“And you’re thinking it might work that way this time.” Avery handed Faye her card. “Well, I can’t promise to say much back, but I can listen.” Her eyes followed Faye’s hands as she tucked the card into her wallet. “I’m trying to watch over Myrna while I do my job, but I’m only one person. I can’t follow you and your daughter everywhere you go. There are things going on here that I don’t understand. Yet. Please be careful, Faye.”
***
Amande wondered if Ennis had ever in his life been alone with a woman. The man just would not stop talking, even though he was still standing half a room away from her. It was entirely possible that he was more scared of her than she was of him. This was saying something, since she was still clutching a weapon in her lap.
She now knew that after thirteen years of on-again-off-again parenting, his mother had chosen drugs over him and disappeared. Since her mother had only taken a year to make that decision, Amande thought she was the winner in the shitty-birth-mother contest. She wondered if he’d figured out yet that when shitty people leave a person’s life, they make room for someone wonderful to come in. And this took her full-circle to the question of whether Ennis appreciated that Sister Mama was wonderful for stepping into his life when his shitty birth mother stepped out.
She’d also learned that the only thing Ennis had gleaned from his expensive private school education was that rich people could be as shitty as poor people. Since it took him a while to explain this, she’d had plenty of time to wonder whether she should alert the Nobel people so they could fly him to Oslo to accept his Peace Prize.
Ennis had made sure she knew how good he was at running his aunt’s business. As best Amande could tell from his rambling monologue, his management skills were not nearly as fabulous as he thought they were. His understanding of the concepts of “accounts receivable” and “profit margin” seemed to be about as vague as her father’s, which is why Faye had the final financial word on their family’s business and its finances.
Amande did give Ennis credit for one important skill, maybe the most important one in his line of work. He could sell things. In person, his twitchy personality would scare the bejesus out of customers, but he must be doing something right online. Ennis had been quite believable as he described how quickly he was building his great-aunt’s business.
Sister Mama’s hoodoo products apparently brought in way more cash than Ennis spent making and shipping them. Thus, the amount of money retained in the company’s bank account grew every month. This was all Ennis knew about their financial status, and it seemed to be all he wanted to know.
It occurred to Amande that a business could coast for a very long time on good sales, even if its manager was a total idiot. The day would come, though, when the sales dipped or an unexpected expense loomed. That was when a good manager would save the day. She hoped Sister Mama was still in good enough shape to deal with the next crisis when it came, because her heir apparent didn’t seem up to it.
Ennis must have run out of things to say, so he took a step forward and said, “Hey,” just as he’d done when he first arrived. Amande didn’t know whether she wanted him to come closer or not. In a panic, she decided that she didn’t. She reached for a pencil with her left hand, signaling that she needed to get back to work and that it was time for him to leave. In her lap, she shifted her grip on the weapon. Suddenly, his nervous head twitched in the direction of the window behind her, and his whole body was in motion.
This was the moment Amande had feared when she had palmed the spear-point, but something wasn’t right. He was running faster than she’d have ever suspected such an awkward man could move—evidently his twitchiness also expressed itself in terms of quick reflexes—but he wasn’t moving toward her.
He bypassed her desk and disappeared into the closet in under a second. She knew by the slamming sound of the service door that he was out of the building a heartbeat later. Two heartbeats after that, Amande was absolutely not surprised to see her mother enter through the usual door. If Ennis’ courageous exit, triggered by the approach of a scrawny middle-aged woman, was intended to make her feel undying attraction, it wasn’t working.
Ennis was sharp enough to know that the incident at the diner would not endear him to her mother. Rather than try to change Faye’s mind about him, he hadn’t stuck around long enough to do what a normal man would have done—shake her hand and charm her in preparation for the day when he might want to ask her daughter out. But why should she expect Ennis to do what a normal man would do? Any fool could see that he wasn’t normal. And any fool could see that Amande would be an idiot to go out with him, although that’s what he seemed to want.
Amande saw no need to worry her mother with this knowledge.
***
Faye settled herself at her worktable, proud to see how focused Amande was on her work. She wanted badly to ask her how far she’d gotten with the transcription of the Armistead letter, but she held her tongue. Parenting a toddler was so vastly different from parenting a young adult that they might as well be two different activities. Two-year-olds were tiny people with a death wish. If parents didn’t meddle with their every desire, they might not live to see three. Michael’s recent encounter with a sharp stick was proof of that.
By contrast, meddling with an adolescent’s every desire was a virtual guarantee that one’s child would head for the hills at age eighteen, never to be seen again.
Nope. Faye wasn’t going to fall into that trap. Amande was a responsible young woman. She’d have her job completed by the end of the day and Faye would hear about it then. Faye nodded in her general direction and set to work on her own tasks.
***
Amande took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. If her mother had come snooping at her desk, she’d have realized that not a single word of the Armistead letter had been transcribed while she was gone. This would have triggered a barrage of questions about what she’d been doing or, worse, a long reproachful look. Amande hated Faye’s reproachful looks.
