Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?: A Thoroughly Southern Mystery by Patricia Sprinkle Page B
Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
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business, do you hear me? All of you. I’m sick and tired of it. I can take care of myself.”
9
On my way to work Friday, I drove two miles out of my way to see if lightning had made an isolated strike and burned down the superstore before its grand opening at nine. The big gray box still squatted in its new parking lot, festive flags flying and balloons tugging at their tethers.
Trying to make myself feel better, I went on the Internet and ordered a new Mama Bear. A confirmation e-mail informed me it would arrive Tuesday or Wednesday.
Joe Riddley came in around eleven, hung his cap on its hook by the window, and reported, “I ran by and had a look at the new place. Their poinsettias are two dollars cheaper than ours, they are running a loss leader on pine straw for a dollar a bale, and they had a line at the garden center checkout register. But you know who’s running the garden department? Buck Johnson.”
Buck used to work for us, but we’d had to let him go because he was so ignorant about the nursery business, he couldn’t remember which were annuals and which were perennials. Seeing my face lighten up a bit, Joe Riddley added, “I chatted with the store manager a little, and he said they were delighted to get Buck, but he knew we’d been sorry to lose our manager.”
I knew why he was making me laugh. He hoped to distract my attention away from that bulging plastic bag he carried. I eyed it and got a sheepish look in reply. “I bought some socks as long as I was there, and they had shirts and work pants at a real good price—”
“Traitor,” I muttered.
He dropped the bag beside his desk. “You’d come back with a bag, too, Little Bit. There’s something mighty enticing about so much merchandise under one roof. It reminds you of all sorts of things you’ve been meaning to get.”
“I‘ve been meaning to get busy on this payroll,” I snapped. “So if you will pardon me—” Then I immediately felt bad, because it wasn’t his fault. I knew he was hurting as bad as I was. He was just a nicer person.
He dropped a hand to my shoulder. “Don’t get your dander up, honey. We’re going to be all right. This is nothing but one more change. By the time folks get as old as we are, we’re bound to know that adapting to change is part of life. It keeps things interesting.” He gave me a little squeeze and reached for his cap. “I’m going down to the tree lot for a while. You ought to see the dried-out things they have in their parking lot. Must have been sitting in a closed truck for weeks. I didn’t see a single one being sold, and our lot has been hopping all morning.”
Back when the boys were little, Joe Riddley had the bright idea to plant Christmas trees behind our nursery. Folks came from all around to choose and cut their own live trees, and we always threw in extra greenery. He strode out the door whistling.
He never knew I was watching out the window when he got in his car. I saw his shoulders slump. It’s hard to lose a business. It’s harder when three generations before you have succeeded so well. But he had a point about adapting.
Old Joe Yarbrough, Joe Riddley’s great-granddaddy, was running a small sawmill when General Sherman lit through Hope County in late 1864. Riding the wave of a sudden demand for reconstruction lumber, Old Joe built his sawmill into Yarbrough’s Lumber Company. Almost any tour of late-Victorian homes in Middle Georgia includes houses built with Yarbrough lumber. That’s what enabled Old Joe to buy a thousand acres of farmland and build the big blue house Ridd now owns.
A few decades later, Old Joe’s oldest son noticed agriculture was making a comeback, so he branched out into Yarbrough’s Feed and Seed, selling fertilizer, pesticides, bulk seed, animal feed, and orchard trees. The family survived the Depression by selling off the lumberyard and planting a number of their acres in vegetables, which they ate, sold at reasonable prices, and gave
9
On my way to work Friday, I drove two miles out of my way to see if lightning had made an isolated strike and burned down the superstore before its grand opening at nine. The big gray box still squatted in its new parking lot, festive flags flying and balloons tugging at their tethers.
Trying to make myself feel better, I went on the Internet and ordered a new Mama Bear. A confirmation e-mail informed me it would arrive Tuesday or Wednesday.
Joe Riddley came in around eleven, hung his cap on its hook by the window, and reported, “I ran by and had a look at the new place. Their poinsettias are two dollars cheaper than ours, they are running a loss leader on pine straw for a dollar a bale, and they had a line at the garden center checkout register. But you know who’s running the garden department? Buck Johnson.”
Buck used to work for us, but we’d had to let him go because he was so ignorant about the nursery business, he couldn’t remember which were annuals and which were perennials. Seeing my face lighten up a bit, Joe Riddley added, “I chatted with the store manager a little, and he said they were delighted to get Buck, but he knew we’d been sorry to lose our manager.”
I knew why he was making me laugh. He hoped to distract my attention away from that bulging plastic bag he carried. I eyed it and got a sheepish look in reply. “I bought some socks as long as I was there, and they had shirts and work pants at a real good price—”
“Traitor,” I muttered.
He dropped the bag beside his desk. “You’d come back with a bag, too, Little Bit. There’s something mighty enticing about so much merchandise under one roof. It reminds you of all sorts of things you’ve been meaning to get.”
“I‘ve been meaning to get busy on this payroll,” I snapped. “So if you will pardon me—” Then I immediately felt bad, because it wasn’t his fault. I knew he was hurting as bad as I was. He was just a nicer person.
He dropped a hand to my shoulder. “Don’t get your dander up, honey. We’re going to be all right. This is nothing but one more change. By the time folks get as old as we are, we’re bound to know that adapting to change is part of life. It keeps things interesting.” He gave me a little squeeze and reached for his cap. “I’m going down to the tree lot for a while. You ought to see the dried-out things they have in their parking lot. Must have been sitting in a closed truck for weeks. I didn’t see a single one being sold, and our lot has been hopping all morning.”
Back when the boys were little, Joe Riddley had the bright idea to plant Christmas trees behind our nursery. Folks came from all around to choose and cut their own live trees, and we always threw in extra greenery. He strode out the door whistling.
He never knew I was watching out the window when he got in his car. I saw his shoulders slump. It’s hard to lose a business. It’s harder when three generations before you have succeeded so well. But he had a point about adapting.
Old Joe Yarbrough, Joe Riddley’s great-granddaddy, was running a small sawmill when General Sherman lit through Hope County in late 1864. Riding the wave of a sudden demand for reconstruction lumber, Old Joe built his sawmill into Yarbrough’s Lumber Company. Almost any tour of late-Victorian homes in Middle Georgia includes houses built with Yarbrough lumber. That’s what enabled Old Joe to buy a thousand acres of farmland and build the big blue house Ridd now owns.
A few decades later, Old Joe’s oldest son noticed agriculture was making a comeback, so he branched out into Yarbrough’s Feed and Seed, selling fertilizer, pesticides, bulk seed, animal feed, and orchard trees. The family survived the Depression by selling off the lumberyard and planting a number of their acres in vegetables, which they ate, sold at reasonable prices, and gave
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