Baroque and Desperate (12 page)

Buster was no fool. He knew I knew he was sitting on a stack of phone books—in my case, it's the Charlotte Yellow Pages.

“Well, I'm in the book. If you change your mind, give me a call,” he said.

“Thanks, will do,” I called gaily. I am, after all, an expert on forced gaiety, a skill I honed during the months following my breakup with Buford. There was no point in making my children any more miserable than they already were, just because my heart was in shreds.

I'm not saying that Daniel was jealous of Buster, but for the rest of the way to the Latham manse he pouted in silence. Frankly, this was fine with me. Who likes to chat with a verbal time bomb? I can get all the insults I want from family and friends.

A wise Abigail, however, would have squared her shoulders, donned an invisible but thicker skin, and thrashed out a game plan with Daniel Chapman Triplett. A wiser Abigail would at least have spent those moments of solitude gearing up for the second shoe to drop at the Latham estate. Shoes come in pairs, don't they?

E
dith answered the door. She made a poor substitute for Flora—even a real French maid would have been more polite.

“Yes?” she snapped.

“I'm Abby, remember?” I tried to push past, but her linebacker bulk prevented me.

“Who are you?” she demanded of Daniel.

“Daniel Triplett, ma'am. I'm here—”

“
Danny
? Little Wet Danny?”

Daniel turned the color of a maraschino cherry. “That's Little Wet
Tradd
. Nobody ever called
me
that.” He took a step back, and I slipped behind him. “Who are you?”

“Edith, silly. You remember, Edith Burton—only now it's Edith Jansen.”

“You're kidding!”

She shook her head, her broad face glowing like a two-candle jack-o'-lantern. She was wearing even more gold than usual, and I heard the faint tinkle of eighteen-karat hoops.

“Hey, I haven't changed that much, have I?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Daniel bit his lip.

“I have? How?” Foolish woman—even Tweetie knows that's on the list of top ten questions a
woman should never ask, and that's when dealing with a normal man.

“Well, uh”—Daniel struggled valiantly—“you've grown up, for one thing.”

“
And
?”

“And, instead of looking like the sweet, young girl you used to be, you now look like this season's average recruit for the NFL.”

“What?”

“Well, not exactly, of course, since they're guys and you're a woman, and I did say average—and no one person can resemble a group average, strictly speaking. But with those shoulders you could play one hell of a defense, and the last time I saw a neck that thick, it was attached to a bull.”

“Well, I never!”

“Edith? Who's there?” I heard the grande dame call just as Daniel was about to get the door slammed in his face.

“No one important, Grandmother. It's just a tourist from Ohio looking for Myrtle Beach. I'm giving him directions.”

Daniel peered down the hall—that is to say, he jockeyed to see around the hulking Edith. “Mrs. Latham, is that you? It's me, Daniel Chapman Triplett!”

“
Who
?”

Daniel repeated his full name.

“Ah, yes,” the old lady said, advancing slowly. “Little Wet Daniel. Shirley and Otis Triplett's boy. There's another one of you, isn't there?”

“Yes, ma'am, my brother Rhett. But it wasn't
me
who cried all the time. It was Tradd.”

“Nonsense. No Burton would blubber like that child did.”

“No, ma'am, you're wrong. It was Tradd, for
sure.” Daniel had his faults, but he was as brave as his biblical namesake. I'd sooner face a den of lions than an outraged octogenarian. A ticker that old has got to be a fragile thing, and this one had been through a lot already that day. At any moment, that ancient heart was liable to stop short, never to run again. It's not something I'd want on my conscience.

“Step aside,” Genevieve Latham said to her granddaughter, who obediently and wisely stepped back into the foyer. That's when the old lady saw me cowering behind Daniel.

“You—child!”

I froze. Perhaps her vision wasn't as good as I thought. If I didn't move she might think I was Daniel's shadow.

“Abigail—that's your name, isn't it?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I mumbled.

She had no trouble hearing. “Come in, child, and step lively. You too, Little Wet Boy. I may seem rich to you, but I can't afford to cool all of South Carolina.”

We stepped inside. For the record, Daniel would gladly have let me go first, but I wouldn't let him.

“Have you no manners, young man?”

