Perfect Little Ladies (13 page)

It was hard for Elinor to admit when she’d been wrong, so CJ didn’t make things worse by saying it was too late for regrets. She stood up next to her sister, shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye. “We could tell the others to stop. We could say you found out it was a hoax. Or that you were just playing a game.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“They don’t know about Remy.”

Elinor shrugged again. “If I tell them to stop, my bet is they won’t. Poppy and Alice are too curious. Alice called to say they didn’t learn anything concrete at the Lord Winslow today, but that they have another idea they’re going to go after tomorrow. She didn’t elaborate.”

“Good grief,” CJ said. “Let’s face it, E, this is the most excitement they’ve had since—”

“Since the incident with the gardener.”

They laughed a little, at the way their mother had always referred to that horrid day as
“The Incident with the Gardener,”
as if it had been the title of an Agatha Christie novel.

Then CJ said, “Come on, E, let’s go inside. Whatever happens will happen, but we’ll face it together.”

She did not mention Ray Williams again. The topic seemed insignificant, in light of the rest.

Alice was in Yolanda’s bathroom, putting on the housekeeper’s dress, when Manny strolled into the kitchen. Poppy wondered what he would look like in a newly pressed uniform sporting a holster and a gun. The image was disturbing in a good sort of way.

“I see your friends managed to return without getting arrested,” he announced.

“I thought you weren’t going to get involved,” Yolanda said. Belita said, “Da-Da,” because she must have thought Manny was her Da-Da, not her uncle.

He went to the counter and poured a cup of coffee. “The Lord Winslow has more security than Fort Knox.”

Poppy cleared her throat, because he hadn’t looked at her as yet. “They didn’t find ‘Momma.’”

“They were humoring you,” he said, stirring cream in his coffee, making eye contact with a carton of half-and-half and not her. “The minute you approached the manager, they had you pegged as a whacko.”

Poppy recoiled.

“Manuel!” Yolanda scolded. “Watch your tongue.”

“Sorry, but that’s how they saw her. They assumed it was a phony routine, but if it wasn’t, they figured she was looney.”

Was that what he thought, too? That she was crazy? She pouted. Momma always said pouting was childish, but Poppy couldn’t help it.

Manny dumped in sugar and stirred some more. “These people are trained to spot impersonators. And fake accents are a dead giveaway.”

She’d thought her Winston-Salem imitation had been right on target. She’d never been there, of course, but a girl at McCready had been from that area, and Poppy thought she’d sounded just like her.
Shoot
. Her lower lip protruded a bit more.

He took a sip of coffee. Then his back stiffened and he looked into his mug. “You need to stay away from the hotel,” he said. “All of you.”

His tone was stern, the way Mr. Harding, Elinor and CJ’s father, had been when they’d been girls back in school. Unlike Mr. Harding, Poppy’s father had been quiet, agreeable, a sweet, gentle man. Her best memory of him came from the photo on the front porch swing, Poppy sitting beside him, his arm cradling her, keeping her safe and warm. His fortune had come from the backbone of his father and his father’s father, from their railroads and skyscrapers. But the men who’d made the money had died before Poppy was born, so she’d never known either of them. If she’d grown up around stern men, like Mr. Harding, she might have been accustomed to stiff backs and cold stares. Instead, they made her twitch.

“But,” she said. “Elinor—”

He held up a hand. “Forget it,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to stay the hell out of it.”

She winced again, as if she were a child in the headmaster’s office.

“Look,” Manny said, now leveling his dark eyes on hers. “The truth is, the Lord Winslow does not have a Dumpster.”

Poppy curled a few strands of hair. “Of course it does. That’s where the blackmailer found Elinor’s panties!”

He blushed. He turned his eyes away again. “There is no Dumpster. Each floor has trash chutes. The trash is automatically compacted, then trucked out of the lower level.”

Poppy was about to protest again when Alice emerged wearing the tan polyester.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“There isn’t a Dumpster at the Lord Winslow,” Yolanda explained. “The blackmailer lied.”

“You have to back off,” Manny continued. “For all of your sakes. Don’t do anything else, unless your friend gets a phone call about the ransom drop.”

