Baroque and Desperate (5 page)

While Edith and I exchanged mumbled greetings, I gave her the once-over. She looked nothing like her brother Tradd. A coarse, broad-faced woman, she exuded none of his sunshine, although she had obviously spent her life in the sun. She had one of those baked-in tans that had turned her skin into creased leather. And she was brown, not golden. Everything about her was brown, her eyes, her hair, even her lipstick was one of those awful earth tones briefly popular in the seventies. Tall, like her grandmother, but chunky, she was squeezed into a beige dress two sizes too small. I'll say this, for her, however, she did have good taste in jewelry. Her diamond ear studs were set in white gold, and just large enough to grab my attention without turning me green with envy. It was the pear-shaped pendant that turned me into a four-foot-nine-inch avocado.

“Edith is the oldest of the lot—”

“Grandmother!”

Mrs. Latham cocked her head, a smile playing at her thin lips. “There is no shame in being old, dear. There is only shame in acting old before one's time. You know,” she said, turning to me, “I've outlived both of my children.
That
is the real downside of attaining my age. How old do you think I am, dear?”

I shrugged. I have always been bad at guessing ages, and since most southern women would rather reveal their waist size than their true age, I was not about to take a chance and perhaps mortally offend our hostess for the weekend.

“How about you, child?” the old woman said, fixing her parrot eyes on C.J. “Would you like to guess?”

“One hundred and two,” C.J. said without hesitation.

The National Weather Service could have named a hurricane after the collective gasps in that room. Mrs. Latham, however, chuckled.

“I like your candor, child. So I look that old, do I?”

C.J. nodded. “No disrespect, of course. It's just that my great-aunt Melva turned one hundred last week and she looks two years younger than you.”

The avian eyes twinkled. “I'm eighty-nine, child. I'll be ninety on Christmas day.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” I muttered.

The bony hand waved away my apology. “That stuffy-looking gentleman sitting next to Edith is her husband, Albert. He's an engineer at Georgetown Paper. This may surprise you, but he's the only one in this room with a college degree—unless, of course, one of you two can make that claim.”

“I have a bachelor's degree,” I said reluctantly.

“Good for you, dear, but I'm afraid our Albert
has you beat. He has a doctorate of something or another. What is it you have your degree in, Albert?”

Albert said something unintelligible.

“Speak up, man.”

“Chemical engineering,” Albert said. He looked as happy as a cat in a drizzle. I felt sorry for the man. He was plump and balding, much shorter than his wife—although of course taller than me—and wore round wireless spectacles. He lacked the polished edge that only old money can buy. I think he would have preferred to be sitting in a Quonset hut somewhere having his fingernails pulled out.

“That's right, our Albert works with chemicals. Now Harold, over there”—the claw pointed to the right corner of the room—“almost got his degree in literature. Yale University, if you can imagine that. But wouldn't you know our Harold preferred good times over study. Isn't that right, Harold?”

Harold nodded. He was an older version of Tradd, not so golden—a few extra years of sun and wind had done their job—but not as brown as their sister.

“Harold doesn't have a job, but he does have a title. He likes to call himself an investment planner.”

“Grandmother Latham, please—”

“Ah, and this lovely woman is his wife, Sally. She's an Armstrong, but she does have a drop or two of Latham blood. Don't you, dear?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Ah, yes, that's right, her dollop comes from the wrong side of the blanket, but then again, so do most of great-great-granddaddy's descendants. I, in fact, brought more Latham blood to my marriage
than did my husband, Elias. But then, our Sally here, brought something besides.”

“Grandmother!” Harold said with surprising sharpness. “Sally's business affairs are a private matter.”

“Then keep them that way and quit asking Grandmother for money,” Edith said, her lips barely moving.

The crone smiled, her mission accomplished.

I felt sorry for Sally Armstrong Burton. She was a pretty woman about my age, with large blue-gray eyes, and natural blond hair—believe me, I can always tell these things. At any rate, she seemed to be the type of woman who, under better circumstances, would have been mildly perky and fun to be around. I decided to come to her rescue.

“And that must be Rupert,” I said, gesticulating at the youngest male in the room.

“Yes, yes, the baby in the bunch. Our wee little Rupert Burton. Rupert, tell our guests what you do for a living.”

Rupert turned the color of a rutabaga. It was not an attractive hue on him, especially since there was so much of the man to be seen. His head was shaved, and his short-sleeved powder-blue silk shirt was open practically to the navel. He was wearing baby-pink shorts and leather-thonged sandals. On the plus side, he had a gold earring in his right ear, and a cleft in his chin deep enough to cause an echo.

