The Body in the Wardrobe (3 page)

“Hey, Miss Laura, y'all just missed the Yankee who stole your man!”

Patty Sue called that night. Sophie's first thought upon hearing her sister-in-law's voice was that Patty Sue had somehow realized Sophie had overheard the remark in the restaurant, but that wasn't why she was calling.

“Have y'all got a dress for the shindig Mom and Dad are giving for you?”

Since so many friends and relatives had not attended the wedding, the Maxwells had planned a reception at their house in town to celebrate the nuptials. Once she saw the engraved invitations that went out, Sophie realized this was not going to be a simple meet and greet with cups of Savannah's signature cocktail—Chatham Artillery Punch, concocted first in the late 1700s, a truly lethal combination of rum, brandy, rye whiskey, gin, Benedictine, green tea, oranges, lemons, Catawba wine, brown sugar, and maraschino cherries all allowed to ferment for weeks before champagne was added and the whole thing poured over ice in a large punch bowl—with or without a pinch of gunpowder!

No, Anson and Gloria were throwing a party in keeping with Savannah's nickname, “The Hostess City”—and they didn't mean Twinkies.

“I thought I'd wear the dress I wore for my rehearsal dinner. You may remember—it's a pretty, deep-rose-colored satin sheath. Since the party is during the holidays I thought it would work.” She wanted to add that Will loved her in it so much he never left it on for long. So there, “Miss Laura.”

“Oh, honey, I
do
recall that dress. It was pretty.” Patty Sue's emphasis on the word spoke volumes—deadly dull ones. “I have a suggestion. It's part of an old tradition we have here for dos like this, perfect for your introduction to Savannah society.”

Good Lord, Sophie thought, was she going to have to wear a sash and long white kid gloves. “What is it?” she asked. “I know the party's important.”

“Important! Might could be the most important of your life here. And everybody's talking about it, especially the people Mama didn't invite. Meet me tomorrow at the house—I don't think you've been there unless Will has given you a tour and you should see it before the big day in any case. We'll look at all the portraits and our little dressmaker can copy one of the gowns. There are a few brides. That would be perfect if one strikes you!”

“So the tradition is to dress up as one of your ancestresses? Or one by marriage in my case.”

“I knew you'd get it. Obviously
your
mama didn't raise any stupid children!” Patty Sue gave a laugh that sounded partly like a snort. Sophie had heard it before, especially at lunch today.

“Well, my mama only raised me, so I don't know about how she would have done with any others. Anyway she's coming to the party, and this dress idea is just the kind of thing she loves,” Sophie said.

“Shhh,” Patty Sue cautioned. Sophie was positive she was putting her finger to her lips. “We want to surprise everybody. It's going to be so much fun!”

She agreed to meet Patty Sue the next day at the house, which Will
hadn't
had a chance to show her yet, forgoing lunch. As she hung up, Sophie felt more excited than she had previously about the party. Adopting the tradition would give her a kind of armor and maybe the attendees would forget Sherman's March for the duration of the evening.

“What was all that about?” Will asked. “It was my sister, right?”

“Nothing much. Just some details about the party.”

His face lit up. “Your first Savannah party and you'll finally get a taste of what I've been talking about! I guarantee it's a night you'll remember for the rest of your life.”

Sophie grinned. Indeed, one of the first things Will had shared with her about the place he loved was the saying “In Charleston
when they meet you they ask who your people are. In Savannah we ask what you'll have to drink.” He'd also explained what he pointed out was a very civilized tradition that actually kept public drinking from getting out of hand—the “to-go cup.” If you were over twenty-one, you could walk the streets of downtown sipping your favorite potable from an open no-more-than-sixteen-ounce Styrofoam or plastic cup. “No broken glass, metal cans on the streets,” he'd said. “No one trying to drink from a paper bag from a much larger bottle.” It did make a certain kind of sense, Sophie thought, and explained the stack of cups she saw at the end of the city's bars, convenient for people to grab—and go. To be a Savannahian meant an innate ability to make merry.

“You'll be the belle of the ball,” Will said, sweeping her into his arms and twirling her around the room for an impromptu waltz.

Thanksgiving had been a warm and wonderful time for Faith, except for the perennial thorn in her side that was her daughter. When they went around the table, each saying briefly what they were thankful for—a tradition started by the Averys the year they adopted their children—Amy sat mute, finally mumbling that she was thankful she didn't have school the next day.