I squirmed around Daniel. “I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am. I just came back to get my things. I'll only be a minute.”

“Nonsense.”

“But it's true!”

“Stay as long as you like, child. I was hoping you'd come back.”

“You were?”

She grabbed the sleeve of my T-shirt and tugged gently. Perhaps she meant to haul me one-handed along behind her. At any rate, I followed her to the
drawing room, where she bade me shut the door. As for Edith and Daniel, as far as I knew they were still back in the foyer sparring—or, maybe even playing “doctor” for old times' sake. Nothing surprises me these days.

 

“Sit!”

I did as commanded, choosing an eighteenth-century carved Italian armchair. It was the only non-English chair in the room. It was also situated just far enough from the grande dame to feel safe (although, frankly, she was unlikely to catch her own shadow, even if given a head start), yet close enough not to appear rude.

“How's that little girl?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, the one Neely took in for questioning.”

“Ah, C.J.!”

“Yes, of course. Just wait until you're eighty-nine—you won't remember names either. At least not of folks you've just met. Now, things that happened seventy years ago, why, I can remember them just as clear as a bell. Take for instance the time my mama took me into town—well, never you mind that. You say the little girl—C.J.—is doing all right.”

I shrugged. “Sheriff Thompson was still talking to her when I left. But I found her a lawyer—actually, two lawyers.”

“Ah, yes, Little Wet Daniel and his brother. I heard they had become lawyers.”

“And just in case they don't work out, Tradd went looking for a lawyer friend of his.”

“Tradd?”

“He's really been super, Mrs. Latham. So have you.”

“No need to be a sycophant, child. I like the girl. Grant you, she's a few clowns short of a circus, but she's sincere.”

“That she is.”

“Unlike my grandchildren.”

Someone knocked timidly at the door.

“Yes?” the old lady called sharply.

The door opened just wide enough for Little Wet Daniel to insert his handsome head. “Ma'am, I need to talk to Miss Timberlake, if you don't mind.”

Black eyes blinked. “But, I do mind.”

“Uh—could you tell her my brother called and I need to get back to the station.”

I started to get up, but the old lady waved me down with a single wrinkled finger.

“She heard you, boy. Is it an emergency?”

He looked at me when he answered. “No, ma'am. It's just that another client of ours up in Myrtle Beach—”

The finger waggled him into silence. “In that case, she'll be fine right where she is.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Little Wet Daniel ducked back into the hall and closed the door silently.

The grande dame turned to me. “Now, where were we?”

“You had just finished calling your grandchildren insincere sycophants.”

“I did?”

“Or was it loathsome leeches?”

She smiled and leaned forward. “I don't think those were my exact words, but they're certainly true. All they want is my money—I know that. But, I don't really have much choice, now, do I?”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“Company, that's what. It gets lonely out here. You see, Abby, I never had many friends. Oh, sure, lots of acquaintances, but not many friends. I suppose I was too selfish with my time. Being a true friend takes a lot of time, you know.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Truer words were seldom spoken. Wynnell and I spend hours on the phone each week, and our shops are just across the street from each other.

“So, what few friends I had are all gone now. And so are my children—although I must confess, I didn't spend much time with them, either. Now it's just me and this great big house. You know what my grandchildren tell me?”

“No, ma'am.” Frankly, I had a few guesses.

“They tell me to sell the house and move into one of those retirement communities. You must know the kind—first you live in a condo, then a one-bedroom apartment, which they call ‘assisted living,' and then you're flat on your back in the nursing care unit. It's supposed to be a step up from your traditional nursing home.”

“I see.”

“Do you? Well, I don't. I can just as easily hire a staff of full-time nurses to live here. But my grandchildren have it all figured out—if I sell this place, I will have to sell most of my things. Between the sale of the house, land, and these”—she waved at the furnishings—“I'll have a lot of liquid assets at my disposal, even if I buy that condo in the retirement village outright. Not that I don't already have a lot of liquid assets.” She looked me in the eye. “I'm a very rich woman, Abby. When I die, my grandchildren will be rich. But they don't
want to wait until then. They're hoping I'll start divvying it up now.”

“
How rich are you?
” I wanted to ask.

