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

about that.”
    Locking up seemed silly for the length of time it would take me to drink a cup of coffee, but I honored the request.
    It wasn’t until I turned back to hand her the keys and we stood face-to-face under the bright light, that I saw that the left side of her face still showed purple and green. She saw me staring and put up one hand to cover it. “I’m sorry. It looks awful, I know. I ran into a door.”
    Denial runs deep.
    “That’s what everybody says, honey, but you and I both know somebody did that to you, and whoever he is, he’s not likely to quit.”
    “Oh, no, I ran into a door. Honest. I’m very clumsy.” As a demonstration, she walked toward the cabinets and ran straight into the corner of the countertop. With Olive’s accusations rattling around in my head, I remained skeptical.
    I watched, puzzled, while Valerie took down two glasses, filled them with ice, and poured in iced tea. She handed me one. “Here you are.”
    I stood there shivering so hard the ice clinked in its glass, wondering what happened to that cup of hot coffee she’d offered.
    She handed me the other glass. “Hold this and I’ll turn up the thermostat. We turn it way back all day while we’re not here.” I had already figured that out. As soon as she left, I set the glasses on the table to prevent frostbite.
    The heat came on with a click and a dull roar, but it would never be able to heat those high ceilings and big square rooms before I finished my glass of tea and left. Chilly wisps of air trailed down my neck and swirled around my ankles, reminding me that when the house was built, Georgians were more concerned about attracting breezes than keeping warm.
    I started to pull out a kitchen chair. Valerie asked from the door, “Wouldn’t you like me to make a fire in the living room? It’s all laid and everything.”
    “That would be wonderful.” I followed her through the dining room, carrying both glasses and wishing I had grabbed a dish towel to put around them.
    The dining room was filled with file-sized cartons stacked shoulder-high and neatly labeled with the names of Edie’s various clubs. Papers covered the table and spilled onto the floor. Valerie looked around and explained, “Edie works in here, and she says you should never throw papers out. You never know when you might need them.”
    Across the hall I saw a big room empty except for several card tables and chairs. “That’s where Edie’s bridge club meets,” my tour guide explained.
    She led me to the living room, which was as cold as the others. With a wave of one arm, she asked, “Don’t you love her bears?”
    Edie’s brocade couch, chairs, and grand piano were mixed in with Josiah’s elderly recliner. On and around all of them were teddy bears. They sat on chairs, lined the mantelpiece, and nestled into the corners of the couch. An enormous bear wearing black tails, white shirt, and Wick’s famous paisley bow tie sat on the bench of the old baby grand.
    A family of Pilgrim bears sat in child-sized chairs at a small table before the fireplace. The table was covered by a pale orange cloth, decorated with short orange candles and dried flowers, and set with miniature china. When on earth did Edie find time to dress bears and decorate small tables, with everything else she had to do?
    But a little girl lives and breathes in every grown woman. When I bent closer and saw that the tea set had two serving platters, a lidded serving bowl, and a gravy boat, I itched to pull up a chair and join them.
    Valerie straightened Papa Bear’s black construction-paper hat. “I helped make their clothes.” Her voice was shy and proud. “Edie’s teaching me to sew. The material I got today is for their Christmas outfits.” She added, as if it were an afterthought, “I made Mama Bear’s apron all by myself.” She stepped back so I could admire it.
    The orange apron was gathered onto a bib and tied at neck and waist. Its stitches were almost