Carolina Heat (38 page)

Annabelle popped up and began to pace. With the exorbitant amount of skirt swooshing, it was slightly less conducive to stimulating her thought process than usual. “I didn’t bring my wallet,” she mumbled to herself. “Stupid, really, because that would...” her voice trailed off as she worked her way round the problem. “Jillian, you have a computer up here, right?”

“Of course. That’s where I’m going to print the roster.” She sounded slightly miffed. “The place may be filled with antiques, but we do have twenty-first-century technical capabilities.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Don’t you want to fix your face first?” She pointed at a vanity covered with powder, perfume, anything a girl could possible use to primp.

“You’re right—it completely slipped my mind.” Annabelle rushed to the vanity and repaired the damage from her crying jag.

“What do you want with my computer? You might not have noticed, but there’s a terrific party going on downstairs. Now might not be the best time to surf the Web.”

“I need to show you something. Mark convinced me to leave my purse at his place, so pulling it up on your computer is the quickest solution.”

“Pull what? Annabelle, you aren’t even coming close to making sense.”

With a final tweak to her hair ribbon, Annabelle was ready for action. “Sorry, my brain is about five steps ahead of my mouth right now. I promise I’ll explain in a minute, but I don’t want to prejudice you in any way.”

Jillian still looked faintly annoyed, topped off with a dollop of confusion. Annabelle flashed her biggest reassuring smile. “Just plop me in front of your computer. I won’t be long. Then you can print the roster and we’ll head back downstairs.”

Without another word, Jillian led the way out the door. Moments later she had Annabelle logged in to the computer. Annabelle’s fingers raced over the keyboard. She pulled up the
Wanderlust
website and scrolled frantically. Heart quaking, mouth dry, she took a deep breath and pointed at a picture along the side of the page. “Have you ever seen this woman before?”

Jillian shoved at the layers of her skirt to squeeze closer to the desk. She leaned in to peer at the photo, and almost immediately jerked back in surprise. “That’s the woman I told you about, who came and asked about the painting.” She shook her head in amazement. “How did you know? Who is she?”

“Magazines and newspapers don’t often post photos of their contributors, but this is a travel shopping blog. It’s a new feature they’ve been trying out for the past six months. The author posts a picture with each entry outside whatever new shopping mecca she’s raving about.” Annabelle took a deep breath to steady herself. “This is a picture of my friend Vanessa.”

The walls of the room pressed in as the import of this fact hung heavy in the air. Too many questions, too many responses were possible, so nothing was said. Annabelle was completely still, waiting to see if Jillian would make the leap. Finally Jillian broke the silence.

“The implications...” she broke off and pressed her fingertips into her temples. She started again. “I’m sorry. It’s a little hard to process.”

Annabelle watched her with compassion. She could see the pain swim across Jillian’s eyes as the younger woman struggled to marshal her thoughts.

“The implication being that my mother spoke to Vanessa in the days right before she disappeared.” It all came out in a rush.

“Yes.”

“That, coupled with her recent irrational behavior concerning a certain painting, makes her look very, very guilty.”

Annabelle bit her lip. “Call her a...person of interest.”

“No, I won’t.” Jillian shoved back from the desk and furiously paced the confines of the small room. “We’re charging full speed ahead after Bellamy with far less. You will not sugarcoat this because she is my mother. I won’t have it, Annabelle. This time, I’m the one saying I will not take that risk. How many lives? Tad and Vanessa, sure, but also the family and friends who grieve for them, you and Mark almost shot, your brother in the hospital. How many more lives are we going to let be ruined by this person? And if even one more life is taken because we dithered and held back just because she’s my mother?” With a swish of petticoats, she stopped and leaned her forehead against the wall. “I couldn’t live with myself if that happened. Don’t ask me to. Do what you have to do, and don’t you dare cut any corners or give her any special treatment.”

“Jilly, we don’t know anything for sure. Don’t drive yourself crazy jumping to conclusions,” Annabelle soothed.

