Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
Frankie Lou’s back and Poppy’s madder than a wet hen.
Create a church choir filled with teenage misfits?
Over Poppy’s dead body.
Minister’s daughter Frankie Lou McMasters has come back to Ruby Springs, Texas with her daughter, Betsy, eleven years after running off to marry the town bad boy. Her mild notoriety as a bad girl is prime gossip for her childhood enemy, Poppy Fremont, now choir director of Faith Community Church—where Frankie Lou’s daddy, now retired to Florida, was the preacher.
When Frankie Lou comes to the deacons with a request to add a youth choir of at-risk teens she’s been coaching, Poppy throws a fit. A few hours later, Frankie Lou finds her dead in the baptistery pool. And Poppy’s not playing possum.
Frankie Lou sets out to clear her name as the main suspect, and tries to locate the real killer. Could he be sexy Joe Camps, the father of one of her teen singers? In the meantime, her momma shows up from Florida to take charge of Frankie Lou’s life. Bless her heart.
Lora Lee also writes as Loralee Lillibridge. Learn more about her contemporary romances at loraleelillibridge.blogspot.com and loraleelillibridge.com. Keep in tune with the Joyful Noise at joyfulnoisemysteries.com
Coming soon!
Chapter One
I knew the minute I read the church
bulletin that I was fixin’ to be Southern-fried and plated-up in front of God,
the Faith Community Church deacons, and eventually the entire community of Ruby
Springs, Texas, sure as my name’s Frankie Lou Birmingham McMasters.
My well-meaning landlady, Nettie Bloom,
had decided to announce my proposed church project without asking me if I
wanted her to. I had just scheduled a meeting with the deacons about it, not
given them any details about the idea. I hadn’t spoken it aloud to anyone but
Miss Nettie. But now there it was in print, along with Miss Nettie’s usual
assortment of misplaced phrases and Mrs. Malaprop word choices. Miss Nettie had
been editing the church’s newsletter, News From The Pews, for a good many
years, but I’d noticed her memory getting a little tangled lately.
NEWS
FROM THE PEWS
FAITH COMMUNITY CHURCH
100 Blessings
St.
Ruby Springs,
Texas
As we wait
for the selection of a full-time pastor, we welcome back interim minister,
Reverend Matthew Whitlaw to the pulpit next Sunday at Faith Community. His
morning sermon will be "Jesus Walks on Water” followed by "Searching for
Jesus” in the evening.
For those
of you who have children and don’t know it, we have a nursery downstairs.
Members of
the Weight Watchers group will meet Monday at 5:30 P.M. for weekly weigh-in.
Please use large double door at the side entrance to the annex. The Low
Self-Esteem Support Group will be using the back door.
Prior to
prayer meeting Wednesday evening, a bean supper will be held in the church
hall. Special music will follow.
Until
further notice, please give massages to the church secretary, Lovey Muchmore.
She will then give massages to the newsletter editor who will share the details
in our newsletter.
SPECIAL
ANNOUNCEMENT: A NEW CHOIR FOR TEEN SINNERS IS BEING FORMED AND WILL COMPETE IN
THE SLUMBER FUN AT THE CITY PARK NEXT MONTH. For more information on sinning
contact Frankie Lou McMasters at Doc Adderly’s Animal Clinic.
Prayerfully
submitted,
N. Bloom,
Newsletter Editor
Truth be known, there were
certain people who weren’t exactly thrilled by my return to the town where my
daddy, Reverend Frank Birmingham, occupied the pulpit at Faith Community before
his recent retirement to Florida. I’d been gone from Ruby Springs eleven years,
but it seems those certain people have the combined memory of a herd of
elephants. One in particular: Poppy Rose deHaven Fremont, Faith Community’s
choir director.
I grabbed my tote, made a quick call next
door to Miss Nettie’s house, where my eleven-year-old, Betsy, was staying for
dinner, then headed for the church. It was a hot spring night and bound to get
hotter.
Help me, Lord, Miss Nettie and that
newsletter are gonna get me killed one way or another.
THE UNEXPECTED
appearance of Poppy Rose deHaven Fremont in the church’s conference room
confirmed what I’d feared all along. My notoriety as the shamefully irreverent
preacher’s daughter hadn’t been forgotten, even after an absence of more than a
decade. Any hope of getting the deacons to approve my request had just been
deep-sixed. Well, horse pucky!
