Baroque and Desperate (6 page)

“Why, nothing. She slept in it, of course!”

There is a first time for everything, and to the best of my knowledge this was the first time I had ever seen an eighty-nine-year-old roll her eyes. I rolled mine too out of solidarity. Suddenly I was aware that the room was as quiet as church the Sunday after Easter.

“The mewling seems to have subsided,” I whispered.

The grande dame smiled. “So it has. Well, children, I have one more thing to add before we adjourn to dress for dinner. But”—she turned my way—“if you two wouldn't mind, I prefer to speak to my grandchildren alone.”

“Ah—” C.J.'s protest was preempted by my thumb and forefinger.

“But, Miss Cox is my partner,” Rupert whined. “I don't see why you have to send
her
away.” Fortunately for him, he was too far away to pinch. My children claim I am a world-class pincher, and they ought to know.

If you ask me, Mrs. Latham had more patience than a hen setting on marble eggs. She merely smiled at her youngest grandchild.

“You'll see in a minute, dear. It's a family surprise.”

“I love surprises,” Alexandra said softly.

Sally nudged Harold. “So do I, as long as they keep their clothes on.”

Everyone laughed, perhaps too heartily. The room was full of nervous anticipation. Clearly it was time for us outsiders to exit.

I stood up. “Dmitri?” I said, taking a tentative step forward to retrieve him. He was, by then, fast asleep on the grande dame's lap.

“Leave him be, child.” She caught herself. “I mean, if you don't mind. You would be doing an old lady a very big favor if you let him spend as much time with me as he wants.”

That was fine with me. Peachy keen, as a matter of fact. Let the octogenarian scoop his litter box. Let her be responsible for the shredded drapes and inevitable hair balls on her bed. Let her be the recipient of mice heads and whatever other “love presents” he chose to deliver. But just wait until I got my fickle friend home—then we'd see who was in charge. Dmitri might be smart, and strong-willed, but he has yet to master a can opener. Don't get me wrong, I had no intention of starving the little beast, but I am not above withholding favorite flavors from a finicky feline.

“He's yours for the duration,” I said, in a voice loud enough to wake the dead two counties over. Dmitri didn't even open his eyes.

Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III looked like she'd been handed the ten-million-dollar sweepstakes check. “I promise to take good care of him.”

Without further ado C.J. and I bade a temporary farewell to the family and followed the flouncing Flora up a sweeping staircase. Call it intuition, or
bad shrimp, but I had a gut feeling that something was about to go wrong with my weekend near the coast.

 

“Check it out!” C.J. twirled, her arms above her head. “Can you believe this place?”

“It's something else.” That was, of course, an understatement. I was trying to sound cool and professional, when in reality I was lusting in my heart. Jimmy Carter would have understood, although it wasn't flesh I was lusting over, but an eighteenth-century four-poster bed with inlaid satinwood posts. Around the top of the canopy was a pierced and gilded cornice, much like a tiara, from which hung pink silk taffeta drapes.

“It's more than just something, Abby. It's awesome!”

I sighed. “There are times when I would gladly trade my firstborn for a bed like that.”

“I thought you decided to forgive her, Abby.”

“I have. But I could be persuaded to change my mind. Especially if you throw in that Bergamo rug you're standing on.” I have a particular weakness for rugs and beds, and it has nothing to do with sexual deprivation, no matter what Greg says.

C.J. nodded. “It is a beautiful rug, but I prefer the silk Tabriz you're standing on.”

I looked at my feet. “I'll throw in my secondborn as well.”

“Abby, this is like the Biltmore, isn't it? Or Hearst Castle in San Simeon. I've never been to those places, but people who have, tell me that it's like dying and going to heaven.”

I was afraid to ask C.J. how many dead friends she had. “Yeah, it's like those places, but they're in
public hands now. All this, however, belongs to one old lady downstairs.”

“Who has two unmarried grandsons. Abby, do you think Rupert likes me? I mean, he hardly said a word to me.”

I shrugged. “You haven't even been alone. Just don't be surprised if Rupert is—well, you know.”

“No, I don't. What do you mean?”

“Like the Rob-Bobs,” I said patiently. Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben are two dear friends of ours, fellow dealers in Charlotte, but they would no sooner be interested in C.J., than would I.

“You mean gay?”

“That's what I mean, dear. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, of course.”

