The Hen of the Baskervilles (6 page)

“No,” she said. “But his name's on the deed with mine. And he's filed for divorce already, and demanding his half of the farm. I can't afford to buy him out. I could try to give him half the income, although I'm not sure I could live on half of almost nothing, but he won't even consider it.”

“Have you pointed out to him that he'll get a lot more in the long run if he waits?” I asked. “And that maybe without the income from the farm, he might have to get an actual job?”

“He doesn't care,” she said. “His new girlfriend is supporting him. Paying for his high-powered divorce lawyer, too.”

“Do you have a lawyer?” I asked.

She shook her head, and pretended that the cheddar she was slicing took all her concentration.

“You need one.” I was already taking out my notebook. “One who's even better than his. Let me talk to Mother.”

She looked puzzled.

“I didn't know your mother was a lawyer,” she said. “Does she handle divorces?”

“She handles her family,” I said. “She's not a lawyer, but we must have several dozen in the family. And most of them are very, very good at what they do, and I'm sure a few of them do divorce. I will explain to Mother that if she wants to continue serving your cheeses at her parties, she will need to find you a lawyer who can take on Brett's lawyer. And do it on terms you can afford.”

“Do you really think she can find someone?” Her hand was trembling, and I was relieved to see her put down the cheese knife.

“You've met Mother,” I said. “You know what she's like when she takes on a project. So brace yourself. You're about to become a project.”

Molly's smile was finally starting to look genuine.

“Thanks,” she said. “You have no idea how great that would be.”

“I've got to run.” I tucked my notebook back into my pocket. “How about if you put my order together—and yes, double it, not because I think you're going out of business but because just looking at your booth makes me realize I was being way too conservative when I made my list. I'll drop back later to pick it up and give you a check. And I can let you know what Mother says.”

She nodded, and I could see that above the smile she was blinking rapidly. Fighting back tears. If we'd been alone, I'd have hugged her, but that would probably make the tears spill over, and I knew here in the crowded vendor hall she'd want to hold it together.

“Later,” I said, and headed for the exit. I felt curiously more cheerful after learning about Molly's problem, perhaps because unlike the thefts and vandalism, I felt I knew exactly what to do to solve it.

If only all the day's problems would be this easy.

 

Chapter 7

Outside, I hurried over to the gate and supervised the opening. I was relieved to see that in spite of the overcast weather, a decent number of people were lined up outside, impatiently waiting to buy their tickets for this first day of the Un-fair. Yesterday's weather had been abysmal, mainly because the remnants of a passing hurricane had dumped three inches of water on us. If I weren't involved in the fair, I might have waited out today's chance of thunderstorms, but here were several hundred people eager to come to the fair. Not bad at all for a Thursday, with only a few competitions scheduled and the Midway, with its rides and games, not opening for two more hours.

But just as the gates opened, I found myself wondering if one of those smiling, eager faces belonged to a chicken thief. A pumpkin smasher. A despoiler of exquisite quilts. I stopped myself from scowling—no sense scaring off the paying customers—but I found myself studying the people as they began to trickle in.

The family groups were probably harmless. No petty criminal worth his salt would encumber himself with toddlers already demanding hot dogs and cotton candy, boys begging to be taken on the rides, or girls pleading to go see the horses. But I had to work harder at not frowning when I spotted men, alone or in pairs.

They could have any number of innocent reasons for coming, I reminded myself. They could be farmers, looking to buy or sell livestock or just check out the competition. They could be coming to see the latest tractors and combines on display. They could be craving barbecue or fried chicken or any of the dozens of foodstuffs on sale throughout the fair. They could be here for the entertainment, which ranged from our minor Nashville luminary to Rancid Dread, an inexplicably popular local heavy metal band.

They could even be spies for one of the other counties or private groups trying to field their own entries in the competition to steal the thunder from the newly restored official state fair.

Nothing I could do about spies any more than chicken thieves. I headed back to the arts and crafts barn so I could find Mother and make good on my promise to Molly. I paused just inside the doorway where the building's volunteer monitor was sitting and craned my neck to see if I could spot Mother.

