Gilt by Association (6 page)

Mama shook her head. She was fingering her pearls now, which was a sign that she, at least, perceived the crisis to be over. The apron she reserved for the hairiest moments.

“But Abby, honey, next time you talk to the kids—well, remember, this wasn't their idea. And try to put yourself in their place. If you were offered a trip to France when you were that age, would you have gone?”

“Not if it meant spending Christmas without you, Mama.”

It was a lie, but one she needed to hear.

G
rady Drive is one of Rock Hill's best-kept secrets. The street is crossed only by Selma, dead-ends into Windemere, which is itself a dead-end street. Together the three streets comprise Poplar Forest, one of the smallest but most idyllic neighborhoods in the city. I had often heard it said that Grady Drive is God's waiting room for people going to heaven. I had never been there before, but now I believe it.

Amy—Mrs. Squire Cornelius Barras—lived in a sprawling brick ranch perched on a hillside overlooking Grady Lake Two. Grady Lake One is just across the street. The two small lakes and their attendant woods give the street the feel of the country, and I could have been miles from nowhere when I stepped onto her driveway, instead of in the heart of Rock Hill. I followed a winding brick path, past a grove of palmettos, to the front door. Even the chime was charming. It sounded like Big Ben, only not quite as loud, I suppose.

“Yes?”

The woman who answered the door was a lot younger than I expected. She had a pleasant but nondescript face. She could have been twenty-five, or thirty-five, but not more. Her accent was local.

“I'm here to see Mrs. Squire Barras,” I said.

“What about?”

“It's personal,” I said. “She's expecting me.”

“Oh, is she?”

I nodded. “She said an appointment wasn't necessary.”

“She did? When was that?”

I shrugged and mumbled something about the days all running together, how that happens to people my age.

She smiled. “You're either Irish or a reporter. Or both. Now what's this really about?”

“It's about a body in an eighteenth-century French armoire.”

Her smile vanished. I had a feeling she was going to slam the door.

“I'm not a reporter,” I said quickly. “I'm Abigail Timberlake, the woman who bought the armoire.”

The door opened wide. “Please, come in.”

I followed her into the most exquisite living room I have ever been in. The walls were a rich orange-red—not as red as Chinese red—and tinged with just a hint of brown. Stepping into that room felt like being hugged.

“I like color,” she said.

“Apparently you do. Ma'am, I'm here to see Mrs. Barras. Is she home?”

“I'm Amy Barras, dear. Please, have a seat.”

I sat. “
You
are?”

She laughed. “Did you expect some old hag? I'm fifty-six, dear.”

“Yes, well—I mean—”

“Plastic surgery, dear,” she said easily. “Nothing major. Just a little snip here and there. A couple of tucks. A few stitches. There's nothing to it these days.”

She made it sound as simple as my first home economics project in high school. But the apron I made for Mama had been a disaster. There were more puckers on that thing than on a platoon of lemon suckers. Not so with Amy Barras. If the time ever came when I needed a plastic surgeon, I knew who to ask for a referral.

“Mrs. Barras—”

She waved to preempt me. “I already talked with the police. And with my attorney. I can assure you that the armoire was empty when the crew from Purvis Auction Barn came to pick it up.”

I nodded encouragingly.

“Well, there's really nothing left to say on the subject, is there? I mean, I didn't know this Ramsey guy. I'm afraid I can't answer your questions, Mrs. Timberlake.”

I smiled patiently. “I haven't asked them yet. They are about family. Your husband's family.”

She turned and looked out the large window. The palmetto trees seemed to have caught her eye.

“Oh them,” she said softly. “What is it you want to know?”

“I take it you didn't get along with them?”

“I never had a chance. Squire and I met at Myrtle Beach the summer we graduated from college. He was going to go on to med school, and I was all set to start a teaching job down in Florence, South Carolina, come fall. You believe in love at first sight?”

I shrugged. I had once, but not anymore. I had been immediately attracted to Buford when I met him on a water slide at an area amusement park. Then I thought it was love. Now I see it as lust. Perhaps if Amy and Squire had been married longer than a year, she might see things differently.