“Ooh, Abby, you're just jealous because Rupert is cuter than Tradd. You want to rub your hands all over that nice, smooth head.”

Rupert
cute
? I've seen boiled eggs with more attractive pates. And that cleft chin! Lord only knows what Michael Crichton might find living in a crevice that deep. I considered telling my young friend that I'd sooner eat liverwurst ice cream than rub Rupert's head. Wisely, however, I bit my tongue.

“Come on, Abby, admit it!”

“Okay, I admit it,” I said. C.J. can be as relentless as a tick on a dead hound. Sometimes it pays just to give in.

C.J. beamed. “Finally, I feel like life is going my way. Of course, I owe it all to you, Abby.”

“Well—”

“I always wanted to stay in a place this nice. You know, to kind of pretend it was mine. I can't wait to crawl into that four-poster tonight. Hey, Abby, which side do you want?”

“The right.”

“Good, I'll take what's left.” She laughed with sheer joy.

Perhaps my gut feeling was wrong. Perhaps this weekend was going to be the beginning of good things for both of us. Perhaps Calamity Jane was finally going to leave the calamity part of her behind.

“The Biltmore might be larger than this house,” I said generously, “but it doesn't have a rosewood writing table as nice as that one.” I pointed to a little desk with clean lines, positioned near the window. An Abby without scruples might have considered lowering it to the ground with a velvet drape after dark and having an accomplice pick it up.

C.J. grinned. “I know it's a wild fantasy, but what if I married Rupert, and his grandmother asked us to move in with her? I'd want to have this very same room.”

“But you haven't even seen the other bedrooms, dear. They might—”

I may as well have been speaking to my fictional accomplice. C.J. was pirouetting around the room like an oversized ballerina, a look of rapture on her face.

“I could live in this room, and never leave!” She stopped in midturn. “Oh, look at this inlaid commode with the acanthus-leaf motif. There isn't a scratch on it. Hey, Abby, are we supposed to put our clothes in this?”

“I guess.” I scanned the striped silk wallpaper. “I don't see a closet.”

C.J. draped her lanky frame over a Chippendale armchair next to the commode. An
authentic
Chippendale. “Oh, man, now what am I going to do. I can't hang my gowns from the cornice, can I?”

“Do so and die,” I said sweetly. Anything can happen, you know? There was an off-off chance I would marry Tradd and move into this bedroom myself. If that was the case, I didn't want any hanger marks messing up the gilded cornice.

“Abby, didn't Tradd tell you? His grandmother likes everyone to dress for dinner.”

“Of course, he told me. I brought that little black dress I bought last fall, the one you can scrunch in a ball, yet it shows no wrinkles.”

“Ooh, Abby, you're not serious, are you?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Because in this case, dress means long skirts.”

“
How
long?” The scrunchable dress stops mid-thigh. Okay, so maybe it really is a spandex blouse I wear as a dress, but you just try and buy something sexy in my size. Besides, I have great gams for a woman my age.

“
Long
. To the floor, Abby. Tradd said the women wear gowns to dinner. Didn't you bring a gown, Abby?”

I hung my head. “Not even a nightgown—but don't worry, I brought pajamas.”

C.J. stroked her chin. “Well, I brought two gowns—that green one you hate so much, and a red sequined formal from the fifties that I bought at Metrolina Antique Expo. You're welcome to take your pick.”

“Thanks, dear, but they're not going to fit. And I never said I hated that green gown. I just said it looks like pond algae.”

C.J. got up and rummaged through an oversized bag. It was large enough to stuff a body in. Who would have thought that one girl would need so many clothes for a weekend? I, on the other hand,
was traveling with one tote bag the size of a bedroom pillow.

“Hey,” she said, holding up a black half slip, “there's this. If we tie it up with a belt or something—under your armpits—it should just reach the floor.”

“What good will that do without a gown?” I wailed.

“But
that
will be the gown, don't you see? It has plenty of lace and splits at the side. Who's to know it's not a designer gown? You don't mind showing a little shoulder, do you?”

“You're kidding, aren't you?”

She shook her head so vigorously, the stringy blond hair was a blur. “I've never been more serious in my life.”

“Oh, God!”

“Of course, I could tell everyone that you're sick.”

Thank God I had taken the time to shave that morning. And I don't mean my shoulders.

“I'm all yours,” I said ruefully. “Deck me out and make me beautiful.”

