When Clement rejoined them, the women were discussing Greta's horse-drawn carriage idea and were anxious to get back to the house to find a way for the bride to slip out a side door, get in the carriage, and circle around to approach the driveway from the main gate.
Cyncy stood. “I'm sure we can find a route through the park. Afterwards, we can finish with Mrs. Garcia.”
Clement signaled for the check.
“Mrs. Garcia! Wait till you see what she gave me.” Greta reached behind her. “My purse!” She bent to look under the table. “I hung it on the back of my chair. It's gone.”
The waiter and hostess, busily moving chairs and shining a flashlight under the table, helped them search, but the purse couldn't be found.
After filing a police report, Greta got busy canceling her credit cards.
Cyncy suggested that they go back to the island for a peaceful, crime-free afternoon.
After a lengthy swim in the family pool, Greta took a shower. Some gremlins, as she'd begun to think of the domestic staff that functioned quietly and efficiently around the Bellefontaines, had straightened her room while she was swimming. She reached into the closet to find a fresh blouse and her hand brushed against the jacket she'd worn earlier. There was something hard in the pocket. The recipe book! It wasn't lost with the stolen purse.
She finished dressing just as the phone rang. Sheriff's deputies were in the main house. They'd recovered Greta's purse.
Cyncy and Greta could hear Douveline's querulous tone as they came through the garden door. “Clement, what were you thinking? Why would you take the young ladies to such a place? I thought you and Laddie went to the mainland on business.” She turned on Laddie. “Where were you while all this was going on?”
Cyncy dashed into the room and perched on the ottoman near Douveline's chair. “Please don't upset yourself. We had a lovely lunch. These things happen. It was no one's fault.”
Two deputies were standing to one side. Laddie thanked them for their consideration in bringing the purse to the island, and introduced Greta, who signed some papers and examined the handbag. “I don't understand. Nothing is missing. Not even the cash. Who would steal my purse and drop it in an alley behind the restaurant without taking anything?”
“A guilty conscience, my dear.” Laddie sat next to Greta and took her hand. “It's possible this thief, an otherwise decent fellow, reconsidered at the last moment. Or someone stepped into the alley to take a phone call or smoke a cigarette and scared him off.”
Greta slid her hand from Laddie's. “But the crook already had my purse. The hard part was done.”
“All this talk about crime and criminals. Detectives and sheriffs appearing at all hours. I have had quite enough. My nerves are shattered. Perhaps some brandy...”
“An excellent idea. Let's have it in your room, na-nan sha. When I was a child, you'd ask me to read Cajun poetry to you. Often I'd fall asleep on the futon in your dressing room. In those days we drank hot chocolate, but tonight brandy sounds delightful.”
Douveline brightened. “We have several volumes edited by David Cheramie. Blanche, please ask Mrs. Michaels to have them sent to my room and to make up the futon. And have someone retrieve Miss Cyncy's nightwear from the guesthouse.”
Greta noticed that Cyncy, so clearly capable of fending for herself, fell right into the family pattern of letting others do her most mundane chores.
Laddie offered to escort Greta to the guesthouse, but Douveline intervened.
“Whoever Mrs. Michaels is sending for Cyncy's things, Angela, I suppose, can walk over with Greta. She can turn down the bed, fluff the pillows, check the supplies in the kitchenette, and see that Greta is settled in for the night.”
Greta didn't think any of those tasks needed to be done by anyone other than herself, but to avoid alone time with Laddie, she cheerfully agreed.
Within a few minutes, a young woman in her early twenties, wearing the ubiquitous golf shirt, this one a bright salmon, appeared in the doorway.
“Angela, this is Miss Greta. She'll be staying in the guesthouse. Miss Cyncy will be staying with me.”
“Miss Cyncy's night things are on the bench next to the futon, which has been turned down for the night. I decided to get that ready before tending to Miss Greta.”
“Angela, you're a peach.”
Cyncy's familiar tone in speaking to a servant made Douveline wince, but she held her tongue.
