Muletrain to Maggody (24 page)

I sat down at the table. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” I said to Harriet.

“Very much so,” Corinne said. “This morning when I took her up a tray with tea and toast, I couldn’t help noticing how much her color has improved.” She patted Harriet’s hand. “That’s the first thing I said to you, wasn’t it? Last night I was concerned that I might have to fetch my smelling salts.”

Kenneth snickered. “Smelling salts? Corinne, you’re hopelessly mired in the nineteenth century. Sweetpea might get away with this girlish posturing, but in a woman of your age, it’s rather pathetic.”

“And you don’t put on your cape and plumed hat so you can strut around like the cock of the roost? In your case, however, your admiring audience is made up of schoolchildren who’re hoping you’re going to stab yourself in the foot with your sword.”

“Please,” Harriet said, “stop this. Arly, have you found out anything more about Wendell’s accident? Has his mother been informed? I was barely able to sleep last night, worrying about her.”

“Mrs. Streek has been told. A friend was with her when a representative of the sheriff’s department arrived at her house.”

Harriet’s hand shook as she put down her coffee cup. “Wendell’s fiancée?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Certain things happened yesterday afternoon that have led Sheriff Dorfer to question whether or not Wendell’s fall was accidental. I’m here to get statements from everyone regarding his or her movements yesterday.”

“We’re suspects?” Corinne said with a squeak. “Why, I hardly knew the man, and I bore him no ill will.”

“Corinne’s use of the word ‘bore’ is appropriate,” inserted Kenneth, “but that’s hardly a motive for murder.”

Harriet looked at me. “Shall I volunteer to go first? Will the living room do, or are you going to take me to the police station to interrogate me?”

“The living room’s fine,” I said hastily. “I would appreciate it if the rest of you remain available for a while.”

Kenneth stood up and pulled back Harriet’s chair. “And I had such hopes of visiting the art museum next to the barber shop. I was told there’s a very fine collection of Renoir’s lesser-known preliminary sketches.”

As Harriet and I went through the kitchen, Mrs. Jim Bob cut me off. “What is this I heard about Hospiss? Eula said you were at the Pot O’ Gold yesterday afternoon and told her—”

“Yes, I was there,” I said. “Did Eula tell you about Lottie?”

Mrs. Jim Bob’s beady eyes widened as far as they could. “Why would Eula know about poor Lottie?”

I eased around her. “I suggest you call her and find out. I’m going to need to use the living room for the rest of the morning. Please let Perkin’s eldest know she won’t be able to vacuum and dust in there until I’m finished.”

Mrs. Jim Bob was too stunned by the suggestion of Eula’s complicity to do more than nod.

Harriet sat down on the sofa. “I really hadn’t noticed until now that there are no draperies in this room. Is there a reason?”

“Every time Mrs. Jim Bob finds out about one of Jim Bob’s…dalliances, she redecorates. There’s probably an upholstery store in Farberville with a wing dedicated to her.” I sat down across from her. “I understand you were upset with Wendell at breakfast yesterday. Something about his fiancée?”

“Well, yes,” she said, sighing. “I had no intention of allowing myself to speak of such personal matters, but I simply couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer. I’d counted on Wendell to advise me on every decision concerning the documentary. He and I have relied on each other for more than twenty years, and I was under the impression we had an understanding that we would be married after his mother passed away. He was adamant that the shock of even hearing of his marriage would send her into a downward spiral that could only result in her death. I resigned myself, year after year. Then, on Saturday, while we were at the Headquarters House to offer guided tours to visitors, he told me of his plans to marry Lydia Berle within a month. He was going to share this joyous news with the society at our next meeting.” She discreetly blotted her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m sure a child like you can’t understand the humiliation that I felt. I did not demand an explanation or attempt to plead with him, but instead left the room immediately. Lydia was sitting by the front door, collecting the entrance fees, as I went out the door.”

“But he rode out here with you on Monday,” I pointed out.