“I park cars for the rich and famous,” he said at last.

My heart skipped a beat. “In Beverly Hills?”

“Yeah.”

“It wouldn't happen to be at a restaurant called Fallen Stars, would it?”

“Yeah. Tradd tell you?”

“No, it was a lucky guess. That's where my brother Toy works. Do you know him?”

“Toy—nah, I don't know no one by that name.”

“Don't know
anyone
,” Mrs. Latham rasped.

“Yeah, Grandmother, that's what I said.”

“But I'm sure my brother works there. He doesn't look a thing like me—he's tall, blond, really good-looking.”

“You're not so bad-looking yourself.”

“Abby, stop flirting,” C.J. whined, “he's supposed to be my date for the weekend.”

Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III frowned. “Sit,” she commanded.

We sat. C.J. and I sat on eighteenth-century walnut armchairs covered in original petit point floral needlework. Tradd lowered his keister to a Chinese Chippendale-style chair that might have come straight from the Brighton Pavilion. The other men took their seats as well.

The grande dame gave us a satisfied smile and rang a small brass bell. Mama has one exactly like it, in the shape of a southern belle dressed in a bonnet and hoop skirt.

“Now that everyone is here,” she said, “let the games begin.”

T
he door to the parlor opened and in flounced Flora, she of the unending legs. In her arms, looking like he'd just swallowed a canary, was Dmitri.

“Look what I found by the front door,” she announced.

“Dmitri!” I rushed over to rescue him.

Flora swiveled away from me. “Hey, take it easy. This isn't your cat.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, ma'am, I found him outside the front door. He was crying his little heart out.”

I lunged for my sometime bundle of joy, but missed. I lunged again. This time I was at least able to touch him. Unfortunately, Dmitri snarled.

“You see? He doesn't even like you.”

“He's mine just the same.”

“No, he's not.”

“He is,” Tradd said.

Mrs. Latham coughed to get our attention. “Tradd, is that the cat you were telling me about?”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

Ten years seemed to drop from her face. “Bring him here.”

Flora meekly allowed Tradd to relieve her of Dmitri who, in turn, meekly allowed Tradd to carry him over to Mrs. Latham. Dmitri couldn't seem to leap into the old lady's arms soon enough.”

“Well!” I said.

“He nearly scratched her face off when she tried to get him out of the car!” C.J. would rather tattle than breathe.

Mrs. Latham who was already stroking Dmitri with her right hand, waved Flora out of the room with her left. “Don't worry about it, child,” she said to me. “That's what makes him a cat. He's angry at you for something, and he's determined to make you pay. But he'll soon forgive you, and be back in your arms purring up a storm. Would you mind terribly if I hold him until then?”

“Knock yourself out, ma'am.”

She beamed. “How old is he? Tell me all about him.”

Lord knows I tried to, but I hadn't gotten much past Dmitri's weaning when Flora reentered the room, unbidden as you might have guessed. I glared at her, but no one else seemed to mind. She was, after all, balancing a tray with ten tall drinks on it.

“Planter's punch,” Tradd whispered, but loud enough for the woman to hear. “Flora makes the best in the county.”

“Is that so?” I said. I really didn't mean for it to sound quite as sarcastic as it did.

The faux French maid approached me first. “Care for a punch?”

“Why, yes, dear, I'd love one.”

When she bent to place a glass in my outstretched hand, her bosoms billowed forward,
threatening to burst from the confines of the black, maid's uniform and smother me.

“Slut,” I said to myself.

When she bent to serve Tradd's brothers across the room, I saw her matching black panties.

“Tacky, tacky,” I said to myself. I swear, my lips did not move.

“Flora has her faults,” Mrs. Latham said, reading my mind, “but she's reliable. That's more than you can say about most folks these days.”

The tramp in question turned and flashed me an insolent grin.

“I've never had planter's punch before,” I said coolly. “It's very good.”

“This was my Elias's recipe.”

“It's very good,” C.J. agreed. “Much better than my Uncle Willie's pollywog punch.”

Foolishly, the matriarch bit. “I never heard of pollywog punch, child. What's in it?”

“Vodka, vermouth, a little lime juice, and, of course, pollywogs.”

“C.J.!”

Much to my surprise, Mrs. Latham smiled. “Perhaps you'll be so kind as to give Flora the recipe.”

