They were well past the big white house with the happy family now and were passing a vacant, overgrown lot.
“What was here?” Sam pointed.
George peered into the darkness, remembering more than seeing. “The old Webster house. Burned to the ground. A real tragedy.”
“Is there a story? Do I know it?”
“I don’t think so. It was a long time ago.”
Sam urged him on.
“Jack Webster came home and found his wife in bed with a servant. A man who had lived in for years. So Jack locked them in the bedroom and burned the house down.”
“Jesus!”
“Then he drove up to their place on Lake Lanier and blew his brains out. Took all their dogs along. Killed them, too.”
“My God!”
“They razed the ruins. But the property has remained in the family. You probably know their son, Houston.”
“Sure.”
“He couldn’t bear to build here or to sell the land, so it’s stood. It’s all overgrown, isn’t it?”
“Like a little forest. As if nothing ever stood there.” Two beats. “Boy, Atlanta does have its share of tragedy.”
“Every place does.”
“Maybe it just seems more dramatic in the South.”
“Blood on the moon? Mayhem among the magnolias?”
“Something like that.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“I think it’s partly because everybody goes around being so polite all the time. Pretending everything’s just hunky-dory.”
“You mean the crazy-child-locked-up-in-the-attic syndrome? The poor Petersons? Pretending little Peter wasn’t there all those years?”
“You laugh. But you know it’s true. You’ve had your share of your Petersons.”
“But you must remember, I haven’t your perspective, dear. I haven’t been away like you. Off.”
“Look at Felicity. Properly married to a banker for forty years, crazed by a terrible secret about a baby she had up in New York.”
“Well, you don’t know that for sure.”
She gave him a look.
“It’s not like young women haven’t been having illegitimate babies since time immemorial, for Christ’s sakes. But here it gets all blown out of proportion. Drives you nuts. Drove Felicity nuts,” she muttered.
“Her manic-depression had something to do with that.”
“Okay. Then let’s look at Nicole Burkett.”
“Fine. What about her?”
“Well, what about her? Woman doesn’t have any history from the time she was born until she married P.C. You want to tell me there’s not some super-deep dark skulking around there?”
“She’s not Southern. Doesn’t fit the pattern.”
“Christ. Okay. She’s married to one of the biggest, richest, most aristocratic good old boys who ever chugged bourbon, but you’re right. She’s not. But she’s sure expected to be a Southern lady, isn’t she? And there’s something back there that she’s hiding like crazy, that’s not up to snuff. Something that probably contributed to her dear darling daughter’s wanting to show off her sweet young body at Tight Squeeze.”
“You don’t think you’re pushing it a little?”
“I do not.”
“You think Southern women in particular live lives of quiet desperation? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Something like that.”
She was warming to her subject now, walking ahead of George and turning back around to make her point.
“Let me put it to you this way. Have you ever listened to Southern women talk?”
“My dear, I’ve spent my whole life here, and I may be going blind, but I’m not deaf. My head is filled with the sound of their voices.”
“But do you ever really listen to them? Those high little-girl voices, so full of sweetness and light? Ending every sentence like a question because they don’t even feel they have the right to make a declarative statement. Wouldn’t say shit if they had a mouth full of it. Oh, sometimes they do, when they’re alone, I mean with each other, just a couple of close friends or sisters, then you hear them get down and dirty. But the rest of the time in society, honey, they know their husbands are running around on them, they know their children are doing drugs, they just keep on pouring tea and baking cookies and smiling. Dressing in fresh, lacy underwear and smiling. Pretending their husbands aren’t passed-out drunk on the sofa and smiling.”
“You’d rather they did something drastic, took lovers like poor Melba Webster?” He gestured back behind them to the ruin they’d passed. “End up burned to a crisp in bed?”
“Jesus Christ, I don’t think that’s the only possible ending to that scenario.”
“Or more like Mavis Tallbutton, loading up double-barreled shotguns and hijacking buses? Taking the law into their own hands?”
“She didn’t shoot anybody.”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“Well, she didn’t. And I bet she felt a hell of a lot better than if she’d sat home rocking on her front porch, pretending that she wasn’t pissed as hell at her husband because he wouldn’t do a damned thing. And at her sister-in-law and her daughter.”
“The daughter who did exactly what she wanted to do.”
“Right.”
“I think you’ve argued yourself into a corner.”
“I have not! Maureen did what she wanted to and Mavis did the same. And the devil take the hindmost.”
“That’s not how the world runs. And those Tallbuttons aren’t exactly society.”
“Then fuck society.”
“Whoa! You sound like your friend Julia Townley.”
“Yes, I do. And I sound like me.”
“Yes, you’re right. You do indeed.” George chuckled. He did enjoy these conversations in which one or the other of them played the devil’s advocate. “You sound a little like your mother, too.”
“George, my mother was the consummate Atlanta lady. And she certainly never said fuck in her entire life.”
“Not in front of her darling little girl, maybe. But she could curse like a sailor when provoked. Your father used to say he found it sexy.”
As she had, too—when Sean flew off the handle. Wasn’t that funny? Was the quirk congenital?
“We argued ourselves around the block,” she said, looking up now at their old familiar house that she so loved.
“So we have indeed. Let’s go sit on the side gallery and have a sip.”
“And I’ll call Beau and see if he knows anything more on the late Mr. Percy.”
*
“Nothing untoward in the autopsy,” Beau said.
“So what was it?”
“Old age.”
“He wasn’t that old.”
“What’s the age at which people are allowed to die of natural causes. Dr. Adams? Seventy? Seventy-five? Eighty? I guess you just feel it in your bones that something’s fishy.”
“You got it.”
“I keep telling you we need to X-ray those pretty bones or send them back to med school.”
