Then Hang All the Liars

by Sarah Shankman

  “I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.” Horace shook his head when she was finished. “Those, whoever they are, who’re responsible for this mess. Not with Miz Burkett on their tails.”

  “Hurry up in there,” Peaches called from the kitchen through the swinging door. “I’ve got a meeting to go to and I’m late already.”

  “I mourn the loss of gentility in the world.” George sighed. “You can’t even depend on being allowed the pleasures of a little conversation and a good cup of coffee.”

  With that, Peaches marched into the breakfast room and snatched both their plates away. “You can depend on the fact that people’ve got better things to do than wait while you lollygag around at the breakfast table, gossiping. Now I happen to know that Nicole Burkett has always been helpful to the unfortunate in this city and I won’t have you besmirching her good name.”

  “No doubt she gave the literacy program a sizable donation,” Sam theorized to the blackberry jam.

  “She most certainly did, for your information, and if you want anything else, please help yourselves. I’m gone.”

  “Which means Nicole could be Jack the Ripper and Peaches would defend her all the way to the gallows,” said Sam.

  “She’s done the best she could—nothing lots of other women haven’t,” Peaches snapped back through the closing door.

  “And what’s that?” Sam called.

  For an answer, Peaches turned the dishwasher on. Then, through the whooshing and churning, they heard the back door slam.

  “Shall I make some more coffee?” Horace asked, oblivious to Peaches, which was how they’d managed to stay married for fifty years.

  “Thanks, no. Please don’t let us keep you from getting on with your day, Horace,” said George.

  “Just one more thing.” Sam stopped him. “No, two.”

  “Yes?”

  “One, is Randolph Percy still staying at the Claridge Club?”

  “Last I heard.”

  “Good. I’m going to see if I can find him this morning right after I make my calls. Two, you remember the other day when we were talking about Felicity Edwards?”

  “I do.”

  “And something came up about maybe she’d had a baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  Horace pulled his favorite Braves cap out of his back pocket and settled it on his head. He wore it for chauffeuring, but felt it helped his cogitation, too.

  “It was a really long time ago. And there’s never been any proof of it. But there were—”

  “—folks who said—” Sam interjected.

  “—that that’s the reason Miss Emily went up to New York and why Miss Felicity came home with her. That she left a baby up there.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just telling you—”

  “I know. What folks said.”

  *

  Sam liked to do all her phone calling in the morning, catching people before they’d had time to get ensnared in their day.

  One. Beau had rung her the previous evening, but by the time she got home she hadn’t been able to reach him. In a clinch somewhere, no doubt, with some sweet young thing.

  “Dr. Talbot, please. Samantha Adams.”

  “Sammy!”

  He’d gotten lucky, all right. He was never this cheerful in the morning.

  “So what about the puppy?”

  “No ‘Good morning, Beau? How are you this beautiful morning?’”

  “Good morning, Beau. How are you this beautiful morning? So what about the puppy?”

  He made a tsking sound. “Can’t find a thing. But then, I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for. Puppies die, Sammy, usually one in every litter. Natural selection. Mother Nature.”

  “Screw Mother Nature.”

  “Boy, did you get up on the wrong side of the bed!”

  “I did not. I’m just not willing to let this go because Emily’s sure it means something—part of a chain—and now I’ve got to call her and tell her to blame it on Mother Nature. You want me to quote you on that?”

  “Undetermined causes.”

  “Great. Thanks a lot, Beau.”

  “Christ. I can’t make it up, you know.”

  “Why don’t you run a few more procedures? Keep trying?”

  “And I have a few other things to do with my time.”

  “Oh yeah? I bet. And you never did get back to me on what Beth had to say about Miranda Burkett.”

  She could hear him smack himself in the forehead with his open hand.

  “I swear, I’ve been running so, I haven’t—”

  “It’s okay, Beau. It’s all right. I’ve taken care of it.”

  “No, really, I’ll call her right—”

  “Done. Finished. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

  He growled like a dog.

  “Never gonna be part of a team if you can’t keep up with the pace, Talbot. Listen, gotta dash. I’ll check with you later.”

  *

  Two. Emily answered on the first ring. Sam told her what Beau had said.

  “Oh, dear. Well, I’m sure he thinks I’m a dotty old lady.”

  “He does no such thing. He’s embarrassed because he fell down on the job. He’ll stick with it.”

  “You’re going to so much trouble for us, Sam. I don’t know how we’re ever going to thank you.”

  “Don’t be silly. How’s Felicity?”

  “No better, I’m afraid. If I could just get her stabilized on her medication again. But she insists on that swill of Mr. Percy’s.”

  “How is that gentleman?”

  “Well, I’m afraid I wouldn’t use such a polite appellation. But to answer your question, I don’t know. He hasn’t been around for a couple of days.”

  “Maybe his ardor’s cooled. This could be a good sign.”

  “I wish I could count on it. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Emily sighed. “But that would probably mean that he’d given up here and was off searching for another goose to produce his golden egg. Some other poor woman who might not have anyone to defend her.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Well, I’m hot on his trail. The newspaper’s morgue should have clips for me today, and if there’s anything there, I’ll add it to my ammunition. I’m going to see him.”

