AGNES HOPPER TACKLES
MAYHEM at the MANOR
Author: Carol Guthrie Heilman
First Edition
Trade Paperback
Retail: $15.95US; 206pp
ISBN 978-1-62268-169-3 print
ISBN 978-1-62268-170-9 ebook

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AGNES HOPPER
TACKLES MAYHEM
AT THE MANOR

Book 3 in The Adventures of Agnes Hopper Series

Author: Carol Guthrie Heilman

Chapter One

It was as plain as our newest resident's chin mole sporting two long, wiry hairs. The administrator of Sweetbriar Manor was a thief.
    Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Lively drove his beloved red convertible across the street to Mike's Motor Service. "Routine maintenance," he said with a wave as I glanced up from sweeping the front porch. Two hours later he hadn't returned, but our yardman had finished his mowing, blowing, and trimming, and expected his payment promptly. That's when I unlocked Mr. Lively's office to get some cash.
    Well, sir, if I had been wearing false teeth, they would've fallen clean out of my mouth. The gray metal box sat on top of his desk with the lid thrown open. Thank the good Lord enough money remained to pay the young man so he could be on his way.
    I didn't confront Mr. Lively immediately upon his return to the Manor, which was not like me at all. But the shock of such a discovery had me bumfuzzled. If he were innocent, wouldn't he have reported the missing money?
    The next morning, after hardly sleeping a wink, I threw on my chenille robe, padded barefoot to his upstairs living quarters, and knocked on the door. When he didn't offer to explain how nearly two hundred dollars disappeared from our retirement home's cash box, I told him he could no longer remain in charge of the money. Without any explanation or denial of his misdeeds, he huffed his way down to the office with me behind him, hard pressed to keep up.
    Once he handed over the box, I carried it to our cook, Shirley Monroe, someone I could trust not only with the money but with my life. A former shampoo girl at the Kut N' Loose, she had been a godsend to our home. I considered her efficient and practical, not to mention an excellent Southern cook. Maybe even better than Paula Dean.
    After patiently listening to my tirade, she shook her head of blonde pouf and said, "Lord-a-mercy. That man's gonna be our ruination. Whatcha plan on doing?" Interrupted by a smoking skillet full of thick-sliced bacon, she rushed to the stove.
    I shrugged and returned to my room to dress for the day. Yes indeed. I needed to come up with a plan.
    At lunch, even though I hadn't eaten one bite of breakfast, Shirley's chicken salad loaded with grapes and walnuts tasted as bland as saltless grits, and the chatter around our table might as well have been from the Tower of Babel.
    Mr. Lively's stunned expression was all I could think about. He had offered no denial, no retort, no thumbing of suspenders, or even rocking back on his rundown loafers—as he was known to do before he expounded on most any subject. His silence had hummed like a beehive. Or maybe it was my new hearing aid acting up again. I immediately touched my ear and wiggled an adjustment.
    Had I made a hasty decision? Wasn't our administrator the only one, except myself, who had access to this money? My argument went back and forth. With myself. Especially since my husband, Charlie, was as quiet as . . . well, as quiet as most dead people.
    That afternoon I welcomed the usual routine with my friends. After lunch and before naptime we gathered on the porch of our retirement home as I awaited a visit from my pet pig, Miss Margaret. Wisteria, dripping from a nearby trellis, sweetened the air. But even that didn't help my worrisome thoughts one iota. As the new owner of Sweetbriar Manor, I chose not to make the residents of this retirement home aware of my dilemma. Pride would not let me.
    Weeks before the money went missing, I had convinced Mr. Lively—a cantankerous sort yet seemingly efficient—to stay. After all, our home needed someone to run the place. We had always been at odds with each other, right from the first day when he bent down, looked me square in the eye, and called me a troublemaker. But I had determined we could put our differences aside and begin anew. As fresh as the jonquils in our front yard kissed by morning dew.
    Who was I kidding? Now my mind whirled. Should I show him the door or wait until I could actually prove his thievery? In this day and time, every employee infraction had to be documented or we risked being sued. Gee whiskers!
    My dearly departed husband often said, "footprints don't change." So why was he not talking to me now when I needed his advice the most?