There she was,
the undisputed Queen of Mean, flapping her collagen-plumped lips faster than a
whippoorwill’s tail in a windstorm while seven deacons stared in wide-eyed
amazement.
I shook my head
in disbelief. What in the heck had she done to herself? Those puffy lips
weren’t the only recently enhanced body parts, either. Poppy Rose was a
walking, talking endorsement for the modern wonders of plastic surgery and
extreme weight loss. My monthly house rent couldn’t begin to touch the
high-dollar cost of that hot pink linen skirt and knit top clinging to her
man-made curves closer than a coat of paint from Howard’s Hardware. Talk about
extreme makeover, her body had been nipped and tucked in places I didn’t even
want to think about. Yikes!
A brief but
uncomfortable sting of envy zapped me so hard I could almost hear my momma
saying, "Pretty is as pretty
does, Frances Louise.” A
die-hard fan of Downton Abbey, she never called me Frankie Lou when she
was in her Lady Louisa mood.
Poppy Rose
teetered toward me on nose-bleed-high stilettos, her over-enhanced boobs
leading the way. Oh boy, here it comes, I thought, wondering if escape
was possible. Had she seen the bulletin?
"Well, Ah
declare, Frankie Lou.” Her words dripped so much toxic sweetness it made my
teeth ache. "Here y’all are, stirring up trouble just like old times. You
haven’t changed a bit, bless your heart.” She smiled, the bright flash of
Hollywood-white teeth threatening to blind me on the spot.
I flicked a
wayward strand of my straight black hair behind one ear. Now, truth is I don’t
give a horse’s patoot about fashion, but does Starbucks know she’s got
her Texas-big hair whipped up like a mocha latte with caramel swirls?
"Why, hello,
Poppy Rose,” I said, sucking in my tummy and sticking out my 34B girls like
they were double Ds. Hey, I have my pride, but there’s no way I would ever let
anyone slice and dice my body for the sake of "perfect.”
According to
Miss Nettie, Poppy Rose married into big money three years ago after meeting
her future husband on a singles cruise. Miz Parvis Fremont turned her brand-new
wealth into a mighty fine shopping career.
The impressive
Fremont mansion and its extravagant interior adornments is the town’s only
claim to fame. Miss Nettie said Poppy Rose consulted a designer from Italy for
the elaborate decorating, and the place got written up in some big
architectural magazine. That bit of information teased my curiosity, but I’m
not likely to ever be invited to the Ruby Springs’ wonder home. In the first
place, I wasn’t even invited to the nuptials. Wouldn’t have attended anyway,
since the ceremony took place during my prolonged self-exile in Austin. I
understand that show-of-the-century-shindig cost a cool half-million dollars,
all paid for by the groom, of course. There was even actual dancing at the
reception over at the town community center, something never done before in
Ruby Springs. Yes indeedy, Poppy Rose finally snagged herself a wealthy spouse.
Kind of sad he died so soon. Or was it? Looking at her now, I’d say she wears
her hot pink widow’s weeds just a little too perky.
A quick scan of
Poppy Rose’s high-fashion apparel made me wish I’d done a better job of making
my appearance more polished and professional-looking this evening.
Unfortunately, raising a twelve-year-old daughter and working at Doc Adderly’s
animal clinic every day barely gives me time for basic personal grooming, let
alone extras like makeup and hair styling. Right or wrong, what you see is what
you get, to quote an overused cliché.
I knew Parvis
Fremont’s untimely death last year had shocked the community because his demise
had been the main topic of gossip at my first coffee klatch with Miss Nettie
after I’d moved in next door to her four weeks ago. According to her, Mr. Money
Bags Fremont was in good health when he married his much younger bride, in
spite of his advanced years. Everyone accepted the cause of his death as
age-related. However, Miss Nettie had her
own opinion about the coroner’s findings. In fact, she had opinions about a
lot of happenings in Ruby Springs. She reads a lot of mystery and suspense
novels.
She went on to
relate how Poppy Rose, all decked out in widow’s weeds and dripping with
diamonds, had carried on hysterically at her husband’s funeral, then left town
the very next day for Dallas and a whirlwind shopping spree at Neiman Marcus.
Even though
Poppy Rose held the highly-respected position of choir director at Faith Community
now, I still couldn’t wrap my mind around the possibility that she’d turned
into a nice person after all these years. I mean, that would be a stretch of
imagination for anyone who knew her.