“And if she does?” Poppy whispered, wishing he’d look at her again.

“Call the police.” He tossed her a business card, drained his mug, and left Yolanda’s without glancing back.

Twenty-one

It was after ten by the time Alice pulled up
to the gates at Poppy’s estate. They hadn’t spoken all the way back from New Falls.

“Well?” Alice asked. “What do you think? Should we abort our mission tomorrow? Tell Elinor we’ve changed our minds?”

Poppy fiddled with Manny’s business card, which she’d tucked in her pocket. “I don’t know what to do. I hate abandoning Elinor, but Yolanda’s brother is probably right. If the blackmailer lied about the Dumpster, he’s probably dangerous.”

“Of course he’s dangerous. He’s demanding a half million dollars, remember?”

Poppy relaxed her hand. “So what should we do?”

Alice shrugged. “Well, I have a polyester dress that now fits.
I really don’t think any harm will come to us tomorrow. Then I’m off to Orlando and Elinor will be off to Washington for the party. I don’t think we have much to lose. Besides, if we just do this one last thing, Elinor will know we didn’t desert her. We don’t have to tell Yolanda’s brother. Or Yolanda, either, for that matter.”

“But if anything happens to me, what would become of poor Momma?”

“Please. Your mother has more caretakers than the Biltmore Estate.”

At least she hadn’t called caretakers gardeners. That would have been so unkind. “Oh, Alice,” Poppy said. “I just don’t know.”

“I’ll be the one at risk,” Alice said. “You’ll be safe in the getaway car.” The big headlights swept the front of the garage. A white Lexus was parked on the side. “Did you get a new car?” Alice asked.

Poppy’s brow fell into a frown. She quickly recovered to avoid little lines. “Not that I know of.”

“Well,” Alice said, “you have company then.”

“I wonder who it could be.” She could have suggested that Duane had a guest, but she supposed Alice knew he had no friends. No male friends, at least.

“Maybe the car belongs to one of the maids.”

“If it is, I’m paying her too much.”

Alice stopped the vehicle, and Poppy got out, saying, “Guess I’ll have to go in and find out who’s here.” She bobbed her hair and put on a tight smile. “I’ll give you a call in the morning.”

“All right,” Alice replied. “But call me early. If I’m going to be a housekeeper at the Lord Winslow, I won’t want to be late for my first day of work.”

Poppy let herself into the garage through the side door. She held her breath until Alice was out of sight, then she listened. Had Duane noticed the vehicle pull into the driveway? Or was he too busy entertaining the owner of the white Lexus?

Was it a woman?

A few years ago he’d hinted that a ménage à trois might be fun. Poppy had been horrified. She’d locked herself in the bedroom for two whole days until he’d convinced her he’d only been joking. He’d never mentioned it since.

Still, today he’d been horny. And Poppy hadn’t performed her wifely job.

She’d been too ashamed to tell Alice.

Leaning against the side of Duane’s sports car, Poppy tried to figure out what to do next. She didn’t want to barge in. If he was with a woman, she’d be too embarrassed for words.

It was bad enough she suspected he was a blackmailer, or at the least, sleeping with one of her best friends.

Oh!
she moaned softly.
What have I done?
Why had she married him in the first place?

Why?

Why?

She thought about Manny, Yolanda’s brother. Oh, sure, he looked really hot. And he seemed really nice.
But for God’s sake, Poppy,
she cried to herself,
he is one of them!

A two-timing,

money-hungry,

conniving

man!

Momma had been right not to trust any after Daddy was gone.

For the first time in forever, Poppy did not want to be inside her wrought-iron gates. She no longer felt safe.

Thankfully, Momma lived just a mile down the road. It had been years since Poppy had walked quite so far, and she’d never done such a thing in the dark, but she couldn’t very well take one of the cars and risk alerting Duane that she had been home.

So Poppy let herself out and started walking in her high-heeled sandals, down the winding country road, toward Momma’s.

In the morning, she would call Alice and say yes, she would go to the Lord Winslow. There was no reason to trust Manny or believe anything he had to say. He was a man, after all. And the girlfriends must stick together.

