Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 04 - With This Ring Page 10

  “It’s my fault,” Stone said. “I’m the one who told you to take another Vicodin and go lie down. I should have known better than to have you double up on the pain medicine, following a healthy dose of morphine. I’m really sorry, sweetheart.”

  I felt bad letting him think my condition was his fault, but at least he wasn’t angry with me, as he would be if he knew the entire story. Not actually lying to Stone, just leaving out a few minor details, as I had a bad habit of doing, I said, “I tried to sleep but was too wound up. I thought I’d get a cup of coffee and relax in the parlor with it.”

  I looked around and saw pieces of my favorite cup, and puddles of old coffee all over the floor. “I need to get this mess cleaned up,” I said, “before someone slips in a puddle or steps on a piece of the ceramic cup.”

  “No, you don’t. I’ll quickly sweep the ceramic shards out of the way, and then I’ll clean the entire mess up later. Right now we’re going back to the hospital to have your wrist re-examined. It doesn’t look good to me. It’s beginning to turn purple and swell up.”

  Back at Wheatfield Memorial, we passed by one of the E.R. nurses on our way to check back in. She had taken me to the x-ray room on our initial visit earlier that day. “Good grief, are you still here, Lexie?” She asked.

  “I’m actually back, Terri. I’ve re-injured my wrist,” I told her. She merely nodded, not at all surprised to see me there twice in one day. I’d been in this emergency ward numerous times in one year of being a part-time, and now a full-time, resident of Rockdale. I knew most of the E.R. staff by their first names, and they all knew mine. It was getting to be a little humiliating.

  An hour and a half later we left, my fractured left wrist in a plaster cast. I’d been given another shot of morphine, to dull the pain, but I’d declined another Vicodin. That’s what had brought me back to the E.R. in the first place and I didn’t need both of my arms out of commission.

  There wasn’t much conversation between Stone and me on the way home. I sat silently while he talked about his trip to Home Depot and the paint he’d purchased. I was only listening half-heartedly, thinking more about how I was going to prepare and serve supper to our guests with my wrist in a cast and my mind still in somewhat of a fog from the morphine injection. I felt confident I could work my way around the injured wrist somehow, but the overwhelming fatigue I felt was something else entirely. Stone solved the dilemma for me.

  I’d taken a frozen casserole out of the freezer earlier, and Stone convinced me to go straight to bed when we got home to the Alexandria Inn. He’d clean up the kitchen, fix dinner for the guests, and bring me some food on a tray. How was I ever so lucky as to have found a man like Stone Van Patten? I’d truly been blessed when he came into my life. How I hoped the wedding could proceed as planned. I wanted to tie this man down before my stupid impulsiveness scared him off.

  Chapter 7

  I fell asleep immediately. I didn’t even recall Stone bringing supper up to me in bed. If I ate anything, it was unconsciously. I slept soundly through the night, until a dull throbbing in my wrist woke me at about seven. Stone was already up and about, probably downstairs in the kitchen debating about what to fix the guests for breakfast. I could picture them all sitting around the table over a bowl of Cheerios and a pop tart.

  I got up and dressed and went downstairs for a pain pill and a cup of coffee, in that order. It was rare that coffee wasn’t my first priority when I awoke in the morning, but my wrist was really starting to ache, and I wanted to keep it from getting any worse.

  I was surprised to see both Wendy and Wyatt sitting in the kitchen with Stone. They all had a cup of coffee, and there was a box of store-bought doughnuts in front of them. Their chatter stopped abruptly, and all three sets of eyes watched me as I entered the room. It was clear Stone had relayed the news to them about my latest injury.

  “How’s your wrist?” They all asked in unison.

  “I’m sure it’ll be much better once I’ve had a pain pill,” I said. Now all three sets of eyes bored right straight in to me. I could feel their glares slice through me, plum to the bone. The words “blooming idiot” seem to hang on the very tip of each of their tongues. “Trust me, the other pain medication has worn off, and this time I will wait at least four hours before taking another Vicodin, no matter how badly my wrist hurts. I just hadn’t expected to have such an adverse reaction to doubling up on the medicine, along with the morphine injection.”