Up until now, I
hadn’t told anyone about my meeting with the deacons tonight except Miss
Nettie. The senior deacon, Mr. Botts, had assured me the agenda wouldn’t be
revealed until the men were all gathered at the church. I wondered if Poppy
Rose had found out about it. But no matter if she knew, if she thought she
could stop me from asking for the deacon’s help, she was dead wrong, since Miss
Nettie had jumped the gun. My bank account may not be as hefty as those belonging
to the Rich and Rude Club of Ruby Springs, but I’ve got a sizable amount of
good ol’ Texas stubborn saved up that I haven’t even used yet, so Miz Poppy
Rose deHaven Fremont better watch her step. Just sayin’.
"Why, Poppy, you
haven’t changed either,” I said in my best Southern-sweetness voice. "I knew
you were the church music director, but when did you become a deacon? Or should
I call you deaconess now?”
My question
stopped her in her tracks. She puffed up like a balloon full of hot air, and I
was wishing for a pin. Far as I was concerned, fawning over her new appearance
wasn’t happening, so if she expected flattery she’d have to look somewhere
else.
Momma always
said lying would get me "There” same as stealing, and I wasn’t about to test
the truth of her words. I knew where "There” was. Gaining back the respect of
my hometown wasn’t turning out to be as easy as I’d hoped, after all.
Before Poppy
could sputter another sugary insult my way, Linwood Botts broke away from the
knot of men and hurried toward me, all angles, long legs, and shiny-clean
cowboy boots. With a lopsided half- smile obviously inhibited by nervousness,
the lanky chairman of the deacons’ board extended his hand like a true Texas
rancher and gentleman.
"Good to see
you, Frankie Lou. The deacons and I are eager to hear about the new project you
mentioned in your phone call. But first, please join us for a glass of sweet
tea before we get started. Emma Jean sent over some of her lemon bars, and
there’s plenty more desserts on the table. Go ahead on and help yourself to
whatever strikes your fancy.”
I thanked him
and shook his hand, trying not to drool as I eyed the goodies. Deacon Botts’s
wife baked the best lemon bars that ever melted in my mouth. I left Poppy Rose
standing there with her mouth agape and took off for the treats. She hasn’t
seen the bulletin yet, I thought. Thank the Lord.
The dessert
table at the end of the otherwise austere conference room was a visual delight
that brought back many childhood memories of church suppers and holiday
celebrations.
Mint sprigs and
lemon slices were artfully arranged on dainty serving dishes beside two
delicate silver trays holding an assortment of scrumptious, homemade sweets. I
recognized the tall, cut-glass pitchers chock-full of ice and sweet tea. Momma
used to borrow them when she entertained the women’s monthly Bible studies at
the parsonage. The talented ladies of Faith Community had certainly outdone
themselves with their culinary skills tonight.
Without giving a
thought to calories, I picked up a dessert plate, put two of Emma Jean’s
delicious-looking lemon squares on it, and helped myself to a glass of cold,
sweet tea. Since Betsy was eating at Miss Nettie’s this evening, I’d skipped my
own supper in order not to be late to the meeting. Carbs and sugar, yummy! My
sweet tooth loved me, but my waistline hollered HELP on a daily basis.
Dessert-laden
plate in hand, I turned around to look for a place to sit, and WHAM! I
body-slammed right into You Know Who standing behind me closer than my own
shadow.
The next few
seconds were right out of a classic Three Stooges scene. Before you could say pass
the grits, my plate turned into an airborne launching pad, and my sweet
tea, lemon bars, and cupcake went flying.
One of the lemon
bars morphed into a heat-seeking missile, burrowing deep inside the front of
Poppy’s knit top to settle who knows where. An ice cube followed the lemon bar
down the path to Glory, sending good ol’ Poppy into shock. She yelped and
shimmied like a hip-gyrating Twenties’ flapper. Good thing there wasn’t a pole
anywhere near her, or we’d all be praying for deliverance from evil. Behind me,
seven bug-eyed deacons let out a collective murmur that sounded an awful lot
like Thank you, Jesus!
Where my cupcake
landed was anybody’s guess, but my sweet tea baptized the rest of Poppy’s
expensive outfit without even so much as a Hallelujah, Amen! The stunned
look on her perfectly made-up face was priceless. Just to be on the safe side,
I said a prayer for help under my breath. I figured it couldn’t hurt.
"Frankie Lou,
you clumsy...” Poppy’s face was redder than a ripe tomato
from Miss Nettie’s backyard garden.
