Cemetery Silk (6 page)

“No need to be sassy, Paisley.”

“Sorry, Mmufher.”

“And don't speak with your mouth full.”

She dabbed delicately at her lips with the dainty little paper napkin and topped off our teacups with the last of Ye Olde Earl Gray.

“I have a box of Abigail's papers that William gave me after she died. He asked me to go through it and see if there was anything I wanted. Something always came up each time I sat down to do it, and I never got around to even taking the top off. I guess I just really didn't have the heart. Maybe we can get some ideas from her papers. Something from that box may spark your literary imagination.”

“Great!” saluted Cassie. “That's a stupendous idea, Gran.”

“Of course.” She had never been accused of being humble.

It had been comfortably accepted by all parties without even being voiced that Cassie and I would stay for a while, maybe even a long while. I now had no home to go to and Cass had attended both sessions of summer school and was ready for a break. We all agreed that it would be a terrific idea for her to take a vacation this fall and return to school for the spring semester.

When we got home I was ready for a little siesta. I could tell that Mother had an itch to try out a new recipe, so Cassie and I wobbled off for some naptime and left her to her muse.

I had learned long ago not to take an afternoon nap in my nighttime bed. Instead, I sought out the sofa in the library. That room always made me think of my father because, after his retirement, it had also served as his office. His desk still stood in the corner facing out toward the fireplace. It was surrounded by floor to ceiling bookcases filled with his books. There were some volumes of poetry belonging to Mother on the shelves here and there. And some of the more interesting college texts of Velvet's or mine peeked out from the corners. But most of the books were Dad's. The authors' names gave proof to his eclectic reading habits. They ranged from his beloved Louis L'Amour to Shakespeare, Samuel Eliot Morrison, John Steinbeck, Wilbur Smith to Hemingway and back again to John MacDonald and Thomas Wolfe.

Dad loved a good story. He was a great storyteller himself. His literary advice to me had always been to tell the truth. That had always been the best part of my stories. I had done painstaking research on whatever little creature I wrote about, making sure that I would not mislead the kiddies about its true nature.

Now I had another creature to write about and I wanted no one to be misled about his true nature, either. He was a scoundrel and a scallywag if he had treated William the way I assumed he had. I wanted to get as close to that truth as I could. That kind of research could not be done in any library. I would have to do some footwork. I would have to become a regular gumshoe. I couldn't go to the police and say, “My mother thinks someone killed her cousin. Why? Well, just because, that's why.” They would lock us all up in Sunny Acres. Besides, Mother was right: writing the book was much better. We could get our revenge and maybe make some money at the same time. I was sure I wouldn't make three million dollars but I would have my career back, and that was worth more to me than money.

I pulled the pretty afghan that Abigail had knitted for Mother last Christmas up to my shoulders and snuggled down in the softness of the sofa cushions. I slowly drifted off to a fitful but adventurous dream starring Sam Spade and Nick and Nora Charles. I awoke feeling terribly lonely because I had no cute little doggie like Nora's Asta, or husband like her Nick. Rafe was in there somewhere hovering in the background, faceless, as in all my dreams.

I awoke feeling slightly groggy and stumbled into the bathroom where I washed my face, combed my hair, and paused to examine myself in the mirror. My cheeks were glowing and my eyes were not the usual humdrum hazel but a nice mysterious shade of green. Yes, this life was definitely agreeing with me. Ritzy Fifth Avenue with all its smut, grime and pollution couldn't hold a candle to the invigorating early autumn air on the farm. Although, in another week or two I was going to run screaming into the night if I did not find someone who could give me a decent haircut. Also, I really had to do something to my nails. Meanwhile I settled for that timeless beauty aid, a big rubber band, and pulled my messy auburn curls back into a ponytail.

Chapter Six

When I entered the kitchen I saw Cassie “ohhing” and “ahhing” at something in the oven with Mother beaming proudly at her side. For once she had impressed her granddaughter. I decided to wait for the surprise and was about to start setting the kitchen table when Mother stopped me.