She looked away. “I thought we might discuss his impetuous decision, but all he did was gabble about his most recent genealogical discoveries. I don’t think I said more than two words the entire trip.”

“You said more than two words yesterday.”

“Yes, I suppose I did,” she said brokenly. “I suppose I did.”

I went into the kitchen, found a box of tissues, and took it back to her. After she wiped her eyes and blew her nose several times, I said, “I won’t keep you much longer. What did you do after breakfast?”

“I decided to take a walk. I went by the bridge, where I saw that two reenactors had already arrived and set up tents. I was hardly in the mood to deal with them. I chose instead to follow a primitive road of sorts up the hillside to find a secluded place to sit and examine my unseemly outburst in front of strangers.”

“Did you notice an abandoned shack?”

She brightened. “I did. I studied it for quite a long time, wondering if there might be a way for the historical society to transport it to the grounds behind the Headquarters House and include it in the tour as an example of nineteenth-century living conditions in rural populations. I concluded that so much as pulling away one board would cause it to collapse into a heap of tinder. I continued on my way, and eventually found a flat rock overlooking the valley beyond the ridge. The view did much to revive my spirits and ease my pain. Eventually I returned here. Finding no one present except for the cleaning woman, I fixed myself a sandwich, fetched my reading glasses and a copy of Henry’s journal, and went down by the creek. I do think Wendell was wrong when he claimed to have found a clue as to the location of the Confederate gold. I most assuredly found nothing.”

“Would Wendell have written something in his notebook?” I asked.

“He wrote down everything in his notebook. If he’d carried around a thermometer, he would have kept a record of his body temperature on an hourly basis. He was the perfect treasurer for the society. Whenever the accounts were off by so much as a penny, he’d pester all of us relentlessly for receipts, invoices, ticket stubs, anything. Wendell could be”—she looked at me with a bland expression—“a real pain in the ass.”

“Well, uh, thank you, Harriet,” I said, flustered. “I appreciate your candor. You’re welcome to go back out to the patio or upstairs to rest. If you happen to think of anything that might help us, please let me know.”

After she left, I gave myself a moment, then went outside to stalk my next victim. Corinne and Kenneth were still at the table, although their coffee cups had been replaced with glasses of orange juice. I wondered if vodka had been added.

“Ladies first,” Kenneth said before I could speak. “Don’t intimidate Arly, my dear. She may think you’re a best-selling author with a grand mansion in Charleston, but a little Carolina wren perched on my shoulder and told me you’re up to your alabaster neck in debt. Perhaps your future in-laws will let you live in the old slaves’ quarters. A bit primitive, I should think, and without running water. The best you can hope for is an outhouse.”

Corinne’s hand tightened around her glass, but she put it down and swept into the house. She was already seated on the sofa with a tissue in her hand when I joined her.

“He is the epitome of the abhorrent, overbearing, conceited Yankee,” she said, her lilting accent missing for the moment. “I’m sorry no one saw fit to shove him off a bluff yesterday. His ancestors in the army must have been among those who raped widows, burned their homes and crops, stole their heirlooms, and rode off with whatever food they’d hoarded for the winter. His revered General Wallingford Ames was a drunken pig, and so is Kenneth Grimley!”

I did not offer an argument. “I just have a few questions, Corinne. After breakfast, what did you do?”

“Simon dropped me off at the high school on his way to Springfield. I spoke to the secretary and the principal, but it seems the only person who knew anything of the schedule was not present. I was appalled that they could be so disorganized. I normally charge a substantial honorarium, although in this case I waived it.”

“Why did you do that?”

“As a favor to Sweetpea. She heard about this documentary from her cousin—what was his name? Darcy? Darby? Oh, I don’t know, but something like that. I’m just so angry with Kenneth that I can’t think straight. I can plot a seven-hundred-page novel, but as soon as my emotions get the better of me, why, I can hardly remember my own name, much less my pseudonyms.”

