Page 75 of Family Jewels

“You’re kidding.”

“She said she needs to tell me something about Rayna.”

“Okay,” she said. “See you there.”

I hung up and tried to think of where I could go to clean up a little before heading to the bar. Then it hit me. Violet’s house—the house I’d lived in for twenty-four years until I’d moved into the farm last November.

The house was dark and cool when I let myself in. I’d been checking on it a couple of times a week since she’d left for Houston, but I never stayed long. Violet and I had a complicated relationship; this house and I, even more so. My momma, or at least the woman I’d thought was my momma, had tormented me. Now I knew it wasn’t just my visions that had made her hate me—she’d likely seen me as a reflection of my birth momma, the woman her husband had briefly left her for.

I went into the bathroom, stripped off my shirt, and washed off with a washcloth. Since Violet and I were the same size, I grabbed a shirt out of her closet and put it on. At least I wouldn’t stink now.

As I locked up the house, I heard an old woman shout, “I’m gonna call the police!”

Cringing, I turned around to face my old across-the-street neighbor. “Miss Mildred. This used to be my house, and you darn well know it.”

She hobbled to the end of the driveway. “It’s Violet’s house now.”

“And you know I have permission to check on her house, so why would you call the police?”

She pointed at me with a single gnarled finger. “For thievery. That’s Violet’s shirt.”

“Maybe you should just ask her if she wants to press charges when she comes home in a couple of weeks.”

Some of the bitterness left her eyes. “Violet’s comin’ home?”

“If all goes well, yeah, she’ll be home soon.” Then it occurred to me that I was talking to one the busiest busybodies in Henryetta. Perhaps her eighty-three years of gossip and elephant-like memory might come in handy. “Say, Miss Mildred, I suspect you knew Mable Dyer’s mother.”

She lifted her chin. “What makes you think that?”

I lifted my shoulder into a slight shrug. “Well . . . I know that you know everyone who’s been in the garden club for the past sixty years. Shoot, you know James Malcolm’s grandmother, Roberta, and she was one of the founders.”

Her eyes narrowed. “James Malcolm? Are you talkin’ about Miriam’s son?”

I realized my mistake and sucked in my breath. “I don’t know his mother’s name. But most people call him Skeeter.” I wasn’t sure why it surprised me. We’d been hanging out for months, and there was so little I knew about him.

Her lips pursed. “That’s him. How do you know James Malcolm? He’s a hoodlum.” Then she shook her head. “But then, why am I surprised?”

Crappy doodles. I’d really screwed this up. There was a good chance she wouldn’t tell me anything now. “You’re pretty observant,” I said. “There’s no way you missed my name in the news last February in connection with the arrest of J.R. Simmons. And James’ name was in there too. He helped bring that madman down.”

The severe lines on her forehead eased.

“Neely Kate and I have been helping Raddy Dyer look for his grandmother’s missing necklace. He thinks someone stole it, and he wants it back. But we keep hearing conflicting reports as to whether it’s worth anything. Do you know if Mable’s mother had expensive jewelry?”

Miss Mildred laughed, but not in a kind way. “That woman didn’t have a pot to piss in. Oleander was known for wearing big gaudy jewelry, but it was all from Woolworths up in Magnolia.”

I heaved out a sigh. What in the world was going on? What had Rayna been killed for then? And where in tarnation had that owl pin come from?

“If Radcliffe Dyer is telling you that his grandmother’s necklace is worth money, he’s selling you a piece of swampland.” Chuckling, she turned and started to hobble toward her house. “You always were a gullible girl.”

Frowning, I called after her. “Thanks for the information.”

I got in my truck and drove to One Eyed Joes, a bar on the east side of town that was frequented by truckers and some of the older farmers. I’d never been there. While its reputation was milder than the Trading Post, it was known to host a rough crowd from time to time, but surely things wouldn’t be too out of hand just after lunchtime.

Neely Kate’s car was in the parking lot along with a dozen other cars. I’d had no idea a country bar would be so popular on a Thursday afternoon. She was talking on the phone in her car. From the look on her face, she was in the middle of an argument with someone. When she saw me, she abruptly ended the call and got out of the car.

“Everything all right?” I asked.

She gave a little shimmy as she centered her purse strap on her shoulder. “Fine. Let’s find Trixie.”