Faith had consulted her neighbor Pix Miller, who was her guide in all things parental, as well as Alefordian. She thought of her dear friend much as Lewis and Clark must have regarded Sacajawea. Pix had been as furious with the superintendent as Faith but told her that Aleford administrators had a long history of never ceding to a parent's demands for a student to be moved to another school or class. “It's the fear of opening the floodgates, and I'm sorry to say they're probably right.” Having been shocked at her first parent night when Ben was in kindergarten by a parent's request for the name of a spelling tutor for her child, Faith was forced to agree. Aleford parents were a tough bunch with high expectations.

Faith had pried the name of the ringleader from Amy—Cassie Arnold—but it wasn't a family she or Pix knew. Eventually her own work demands and the impending holidays forced her to shelve the matter, counting herself lucky that she was able to get Amy out of bed and to school each day, an increasingly difficult task.

Ben had informed them that he did not want anything for Christmas except cash or a check and to please tell all his relatives the same. His French class was going to spend ten days after Christmas with families in Aleford's twin town outside Paris—Faith was having trouble envisioning such a place, but her French friends were all crazy for what they called “mapple syrup,” so perhaps such a twin did exist—and the students were required to raise some of the money for the trip themselves in another one of those life lessons that adults think kids need. Faith wasn't against the principle but the timing. Although she was forgoing such holiday tasks as making a replica of Chartres in gingerbread, she, and all the other mothers she knew, were stretched to the limit without having to dream up fund-raising schemes for their offspring. She readily fell in with Ben's plan but said he had to write the letters—snail not e-mail—and explain this sudden mercenary streak.

Sophie Maxwell had sent Tom and Faith an invitation to a formal party her in-laws were giving for the newlyweds with a note saying she knew the Fairchilds couldn't come but she wanted them to feel included. Since she'd moved to Savannah, Sophie had been in touch by text and e-mail, with the occasional phone call, and Faith was delighted that the young woman was finding happiness in her new home. She was reminded of the huge adjustment she'd had to make when she left her native Manhattan for Aleford. The quiet at night with only a cricket or bullfrog breaking the stillness had driven her mad at first. She'd grown up lulled to sleep by the sounds of sirens, horns, and sometimes shouts on the Upper East Side that were even louder when she got her own apartment on the other side of the park. Plus it was New England—they definitely did things dif
ferently there. After all these years, though, the place had grown on her like the mosses on the proverbial old manse. She could but hope that Sophie would find similar joy in all those garlands of Spanish moss where she was now.

Sophie was. The Maxwells' house in town looked spectacular. The crystal chandeliers seemed to be made of diamonds, not glass, and enormous holiday flower arrangements filled the rooms with a heavenly fragrance. Bells Mills had supplied the mistletoe, holly, and other greens. No tree yet, in order to make room for the guests, but shiny gold and silver ornaments trimmed the mantels.

Gloria had handed Sophie a flute of champagne and sent her upstairs to dress an hour earlier and now she was ready. She could hear the guests gathered in the enormous foyer at the bottom of the long curved staircase, a happy murmur that rose and fell. A pianist was playing Johnny Mercer songs—of course.

The portrait Patty Sue had particularly pointed out was the one Sophie had been drawn to as well. It was of a very beautiful early twentieth-century bride, and Sophie thought the painter might have been a student of John Singer Sargent. The loose brushstrokes and color that seemed to glow from within looked like his work. Whoever she was—Patty Sue didn't know—was standing tall and looked both happy and a bit shy. The dress seemed to be made of white satin or silk and had a small train with sleeves fashionably puffed to the elbow that showed off the woman's graceful arms. The bodice was covered with a bib of what Sophie recognized as openwork lace, an elegant kind of tatting that may have been the bride's own work. Her hair was dressed like a Gibson girl's, and Sophie, who had kept her own very similar dark locks shoulder length, thought she could imitate the style. But where could she get the lace? The rest of the dress would not be difficult to copy.

When she mentioned the dilemma to Patty Sue, her sister-in-law
had a ready answer. “Oh, there's boxes of that stuff in the attic. Anson's family has lived here forever and never throws anything away. You might have to bleach it, but I'm sure you can find something. I have to run back to work, but I'll show you how to get into the attic—stairs, no ladder and nothing spooky, don't worry. The boxes should be labeled ‘linens and lace trim.'”

Will had never mentioned that this was his family home, Sophie realized. His mother had died when he was fifteen, and soon after, his father married Gloria, who had lost her husband the year before. The two couples had been friends.

After Patty Sue reassured her several times that it was “just fine” to poke around the attic and take some lace, she'd left. Sophie located the boxes stacked next to the door with ease and found a large piece that would work perfectly.

