Baroque and Desperate (7 page)

You could have heard darkness fall in that room.

M
rs. Latham stood slowly, with almost exaggerated care. She was eighty-nine, after all, just eleven years away from meeting official government standards for antiques.

“Come with me, child,” she said.

C.J. bounced to her feet. “Yes, ma'am!”

Rupert stood as well. “Grandmother?”

“Yes, Rupert?”

“May I come too?”

“Have you a guess to make?”

“No, ma'am, but Miss Cox is my partner.”

“Sit down, Rupert.”

“But Grandmother!”

The grande dame closed her eyes, and I knew from my own experience as a mother, that she was praying for patience. “Sit, child.”

“Please, Grandmother.
Please
. Pretty please.”

Dmitri whines like that when I won't let him go outside. I invariably give in, but I'm a pushover for fur balls with retractable claws. Perhaps if Rupert didn't shave his head, he would have better luck.

“Rupert William Alexander Latham Burton!” Mrs. Latham spat his names out as if they were
cotton balls. “You will sit down and be quiet, or you will go to your room.”

Rupert wilted into his seat.

“Good. Now, if y'all will be so kind as to excuse us”—she motioned to C.J.—“I would like to speak to this young lady alone.”

C.J. can be a dear when she wants to, and she strode around the table and gallantly offered the old lady her arm. The rest of us sat, still as mummies, until the dining room door closed behind them. Then they pounced on me.

Edith grabbed my arm. “What did she see?”

I pried her loose. “How should I know?”

Albert leaned across the table. “Is this Miss Cox really an expert?”

“She's good, but she's not the best.” Hey, I was only being honest.

“Abby's the best,” Tradd said,

“She's not a distant cousin, is she? Look how she's sucking up to the old bag!”

“Rupert!” Harold roared. “Just shut up.”

“That's telling him,” I said.

Harold rewarded me with a smirk. “He was wasting time. Now answer my sister's question. What did Ms. Cox see?”

“She saw a band of angels coming after me,” I crooned.

“What the—are you nuts?”

“You're not even on my team, dear. We shouldn't be talking about this.”

Harold turned to his brother. “I thought you said she was the best. Hell, she's just loony tunes.”

I pushed back my chair and stood up—one needs to expand one's diaphragm fully for maximum volume—and belted out the refrain from one of my favorite spirituals. “Swing low, sweet char
iot, coming for to carry me home! Swing low, sweet chariot. Coming for to carry me home.”

All right, so I don't possess the best set of pipes in the world, but neither do I sound like a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rockers—like Mama. There is a rumor going around church that she pays the choir director for the privilege of making her joyful noise unto the Lord. I'm pretty sure that rumor is false. But about the rumor that she slept with him—Mama made that one up herself.

“Brava! Brava!”

I spun around. The grande dame was actually applauding. If pressed, I will confess that this was a new experience for me. At any rate, I decided to run with it.

“I can do ‘Memories,'” I said. “Would you like to hear a few stanzas?”

“Some other time, dear.”

“I'm still working on ‘Don't Cry For Me, Argentina,' but—”

“Abby!” Tradd said, with surprising sharpness.

I hushed my mouth. I can take a hint. Besides, I had just noticed that our hostess was standing in the doorway by herself. The real fruitcake was nowhere to be seen. The others noticed her absence as well.

“Where is she?” Edith practically screamed.

“Was she right?” Harold hollered.

Albert snorted. “Of course, she was right, that's why she's upstairs right now packing her bags. She's about to make off with your grandmother's loot.”

“So much for teamwork,” Rupert moaned.

Mrs. Latham calmly took her seat, smoothed her napkin in her lap, and smiled beneficently. “Every now and then I have the privilege of meeting an
exceptional individual, one who delights my soul. Well, children, this Jane Cox—this C.J.—is just such a person.”

“But she's an outsider and an impostor,” Sally hissed. “Mrs. Timberlake admitted that while you were gone.”

“I did not! I merely said that she wasn't as much of an expert as I. Besides, I wasn't the one who said it. Tradd was.”