Wilbur Hadley,
one of the older deacons, rushed to the sputtering, jiggling woman’s side with
a handful of paper napkins and started dabbing at the front of her wet shirt.
When he wandered
a little too close to her No Trespassing area, she slapped his hands and let
out another nails-on-a-chalkboard screech. "Stop that, Wilbur, you idiot!”
Startled, the
poor man backed away from the hysterical woman so fast he stumbled over his own
feet and landed smack on his striped seersucker-clad keester. His fluttering hands flew up, and napkins scattered
everywhere in a white paper blizzard. He tried to speak but couldn’t. His
Adam’s apple bobbed up and down so hard it knocked his lime green bowtie
crooked.
Linwood Botts
hurried over to help the distraught Wilbur back to his seat and fetched him a
glass of water.
It was
impossible not to laugh. I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle my chuckle.
Couldn’t help it. Mr. Botts, with his wild shock of gray hair, resembled a tall
and wiry Ichabod Crane. Bald-pated, short-statured Deacon Hadley reminded me of
one of those painted ceramic garden gnomes that lurked in Miss Nettie’s flower
beds. All he needed was a beard, a pointed hat, and green pants, but he’d have
to ditch the bow tie.
The other five
deacons were still staring but not at Wilbur. Oh no, their gazes were fastened
on Poppy Rose, who could’ve won First Place in a wet tee-shirt contest with her
expensive knit top shrunk up tighter than a two dollar bargain. As far as the men
were concerned, wet was all that counted.
Shamefully, I
enjoyed her moment of discomfort. While I retrieved the scattered napkins from
the floor, I sincerely hoped poor Wilbur’s excitable bachelor heart didn’t go
into shock from Poppy’s Oscar- worthy hysteria.
"Here, Poppy,
let me,” I said, napkins poised to take up where Wilbur left off. "After all,
this is my fault for not realizing you were in such a hurry to get to the
desserts.”
Faster than
lightning, she zapped me with a stink eye and snatched the napkins right out of
my hands.
"Oh, give those
to me!” Pressing them against her baptized bosom, she leaned right in my face
and whispered, "And if you don’t drop your crazy plans for that choir right
now, Frankie Lou, I promise you’ll regret ever coming back to Ruby Springs.”
Her last threat
sizzled in my ear. So she did know!
Old resentment
reared its ugly head, and it was all I could do to keep from smacking her
upside her nipped-and-tucked face. I squeezed the wad of leftover napkins in my
hand instead. That woman was more irritating than beach sand in my bikini.
Thankfully, she
whirled off for the ladies room in a wet, lemon- scented huff, saving me the
disgrace of committing a major No- No.
The
deep-breathing I did to calm myself didn’t work worth a hoot, only made my
stomach growl. I needed nourishment. What I didn’t need was Poppy Rose dragging
my past through the muck of local gossip again. There had to be a way to stop
her without getting arrested.
After Miss
Bump-and-Grind stomped off to the ladies room for repairs, two of the deacons
dragged mops and buckets from the storage closet, and everyone got to work
doing cleanup. Everyone except me, that is. I wanted to help, but the men
unanimously refused my offer, making me wonder if No was fixin’ to be their
operative word the rest of the evening. Talk about starting off on the wrong
foot.
Since there was
nothing more for me to do but wait until order was restored, I took advantage
of Poppy’s absence and indulged in two more lip-smacking lemon bars from the
goody table, washing them down with a fresh glass of sweet tea. My nervous
system welcomed the much- needed surge of sugar-loaded energy with a groan of
pure pleasure. I enjoyed the momentary high as I mentally whizzed through the
notes I’d prepared, frantically reworking my speech. While waiting for her
return, I pulled my trusty notebook from my tote and scribbled down the changes
before I forgot them. Poppy may have botched up the evening so far, but I
wasn’t going down without a fight. I needed the deacons on my side, and by
gosh, I intended to have them before I left tonight.
Fifteen minutes
later the men had finished their cleanup and were seated behind the long table
again, backin’ and forthin’ with their heads together like men are inclined to
do. Those same heads swiveled like a bunch of hoot owls when a dried-out and
slightly disheveled Poppy Rose charged back into the room like Custer at Little
Big Horn, her bejeweled hands flashing brighter than the bubble gum lights on a
cop car.
"You won’t get
away with this, Frankie Lou McMasters!” Her screech endangered eardrums
everywhere.