Grateful to have dodged both those bullets, she squinted at her computer’s clock and felt encouraged. She could absolutely finish this letter before the end of the workday. Thus, she could safely keep Ennis and his unsettling visit to herself.
This was good. If Faye were privy to any knowledge of this visit, the barrage of questions might last until her twenty-first birthday, unless Amande cracked and committed matricide. Since she loved her mother and wanted to keep her alive, Amande focused on transcribing the letter and on keeping her mouth shut until quitting time.
Chapter Twelve
Faye couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a white-haired lady, decked out in a polka-dotted dress and pearls, bawling out a middle-aged man who was taking his punishment with his head held high. Probably she’d seen her grandmother bless out a wayward plumber or two, but this man wasn’t dressed like he was ready to unstop a drain. He was wearing a suit and tie, and neither was cheap.
“Miss Myrna…” he was saying, “Miss Myrna, you know I grew up in this town. I’d never do anything that wouldn’t make you proud.”
Faye couldn’t say exactly what emotion she saw on Myrna’s face, but she was pretty sure Myrna wasn’t proud of this man and whatever it was he was planning to do. Amande stood speechless at Faye’s left elbow.
At one point in her tirade, Myrna gathered herself well enough to leave aside Victorian ejaculations like “Well, I never...” and “You are no gentleman,” and construct a sentence of her own. She did this with style. “Gilbert Marlowe, my ancestors are rolling over in their graves right this minute. If Tilda were here, she could tell you what they thought, but I can guess right well. I don’t have her talents for talking to the departed, but I know what they’d tell me if I did. They’d say to tell you, ‘No.’”
Marlowe seemed to be waiting until she finished venting. He didn’t look like he made a habit of listening to opinions that differed from his own, but he stood his ground, silent. Eve
ntually, he seemed to decide that he had listened to Myrna sputter things like, “The very idea!” and “How dare you suggest such a thing?” for a respectful amount of time. Saying simply, “I hope you know how sorry I am for your loss,” he took his leave and returned to his waiting limousine. Limos did have a way of catching the eye, even for people like Faye who had no burning desire to ever ride in one.
Myrna fired her parting shot at both the fleeing man and his companion, unrecognizable through the darkened glass of the limousine’s rear window.
“Tell your chauffeur to drive that fancy car back to Pittsburgh, and for the love of God, take this week’s hussy with you. I have yet to meet one who was fit to cross my threshold.”
As the limousine pulled away from the curb, Faye and Amande ushered Myrna across that threshold and waited for her to quit talking long enough to catch her breath. After the limo had receded into the distance, Myrna was still sputtering. “Can you imagine? It would be like…like Disneyland…with little mechanical things dressed up like our ancestors. And Tilda not cold in her grave.”
It took two cups of tea, which Myrna insisted on brewing herself, to find out what the man had said that was so upsetting. Gilbert Marlowe had made a career in Pittsburgh as a developer, and a successful one, but he wanted to come home to build the development that would cap his career. Resort hotels, an Ayurvedic spa, a huge theater for Spiritualist meetings and speakers, a golf course, a children’s museum complete with carnival rides…if there was a way to separate metaphysics-minded tourists from their money, this man was planning it for Rosebower. If he had come to Myrna hoping for the Armistead family’s stamp of approval, he had undoubtedly left without it.
“Tilda was tougher than me. I don’t know how many years she held that seat on the town council. I couldn’t have done it, myself. I lack her moral fortitude and her ability to speak truth to fools, but I did pay attention when she talked politics.”
Faye wasn’t sure she agreed with Myrna’s assessment of her own ability to deal with fools.
“My sister would never have voted in favor of Gilbert’s tawdry scheme, and she kept the other councilors in line. If the wrong person takes her place on the council, Gilbert will be able to do as he pleases.” Myrna set her teacup down because her hand was trembling too much to keep it aloft. The cup trembled and clattered on its saucer, making Myrna’s frailty audible. “Oh, Faye. The truth is that there is no right person. With Tilda gone, there’s no one with enough gumption to take her place. Gilbert has won. So why did he come here? To rub the whole thing in my face?”
Myrna’s point was well-taken. Based on her description of local politics, Tilda’s death had left a power vacuum in Rosebower, but Faye couldn’t imagine that Myrna would be the one to fill it. If Tilda’s replacement on the town council was to Gilbert Marlowe’s liking, then there was nothing to stop him. Still, if he were really a power-mad scoundrel who destroyed small towns while tying defenseless women to railroad tracks, why had he just scuttled away from a sick lady who was past eighty? Something didn’t add up.
Faye was, by nature, protective of elderly people. She didn’t like to think of Myrna as a pawn.
Amande was tapping her on the arm, hard. “The letter. You told her about it this afternoon, right?”
The letter. It was the reason they had come to Myrna’s house after quitting work for the day. A full hour had passed since Amande had finished transcribing it. If the girl didn’t get a chance to read her transcription to Myrna soon, she was going to burst. And then she was going to have a nervous breakdown.
