Geoffrey smiled. “I shall be delighted to ask him.”
A. P. Hill had made better time than she wanted to on the journey, which had been made longer by her mind’s refusal to concentrate on anything but the coming interview. Once in a while she would remember to glance in her rearview mirror to see if anyone was following her, but she never noticed any particular car trying to keep pace with her. Apparently, Lewis Paine was not concerned enough to have her watched, or else the city of Richmond had much more to worry about in the way of criminals than an evasive witness. Given the city’s high annual murder rate, this was the likeliest explanation.
A few miles north of Emporia, A. P. Hill left the interstate and followed a two-lane blacktop west into the rural area of Dinwiddie County. She had looked up the address in the alumni records at William & Mary, and then in Richmond she had consulted maps to determine the route. She had considered telephoning ahead to announce her visit and perhaps to receive more specific directions, but it was just as likely that she would be told not to come. A. P. Hill could think of too many reasons not to let them know she was coming, so in the end she had set out on what was probably a wild-goose chase.
She managed to get within a few miles of her destination before narrowing country lanes and a dearth of road signs forced her to stop at a country store and gas station to ask for directions.
She bought a sports drink in order to be a customer rather than a supplicant, and the weary-looking woman behind the counter told her which road to take, without even a question about why she was going there. Sometimes, thought A. P. Hill, it helps to be blonde and petite.
A few minutes later, she was headed up a long gravel driveway that was only marginally smaller than the road that led to it. The drive was bounded on both sides by horse pastures and freshly painted white board fences. Ahead of her, a white-columned house shone out from a grove of spreading oaks. This was the ancestral home of Patricia J. Purdue. It would be. With a flicker of annoyance A. P. Hill wondered why some rich kids seemed to be born arrogant. They seemed to feel that rules were only suggestions, or at best strictures that were a good idea for civilization in general, but that did not apply to them in particular. Maybe it’s because they’re working with a net, she thought. No matter what happens to them in life, Daddy’s money will make it all better. Did Purdue still think that?
A. P. Hill parked the car near the front porch and prepared to enter the lion’s den. She straightened her skirt when she got out of the car. Linen wrinkles the minute you put it on. After a two-hour drive, she looked as if she had slept in it. Still, she supposed she looked all right, by which she meant that she had dressed to be taken seriously. She was in lawyer mode: navy linen coat and skirt, low-heeled shoes, and slung over her shoulder was the strap of her white Coach bag for summer.
There was a leering gargoyle door knocker on the massive front door. As A. P. Hill struck the ring against the sounding brass, she heard it echo through the hallway beyond and she closed her eyes to concentrate on her carefully rehearsed words of introduction. When she opened them again, she saw in the doorway a heavyset old woman with an apron over her faded housedress. She was peering out at A. P. Hill with an expression of deep suspicion. “We don’t want to buy your magazines or visit your heathen church,” she announced.
A. P. Hill said, “That’s not why I’m here. I’m a friend of P. J. Is the judge at home?”
The woman looked at her appraisingly. “I expect he would be for you,” she said with a harsh laugh. “But he tires mighty easy. Remember that.”
Without another word the woman turned and stalked down the hall toward the back of the house. A. P. Hill took this to be an invitation to follow her, and she hurried to catch up, with her sensible shoes beating a muffled tattoo on the marble tiles. She barely glanced at her surroundings, except to wonder briefly if the new headquarters of MacPherson & Hill would ever achieve this degree of staid elegance. She thought not. Even if they hired the most exclusive decorator in Richmond (which they could not for one minute afford), Bill would probably insist on dragging his mascot, that dreadful stuffed groundhog from the flea market, out into the foyer, or he would put up framed baseball cards instead of Stubbs horse prints on the oak-paneled walls. But she had neither the time nor the inclination to stop him. Their legal expertise would speak for itself, and perhaps Bill’s eccentric ideas of decoration would be taken as a sign of power and creativity—at least by people who hadn’t met the rest of his family.