“She's over in the wine pavilion,” the volunteer said. “Your mother, I mean, if that's who you're looking for.”

I thanked her and began picking my way through the gathering crowds to the wine pavilion. We'd originally planned to have the wine competitions in the same barn as the rest of the food and craft exhibits, but a few weeks before the opening of the fair our registrar had reported, with a note of panic in her voice, that we already had enough wine bottles, pies, quilts, preserves, carvings, paintings, sculptures, sweaters, photographs, and other arts and crafts to fill the barn, and entries were still pouring in. We'd solved that problem by erecting an enormous tent and christening it the “wine pavilion.” With the help of the ladies of the Caerphilly Garden Club, Mother had decorated it. One end resembled a Mediterranean villa, with tile, pottery, fountains, iron tables and chairs, well-aged barrels, and vintage riddling racks. Midway through the tent the style made a graceful, nearly seamless transition toward the neoclassical, with red brick, white columns, and Chinese railings, echoing Monticello and evoking Thomas Jefferson, founder and secular patron saint of Virginia's wine industry. And of course, scattered throughout were several tons of potted foliage. The winemakers loved it.

So did Mother. Even though she was theoretically also in charge of the quilt and pie barn, good luck ever finding her there short of a disaster like this morning's quilt theft. She preferred the more elegant company of the winemakers.

“Meg, dear,” she said, when I strolled into the tent. “What's wrong? Are the boys all right?”

“They're fine,” I said. “Michael will probably bring them by to see you later.”

“More unpleasantness, then?”

“No more thefts or vandalism as far as I know,” I said. “But a friend of mine has a problem.”

I glanced around to make sure no one else was nearby and then relayed Molly's situation to her as succinctly as I could.

“The poor dear!” she exclaimed. “You're right—we simply must do something.”

“Shall I tell her to come and talk to you?”

“Good heavens, no,” Mother said. “I'll make a few calls and then go over and talk to her. She wouldn't want to come here.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Don't you realize—never mind. You need to see for yourself what the poor girl is up against. Follow me.”

Mother swept through the tent, giving the impression that her simple day dress came with an invisible train and possibly a tiara. She exchanged cheerful greetings with most of the arriving winemakers, and even air kisses with some of the women. I followed in her wake, hoping to pass unnoticed and avoid another round of interrogations about fair security.

“Here we are,” Mother said, stopping at one of the booths. “Don't mind us, Dorcas,” she stage-whispered to the woman behind the counter. “I just wanted Meg to get a good look at her.”

“Be my guest,” Dorcas murmured. “And if you block my view, all the better.”

“Her?” I asked.

“Genette Sedgewick,” Mother said. “The Other Woman.”

 

Chapter 8

“Other woman?” I repeated. “Oh! You mean Molly's husband's new—”

“Precisely.” Mother didn't point, or even move her head, but she indicated, with her eyes, the booth diagonally across from Dorcas's. Then she and Dorcas and the winemaker from the booth next door began talking in low voices. I turned around, pretending to be waiting for them to finish, and studied the Other Woman's booth.

It was jarringly out of place. Some of the booths were fairly plain. Most echoed either the Mediterranean or the Palladian theme, whichever prevailed at their end of the tent. Or perhaps Mother had anticipated the booths—she had a keen appreciation of good wine, and had probably already seen the different winemakers' booths at other festivals—and visited their vineyards, too. And had designed the wine pavilion to coordinate with them.