  “Today?”

  “Yep. Hoping to catch him in.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “What do you mean, Emily?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m afraid if he’s confronted directly, he might—well, there’s no telling what he might do. I’m awfully worried about Felicity.”

  “I know you are, but I do think I ought to go and see him. We can’t just pussyfoot around with this forever. The man needs to be told to bug off.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. And I’m sure you’re the one to do it.”

  But she didn’t sound so sure. What the hell was her hesitancy about? Emily was the one who’d told her about Percy in the first place. Well, maybe she was scared. After all, she was an old lady.

  “I wish you luck.”

  “You don’t think he can be scared off, Emily?”

  And as she asked, she had a vision of who might best put the heat on Percy—short, dark guys in overcoats with strategic bulges under their arms—if what Horace said about Nicole’s associates were true. Wouldn’t hurt to ask. After all, the lady owed her. And what was the point of having connections if they couldn’t do you a little favor? She shook her head. She’d been watching too many gangster movies.

  “I don’t know if he can be scared off or not. Surely other people have gotten on to him. And there’s no way of knowing what he’s done.”

  “Well, I’m off to beard him in his den. I’m loaded for bear. Hold down the fort and any other metaphors you can think of. I’ll keep you posted.”

  *

  Three. The morgue did not have her clips yet.

  “Miss
Cahill said that you were overextended in your requests for the month,” said the clerk in that office.

  “I didn’t know there was a quota on—” She bit her tongue. No point in munching on an innocent bystander. “Transfer me to Ms. Wildwood, please.”

  “Hoke Toliver’s office. Jane Wildwood speaking.”

  “You do that very nicely, Wildwood.”

  “Thanks. You wanna know what else I’ve learned to do?”

  “I’m sure it’s fascinating, but some other time. Right now I want you to track down Shirl the Squirrel and cut out her gizzard.”

  “Roger. And after that?”

  “Get me my goddamned clips from the morgue on Randolph Percy.”

  “That’s Percy with a final e or without? Going back how far?”

  “Without. Forever.”

  “By the way, Hoke’s trying to pump me about what you might be working on. He said you teased him with something. Is he talking Squeeze?”

  “Yeah. Now I’m going to have to come up with something else. I put the kibosh on that business.”

  “The whole show?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s out of my hands.”

  “See? I told you that you’d like Nicole Burkett.”

  “Well, I did. She’s a very impressive lady, as I’m sure you know. And how do you know her, anyway?”

  “One of the things I’ve learned in my on-the-job training is to protect my sources.”

  “Not from me, Wildwood. I’m your mentor, remember?”

  “From everyone.”

  “Then you’d better learn to protect your ass, too.”

  “Only teasing, Sam. I’ll fill you in later. Now what do you want me to tell Hoke when he asks for you?”

  “Tell him—”

  “Never mind. I’ll make it up. Here comes the Squirrel. Got to get my gun loaded.”

  *

  The only nice thing a woman could say about the Claridge Club is that it serves a hell of a glass of iced tea. Beyond that, this holy of holies of male supremacy (unscathed by any and all legislation), which sits atop a bank building just across the street from the offices of the Constitution, is a thorn under the saddle—a reminder of how everything used to be.

  Sam had been inside once before to a Wednesday Night Dinner to which ladies are admitted. She’d looked up and down the long table—being one of three women in a sea of male faces, all of them white—and thought, So this is what it feels like.

  Besides which, the food was awful.

  Spearing something gray on her fork, she’d said to the man who’d been so foolish as to invite her, “Is this what you all call mystery meat? Or is it shit on a shingle?”

  The collective gasp had been heard fifteen miles away in Alpharetta.

  She hadn’t been invited back to the Claridge. But because Randolph Percy met the criteria for membership, being a gentleman in addition to a con man, a gambler, and a possible murderer, and because he stayed there when he was in Atlanta, she now found herself once again ringing the club’s doorbell.

  Just inside, she was met by a functionary who had both the shape and demeanor of a boiled egg.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I wonder if I might see Mr. Randolph Percy?”

  “I’ll inquire,” he said and nodded his perfectly bald head. Nothing else moved. “Please make yourself comfortable in the lounge.” Not even his lips. He’d have given Edgar Bergen a run for his money.

  Then he ushered her through double doors into the area where ladies in waiting were allowed.

  A green overstuffed chair gave off a faint cloud of dust as she plopped into it—probably the biggest event in this room in forty years. It was a place to count flies, leaf through old National Geographies, watch fat men sleep, research styles in snoring. The man on her right, who had his head thrown back so far it looked like it might unhinge, was practicing a variation that might appeal to a horny lady hippopotamus.

  A side door opened and Mr. Egg returned. “Mr. Percy is not in his room, ma’am.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he is.”

  “Ma’am?”

  His eyebrows lifted a quarter of an inch—the equivalent for him of a wild Watusi.

  “I said I’m sure Mr. Percy is in.”

  And she was positive. She knew he was upstairs. She could smell him. The sixth sense that she shared with George had just kicked in.

  “Did you knock on his door?”

  “I rang him.” He sniffed.