“Ooh, I'd love to. And maybe she'd like my great-aunt Calmia's recipe for toad-in-the-hole.”

“It's an authentic English dish,” I explained to Mrs. Latham. “C.J.'s made it for me before. It's really quite good.”

C.J. frowned. “Did I serve you my Aunt Calmia's version of toad-in-the-hole, or the English one, Abby?”

“What difference does it make?” I said through gritted teeth.

“My Aunt Calmia was born and raised in Shelby. She uses real toads.”

I gagged. Tradd gallantly patted my back. When I was quite through trying to bring up the remains of Mama's lunch, our hostess spoke again.

“The rules of this weekend's event are quite simple”—she paused, allowing the black buttons to settle on us briefly—“you see, my dears, my grandchildren and I are very fond of games. Aren't we?”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Edith said.

“That last one was Edith's doing,” Mrs. Latham said. “A scavenger hunt to the Bahamas.”

“It was beastly hot,” Rupert whined. “Freeport in July is not my idea of a good time.”

“You won, didn't you?” said Albert.

“Yeah, I won.”

“Because if you didn't like the prize—”

“I liked the prize.”

“You damn well better have. That Porsche cost me a pretty penny.”

“You mean it cost Edith, don't you?”

“You son of a—”

“Albert!” Edith said sharply.

The auburn-haired Alexandra came softly to the rescue. “When it was my turn, I chose a mystery cruise of the Mediterranean. There weren't any prizes, just surprises.”

“Like the belly dancer in our Cairo suite!” Sally said. “Unfortunately, she wasn't a real belly dancer, but a stripper. I was off shopping when Harold discovered her, and by the time I returned Fatima was down to her last veil.”

Husband Harold turned red and grinned. “Grandmother, weren't you about to explain your rules?”

“Ah, yes, thank you, dear.” Mrs. Latham surveyed her descendants slowly, adding to the
drama. “First, as you know, this is a treasure hunt, and first prize is one of my antiques.”

There were a few groans, and I think I recognized Rupert's voice.

The old lady held up a quieting hand. “But, as I said on the invitation, that missing antique is worth a minimum of a hundred thousand dollars—which, I believe, is still worth more than a Porsche. Not that a Porsche isn't prize enough for a family game.”

Albert raised his glass of punch. “Touché.”

Flora must have slipped out and in again, unnoticed, because suddenly she was at my elbow with a silver tray of shrimp canapés. I decided to compliment the cook and took several.

When we were all served, the grande dame cleared her throat. “Now, here are the rules. You may play individually, or as teams.” She glanced at C.J. and me. “Some of you have decided to bring professionals into the game. That is fine, too. I believe I said so on the invitation.”

“You did,” Sally said, “but Harold and I don't need one, that's for sure. And I doubt if Edith and Albert do, either.”

Edith scowled at her sister-in-law. “Speak for yourself.”

The bird eyes brightened. “The game begins now and continues until three o'clock Sunday afternoon,
or
until the missing antique is found. However, between the hours of midnight and eight in the morning, both tonight and tomorrow night, the game will be temporarily suspended.

Tongues twittered.

“I need my beauty sleep.” She paused to appreciate the polite chuckles. “And I'm not about to let the game go on unsupervised. Which brings me to
my next rule—during those eight measly hours, no one is allowed to leave his or her room. Since each of your rooms has its own bath, this should not be a problem. Breakfast, incidentally, will be promptly at half past eight.”

Rupert cleared his throat.

“What is it, dear?”

“What if we get hungry, Grandmother? I don't know about y'all—” he glanced at his siblings and their mates, “but I sometimes get the munchies in the middle of the night.”

Mrs. Latham awarded her youngest grandchild with a fragile smile “In that case, I advise you to stock up on snacks. Anyone caught outside his or her room during restricted hours is automatically disqualified. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma'am,” we chorused.

“Good. When the lucky player finds the item in question, he or she must report to me immediately. They must not delay, even to consort with his or her partner. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma'am.” It seemed an odd rule, and one that could not possibly be enforced, but, hey, it was her game.

“Because you see,” she said, eyes brighter than ever, “each player gets only one guess.”

“
One
guess?” We were beginning to sound like one of the responsive readings at church.

“If someone makes a wrong guess, they are out of the game.”

We even gasped in unison.

Edith, the oldest, got up the courage to speak first. “But that's so unfair, Grandmother. My Albert doesn't know the first thing about antiques. He's bound to waste his guess, which means essentially that my team only gets one.”