“Great-great-great-aunt Virginia Armistead’s letter? You brought it?” Myrna’s face shone in a way that her fellow Spiritualists might have called supernatural.
“No, I didn’t bring the letter. It’s too fragile to take out of the museum,” Amande said. “But I copied it for you. Do you want to hear?”
“Indeed, I do. And I hope you two will join me for dinner afterwards. I threw a little something in the oven while the tea was steeping.”
Faye had thought she’d felt something savory strike her nose. The plan had been to grab a bite at the diner, but this smelled way better. They’d have to eat and run, though, if they were to keep their appointment with Toni for an evening spent watching Dara and Willow strut their stuff. Amande had been cautioned not to mention this to Myrna. Faye didn’t want to get into the middle of any family dynamics she didn’t understand.
“We didn’t come here just to get some of your cooking, but yes. Thank you. We’d love to stay.” Faye nodded at Amande, saying, “Would you like to read?”
Amande was already pulling a neatly folded sheet of paper from her purse. She looked up to see if Myrna was ready for her to begin.
Myrna beamed, resting her arms on the table and letting them take the weight of her slumping torso.
“My dearest Hosea, I do so wish you were with me. When one is blessed with a partner in life, one does not wish to be without him on days of great import.…”
Faye always loved the sweetness of Amande’s voice, darker and deeper than most girls her age, but she was struck by the change in tone as she read Virginia Armistead’s words. It was as if the formality of an overeducated Victorian woman had invaded the girl’s speech. Her enunciation was clearer and her delivery was remarkably deliberate for a young person. Like Myrna, Faye rested her elbows on the table and enjoyed the words of a woman who had long ago disappeared into the afterlife in which Spiritualists believed so fervently.
“We women will soon raise our voices for the things that are our due—the right to own the things that are ours, the right to independent thought and action, and most of all, the right to speak our minds and be heard by our own government. These are not unreasonable requests. You have freely given me such independence as is yours to give, every day of our lives together, but you must understand that the word ‘given’ rankles. Am I entitled to none of the privileges that were yours by right at birth?” Amande’s voice gained the urgency that Virginia Armistead had set to paper so many years before. “You do not treat me as a lesser being, but society does, and it is time for this to stop. It is time for us to be heard.”
Myrna burst into spontaneous applause.
“Wait! There’s more,” Amande flapped the paper in the air.
“I know. But it just seemed like a good time to cheer for Great-great-great-aunt Virginia. Never mind me. Carry on.”
The low, sweet voice resumed. “I haven’t yet had the pleasure of seeing dear Mrs. Stanton. I am given to understand that she has been at work with her pen.…”
As Amande read, Faye let herself relax into the sound of her daughter’s voice and the feel of Myrna’s warm home and the smell of the coming meatloaf. Some moments were so simple and perfect that Faye’s nattering brain was able to be quiet and enjoy them. This was one of those moments.
***
“Thank you for finding my great-great-great-aunt’s letter. And thank you for coming to tell me about it.”
Myrna patted Amande on the arm, and the pleasure on her face made Faye realize how rare the company of young people had been in the woman’s life. “When Tilda was your age, she used to help Father in his work. People came—my, how they came—and Father would put them in touch with their loved ones. He and Tilda would take them in the séance room while I waited upstairs with Mother, out of the way. After their time with Father and with their ancestors, our guests simply beamed with happiness. Imagine! Communing with a loved one who had passed over, someone you missed very much.” She put a hand to her own ample breast. “I miss Tilda so.”
They paused in Myrna’s front door. Faye knew they needed to go. Toni was waiting for them, but it felt wrong to walk away from Myrna’s grief.
“Sometimes, when Father didn’t need her, Tilda came over here and helped our uncle with his readings. I wanted to be part of helping those people; truly, I did, but Tilda was the one with the gift. She was only a year older, but even when we were little girls
, I could see that she had something I didn’t. But enough of that. I had Tilda, and she was a wonderful sister. And my parents and my dear niece Dara. And now, you! I have so many friends. Why else do we live, except to love other people? Love like that can’t possibly be stopped by something as meaningless as death.”
Amande hugged Myrna impulsively and thanked her for the fabulous meal, then Faye did the same. As they hurried, anxious to be on time for Dara’s show, Faye was left to wonder how women of Myrna’s generation had acquired the knack of plunking a fabulous meal on the table half an hour after extending an invitation to unexpected guests. Maybe Myrna’s freezer was full of the homemade version of TV dinners, ready at a moment’s notice.
Amande must have been thinking the same thing, “I thought she said Tilda was the good cook in their family. Did you notice a difference?”
Remembering the tomato sauce dripping over the sides of Myrna’s meat loaf, Faye shook her head. “If Tilda’s cooking was better, my taste buds aren’t good enough to tell.”
Rituals: A Faye Longchamp Mystery (Faye Longchamp Series) Page 11