The door to the study was ajar, and Powell Hill went in quietly, wondering if the old gentleman might be sleeping. The room smelled of tobacco, wood fires, and leather upholstery. In the dim light from the partially curtained French windows, she could see a wood-paneled room lined with bookcases. “Judge Purdue?” said A. P. Hill, walking toward the armchair by the dark fireplace.
“I’m not asleep, young woman.” The voice from the chair was reedy with age, but it had lost none of its ring of authority. “Do I know you?”
“No, sir. I went to law school with your granddaughter. My name is A. P. Hill.”
“Ha! She beat you out, though, didn’t she? Top of her class, she was. She’s a Purdue, through and through.”
“Yes, sir. Have you seen her lately, Judge?”
“Oh, some time back, I guess,” said the old man. “Why? Are you trying to get in touch with her? Job hunting, are you?”
“I would like to find her, sir,” said A. P. Hill. The conversation reminded her of a turn on the witness stand, and here, too, it seemed best not to elaborate on one’s answers.
“I suppose we have her address around somewhere. She’s practicing out of state, you know. Wanted to make her own way. Stubborn. All the Purdues are stubborn.”
“She hasn’t been to see you in the last couple of weeks?” asked A. P. Hill. She already knew the answer to that one. If the name A. P. Hill did not immediately register with the judge as his granddaughter’s most recently assumed alias, it meant that the police had not kept him apprised of Purdue’s latest escapades.
“We haven’t heard from P. J. for a good while,” the old man muttered. “I always keep meaning to give her a call.”
“Have you been to see her since she started her out-of-state practice?”
The judge considered this. “Can’t say I have. Health’s not what it was. Not up to much in the way of travel.”
Powell Hill’s eyes strayed to the end table beside the judge’s leather chair, where a stack of travel brochures heralded the charms of Paris and Amsterdam. She wondered if Purdue had planned to skip the country, and if the judge was part of her escape plan. She tapped the top brochure with her forefinger. “Paris,” she said. “I went there for a couple of weeks one summer.”
“Too hot in the summer,” said the judge. “Too many tourists. I always go in September when things have simmered down a bit. Go every year. The wine does wonders for my digestion.”
A. P. Hill nodded. “Did Patricia ever go with you?” she asked. “I don’t remember her ever mentioning it.”
“I go alone,” the old man said. “This year, though, I may take Mrs. Ramp ling with me.” He nodded toward the open doorway, where the housekeeper hovered, arms crossed, glaring at A. P. Hill. “She can keep me out of trouble. Make sure I take my pills, don’t you know?”
A. P. Hill thought she did know. So you’re too ill to visit your granddaughter three states away, but you go to Paris every fall. She thanked the judge and turned to go. She had learned something after all. Wherever P. J. Purdue decided to go, it would not be here.
MacPherson & Hill
Attorneys-at-Law
TO: Elizabeth MacPherson
FROM: Geoffrey Chandler
SUBJECT: News from home
Is that you, Elizabeth? I seem to recall that patients at Cherry Hill could receive faxes, provided that they were not of an inflammatory nature. You know, things like: “Go and save France. Signed, God.” or “The lab report came back. You are a teakettle.” H
owever, let me take this first paragraph to assure whatever medical personnel are reading this missive that I have no desire to contribute to the delusions of anyone. I merely wish to convey cheery messages to my ailing relative in hopes that the comfort and support of her loved ones will sustain her in her time of sorrow.
Note: Elizabeth. If the preceding paragraph actually made you retch, you may consider yourself en route to recovery. I nearly gagged while writing it.
Well, typing it, actually. I am composing this on your brother’s office word processor because I thought it would look more official that way. I did consider writing it out in my most illegible handwriting—slanting all the letters to the left, perhaps—but in the interests of time, I plumped for the easy way. (Surely anyone reading this would be too bored by now to continue.…)
I have arrived safely in Danville, as I suppose you have surmised from the letterhead on the writing paper. Your dear brother was, of course, touchingly glad to see me. He practically begged me to take over the entire project of decorating this house of theirs, and with some reluctance, I finally allowed myself to be prevailed upon to oversee the renovations.