“Paisley, we're celebrating tonight. The table is already set in the dining room.”

“Mom! Wait until you see what Gran has made. You will not believe it!”

“What's the celebration, Mother?”

“The beginning of our first big adventure as private investigators, that's what!”

I started to hoot, but talk about sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks! Mother was a firecracker about to go off. Besides, the dinner smelled wonderful, and the dining room looked beautiful. All the sparkling and glowing surfaces shone from the work Cassie and I had done.

Mother had set the table with heavy linen place mats and her autumn china, old Josiah Wedgwood's Bianca. A big straw basket with fresh flowers sat at one end of the long table and we three sat cozily at the other end and ate by candlelight.

It was our most companionable meal so far. Cassie and Mother laughed and smiled often at each other's jokes. A lovely Pouilly Fuisse sparkled in the Waterford goblets and the silver cutlery gleamed in the candlelight. As politely as possible, we dispatched a delicate pastry filled with wild mushrooms, pecans, and the thinnest slivers of tender, roasted, breast of quail.

Cassie and I had eaten so many meals wrapped in paper or served in polystyrene during the last few years that I had almost forgotten how nice it was to eat like a civilized person. I loved the weight of the silver knife in my hand and the big oversized damask napkin on my lap. I felt like one of the landed gentry, to the manor born.

“Boy, if I had known about the feedbag you were going to put on, I would have suggested that we dress for dinner,” I offered irreverently.

“It really is a shame that we don't do this more often,” seconded my daughter. “Let's do this at least once a week while we're here. I'll help Gran cook,” she added.

Lots of raised eyebrows there but Cassie missed it because she had hopped up to clear the plates and make way for the grand finale.

Mother had created little individual baked meringue boxes filled with raspberry sorbeija. Each one was topped off with a scattering of fresh raspberries and a rich chocolate sauce. Cassie and I had no choice but to stand and applaud in awe and admiration. Mother curtseyed gracefully in acknowledgment, then we all dug in like piggies.

When nothing was left of our magnificent dinner but a smudge of chocolate on my upper lip, we carried the dishes to the kitchen. I gratefully left them to Cassie who promised to take kitchen duty. Mother already had coffee brewing. When it was ready, we carried our cups into the living room with an extra pot for refills.

The time for getting down to work was at hand. I fetched a yellow legal pad from Dad's desk. When I returned, Cassie had joined Mother and was helping her lift a large cardboard box onto the coffee table. We let Mother be the one to empty the box item by item. Cassie examined and I cataloged.

Everything was neatly arranged, either tied in heavy twine or wrapped in thick rubber bands. Somehow this surprised me.

“How did William have time to do all of this after Abigail's funeral? I can't imagine him having the presence of mind to go through and straighten out all of Abigail's papers.”

A pained look crossed Mother's face as she answered.

“Sue Dibber came over and offered to help. William let her go through Abigail's things.” She looked at my astonished face and went on, “I know, Paisley. I felt the same way. They were such private people. I would have never thought William would allow that kind of personal invasion. I didn't even suggest doing it, and I was Abigail's closest relative. He must have been at a very low ebb.”

“Or maybe she was just an evil pushy witch!” snarled Cassie.

“That too, Cassie, dear,” agreed Mother sadly.

“Well, she has some nerve. She cut all the stamps off these old letters.”

Cassie held out Christmas and birthday cards from years past with neat little squares missing from the upper right hand corner of the envelopes.

Mother had that pained look again. “Yes, William was embarrassed about that. She told him her children collected stamps. He knew as well as I that stamps that old could have some real value and she was stealing them for herself.”

“That is so incredibly tacky!” I was angry now. “This broad must be some piece of work. I wish I could remember the remarkable Mrs. Dibber from the funeral.”

“I hate to sound unkind, but she's really not very attractive.” Mother closed her eyes to describe her. “Tall, scrawny, dreadful taste in clothes—definitely catalogue couture. Bad complexion and lifeless dingy hair. As a matter of fact, she looks quite unhealthy which is surprising since she is a nurse and should know better.”

