Magnolia Wednesdays (21 page)

In a bottom drawer she found a large envelope stuffed with credit card and phone bills. A stack of old day planners filled another. She leafed through them quickly but was afraid of getting caught with them, so she tucked them back into place until she could get back when she was truly alone.

On the bookshelves that filled one wall of the office, bestsellers and thrillers sat beside tomes on government and politics while biographies of famous politicians and historical figures sat cheek to jowl with those about well-known dancers and performers. Interspersed between the books were family photos that began with a wedding shot of the brand-new Mr. and Mrs. Jordan Jackson Jr. in front of the church where they’d just been married and continued through the appearance of first Shelby and then Trip; the Jackson family’s life played out in a progression of photographs from birth to right around the time of J.J.’s death. There were also numerous shots of J.J. and Clay in hunting gear with their arms around each others’ shoulders, though presumably none from their final tragic trip.

On the last bookcase she found a photo of J.J., Melanie, and Clay Alexander. She couldn’t tell where it had been taken, but all three of them were dressed formally, the men in tuxes with snowy white shirts and crisp black bowties. Melanie, who was sandwiched between them, her arms around each of their waists, wore a strapless black gown that exposed creamy shoulders and a swell of breast. Her brown eyes shone with good humor and her lips curved upward in an unself-conscious smile. She looked directly into the lens of the camera, her eyes contemplating the photographer from beneath arched brows. Both men were tall and dark and well built, though J.J. was slightly taller and broader than Clay. Both men were looking not at the camera but at Melanie.

Vivien tilted the photo in her hands but the photographer had focused on Melanie and no matter what angle she tried, she couldn’t make out the expressions on the men’s faces.

Setting the photo back on the shelf, Vivien squatted down so that she could read the titles on the bottom shelves and realized that they were high school and college yearbooks arranged, like the rest of the shelves, in no particular order.

Lowering herself the rest of the way to the floor, Vivien sat cross-legged on the oriental carpet and pulled the copies of the
Pandora
, which were from the University of Georgia, into her lap. She flipped through them quickly at first more out of nostalgia than anything else. But when she opened the copy from what would have been Melanie’s freshman year and J.J. and Clay’s junior year, she began to read the autographs and inscriptions. In the faculty section, she came to a page whose corner had been turned down. Across the photo of a Professor Sturgess in the political science department there was a message that read,
Congratulations on your successful run for student council president. I trust you will find governing as satisfying as running.
It was signed, Phillip Sturgess.

Not sure why the name seemed familiar, Vivien carried the annual over to the photos and commendations on the wall. She found the professor’s name at the bottom of the Georgia State University commendation, which thanked J.J. for his participation in the Georgia Legislative Internship Program. The letter was dated just over two years ago, not long before J.J.’s death. Which meant the professor might still be teaching here in Atlanta.

Excited to have a name to start with, Vivien took the yearbook upstairs and left it open on the bed beside her as she used her laptop to do a search of Georgia State University faculty. She was rewarded with a current photo and contact information for Professor Phillip Sturgess.

Scribbling his number and email address on the pad beside her, Vivien refused to speculate on what she might discover or how it might impact others. But she was very pleased to have a place to begin.

21

I
N THE LAST weeks before Christmas, Vivien took Melanie’s place setting up for the teachers’ holiday buffet, helped restock the Pemberton spirit shop, and spent an afternoon at the school’s welcome desk to give Melanie time off to get ready for the holidays. Her sister was at first unflatteringly stunned and then embarrassingly grateful, which made Vivien, whose ulterior motive had been research for her column, feel horribly guilty.

John Harcourt felt none of the guilt Vivi did at her subterfuge. On the phone, he crowed about the success of the column and the intensity of reader response. City dwellers found it funny, suburbanites, especially women, were increasingly incensed. He hinted that the
Weekly Encounter
might be able to come up with more money at the beginning of the new year.

Vivien had been composing her next “postcard” in her head since the first decorations had appeared in stores sometime after Halloween. In her room, she booted up her laptop and worked at turning them into a holiday column.

After several false starts she opted for,
Christmas in New York City is a vibrant and elegant thing. It begins with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, which is viewed with envy by the rest of the country, and in terms of excitement and grandeur it goes uphill from there. There’s the tree in Times Square. The show at Radio City Music Hall. Skating at Rockefeller Center and in Central Park. The tastefully exciting windows in the shops on Fifth Avenue. Red ribbons on the horses and carriages that drive the tourists, the jangle of bells, the smell of snow.