“You could have brought in an expert,” Tradd said smugly. “Then you would have three guesses.”

Edith glared at her brother. “What about poor Alexandra? She doesn't even have a partner. The poor woman must be in shock.”

I turned to stare at Alexandra along with the rest. She seemed both unperturbed and disgustingly beautiful to me.

“Well, dear?” her grandmother asked gently. “Are you in shock?”

Alexandra displayed her million-dollar smile. “I'm fine, Grandmother. Really, I am. It's only a game, after all, isn't it?”

Mrs. Latham smiled. “Precisely. A game, that's all it is. A game with rules and clues. And now my dears, it's time for the first clue. The item in question is somewhere on this property.”

Albert raised his hand. “You mean it could be hidden in the woods?”

“Don't be tedious, dear.”

Edith glanced at her husband. “She means ‘yes.' The woods
is
her property.”

“What about the sky?” C.J. asked.

The rest of us contestants froze.

“Well, it's possible, you know. Once, when I was a little girl, Granny Ledbetter couldn't find her dentures for almost a week. Couldn't eat anything but grits and gravy. Turns out Cousin Orville tied them to a helium balloon he got at the carnival. There they were, floating above her head the entire time.”

Mrs. Latham stared at C.J. “Is that so?”

I prayed C.J. wouldn't launch into a commercial for Cousin Orville's pig teeth dentures.

C.J. returned the matriarch's stare unabashedly. “Yes, ma'am.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, and somewhere in Georgetown a candle was extinguished.

Mrs. Latham actually chuckled—either that, or a bullfrog croaked beneath her chair. “Well, I'll remember your fascinating story if I ever misplace my dentures. In the meantime, are y'all ready for another clue?”

To my astonishment, Albert removed a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. Sally one-upped him by fishing a small tape recorder from her pocketbook.

“The item in question is in plain sight.”

Heads spun. The frog croaked again.

“I didn't mean in
here
, necessarily. Although, it is quite possible—probable even, given my fondness for the room—”

“Is that another clue?” Harold whispered loudly to Sally.

“Shhh.” Sally nodded in her grandmother-in-law's direction.

“As I was
about
to say,” Mrs. Latham said, glaring at her grandson, “the item in question isn't hidden. Rather, it is displayed.”

“Like in ‘The Purloined Letter,'” C.J. burbled.

“Exactly.”

C.J. turned to me triumphantly. I did my duty and poked her in the ribs. The girl was getting too big for her britches. Who knew they taught Poe in Shelby?

Rupert regarded his literate partner warily. “What's this about a pearl-lined letter?”

“Never mind,” said his grandmother. “She can explain later. The final clue is a quote first attributed to John Heywood that is particularly applicable to this situation.”

C.J. bounced with excitement. “Oh, you mean
the one about it not being over until the fat lady sings?”

Fortunately Mrs. Latham was too thin to be offended. “You are very amusing, dear,” she said, “but your reference is to a quote by Dan Cook of the
Washington Post
. John Heywood said something quite different altogether.”

C.J. turned the color of Mama's cranberry mousse. The poor girl was only trying to come off as sophisticated, but she may as well have tried initiating a game of Truth or Dare at the White House.

“It was a good try,” the old lady said generously. “Now, are there any questions?”

Six hands shot up. For the record, Alexandra Latham's was not among them.

“Edith?”

“What was the quote, Grandmother?”

“Ah, but that is for me to know, and you to find out.”

You should have heard the grandchildren and their spouses. The old house had not been subjected to such a litany of moans and groans since it served as a Civil War hospital.

The old lady waited patiently for several minutes. Finally she turned to me.

I stifled a gasp. “I beg your pardon, ma'am, but they”—I pointed around the room—“have been making all that noise. Not me.”

She nodded. “They're all fools,” she said quietly, “but what can I do?”

“You could divorce them,” C.J. said.

“Oh?”

“Granny Ledbetter did that. Wrote Cousin Orville right out of her will.”

The button eyes glinted with interest. “Just because he airlifted her dentures?”

“Oh, no, ma'am. It was much worse than that. It was a typical hot summer night in Shelby and he maliciously and quite purposefully unplugged her freezer.”

“Causing hundreds of dollars of food to spoil,” I said, trying to hurry the story along.

C.J. rolled her eyes. “Oh, Abby, don't be so silly. Granny Ledbetter didn't keep food in her freezer.”

“What did she keep in it?” I asked, displaying yet again my penchant for living on the edge.