"Get away with
what? Lord love a duck, Poppy Rose. You were standing behind me closer than
white on rice. I already said I was sorry. It was an accident.”
I eyed Poppy’s
pathetic attempt at damage control and grimaced. Talk about a repair job gone
bad. The restroom’s outdated automatic hand dryer must’ve blown itself right
off the wall. New wrinkles were dried in places where there’d been none
BBBT—Before Baptism By Tea. Even a non-fashionista like me could see the knit
top was ruined. The future of that linen skirt looked pretty iffy, too. Both
pieces were now two sizes smaller.
Doing some quick
mental math, I roughly estimated the cost of replacing the two items versus
the balance in my checkbook and swallowed a groan. Not even close. Then,
without the teensiest bit of guilt, I deep-sixed any notion of reimbursing her
for damages and threw up my hands in frustration. With all her money, she could
afford new clothes any time. I could barely afford rent and groceries.
"I’m
not talking about your boorish clumsiness, Frankie Lou. I’m talking about
this!” She waved a piece of paper in my face as she passed, then slammed the
thing down on the table in front of the deacons and leaned over in Earl Moss’s
face so close his eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Just take a look right
here!”
Believe
me, Earl looked, all right, and so did the other deacons, but not at any piece
of paper. Not with her bosom stuck right out there like twin torpedoes. Earl
nearly choked on his sweet tea, and I swear Wilbur Hadley squealed under his
breath.
"Have
y’all read this?” Poppy’s screech-owl demand was just shy of glass-shattering
pitch. "I’m telling y’all, the church simply cannot allow this fiasco to
happen. Frankie Lou should be banned from evah being in charge of any church
functions. Evah, y’all hear?”
Evah?"Now wait just a darn minute, Poppy Rose,” I said. All of a sudden my blood
pressure started shooting for the high numbers. Who did she think she was? My
fists were balled so tight if I’d had fancy, glued-on fingernails like Poppy’s
my palms would be shredded. "You should get the facts before you go spouting
stuff like that.” My head pounded with the stress of trying not to yell back. Calm
was not how I was feeling.
"Oh,
I’ve got facts,” she said, her face getting redder by the minute, "right here.”
She stabbed the paper with a hot pink fingernail. "You’ve gone behind our backs
and started a new singing group with a bunch of street punks! It says so right
here in the church newsletter. A choir for sinners!”
Her
outburst of hot air blew Earl’s toupee slightly off center. Wild-eyed, he
scrambled to grab it and scooted his chair back out of her way like he was
afraid she might jump over the table. A definite probability in her overblown
exasperation, however, she kept right on ranting and waving her hands.
"Do
y’all know what will happen if you let those kind of hoodlums into the
church? Well, I’ll tell you. They’ll be carrying on like a bunch of heathens,
that’s what. And, that’s not all.” The drama queen executed a long, theatrical
pause before she continued. The deacons froze in their seats like deer caught
in headlights. "The church’s name will be smeared all ovah the county.
Shameful, that’s what it’ll be. Downright shameful. I insist you put a stop to
this right now. Y’all hear me?” She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Lord, have
mercy on us all.”
Now,
Poppy Rose was full of a lot of things when we were in school, but religion
definitely hadn’t been one of them. However, the deluxe
hissie-fit-with-a-tail-on-it she was pitching on behalf of the church right now
earned a five-star rating, bless her heart. Nothing would make her happier than
to see me barred from Faith Community membership forever, but hey, I wasn’t
about to let that happen. Not now, not ever.
Poppy read
aloud. "New choir for teen sinners being formed to compete in the slumber fun
next month. For more information on sinning contact Frankie Lou McMasters at
Doc Adderly’s Animal Clinic.”
"That should be SINGERS,
not sinners”, I yelled over the rising male chatter. "It’s a youth choral
group, for cryin’ out loud, and SUMMER FEST, not a slumber party!”
No one heard me,
of course. How could they? They were all talking at once, noisier than a flock
of angry blue jays sitting on a hot wire. I didn’t even try to explain that I
wasn’t a contact for information on sinning. Lawd!
Poppy Rose kept
on yammering and waving the bulletin at the deacons huddled together like
Faith Community’s version of the United Nations settling a world conflict.
Bless her devious heart.
I’m not a
preacher’s kid for nothing. I can Hallelujah with the best of ‘em, and I
intended to do just that.