“Well, it
was
love at first sight,” she said, reading my mind. “We were made for each other. All our friends thought we were a perfect match. Unfortunately his parents didn't agree. I was too much of a redneck to suit them. They threatened to cut him out of their wills if he married me.”

“And did they?”

“No. Squire was their only son. They couldn't afford to alienate him, so they made peace with the fact that he
was going to marry beneath him. And they did a pretty good job of it, too. I actually grew to like them.”

I raised my eyebrows and she laughed.

“Now the others, they were a piece of work. None of them came to our wedding. Not a single soul. And Christmas—well, Mother Barras invited the entire clan over for Christmas dinner, and again, not one of them showed up. It about broke her heart.”

“Did you stay close with your husband's parents after…” I paused, sure she knew what I meant.

“After what, dear?” she asked placidly.

“You know, your husband's death.”

“It wasn't just a death, honey. It was suicide. Feel free to say it. Squire, the one true love of my life, blew his head off with a shotgun. Blam! Apparently my love wasn't enough to see him through a sudden change in careers.” She laughed again, and this time there was a hard edge to it.

“How awful” was all I could think to say.

She waved a hand in dismissal. “You can't imagine the mess. At least he did it in the bathtub, with the shower curtain pulled. I mean, what
does
one use to scrape one's husband's brains off the floor? It was bad enough that he plugged the drain with all those bits of—”

“Ma'am?” I interrupted. I was turning green around the gills. I don't even like mixing meat loaf with my bare hands.

She arranged her face in a smile. “Now, to answer your question—yes. I did stay in touch with his parents. I wouldn't say that we were close, but we had a certain connection. Our mutual love of Squire bound us together somehow.”

I nodded. “There are some who might think you stayed close to his parents in order to benefit financially.”

“What a stupid thing to say,” she said calmly.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, I didn't need my in-laws' money. Squire had a trust fund. It was more than enough. Anyway, I quit teaching about three years after Squire killed himself and went into business for myself.”

“Oh?”

“Inside and Out, your complete home design center.”

I'd heard their ads on the radio and seen them in the paper and on TV, but it seemed like I never had the time to stop in. Mama has, and she thinks the all-in-one concept is the neatest thing since toothpicks.

“So you've done all right for yourself,” I said.

She smiled. “I'm not going to let you see the books, but yes, I've done all right. In fact, I don't have to go in now unless I really want. Today was one of those days I just decided to stay home and do nothing.”

“I'm sorry I disturbed you,” I said. “I have only one more question, if I may?”

“Ask away, dear. But first let me guess. You're wondering why an attractive eligible woman like me never remarried?”

That wasn't my question, but I was certainly interested in the answer. “You must be psychic, Mrs. Barras.”

She started to respond but was interrupted by a loud honking from the back of the house. “Geese,” she said. “Would you like to see?”

She led me from the living room and through a large family room—den, we call it here in South Carolina—to a redwood deck overlooking the lake. A flock of eight wild Canada geese had just landed and were still settling themselves on the water's surface. As far as I was concerned that was the answer to her question. If I lived in her house, on that lake, with wild geese as drop-in visitors, I wouldn't consider remarriage. Why mess up perfection with a man?

“Have a seat, dear.” She pointed to a deck chair.

I politely accepted her offer. “Actually, Mrs. Barras,
my question had nothing to do with marriage. I just wanted to know if you are aware of any family legends connected with the furniture you sold at auction.”

It may just have been the sun skipping behind a small cloud, but I thought I saw that bland, perfect face darken for a moment.

“No,” she said. “I mean, what kind of legends?”

“Well, I don't know. Like maybe it came over on the
Mayflower
. Something like that?”

She laughed loudly and a couple of the geese honked and shuffled their wings. “Really, Mrs. Timberlake. And you an antique dealer! Mother Barras's furniture was late eighteenth century. That's a hundred and fifty years or so after the
Mayflower
.”

I must have blushed. “Well, that was just a rough example. So you're not aware of any particularly interesting historical notes to the furniture? Ancient family secrets, that kind of thing?”

