Muletrain to Maggody (7 page)

“Where’s my granny?”

“Under the table,” Vonetta said grimly. “I must have told her a dozen times to stop eating the glue, but she kept sucking on the paintbrush until I had no choice but to take it away from her. Now she’s sulking.”

Dahlia squatted and waved at her granny. “I brought you a treat.”

Her granny glowered like a treed coon. “Like’n I care?”

“I come to visit,” Dahlia said, trying to sound all soothing. “I got some cookies.”

“Don’t like cookies.”

“I reckon you like lemon snaps.”

“Mebbe I do.” Dahlia’s granny crept between the thicket of bony legs and emerged from under the table. “Give ’em to me and be on your way, you ungrateful girl! Dumped me here like I was nothin’ but a mess of turnip greens, you did. What’d you want from me now? I ain’t got any organs to donate, not at my age. I slaved away all my life to take care of your mama, and then, when she upped and died, to take care of you. So how’d you repay me? Why didn’t you just put me in a gunny sack and toss me in Boone Creek? It might have been a sight more merciful.”

“Amen,” chimed in Mr. Whitbreedly. “It would have saved us from all her bitching and whining. The chicken’s too dry, the meatloaf’s too greasy, the collard greens are too tough, the soap operas ain’t to her liking. Go get a gunny sack, girl.”

Vonetta dearly wished that Miz Pimlico hadn’t gone into Farberville to do whatever she did like clockwork every Saturday afternoon, rain or shine. The fact of the matter was that Shirlee was supposed to have shown up at half past three, but gossip had it that she entertained callers in her trailer at the Pot O’ Gold. Minimum wage could lead someone to do that, Vonetta supposed, but that wasn’t much help what with the riot brewing in the crafts room.

“I can’t believe my ears!” sputtered Dahlia. “Here I am with homemade lemon snaps, and you have the nerve to say something like that! I’ve a good mind to march right out and never set foot in here again!”

“Suits me,” said her granny. “You was always scheming to get what you wanted, even back when you had pigtails.”

“Oink,” Miz Claplander said, not exactly helping things.

Dahlia realized she could wrap her hands around her granny’s throat and choke the life right out of her. As satisfying as it might prove to be, it would not give her any clues about the cave where the Confederate private had hidden the gold.

“Just quit your complaining and come sit out on the porch,” she said real nicely, like one of those smarmy ladies selling jewelry on TV. “We’ll have ourselves some cookies and talk about when you was a girl.”

“And I was Batman,” said Mr. Whitbreedly. “Me and Robin, we was a team like nobody’d ever seen before.”

“Oink,” repeated Miz Claplander, this time for no apparent reason, but seeming to enjoy it. “Oink, oink!”

Dahlia’s granny stared at her, then nodded at Dahlia. “I reckon we can sit for a spell. Don’t go thinkin’ I’m gonna tell you about Tishew Buchanon, though. Some memories are best left out in the back pasture.” She took a second look at Dahlia’s generous contour. “You still breedin’ like a rabbit?”

“Kevvie and I are expecting a child,” Dahlia said with as much dignity as she could muster, since Miz Claplander was still oinking like a greased pig at the county fair and ol’ Mr. Fondro was tweaking every breast, no matter how deflated, that he could reach. Vonetta was in tears, but nobody was paying her any mind. They never did.

M
rs. Corinne Valenthorpe Dawk appeared to be a tiny bit perturbed as she studied the bank statement. Perhaps more than a tiny bit, in that her face was flushed and her blood pressure was shooting skyward like a rocket over Charleston Harbor. She forced herself to put down the paper and gaze out the window at the creamy flowers and dark, shiny leaves of the magnolia tree that was by far the tallest in her neighborhood. No one with functional eyesight could dispute that. There was absolutely no reason to pay for the services of a surveyor, as Lucinda Met-tier-Longley had suggested. Corinne made a mental note to exclude Lucinda from her next luncheon, presuming she could afford to have one.

The bank statement lay in a stripe of sunshine, looking as innocent as an invitation to a dinner party or a charming letter written by a fan. It was far from either, however. She picked it up and frowned at the expenditures that Simon had made the previous month. Two thousand dollars at an electronics store, more than six hundred dollars at a men’s clothing store, and nearly that much at a sports equipment outfitter. How many ties and tennis rackets did a boy need?

What’s more, she was certain that the credit card statements would reflect equal, if not greater, damage. Simon seemed to take great pleasure in treating his friends to lavish dinners and chartered cruises. He was going to have to learn self-discipline, she thought. She’d warned him time and again that her resources were not bottomless, and that money did not grow on the magnolia tree or on the massive azaleas in the front yard.

She was still seated at the desk in her office when she heard Simon and Sweetpea come into the house, laughing as they always did. Such an attractive couple, the envy of so many at the country club, Corinne thought, forgetting her financial woes for the moment. Simon was six feet tall, with curly hair and an adorable smile rivaled only by the marble cherubim in the cemetery. Sweetpea was several inches shorter, so she fit nicely when he draped his arm over her shoulder. She had the Yarborough family coloring: auburn hair, freckles, and clear green eyes. Both were tanned and healthy, as if they’d stepped off the cover of one of the nicer magazines.

