Isn’t it always the least likely ones? Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, even Jeffrey Dahmer seemed like the last person you’d ever imagine whacking somebody.” Cyn grabbed her hair dryer and deodorant. “I think we should get out of here. There are plenty of places for rent around here.”
“Tula Rae is one of the best parts of this whole trip. Just because she can wield a cleaver like the Iron Chef, and some man you just met, whose last name you didn’t get, made a few outrageous accusations, doesn’t mean she’s a murderer.” Derry laughed. “For God’s sake, Cyn, do you realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Cyn stuffed a handful of socks into the side of her bag. “She’s had four dead husbands.”
“So, she’s got the best of both worlds. She got their money and she didn’t have to put up with them when their prostates go haywire.”
“I want to leave.”
“Wait a minute. Just stop, okay?” Derry pulled a bunch of socks from Cyn’s suitcase. “What if we find out how the husbands died?”
“And just how would we do that?”
“How else?” Derry threw one of Cyn’s shirts at her. “Ask her.”
Chapter 11
Derry heaped a slice of vegetable lasagna on Earl Gray’s plate. “There you go. And don’t forget the pepperoni and asiago bread.”
“Little Miss City Girl made it herself,” Tula Rae said.
“With a little instruction.”
Tula Rae tossed her a grin, the creases around her eyes fishing out in all directions. Tonight she wore a yellow and purple caftan with rows of wooden fuchsia buttons clustered along the hem. Her wrists jangled with stacks of bracelets, also fuchsia, and long, wooden beads dangled from her ears. Fuchsia, of course.
“This is delicious.” Cyn took the tiniest nibble, her gaze darting from Tula Rae to Derry as if to say, Ask her, right now. Ask her.
Shea had nothing to say. She was still caught up in the loser husband drama. But she did have on the pink velour sweat suit. It was a start.
“Tula Rae, how’d your husbands die?” Watch this Cyn. You’re going to feel like a fool.
The older woman pointed her fork at Derry. “Poison, hacked, drowned, shot.” Her eyes gleamed as she looked around the table. “Someone’s been talking.”
“How?” Cyn pushed out one, small word.
“One was pure foolishness,” she said, piercing a chunk of eggplant. “One was bad timing, one was bad luck, and one was”—she shrugged, met Cyn’s startled gaze—“an accident.”
Silence. So thick Derry could hear the rooster clock perched on the oak mantle in the living room.
“I guess I can’t leave ya’ll hangin’ now, can I? Earl Gray’s heard this story more times than he likes to think about. It’s one of the reasons I won’t marry him.” She shot him a matter-of-fact look and said, “He’d just end up dead.”
“I’m willing to take my chances.”
“I’m not. You’d end up dead before we celebrated our first anniversary.”
“How did they die?” Cyn again, staring at Tula Rae. Even Shea had perked up, her body bent into the conversation, as if to get closer to the truth.
“All Eddie Mame ever wanted was to be a farmer.” Tula Rae shook her head, and went on, “He was born in New Jersey where there’s more cement than fields. He wasn’t no farmer, didn’t even know a dandelion from a mustard green. But Eddie thought he did and there was no telling him anything. So, one day he went out in the woods behind our house and started picking mushrooms. I love mushrooms. He probably was picking them for me.” She sighed and her cinnamon eyes glistened. “The dogs found him around supper time, blue as a herring, lying face down in the dirt, a satchel of mushrooms beside him. They was all poison ones, damn idiot.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Damn fool idiot.”
“I’m sorry,” Shea said, her voice trembling. “I know how terrible it is to lose someone you love.”
You mean Richard, Shea? Or the first asshole?
“Fredo Lay was
“Tula Rae is one of the best parts of this whole trip. Just because she can wield a cleaver like the Iron Chef, and some man you just met, whose last name you didn’t get, made a few outrageous accusations, doesn’t mean she’s a murderer.” Derry laughed. “For God’s sake, Cyn, do you realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Cyn stuffed a handful of socks into the side of her bag. “She’s had four dead husbands.”
“So, she’s got the best of both worlds. She got their money and she didn’t have to put up with them when their prostates go haywire.”
“I want to leave.”
“Wait a minute. Just stop, okay?” Derry pulled a bunch of socks from Cyn’s suitcase. “What if we find out how the husbands died?”
“And just how would we do that?”
“How else?” Derry threw one of Cyn’s shirts at her. “Ask her.”
Chapter 11
Derry heaped a slice of vegetable lasagna on Earl Gray’s plate. “There you go. And don’t forget the pepperoni and asiago bread.”
“Little Miss City Girl made it herself,” Tula Rae said.
“With a little instruction.”
Tula Rae tossed her a grin, the creases around her eyes fishing out in all directions. Tonight she wore a yellow and purple caftan with rows of wooden fuchsia buttons clustered along the hem. Her wrists jangled with stacks of bracelets, also fuchsia, and long, wooden beads dangled from her ears. Fuchsia, of course.
“This is delicious.” Cyn took the tiniest nibble, her gaze darting from Tula Rae to Derry as if to say, Ask her, right now. Ask her.
Shea had nothing to say. She was still caught up in the loser husband drama. But she did have on the pink velour sweat suit. It was a start.
“Tula Rae, how’d your husbands die?” Watch this Cyn. You’re going to feel like a fool.
The older woman pointed her fork at Derry. “Poison, hacked, drowned, shot.” Her eyes gleamed as she looked around the table. “Someone’s been talking.”
“How?” Cyn pushed out one, small word.
“One was pure foolishness,” she said, piercing a chunk of eggplant. “One was bad timing, one was bad luck, and one was”—she shrugged, met Cyn’s startled gaze—“an accident.”
Silence. So thick Derry could hear the rooster clock perched on the oak mantle in the living room.
“I guess I can’t leave ya’ll hangin’ now, can I? Earl Gray’s heard this story more times than he likes to think about. It’s one of the reasons I won’t marry him.” She shot him a matter-of-fact look and said, “He’d just end up dead.”
“I’m willing to take my chances.”
“I’m not. You’d end up dead before we celebrated our first anniversary.”
“How did they die?” Cyn again, staring at Tula Rae. Even Shea had perked up, her body bent into the conversation, as if to get closer to the truth.
“All Eddie Mame ever wanted was to be a farmer.” Tula Rae shook her head, and went on, “He was born in New Jersey where there’s more cement than fields. He wasn’t no farmer, didn’t even know a dandelion from a mustard green. But Eddie thought he did and there was no telling him anything. So, one day he went out in the woods behind our house and started picking mushrooms. I love mushrooms. He probably was picking them for me.” She sighed and her cinnamon eyes glistened. “The dogs found him around supper time, blue as a herring, lying face down in the dirt, a satchel of mushrooms beside him. They was all poison ones, damn idiot.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Damn fool idiot.”
“I’m sorry,” Shea said, her voice trembling. “I know how terrible it is to lose someone you love.”
You mean Richard, Shea? Or the first asshole?
“Fredo Lay was
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