Mama came over to us and put her hands on our shoulders. “All good questions, sugar. Why don’t we tackle ’em over dinner? I’ve really worked up an appetite today. I’m feelin’ ’bout half starved.” She gave me a little push toward the chair. “Go on, now. Sit down.”
I did as she said, sinking into the chair as if it were a hammock. I remembered what Mama had said earlier: bone tired. That was exactly how I felt. I’d been trying to push this stuff with Trey to the back of my mind, but it seemed to have caught up with me all at once. I looked over and saw Mama pouring herself a glass of whiskey. “Would you mind pouring me one of those, Mama?”
“You must be thinkin’ the same thing I am, hon?”
“What’s that?”
She passed a glass of amber liquid my way. “That Mr. Beam would be a welcome dinner guest tonight.”
Chapter 10
Later that night, I lay in bed cursing myself for eating pasta so late in the evening. Not to mention that the warm glow of Mr. Beam’s libation was likely part of the roiling effects I was now suffering. A bit of delicate chardonnay with dinner or a sip of a sweet after-dinner cognac was more my style, but oh, no, I’d joined in with Mama’s dear friend tonight. Now my stomach lurched like a ship caught on stormy ocean waves as my brain tried—and failed—to keep an even keel. Of course, no meal could possibly pair well with the discussion at our table tonight. After a lot of back-and-forth, Trey and I had finally come to an agreement. If cooking was really what he thought he wanted to do, then so be it. I supported his decision and would help him in any way I could. But he was going to give me a portion of his paycheck until he’d fully paid for the tuition I’d lost. I could tell he wasn’t thrilled with that, but, really, how could he expect otherwise? That was only reasonable, after all.
Sighing, I rolled over, slapped my pillow a few times, and plopped my head back down. Not only was my stomach rolling, but my thoughts were reeling. Or maybe it wasn’t the pasta and dinner conversation upsetting my stomach, but the awful thought that’d been niggling at my mind all day: Lynn might really be guilty.
After all, someone had to have planted those nails in Jodi’s room. Because what motive did Jodi possibly have for wanting Chuck dead? As far as I or anyone knew, she and Chuck had never met before this weekend. Even if what Cora thought was true, that Jodi and Chuck had a fling, so what? Although I didn’t quite take Jodi for the “fling” type. But even if she had, why kill him? And those nails so conveniently found in her room? It just seemed too easy. Too coincidental, especially when combined with the very same murder method she’d used in her own book. Of course, maybe Chuck was in her room for some reason related to the remodel and simply dropped the nails. But wouldn’t he have noticed? Heard them drop to the floor? No, more than likely the real murderer planted the nails in Jodi’s room to cinch the deal. Knowing that if they were discovered, Jodi would be arrested and all the focus would be put on her. The question was, who had that type of access to her room? The rooms had locks, so surely Jodi would have locked her room when she left the house. But while she was there? She might have left it unlocked, so anyone also in the house at that time could get in. There were only three people that I knew of: Lynn, Pam, and Cora. And here’s the part that really bugged me: Out of those three, Lynn was the only one who had any sort of reason to want Chuck dead.
Letting out another sigh, I squinted at my nightstand clock. After midnight. Giving up on sleep, I turned on my lamp and slipped out of the covers. Then I quickly traversed the cold pine-planked floor to retrieve some papers from my purse before diving back under covers. Earlier that day, I’d snatched a pile of queries from my desk, hoping I’d find some free time to read over a few. Now seemed as good a time as any. Maybe they’d take my mind off the case and my queasy stomach.
Surprisingly enough, the first one I read appealed to me. Even from just a one-page query, I could tell the author had a remarkable knack for character development. Her protagonist’s personality shone through from the first line and carried through the entire query. Best of all, the author had taken a risk when developing her main character. She’d painted a picture of an older female protagonist, rough around the edges, street-wise and prone to bad habits like heavy drinking and swearing. Interesting. I marked it and set it aside. I’d be asking to see more of the author’s work.
I kept working my way through the pile but didn’t really find anything else of interest. Eventually, I must have drifted off because sometime in the early morning I was jostled from sleep by the ringing of my cell phone.
Had I overslept? Was something wrong? Trey? Then I remembered he was here, sleeping in his room just down the hall. Mama? Was something wrong with . . . ? “Hello,” I said, trying to shake my brain fog.
“Lila. It’s me, Makayla. I’m sorry to wake you.”