“Hey, Mother,” called Simon, “you want to join us for a gin and tonic on the porch?”

Sweetpea, known in formal situations as Frances Butler Yarborough, came to the doorway of Corinne’s office. “That mean ol’ Simon beat me three straight sets without even working up a sweat. I s’pose I’m going to have to take some more lessons this summer.”

Simon appeared behind her. “It won’t help. What you need are some sessions with a shrink to get over your irrational fear of fuzzy balls.” He raised his eyebrows at Corinne. “Shall I make you a drink?”

“Thank you, dear,” she said. “There are fresh limes in the refrigerator. Come along, Sweetpea. I have a few suggestions for the flower arrangements at the reception.”

Once they were on the porch, Sweetpea sank into a wicker chair. “My mama’s been driving me crazy as a loon. I’m even thinking Simon and I ought to skip out on the wedding and head straight for Aruba. Surely we can find somebody there who can marry us without any folderol. People did used to get married in the parlor, you know, and then serve tea and cucumber sandwiches. ’Course Daddy’d have a stroke if I canceled the wedding after all the money he’s shelled out for deposits. Most every day Mama makes me sit down at the dining room table so we can make decisions about the silliest little ol’ things! Just this morning we had the most awful row about the color of the candles.”

Corinne smiled uneasily. “Oh, honey, you’re just getting jittery like every other bride throughout the ages. Your mother’s been gracious enough to keep me informed, and I’m quite sure everything will be perfect. Let’s not have any more talk about eloping.”

“Sounds like a fine idea to me,” said Simon as he set down a tray on the coffee table. “As long I still get a bachelor party, that is. Parker and Trey are plotting something totally nefarious.”

Corinne accepted the proffered drink. “Are the two of you packed for our upcoming adventure? It may be cooler in the mountains than it is here. I’m going to take a sweater and my wool shawl, just in case.”

“I still can’t believe we’re going someplace that’s not even on a map,” Simon said. “This reenactment business is absurd. When I was on the set of your miniseries and obliged to wait around with these unshaven, filthy wretches stuffed in stinking uniforms, I was terrified I’d end up with lice. Thank gawd I could go back to a decent hotel every night and take a shower. Most of them insisted on camping out so it would be more authentic. How authentic can it be with cameras, booms, lights, prop girls, makeup trailers, a director and producer, and even a damn catering trailer serving Dijon chicken and veal scallopini for lunch? Jesus, it was unreal.”

“I think it will be interesting,” Sweetpea murmured with a sly smile. “When my cousin Yancy Lee over in Mississippi told me about it, I knew right then and there it was something I wanted to see, especially if you had the starring role. Who knows if this documentary might earn some critical attention and get shown at film festivals? You could end up being an A-list Hollywood actor. We could end up going to parties with Julia Roberts and Tom Cruise.”

“Or not. All I’m going to do is sit around a campfire with a bunch of fat old men who smell worse than the runoff from a hog farm. Their idea of a good time will probably be to see who can rip off the loudest fart.”

Corinne clucked her tongue. “It’s much too early in the afternoon for that sort of remark, dear. I thought Sweetpea’s idea was very clever. If the documentary is a tasteless disaster, then it will never be mentioned again. If it has any charm whatsoever, we’ll have our own little film festival right here, and then I’ll see if I still have any connections in Hollywood.”

Simon slouched further down. “So everybody in Charleston can watch me make an ass of myself? What could be more entertaining?”

“Now, Simon,” Sweetpea said, putting her hand on his knee, “there’s no way you’re going to make any bigger ass of yourself than you did when you ran my daddy’s sailboat into the pier during the regatta last summer. You’ll look real dashing in your uniform.”

“You haven’t seen my uniform. Mother insisted on buying it at an antique clothing store, and wouldn’t even allow me to have it dry-cleaned. The coat cuffs are two inches short, and half the buttons are missing. The stains are either blood or shit.”

“Simon,” his mother said indulgently, “please watch your language. Sweetpea’s not used to that sort of vulgarity.”

Sweetpea giggled. “It’s a good thing you weren’t watching our tennis match earlier. I was bitchin’ so loud the pro got complaints. I’m afraid I could never be a heroine in one of your books, Corinne. The only time I’ve ever felt faint was when Daddy gave me a Jaguar on my sixteenth birthday.”

“The women in my books do not swoon. They held together the very structure of the Southern way of life even as Yankee soldiers burned their houses, stole their crops, and raped their sisters. My great-great-grandmother took in wounded Confederate soldiers and nursed them until they could continue to their homes. She also insisted that the ladies of Charleston meet weekly for their book club even as Sherman’s army advanced.”

“My great-great-granduncle freed all his slaves as soon as the war started and told ’em to go North. Only two or three of the house slaves stayed put, and he insisted on them being paid every week. ’Course it was probably twenty-five cents, but it wasn’t like they could go to a mall.”