The seamstress took the photo Sophie had snapped of the portrait, and the trim, promising the dress in time for the party. Now, looking at herself in the cheval glass in the bedroom, Sophie wasn't sure whether she was looking at herself or the woman in the portrait. The seamstress had worked magic. She was clasping her wedding pearls—a gift from Babs and Ed—around her neck, the final touch, when Will walked in.

“Shug, people are getting restless even with liquor flowing like the Savannah River in flood season.”

Smiling in expectation as she moved toward him, Sophie thought she had never felt more beautiful, or more in love.

What happened next remained a blur for many days. First Will froze, his face drained of color. Then the blood rushed back in, turning his expression into an angry mask. He crossed the distance between them in two rapid steps and began pulling at the gown.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he said in a voice she had never heard. “Get this off!”

Sophie's necklace snapped and pearls rolled to the floor.

“What's wrong?” she shrieked. “The dress? What is it?”

Will was trying in vain to find a zipper, but the dress was done
up the back with tiny satin-covered buttons. She felt and heard the fabric rip.

“Hush! Do you want the whole city to hear you? I'll go stall. Find something, anything else to wear!”

“But, Will!” Sophie was sobbing now. “What is it? What did I do?”

“You're wearing my grandmother's wedding dress. Quite a trick, since after a horrific battle with the Grim Reaper, she was laid to rest in Bonaventure Cemetery wearing it.”

Sophie collapsed onto the floor, the gown a tattered mess beneath her. Will had left the door open, and she could hear him addressing the group below.

“Have another round, everyone. My Yankee bride has already adopted our Savannah habit of never being on time. She's doing some last-minute primping. Y'all know how women are.”

Again, Sophie had never heard her husband use that tone of voice. It was as if some sort of alien had snatched her Will, replacing him with someone she didn't know—or much like. She did know one thing, however. There was no way she was going to appear at the party.

“What the hell is going on? What are you doing on the floor?”

It was Mother.

Babs closed the door behind her and crouched down next to her daughter. “Are you ill? And what on earth are you wearing?”

Sophie started crying again. She supposed she had been in shock before, unable to move or make a sound. Now it was as if she was reliving the scene over and over.

“Stop that crying! You're obviously not sick. I didn't hear what Will was saying just now, but when you were taking so long to
make your grand entrance I knew something must be wrong, so I came up the back stairs. And that's the way I'm going to leave as soon as we get you dressed in, well, anything else.”

“She said it was a custom here!” Sophie wailed. “And Will was so angry!”

“You can tell me all about it later. You have a party to attend, remember?”

“I'm not going! Wild horses wouldn't drag me down those stairs.”

Wild horses may not have been able to drag Sophie Maxwell down to the throng of eagerly waiting partygoers, but Babs was more than up to the task.

“Wash your face and redo your makeup. And take your hair down. It looks ridiculous. Did you think it was a costume party? No, not now,” she fumed as Sophie seemed about to speak again. “We're lucky I'm staying here with Gloria and Anson. I'll get a more appropriate outfit. Fortunately I remembered they don't wear black down here unless they're art students, so you won't give them that to talk about. Seems like there's enough to fuel the gossip mill as it is. And, daughter dearest, if you blow this off it will be the end of you so far as Savannah is concerned. You'll have to move, possibly to another continent.” She yanked Sophie to her feet and pushed her toward the bathroom.

Sophie removed the dress, which had started to feel like a shroud. Her mother was back soon with a flask and a Chanel turquoise silk sheath. The two women were the same size, although Sophie was a few inches taller. Babs had maintained her girlish figure with the help of Canyon Ranch and Pilates.

“Drink this. If nothing else, it will put some roses in your cheeks.”

Sophie tilted the flask and almost choked as straight bourbon filled her mouth.

“Here.” Babs fastened the diamond necklace she had been wearing around her daughter's neck. “And you might as well have this, too.” She fastened the matching bracelet around Sophie's slim
wrist. “At least they'll see you have good jewelry. Mind you, I want it back after tonight. Now, I'll go get Will. And Sophie, take it from me—whatever happened between you two tonight isn't going to get straightened out here. You love him dearly and he loves you, so take his arm, walk down that absurdly Southern movie set staircase, and smile for the camera.”

“Give me another shot of that bourbon first,” Sophie said.

“Don't they make a fine couple!” Anson Maxwell said, holding his glass high. “Please join me in a toast to the bride and groom.” He gave Sophie a big kiss and added, “I couldn't be more tickled. Gained a daughter-in-law
and
a partner-in-law!” He laughed at his own pun as Sophie was engulfed by well-wishers.

