Baroque and Desperate (13 page)

“How can you be sure?”

“Latham Hall Plantation ghosts have no reason to eavesdrop. If they want to listen in to a conversation, they come right in and plop themselves down on a chair. It doesn't matter if the door is closed, either.”

“You're kidding, right?”

She shook her head. “I've seen it a hundred times. Especially the colonel. Why he—” She put a hand to her mouth. “You probably think I'm batty, don't you?”

“No, ma'am.” I only hoped she didn't ask Daniel the same question.

“So, you'll stay the remainder of the weekend?”

“Yes, ma'am, if you really want me to.”

“I wouldn't ask, if I didn't want you to. Now run along for a bit, I feel the need for a morning nap.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Now that I wasn't moving out, I didn't have to bother collecting my things. While the old lady snoozed I could roam the house with impunity. I could spy, as Daniel so eloquently put it.

She read my mind again. “Be careful, dear.”

“Excuse me?”

“I would never accuse one of my grandchildren, of course. That's not what I'm saying, at all. But that girl—what's her name—”

“C.J.?”

“Yes, that's the one, she is no killer. Like I said, she might not have all her oars in the water, but she didn't stab Flora.”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“Now help me up the stairs, child. I'm suddenly very tired.”

I helped Mrs. Latham up the stairs. She brushed off my suggestion that she install an elevator, or at the very least a mechanical seat. Climbing the stairs was her one form of exercise, she said. Her only fear was toppling over backward and breaking a hip, or worse yet, her spine. She had to have both feet on the same step before attempting the next, and she was swaying like a pine tree in a hurricane. By the time I got her to her room (she wouldn't allow me to put her to bed), I was ready for a nap myself.

Of course, I didn't pamper myself with a few hard-earned “Zs.” Mama says there will be plenty of time for sleeping when we're dead—a sentiment I've often sneered at—but she has a point. In fact, there are very few things one can do in a coffin
but
sleep—unless you're Candy Woodruff, a girl I went to high school with. Candy was both a tramp and a mortician's daughter. The girl found more uses for a coffin, than a cook has for water—or so I heard. At any rate, as soon as I closed the door behind Mrs. Latham, I got right down to work.

I began my reconnaissance mission peering into the room next door, the bedroom that had been
assigned to Edith and her husband Albert. I couldn't help but gasp. I should have known Edith would get the best room—she was the eldest, after all. But—and I know this will sound spiteful of me—all that beauty had to be wasted on a woman of her sensibilities. Sure, she had exquisite gold jewelry, and expensive clothes, but the woman probably wouldn't recognize a poem if the iambic pentameter jumped out and bit her. And that's exactly what this bedroom was—a poem!

Allow me to describe it briefly. The principal furniture consisted of a suite of painted Chippendale, in cream and emerald green. The four-poster bed cover was a rich cream and gold brocade, the bed curtains were green silk taffeta topped with a cream flounce. On the floor was one huge Bidjar medallion carpet with a cream background, and a green and rose floral border. The heavy velvet drapes at the windows were a dusty rose, lined with cream satin, and they complemented the carpet perfectly. A pair of French gilt armchairs had been added, almost as an afterthought, but they were the touch of genius.

I don't know how long I stood and stared—five minutes, maybe ten, when I felt someone tap me on my shoulder. I would have jumped out of my skin, but my jeans were too tight. Instead, I screamed.

“S
hhh! You'll wake Grandmother Latham.”

I glared at Albert Jansen. “What the hell are you doing scaring me like that?”

“Me? I come out of the bathroom and there you are, standing in the middle of my room, gawking.”

“I wasn't gawking,” I snapped. “I was appreciating.”

He glanced around. “It is beautiful, isn't it? Edith tries to copy her grandmother, but it's either something you're born with, or not. Grandmother Latham was definitely born with it. She did all her own decorating, you know. No imported Yankee designers for her.”

I nodded vigorously. What a relief to hear that her overbearing granddaughter was a failure. I always said that money couldn't buy taste.

“If I died right now—in this room—I'd go happy.”

“I hear you.”

I took a second look at the man. He was still plump and balding. His wire-rimmed glasses were badly in need of cleaning. He was an engineer for Pete's sake. Did there beat an artist's heart behind
the expensive Italian leather pocket protector?

Like his grandmother-in-law, he seemed to read my mind. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me when people do that—large print is easy to read, after all—but it's disconcerting nonetheless.

“I never wanted to be an engineer,” he said. “I became one because of my dad. He was one. If I had to do it over, I'd go to art school. What would you do?”

It is a question I've asked myself a thousand times, and each time I've come up with a different answer. Either I am the mother of all multiple personalities, or a fascinating woman, blessed with a vast array of interests.

“I suppose a gardener,” I said. I must have been inspired by the floral motif of the carpet.

“Really? I love gardening, as well. Have you seen Grandmother Latham's?”

“No.”

“Then come with me, I'd like to show it to you.”

“That's very nice but there's someone waiting for me downstairs.”

“Who?”

“A brilliant attorney who is going to prove that my friend C.J. did not kill your grandmother's maid.”