On the short walk to the guesthouse, Greta asked Angela about her life on the island, and was not surprised to learn that the people who worked on the island generally didn't live there.
“I'm from a fourth-generation fishing family. We live on Pine Island, not far from where the Bellefontaines dock their boats when they go to the mainland. My father and brothers are commercial fishermen, mostly snapper, grouper, and snook.”
Greta tried to say that Angela's help was not necessary, but Angela cut her short with a curt, “It's my job.”
So Greta followed along from room to room as Angela talked about fish and family. “Odds are, if you eat in any number of restaurants in southwest Florida, my family caught your supper earlier in the day.”
She flashed a wide grin and closed the door to Greta's room behind her.
Greta glanced at her watch, surprised it was only eight-thirty. She turned on the television and was scrolling through the channel guide when she remembered the recipe book. She'd already decided to check with Angela's father before recommending a fish course. She also wanted to consult with Mrs. Garcia about several cornbread recipes ranging from sweet to savory. That left soup, salad, an entrée, vegetables, and dessert still to be determined.
In the recipe book, she came across a venison soup that looked intriguing but feared that the animal-rights activists would pitch a fit. Pepper Pot Soup might be a more prudent choice. She turned the page expecting another soup. Instead she found a note scribbled in a cramped hand, quite different from the flowing cursive of the recipes.
Greta turned the lamp to its highest wattage, held the book under the light, and read the message several times. She thought about calling Cyncy, decided against it, and went to bed with the book under her pillow for safekeeping. The more she tossed and turned, the more she feared that Silas Newberry was killed to prevent the note in the recipe book from becoming public.
Early the next morning, when Cyncy came back to the guesthouse, Greta was waiting. “I've discovered something that may cause your family great pain. I wanted to tell you before the others.” And she held out the recipe book opened to the note.
Cyncy read silently. Tears filled her eyes. “We never knew.”
“It may not be authentic.”
“It certainly looks authentic to me. Where did you get it?”
As soon as Greta said Mr. Newberry asked Mrs. Garcia to protect the heirloom, Cyncy nodded. “Someone killed Newberry to keep this hidden.”
“Who would kill over this?”
“Any Bellefontaine would kill to protect the reputation of any other
Bellefontaine, even one who died more than a hundred years ago.”
“You're talking about your own family. Let's have the book analyzed by an expert before you make wild accusations.”
“Not necessary. In north Florida there is a family named Fontaine, descended from slaves, who claim kinship to us. Since our family lore insists that
Bellefontaines never owned slaves, we thought it a sheer coincidence of names. Now I think differently. After I shower and change, we'll confront the family.”
“But...”
“There are no buts. I am a Bellefontaine. We take credit for what we do right, and we take responsibility for our wrongdoing. In this case, history must be cleansed to save the family honor. Even if no one ever discovers the truth, the stain marks us all.”
While Cyncy dressed, Greta speculated about the Bellefontaines. Who in this family, so spoiled that they didn't pour their own wine or turn down their bed covers, could muste
r the gumption to commit murder?
Surely not Blanche. She was the one member of the family who wasn't entangled in honor and status. And she was often too withdrawn to speak. How could she get close enough to plunge a knife into another person? Far too intimate.
Murder to protect the Bellefontaine name didn't seem out of line for Douveline, but she probably lacked the physical strength to actually kill. That left Laddie, a man who puffed with self-importance each time the name Bellefontaine was spoken, and Clement, who seemed too professorial to be a murderer but would surely be an ardent protector of all things Bellefontaine.
And if Bellefontaine hands could not be dirtied, who would they trust with their secrets? Swanson. His livelihood might depend on keeping the secret. Greta grabbed the phone, called Mrs. Garcia, and was disappointed to hear that Mr. Swanson was at the dentist the morning of “the unfortunate incident.”
Cyncy strode into the room, her demeanor brimming with resolve. She picked up the book, opened the front door, and waved Greta through it. “Breakfast, my dear.”
Douveline sat at the head of the table, sipping a cup of tea, while Mrs. Michaels helped Blanche select food at the sideboard. Clement and Laddie entered together sharing a laugh over some trivial comment.