“The cousin’s name doesn’t matter. Sweetpea heard about the documentary and…?”

“She thought it’d be a splendid opportunity for Simon to inveigle his way into Hollywood stardom. I did my best to point out that this little documentary was hardly an epic, but she put her foot down and insisted that I offer my services for free if Simon was given the leading role. She’s a smart girl, but she can be as stubborn as any of those mules arriving tomorrow. Simon’s going to have his hands full with her.”

I suspected that once Simon had married the money, he’d waste no time finding a more compliant female whose dainty feet didn’t reach the ground. “Maybe
The Skirmish at Cotter’s Ridge
will be a big hit at the Sundance Film Festival. Where did you go after you left the high school?”

Corinne rubbed her temples. “It seems so long ago, but it was only yesterday, wasn’t it? I went across the street to a funny little take-out place and purchased a soft drink, then went for a walk to admire the wildflowers. Spring is such an inspirational season. As I walked, I considered setting my next novel in this very locale. I’ve done more than thirty centered on the War and the Reconstruction era. Although it might not be historically accurate, it’s not inconceivable that—”

“Did you see anyone in the woods?”

“A little boy heading downhill, and a bit later, a ferocious man in a Confederate uniform. He had the aura of a rapist or a serial killer. I ducked behind some rocks and waited until I could no longer hear his footsteps, then hurried on my way.”

I thought for a moment about where she might have been in relation to the bluff where Wendell’s body had been found. A mile, I estimated, or a shade less. “You didn’t see anybody else, like Wendell, for example?”

Corinne sat back. “And tracked him down to demand he take me to the treasure? Is that what you’re implying? I can’t tell you about the others, but I didn’t believe for a moment that he’d found a credible clue as to the location of the cave. After Simon received a copy of the journal, I read it carefully, thinking I might be able to weave an epistolary element into my next novel. Excerpts from the journal, letters, articles from newspapers, that sort of thing. And of course the novel would generate significant publicity if its author had actually found the lost gold. Ultimately, I decided not to do it, but as I said, I read the journal carefully.”

“Then you didn’t see anybody?”

“Repetition is a symptom of murky thought processes, Arly. So many mystery novels these days rely on the detective cornering each suspect and asking the same dreary questions over and over again. I should think a short questionnaire with boxes to mark true or false could save the reader an interminable stupor. Instead, we’re subjected to an endless array of obtrusive badgering, replete with the necessity of introducing red herrings and obscure motives. I wish I could contribute, but I saw no one else. Eventually, I returned to this house, ate a few bites of potato salad and marinated green beans, and then retired to my bedroom to take another look at Henry Largesse’s journal.”

I had encountered a few authors during my stint in Manhattan, and without exception found them to be tedious and pretentious. I, for one, had never been afraid of Virginia Woolf. “Was anyone here when you got back?”

“The gal vacuuming the hall. She was wearing headphones and singing in an abysmally atonal voice. I’m not sure that she noticed me. I remained in my room until I heard people stirring downstairs. I freshened up, then joined everyone for wine on the patio. Mrs. Jim Bob seemed displeased, but said nothing.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Corinne clutched my hand. “And thank you so very much for implying I’m a suspect in a case of murder. I can hardly wait to get back to Charleston and relate all this to my friends. Corinne Dawk, cold-blooded killer, stalking her victim like some latter-day Natty Bumppo in a petticoat. I only wish my theoretical victim had been someone more noteworthy, like Kenneth Grimley—and that he’d been wearing black lace panties underneath his crisp blue trousers.” Before I could say much of anything (as if I knew what it would be), she said, “Oh, good, here are Simon and Sweetpea. Do give them the third degree as quickly as you can. Andrew Pulaski has invited us to lunch at a restaurant in Farberville. I simply cannot face another ham sandwich and cole slaw. I’m quite sure cole slaw was introduced by British loyalists to punish the colonists for the unpleasantness that began in 1776. I shall be waiting for you children on the patio. Do cooperate, won’t you?”