Albert smiled. “If you mean Little Wet Daniel, he's already gone.”

“He
has
?”

“Oh, don't worry, he said he'd be in touch with you as soon as he learned something.”

He grabbed my arm. “I have something very important to discuss with you.”

I was shocked by his behavior, but not too shocked to peel his fingers off my arm like they were the tentacles of a slimy octopus.

“Please.” He was practically begging.

My mama didn't raise a fool—she raised
two
fools, Toy and me. Against my better judgment I followed him outside and to the garden.

 

It really wasn't much of a garden. Just a straggly hedge of boxwood planted in the outline of a heart. Inside the parterre a dozen or so badly spotted rosebushes strained for the sun, and in their midst, at the core of the heart was a flaking, whitewashed plaster statue of the Venus de Milo. Obviously Mrs. Latham preferred to keep her wealth inside the house.

We followed a weed-choked gravel path around the river side of the heart, and sat on a concrete bench, under a live oak, facing the water. Between us and the house was a screen of magnolias and cypress trees. Since the boathouse was on the other side of the mansion, this seemed like a very private place to talk.

This was as close as I had ever been to the Black River, and I was so charmed by its beauty that I temporarily forgot Albert's rudeness. The black opaque water made a perfect mirror. The trees and shrubs on the opposite bank were reflected in minute detail.

“It seems so mysterious,” I gushed. “The water is so dark, it's unreal.”

Albert pointed at a black bumpy log in the water not twenty feet away. “It's also full of alligators.”

“You're kidding! That log's a gator?”

Albert smiled. “Alligators don't usually attack adult humans. Dogs and small children, now, that's a different story.”

He didn't say just how small a child had to be before a gator showed interest, but I tucked my feet
up under me just the same. Now that we were in the garden he seemed in no hurry to talk, but that was fine with me. Under the moss-draped oak it was cool. I could have sat there all day and watched the black water flow by.

“Hey,” I said, emerging from my reverie, “why did the current stop?”

Albert chuckled. “It didn't. That's just an illusion. Since we're so close to the ocean, this is what is called a tidal river. For the past six hours the tide has been going out, and the river, which normally does have a weak current, looked like it was flowing rather faster. Now, the tide is coming in, but it's countered by the current. That's why the water looks like it's standing still, but it's actually rising.” He pointed across the river. “See the mud banks over there?”

How could I not? They were as black as the river, but nonreflective. They reminded me of the herds of wallowing water buffaloes I'd seen on
National Geographic
.

“I see them.”

“See that dead tree trunk sticking out of that one? The one that's tilted at a forty-five-degree angle?”

“Yes.”

“See how the bottom two-thirds of it is black? That's how high the water will rise in the next six hours.”

“Fascinating.” I really meant it. Maybe if I played my cards right the old lady would ask me to stay on indefinitely—sort of as a home companion, a live-in curator, whatever. Just as long as I didn't have to clean bathrooms and mop floors. A little vacuuming never hurt anyone, and it would be a joy to dust her treasures.

I'm ashamed to say that my reverie was further disturbed by the rumbling of my stomach. “Has anyone mentioned lunch?” I asked sheepishly. “I'm afraid I haven't had anything to eat today.”

“Ah, lunch on Saturday is usually a do-it-yourself affair. Saturday dinner, however, is the high point of the week—well, it usually is. But now with cook out of commission and Flora dead…” He shrugged. “Alexandra's offered to cook—she's in town now getting a few groceries—but between you and me, that woman can't cook. Not real food, at any rate. Just that frilly nouveau stuff that tastes like perfume.”

“And omelettes.” I jumped to my feet. “I'm sure your grandmother wouldn't mind if I helped myself to a little something now. She wants me to stay the weekend, you know.”

“She
does
?”

“Is that so incredible?”

“No, of course not. It's just that with Flora's death, and all—well, and I won't know how to put this any more delicately—one would think she would find the presence of outsiders stressful.”

If I had bit my tongue any harder the gator would have had an hors d'oeuvre. Contrary to public opinion my tongue is not large enough to make a full meal. At any rate, I counted to ten before speaking.

“We still haven't had that important discussion—unless this is it.”

He took a linen handkerchief out of his pants pocket, removed his glasses, and wiped his brow. It was a melodramatic gesture unworthy of even a freshman drama student.

“It's my wife,” he said.

“Go on.”

“It all seemed so real back there in the house, but here”—he waved a stubby arm at the river—“it almost seems too bizarre to mention.”

I sat down, cross-legged again. Come hell or high water, I was going to hear what he had to say. Stomachs can be filled anytime, but really good gossip is hard to come by.

“Tell me about it.”

He glanced in the direction of the house. “I know you're going to think I'm nuts, but…” His voice trailed off. He shook his head. “God, I shouldn't even be thinking this. It's just too weird.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

He took a deep breath. “I think Edith may have had something to do with Flora's death.” He exhaled loudly and mopped his forehead again.

“Get out of town!” Okay, so maybe it wasn't an appropriate response, given the gravity of his statement, but I was plumb blown away.

He put his glasses back on. “You think I'm crazy, don't you?”

