the weekend.
Although she longed to slip away early, there was a certain decorum to be maintained, and she certainly didn’t want to become fodder for the rumor mill that, if hushed whispers and shocked expressions were any clue, was already in full gear.
Shifting restlessly, she scanned the groups of gossiping matrons and blustering, somber-faced men. Some shook their heads sadly; others touched their throats or covered their mouths in wide-eyed disbelief. Janine didn’t have to hear the muted conversations to know what was being said. Thanks to Jules’s uncanny ability in wheedling information from “informed sources,” she’d heard everything last night at the dinner table.
According to Jules, Marjorie’s body had been found in bed with her hands neatly folded on her chest. Since preliminary investigation revealed that the fire had started in the kitchen, it was presumed that the woman had set a pot on the stove, then dozed off and been overcome by smoke as she slept.
The explanation, although perfectly logical, had been deeply disappointing to Jules, who was still reluctant to relinquish the notion that Marjorie had been the victim of foul play. In fact, he’d been quite annoyed that the Barker family hadn’t permitted an autopsy, and he’d stubbornly insisted that a proper medical examination would have proven his theory that the woman had been murdered by the mob.
At that point Althea had called Jules a disgusting ghoul; he had retaliated by pointedly questioning Althea’s lineage. Edna, having experienced a remarkable recovery from her previously inconsolable grief, had ignored the ruckus and solicitously dished a second helping of pot roast onto Quinn’s plate.
Such unpleasant arguments between tenants were unfortunately all too common, although Janine silently conceded that the presence of her newest boarder had probably prevented the discussion from becoming even more volatile. Not that Quinn had said anything particularly soothing. In fact, he’d spoken very little, evading personal questions with nondescript replies and inspecting his tablemates with his trademark intensity.
The other tenants had nonetheless responded to the newcomer by displaying a restraint that for them was significant. Except for an occasional lapse, Althea’s vocabulary had been uncharacteristically civil, and although Jules had basically ignored Quinn, Edna’s nurturing frenzy had barely fallen short of actually tucking a napkin under the poor man’s chin.
It had been an interesting evening, to say the least.
Dabbing her moist forehead, Janine considered another sip of punch, then discarded the notion, stepped behind the jacaranda and discreetly poured the nauseating beverage at the base of the tree. She patted the bumpy trunk, then glanced up and noticed a couple standing apart from the crowd, apparently engaged in an intense conversation.
Although the woman was facing away from Janine, that brittle, red-gold bouffant was unmistakable. Besides, only Althea Miller would be crass enough to wear a leather miniskirt and cropped midriff top to a funeral.
The inappropriate attire wasn’t particularly surprising but the fact that Althea was attending services for a woman she’d professed to despise was a bit of a jolt, and the man to whom she was speaking seemed inordinately uncomfortable. He was a distinguished gentleman, perhaps in his mid-fifties, and would have been quite attractive but for his pained expression. Althea’s spine was as stiff as a broomstick, a desperate rigidity that was quite uncharacteristic.
Janine watched intently as Althea fumbled in her bag then dabbed at her face with a tissue. The man glanced around as if assuring himself that he couldn’t be overheard before bending forward to issue a terse statement. Instantly Althea’s head drooped and her shoulders quivered. The man said something else, then spun on his heel and strode away.
Extending her hand, Althea called after him—it sounded like “please wait”—but he didn’t respond. In a moment he’d disappeared and Althea stood alone, trembling.
Janine was both stunned and alarmed by the emotional exchange, never having seen Althea so obviously upset. Before she could react, however, Edna hurried over and hustled her distressed neighbor away. After a moment’s hesitation Janine followed and found the two woman conversing softly behind a screen of oleander.
“I hate the bitch,” Althea murmured, ineffectually wiping at the wet mascara smudges under her eyes. “I’m glad she’s dead.”
Clucking softly, Edna took the woman’s hands. “Satan covets the righteous and leads them astray with temptations of the flesh. ‘Every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.”’ Rolling her eyes upward, Edna added a heartfelt amen.
Althea lifted her chin defiantly and uttered a succinct oath.
The older woman paled three shades. “God forgives your blasphemy, child, as you must forgive Marjorie. She is with her Lord now and has been absolved of sin.”
Janine frowned, completely perplexed by the odd exchange. Barely two days had passed since Edna had become apoplectic at the mere suggestion that Marjorie Barker might have been less than saintly, so this unexpected discussion of sin, temptation and rotten fruit was startling to say the least.
The conversation’s content, however, was none of Janine’s business. Even when motivated by concern, eavesdropping was unacceptable, so she quietly backed away from the peculiar scene, turned around and rammed into a male chest.
Gasping, she whirled around and laid a hand over her racing heart. “You startled me.”
“So sorry,” Jules replied uncontritely. “It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?”
“Uh…yes, lovely,” Janine murmured, still distracted by what she’d just overheard.
“And, I might add, so are you.”
“Hmm?”
“You look lovely this morning.”
“Oh.” She self-consciously smoothed the skirt of her teal print sundress. “Thank you.”
Jules dusted his immaculate suit jacket, palmed his slick hair and flashed a Continental smile. “The bonnet is quite fetching, although it seems a shame to conceal those beautiful mahogany tresses.”
Janine managed to stifle a moan. The quaintly described “bonnet” was a straw sun hat with a ribboned crown, and the “beautiful mahogany tresses” consisted of nothing more than a weedy thatch of dirt brown hair cut into a blunt, Buster Brown bob.
Although she really tried to be tolerant of Jules’s penchant for testing out new personalities, the peculiarity grated on her nerves. Last week, for example, the impressionable young man had watched three John Wayne movies on television, then swaggered through the boardinghouse calling everyone “pilgrim.” Today, however, his exaggerated formality and jauntily tilted chin appeared to be a pitiful parody of David Niven.
Of course, lots of people enjoyed performing impersonations, but with Jules the practice seemed more an eerie transformation than a quirky party trick.
At any rate, she was considering the most expedient way to extract herself from the unwanted conversation when she glanced toward the refreshment table and saw the man to whom Althea had been speaking. Leaning to her right, she peered around Jules’ slender frame, hoping for a better view.
He followed her gaze and frowned. “Who are you looking at?”
“That