“Gorgeous day!” Clement appeared to be in an expansive mood. “We should have planned breakfast on the patio. Perhaps lunch, Douveline?” He took a plate from Mrs. Michaels and sat on Douveline's right.
Greta took a cup of coffee and joined them, her eyes on Cyncy, who was piling food on her plate and joking as if she'd not a care in the world. And yet, in just moments, she would tear this family apart with her accusations of murder past and murder present.
Douveline dismissed Mrs. Michaels and asked what everyone had planned for the day.
Cyncy grabbed the opportunity. “Recipes. Mrs. Garcia gave me a family cookbook from the Civil War. We're going over the recipes to see if any would do for the wedding menu.”
Greta peered through her eyelashes. Everyone seemed perfectly normal, listening with half an ear as they ate breakfast.
Cyncy pulled out the recipe book and untied the green ribbon.
Douveline put her hand out as if to take the book but Cyncy held it to her chest. “Not yet, na-nan sha, I want to read something to you all.” She opened the book and read the flyleaf. “Property of Josiane Bellefontaine eighteen sixty-three.”
“Let me see that,” Laddie demanded, but Cyncy shook her head.
“There are dozens of recipes, all in Josiane's hand. Several are for meals I recognize from the Fontaine House kitchen. Still, there is an odd passage toward the middle of the book; a note written by someone else.”
“December 1864. The Yankee Army down to Fort Myers believe Master Bellfontaine is for the Union. When they eyes closed, he hunts runaway slaves. Sells us back to our owners. ‘Cept for me. He keeps me for his own pleasure. Be no more than a hour ago I saw with my own eyes Master run a long knife through a Union soldier. Poor man, he stop by where he shouldn't. Soon Master find me. My words writ here speak for me and that poor Union boy. Who find this, tell the Yankees what Master done.”
“Stop. For the sake of this family, stop.”
Clement stood. He stared at each Bellefontaine, willing them to believe as he did.
“I could not allow Newberry to desecrate our family honor with this—this supposition. I defended the Bellefontaine name.”
Not one member of his family filled the appalled silence.
Clement understood. “You may do as you wish. I have no choice but to go for a sail.”
He walked to Douveline and took her hand, and kissed it reverently. Then he turned to his sister and kissed her on both cheeks. “Be not afraid, little bird.”
Blanche took his hands and smiled, teary-eyed. “You haven't called me that since we were children. God keep you, my brother.”
Laddie stood and the two men shook hands. Clement nodded to Cyncy and left the room.
Greta froze momentarily. Clement was going to drown himself at sea. And no one was going to stop him. She started to speak but Cyncy grabbed her arm, squeezing tightly.
After a protracted silence, which grew to an eerie stillness, Douveline was the first to speak. “Sailing was always Clement's favorite activity.
“Blanche, in a few weeks you will implore the publisher to forgo release of Clement's book. Since we own a large portion of the company, I'm sure they'll comply.
“Laddie, don't you think it's time we upgrade the educational program at Fontaine House? Perhaps we could be clearer about the Civil War era. Please work with Swanson to see that the changes are complete within the year.
“Cyncy dear, please copy the recipes you might find useful for the wedding and return the book to me. It's very old; I'll lock it up for safekeeping.
“Perhaps I'll sit outside for a while. The Gulf is so lovely in the morning.”
Copyright © 2012 Terrie Farley Moran
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Fiction: LOSING IT
by Melodie Johnson Howe
* * * *
Art by Mark Evan Walker
* * * *
A new story by Melodie Johnson Howe is always something to look forward to, and now there's a collection of her stories available from Crippen & Landru. Shooting Hollywood: The Diana Poole Stories follows middle-aged actress Poole through cases steeped in the glamour and greed of the movie industry. The author was herself a Hollywood starlet (one of the last of them, she says!) before turning full-time to fiction writing.