    I humphed as I took up my knitting and repaired another dropped stitch. Before I got any further, Miss Margaret's hooves clickety-clacked up the wheelchair ramp. My son-in-law Henry turned with a wave and left to open his hardware store. After I hugged my little pig, she climbed onto her pillow, turned around three times, and settled down with a sigh. I reached down and rubbed her behind her ears. "I would bet my last nickel Mr. Lively has been a no-count swindler his whole life, and now it's finally caught up to him," I whispered to her. With another sigh she closed her eyes and started snoring while my dilemma swirled in my head.
    Someone clomped up the side-porch steps, yanking me out of my thoughts. Perhaps it was Nellie, the one with the wiry chin hairs. The one who wore old-fashioned lace-up shoes. Probably returning from no telling where with no telling what in her pockets, one of her many quirky habits. Not only was she our latest resident, she was a bona fide kleptomaniac who also claimed to be Minnie Pearl's cousin, twice removed.
    Instead of black, schoolmarm shoes, bright-pink, wedge-heeled sandals worn by a skinny young woman sashayed over to my rocker. She wore a sleeveless, flowered dress, revealing arms overrun with tattoos of stars and planets. A diamond stud sparkled on her right nostril, and a tiny gold ring hung below her left eyebrow. Her indigo eyes peered from underneath a mass of electric-blue hair. My knitting dropped into my lap—and my heart into my stomach.
    She thrust out her hand. "I'm Zelda Dee, though most folks call me Dee. Hear you're in need of a manicurist? Been one nearly all my life. You must be Miss Agnes? They told me to look for the little old woman with curly red hair." Her voice was as husky as a smoker's.
    Did she say old?
    Her handshake, strong as a farmer's, released a puff of lavender. "Bless my soul," she said as she peered down by my feet. "Ain't that little pig a beaut?" She squatted and leaned forward as her hair swept the porch. Miss Margaret, asleep with her stuffed monkey underneath her chin, awoke when Dee stroked her head. My precious gazed up at this girl who gave her a final pat before she stood.
    I finally found my voice. "Well . . . uh . . . we could use a nail person for sure. But I haven't placed an ad for one." Hadn't mentioned needing one, not even to Shirley. Well, except for running it past my Charlie. Since he had crossed over Jordan, he didn't talk to anyone. Except me. If he took a notion.
    Dee moved closer, brushing her skirt against my slick jogging pants, my latest garage sale bargain. I glanced around, but not one of my friends met my eyes. What if I needed some help here?
    "It would only be part-time," I managed to squeak out. "Where did you acquire your experience? Have you had any training? And what about references?" I squirmed in my seat as Dee pulled an empty rocker over to face mine, plopped down, and studied me as I sized her up. Surely, a young woman would not want to work a mere few hours a week for whatever the residents offered in tips. That rule had been set by Shirley, who did our nails whenever she could fit us in between her various kitchen duties.
    "Who suggested you come here to ask for a job?" I asked a little louder this time since it seemed she had ignored my other questions. The nerve. No manners and downright rude besides.
    She shrugged as she looked around as if to grab an answer from the air.
    My special friend as well as love interest, Elmer McKinsey, known to me and all the other residents as Smiley, stopped his ogling and popped up from his seat. He scooted inside like a nervous sparrow, always one to avoid the slightest hint of a confrontation.
    Pearl, my high school friend who rarely knew me or anyone else these days, floated from the porch with clippers in hand. She made a beeline for an unruly boxwood.
    William brandished a cigar from his shirt pocket, unwrapped it, and bit the end off before spitting it into a pot of red geraniums. He thumped down the steps, apparently answering the call for a smoke off the premises.
    All three managed to disappear in a half-blink, leaving me with this stranger.
    Dee cleared a frog out of her throat and leaned closer. "Owned my own business, years back. Had to give all that up while I lived in the Big House. Assigned to the laundry, of all things." She held out her hands as she eyed them. "They ain't never gonna be the same."
