The room next to Vangie’s was locked. So was another door across the hall. I stood there in the hallway, wondering what exactly Fern was doing up here in those seconds before she died. She was about to serve lunch next door. Why had she come up here?
Lulu was sniffing the floor at the top of the stairs. There was a carved banister post on either side of the top step, painted white to go with the hallway decor. Lulu looked up at me when I approached. When she did, I noticed she had white particles stuck to her wet black nose. I knelt beside her and wiped them off.
The particles were tiny flecks of white paint.
There were more of them on the floor at the base of each banister post. I ran a finger along one of them. The wood was hard and smooth with several coats of glossy paint over it. Except about three inches from the floor, where a set of thin grooves had been made in the paint. All the way around. On both posts. Fern hadn’t been pushed. Nothing so crude as that. Someone had tied a trip wire across the top of the stairs after she’d gone up. She was easy prey — blind as a bat without her glasses. They’d lain in wait for her to go down — and down she went. Then they’d removed the wire and returned to the house. It could have been anyone in the family. Anyone could have slipped out for a minute while we were having our sherry. That’s all it would have taken. One of them had shut her up. Made sure she’d never tell what she knew about Sterling Sloan. What was it she’d seen? What had been covered up? And how could it possibly matter now, fifty years later?
But it did matter. That much I knew for damned sure.
Mercy and Charlotte were in the kitchen getting our belated lunch together.
“I managed to drop a paper clip in my typewriter,” I said. “Need a piece of wire to get it out.”
“You’ll have to ask Roy for it,” said Mercy as she took a tray of food into the dining room. “I have no idea where you’d —”
“Bottom drawer there under the toaster, Hoagy,” broke in Charlotte. “With the tools.”
There was a flashlight in there, a pair of pliers, a hammer, screwdrivers, twine. There was also a spool of wire and a pair of cutters. I cut myself a length of wire.
“What’s in those closed rooms upstairs in the old house?” I asked Charlotte.
She took a pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator. “They keep the vacuums and cleaning supplies in the room next to Vangie’s. That used to be the sitting room. There’s still a door connecting them. They moved the big wardrobe in front of it so the tourists would stop asking if they could go in there. The other room is a bathroom, from when the family still lived up there.”
“I was wondering what Fern was doing up there.”
“Getting something, I suppose,” Charlotte said, chewing on her lower lip.
“Makes sense,” I agreed. “Only she was empty-handed when I found her. Odd, don’t you think?”
She looked at me strangely. Clearly, she thought I was being morbid and weird. “I can’t imagine what difference it makes,” she said brusquely. Then she sped out with the tea.
I put the wire and cutters back in the drawer and closed it. I turned to find Frederick standing there before me. I was getting good at telling the brothers apart now — as long as Frederick had a cigarette in his hand.
“I wonder,” he said, “If you could drop by my office later this afternoon. We have business.”
Frederick Glaze, investment counselor, did his business in Staunton on the top floor of the Marquis Building, a three-story, turreted, red-brick Romanesque on Beverley Street. I took the stairs. I was by myself. Lulu had shown more interest in her chair than a trip to town.
His offices were large, bright and hi-tech. No cobblers shop, this. Modular cubicles filled with modular young brokers working the phones and the terminals. The place smelled of money. His own private office was located in the round turret, and the past. He had an old rolltop desk in there, and a pair of worn leather armchairs and no computer. There was also an old freestanding steel safe, the kind that fall out windows and flatten people on the street below in cartoons. His windows offered a panoramic view of the business district and the Victorian houses climbing up the steep hills beyond it.
Frederick’s jacket was off. The sleeves of his white broadcloth shirt were turned back to reveal a silver wristwatch on one wrist and an ID bracelet on the other. He seemed profoundly weary under his smooth, genteel exterior. “Thank you for coming, Hoagy. Sit down, please. Ed won’t be joining us. This Fern thing hit him pretty hard. Ed, Fern, and me … we all grew up together. We were classmates. Friends.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
He coughed huskily, drank from a glass of water at his elbow. “When you get to be my age, you get used to losing your friends. But you don’t get to liking it. You keep wishing you’d treated them better.”
“Did she confide in you?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Confide in me?”
“Personal things. Doubts, fears.”
“She had none. Fern O’Baugh was the happiest soul I ever met. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
He got up and went over to the safe. “Mavis certainly seems taken with you. She even seems willing to keep her queer notions out of Mother’s sequel just because you said she should.” He spun the tumbler on the safe and began to work the combination from memory. “I take my hat off to you, sir. You do indeed work miracles.”
“Everyone ought to be good at something.”
He opened the safe door wide, reached inside, and pulled out a loose-leaf, three-ring notebook and a legal document. He closed the safe and carried these back to his desk. He held on to the document. The notebook he handed over to me.