“My, my, but aren't we nosy.” She said it so casually, I didn't think she was annoyed.

“Well?”

She stood up. “Look, I already said no. Or maybe you have a hearing problem like Aunt Lottie Bell.”

I stood up. I hated to, but it was clear that once again my tongue was ushering me to the door.

“Speaking of Lottie Bell,” I said, “she claims that the family tried desperately to buy that furniture from you,
before
it went to auction.”

She led me back through the house while she talked. “After the way they snubbed me—and Squire—I wouldn't have sold that bunch a life jacket if I'd had a concession on the
Titanic
. What else did that old bag say?”

I'm sure it was silly, but I bristled at that remark. Two cups of tea and a little Jack Daniels did not exactly a friendship make, but one should never speak disrespect
fully of the elderly. Not if one hoped to join their ranks someday.

“Mrs. Bowman said that you were the one who stayed out of touch all these years,” I said accusingly.

If she was still annoyed, I couldn't tell. That expensive smile of hers made a wonderful mask.

“Oh, did she now? Well, you tell her—” She turned her head and stopped speaking.

I waited for an uncomfortably long time. I was about to excuse myself and find my own way out when she turned her head again. I had the feeling she had been crying, even though there were no tears. Perhaps her tear ducts had fallen victim to those nips and tucks.

“For your information, Mrs. Timberlake, I never remarried because I meant what I said. I loved Squire with all my heart. No other man could have taken his place. And because I loved Squire so very much, I honestly tried to love his family. Even after they made it so painfully clear they wanted nothing to do with me.

“I sent the whole bunch Christmas and birthday cards for several years. And with the exception of Squire's parents, none of them responded. You ask your precious Lottie Bell why.”

I felt as if I owed her an apology, but I wasn't sure what I should apologize for. Instead I thanked her for her time and admired her palmettos. She smiled, and when I drove off she waved.

 

I didn't have to fight the rush-hour traffic when I drove back into Charlotte because it was all coming the other way. Tega Cay, Lake Wylie, Fort Mill, York, Rock Hill—the satellite-city workers were hurrying home to their suppers. I, however, was hurrying across the state and county line to the nearest telephone. A long distance call from Rock Hill wouldn't have dented my piggy bank, much less broken it, and Mama is very generous with her phone,
but I have principles. I have never understood how it can be that long distance calling time costs more to nearby cities than it does across the country. Why is it that I can call Tokyo, Japan, for less money than it takes to call Rock Hill from Charlotte? Not that I have much reason to call Tokyo, mind you.

Fortunately there is a North Carolina Welcome Station just across the border. I waited patiently while a man from Michigan explained to his wife that his business trip was going to take at least a day longer. While he lied, I was busy giving the blond tart on his arm the evil eye. Finally the phone was mine.

“Hello?” said another blond tart. It was Tweetie, Buford's new wife.

“This is Abigail,” I said pleasantly, “is Charlie there?”

“Buford isn't here,” she chirped, and hung up.

I called back. “I asked to speak to my son, dear,” I said kindly. Not all of the bulbs in Tweetie's chandelier burn at the same time, if you get my drift.

“Please, Abigail, we don't want any trouble. Buford has a right to take his children on a special trip like this, as long as he notifies you first.”

Mama is surprised that I don't hate Tweetie. Frankly so am I. Until she jiggled her way into our lives everything was just fine. At least I thought it was. But Buford must have felt otherwise, because things went from hunky-dory to hanky-panky pretty fast. Perhaps it is because Tweetie is a few sandwiches short of a picnic, or maybe it's her tender age (three years older than our daughter, Susan), but I find it easier to blame Buford. He had it all—
me
—and he chose her.

“Tweetie, honey, I have no intention of making trouble for you. I simply want to speak to my son.”

There was a long silence and Charlie got on the phone. “Mama?”

“Charlie, baby, what's new?” I tried to sound cheerful.

“They told you, didn't they, Mama? About Dad taking us to France for Christmas?”

“Yeah, they told me. It sounds like fun.” I couldn't believe I said that.

“You aren't mad at me, Mama, are you?”