At this point in a normal correspondence, I would be tempted to set down my thoughts regarding paint selection, wallpaper choices, and a general outline of the design concept that I have in mind for the office area, contrasted for emphasis with the ludicrous suggestions made by the occupant himself: your brother, the owner of a stuffed groundhog, which he seems to consider an objet d’art. But I digress.… And I suppose that if I spend many more words discussing aesthetic considerations, you will begin to scream—you are so impatient, dear. You really should see if they can give you something for that.… Anyhow, I must get to the point, because if burly guards had to come and sedate you, they would probably confiscate this letter, and then I would have wasted all this effort trying to remember which letters on the keyboard are on which row. Thank God for Spell Check.
Where was I? Oh, yes … Lafayette, we are here. (An American general said that. In Paris, I believe. He had just arrived to fight a war, so I feel the quotation is not inappropriate in this case.) I suspect that Bill may put up some sort of feeble resistance to my more daring experiments in interior design, but I shall be firm. Fortunately, I think, his clever partner, Miss A. P. Hill, is away from Danville at the moment. She might resort to restraining orders if she were displeased with my work, but I’m sure I can manage Cousin Bill.
I took an exhaustive tour of the house, and I must say that it does have possibilities, particularly if you are fond of the Georgian style. However, the chief object of our interest was not in evidence this afternoon. Apparently Mr. Dolan spends a good part of the day napping in some secluded garden spot, or at least otherwise engaged out of sight, because he was nowhere to be seen, and his housemates did not seem to know where he was. Edith promises that if I will turn up for tea and pastry at four-thirty, the old man will come toddling in, and then I’ll see what I can do about extracting information from him. I have already asked about photo albums and stories of Jack Dolan’s youth. I plan to be the best audience a garrulous old man ever had.
Meanwhile, you must see what further bits of information you can elicit from your fellow patient there in Cherry Hill. I suggest that you try to get a description of the youthful Dolan that I could compare to old photographs. I suppose I’ll have to go to the library sooner or later to see what sort of information is available on the house and its occupant. I shall probably know more when I have actually met our quarry, but I must tell you that in terms of urgency, I think your brother’s decorating crisis is the greater of the two emergencies.
Yours in haste,
Cousin Geoffrey
Chapter 9
“I never met anybody
who learned by talking.”
—Elvis Presley
Since the day was fine, the members of the Cherry Hill afternoon group therapy session had decided to meet outside. They were seated on borrowed cafeteria chairs in the dappled shade of a broad-limbed maple tree, enjoying the sunshine, perhaps more than they enjoyed the recitals of their fellow patients. Clifford Allen, seated as far back in shadow as he could get, was anointing every visible part of his body with sunscreen.
After the usual preliminaries had been conducted by the brisk and hearty Warburton, Emma O. indicated that she would like to begin the discussion. “I’ve been making a list of my friends,” she announced. “Or trying to. It’s hard to know if you have any, isn’t it?”
Someone had to break the ensuing awkward silence. Matt Pennington, who prided himself on his charity, spoke the obvious, expected line, “Well, we’re all your friends, Emma.” He turned to Elizabeth. “I don’t believe I know you, though.”
“Shut up, Matt,” said Elizabeth. “You had ECT this morning. You forgot me again.”
“Oh.” He looked doubtful and peered at her more closely, waiting for a spark of recognition that was evidently not forthcoming.
Emma O.’s impatient scowl suggested that Matt’s well-meaning, if insincere, offer of friendship had failed to impress her. The others in the group remained silent, reflecting on the fact that it isn’t easy to tell comforting lies to someone suffering from depression. As Emma O. was fond of pointing out, depressed people believe the worst, and so often they are right.
“No,” Emma told them. “You people are not my friends. At this point you are all fellow travelers in neurosis, but I’m not sure that the attachment will last after our present circumstances change. It probably won’t. My friends never do seem to carry over from one situation to the next. They drift away.”
“Well, you can always make new friends,” said Beulah. “Church is an excellent place to meet people.”
“It isn’t easy for everybody to make friends,” said Clifford Allen. He looked around defiantly, daring anyone to challenge his statement. Nobody did.