“
Really
?” Mrs. Latham turned to her middle grandson. “Is that so?”

The sun began to set in Tradd's golden eyes. “Uh, well, I—”

“Never mind, dear. I'm eighty-nine, remember? I don't have that much time left. Anyway, it doesn't matter. The girl guessed wrong, so she's out of the game.”

Rupert moaned again. “Ah, man, this bites.”

“I
beg
your pardon?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing what?”

“Nothing,
ma'am
.” It was the correct word, but an incorrect response nonetheless.

“Say it again, Rupert.” Frostier words have seldom been spoken this far south.

“Geez, Grandmother. I don't know what the big deal is. You're always carrying on like it's the beginning of World War III. No wonder Mama ran away from home so many times.”

Our collective gasps extinguished one of the candles in the centerpiece.

Fortunately for Rupert's hide the door to the kitchen swung open to reveal the ravishing Alexandra bearing a tray of omelettes.

 

Thank goodness the woman was only a fair cook. Otherwise I might have had to hate her along with the others. It was difficult enough to take the middle road, and just envy her. Looks, money, height—if I had that woman's gifts, I could have my choice of men. And many women. Not that the latter is an interest of mine, but a fact is a fact.

We ate our so-so omelettes in relative silence. Please pass the salt, please pass the pepper, a few murmured thank-yous, that was the extent of our conversation. Mrs. Latham, of course, complimented Alexandra's cooking skills with every bite, but I'm not counting that. My point is, we may as well have been pigs lined up at a trough, thanks to Rupert's penchant for getting his grandmother's goat. What a waste of food.

I, for one, was dying to know what had become of C.J. But, I am ashamed to say, I lacked the nerve to inquire. A mediocre meal is better than none, and I was afraid of being sent to my room. I made a mental note to stuff myself and my purse with the shrimp canapés before supper, should history repeat itself.

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Latham sighed pointedly at the meal's conclusion. “Cook and Flora usually do the clearing together. But look at all this mess—and poor Flora, all by herself now that cook is gone.”

“Don't worry, Grandmother, I'll help.” Alexandra was back on her feet, brimming with do-gooder energy.

Even I wanted to retch. At least I didn't make soft, but disgusting sounds like the others. And to think they were adults!

The matriarch, however, seemed oblivious to granddaughter's manipulative ways. “What a good girl you are, Andie. Just like your father in so many
ways. My little Eddie was always such a considerate boy.

This was too much even for the fair Alexandra. “Grandmother, please.”

“But it's true. Did you know that once when your father was a little boy—three years old, to be exact—he gave his entire allowance to a beggar?”

“Yes, ma'am.” At least Alexandra had the decency to blush, but it was not a shade becoming a natural redhead.

“He made me so proud that day. Imagine, a little tyke like that, filled with the spirit of generosity. Just marched up to that beggar in Charleston and handed him that fifty-cent piece.”

“I thought that happened in Georgetown,” Edith said boldly. Supper was over, after all, there was nothing to lose.

“We don't have beggars in Georgetown,” Mrs. Latham said crisply. She stood up. “Well, children, I wish I could say that the weekend has been a pleasure so far, but, it hasn't. Perhaps tomorrow things will be different.”

She made her way regally to the door, then stopped, and turned slowly. “I'm more tired than anticipated, so I shall be retiring now. Have fun with your game, but don't forget the most important rule. Anyone caught outside his or her room between the hours of midnight and eight is automatically disqualified.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma'am,” we bleated in unison.

 

Edith was on her feet the second the grande dame's derriere cleared the door. “Well, whatever it is, it's not in this room,” she declared.

Howard stood slowly. “What makes you so sure?”

Edith rested brown hands on beige hips. They were the first beige sequins I had ever seen. No doubt the woman worked hard to be so bland.

“It's just like Clue,” she said. She was speaking in what I will charitably call her “big-sister voice.” “Miss Cox guessed Professor Plum with the leaf pipe in the dining room. Well, she was wrong, wasn't she? So we know it's not the dining room.”