Trust me, it didn't look as bad it sounds. Neither of us had a belt that fit around my upper thorax—hers was too big, mine too small—but one of the velvet drape tiebacks fit the bill perfectly. So what if it was scarlet? It added a jaunty splash of color, and the tassel, which we could not remove, we managed to position directly between my bosom.

All right. So I didn't look like a million dollars. I looked like a Kmart half slip and a drapery tieback. But my shoes were black, and if your shoes match your outfit—or so Mama says—you can get away with just about anything. Not that Mama
would be caught dead with fewer than three crinolines and her ubiquitous pearls.

While I wasn't expecting a standing ovation when I swept into the salon, I was at least expecting a curious glance. But even my C.J. creation could not account for the frozen faces of the Burton-Latham clan.

“A
w, come on,” I wailed, “it isn't that bad.”

“It's pretty awful,” Tradd said, grabbing my elbow and steering me aside.

“Okay, so the tassel is a bit much, but—”

“Abby, what the hell are you talking about?”

“My dress, of course. Look, I didn't—”

“Your dress is fine.”

“
What
?”

“All right, it's more than fine. You're a knockout in it.”

I let that percolate for a minute. “Then what's so awful?”

“Grandmother's little surprise, that's what.”

“Which is?”

“Sorry, sworn to secrecy. Hey, you want something to drink?”

“Got a Bailey's?” Okay, so maybe Irish cream whiskey is more of an after-dinner drink, than a cocktail, but it is a favorite of mine, and what was there to lose? How any more déclassé can one get than to wear a friend's half slip to dinner?

The second Tradd left to get my drink, Sally floated over in a peach chiffon number. “Love your
dress, dear. Where did you get it, Bergdorf's in Atlanta?”

“The Cox collection in Charlotte.”

The blue-gray peepers appraised me again. “It's really exquisite. Such understatement in design. Perhaps I saw one like it on a runway in Milan. It looks somehow familiar, you know?”

“Does it?” I twisted my torso just enough to set the tassel in motion. “Well, I assure you, it's one of a kind. Cox is a personal friend, and made the gown just for me.”

She nodded. “I hope you won't be offended, dear, but I must have one just like it for the Art Guild dinner next month. Do you suppose that's possible?”

“I guarantee it. Say, why was everybody looking so grim when I walked in?”

Tradd's arm shot through the space between Sally and me, and the Bailey's materialized under my nose.

“I got it on the rocks,” he said. “You didn't specify.”

“Rocks are preferred. Thanks.” I glanced around, but Sally had slipped behind me and was engaged in conversation with C.J. If ever my pal were to come down with a case of lockjaw, would that it be then. I mean, considering all the times she'd stuck her foot in her mouth, she was bound to have scratched her gums on a rusty grommet at least once.

I took a step backward, the better to eavesdrop, when an obnoxious-sounding gong sounded inches from my ear. I whirled.

“Dinner,” Flora mouthed. At least that's what I think she said. The gong noise was still reverberating in my ear.

Tradd grabbed my elbow again. “Let the others go first.”

Flora shot me a look capable of piercing a rhino's hide, wheeled, and marched from the room. The others departed without drama.

“So, Abby,” Tradd said, when we were alone, “did you see anything?”

“Besides a faux-French maid who has the hots for you?”

“Not that. Flora's old news. I mean in your room.”

I blinked. “I saw lots of things in my room. Beautiful things. And they're all still there.”

“You sure?”

“Of course!” I fully intended to return the tassel, so it was only a lie from a technical point of view.

“But how can you be so sure?”

“Well, uh—I don't know what you mean.”

“Like she has all the bedrooms crammed with things. You know, beds, dressers, whatever. How would you know if something was missing? By the difference in wallpaper shades?”

“Could be. Or from marks in carpets, or dents in floors. But if it's a small item, something that sits on a dresser top or commode, well—then there wouldn't be any way to tell.”

“It doesn't make any sense, you know? Something that's missing, but still in plain sight.”

I sipped my cream whiskey. “It could be as simple as something out of place. Something out of order. Which means it could be anything.”

He squinted at a painting across the room. “Well, not
anything
. It has to be something you can hide something in.”

“Why is that?”

“Uh—”

A snort from the doorway announced Flora's presence. “Mrs. Latham said to come. Y'all are holding things up.”