Corinne decided to change the subject. “Simon, have you memorized your lines? A sloppy performance on your part will reflect on me. I only agreed to do my presentations if you were given the leading role. This will not be like the miniseries, when you were one out of hundreds of soldiers. This is your only chance to be noticed by important directors and producers.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Simon. “I don’t have a lot of lines on camera. Most of it will be voiceover and I can read from a script in an air-conditioned studio. Too bad the rest of this crappy skirmish can’t be staged there, too.”

“Mules, dear,” Corinne said. “So messy.”

Yawning, Sweetpea stood up. “Sorry, but the tennis must have worn me out. Simon, you’d better run me home so I can take a nap before I get ready for the party.” She bent over to brush her cheek against Corinne’s. “I enjoyed visiting with you. Maybe we can talk about flower arrangements next time. Better yet, after we get back from wherever this town is, we can do lunch and drop by some of the floral design studios. Pamela discovered a divine one run by an Italian who claims to be a count. She said he positively licked her hand.”

“Yes, we’ll do that. Simon, kindly fetch the copy of the journal before you leave tonight. I barely glanced at it when it arrived the other day. Perhaps I can find a way to incorporate some of it into my presentation. A little local color makes it more interesting for the children.”

“As you wish,
ma petite mère,
” he said, proving he had picked up a semblance of culture from the prep schools and colleges that had expelled him over the last six years.

Once they’d left, Corinne took the glasses to the kitchen. She returned to her office and sat down behind the walnut desk. Sunlight now shone on the bookcases lining two walls, bathing the spines of well over a thousand books in a musty glow. Some were collections bound in leather. Others were more mundane but necessary for research purposes. Simon kept badgering her to use the Internet, but it was much more satisfying to pull out the perfect volume and curl up in the overstuffed armchair. Countless of her characters had done so in their libraries, even as war raged in the adjoining county.

Rather than retreat to one of her great-great-grandmother’s volumes of poetry, however, Corinne picked up the letter from her agent in New York. She’d read it before, but she forced herself to read it once more before she took it to the barbecue grill in the backyard and sacrificed it to the gods of publishing. Which might be futile, since they were a godless bunch.

Sales down, returns up, interest flagging at her current publishing house, the possibility of a smaller advance for her next book. She’d received an almost identical letter the previous year. Her sales had shot up after each of the miniseries had aired, but then tapered off. The die-hard historical readers were aging and therefore dwindling; the younger readers preferred contemporary novels with sex rather than romance.

The letter obliquely emphasized the importance of a marriage between Simon and Sweetpea (and her family’s money). Ancestry and tradition still dictated Charleston society, but neither paid the bills. Nor would her advances and royalties if Simon was not tightly curbed. Sweetpea had a pretty face, but Corinne suspected she also had an inner layer of icy calculation. She probably knew to the penny what her first pair of white party gloves had cost, as well as the Jaguar her daddy had given her. Not, of course, that she would admit it if she were tied to a stake and knee-deep in kindling. Charleston’s finest were oblivious to money, as long as they had it.

Corinne was in the living room, the crumpled letter in her hand, when she saw the police car pull up in front of the house. As she had done several times during the previous few days, she ducked into the kitchen and steeled herself to ignore the peal of the doorbell.

At the very same time that Corinne was cringing in her kitchen, Kenneth Grimley was admiring himself in his bathroom mirror. He often dressed in the dark blue uniform, with brass buttons and gold trim, a cape lined with scarlet silk, a broad-brimmed hat with a plume, and always the Colt army revolver and the sword in its engraved silver sheath. Such a dashing figure, he told himself as he squared his shoulders and shot his reflection a bold, if not cocky, grin. General Wallingford Ames, commander of the Illinois Army, leader of the troops that had defended the indivisibility of the nation, grinned back at him.

For the moment, it didn’t matter that he was short and chubby, had an unfortunate habit of squinting when he was nervous, and taught nineteenth-century history to students who slept through his lectures and cribbed their term papers from the Internet. That his second wife had moved out and was threatening to get her mercenary little hands on his pension and almost all of his assets. That he’d been turned down as a candidate for the chair in Nineteenth-Century American Studies. That his latest proposal for a book on the impact of the struggle for control of the Mississippi River in 1863 had been rejected by his own university’s press. That his cat had run away. That his socks didn’t match. That his microwave made a curious humming noise that most likely would lead to an explosion.

General Wallingford Ames was above such concerns.

After half an hour of waving his sword about and posturing, Kenneth put away the uniform and settled for a civilian ensemble of pajamas and a robe. Still a professor at a second-rate school, still wearing one brown and one navy sock, still a loser in all aspects of his life, still worried about the microwave.

He poured himself a glass of wine and sat down at his desk to make sure that his airline tickets were in order. The historical society, wherever it was, had promised to pay expenses as well as an honorarium, which amounted to a nice sum. Speaking to brain-dead elementary and high school students required minimal energy. The only instances in which he could raise a few eyelids were when he whipped out his sword and slashed about as if a rebel soldier were crouched under a desk. He had yet to discover one.