  “Have a seat,” Stone said. He got up and poured me a cup of coffee. “Wyatt brought some doughnuts with him. Have one, so you don’t take the pill on an empty stomach. Wendy volunteered to make some bacon, eggs, and French toast for the guests’ breakfast. You can have some of that too, once it’s ready.”

  “Oh, thank you, darling,” I said to my daughter. “But I think I’ll just settle for a doughnut this morning. I don’t think my stomach could handle a heavy meal.”

  “Maybe by lunch you’ll feel up to a decent meal. Don’t forget we have a couple checking in around noon,” Stone said, glancing back and forth from me to Wendy. “The Jacksons are in town from Texas for Pastor Steiner’s funeral. Mr. Jackson’s a cousin of the pastor. They’ll be checking out the morning of the funeral and heading home afterward.”

  “I’ll get suite four made up for them this morning,” I told Stone. “It’s the only one available on the second floor that’s not in the process of being painted, and the other rooms still need a good dusting and freshening up.”

  “Are you sure you can handle it? I’ll get started on the painting as soon as I’ve finished my coffee. We’ve got a full house scheduled for this coming weekend with people arriving for the wedding, if there’s going to be a wedding this weekend, and I want all the painting done by then.”

  “Need any help, Stone?” Wendy asked. “I’ve got the entire day off and nothing to do.”

  “Sure, sweetie. If you don’t mind lending a hand, I’d appreciate you helping your mother out. I can handle the painting by myself.”

  “Good idea. Mom, you take the day off and let me make up suite four for the Jacksons after breakfast is over with.” Wendy talked while she laid out pots and pans and the utensils she’d need to begin cooking. “After you sprained your wrist I was afraid you’d need help. Now that it’s broken, you could definitely use a spare hand—no pun intended. Other than the autopsy on Mr. Steiner, work has been slow this week. I’ll ask Nate if I can take a few days off so I can assist you the rest of this week. And, like Stone says, if there is a wedding this weekend, you’ll need help getting ready for that, too.”

  “I appreciate your help, Wendy, but one day of assistance around the inn is all I’ll need. I’m not going to milk this little injury and inconvenience you and Stone. I may have to take you up on the offer to help me prepare for the wedding, however. Sheila Davidson will be here to help out too.”

  “Okay, we’ll see about you handling the work here at the inn by yourself until Sheila arrives, but you’re going to take it easy today. We’ve got the visitation to go to tonight, too, remember,” Wendy said. “I know you well enough to know nothing will keep you from attending Pastor Steiner’s wake.”

  “Yes, of course I plan to attend the wake. After all, he was our pastor and friend. All I need to do this morning is run by the bank to deposit a check, and to pick up a few items at Pete’s Pantry,” I assured her. “I won’t do anything else all day, except rest and relax.”

  * * *

  After several leisurely cups of coffee, I went back upstairs, leaving Wendy in charge of fixing breakfast. She’d always been a good cook, better than me. Of course, that wasn’t saying much. I’d once burnt up a pan just boiling eggs in water. I’d gotten sidetracked and all the water evaporated out of the pan. Twenty minutes later I smelled smoke and burning eggshells in the kitchen and rushed to the stove to find my brand new saucepan had been ruined. There wasn’t enough Soft Scrub in the world to save it.

  I made the bed, as neatly as I coul
d, and then applied a little makeup after bathing in the master bath. Bathing with only one useful hand, and having to keep the other one dry, wasn’t easy. Still, I felt much better after drying off and donning a pair of sweat pants and an over-sized t-shirt.

  I searched through my nightstand to find the cashier’s check I’d been given for the balance of a checking account I’d closed at my former bank in Shawnee. I’d almost given up when I located it inside the latest best seller I was reading. I’d been using it as a bookmark. I was usually a lot more responsible with checks, but I’d been preoccupied with all the scheduling and details that went into organizing a wedding. I now had a lot more respect for professional wedding planners.