“A nurse? She's a nurse?” I shuddered as I thought of those bony hands guiding a needle into my veins or touching my naked flesh.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, she was the nurse on William's floor at the hospital when he died.”

Cassie mirrored my astonishment.

“Wow, Mom! The plot thickens.”

I looked at Mother in amusement. “Be sure and let me in on any other little gems you are keeping to yourself.”

“Nonsense, Paisley. I am not keeping anything to myself. I just don't quite remember everything I know all at once. I did say that I had quite a few reasons to suspect Abigail's demise was untimely.”

We spent the next two hours perusing musty old letters and photographs. Now that I knew these things had already been pre-examined by Madame Dibber I lost my enthusiasm. I was sure that we would not find anything to help our cause unless she was incredibly stupid and I was beginning to doubt that.

There were some very sweet photographs of Abigail as a child. On her first day of school she had posed in a stiffly starched sailor dress with a big ribbon in her pale blond hair. There were lots of pictures of picnics at the lake: Abigail's parents, my grandparents, and the two little girls playing by the water's edge. Abigail with her blond curls and Mother, the smaller brunette, looked like Snow White and Rose Red with sand buckets and tiny shovels. And there was a wonderfully pompous portrait of a man wearing a fedora and smoking a huge cigar. It was signed, “Love, Uncle Jackson.”

Abigail's father had died when she was fifteen, leaving no insurance and no other money to see his widow and child through hard times or even the next month. His brother Jackson had helped out until Abigail graduated from high school, at which time my grandfather had gotten her a job at the telephone company. She worked there for the next thirty-eight years. Uncle Jackson had married a new lady and forgotten his little niece.

William and Abigail married late in life because their widowed mothers could not stand the sight of each other. But they apparently had a long and happy courtship as recorded on Kodak paper. There were lots of pictures of Abigail standing by the side of new cars. From the photographic evidence, William must have bought a new one every year. They were mostly all big cars, Buicks and Packards, with lots of chrome. William was a small man and I guessed that the big shiny machines must have given him a sense of dignity and importance.

When William had been elected to the Board of Directors at the bank, his picture was on the first page of the Lanierville Gazette. The faded newsprint revealed him as a dapper little man with a perky bow tie and big smile. The next year there were pictures of two different graves covered with funeral flowers, then at long last, a wedding photo. Abigail had kept a little journal of their wedding trip. They had waited fifty minutes for the results of their blood test. Armed with that little piece of paper, they had gone straight to the Methodist church. The minister read them their vows while his wife and two daughters witnessed the ceremony. Abigail had noted in big red letters, “We are really happy!”

Mother was wiping away a tear or two so I took over emptying the box. The last item was really a gem. It was a letter from Mother's other deceased cousin, Dimple Howard. It described the Howard family tree as gilded and gleaming with the presence of several Dukes of Norfolk and countless Lords and Ladies beginning with the court of Henry VIII. Cassie and I had a good laugh over the magnificent fairy tale of a list. It had actually been duly accepted and sanctioned by the Daughters of the American Revolution. They had allowed Dimple and Abigail admittance to their esteemed throng by way of some poor little teenaged Howard. He had died carrying the flag in a battle against the very same British from whence he came.

Cassie wanted to know if we could create a coat-of-arms to match our newfound position in life. We discussed the possibilities with great hilarity until Mother's thoroughly royal “Ahem” put us in our place.

Thus chastened, we trudged off to our little peasant beds to dream of blue haired old ladies with bony grasping hands.

I arose early the next morning and sneaked out of the house, leaving a note so no one would come searching. I knew that neither Cassie nor Mother would approve of my mission, and I did not want to waste time arguing. Besides it was my BMW to do with as I wished and I chose to be a little bit less conspicuous a consumer now that I was unemployed. And on top of that, the little farm communities in this area had more Camaros and trucks than foreign cars. I thought it best to blend in. The fact that I had always harbored a secret desire for a tough, mean four-wheel drive had nothing to do with it.