“Your copy of Mother’s notes for Sweet Land of Liberty,” he explained. “In her own hand, but quite legible. You’ll find a lot in there to do with plot and character, and not a lot to do with the sights and sounds. We’ve the resources of the Staunton Historical Society should you need anything checked out. Girls at Mary Baldwin would be only too happy to help out. Just turn them loose. No sense you getting bogged down, I mean. Speed is of the essence at this point.”
“I understand.”
He lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. “Mother’s notes are in the form of a diary. As it happens, she was keeping it while Oh, Shenandoah was being filmed out at the estate. A lot of what you’re going to be reading is her impressions of what was going on around her. How she felt the actors were doing, bits of gossip, things like that.”
I found myself leaning forward. “Oh?”
“You may find it interesting reading. Not that it has anything to do with this project. It’s more of a literary artifact, really. We plan to publish it as an introduction to the special golden-anniversary edition. You’ll find the notes for Sweet Land scattered throughout. Fairly complete, except for the ending.”
“The ending?”
“We have no idea how Mother intended to end the book,” he confessed. “She evidently didn’t like what she’d done because she tore it out. All we know is that John Raymond is elected president.” He chuckled uneasily. “We don’t know what is supposed to happen after that.”
“Not to worry. Endings are easy. It’s beginnings that are hard.”
“Fine,” he said. “We leave it to your capable hands. I simply didn’t want to think you were missing something.”
“I generally am, but it’s okay. I’m used to it.”
“The notebook is yours for the duration of the assignment. Please guard it with your life.” Frederick buzzed his secretary, then picked up the document he’d pulled from the safe and examined it. “Anything else I can do for you while you’re down here?” he asked.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Brokerage assistance. Investment opportunities. We’re putting together some very exciting tax shelters.”
“I usually shelter my earnings in the nearest cash register.”
“Suit yourself. Never hurts to ask.” He buzzed
his secretary again, impatiently. “I’d like you to sign this, Hoagy,” he said, passing me the document. “It states that I have delivered to you on this day a copy of Mother’s notebook, and that you will not reveal its contents to anyone without the prior written consent of the estate. To do so will constitute a breach of contract and leave you liable for a suit. Understood?”
I said it was.
He smiled. “Just a formality, really. Something Ed drew up. You know how lawyers are.”
There was a quick tapping at the door. A heavy, plain-faced young woman with curly black hair came trudging in.
“Ah, here you are, dear,” said Frederick brightly. “Come on over here beside me, Melinda. I need you to notarize this.”
She waited next to him obediently, stamp in hand, while I read over the document and signed it. When I looked up, I noticed there was something odd about the way she was standing. Her entire body seemed frozen there. She was staring straight ahead, stone faced, deathly pale.
Frederick Glaze’s right hand was on the desk before him. His left was clamped around Melinda’s ample right buttock like a barnacle.
He had a blissful, elfin smile on his face. He looked like a beatific little boy. It was the happiest I’d seen anyone look in a long time.
They picked me up the second I hit the sidewalk with Alma’s diary. There were two of them. One had a flattop crew cut, the other a ponytail. It was nice, I reflected, to see ponytails staging a comeback. They both wore flannel shirts and jeans. They both looked as if they ate meat three times a day, not necessarily cooked.
Now I knew why Lulu hadn’t wanted to come with me.
They stayed a steady two storefronts behind me as I made my way down Beverley Street. When I paused to window-shop, they paused to window-shop. They weren’t particularly cool or professional about it. Maybe they just didn’t care if I spotted them.
A sharp, cold wind was cutting into the soft spring air. Big gray clouds were blowing across the valley from the Blue Ridge Mountains. Winter wasn’t gone after all. I turned up my collar and moved on down the block. They moved on down with me. I was loitering at the window of a bookstore, weighing my options and not liking them, when I spotted Charlotte inside there browsing. My lucky day. I went in.
She was over in paperback fiction with her nose buried in a copy of my second novel, the one with the cover that belonged on something by Sidney Sheldon. Both of my novels were well represented. There’s no telling where you’ll find exceptional little bookstores.
“In case you’re wondering,” I said to her, “the big sex scene is on page seventy-four, such as it is.”
She clapped the book shut, blushing. “I-I came in for some stationery,” she blurted out, hurriedly returning the book to the rack. “I was just sort of curious … ”
I retrieved the book from the rack and handed it to her. “My treat.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she said, her eyes darting nervously for the floor, for anywhere.
“I insist. Feel free to take it home and not enjoy it. Of course, I do expect something in return.”
She frowned at me, suspicious. “Such as?”
There were some Mary Baldwin sweatshirts and bookbags over in the next aisle. I picked out a canvas portfolio with a zipper and slid Alma’s diary inside it and tucked it under Charlotte’s arm. “Would you take that back to the estate for me?”
“Oh, I’d be happy to,” she said, relieved.
We went outside together after I paid. My two tails were waiting patiently for me beside a brass memorial plaque stuck in the sidewalk to mark the spot where Alma Glaze had been run over. Their arms were crossed, their eyes fastened on me. They really didn’t care if I spotted them.
“How’s the iced tea in that cafe across the street?” I asked Charlotte.
