Deadly Southern Charm

“And we’ll visit the church where Jane Austen’s father preached,” Grace said. “And Montacute House, where Sense and Sensibility was filmed. And the gardens of Stourhead, used in the movie Pride and Prejudice.”

“That’s right,” Nora said, nodding. “And then we’ll finish up at Winchester Cathedral, where Jane is buried.”

Shelby suddenly clutched her stomach. “I feel sick.” She jumped up and headed for the restroom.

“What’s that all about?” Grace asked, watching her sprint down the hall.

“Probably gulped her wine too fast,” Meredith said. “That can really mess with your tummy.”

The rest of us finished our meals while Nora and Grace shared more details of their trip. When Meredith signaled to the waitress for the bill, Grace said, “Shelby’s been gone a long time. Maybe we should go check on her?”

Nora stood up. “Good idea. Let’s make sure she’s all right.”

As they walked away, the blare of the intercom cut through the chatter of the diners. “Ladies and gentlemen, good news. The storm has tapered off, and we will resume our regular flights shortly. Please proceed to your assigned gates.”

“About time,” I said.

Meredith began to gather her belongings. “Thanks for letting me vent, Robbie. I get incredibly frustrated every time I think of my ex-husband. Can I show you his picture?”

“Sure.” She handed me a dog-eared photo of a handsome older man and a much younger woman, their faces close together, her lips drawn in a sexy pout. “Meredith, this woman looks a lot like Shelby.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” She grinned. “My private investigator took that for me.”

“Your private investigator?” I hesitated. “You knew she’d be on this flight?”

“No. But I knew Shelby was meeting Carl in St. Lucia. I had hoped to get there first with a little surprise for him. Some of those exotic pharmaceuticals that he was gracious enough to leave behind.” Meredith picked up Shelby’s empty glass and shoved it in her purse.

Just then we heard loud screaming from the direction of the restrooms. “Call 9-1-1,” someone shouted.

“Meredith, what have you done?” I asked.

The older woman grinned. “It was nice to meet you, Robbie. I hope you have a lovely time in England. And forget about Nate. He sounds like nothing but trouble.”

“Meredith, you can’t get away with this. The police will catch up with you, even in St. Lucia.”

Meredith stood up. “There’s been a change of plans. I don’t need to go to St. Lucia now.” She pushed her roller bag into the aisle. “I think I’ll head to Montenegro.”

“Why Montenegro?”

She smiled. “It’s a wonderful country. Delightful people. Beautiful beaches. And best of all… no extradition treaty with the U.S.”

The screams had gotten louder. Security personnel rushed past me. I tried to flag them down, to point them toward Meredith, but they were too focused on responding to the tragedy to notice me.

Pinned in by the other diners, I soon lost sight of her as she disappeared into the crowd.

MOURNING GLORY, by Mollie Cox Bryan

Guest Author

Nobody does funerals like Southerners. But in Victoria Town, Virginia, mourning was an art form. Steeped in its celebrated Victorian roots, the town’s residents hung crape, wore black ribbons, and even donned Victorian mourning clothing when appropriate. Mourning Arts offered everything the modern Virginian in this quaint, historic village needed when a loved one passed.

Viv Barton stood in front of Mourning Arts, wondering why the black-fringed shades were still drawn and the closed sign dangled in the window. Hadn’t Stu said 8:30? The door popped open and Stu, the manager, smiled. “Come on in!”

She entered the store, following the lanky, slightly hunched, Stu, as her first-day-of-work fears turned to edginess. She sucked in air. How hard could this be?

“You’re a gamer, so you’re familiar with computers. Think of the register as a computer, and you’ll have no problem,” Stu said. He led her through a lesson, then pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Viv couldn’t decide if he was authentic or affected. His thin dark eyebrows rose. “We’ll open in twenty minutes. Let’s spruce things up.”

The shop was one of the few Viv frequented in Victoria Town, so she was acquainted with it. Most of the other shops brimmed with rose and pink, lace, feathers, ornate woodwork. Not her taste. Stu handed her a bottle of glass cleaner and paper towels. “You can start by cleaning the cases.”

He couldn’t have given her a better job. Mourning jewelry was her passion. Today, she’d worn her favorite lover’s eye mourning pendant with its tiny red garnets on a black velvet choker, a piece she’d inherited from her grandmother. As she wiped the glass, she admired the exquisite pieces on display. Mourning jewelry was more than hair and fingernails fashioned into pendants, bracelets, and rings. She approached the glass case with the famous Queen Victoria mourning set, on loan from a London museum to Mourning Arts. As Stu had intended, the special display lured people to Victoria Town and to his store. He’d been on the radio and television so often promoting it that Viv’s Aunt Libby would roll her eyes at every occasion. She thought his self-promotion gauche.

“Are you done over there?” Stu asked, as he straightened crape garments along the wall.

Viv gave the counter one more swipe. “Yes.”