Will hadn't said a word as he took her arm before descending the staircase. She kept her own mouth shut, too. The bourbon, or maybe a heavy dose of righteous indignation, had swept all of her hesitation about the party firmly away. Damn it, she would hold her head high and show everyone that this Yankee bride knew how to party. If her husband was suddenly going to talk like a “good ol' boy,” then she'd play along.

Thank goodness for Mother's bling, she thought. As she moved among the crowd she heard several not too sotto voce comments about the plainness of her dress—“You'd think she'd wear something fancier. It looks like an outfit my mother would wear” was just one remark she picked up. Compared with what the other women were wearing, she was like a wren among peacocks. She also picked up several remarks about how late she had been—“What all could have been keeping her? I was beginning to think we had a Runaway Bride!”

Inevitably she came face-to-face with Patty Sue, who air kissed her cheek. “Such a sweet color on you, darlin',” Patty Sue said. She was wearing red, the exact same hue that Sophie's previously maligned rehearsal dress had been, except this number was cut almost
to the navel in front and cinched tight at the waist before billowing out in a bouffant three-quarters-length skirt. She'd been hitting the Chatham Artillery Punch, Sophie suspected; her face was flushed and her speech ever so slightly slurred.

They were standing in front of the portrait of the woman Sophie now knew was Will's grandmother and, she realized, Uncle Paul McAllister's sister. She so wished he was here, for protection, and even more for information. Unfortunately Paul was on an extended trip to British friends living in Singapore, and since they'd planned to go on from there to other parts of Asia, he would be impossible to reach for weeks.

She'd let Patty Sue steer her toward the portrait, knowing it was no accident. “Beautiful. I wonder who she is?” Sophie commented coolly.

“Aurora McAllister Maxwell. Will's grandmother. She came to this house as a bride.” Patty Sue's memory had come back it seemed. “You do recall when we were here a couple of weeks ago looking at it, how I told you about the tradition of wearing your bridal gown for formal events the first year after the wedding? Not too many do nowadays, but it's a nice custom.”

“I'm sure it is.” Sophie tried not to choke on her words. The desire to grab her sister-in-law by the neck and strangle her was almost overwhelming. “I wanted something new for this wonderful party, though.”

A waiter approached with an assortment of drinks on a silver tray and Sophie took a glass of champagne, avoiding the punch. She'd had enough hard liquor for one night and wanted to keep her head clear.

Patty Sue slipped off and Sophie sipped the cold bubbly, watching the scene in front of her. Everyone seemed to be having a marvelous time. A few couples were dancing, including Anson and Gloria, whose exuberant steps to “Something's Gotta Give” rivaled Ginger and Fred's. Sophie had seen Johnny Mercer's statue in Ellis Square but had yet to make a visit to his grave site and the bench
in Bonaventure Cemetery. The cemetery! She wouldn't be going there anytime soon, if ever.

What had happened at his grandmother's death to make Will flare up as he had? She tried not to think about the inevitable scene with her husband that awaited. From the way the party was going, they wouldn't be leaving until the very wee hours of the morning. As the guests of honor they'd have to stay until the last person departed. And tomorrow afternoon the Maxwells were hosting a somewhat smaller gathering out at Bells Mills—a Lowcountry boil—to cap off the celebratory weekend.

Patty Sue had been diabolically clever. Easy to deny everything. She had been alone with Sophie and didn't go into the attic with her. Those boxes, so conveniently placed! Sophie was willing to bet if she went up now, she'd find them tucked away where they were stored before. What a stoopnagle she had been! (And where did
that
word come from, but it was perfect.) A chump, an imbecile, a fool, above all an idiot.

She realized she'd drained her glass. She'd had nothing to eat since breakfast and needed food to sop up the alcohol, champagne on top of Maker's Mark. There was a lavish spread laid out on the dining room table, one large enough to seat twelve comfortably without its leaves. She'd heard Gloria talking about the menu—crab in many forms from she-crab soup to deviled crab stuffed back in the shell and crab cakes. Country ham, turkey with oyster dressing, seafood gumbo, Savannah red rice, biscuits, and all kinds of desserts! Her mouth was watering as she made her way to the door, slowed down by new friends and more new relatives introducing themselves. Sophie's face was beginning to hurt from smiling. She looked back over her shoulder, and as suddenly as her appetite had come, it vanished.