Tradd all but jumped for the door. I scurried after him, holding my slip aloft so that I wouldn't trip.

“Slut,” Flora whispered as I brushed past.

“Tramp,” I murmured behind me.

“Whore.”

I stopped and turned. That was going too far.

“Listen here, you—”

“Abby!” Tradd called from down the hall.

I waggled a threatening finger at Flora. “I'll tell Mrs. Latham.”

Flora shrugged insolently. “Nice slip,” she said, and ducked into the salon.

 

Everyone was seated when we arrived. I have never been so embarrassed in my life. Even the time Mama showed up at a Charlotte reception for an English countess, with Stan, her muscle-bound houseboy, paled in comparison. All eyes were on us, Mrs. Latham's in particular, which glittered like black plastic buttons from across the room.

“Sorry, ma'am,” Tradd said. “Abby had to use the powder room.”

I could feel myself flush. “And a beautiful room it is too, ma'am.”

“Sit,” she said, nodding at the two open places.

She sat at the head of the table, and unfortunately both vacancies were on either side of her. I sat down obediently, next to Edith Burton Jansen. From the look of things, our hostess didn't follow the old boy-girl-boy rule. And instead of a male at the foot of the table, there sat C.J., resplendent in her slime-green dress.

The old biddy smiled thinly. “Well, now that we're all here, let's say grace. Edith, dear, do you mind?”

Edith immediately launched into the longest extemporaneous prayer these Episcopalian ears have ever heard. We Frozen Chosen tend to stick to prayers found in the Book of Common Prayer, but Edith seemed to gather her inspiration from everywhere. I wouldn't have been surprised to hear the Kama Sutra referenced. Finally, after a verbal meandering through world literature, Edith settled down and blessed the food for ten minutes.

There followed a chorus of amens, and a few genuine sighs of relief.

“I thought y'all were Episcopalians,” I said casually, when the sighs subsided.

“We are,” Mrs. Latham said, the pride evident in her voice. “Edith's prayer is an old family prayer. We add to it with each generation. Each member gets to add a line when they turn eighteen. Isn't it wonderful?”

“It's awesome.”

“I used to be able to recite all of it, but I can't keep up anymore. We've had so many birthdays lately.”

“Our son just turned eighteen,” Albert said proudly. “He added the line about the doughnuts.”

“You don't say.” I am a doughnut addict, and was about to suggest that the next natal celebrant eliminate everything
except
the doughnut clause, when Flora appeared once more, bearing a tray of salads.

She served Mrs. Latham first. “Cook's gone home,” she whispered as she set down a bowl.

“What?”

“Cook's gone home,” Flora said louder.

“Speak up, child. You know my hearing's not what it used to be.”

“The damn cook's gone home,” Flora shouted.

“But why?”

“Cut her finger slicing tomatoes, ma'am. But don't worry, I rinsed them off.”

“I think I'm going to be sick,” Edith moaned.

“Cook
was
,” Flora said dryly. “That's why there's no soup.”

Rupert leaned forward and raised his hand. “Grandmother, can we skip to the main course?”

Flora snickered, but said nothing.

“Speak up, child,” her mistress snapped.

“Uh-well, ma'am—uh, I was helping cook, taking the roast out of the oven when she screamed. I guess I kind of dropped it.”

“You guess?”

“Okay, I dropped it. But it's all right now. I picked most the glass off. I even rinsed it under water. Only it's not as brown as it was.”

Edith moaned again.

I rolled my eyes behind closed lids.

Mrs. Latham put her napkin back on the table. “Well, I guess we have no option then but to send someone in to Georgetown for takeout. Any volunteers?”

Beautiful, reserved Alexandra cleared her throat before speaking. No doubt she needed to clear the cobwebs out that accumulated between usage.

“Grandmother, if you don't mind, I'd like to try my hand in the kitchen. I saw some eggs and a little cold chicken in the refrigerator earlier. And I think a jar of artichokes. I could make some omelettes if you like.”

Our hostess beamed. “Bless you, child. I always disliked those burger things. Combos, jumbos, ju
niors—it doesn't make sense. But an omelette now, that would be lovely. And Flora here can help you.”

Flora scowled. “I ain't paid to do no cooking,” she muttered. “Clean the house, that's it.”

“Oh, stop it now, and hurry along. You're more capable than you think. You did just fine serving the punch and canapés yesterday.”