Callie Taylor held the large flat hand of Anne Borden, who was sitting across from her. As she glided the polish brush down her new client's nail, leaving a streak of shiny red, she tried not to look at the shawl the woman was wearing. Callie felt a growing unease as she continued with the manicure.
The shawl was paisley-print cashmere woven in muted earth colors. It was very expensive. Callie knew this because she had bought it, or one just like it, on a whim.
It had been late at night and Mike, her boyfriend, was in the living room working on his screenplay, which he never seemed to finish. She was in the bedroom aimlessly searching the Internet. She was drawn on the Saks Fifth Avenue Web site to a photograph of the shawl thrown carelessly around a model's thin shoulders. Its rich tapestry oozed culture and quiet money and cost over a thousand dollars. If you can't afford to buy something, Callie had thought, why not pick the best? If you can't pay for it, what does it matter? In an odd way it was like being rich, she reasoned—you can have whatever you want. She was smart enough to know that this was two-in-the-morning logic, but it didn't keep her from placing the order for the shawl and hitting Send. She didn't even hold her breath when she did it.
Callie leaned back on the bed, suddenly terrified at her daring. She had spent most of her life being tentative, even fearful. She knew she was working below her abilities. She knew she depended on Mike to keep her ... what? Safe. She believed in keeping her head down, which if you thought about it was perfect for a manicurist.
When the Saks Fifth Avenue box arrived, it was as if it were her birthday, though she had just celebrated her twenty-third a month ago. Mike had given her one of those cards where you hit a button and it played some rappers singing bow-wow-wow and gave her age in dog years.
She opened the box, lifted the snow-white tissue paper, and pulled out the shawl. Draping the soft, lush fabric over her shoulders made her feel beautiful. She peered into the mirror. She didn't just feel beautiful, she looked beautiful. The earth tones complimented her red hair, which waved in thick curls around her pale oval face, and turned her hazel eyes into a sparkling emerald green. The paisley-print shawl gave her sophistication she never thought she'd have.
Pox, Mike's dog, ran into the room. Part pit bull and part boxer, he grabbed a fringed edge and tugged and shook the shawl. When she'd finally wrestled it from his mouth, she discovered his sharp fangs had left two holes in the fabric.
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Distraught, she slumped on the end of the bed and cried. How could she return it now? How could she pay for it? Why did everything in her life become flawed or marred? Callie knew what happened to the shawl was because she had not kept her head down. She had dared to look up.
Wiping her face with her hand, she stood, threw on the shawl again, and faced the mirror, trying to see where the holes were. To her relief, they disappeared in the folds. Smiling at her image, she clutched the shawl more tightly to her body and decided the two holes had made the shawl hers. After all, she could pay it off on her credit card little by little. Looking down at Pox, who was now wiggling his rear end, she patted his head and told him he was a good boy.
A couple of nights later, she and Mike went to a movie and then to the Starlight Lounge on Melrose Avenue. Wearing her shawl, she sat in a booth drinking dirty martinis with him and arguing over the film. He thought it was hilarious. She thought it was juvenile.
“Then you won't like my script,” he snapped, jutting out his large jaw, which, for some reason Callie could never figure out, made him look more vulnerable than strong. “It's about two man-boys. A bro-mance.” He shoved a lock of dark hair off his forehead. “What's that poncho kind of thing you have on?”
“It's a shawl.”
“It doesn't look like you.” His icy blue eyes assessed her.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It's just not you. You're more ‘everyday.’ You know?”
She pulled the shawl protectively around her and said nothing.
Mike continued, “You're average. Normal. The poncho's making some kind of a statement. It looks too expensive. Like something your clients would wear.”
Callie wondered why she shouldn't make a statement, why she shouldn't wear something that looked expensive. “Are you saying a manicurist can't wear what her clients wear?” Hurt, she tossed back her second martini and ordered another.
“God, what's wrong with you? I was just saying it doesn't look like something you'd ... oh, forget it.”
They sat in tense silence. Mike yawned, not covering his mouth. His way of saying he was bored with her. Then Callie asked sweetly, “How's your script going?”
EQMM, August 2012 Page 15