    I gathered my knitting into my Walmart bag and hung it on the back of my rocker. Too many interruptions to make any headway today. I picked up my big, red purse, soft as a baby's behind, and hugged it to myself. Who was this woman who looked like a flower child, but had already lived long enough to serve time? Her heels jerked against a loose plank. Was she always this skittish?
    "Why were you sent to prison?" The words burst out of my mouth before I could stop them and hung in the air. A tremor seized my insides. What on earth was wrong with me? Did I even have a right to know?
    No answer. Those indigo eyes bore into mine.
    My precious stretched and stood with a twist of her little tail. She gazed up at this Dee person. Miss Margaret was rarely wrong about anyone's character, but maybe her judgment had slipped since she had gotten older. I blew out a long breath. "We need to get back to the matter at hand," I said as I squeezed my purse tighter.
    Dee raised her right hand. "According to the law, I'm not obligated to tell you, especially when I'm trying to get a job. Though a pitiful one it's sure to be."
    Had a sneer passed over her face before it vanished? I decided not to press the issue.
    She crossed her arms over her flat chest. "You profilin' me, old woman? Once a criminal always a criminal. Right? Never mind. I'm getting used to it in this hick town. I weren't no murderer, so put your mind to rest."
    Determined not to let her intimidate me, I met her glare with one of my own.
    Finally, she dropped her eyes as she squirmed in her seat. "If you must know, I was accused not only of harboring a fugitive, but being in cahoots with that low-life. Had no idea what he'd done or that he ran from the law. None of that mattered 'cause nobody believed me." Her attitude had switched quick as a flash. Maybe she was bi-polar. Or was she trying to gain sympathy when she had obviously made bad choices in her life? She crossed her legs, swinging her right one which revealed a snake tattoo that ran up her calf. It disappeared underneath her flowered skirt while suspicions about her honesty ran clear up to the top of my head and dug in their heels.
    I pulled my eyes away from the snake. "Do you live at—"
    "Yep. As you know, it used to be a funeral home before it became the Last Chance Pawn Shop. Now it's the House of Hope? Hope for what I'd like to know. Time will tell. Or maybe not? Might not stick around long enough to find out." She swung her snake leg faster while biting on a thumb cuticle.
    I was more than a bit uncomfortable this close to a former criminal. Who had decided this girl had reformed, changed her ways, and maybe one day would turn into a law-abiding citizen? And how could I be sure? "Why do you want such a pitiful job, as you called it?" I asked as a prickly sweat broke out underneath my arms. I groped around in my purse for my funeral home fan but gave up the search.
    Dee fluffed her hair, making her look like one of those wild hippies from Woodstock or some such place. A strange reaction to my question indeed. I glanced around. Since she made her appearance, nearly everyone had vanished. This girl apparently made an entire porch full of people uneasy. Only two people remained. Lollipop, so nicknamed because he stuffed his shirt pocket with Tootsie Pops, plus Francesca, our outspoken, wheelchair-bound resident. Neither would look my way.
    Miss Margaret nosed her stuffed monkey over to Dee, who picked it up and tossed it down the porch. "Have to have a job if I want to stay here in Sweetbriar. Plain and simple. Making it in this Podunk town is my last chance. Even part-time would be a start. I'd be willin' to do anything else that needed doing when I wasn't fixin' nails. Except laundry. Had enough of that stinkin' duty to fill ten lifetimes."
    My mind did a few flips searching for a response.
    Miss Margaret dropped her monkey by Dee's feet. The girl looked down, smiled a crooked smile, and stood. "Maybe next time? Or maybe not?" She bent over and scratched behind my pig's ears. Then she held out her hand until I extended mine. We shook a second time. "You can let me know? Or not? Done my part. Figure the ball's in your court. You might hire me? But I'd bet you ain't. I can tell by the look frozen on your face plus the twitch in your jaw. Seen 'em before."
    Unable to produce anything more than a polite smile, I had to admit her attitude, plus her habit of speaking in questions, unnerved me. It was way past time for Dee to be on her way, but she pulled out a scrap piece of paper from her dress pocket. She held it out until I reached for it.
    "My name and phone number. Zelda Dee Sizemore. Been walking the straight and narrow for nine months. I'll swear on a stack of Bibles I don't do drugs no more. Come away from prison with two things. How to look as innocent as a newborn and how to write poetry. You reckon all them days, not to mention them nights, locked up was worth it?"