If Momma had been more…well…alert, Poppy might have considered talking to her about Duane the way she’d talked to her about Elinor. But since Momma had gone through all that she’d gone through, her wisdom came in occasional bursts—and lately, there had been few of those.

Because Poppy knew they frequently changed the alarm system code (Momma consistently feared someone would steal her orchids and trinkets), she went to the guesthouse where Lucky resided. It wasn’t really a house but a three-room bungalow, tucked around back. Like the main house, it was made of stone—large gray boulders glued with cement that looked more like it belonged in Hansel and Gretel than in Mount Kasteel.

Poppy knocked on the wooden door. She slipped off her sandals and rubbed her poor little toes. She was grateful she’d made the full mile in one relative piece, without interruption from nocturnal critters or low-flying bats.

No lights came on inside the bungalow. Poppy knocked again. She’d already decided to say she’d locked herself out of the gates to her estate, that Duane was out of town, that she hadn’t wanted to awaken the alarm service folks. She’d already decided to say she needed to stay at Momma’s tonight, that she would deal with the locked gates tomorrow.

Lucky would be too professional to ask why whoever had dropped her off at the gates to Momma’s estate hadn’t waited to see that she’d entered safely.

She knocked again. She waited.

After another minute, Poppy said, “Damn.”

She crossed the lawn, marched toward the garage, and climbed the stairs that led to Fiona and Bern’s apartment. This time, her knock was more insistent.

Lights were lit; slippers shuffled across the hardwood floor. The door opened. Moments later, Bern was escorting Poppy toward the main house.

“Your momma’s been having her spells again,” Bern said. “When that happens, she likes it if Lucky stays in the house.”

“But Lila’s room is right down the hall.”

“She’s not much good in these situations.”

Poppy realized then that Momma’s life was a little drama, with people and roles and, no doubt, performances, too. “Why wasn’t I told that her spells have come back?”

“Your momma didn’t want to worry you. She says you have enough problems these days.”

Bern unlocked the kitchen door and decoded the alarm. Poppy had a fleeting fear that they’d find Lucky under the covers with Momma, naked and hugging her old-moneyed bones.

What would Poppy say?

What would Lucky say?

Should she fire him on the spot, or would Momma protest?

Lucky was a dozen or more years younger than Momma. He had a low forehead and a pronounced facial tic, but he was dependable, and Momma liked that. She also liked the fact that he did everything for her, that he responded to her every whim. His demeanor always seemed professional enough, but Poppy suspected that not much stopped Momma when she was having a spell and needed brandy and warmth.

Poppy tagged along behind Bern as they made their way up the sweeping, curved staircase. She wondered if they should leave Momma alone…then she thought about Doris Duke and all the money her “companion” had made off with after her death…not to mention the rumors that he had somehow helped accelerate her demise.

Oh!
Poppy thought.
Oh!

But when they reached Momma’s bedroom, they found Lucky parked on the settee outside the door. His head drooped as he dozed; his shirt was fully buttoned and his pants, fully zipped.

Twenty-two

The next morning, Poppy called Alice and
asked if she’d please pick her up at Momma’s and please not ask why she was wearing the same clothes she’d had on last night.

So Alice did and she didn’t.

“Neal commented on the dress when I left,” Alice said after Poppy was settled inside the Esplanade. “He asked since when had I taken to wearing polyester. I asked since when had he earned the right to question my fashion sense, Mr. White Shirt with Pinstripes.” She’d hoped a little light humor might help erase the maudlin look on Poppy’s face. It did not. She turned the AC vent toward her. “Good Lord, I was right. Polyester is hot.”

Poppy didn’t reply.

Alice drove down the driveway, past the chauffeur, who was washing the Lincoln stretch limo as if Poppy’s mother had somewhere important to go.

“It’s Duane,” Poppy said suddenly, because she’d never been good at keeping secrets.

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“The visitor last night was a woman.”

“Who?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t go in.”

Alice steered the car along the shady country road toward the highway that led to the city. She wondered if their friends were as bothered by Poppy as she had become, or if it was another menopausal annoyance, like the occasional black hairs that sprung from nowhere in particular and instantly took root on her chin. “If you didn’t go in, how do you know it was a woman? Did you peek in the windows of your own house?”