The nearest town of any size was Morgantown which sported a mall and two movie theaters. It also had several car dealerships, one of them owned by a college friend of mine named Bubba. Bubba had always wanted a Beemer. I hoped that I could persuade him to give me a decent trade.

“BUBBA'S BEST USED CARS” was a circus of flapping flags of every color, and balloons that bounced madly around in the wind. It looked like a fun place to part with your money. All of the salesmen had big smiles and big meaty handshakes.

There was a tent in front of the lot. Underneath were lots of pretty young things in shorts handing out free coffee and doughnuts or cokes and hotdogs depending on your inner clock or digestion.

One of the smiling salesmen approached me when I parked in the sunniest spot on the lot. I posed the car to send out a bright ruby beacon of pristine fenders and shining chrome fittings. The man's smile and the hope of a commission faded when I told him I was a friend of his boss. I feared for a moment he was going to snatch back my cup of really good hot coffee.

I leaned gently back against the Beamer and surreptitiously gave it a farewell pat. I had never really been too fond of the car. Cassie had talked me into buying it so I could take her to school in style. I always thought cars should do more than represent fashion or money. Automobiles were, after all, built to perform a service and I thought utility should be one of the services. After a year of sending suitcases ahead by UPS, I wanted a trunk big enough for more than an overnight bag.

Bubba hurried across the lot towards me all smiles and flexing muscle. There was nothing stereotypical about him. He was tall and slim with a Henry Fonda gait and a tan as real as fishing and mountain climbing. His hair was still thick and flaxen and just unruly enough to keep him from being pretty. He grabbed me with one big arm and swung me around like a sack of feathers.

“Paisley, darlin'! Boy, are you lookin' good! I'm gonna dump Donna this time for sure and run away to Tahiti with ya!”

He gave me a big old chaste smack on the cheek. He truly did adore Donna and their four little white-blond toddlers.

“How's your Momma?”

“She's great, Bubba”

“And that beautiful daughter of yours?” he asked.

“Cassie is fine, too. She's a student at Emory.”

“Man, I can hardly believe that.”

His country accent slowly faded as we walked and talked. He held my hand in his as easily as he had twenty years ago when we walked across that same college campus.

There had been a brief moment when we had imagined we were lovers instead of friends, but as friends we had more fun. We stayed that way through thick and thin. It had been mostly thin for him for a long while.

After I met and married Rafe, Bubba married an apparently sweet young debutante from Atlanta. Marie Lynne turned out to be a complete shrew. She made Bubba's life miserable for ten long years until she finally partied and drank herself to death.

Bubba came to see me after she died. He cried on my shoulder for a whole month until I found a shrink who made him see that it was truly not his fault. He went back to Atlanta, sold his law practice, and returned to his hometown. He bought some fantastic farmland and found pretty little Donna who had the strength of mind and character to match his. Four beautiful blond babies later they were happy and successful. I hoped he wanted to give Donna a Beemer for Christmas.

In less than two hours I drove off the lot in my almost brand new bile green four-wheel drive Jeep Cherokee with Bubba's check for the difference in my back pocket.

I passed a western boot outlet going out of town and decided impetuously that I had to have a new outfit for my new wheels. I hung a rather large and ungainly U-turn. The Jeep had a much bigger turning radius than the BMW, and I almost took off the toe of the neon boot in the parking entrance. I emerged from the store thirty minutes later sporting red hand-tooled boots with green and yellow leather roses. I also topped them off with a soft fawn colored hat with a leather and turquoise band. Yippee!

The two-inch heels on my boots made climbing into my wheels easier. And I got my first wolf whistle in a long time from the guy at the Exxon station next door.

I rolled down the windows and tuned the radio to a country music station. Reba, Wynonna, Dolly, and I sang at the top of our lungs all the way home.