wrapped a big towel around her because it was a brisk, cool day. Her hairstyle had been chosen to complement her athleticism; she wore her blond hair (now mixed with gray) short and straight. Cara had been a champion swimmer in high school and college, and someone had told me that she was training for a seniors competition. Lawrenceton people were bemused by Cara-swimming in all temperatures, goal-oriented-but they respected her dedication and her excellent physical condition. Married to a cardiologist who seemed always to be on call, Cara had a lot of time to shape as she pleased.

Though the Emblers had a son, who was studying to be an environmental engineer or something equally laudable, he was in college in northern California and seldom came home. So Cara swam, ran, dabbled in political causes, tutored kids at the junior high, and organized the annual fund-raising drive for the United Way. She had a couple of dogs, schnauzers; she was famous locally for going to any lengths to help the pound raise money, and she was ferocious about turning in animal abusers.

I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t been on the list for Uppity Women years ago, but I figured that by now she should be fairly close to the top of the list.

“How’s John David?” Cara asked me. She plopped down into one of the lawn chairs, draping her head and neck with yet another towel. The day was cool enough that I would have been shivering had I been wet, but Cara seemed impervious to the temperature.

“About like you’d expect.” Actually, I hadn’t seen John David since yesterday, and I had no idea how he was holding up. But somehow, that didn’t seem the right thing to confess. I was a little surprised that Cara asked. I hadn’t been aware she’d ever had a conversation with John David.

“This is just awful, and in the house right behind me,” Cara went on.

I hadn’t thought of that. I would sure be scared, too. In fact, I’d be shaking in my shoes. But Cara seemed concerned, not frightened.

“Did you hear anything peculiar?” Teresa asked.

Cara, who was somewhere between forty and fifty, shrugged her muscular shoulders. “No, the day was just as usual. Swam in the morning, decorated the house for Thanksgiving, went to lunch with a friend, came back, did my second set of laps- that’s when I heard a lot of coming and going over here-and then in the late afternoon, I made plans for a Christmas party my husband and I are giving.”

I was sure that Cara Embler’s plans for a party would be somewhat more sophisticated and complex than mine would be. Probably the guests would be more sophisticated, too, if they were from her husband’s workplace. Did you entertain cardiologists and hospital administrators the same way you did, oh, say realtors and librarians? The wine would have to be better for the hospital people…

“Aurora,” Teresa was saying none too gently. “Are you listening to me?”

“No,” I said. I saw Bryan turn hastily to one side to conceal a smile. Maybe I had been a tad blunt. “Sorry, I was drifting,” I murmured. “What were you saying?”

“I was reminding Cara that she was next on the list.”

The day after Poppy had died.

Teresa was not Ms. Sensitive, but this was callous, even for her. We all regarded her in a long moment of silence.

“What?” she said.

“The circumstances take most of the zest out of becoming an Uppity Woman,” Cara said finally, looking past Teresa’s shoulder as she spoke. “Give me a call to let me know the time and place. If you leave it on my machine, I’ll write it down. I can’t remember anything if you tell me away from a pad and pencil.”

“I know how that is,” Teresa agreed. “I live by my Day Planner.” She was quite oblivious to her offense.

“Who on earth is that?” Cara asked. She, too, had caught a glimpse of Zachary Lee in his space suit.

Bryan took on the duty of explaining, What a long day it had been. And there was more to come. But I roused myself to ask Cara if she’d seen Moosie.