“You think Emily Edwards is crazy?”
“No,” George said. “Emily’s one of this earth’s most sensible people. I’ve never known Felicity all that well, though we’ve bumped into each other forever, but it strikes me that the two of them are like opposite sides of a coin—right brain, left brain. Responsible, flighty. Practical, creative. Science, art. Felicity’s the one the crazy label would stick to if you were throwing it around.”
Sam was quiet for a few blocks. Then she turned and faced George. “You think I’m going to end up going to Savannah?”
“Now why would you do that?”
“That’s where Emily said Randolph Percy’s from.”
“So?”
“I thought we just had this conversation.”
George nodded his handsome head and his silver forelock flopped. “Well, it’d make Hoke happy, wouldn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t be going to do that damned bus thing.”
“Never say never, dear. Might pan out as the biggest story of your career.”
They’d turned off Peachtree onto the wide boulevard of Ponce de Leon, lined with once-great houses, many of them now apartment buildings. Soon they were at Fairview, their street and the southern boundary of the Druid Hills neighborhood where the old houses were still grand, as were the lawns, the trees an unbroken green canopy across the winding streets thanks to the developers in the century’s early years who convinced the utility companies to run their lines in back yards.
The three-story split-timber Tudor where Sam had first come to live as a girl after her parents died was set well back from Fairview. A brick drive, reflected in many mullioned windows, wound up and then around the wide, comfortable house across the street from Miriam Talbot’s red Georgian Revival. Now Miriam waved gaily at them from her front yard where she was poking in a flower bed.
“I want you to come over later and have some tea,” George called through the open car window.
“Did you have lunch with Emily?”
He nodded.
“And there’s something more you want to know. Want to pick my brain, don’t you, dear?”
*
Harpo fell into a shimmy of delight the minute Sam and George opened the back door.
“Dust mop!” she cried, picking him up for a hug. His heart pounded through his strong little chest.
“We’ve been baking all morning long,” said Peaches, coming out of the kitchen into the back hall. The pencil-thin light-skinned black woman stood with a hand on one hip—her usual pose.
“You and Harpo?” George asked.
“Sure. He’s a good tester. Great nose.”
“And where’s Horace?”
“Upstairs at his drawing table.” She hooked a thumb in that direction. “Still plotting against your bedroom.”
Her husband, the family chauffeur and major-domo who was also a self-taught cabinetmaker and draftsman, was redesigning George’s rooms. He was determined that by the time George went completely blind his suite would be as efficient as ship’s quarters.
“The Widow Talbot’s coming over to join us for some tea in a little while. You think you and Harpo could rustle us up some cookies?”
“Probably. I made about a million for my board meeting tomorrow. What you think, dog?”
“What he ought to think is that it seems ridiculous for the chairperson of the city’s campaign against illiteracy to be baking cookies for its board,” said Sam.
“Good thing he thinks for himself, huh, dog?”
Actually, what Harpo thought was that Peaches was going to have to play second fiddle now that his mistress was home. He followed on Sam’s heels but stopped at the bottom of the wide back stairs and gave Peaches a brown-eyed apology.
“Go on, Mr. Fickle.” She shooed him. “No more béarnaise sauce for you. Not in this lifetime.”
*
In the airy yellow and white bedroom of her second-floor apartment, Sam changed into old jeans, a T-shirt, worn sneakers, then flopped on the long white linen sofa in her living room. Harpo padded in after her and collapsed on a rag rug.
“Come here, Poops.” She patted a spot beside her.
He sighed but otherwise didn’t move, except for his eyes that rolled up in his head and then closed.
She could do with a little nap herself. She flattened one of the bright print pillows under her head and stretched out. But when she closed her eyes, her mind wouldn’t rest.
Miss Felicity in the clutches of a ladykiller? Was Emily on to something or was she nuts? Or jealous? What were the chances for romance for a septuagenarian?
If, according to statistics, her own chances as a woman near forty for finding a mate were equal to those of her being kidnapped by a terrorist, the pickings for old ladies must be mighty slim. But then, money probably changed the odds.
Yet wouldn’t that be awful at any age, to think that your appeal was tied to your bank account? She herself had dated a joker or two who’d been awfully curious about her condo overlooking the Golden Gate, her expensive car, whether or not she had a private income.
But attraction was such a can of worms anyway. Who was she to say money shouldn’t count? No more than a pretty face? God knows, she’d always been a sucker for one of those. After all, what had first drawn her to Sean?
She glanced at his photo on the mantelpiece. What a looker he’d been. A sharp pain grabbed her heart. Even when he lay dead in the middle of rain-slick Van Ness (she’d gotten there that quickly when she’d heard the call on the police band), he was beautiful. The impact had simply flipped him up in the air, and when he came down there was only the tiniest trickle of blood from beneath his thicket of dark red hair. His clear blue eyes were open; there’d been a little smile on his face, as if he were looking forward to something. He’d been on his way home to change. They were going dancing. That was one of the things she loved about him most, the way the man could boogie. Also, his calmness, his quiet manner, the fireworks when he did lose his temper. She provoked him sometimes just to hear him curse. There was something incredibly sexy about the fierce words rolling off his otherwise gentlemanly tongue. Those other things he did with his tongue. The fact that he thought she was the greatest thing since sliced bread. The way he made her feel protected from the world, even though he called her, in his native Brooklynese, “my tough broad.” How fabulous it had been to lean on his shoulder when she tired of keeping up the facade.