He walked up to her and inspected her outfit. “I like that Victorian jacket with the black-and-white-striped corset. The blouse underneath, not so much. Next time, leave it at home.”

Viv grimaced. She’d never wear the corset without a blouse during the day—at her job. What was wrong with him?

At 10 o’clock, Stu whispered that it was teatime. “Can I bring you a cup and some chocolate scones?”

“I don’t drink hot tea,” Viv said. She liked her tea sweet with plenty of ice. “But I’ll take a scone.” If she couldn’t have her tea iced, she’d make do with water in her black, custom-made bottle with a skull and crossbones on it.

Stu carried in a tray and sat it on a tiny table behind the counter. Teatime was a ritual for him. He kept his sugar (or was it saccharin?) in a small, jewel-encrusted vial that he tapped with one bony finger until the clumps fell into his cup. He stirred in cream, brought his cup to his mouth, and sipped with obvious rapture. Viv turned away. Watching the pointy-chinned Stu slurp his tea gave her the creeps.

Stu’s smile vanished as a man sporting a beard and a cane walked into the shop. He stood and started to scurry into the back room.

“I see you, my man,” the stranger said, his voice booming. “You ripped me off. We need to talk.”

“Ripped you off?” Stu turned to face him. His cheek twitched. “I paid you for your services.” Flustered, his eyes moved between Viv and some browsers in the shop. “Shall we go in my office?”

“I don’t think so, Stu,” the man said. “I want a piece of the action, and I want it by midnight tonight.” The intruder turned and lumbered out of the store.

“Who was that?” Viv asked, her heart thudding.

Stu shrugged. “Just some guy I know. Turns out he’s crazy, but he makes the most beautiful jewelry.” Viv turned away in embarrassment, wiping non-existent dust off the counter.

The rest of the morning passed without incident, with Stu popping in and out between the back of the shop and the front.

“I’m going out for a veggie burger,” he said at noon. “Can I bring you one?” Stu said, his eyes shining.

There was no place in Victoria Town proper that carried veggie burgers—not that Viv knew about anyway. “Sure. Who has veggie burgers?”

He leaned in closer to her. “Who indeed?” he mocked with a mysterious tone of voice. He walked out the door with a slight sway. She couldn’t understand what her pharmacist friend Abby saw in the man. He resembled a pale ostrich. But Abby was nuts about him. In fact, she was thrilled that Viv had gotten a job working with him—so she co

uld watch over what Abby called his “flirtatious” nature.

A few women trickled into the shop and bought some pieces of the cheaper mourning jewelry. A man picked up a jacket he’d ordered earlier. But most people came by to view the prized Queen Victoria collection.

Then wouldn’t you know it, her Aunt Libby came in. “Just peeking in to see how you’re doing on your first day.”

“You don’t need to check up on me,” Viv said. “I’m doing fine. Stu is so impressed, he left me in charge and went out for lunch.”

Aunt Libby’s eyebrows shot up. “Lunch? It’s half past three.”

Had time gone that quickly? “He must have gotten hung up.” Or maybe he drove to Richmond for those veggie burgers.

But come 5 o’clock, Viv understood no veggie burger would be coming, and she closed the shop. Shaky and nervous, she told herself it was because she’d had no lunch.

Viv made her way down the cobblestone street past Feathers & Ruffles, past Fans and Parasols, past Elizabeth’s Custom Corsets, and out of the cobbled town square to the paved street. She turned left and walked along the edge of the old cemetery bordered by an ornate black iron fence. Her Aunt Libby’s pink bed & breakfast stood on the other side of the graveyard in a row of other, smaller Victorian houses with gingerbread woodwork, painted in historically accurate colors.Viv walked in the door of the B & B and smelled her aunt’s spaghetti. Thank God. She was starving.

Later that night, before she drifted off to sleep, she wondered what had happened to Stu. Why did he leave her at Mourning Arts alone on her first day? A loud knocking interrupted her sleep. Was it morning already? She blinked the clock into view: 3:37. What was going on?

Viv untangled herself from the blankets. Aunt Libby was at her door, eyes ablaze.

“There’s police officers downstairs. What have you gotten yourself into? Do I need to call a lawyer?”

“Calm down, Aunt Libby. I’ve done nothing wrong. Let me get my robe.”

Aunt Libby followed her into the room. “I’m glad we’ve only one guest tonight. I hope he sleeps through this.”

Viv slipped on her robe and made her way downstairs where two officers waited.

“Vivian Barton?” one officer asked as she came down the stairs.

“Yes, can I help you?”

“I’m Officer Willoughby and this is my partner Officer Thorncraft. We’re sorry to disturb you at this time of night. But it couldn’t be helped.”

Aunt Libby and Viv sat down on the floral loveseat in the parlor; the officers sat on the blue velvet couch.

“Do you work at Mourning Arts?”

“She started yesterday,” Libby said.

Viv elbowed her gently. She could answer her own questions.

“Yes,” Viv said. Her brain hadn’t quite kicked into gear.