“Yes, ma'am, but like I told you, I dropped the roast.”

“Flora!”

The maid muttered something unintelligible. Much to my disappointment the old lady did not ask her to repeat it, neither did she respond. She just stared at Flora with those bright black eyes, and after a few seconds Flora wilted.

It was such a letdown to see Flora trot out of the room docilely on the heels of elegant Alexandra. Not that I liked Flora, mind you, or disliked Mrs. Latham. It's just that I've always found that a good argument—as long as I'm not personally involved—stimulates the appetite.

“Grandmother, you might consider firing her,” Edith said, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Fire her? Whatever for?”

“She's impertinent, Grandmother.”

“Is that it?”

“And she steals,” Sally said.

“I don't need your help,” Edith growled, her lips barely moving.

Mrs. Latham ignored her eldest grandchild, if indeed she'd heard her. “
Steals
?”

“Yes, ma'am. I wasn't going to tell you this, but last summer I saw Flora slip something in her handbag. Something from your desk in the study.
When she saw me, she looked like she'd seen a ghost.”

The corners of Mrs. Latham's mouth turned slightly upwards, like the edges of a crépe. “And what were you doing in my study, dear?”

Sally colored. “I was looking for you.”

“I see. Let's hope you found me. So, what did Flora put in her handbag?”

Sally shrugged, her color deepening. “I wasn't close enough to see, ma'am. But she looked guilty.”

The crépe collapsed. “That's hardly a reason to fire her. With the exception of our two guests from Charlotte, each and every one of you looks guilty to me.”

“That's preposterous,” Albert said, his tone rising and then falling, as he lost his nerve. “We have absolutely no reason to feel guilty, do we, dear?”

Edith nodded. She had forsaken the diamond posts in favor of diamond drops. The latter swung seductively, and I longed to snatch them from her brown lobes.

“Well, I do,” Harold said.

All eyes turned his way.

“I stole some of your shampoo, Grandmother.”

“You stole it?”

“Well, I used it without your permission. You see, I ran out of shampoo the last time I was here—and Sally's stinks to high heaven—so I took yours. Only it turns out it wasn't shampoo after all, but bath oil. Even though I rinsed as well as I could, that night my head kept slipping off the pillow.”

Everyone laughed, including the grande dame.

“Dear, dear, Harold,” she said.

“Dumb, dumb, Harold,” Edith grunted.

“Laugh,” C.J. said somberly, “but I had an aunt
in Shelby who did something like that, only it turned out awful.”

Mrs. Latham smiled benevolently down the length of the table. “What happened to your aunt, dear?”

“Auntie Agnes accidentally brushed her teeth with hemorrhoid cream. Her mouth puckered up like a dried fig and she couldn't talk for a week.”

I'm ashamed to say that I prayed C.J. would make the same mistake, and the sooner the better. To my dismay everyone howled at C.J.'s account, including hard-hearted Edith.

“You're a hoot, you know that?” Rupert blew his weekend date a kiss. He looked a lot more normal now that he was wearing a dark suit and tie. If he lost the earring, grew hair, and spackled in his chin, he might even be good-looking. Almost as handsome as Tradd.

“But it wasn't funny,” C.J. protested. She looked embarrassedly away from the group. Her gaze scanned the walls for a few seconds. Then her mouth popped open. It was as if her bottom jaw had become unhinged. She made a few choking sounds.

Tradd, who was sitting next to her on the left, patted her gently on the back. “Hey, you all right?”

She gasped a few times. “Fine as frog's hair. But I need to speak to Mrs. Latham.”

The grande dame had been watching C.J.'s drama with interest. This I could tell by the tightening lines around her mouth. Bird eyes told me nothing.

“What is it, dear?” the old woman asked.

“I need to speak to you alone.”

“Can it wait until after supper, dear? We could have coffee together in the salon. Perhaps you'll
share some more of your delightful Shelby stories.”

“I need to speak to you now.”

“Well—”

“
Now
.”

“Really, dear—”

“It has to be now.”

“Stop it, C.J.,” I hissed. “Mind your manners!”

C.J. threw her hands up in the air. “All right, but I was just trying to follow the rules. She said to tell her the second we knew what the missing item is, and to do it in private.”

“So?” I snapped.

“So, I know what it is,” C.J. crowed.