Tressed to Kill by Lila Dare Page A

thinning, her hair stood up in a pouf around her scalp, heightening her resemblance to a crowned crane. Blue eyes still snapped with life, though the pigment had faded to a pale periwinkle.
She waved an arthritis-gnarled hand. “Yoo-hoo! Grace! I just poured myself some lemonade . . . would you like some?”
“Sure,” I said, resigned. I knew she’d been lying in wait for me, hoping to pump me for details about Constance DuBois’s murder. By now, word must be all over town that Mom and I had found the body. Still, her lemonade was homemade, tart, and refreshing, so I accepted a glass with pleasure and sank into one of the wicker chairs on her porch. A honey bee buzzed among the honeysuckle that twined up the porch slats, and I made a mental note to cut it back one day soon.
She let me take precisely two sips before leaning forward and asking, “Is it true your mama got arrested for the murder?”
“Mrs. Jones!”
“That’s what I heard at the Piggly Wiggly when I went to pick up lemons and white vinegar. It works a treat on mildew in my shower stall, especially in the door track. I pour it in there and—shazam!—no more mildew.” She nodded brightly.
I set my lemonade down with a click on the glass-topped table beside my chair. “Mom and I found Constance DuBois’s body. We went down to police headquarters today to help them with their investigation. Neither of us was arrested.” Of course, if Special Agent Dillon had his way, we still might be.
“I knew Ethel Spillman was wrong,” Mrs. Jones said with satisfaction. “And I told her so. ‘Why,’ I said, ‘Violetta Terhune wouldn’t hurt a fly, Ethel, and you should think shame on yourself for repeating such a rumor. The Good Book tells us in the Psalms to keep our tongues from evil and our lips from spreading lies.’ Ethel went off in a huff after that, I’ll tell you.”
The small-town gossip mill was enough to make me miss the anonymity of Atlanta. But not the traffic and gangs and crowds. “Thank you, Mrs. Jones,” I said. “You’re absolutely right—my mom would never hurt anyone.” Not even an arrogant, know-it-all, trouble-making shrew like Constance DuBois.
“You can count on me to spread the truth, my dear,” she said, patting my hand. “I already called the police to tell them that they got the wrong woman.”
Great, I groaned inwardly. Now Dillon would think we were trying to throw dust in his eyes by having friends and neighbors give character testimonials. “Thank you,” I said again, weakly. “But it’s probably better if you let the police get on with it and don’t make any more phone calls.”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head so the crown of hair quivered around her face. “I learned long ago that you can’t just let things take their natural course. That’s the lazy person’s answer. Not that I’m saying you’re lazy, Grace. But one must be proactive to get things done in this life. That’s the word my great-nephew uses—proactive. He’s an architect, you know, and a very handsome boy.”
I did know. She’d been trying to fix me up with the thirty-five-year-old “boy” since I moved into the garage apartment. I had no interest in dating. Zero, zilch, none. The wounds from my divorce were still too raw. But Mrs. Jones didn’t get the hint. “Thank you for the lemonade,” I said, standing.
“Anytime, dear. And you tell Violetta that I’ll help any way I can with her defense. If the police are foolish enough to arrest her, of course. We could put those collection jars at some of the businesses around town. You know, with a picture of Violetta and a sign saying ‘Violetta Terhune Defense Fund,’ or something like that so she can afford a really good lawyer. Did you know I have a great-nephew who’s a lawyer? But he lives in Richmond. And two of my great-nieces are lawyers, too.”
Waving a hand in farewell, I escaped before she could think of any more schemes to “help” my mom or any more great-nephews to fix me up with. The heavy scent of the honeysuckle followed