“I do know something.” Jillian turned to face Annabelle, locked blue eyes to green. Her voice grew small. “I know your friend had a beautiful smile, and she looked really happy with life.”

“She was.” Vanessa had been happy-go-lucky, optimistic, cheerful, and a ray of sunshine in Annabelle’s life. She promised herself, right then and there, to remember all their happy times together instead of focusing on the pain of losing her.

“I’d like you to tell me about her when this is all over.”

“That would be nice.” Annabelle smiled. “She would’ve loved this kick-ass party you put together.”

Jillian swallowed a laugh. “Thanks.”

“We’re going to take this one step at a time. Let’s start with you printing the roster.”

“Right. Then I have to check with the caterers to see if dinner is on schedule. Lots of hungry people down there to appease.” In no time at all she printed the twenty page document. “My skirt has pockets. I’ll carry it for you.”

“We’d better head back downstairs before the boys start to worry about us. Once everyone heads up to dinner in the ballroom, it’ll be relatively quiet, and I’ll bring them up to speed. By then Ashby should be able to update me on whatever he found out about Bellamy.”

“Oh, sure, this way you get to skip the speeches. Great plan.” Jillian’s grin was a tad watery, but she’d pulled herself together.

“I risk my life enough. I don’t need to die of boredom dressed like this. The obituary would be too embarrassing,” Annabelle joked. She paused in the doorway to give Jillian a swift, bracing hug. “We’ll join you before the salads hit the table, I promise.”

When they reached the stairs, Jillian started up to the ballroom, and Annabelle down to join the other guests. After only a few steps, Jillian turned back around. “Annabelle, wait.” The two women met on the landing. To the crowd below, they looked like nothing more than old friends catching up. Jillian put a hand on Annabelle’s arm to steady herself. “This is unbelievable.”

Annabelle noticed a string of couples on their way up the stairs. Her sense of discretion led her to pull Jillian back down the hallway where no one could overhear. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that you’re in this position.”

“Are we truly discussing this? Discussing my mother in connection with the murder of two people?”

Annabelle nodded. “We can’t ignore it, Jilly. You said so yourself.”

“I know. It just feels so surreal.”

“I think it’s the corset cutting off the air supply to your brain.”

Mark had a headache from trying to follow the story his companion wove. Dotty Landreaux and Millie Parsons, both recently widowed, had each captured an arm of Stanton Danforth. They were like twin grey-haired ship’s prows hanging off his massive frame. The Danforth family made their money in blockade running. Over the last hundred years they’d been able to live off only the interest of the vast fortune. Top of the social heap, with houses here, Savannah and New Orleans.

Danforth, having divorced his fourth wife last week, was now officially in the market for number five. Although you could give them an A for effort, what Dotty and Millie didn’t seem to appreciate was each of Danforth’s wives had been easily ten years younger than the previous model. The last one was born the year of the first shuttle launch, while Dotty and Millie had both watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. Neither of them stood a sliver of a chance, and yet they simpered and clung to him with all their might.

“Embarrassing, really, to watch them carry on.” Mrs. Henderson paused to dab at the corner of her mouth with a lacy handkerchief. She’d accumulated a tiny drop of spittle with her long recitation to Mark. And although every word of her story was true, it struck him she enjoyed the telling a little too much. Like an ancient Roman Senator gleefully betting the lions would rip the slaves apart in the Coliseum.

When he heard the chimes signaling dinner, he almost dropped to his knees in gratitude. “Mrs. Henderson, I’m going to hand you back to your grandson now. He can escort you upstairs. I have to find my date.”

“You bring her by my table later and introduce me. I want to meet this Yankee who thinks she’s good enough for you.” The old bat actually pinched his cheek before doddering off on the arm of her very tolerant grandson. Poor guy. Here he was, probably nineteen years old, surrounded by beautiful, eligible women and he had to spend the night keeping tabs on his acid-tongued grandma. If he was smart, he’d pour wine down her and park her in a corner to nap before the dancing even started. Mark made a mental note to see if he was right in about an hour. He saw Ashby come up beside him.

