Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?: A Thoroughly Southern Mystery by Patricia Sprinkle Page A

her eyes, but they were large and light, the best feature in a face that was long and strong, with a large nose and wide chin. Odd shadows made one cheek look purple and green. Her hair looked green, too, in the halogen glow, falling from a center part straight to her waist. It was so thick and strong, I had a sudden picture of it swinging in one long braid from a castle window to haul up a prince.
    She heaved a loaded book bag over one shoulder as easily as if it were empty. “If you came to see Edie, I think she’s, like, gone.” She peered around the grove, in case Edie should appear from behind a tree.
    “I was down visiting with Henry,” I explained.
    She gave the shed an incurious look. “Oh. Is he still here?”
    “Working on something.”
    “Oh.” She stood swinging the book bag, not noticeably skilled in the art of conversation.
    “You must be Valerie,” I repeated. “I’m Judge Yarbrough, and I came down to—” At the moment I couldn’t remember. It seemed like I’d been there a week.
    She waited, patient as a good child. “—see Henry?” she suggested helpfully.
    “Yes,” I agreed, relieved. “And there’s something on the porch for Edie.” I pointed. I didn’t say I had brought it, but then again, I didn’t say I hadn’t.
    She glanced toward the screen. “Oh.” She got more mileage out of that word than anybody I’d ever met. “I’ll take it in. Do you want a cup of coffee or something? You look real wet.”
    I felt wet. And cold. The damp air had a bite now that the sun was down. A hot cup of coffee was the best offer I’d had all day. So what if Joe Riddley went to dinner without me? I would get there in time for dessert.
    If she was surprised by my acceptance, she gave no sign, just turned back to the car. “Oh. I nearly forgot my fabric.” She pulled out a white plastic bag. “I went up near Augusta for it, after class. Won’t it be great when that new store opens and we can just run by for stuff?”
    Fortunately, she didn’t expect a reply. She strode along the covered walkway and onto the porch, fumbling in her book bag for her keys. I trotted behind like a Lilliputian following Gulliver. “I know they’re in here,” she lamented. “They have to be. I had them at lunch.” Her hair fell in a shawl around her shoulders.
    I wished I had hair long enough to warm my neck. “You drove home,” I reminded her.
    “Oh, yeah. So they must be here.” She rummaged some more, while I stood there wishing I’d had the sense to wear my trench coat or at least bring an umbrella.
    She pulled up the keys like a magician removing her first rabbit from a hat. “Oh! Here they are!” She dropped the book bag with a clunk and unlocked the dead bolt above the ancient knob. Her hands were large and strong, with long fingers.
    “You play the keyboard, don’t you?” I wanted to divert her from my chattering teeth.
    She turned and looked down at me, obviously pleased. “Have you heard the band?”
    “No, somebody told me. But you’ve got good hands for a keyboard.”
    She stretched her hands into two stars and considered them like she hadn’t really noticed them before. “I guess. Come on in. I’ll get some lights on.”
    She flipped a switch beside the door. The kitchen hadn’t changed much in thirty years. Same brown cabinets with yellow countertops. Same cinnamon-toned appliances. Same table with a wood-toned Formica top and four country kitchen chairs. Same sunflower curtains framing the double window behind the sink.
    Valerie locked the dead bolt behind us, then cruised the downstairs turning on enough lights to delight the power company. I took the keys she’d left on the table and retrieved Alex’s files. Valerie and I returned at the same time. “Oh. I forgot all about those. Put them there.” She pointed at the kitchen table toward which I was heading. “That way, Edie will see them as soon as she comes in. Be sure to lock the door, though. We’re real careful