She shook her head and sat up. Would she still want all that when she was Emily’s and Felicity’s age?
Sure. You bet.
And right now she’d like to meet this Randolph Percy. From Emily’s description, he must be a real piece of work. A Southern original. They didn’t make them as colorful elsewhere. At least, not that she’d met.
Nor as charming. Look at Beau. The four-flusher of all time (not to mention another pretty face), and he could charm the panties off you in half a second. Unless you kept running.
But now what about this Randolph Percy? Why would he want to kill Felicity? She’d asked Emily that, and she’d answered for the money. He wouldn’t have to kill her for that. She’d never met a Southern lady yet, at least one of Felicity’s vintage, who wouldn’t just turn over everything she had to a husband. All he’d have to do was marry her.
Atlanta ladies grew up under their daddies’ thumbs. They married well, sometimes with a little coaxing, and then the reins to their lives were passed on—to their charming husbands, their ever-so-charming husbands. Then the ladies spent the rest of their lives keeping themselves and their houses and their ever-so-charming children beautifully schooled, curried, and combed.
And that train of thought brought her back to the purported deb strippers at Tight Squeeze—junior members of the same milieu. What the hell were they doing? Kicking over the traces? Running little races of their own? But so safe, within the circle of their daddies’ arms, that they thought they wouldn’t get caught if they stepped over the line a little, occasionall
y took money for their favors? Or it wouldn’t matter if they did. Everything would be all right, just as it always had been.
But this kind of game playing was bad news, no matter who they were. And there were prices to be paid that had nothing to do with the law. They’d learn that soon enough.
Sam knew Charlie had steered her right. She was on to something. That bouncer’s eyes had slid, just a little, when she’d asked him about the imaginary sixteen-year-old. She’d poked him in the right place. She could taste it.
“Samantha!” George called from downstairs on the intercom. “Miriam’s here.” He paused for a beat. “And Beau.”
*
They were all laughing as she entered the living room.
“Sammy,” Beau said and stood. “How lucky I am to have stopped by just as Mom was coming over for a visit. Hope you don’t mind I invited myself along.”
Of course she did. She gave him a look then waved him down again to the striped sofa. She flopped into a wingback chair across the room.
“You’re looking awfully pretty.”
The flip of her hand said no big deal.
“Roses in your cheeks.” He grinned. The man never gave up, though exactly what it was he wanted was still a mystery to her. Probably to him, too.
“What were you all laughing about?”
“Oh,” Miriam said and fanned herself. “Beau was telling us the most preposterous story about a pig. The things my son does for a living.”
“You ought to know about this, Sam. You heard on the wire about that bus hijacking in Savannah?”
“Your friend Hoke thinks it’s the most important news since we pulled out of Vietnam.”
Beau shrugged. “Well, anyway, it seems that the hijacking had something to do with the theft of a pig—all goes back to a feud between these two families near Savannah. The cause of the pig’s death was called into question, we were asked to autopsy it.”
“And?”
“Well, we don’t know yet, but I’ll be sure and keep you posted.”
“Thanks but no thanks, though I’m sure Hoke would love to have the scoop.”
“You sleep on a bed of nails last night?”
“No.” I’m always this way when I see you, you son of a bitch, she thought. But given the company, she didn’t say that. “Just a little harried. I’ve started working on something new, and I’ve got to take a few days and finish yet another project. I’m going over to Fripp.”
“Savannah’s right on your way then.”
“That’s exactly what Hoke said.”
“Listen, why don’t you let me take you to dinner tonight and tell you all about it? Might change your mind.”
About what, buster?
Miriam smiled at them. She had no idea what a bounder her son was. But she must have felt something in the air as she piped up, “So, Sam, what do you think of Emily?”
“I like her. Intelligent, says what’s on her mind.” Sam sweetly smiled at Beau. “She must have given her suitors fits.”
“She has,” Miriam said. “Always one step ahead of them. One of the most no-nonsense women. You know she was in the army?”
Sam nodded. She glanced at George, who was giving her the nod to take the lead. “What about her relationship with Felicity? Maybe a tad protective?”
Just then Horace entered the room with a silver tea service and a tray of food.
“Peaches thought you might want a little bite.”
“Peaches’s idea of a little bite is my idea of a meal,” Miriam protested.
“Praise the Lord.” Beau wasn’t shy, snagging a handful. “There’s nothing in the world better than her pimento cheese.” Then he stopped with a sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Except yours, of course, Mother.”
“Don’t be preposterous. I never pretended to be as good a cook as Peaches. I don’t know anyone who is.”
“You know she could cook for you every day,” said George. “Well, every day I can persuade her to take time out from her busy schedule.”