Genette's booth was … well … loud. It was made of chrome with panels of translucent acrylic or opaque plastic in a variety of harsh, garish colors that clashed horribly with each other, like mustard yellow and bubblegum pink, which seemed to be her signature colors. The booth did provide a perfect background for her wine bottles, whose labels featured the same horrible colors in a jagged abstract design. I'd seen better artwork from Josh and Jamie, and they weren't even three yet. The booth had little alcoves here and there, each displaying a single wine bottle with a couple of wineglasses in colors that matched the labels—where on earth would anyone find mustard-yellow wineglasses? Tucked in with the wine bottles and glasses were peculiar decorative elements, like small trays made of rough-cut trapezoids of corrugated sheet metal, little tangles of barbed wire, and angular bouquets of short PVC pipes. Some enormous letters sprawled across the back panel of the booth, probably spelling out the name of her winery, but in such an odd, jagged typeface that I couldn't actually read it. Two rectangular blocks constructed entirely of black metal and industrial steel grating jutted out into the aisles, impeding traffic. The lighting, a combination of neon and bare lightbulbs, didn't help.

“We made her turn off the blinking lights,” Dorcas murmured.

“And the music,” Mother added, with a shudder.

Genette herself stepped into view. She was talking on a cell phone, and not, apparently, enjoying her conversation. She was pushing forty, but trying her best to look on the sunny side of twenty. Blond, but probably not by nature. On the slender side, but not nearly enough for the short, tight, bright red dress she was wearing. Considering how she was snarling and gesticulating at the phone, I found it astonishing how serene her face was. After a few moments it occurred to me that perhaps she'd had Botox.

I was watching her out of the corner of my eye, trying to prove or disprove this theory, when another, stouter figure sailed into view.

Brett Riordan. Molly's not quite ex-husband.

“Babe!” he cried, as he approached Genette's booth. He had a half-full glass of red wine in one hand. He wrapped the other arm around Genette and pulled her into a prolonged kiss. Prolonged, but with curiously little heat—he didn't seem to be expressing passion so much as marking territory.

For that matter, so did Genette.

I looked away, and glanced around to see how the other denizens of the wine pavilion were reacting. Most of them were also looking away—some of them rather ostentatiously. A few were tittering or rolling their eyes.

Brett and Genette had finished their kiss but were clinging together, giggling and pawing each other. Brett was still handsome in a beefy way, but he'd gained bulk. His jowls were softer now, and his nose and cheeks a lot redder. I didn't think much of Genette, but she could do a lot better than Brett.

Then again, I'd always been immune to his boozy charm.

“They put on quite a show, don't they?” Dorcas murmured.

“Are we supposed to believe that they can't resist each other?” her neighbor added.

I had the feeling that what they couldn't resist was the opportunity to shove their affair in our faces.

Or had my arrival had something to do with it? Brett was no rocket scientist, but he knew who I was. Was he hoping I'd go back and tell Molly what I'd seen? Not a chance.

A pity I couldn't tell him that. But he probably knew I'd never been his biggest fan. Molly and I had become better friends in the last several years, when I no longer had to rack my brain for the right thing to say when she burbled about how wonderful Brett was. I'd been a lot more comfortable sympathizing when she complained about his spendthrift ways, his inability to hold or even get a job, and her growing awareness that he was turning from a happy-go-lucky young man with a fondness for restaurants and parties into a loud middle-aged alcoholic loafer.

But “I told you so” isn't something you can say to friends. I reminded myself that however tempting it would be to criticize Brett to Molly, it wasn't a wise or kind thing to do. What if they got back together again after I'd told Molly exactly how little I thought of him? Or, more likely, what if slamming him, instead of cheering her up, made her feel like an idiot for marrying him in the first place? No, as long as Molly was around, I'd keep my opinions of Brett to myself.

But Molly wasn't around. And Mother was.

“Honestly,” I said, rolling my eyes slightly.

Mother shook her head.

“Precisely.” She arched her neck and deliberately turned her back on the two of them. “By the way,” she went on. “I want you and Randall to know right now that next year I'm imposing rules on the decor. Shopping malls do it, and homeowners' associations, so I don't see why we can't.”

“You think the winemakers will stand for that?”

“They're asking if we can't impose them this year,” she said. “I don't think that's fair, but next year, we will send out lists of acceptable colors and materials, and any exceptions must be approved by me. Or whoever you appoint to be next year's arts and crafts director.”