  My bookmark was worth several thousand dollars, so I was relieved it hadn’t been permanently misplaced. I’d just opened a new checking account in Rockdale, having previously transferred my savings over to a mutual-fund portfolio. With us both being a little set in our ways, Stone and I had decided to maintain separate checking accounts, with a joint one used for expenses involving the Alexandria Inn. Stone was going to take care of all major expenses, and mine would be used for small personal items, such as birthday gifts and clothes. I’d also have extra cash in it for emergencies. This check would be deposited into my own personal account. It would make me feel a lot more independent to know I could buy Stone a present without having to ask him for the money to do so.

  I endorsed the check, made out a deposit form, and scratched down a few things on a memo pad I wanted to remember to pick up at the grocery store. I wanted to stock up before all the guests arrived.

  Fifteen minutes later I was on the way to the bank, thankful it had been the left wrist I’d broken. Shifting gears in the sports car was less of a challenge this way. There wasn’t a lot of spare room for maneuvering in my little car. I feared I’d break my turn signal indicator off the column by continually banging it with my heavy cast. I was like a bull in a china cabinet under the best of circumstances.

  Traffic was backed up on Main Street. The state maintenance workers were shoveling asphalt into potholes. A bad winter had taken a toll on the city’s streets. Eventually the flag man let us all pass. I turned off on Locust and then made a quick right into the parking lot at Rockdale Savings and Loan. There was no one else in the drive-through lane at the bank.

  Sandy, who I now knew to be Coach Webster’s wife, greeted me as I pulled up to her window. She looked like she was preparing to walk the runway at a fashion show. In contrast, I looked like something the cat had hacked up, in my old stained t-shirt that had large enough sleeves to pull on over the cast. I asked her if she was doing all right, and she responded affirmatively. I put my check and deposit slip in the little drawer she slid out toward me, and waited while she printed out a receipt.

  “Did you hear about Thurman Steiner’s death?” I asked, just to make conversation. Sandy nodded as she slid the little drawer back out.

  “Yeah, it’s too bad,” she said. “A lot of people who are coming through my drive-up lane are talking about it. No one can believe it happened right here in Rockdale.”

  “Yes, this small town has had more than its share of murders in recent months. Does anyone have any theories on who the killer is?” You never knew who that one missing bit of information would come from. It didn’t hurt to cover as many bases as possible.

  “There are more theories going around than you can imagine,” Sandy answered. “I think my favorite one is that Mr. Nelson, the Methodist minister, killed him in hopes of converting some of Steiner’s parishioners over to his own church.”

  Sandy laughed, and I laughed along with her. I had hoped for a more feasible answer. Maybe someone out there knew something the investigators didn’t. “That will never happen. We were all much too loyal to Pastor Steiner and to the Baptist Church in general.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you all are. I know a lot of people were devoted to him.”

  “Well, if you hear anything interesting, let me know.” I laughed again, but not enough to make her think I was kidding about my request. “I’m doing a little investigative work on my own, you see, as he was not only my pastor and good friend, but he was to marry my fiancé and me this coming weekend.”

  “Oh, what a shame this had to disrupt your wedding. Do the police know you’re involved in the investigation? I’d be afraid to get involved if I were a little bitty thing like you.” Sandy chuckled again, as if the notion of me conducting my own investigation was the silliest thing she’d ever heard.

  “Oh, well, despite this cast on my wrist, I’m not as fragile as I look. And of course, the police have full knowledge of my involvement. I’ve helped them out with previous murder cases that took place right here in Rockdale, and have been pretty successful I might add.” Which was true, even though they didn’t necessarily welcome my help. And they certainly were aware I was involved again this time, because they’d nearly arrested me twice for impersonating a member of the police department. But for Wyatt, I’d probably be behind bars instead of depositing a check.

  It was apparent Sandy didn’t take my comments seriously. I wondered what she would think if she knew her husband was on my suspect list and had been on the detective’s list too. She wouldn’t be laughing so much if she was aware there was a possibility Buck was somehow involved in the murder.