“No, I don't,” I said quickly, “I'm just a bit taken aback. Please, Albert, elaborate.”

“Well, I really don't know where to begin. I—uh—well—uh—”

“Begin at the beginning, dear.”

His sigh was pitiable, the last whiff of air to escape from a crumpled beach ball. “I guess the beginning would be my marriage to Edith. This might come as a surprise to you, but I don't really fit into this family. Edith and I come from opposite ends of the spectrum.” He paused, presumably giving me a chance to comment.

“I understand,” I said cooperatively. “She came from a wealthy family of ancient lineage, and you were poor white trash.”

“What the hell? That's not at all what I mean. Edith's family may be rich, but they have a bourgeois mentality. Yes, I know, I'm just an engineer, but I read. Three or four books a week. The last book Edith read was
Catcher In The Rye
.”

“That's practically a classic. I read it in high school.”

“My point exactly. She read it in the tenth grade. And she has no interest in art or music, either. Yeah, I know Grandmother Latham has a collection of antiques and art that will knock your socks off, but not so the rest of us. Do you know what Edith did with the money her folks left her?”

“Do tell.”

“She took the Concorde to Paris, and then hired a limo to take her all the way down to Monte Carlo, where she lost more money gambling than I'll ever make in my life.”

“But it was her money, right?”

“Strictly speaking, yes, but there are so many better ways she could have spent it.”

“I see. So you're what Spiro Agnew would have called an ‘effete snob.'”

He pushed up the wire rims and rubbed his eyes. “Your name-calling doesn't bother me. I'm just stating the facts.”

“I'm sorry,” I said sincerely, “it must be the lack of carbohydrates. Please, go on.”

“Well, as you can imagine, my family was dead set against me marrying into the Burton-Latham clan. Edith knows how they feel about her—how can she not? Even my mama has a Ph.D., for crying out loud. As a consequence Edith has been extremely insecure in our marriage. Jealous as hell of any woman who even looked at me. You know what I mean?”

I nodded just to humor him. Contrary to some nasty rumors that have been circulating, I am not a shallow woman. I require my beaux to be more than just buff—brains are a definite plus. Maybe Albert Jansen had been blessed with a high-powered cerebrum, but he was totally without charm. I've seen store mannequins with more charisma.

“Sooo,” Albert said, sounding like he was shifting into a low gear for a long haul up a steep hill, “it shouldn't have come as a surprise to me when she freaked out about Flora.”

“You mean her death?”

“No, no,” he said impatiently, “before then. Last night. Didn't you hear us? We had a terrible row.”

“No, sir. Last night I was oblivious to the world.”

“Well, trust me, we had one of our biggest go-arounds ever. She accused me of sleeping with Flora.”

“Slut,” I hissed.

He blinked. “She is still my wife!”

“I meant Flora, dear.”

“Well, she did sort of come on to me earlier in the day. I was the first one downstairs for dinner—Edith can never make up her mind what to wear. Anyway, Flora came into the drawing room to serve me a drink, and then offered to remove a bit of lint from my collar. Only she got a little closer than she really needed to, and that's when Edith walked in and saw what Flora was doing.”

“What you mean to say is that when Edith walked in, Flora was draped over you like a flag on a coffin at a state funeral, right?”

He squirmed. “Yes.”

“That woman saw more traffic than the
Charlotte-Douglas International Airport. It's a wonder she didn't have landing lights installed on her stomach.”

Albert was clearly shocked, and perhaps rightly so. One does not speak ill of the dead in the South, and my lips had been flapping like Panther pennants in a stiff breeze.

“Well, you have to admit she was a floozy,” I said defensively.

“Yes, I guess so. I don't know why grandmother kept her on after what happened last year.”

“Oh?”

“With Harold. But it was a one-time thing,” he added quickly. “Miss Timberlake, please forget I said that.”

“
Harold, too
? Lord have mercy! That woman—” I clamped a hand over my mouth. After counting to ten in Spanish, I removed it. “Forgotten. So, you think Edith killed Flora in a jealous rage?”

He shrugged. “Edith doesn't have a violent bone in her body, but she was so angry—and then this morning Flora turns up dead. I'm afraid I don't know what to think.”

“That's it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Angry words didn't kill Flora. Somebody stabbed her with a kris.”

He removed his glasses, folded them, and jabbed one arm of the frames into his fancy-shmancy pocket protector. “Miss Timberlake, I—uh—sometimes have to get up in the middle of the night. Last night when I got up, Edith wasn't in our room.”

“Oh, oh. At the very least she broke the contest rules.”

“There's no need for sarcasm, Miss Timberlake.”

“Sorry, but I'm starving, and we seem to be getting no place fast. Unless you sneaked downstairs after her and saw her plunge the dagger into Flora…”

He leaned toward me. I leaned away. It was a small bench, after all, and I detest conversations—especially with strangers, when I can feel their breath on my face.

“Actually, I was going to sneak downstairs, but before I could get my robe, I heard her coming. This might sound silly to you, but I jumped into bed. Anyway, Edith was panting when she came into the room. Her hair was—well, mussed up, and her nightgown was ripped.”