“Where’s your girl?”

Mark shrugged. “With Jillian, I expect.”

“How’s it going?”

“Eavesdropping sucks,” Mark said succinctly. “You would not believe the stupid things people talk about.” He ticked off a list on his fingers. “The newest restaurant in town has a bad valet company; a Lexus got dinged right in the parking lot. The Governor didn’t have a good experience in Hilton Head last year so he’s going all the way down to Key West instead. Mrs. Pierpont claims she went to a spa, but when she returned, all her wrinkles were gone and her nose had been shaved down at the tip.”

“Stop right there. I can’t hear any more of that crap.”

“How do you think I feel? Topped it all off with ten uninterrupted minutes of Mrs. Henderson.”

Ashby hooted. “That old bat? She was about a hundred years old when we were kids, and mean as a snake. Well, was it at least worth it?”

Mark shook his head, too disgusted with the entire process to speak.

“Give it time. People haven’t had much to drink yet. Their lips aren’t loose enough.”

“What about you? Any luck with your mom?”

“Yes and no.” Ashby seemed content to leave it at that. Mark, however, was not.

“Ash, don’t stop there. We can always repeat it for the girls later.”

Ashby nabbed a shrimp and snow pea skewer from the last appetizer tray returning to the kitchen. “Didn’t get nearly enough of these tonight. I’m starving. Can’t wait for dinner.”

“All right, I get it. Whatever this is, it has to be big or you wouldn’t make such a long, drawn out production. Did she swear you to secrecy? Tell me what you found out,” he demanded.

“People know he’s adopted.”

Interesting. “What people?”

“The old guard. The movers and shakers who are financing his campaign. Most of the people in this room tonight. They all know. And they have a kind of unspoken agreement not to spread the story to the press. Gotta tell you, it doesn’t sound like this story is going to have any effect on the election.”

“Why? Did you find out who his birth parents are?”

Ashby nodded. “Yup. My mom quivered like a retriever in front of a brace of ducks when I asked. It’s been years since she told the story to anyone new. I probably made her month. She made me promise to bring Annabelle over so she could tell her the sordid details in person. Didn’t want me to spill the beans first. But I figure telling you doesn’t count.”

The big room was more than half empty by then. Most of the guests were in a line up the staircase to enter the ballroom. Nevertheless, they retreated to the same alcove they’d used at the start of the evening for added privacy. Ashby propped himself against the wall, one knee bent for balance.

“Here’s the deal: Bellamy was legally adopted, but only by his father.”

“You lost me.”

“Turns out his parents didn’t have a great marriage. Horace, his dad, was a major skirt chaser. Didn’t try to hide it, either. Secretaries, waitresses, maids, friends—none of them were off limits. After discovering Horace in bed with her best friend, his mother Rosemary called foul, and ran off to Europe. This was the early 1960s, so divorce was still a big deal. The plan was to travel for six months till the dust settled, clear her head, whatever. Long story short, after about three months she realized she was pregnant with Bellamy.”

“Whoa. That must’ve been some night they had right before she threw him out.”

“Didn’t change her mind, not at first. She stayed in Greece for another three months as planned, signed the divorce papers when they came through, and didn’t tell her ex anything about the pregnancy.”

Mark let out a low whistle. “Harsh.”

“Meanwhile old Horace realized a life filled with nothing but bimbos wasn’t all he hoped it would be. He sent letter after letter to Rosemary, begging for reconciliation. She sent them all back, unopened. He finally gave up after nine months. A man can only take so much rejection.”

“Don’t I know it.” Mark’s voice rang with fervor. He’d played tug of war with Annabelle all week. Any other woman, he would’ve walked away the first time she said no; no harm, no foul. It was almost embarrassing how many times she’d pushed him away. But she was worth it, and he refused to give up.