Will and the exquisite blond “Miss Laura” were in deep conversation. From the way they were looking at each other, the notion that both might be regretting a certain Northerner's stealing Will Tarkington Maxwell away was not at all far-fetched.

She now knew what one of her father-in-law's favorite expressions—“Rode hard and put away wet”—felt like, Sophie thought, closing her eyes against the morning glare coming in through the bedroom window. She opened them again. Part of her was happy to see that her husband was very sound asleep next to her; part wanted to slap him awake and demand some answers. Her attempt at conversation as they walked back from the party earlier this morning had been firmly rebuffed. “I'm tired; you're tired. This is no time to talk,” Will had said. What he did not say was when or even
if
they would talk about the evening. He'd dropped his clothes in a heap on the floor, gone into the bathroom, and then headed straight to bed. He'd been asleep before she had hung Babs's dress in the wardrobe, an enormous armoire. These old houses didn't run to closets, and though Gloria was converting a small bedroom, perhaps a nursery, into a huge walk-in, the armoire was serving as Sophie's closet for the present. Babs had told Sophie to keep the dress and be sure to wear it again soon, but had indeed reclaimed her jewels.

Sophie looked at the clock. It was not even eight. They were due at Bells Mills at one o'clock. It would take at least thirty minutes to drive, still plenty of time to get some more sleep, but she knew she wouldn't. Slipping out of bed, she started to head for a shower and then changed course, grabbing her phone from the nightstand before heading downstairs to the kitchen.

In a house this vintage the kitchen would have been on the ground level and a historic renovation would have had to leave it there, but Gloria had received permission to move it to the main floor, since the house wasn't on the Historic Register or significant architecturally. She'd had a beautiful modern kitchen installed—more convenient for the twenty-first century yet still with heart-of-pine floors and glass-fronted period cabinets, all from an architectural salvage place. Afterward, Gloria had turned
to the empty ground level, creating an up-to-date entertainment area closed off from a spacious nineteenth-century-type garden room with doors opening to the brick walled enclosure behind the house. So far the yard had been filled with building materials, but when the project was completed it would be a lush garden with a small screened-in gazebo.

Aside from the pounding headache, one thought had been filling Sophie's head since she'd awoken—the same thought that had filled it until she had finally sunk into sleep. What had happened around Will's grandmother's death to provoke his over-the-top response? Clearly she was not going to find out from him anytime soon. And there weren't going to be any answers from Patty Sue.

Patty Sue. What was the quote? “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer”? Sophie had always thought it was Shakespeare, or an early Roman, but when she'd finally looked it up, it turned out to be Sun Tzu, a Chinese general from around 400 BC. It was certainly apt advice at the moment. She was glad that her sister-in-law had revealed herself so early, she told herself.

Glad. No, she had to admit—not glad at all. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

She started grinding beans to make her usual French press coffee, then decided today was not the day to fuss and instead stuck a mug with several spoons of instant in the microwave. A minute later she was sipping the noxious brew and hitting Faith Fairchild's number on her Favorites list. Faith answered as Sophie was realizing Sunday morning might not be the best time to call.

“Faith, it's Sophie. I'm sorry to bother you when you must be getting ready for church. I'll be quick—or I can call back later.”

“The kids are still sleeping, and once I located a clean collar, Tom took off, presumably to think divine thoughts but more likely to put finishing touches on his sermon. Is everything all right? And why are you whispering?”

Even with two closed doors and a floor between her and Will, Sophie had still instinctively lowered her voice. She spoke up now.
“Everything's fine. No, it isn't, but it's too long to go into. I was hoping you could do me a favor.”

“Anything, you know that.”

“Uncle Paul is in Singapore visiting some British ex-pat friends and may already have headed off with them—Mongolia, I believe—otherwise I could ask him and the whole thing would be clear, or clearer. Then I thought that Ursula might know. Maybe you could ask her? She is so close to him, and was to Aunt Priscilla. She might have heard them discussing it.”

“Happy to help, but Sophie”—Faith gave a little laugh—“what is it I'm supposed to ask Ursula about?”

“Oh dear. I have got to snap to. More coffee, much more. Last night Will got terribly annoyed about something I stupidly did that reminded him of his grandmother's death. She was Paul's sister, remember? Her name was Aurora. Could you ask Ursula if she's ever heard anything about the circumstances surrounding Aurora's death?
Anything
. How she died? Where?”

“I'll stop by later this afternoon. The holidays are so hectic that I haven't been to see her lately, so I'm happy to have this excuse. But why can't you ask Will?”