“People come and go,” said Emma, who did not sound overly concerned about it. “I suppose that the people in the books I read are my friends. The characters on Star Trek are my friends. Maybe I should list them.”
“But those aren’t real people,” Warburton reminded her.
Emma shrugged. “They’ve been in my life longer than anyone else has stuck around.”
“Friendship is one of those tests you can’t study for,” said Rose Hanelon. She had picked up a maple leaf from the lawn beside her chair and was tearing it into narrow strips, but her abstracted gaze suggested that she was not thinking about the leaf. “When I was in the eighth grade, our health teacher did an exercise on friendship that has haunted me ever since,” she said. “Can I talk about that?”
Warburton remembered to change her shrug into an encouraging smile. “Go on, Rose.”
“Eighth-grade health was an all-girls class. Two days a week it alternated with gym class. We were at the giggly stage of friendship, just before boys and status begin to matter. Anyhow, one day Miss Sharp asked us to list our friends. Who in the class would we want to go on a picnic with? Go to a movie with? Tell a secret to? Sit next to in class? She took up the papers and tabulated the results. The next day in class she drew a diagram on the board—without using any names—showing us the patterns of friendship in the room.
“There were popular girls and unpopular girls. The teacher called them ‘Stars’ and ‘Isolates.’ The Stars were the girls who got the most votes, of course. The circles representing them were surrounded by other little circles of their friends and admirers. They were the pretty, self-assured girls who everyone wanted to be friends with. Some of the Isolates only got one vote. What was interesting about our class, according to Miss Sharp, was that sometimes the Stars picked the Isolates for friends. Often the Isolate’s only vote came from a Star. And the Isolates usually chose a Star. No Isolate picked another Isolate, which I guess proves that not even misery loves its own company.”
“And you never found out which you were?” asked Elizabeth
“No. Miss Sharp wouldn�
�t tell any of us. Ever. I’ll bet no one else in the class even remembers doing that exercise, but for thirty years I’ve wondered if I was a Star or an Isolate.”
“Why do you still care?” asked Clifford Allen, to whom relationships were either profitable or cumbersome.
“I don’t know,” said Rose. “Perhaps I think that I could learn some fundamental truth about myself from that exercise. I don’t think the pattern of personality changes much after eighth grade for most people. I think we remained whatever we were—Stars or Isolates—forever.” She shivered.
“You were probably an Isolate,” said Richard Petress, striking a pose. “ ’Cause, honey, let me tell you, the Stars know who they are.”
Warburton considered Petress’s remark contentious enough to require her intervention before a shouting match began. Since Rose apparently had nothing to add to her story, and the others were looking around uneasily as if they were pondering the results of such a quiz among themselves, the group leader decided to provide a distraction. “Emma, I believe you introduced this topic,” she said with a plaster smile. “Perhaps you’d like to tell us why you are making a list of your friends?”
“You’re not writing your will, are you?” asked Clifford.
“No. No real reason. I just wanted to list my friends to see if I had any.”
Before she could develop this theme, with possibly unpleasant results, Elizabeth saw a chance of using the discussion to her advantage. Turning to Hillman Randolph, she said, “What about you, Mr. Randolph? Did you keep in touch with any of your friends from your days in law enforcement?”
Hillman Randolph’s eyes widened. It was unusual for a patient to solicit another’s opinion on a topic neither of them had commented on, but after a moment of startled silence, the old man shook his head. “After this,” he said, touching a tentative hand to the roughened skin on the side of his face. “After the accident … I had to quit working, you know. It took so many operations to get me put back together to where I could go out without making small children cry.…” He broke off for a moment as he struggled with the memory. “And my hands … Well, some of the fellows came to see me when I was in the hospital—at first—but I was so depressed by what had happened to me that I wasn’t much company. I hardly spoke to them. And I reckon pity is no basis for a friendship. So they stopped coming, and I never looked them up. That life was all behind me. It was time to make a clean start.”
The PMS Outlaws: An Elizabeth MacPherson Novel Page 14
