Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Don’t think I’ve not called my husband!
” Tara screamed at me just as I stepped out onto the front porch of Bungalow Three, the one-bedroom bungalow Tara insisted she needed because she “required proper sleep to function through trauma.” “And don’t think for one second the state police won’t be rolling up in here to get me and take me back to Frankfort! ”
The porch light cast sharp shadows across her perfectly sprayed hair while she stood in the doorway, still dressed nicer than anybody should be at almost midnight in a campground.
Her pearl earrings from earlier were gone, and she’d changed into cream-colored lounging clothes that somehow still looked expensive.
“It’ll be like a slumber party,” Alice Charles called cheerfully from somewhere inside the bungalow. “Honestly, this is the most relaxed I’ve been all day.”
I blinked toward the screen door. “Alice, your friend just died.”
“She wasn’t my friend,” Alice corrected casually. “We served on committees together. There’s a difference.”
Tara whipped back toward the inside of the bungalow. “Would you stop saying things like that where people can hear you?”
“I’m standing right here,” I reminded them.
Alice appeared briefly behind Tara, holding a bottle of water and one of the crocheted afghans Mary Elizabeth kept folded in every bungalow for guests.
“Mae, seriously, thank you for letting us stay here instead of the Milkery tonight. I’m not sleeping in that house after finding Florence at the bottom of those stairs. ”
Technically, Dottie and I found Florence, but I didn’t feel like correcting anybody at this point.
“My number’s on the fridge if either of you need me,” I said while backing down the porch steps.
“Please don’t call her,” Dottie muttered from beside my golf cart. “Mae already looks one inconvenience away from a nervous breakdown.”
Tara folded her arms tightly across her chest. “I’m not sleeping anyway. I’ve already called my husband twice and one of the governor’s aides.”
“That poor aide,” Alice muttered under her breath.
Before another argument could break out, Tara slammed the bungalow door hard enough to rattle the windows.
The second we reached the gravel drive, I let out a long breath and rubbed both hands down my face.
I looked up and around the campground so I could get some grounding.
Seeing Cascade Mobile Spa still parked near the recreational building did bring a smile to my face.
It meant Tex and Glenda were still working out some of the guests’ muscles.
I loved how they brought the pamper camper to the event and gave 10 percent of their money to the Historical Society fundraiser.
“Well,” Dottie announced while climbing into the passenger seat of the golf cart, “those two trapped together overnight oughta be entertainment.”
“I can’t believe Alice is acting so calm.”
“I can.” Dottie adjusted one of her curlers in the side mirror. “That woman looked happier than a possum eatin’ sweet taters the second she got away from Florence Sparks.”
Honestly, she wasn’t wrong.
The campground looked completely different than it had just a few hours earlier during the fundraiser.
Most of the lanterns around the tiki hut had been turned off, leaving only soft pathway lights glowing near the bathhouse and office.
The music had stopped. Folding tables sat abandoned outside the recreation hall, with half-empty teacups, paper plates, and citronella candles scattered everywhere.
Somewhere across the lake, frogs croaked loudly enough to echo through the trees.
“What is going on?” I slowed the golf cart when I spotted headlights lining the campground entrance. “Why are all these people coming in?”
A steady line of cars and church vans rolled slowly up the gravel drive toward my campsite.
Dottie squinted ahead. “Oh Lord.”
“What?” I asked.
“The church ladies.” She pointed.
And sure enough, one by one, women from the Normal Baptist Church started climbing out, carrying casserole dishes, pie tins, and Crock-Pots balanced in their arms like they were responding to a five-alarm emergency involving baked goods.
“Well, that didn’t take long,” I muttered. I pointed to the golf cart that I used to deliver Kentucky’s precious first lady to the bungalow. “Jump in.”
“Honey,” Dottie snorted, “the prayer chain probably knew Florence Sparks was dead before Al finished puttin’ up crime-scene tape.”
By the time I parked the golf cart beside my fifth wheel, the campground road looked like a church potluck exploded.
Helen Pyle stood near the picnic table, carrying two foil-covered casseroles while Pam Purcell unloaded what appeared to be an entire bakery worth of desserts from the trunk of her car.
Carol Wise held a peach cobbler against her hip while Marla Mitchell marched straight toward my camper, carrying a Crock-Pot with the determination of a woman on a mission from God.