  “Well, good luck, dear,” Sandy said. “Have a nice day, Ms. Starr.”

  After leaving the bank, I turned back onto Locust, the most prominent industrial street in town, and headed east toward Pete’s Pantry. I found a parking spot right up front. It was a narrow space, but I didn’t need a very wide one for the convertible. It was yet another advantage of owning a tiny car. But there were some drawbacks too. The biggest disadvantage was that I couldn’t buy very many groceries at any one time and get them all loaded into my miniscule back seat, and the trunk would hold no more than a bag or two. On more than one occasion I’d had to make several trips to the store to haul home enough stuff to stock the pantry. The more guests we had, the more groceries it took to keep them fed, and the more trips I made back and forth to Pete’s. Of course, I was always welcome to take Stone’s truck to the store, but it felt like I was driving a school bus in comparison to my own car, and then I had to worry about door dings when parked in a too-narrow parking spot. I didn’t want to be responsible for any damage to his new vehicle that he took so much pride in.

  Once inside the store, I grabbed a basket and began to select a few things off the shelf. We were out of vinegar, and the mustard bottle was nearly empty. I asked the butcher to cut me a large seven-bone roast, and picked up several packages of precut pork chops. Then I filled a few plastic bags with fresh fruit and vegetables.

  We always needed milk and eggs, so I headed toward the dairy isle after grabbing a package of chocolate-chip cookies off the display at the end of the row. It was on sale, after all. I couldn’t afford not to buy it when it was forty cents off its normal price. Besides, I had a broken wrist and a wedding in question. I needed comfort food in the worst way. What I didn’t consume, Detective Johnston would, I was sure.

  Once in the dairy department, I checked for broken eggs in four cartons and found none. Then I grabbed the last two gallons of milk in the row, assuming they’d have the longest expiration dates. Last stop was the bread aisle, where I squeezed loaves of bread with my right hand, looking for the softest, freshest loaf of sourdough, after squeezing all the sleeves of blueberry bagels.

  I was on the way to the checkout stand with a carload of groceries already, when I noticed a display of spaghetti sauces on the end of the aisle, where most of the sale items were usually located. A jar of Prego for $1.69 sounded like a good deal, and there was no limit on how many a customer could buy. I decided to buy six jars of the sauce with mushrooms and garlic, even though the small amount of hauling space in my car was coming into play, and I was already pushing the limit. But my homemade sauce wasn’t much to brag about and Prego was so much easier and qui
cker to fix. It would make for a simple supper for our guests. If I used every inch of the passenger seat too, I might be able to make room, I reasoned.

  As I placed the last two jars in my cart, I looked down the aisle and saw Paula Bankston pulling a bottle of ketchup down off the top shelf to place in her cart. Before I could duck out of sight, she turned to walk toward me. It was a close call. Fortunately, she was concentrating on the various items on the shelves, and stopped in front of the pickles and olives. She was probably shopping for items she’d need to put out for the luncheon after her dad’s funeral service the next day. I didn’t want her to see me. I was still a bit ashamed of the commotion I’d caused at the church service honoring her father and his service to the members of the congregation. I doubted she’d have anything pleasant to say to me, and I didn’t want to give her an opportunity to un-invite me to the luncheon. I hadn’t been this thrilled with an invitation since Leonard Rutherford asked me to the all-school dance in junior high.

  I stepped back out of the aisle before she could look up and catch me observing her. As I did, I bumped into the front of my cart and felt it begin to roll away from me. I turned to my left quickly to grab the cart and my left hand glanced off a jar of spaghetti sauce about halfway up the display. The jar teetered back and forth, while I flailed around hitting jar after jar with my plaster cast in an attempt to prevent the inevitable.

  Before I could react to right the jars, they began cascading to the floor, shattering one by one. Spaghetti sauce was splattering all over my jeans and everything else in its path.

  “Oh, goodness,” I heard an elderly lady say behind me. I was thinking something similar to that myself, but “goodness” wasn’t quite the word that came to mind.