Thelma cackled. “I want the highest cholesterol in history when I croak. I made Doc Spiver promise that when I finally shuck off this mortal snakeskin, he’ll check. I want to be in the book of records.”
“You must be well on your way,” Quinlan said. “I don’t think so,” Martha said, hovering by Thelma’s left hand. “She’s been eating this for years now. Sherry Vorhees says she’ll outlive us all. She says her husband, Reverend Hal, doesn’t have a chance against Thelma. He’s already wheezing around and he’s only sixty-eight, and he isn’t fat. Strange, isn’t it? Thelma wonders who’s going to do her service if Reverend Hal isn’t around.”
“What does Sherry know?” Thelma demanded, talking while she chewed on one of those fat sausages. “I think she’d be happier if Reverend Hal would pass on to his just reward, although I don’t know how just he’d find it. He might find himself plunked down in hell and wonder how it could happen to him since he’s so holy. He’s reasonable most of the time, is Hal. It’s just when he’s near a woman alone that he goes off the deep end and starts mumbling about sin and hell and temptations of the flesh. It appears he believes sex is a sin and rarely touches his wife. No wonder they don’t have any kids. Not a one, ever. Fancy that. It’s hard to believe, since he is a man, after all. But still, all poor Sherry does is drink her iced tea, fiddle with her chignon, and sell ice cream.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Sally asked, thinking that the Mad Hatter’s tea party couldn’t have been weirder than Thelma Nettro at breakfast. “If she were unhappy, wouldn’t she just leave?” Yeah, like you did, but just not in time. Some of the grease around the sausages was beginning to congeal.
“Her iced tea is that cheap white wine. I don’t know how her liver is still holding up after all these years.”
Sally swallowed, looking away from those sausages. “Amabel told me that when you first opened the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop, you stored the ice cream in Ralph Keaton’s caskets.”
“That’s right. It was Helen’s idea. She’s Ralph’s wife and the one who had the recipe. It was her idea that we start the ice cream shop. She used to be a shy little thing, looked scared whenever she had to say anything. If Ralph said boo she’d fade behind a piece of furniture. She’s changed now, speaks right up, tells Ralph to put a sock in it whenever she doesn’t like something he does. All because of that recipe. She’s really blossomed with her ice cream success.
“Poor old Ralph. He needs business, but none of us will die for him. I think he’s hoping the husband of that dead woman will ask him to lay her out.”
Sally couldn’t stand it anymore. She rose, tried to smile, and said, “Thank you for breakfast, Thelma. I’ve got to go home now. Amabel must be worried about me.”
“Martha called her and told her you were here with James. She didn’t have a word to say to that.”
“I’ll thank Martha,” Sally said politely. She waited for James to join her. It was raining outside, a dark, miserably gray day.
“Well, damn,” James said. He walked back into the foyer and fetched an umbrella from the stand. He said as they walked down the street, “I’ll bet you the old men are playing cards in Purn Davies’s store. I can’t imagine them missing the ritual.”
“Sheriff Mountebank will realize who I am, James. It’s just a matter of time.”
“I don’t think so. He probably saw your picture on TV, but that would have been last week at the latest. He won’t make the connection.”
“I’m sure the authorities would have sent photos out to everyone.”
“This is a backwater, Sally. It costs too much to fax photos to every police and sheriff office in the country. Don’t worry about it. The sheriff doesn’t have a clue. The way you answered him polished it off.”
His eyes were as gray as the rain that was pouring down. He wasn’t looking at her, but straight ahead, his hand cupping her elbow. “Watch the puddle.”