She read my mind. “How rich am I?” she said, and laughed. It was the sound of gold nuggets swishing around in a miner's pan. “I'm not as rich as Oprah, but
almost
. But, like I said, they can't wait for me to go naturally. They want to hurry my demise along by uprooting me. No doubt they hope the shock of my having to adjust to new surroundings will do me in.”

“My mother is considering one of those retirement communities,” I said. I was trying to be supportive. Really, I was.

“And you would let her do that?”

“Well—uh, Mama has a mind of her own.”

“So do I! And I'm not budging. If I have to hire the entire staff of Georgetown Memorial Hospital, so be it.

“You go, girl,” I said, “and I hope you live to be one hundred and ten.”

“That's exactly what my grandchildren are afraid of. Old age seems to skip a generation in this family. All four of my grandparents lived well into their nineties. My parents, on the other hand, died in their seventies. And my children…” Her voice trailed.

We sat in silence for several minutes. “You know,” she said at last, “only one of my grandchildren seems to love me for who I am. What would you say if I told you I am considering a new will in which I leave that grandchild everything?”

“You have another grandchild?” I asked innocently. “In Europe, perhaps?” I couldn't imagine any of the sniveling suck-ups I'd already met loved the old lady for herself.

She seemed to pale. “No,” she said flatly. “All my grandchildren are right here. Now answer my question.”

I shrugged. “Well, it's your money, but personally, I don't believe in inheritances. They're a terrible thing to do to someone you love.”

The button eyes shone. “Explain, child.”

“Say, just for the sake of argument, I was that special grandchild of yours—the one who loves you for yourself. There would be still be a part of me that would wish you were dead.”

She gasped.

“
Subconsciously
, of course. And after you were dead—and I was rolling in moolah—that same subconscious part of me would be happy. Those negative feelings—even on a subconscious level—couldn't be good for my psyche. So, unless you want to do psychic damage to this favorite grandchild, don't leave him or her any money.”

“Well, you certainly know how to lay things on the line.”

“I do my best, ma'am.”

She smiled cunningly. “So, child, what would you suggest I do with all my money?”

“You're asking
me
?”

“You mean you don't have any investment opportunities you want me to consider?”

I was aghast at the insinuation. “Mrs. Latham, I do not want your money! How dare you suggest that?”

My anger seemed to delight her. “So what would you suggest?”

“What did your mother die of?”

“Breast cancer.”

“There you go. Leave your money to research. They might even find a cure for breast cancer by
the time they run through all your dough. Your death might eventually mean saving the lives of millions of women world wide, rather than padding the pockets of pampered potheads.”

She looked alarmed. “Do they smoke marijuana?”

I shrugged. “Who knows? But it alliterated nicely, didn't it? Anyway, you get my point.”

She nodded soberly. “You make a lot of sense, child. I just might do something like that. Are the folks at the American Cancer Society the ones I want to get in touch with, or is there a separate foundation for breast cancer?”

Something crashed in the hallway. I distinctly heard the sound of breaking glass. Mrs. Latham stiffened.

“Shall I see who it is?” I whispered.

The woman had keen ears. She nodded, putting a finger to her lips.

“Keep talking.”

To her credit, the old matriarch was quite skilled in the art of soliloquy. She made a smooth segue from breast cancer to her early childhood. As long as she worked her way up the ladder of her life, she had plenty to talk about. While she rambled, I tiptoed.

Small as I am, I normally make an excellent stalker. I have lots of experience, mind you, having been the mother of two teenagers and an unfaithful husband. But the centuries-old wooden floors of the Latham house would give Tinker Bell away. Every step I took, no matter how light and well placed, elicited a creak or groan loud enough to wake the dead in Los Angeles. Funny how I hadn't heard that racket before.

It was surely a lost cause by the time I reached
the door. Still, I flung it open dramatically, hoping to startle the eavesdropper into dropping something else, or, with any luck, having a mild heart attack.

But there was no one there. The hall was just as empty as Mrs. Hubbard's cupboard. I glanced down at the ancient hardwood floor and the threadbare Kazak at my feet. Not a shard of glass to be seen.

I hurried back to Mrs. Latham. “You don't have ghosts, do you?”

She cackled delightedly. “Every house this old has ghosts, child. But that was no ghost.”