Sam’s head swiveled. What was this about? Had he popped the question?
The Mona Lisa had nothing on Miriam. “We’ll talk about that some other time,” she said and patted George’s hand. “Now where were we? I think you asked, is Emily too protective of Felicity?”
“Somebody’s always had to look after Miss Felicity,” Horace offered.
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause she’s no good about looking after her ownself. Some women are like that. Some are sunflowers, sturdy like you all and Miss Emily. But Miss Felicity, she’s a hothouse orchid. Needs a lot of looking after.” Horace paused.
Plugged in as he was to the lines of communication among the retainers of Atlanta’s elite, Horace had always been one of George’s most valuable sources.
“She’s smart enough to be on her own?” Sam asked.
“Oh, Felicity’s intelligent,” said Miriam. “But Emily’s the one who’s always run the show, since they’ve been living together, I mean.”
“And before that?”
“Well, it was Felicity’s banker husband, Joseph Morris. He and Felicity were married about forty years, maybe a little more than that. I remember they had an anniversary party at their house, and then Joseph died not too long after.”
“What was he like?”
“A nice man. Responsible. Always seemed crazy about Felicity. But…” Miriam trailed off.
“What?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that Joseph had an awful lot of pizzazz, if you know what I mean. He was perfectly comfortable with her going off to New York for the theater or to Europe with Emily while he stayed home. Of course, that was pretty much the way it was when they met. Felicity had been to New York to live for a while and Joseph had never left Atlanta.”
“Well, that was pretty daring, wasn’t it? Living in New York? Going off on her own—and she must have been very young.”
“She was. But it was different in those days. Girls would go to study theater and to act, which is what Felicity did. It was considered a little risqué, but acceptably so. They stayed in boarding houses that were more like college dorms with house mothers and rules and curfews. So their families knew that they were looked after as if they were away at school. Some of the houses were famous. I think Felicity stayed at Miss Agnew’s.”
“How long was she there?”
“I guess it was about three years.”
“Two,” Horace corrected.
“I’m sure you’re right. You have a better memory for those things than I do.”
“And her career? Did she do well?”
“Oh, yes, my dear. She was a very sought-after ingénue. Why, we would clip the notices. We were all so proud of her. We just knew that Felicity Edwards was going somewhere.”
“So what happened?”
“Well.” Miriam paused. “She came home. In—?” she asked and looked at Horace.
“1938. Married Mr. Morris in 1939, within six months. I remember the wedding.”
“I do, too,” said George. “It was the event of the season. I’d never seen so many penguin suits in my life.”
“And the women, Lord. Lace and organdy that went on for years. That’s when a wedding was a wedding. Parties for three months with every living detail written up in the Journal.” Miriam laid a hand on Samantha’s arm. “Dear, you would have simply died. The paper used to describe what every single lady wore and what they ate. Not your idea of journalism.”
“You could gain weight from the descriptions of all those gelatin and marshmallow salads,” said George.
“I can’t believe you’d read a word of it,” said Beau.
“Well, hell. You had to keep up with what was going on. What use was it to be the cream of Atlanta society if you didn’t look for your name in the paper?”
Sam snorted. There was nothing George took less seriously than society.
“So why did Felicity leave the stage?” Beau asked. “Why did she come home?”
Miriam shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. As I said, she enjoyed success, but it’s not as if she was a star, don’t you know? And she said that she’d had her fun and now it was time for her to get married and have children, and Atlanta was the place for that. She wouldn’t want to marry some boy way up there. But she never did, I mean, she and Joseph never had children. Maybe something happened.”
Horace picked up the teapot. “I’ll go get some more.” Sam stared at his back. He knew something he wasn’t saying.
“I think Emily went up there and stayed with her for a while that last year, and then they came home. Anyway,” she said and smoothed her lap, “I think I’ve been very patient about answering all these questions. Now it’s your turn. What is this all about?”
George and Samantha exchanged a look.
“Oh, I see,” she said. “Typical. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now.”
“Now, Miriam, you know Emily did come to me as a lawyer.”
“George Adams, you haven’t practiced law in five years. What you have practiced is poking your nose in other people’s business.”
George laughed. “And romancing you.”
“Fiddlesticks!” But she ran her hand along the magnificent string of pearls George had given her, Devonshire cream against her pink skin, then reached for his hand.
Beau stood, and without saying a word, grasped Sam’s elbows and pulled her to her feet.
“What?”
“I think these people want to be alone,” he whispered and propelled her into the entry hall. “Time for our exit.”
“Your exit.”
“Aw, Sammy. Come on.”
“Out,” she said and pointed.
His brow furrowed. He was even cuter when he was mad.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m Harpo.”
“Then go. You sneaked in here on your mother’s coattails. Despicable.”
“Tell me what this is all about with Felicity Edwards.”
“Don’t try to divert my attention. Besides, you heard what George said.”
“Bullshit. Did Emily retain him?”
Sam paused.
“See? I knew it. Tell me.”
“Nothing that would interest you.”
Then Hang All the Liars Page 5