“Real good. They make it from scratch.”
“Care to join me for a glass?”
She thought it over. “Well, only if you’ll let me pay for both of us. So we’ll be even.” She tried to smile, but it never quite caught up to her eyes. “Okay?”
“It’s a deal.”
The Beverley Cafe was deep and narrow and dark. Hard wooden booths were set against the walls. We took one. A fat little kid was buying a candy bar at the cash register. Two old men in work clothes were having pie and coffee and muttering to each other. Otherwise it was empty.
Charlotte had put a drab coat on over her drab dress. She kept it on. Shifted uncomfortably there in the booth. Chewed on her lower lip. She seemed grateful when the sulky waitress shuffled over to us and said, “Hey, Charlotte.”
“Hey, Luanne. Iced tea for two, please.”
Luanne looked me over, lingered for an introduction, didn’t get one, sighed, and moved slowly off.
“Were you and Fern close, Charlotte?” I asked.
“Not really. She was a meddlesome old thing. Always pestering me to change my hair and stand up straight. I guess she meant well, but I wasn’t looking for another mother.”
I glanced out the window at the street. No sign of my friends. “And you and Mavis?”
“What about us?”
“How long have you been working for her?”
“Two years.
“Like her?”
Charlotte clasped her hands primly on the table before her. “I despise Mavis Glaze more than I ever thought it was possible to despise another human being,” she replied calmly.
Luanne came back with our iced tea. Charlotte dumped three spoonfuls of sugar in hers before she took a sip. “You don’t know about Mavis and my father, do you?”
I tasted my tea. It was already sweetened. Plenty sweetened. “What about them?”
“I may as well tell you myself, since you’ll be hearing it before long anyway. There’ve always been two fine old families that ran things in the valley. Owned the land. Owned the LaFoons. One was the Glazes, the other the Neenes. Franklin Neene was my father, and the end of the line. I’m an only child and the family money is long gone. About the only thing left was the name — my father was judge of the Staunton Circuit Court, and a fine, respected man. Honest. Fair. Gentle. Sensitive. Too sensitive for his own good, really. When Mother died four years ago of ovarian cancer, he had a real problem bouncing back from it emotionally. He … He began to drink. I did my best to take care of him. Quit my job over at the high school — I was a secretary in the administration office. Kept house for him, watched over him. But he got worse and worse. Pulled away from his friends and his activities, resisted any kind of help. He was never drunk on the bench. Never. He was much too conscientious for that. He just sat in his room alone and drank, night after night. Until one night he suddenly jumped in his car and drove off. I didn’t even hear him leave. He showed up at a local restaurant, the Golden Stirrup, drunk out of his mind. Rammed a couple of cars in the parking lot. Made quite a scene. Got himself hauled into jail.” Charlotte drank some of her tea, gripping the glass tightly with her short, stubby fingers. “Mavis heard about it, of course, and she happens to be head of Virginians Against Drunk Driving.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Well, she decided his behavior was unbecoming to a public servant of a judge’s stature and launched a campaign to get him thrown off the bench. She urged people to write letters to the governor. She made it into a big story in the newspapers. And she wouldn’t let go. She hounded him and hounded him. The poor man was ill. Everyone knew that. There were decent, humane ways it could have been handled. Medical leave, early retirement — something to save him his dignity. But she’d have none of that. She wanted his scalp. You see, Mavis always hated that there was another family name in the valley that rivaled her own. And this was her big chance to make sure there no longer would be. She forced him to resign in disgrace. He had no other choice. Two mornings later I found him inside his car in the garage, the garage door closed and the engine running. It was suicide, and Mavis Glaze drove him to it.” Charlotte took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We had
a big old house here in town, heavily mortgaged, and not much else. I sold it and rented an apartment. And came to work for her.”
“How can you stand to?”
“I need the job,” she replied simply. “Besides, if you live in a small town, you get used to hating people and not being able to do anything about it, except leave. I can’t. This is my home. I’ve never lived anywhere else. I’m too old to start over now, and too much of a coward.”
“How do you feel about the rest of the family?”
She glanced furtively around the cafe, turned back to me with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. “Well, Frederick’s got a real problem keeping his filthy hands to himself,” she said in a hushed voice.
“I noticed.”
“I try not to be alone in a room with him if I can help it. He’s never actually attacked anyone, as far as I know. But he did get in some trouble when he was younger. They say he made phone calls.”
“Phone calls?”
“Dirty ones. You know, to women. They all knew it was him. Polk Two had to go out and talk to him about it. They were going to press charges if he didn’t quit it.” She shook her head in amazement. “He and Edward couldn’t be more different. Edward’s such a fine, considerate man. He always makes a point of asking me how I’m doing, and he listens to what I say. A lot of people never listen.”
“Odd that neither of them ever married.”
“Edward was once. A long time ago, to a French girl he met in Washington. He doesn’t like to talk about it. I think she left him for another man.”
The Woman Who Fell From Grace Page 7