Betts Hager stood in the middle of it all, directing traffic while clutching her notebook of good deeds against her chest. Her chin-length brown hair curled softly around her face despite the humidity, and her expression carried that mixture of concern and efficiency only church women seemed capable of pulling off.
“There she is,” Betts called when she spotted me. “We figured Mary Elizabeth shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
“You figured right,” I admitted while climbing out of the golf cart. “But y’all really didn’t have to do all this.”
“Yes, we did,” Helen Pyle said firmly while marching past me, carrying a banana pudding. “There’s been a death.”
“And possible poison,” Pam whispered loudly enough for everybody nearby to hear.
I stopped cold. “Who told you poison?”
Every single woman suddenly got very interested in adjusting casserole lids.
“That’s what I thought,” Dottie muttered smugly.
Betts cleared her throat. “Well now, nobody knows anything for certain.”
“But y’all already started a prayer chain,” I said, which was the Baptists’ way of getting by without calling it gossip.
“Prayer is important.” Betts grinned.
“So is mindin’ your business,” Dottie muttered.
Helen ignored me completely while heading toward my fifth wheel. “Where’s Mary Elizabeth?”
“Inside resting.”
“Well, she’s not resting on an empty stomach.” Helen lifted the casserole dish slightly. “I brought chicken divan.”
The church ladies completely took over my campsite within minutes.
Folding chairs appeared around the picnic table.
Crock-Pots plugged into every available outlet.
Somebody started making fresh coffee under the awning while another woman unpacked paper plates and napkins decorated with tiny sunflowers.
Abby Fawn Bonds had gotten out our sleuthing notebook from inside of my fifth wheel because I needed her to write down which church lady brought what casserole.
There had to be a follow-up thank-you note within five days of receiving a casserole, or you’d be the next person on the gossip chain… er… prayer chain.
“Good gracious,” I muttered while watching them work. “It’s like a casserole militia.”
“That’s Southern women for you,” Dottie said while stealing a deviled egg off one of the trays. “Somebody dies, and suddenly everybody starts cookin’ enough food to survive winter.”
The door to my fifth wheel opened quietly, and Mary Elizabeth stepped outside, wearing one of my oversized sweatshirts over her clothes from earlier. The second the church ladies saw her, the entire group softened visibly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Betts breathed before pulling her into a hug.
Mary Elizabeth finally broke then. Real tears. The kind she’d been trying to hold together all night finally spilled loose while church ladies surrounded her with hugs, tissues, and enough comfort food to feed a football team.
“I just keep replaying the tea party in my mind,” she admitted shakily. “Florence was sitting right there, correcting the way somebody folded a napkin, and now…”
“You can’t do that to yourself,” Betts said gently.
“We all hosted that event together,” Queenie French announced while suddenly appearing from nowhere, carrying two tubs of potato salad. “If anybody’s to blame, then blame all of us.”
“Queenie,” I sighed. “That’s not helping.”
“Well, I’m emotionally exhausted and speaking without editing.”
Dottie nodded approvingly. “Relatable.”
Hank stepped out behind Mary Elizabeth, carrying extra folding chairs while Dawn followed with blankets over one arm. My husband looked tired now, the kind of tired that settled deep around his eyes after too many difficult conversations in one night.
“You need anything?” he asked quietly while leaning down beside me.
“Honestly?” I looked around at the church ladies unpacking enough casseroles to cater a wedding reception. “Apparently, we need a second refrigerator.”
Hank laughed softly for the first time all night.
And standing there beneath the campground lights while church ladies fussed over Mary Elizabeth, Dottie stole deviled eggs, and somebody started another pot of coffee at midnight, it struck me how Normal handled tragedy.
“So.” Betts pulled me aside as she sat her empty plate on the picnic table. “What’s the plan?”
“Don’t you two start without me,” Dottie said while hurrying over with a deviled egg balanced on a paper plate and a cigarette tucked between two fingers.
Queenie followed close behind her, still moving through nervous Jazzercise stretches every few seconds like her body physically couldn’t hold stress still inside it.
Poor Queenie had taken to side lunges and shoulder rolls ever since we got back from the sheriff’s department. She claimed movement helped her think. Personally, I preferred sitting down and emotionally eating a casserole, but everybody handled murder differently.
“Where’s Abby?” I asked while looking around the campground. “She’s got the notebook.”
“She’s helping Bobby Ray move coolers into the recreation room,” Betts answered softly. “I told her y’all would probably need her.”