Sally shook her head vigorously. “But we don't know that, at all. It could still be the dining room, but with Miss Scarlet and the candelabra.”

“Y'all aren't making a lick of sense,” Rupert whined.

“Clue is a board game,” I explained kindly. “Not that it matters. Those rules don't apply here, anyway. But if they did, Professor Plum would be your grandmother. We already know
who
hid the item in question, we just don't know what the item is, or its location.”

Alexandra yawned. “Except that it has something to do with the river.”

“
What
?” The question was on everyone's lips, including mine.

“When I was in the kitchen making the omelettes I remembered the John Heywood quote, or a variation thereof. It came to me just like that, thanks to something Flora said. Not that what Flora said had anything to do with John Heywood. You know, it's funny how things will pop into one's head at the oddest times. I mean, there I am cracking eggs while Flora's slicing artichoke hearts—”

“What's the quote?” we screamed.

Alexandra yawned again. “‘Time and tide wait
for no man.' You can find it in any comprehensive book of quotes.”

“The boathouse!” Edith barked.

I'm sure she meant to bark only at Albert, but we all heard it. The stampede that ensued was worthy of a buffalo herd. When the dust cleared only Alexandra and I remained.

“You don't seem to take this game very seriously,” I said

“Oh, but I am. As soon as the quote came to me I ran out to the boathouse. But you see, there's nothing there. Just a leaky old boat in a rickety old building with a sagging dock. And a stupid old chest filled with lifesavers. Oh, and cobwebs. Plenty of those.”

“Ah, so that's why the omelettes took so long! You were playing sleuth while we waited for our supper.”

Alexandra allowed a smile to part the perfect lips. “Well, that, and the fact that Flora is all thumbs when it comes to cooking. Didn't you think that the omelettes tasted a little strange?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I did.”

“That's because while I was off checking the boathouse, Flora—”

“I don't
even
want to hear it,” I said, and went off in search of C.J.

 

I found my young friend lying face down, sobbing, on that magnificent eighteenth-century four-poster bed.

“C.J.! What is it?”

She sat up, and I tried not to gasp. Greg claims that there are a few women—he says I'm one of them—who actually look better after crying. I think he means this as a compliment. Apparently C.J. is
not of this select group. She looked like a strawberry cream pie that had collided with a hot waffle iron.

“Oh, Abby, I want to go home!”

“There, there,” I said, and made a concerted effort to gather her gangly frame in my arms and give her a maternal hug.

C.J. pushed me away. “Abby, please! I'm embarrassed enough.”

I sat on the bed beside her, doing my best to ignore the bright pink blotches on the silk bedspread that were C.J.'s tears. What if they dried as stains, or left puckers? Thanks to the discovery of DNA, at least the grande dame couldn't pin the ruined spread on me.

“There is no reason on earth to be embarrassed, C.J.”

“Yes, there is; I made a fool of myself! And I shouldn't have guessed first.”

“Someone had to guess first. Personally, I think it was very brave of you.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely.”

“But I bet they're all laughing at me.”

I handed her a clump of tissues. Thanks to Mama's tutelage I never travel anywhere without a pound or two of paper products.

C.J. blew her nose loudly. “
Are
they?”

I pictured the thundering herd stampeding into the empty boathouse. “No, they're not laughing.”

“I just know that Rupert will never speak to me again.”

“Consider yourself fortunate, dear. The man is a whining loser.”

She honked again. “Abby, that's easy for you to say. Men are always falling over you.”

“I can't help it if I'm short. They should look where they're going.”

She giggled. “No, I'm serious. Look at Greg. Tall, dark and handsome—and he'd give his eye teeth to get you back.”

“And I'd be happy to help him pull them.”

“Ooh, Abby, you're bad. But you always know how to make me feel better. You know that?”

I shrugged, feeling guilty. The girl is one of my peripheral friends, after all. Her name is not likely to appear on my social calendar unless my other friends—the A list—are all busy.