There’s a lot of holiday spirit here in suburbia, too. But like pretty much everything else here, each person seems to feel compelled to personalize that spirit and then display it for all to see. One of the places they display their homage to the holiday is—surprise, surprise—on their cars, with which they are in love. The first time I saw the big green wreath with the bright red bow on the front grille of a Jeep Cherokee, I thought I was imagining things. But such a sighting is quite common here. Just as the magnets on the back of their vehicles tell us what they’re into, the wreaths poking out over the asphalt like figureheads on the prow of a ship tell us just how festive they feel. I for one am grateful that no one has figured out how to hook up blinking colored lights around their windshields. But it’s probably just a matter of time.

Vivien settled back against her pillow, enjoying the rant.

For those not satisfied with wreaths there are what I can only think of as “car costumes.” Like the Mercedes sport coupe that I saw with a red nose on the grille and two brown antlers protruding above the front driver and passenger windows.
She was, of course, describing Catherine Dennison’s reindeerized silver two-seater, which she’d spotted for the first time just yesterday.
A fine example of German engineering rendered ridiculous. And they don’t stop with their cars,
she continued
. The most insistently celebratory wear green-and-red holiday T-shirts with pithy holiday greetings on them. And some insist on dressing up their pets for the occasion, too. Like the small white Havanese wearing a big red nose and a plush pair of antlers that I saw strapped into its car seat in that Mercedes. The poor animal was so mortified it didn’t even look out the windows. Its face was downcast as I beeped in sympathy, but it was too embarrassed to meet my eye.

Vivien laughed at the memory of poor Pucci, who seemed to have more sense than her owner. She summed up with a few last licks.
I know there’s an energy crisis and house decorations are nowhere near as prevalent as they used to be. But I simply don’t believe that cars were meant to be decorated. And I believe dressing up animals against their will qualifies as a form of cruelty. Maybe it’s time to get the Humane Society on it. Or PETA. Just somebody to make it stop so the rest of us aren’t forced to dodge cars and animals along with the sugarplums already dancing through our holiday dreams.

Vivi closed this time with,
Happy holidays from your stranger in an even stranger land, Scarlett Leigh.

ON A CRISP morning in late December, Vivien drove Shelby’s car to the Georgia State campus in downtown Atlanta and parked as close as she could get to the Andrew Young School of Policy Studies building, where Professor Sturgess’s office was located.

The students were already out for the holidays and so the campus, unlike the city it was tucked into, was unusually quiet. Inside the building, her heels echoed in the empty hallway as she made her way to the professor’s office. His was one of the few open doors, and she found him leaning back in his desk chair, his feet propped up on his desk, his hands pillowed behind his head. He was staring out the window.

“Professor Sturgess?” She stood in the doorway and waited for him to acknowledge her.

“Miz Gray,” he said in a pronounced southern drawl. “Do come in.”

He removed his feet from the desktop and rose to greet her. The professor was six foot three or six foot four and looked to be somewhere in his midfifties, which meant he would have been fairly young when he’d taught at Georgia. His dark hair was streaked with gray, the blue eyes behind stylish tortoiseshell glasses were intelligent and assessing. There was a mutual sizing up as they shook hands. His eyes widened slightly as he noted her obvious pregnancy.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” she said as he motioned for her to sit.

“No problem. I had to be in to take care of some paperwork. The interruption is welcome.”

Vivien had debated her approach, not knowing how close the professor had been to either J.J. or Clay or how in touch he’d stayed. She’d also been unsure whether he might recognize her from CIN, so had been reluctant to use an alias.

“As I mentioned, I’m doing some freelance work and I had an idea for a series on the new breed of politicians and their impact on the political process.”

He listened intently and if he saw anything strange in her choosing not only a family member but one who was deceased he didn’t say so. Still, she thought it important to address the issue. “J.J. wasn’t the only one cut down in his prime and I’m toying with using that angle. But I’m just in the early stages.” She smiled as if that particular part of the story were neither here nor there. “You don’t mind if I record our session, do you?” she asked as she pulled out a portable cassette player. “If I actually do the series, we’ll rerecord more formally. This is just so I get it all right.”