    She didn't wait for an answer—if she even wanted one—but thudded down the steps and scooted down the sidewalk until the sound of her wedge-heel sandals disappeared. A strange young woman with a sketchy past and a hostile edginess, not to mention her evasive way of talking.
    Francesca flounced around in her wheelchair. Her tightly squeezed lips and puffed cheeks made her look like she might pop before she could spout her opinion. I didn't have to wait long. "Never trust anyone covered with tattoos. And did you see that snake on her leg?" She twisted around and stared toward where we had last seen Dee. "A rattlesnake. Gave me the heebie-jeebies. Her choice speaks volumes if you ask me."
    "It was a corn snake," I said as I pushed myself upright. "Always had 'em in the barn. They eat mice and make good pets."
    Had I defended this girl of a woman because I'd passed judgment on her but now felt guilty for doing so? For sure, Miss Margaret liked her. Claimed to be a poet of all things. Did she throw that in for good measure? What had she said about learning in prison how to appear innocent? Hadn't she served time for helping her boyfriend commit a crime and then hiding him to boot? Had she passed herself off as someone she wasn't? And what about the way she talked in questions? Oh dear, but didn't I do the same thing? No, I decided that was different. My questions were mostly in my mind.
    "Ugh! Only good snake is a dead one," Francesca continued as she smoothed her pearls with fingers sparkling with diamonds, emeralds, and one large ruby. She shuddered before she dropped her ever-present tarot cards into one of many leather pouches that hung within her reach. She referred to her customized wheelchair as her Cadillac. One day I asked her why it wasn't motorized. After a rosy blush crept up her neck, she huffed and glared at me. "What I have or don't have and why is no concern of yours."
    For once she was right, so I never brought the matter up again, although our retirement home gossips declared her no-count son had swindled her out of her money and left the country. "Left her poor but too proud to admit it," I had whispered to Charlie. He agreed.
    Lollipop sauntered over. "Dee's pretty. I like her," he said around a sucker.
    "Pish posh," Francesca said as she turned her wheelchair to face the house. She looked back. "Some people have no judgment. Besides, she's obviously a smoker. That's not allowed at the Manor, not even for my Willy. One of you needs to hold the door for me. This place ought to have a handicap opener like they have down at Belk's, like our new owner promised."
    I flinched. That would be me.
    Always anxious to please, Lollipop rushed over to hold the door for our grumpy friend.
    "Henry ordered one. He'll install it as soon as it comes in," I said to her back. I could never manage this place without my son-in-law's practical help or his rock-solid advice, not to mention his financial investment . . . which neither of us had shared with my daughter, Betty Jo. Francesca waved a sparkling hand as Lollipop followed her inside.
    I moved to the swing, my favorite place to ponder. Before being interrupted by this Zelda Dee, the dishonesty of our administrator and what to do about him had consumed me. I'd never fired anyone in my life. Charlie always handled any sticky issues with our farmhands, but like it or not I had to locate someone fit for such a job. And now, as if that weren't enough, an ex-convict had the gall to make me feel like a scumball because I didn't hire her on the spot as our manicurist. Why had I thought running Sweetbriar Manor would be a snap? A breeze? To my way of thinking, it was supposed to be as delightful as sharing a cup of herbal tea with Smiley in the middle of the night when neither of us could sleep.
    Focus, Agnes, I told myself. Charlie shook his head with a silly grin on his face. He reminded me I had done it again. I'd attempted to corral a whole herd of buffalo when roping one hefty calf would have been enough. Now he decided to chime in.
    Shirley would be delighted to be relieved of nail duty since she prepared three home-cooked meals each day, kept a sparkling-clean kitchen, plus grocery shopped within the Manor's tight budget. Maybe I should ignore any misgivings about hiring an ex-con.
    Hmmm. Would Zelda Dee Sizemore be an answer to Shirley's prayer, or a mistake I couldn't afford to make?

copyright ©2022 Carol G. Heilman

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