  She was half out of her chair. “Why don’t you let me go up and see?”

  “Oh, no!” The man jerked back. “I couldn’t let you do that. Above stairs is off limits to ladies.”

  “Then would you please go up and find him? Maybe he’s visiting in someone else’s room.”

  Mr. Egg rolled his eyes ever so slightly.

  “I am not one of his women, if that’s what you think.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m much too young, don’t you think?”

  No response. Well, sarcasm didn’t always work. “I’m here on business.” She dug in her bag and handed him her card. “Please.”

  He stared at it, and then his eggy face slid like one, over easy. Publicity, of any sort, was anathema to the club.

  “I’ll be right back.” He turned, then paused. A light had gone on. “In the meantime, may I send you something from the bar?”

  She smiled sweetly. “A glass of iced tea would be nice.”

  She remembered the tea from her previous visit. It was brewed fresh and strong and came in a tall glass in a silver holder with lump sugar and lemon on the side and a sprig of real mint.

  It hadn’t changed. She stirred in the sugar and thought about her strategy.

  Mr. Percy, you have forty-eight hours to get the hell out of Dodge.

  A little crude but not bad.

  “Samantha Adams! What a nice surprise.”

  She turned and there stood short, fat Judge Deaver. When first they’d met, he’d been perched on the edge of a sofa at a cocktail party, staring down the bosom of a tall redhead built rather like Jane.

  “How are you doing, my dear?”

  “Fine, and you?”

  Behind Deaver stood a tall, distinguished man who looked vaguely familiar.

  “Frank O’Connor.” He smiled and extended his hand.

  “Judge O’Connor. Of course.”

  “Guilty, I’m afraid.”

  Sam reflexively ran a hand through her curls, then she licked her lips. Well, he was very sexy for an old man, tall and broad shouldered with a mane of white hair. No wonder they called him God O’Connor behind his back.

  “Whatever are you doing in this stodgy old den? Deaver drags me here once a year, though I keep telling him I disapprove of the place. Could we take you out of here for a breath of fresh air, buy you a proper drink?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m here on business.”

  “Of course. By the way, I want to tell you how much I appreciate the concern you’ve shown for my friend Emily Edwards and her sister Felicity.”

  “Oh, well, it’s—”

  “It’s a lovely gesture. And let’s hope everything turns out fine with Felicity.” He leaned closer. “You wouldn’t be here to see that scoundrel Randolph Percy, would you?”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  “No need to answer. You know, I should have done something about having that sorry bastard, excuse my French, run out of town a long time ago. Well, it’s never too late.”

  Was God O’Connor Emily’s special friend?

  Good for her. From what she’d seen lately, life among the septuagenarians was hotter than she’d ever imagined. Certainly hotter than her own.

  Now Mr. Egg was back, standing before them with a most peculiar expression on his face.

  “Good day, Rumson,” Deaver said.

  “Day, sir. Ahem.” He cleared his throat and focused a yellow-green gaze on Sam.

  “Well?”

  “He is in his room, Ms. Ad
ams, but—”

  “Just as I thought. He’s on his way down?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. He’s—”

  “You gave him my card?”

  “No, ma’am. You see—”

  She’d run fresh out of patience. “Why the hell not?”

  “What seems to be the problem?” O’Connor asked.

  “The lady asked if I would ring up a member, sir, and I did, but there was no answer. Then she asked if I would go upstairs and find him. I’ve done so.”

  “And? I can’t believe a gentleman would be so rude. But then, you didn’t give him the card. Does he understand that he’s keeping a lady waiting?”

  “No, sir, he doesn’t.”

  Rumson’s mouth was working sideways in a very strange fashion.

  “I don’t get it. Why didn’t you give him my card?”

  “I couldn’t, ma’am.”

  “And may I ask why not? Is Mr. Percy indisposed?” Deaver chimed in.

  “Well, yes, he is, sir, ma’am, in a manner of speaking.” Then he turned back to Sam. “It was impossible to disturb him. You see, ma’am, I’m terribly afraid Mr. Percy’s dead.”

  Thirteen

  Sam waited in the foyer until the police arrived, two uniformed officers followed closely by another couple of homicide detectives. They argued among themselves for a few minutes about which team would take the call.

  “Why don’t you flip a coin?” she suggested.

  She’d recognized one of the uniforms from her recent visit to Charlie at headquarters. Now he picked her out, too.

  “That’s not exactly SOP, Ms. Adams. You grab the squeal on the radio?”

  “No, actually I was here to see Mr. Percy about a little business.”

  He glanced down at the notebook he was holding.

  “This same Percy?”

  She nodded.

  “Isn’t that a neat coincidence? Hope it wasn’t important.”

  “Not anymore it isn’t.”

  “You coming up with us?”

  “Why, thank you.”

  What a nice surprise, to be invited to a crime scene. Usually she had to coax, cajole, and muscle her way in.

  All five of them, six including Rumson, began to troop up the stairs.

  “Your friend Charlie said we should be nice to you; you’d write sweet things about us. Help with our image.”

  “Why, I always do. I’m one of the department’s biggest fans.” Actually that was true.