He nodded his assent and leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk.

“So, tell me, Professor Sturgess,” she said as if this were a real interview. “What was J.J. like at the University of Georgia and what do you think propelled him into politics and public service?”

“He was one of my most motivated students from the beginning,” the professor said. “And although I’d like to take credit for his commitment to the political process, he was already completely focused on a career as a public servant when he arrived in Athens. He’d held positions in student government all through high school and he had an understanding of what it took to get elected that I suspect he was born with.”

She nodded encouragingly, careful not to interrupt the flow of words.

“He was extremely charismatic and he knew how to get others to do what he wanted. Not all that different from your father and brother,” he said with a smile. “Though their political points of view were quite different.”

Vivien let the reference to her family go by; both she and Melanie had been drawn to magnetic public figures, but she wasn’t here to debate whether they’d been looking for versions of Daddy. “So he ran for student government at UGA, too?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. He ran in his freshman and sophomore years and won by a landslide. He was the ultimate candidate: good-looking, personable, but with a drive that very few young people have at that age.”

“Did you know Clay Alexander then?”

“Of course. You couldn’t know one of them without the other. He and J.J. were the kind of students every teacher hopes for. They loved to debate each other and anyone else that would sit still long enough. They actually ran against each other in their freshman and sophomore years.”

“How did that turn out?” Vivien asked.

“Clay always came in second. He was very astute and very tuned in to the nuances of campaigning, but he wasn’t the extemporaneous speaker J.J. was. He was always a little more cautious, more of a planner. In many ways he was a more private person all round. And he wasn’t as willing to tell people what they wanted to hear.”

“I’m surprised losing to J.J. like that didn’t impact their friendship,” she said. Or maybe it had.

“Didn’t seem to. In the spring of their junior years, Clay became J.J.’s campaign manager in a bid for student council president. Did a bang-up job, too. One of the most professionally run campaigns I’ve ever seen at the student level. I think the backroom position suited Clay best. J.J. had tons of personality and the glibber tongue. But Clay was a long-term thinker. Together they were pretty much unbeatable.”

“Interesting,” Vivien said, trying to picture it. If she had lost repeatedly to a good friend, would she have been willing to put her whole heart into supporting him? Or would she have been waiting for her opportunity?

“There was some sort of falling-out the following fall as I recall,” Professor Sturgess offered. “I remember Clay sort of kept to himself after that. I think he even dropped out of the fraternity he and J.J. belonged to.”

“Do you know what it was about?” Vivien held her breath, hoping for some insight, but the professor shook his head.

“Nope, neither of them ever talked to me about it. But when Clay moved here to run J.J.’s first campaign, I figured they must have patched things up. And, of course, I’ve seen the two of them at functions over the years since I moved to Atlanta. They were both very helpful with our legislative internship program.

“It’s a shame about J.J.” Professor Sturgess shook his head, then glanced down at his watch and Vivien knew it was time to wrap things up.

“Yes.” Vivi put her pad and the recorder into her purse. “And I really appreciate your time and your input,” she said as she prepared to leave. “But I have one last question about J.J. and Clay and their, um, approaches. Was there any one fundamental way in which they differed? Anything that stood out in your mind?”

“Well.” His gaze shifted from her face to settle somewhere behind her as he thought. When he met her eyes again he said, “If I had to pick one thing I’d say that although J.J. was very into appearances—playing the part, presenting the right image, very driven to achieve his goals, there was a certain volatility that took over on occasion. He could make a decision based solely on his gut and act on it before he’d cooled down enough to think it through. Not hotheaded exactly, but impulsive at times.”

“And Clay?” she asked quietly, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought.

“Clay was very controlled and purposeful. I don’t think he ever acted without forethought. Even as a college student he was all about doing the ‘right thing.’ Honoring commitments and obligations regardless of how he might feel.”

There was a brief silence as Vivien considered his answer. She would have liked to pursue this line of questioning, but the professor was standing, offering his hand.

As she walked out through the echoing hallways she thought about Professor Sturgess’s take on the two men. She didn’t know if anything he’d told her had any bearing on how and why J.J. had died, but she’d learned long ago not to discard the smallest bit of information. Sometimes the tiniest key unlocked the biggest door.