“Very funny.”
“You’ll be pleased to know I have someone checking to see if he complained of any symptoms in the last few days. But so far, we’ve found nothing in the lab. And, yes, we’re cross-checking with the puppy’s results.”
She laughed.
“Wasn’t that your next question?”
“Sure.”
“See, I keep telling you we’d make a great team, Sammy. You’ve even got me thinking crooked like you do.”
“And it’s improved your work, right?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But, anyway, we got zilch. And I still don’t know what killed that puppy.”
“Really zilch?”
“So far. There are endless procedures, and there’s no clue as to where to start. One doesn’t perform a good autopsy in a vacuum, you know. And so far, we haven’t been able to track down Percy’s medical history. This could
be something as simple as insulin coma leading to death, but in a person dead for several hours, insulin levels aren’t reliable. And we’d place him dead at least forty-eight hours. So I wouldn’t know about the diabetes, if it were that, for example, without his history.”
“Shoot! That reminds me. I meant to bring you some of his crazy tonic.”
“I’ll be happy to take a look but—”
“But! Aren’t you going to pursue this?”
“I can’t. My most informed opinion really is natural causes. I can’t spend the time and money, Sammy, without something more to go on.”
“So it’s over?”
“It’s never over until it’s over. I’ll save tissue, urine, bile and blood samples. Just because I release the body from the autopsy room to the family doesn’t mean that’s all the work that can ever be done.”
“His family’s anxious?”
“His mother’s practically sitting outside my door. Wants to take her Randy home. She and the sister.”
“The sister! The one from California? She and the mother don’t speak.”
“Well, they do now. They’ve set up a tent out there in my lobby, I only let them because they’re friends of yours, both of them wailing and carrying on, and I’ll tell you, I’m right anxious to get shut of the remains of Mr. Percy.”
She ignored the jibe. “Now I wonder why she told me that? That they don’t speak?”
“Might not have before now. You just haven’t spent enough time around the bereaved, my dear. Hook yourself up with a good funeral parlor around town for a couple of weeks.”
“Thanks for the tip, but I’ll pass.”
“Well, you’ll be missing out on some mighty fine stuff. You ain’t seen nothing, sugar, until you’ve seen a real strong grieving family chewing on the bones of the deceased.”
“Lovely image, Beau.”
“We do our best.”
“You know, I’m going to talk with Emily first thing in the morning.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“I said Emily Edwards got me into this and, by God, she can get me out of it.”
*
Sam had just settled into bed with Harpo and the latest Elmore Leonard novel when her telephone rang.
“Hi. It’s Jane.”
“I’m trying to get some rest here.”
“It’s only nine o’clock. Old before your time, Adams.”
“It’s been a long day. Full of corpses and busted jam jars.”
“Sounds rough. How many jam jars?”
“Okay. So I exaggerated. Only one old charmer named Randolph Percy.”
“Haven’t had the pleasure—that I know of.”
Remembering that she never wanted to read Jane’s résumé, Sam let the comment pass.
“So you called me up in the middle of the night to insult me about my age?”
“Actually I called to apologize.”
“Great. I love apologies. What for?”
“For not answering your question about Nicole Burkett yesterday.”
Sam sat up. “I’m all ears.”
Then the phone gurgled and clanked.
“This is a terrible connection. Are you in a phone booth?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s the number?” Then she said, “That’s the pay phone at Manuel’s,” when Jane told her.
“How do you know that?”
“Age,” Sam said. “Experience. Stay put. The old lady’ll creak right over and buy you a beer.”
Five minutes later, Sam walked in the back door of the tavern with a sweat shirt pulled over her T-shirt and a pair of old jeans. Harpo’s head poked out of a big bag she was carrying.
“He needed a drink?” Jane asked from the booth she’d snagged in the front room.
“A little excitement. He likes this crowd. Actually he likes any crowd. As the world’s cutest dog, he can always depend on lots of admirers.”
“Hi, Harpo,” said Charles, Sam’s favorite waiter, as he delivered her Perrier, unordered, to the table.
See? She grinned at Jane, who ignored her. Then she ordered them each a chili dog and Harpo a burger naked, for starters. “So what’s the story?”
“This is off the record.”
“Thank you very much, Ms. Wildwood. Remind me to teach you lesson number one. Nothing is ever off the record if you need it. You just find another way to use it.”
Jane lit a long, brown Turkish cigarette, shades of Nicole Burkett, and exhaled deeply. Was Nicole her mentor, too? If so, in what?
“That’s an affectation,” Sam said. “That’s going to kill you.”
“It’s not an affectation. I happen to like the taste of these cigarettes.”
“Which are going to kill you.”
“When are you going to stop mothering me?”
“When you grow up.”
Jane flopped her curtain of red hair down and glared at Sam through it.
“Sorry. Forget I said it. Now why’d you get me out of my warm, comfy bed?”
“You ever hear of Constance Bonnet?”
“The Parisian madame?”
“Very good.”
“Retired not too many years ago. Recruited the most beautiful young girls in the world, well, the ones who were available, and trained them.”
“Right.”
“Sent them out by private jet when pashas, Greek shipping tycoons, arms dealers, royalty of whatever cut got the urge for something young, beautiful, and very special. Never had a house. The girls freelanced.”
“Absolutely. You passed the quiz.”
“Okay. So give me my reward. What does this have to do with Nicole?”
Jane met her look.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Nicole Burkett?”
“She started out as Nicole Chenonceaux. Of very humble origins.”
“Don’t tell me. Her mother was a chambermaid. Her father a duke. A descendant of Louis XIV.”
Jane laughed. “I don’t know. I just know she grew up about as poor as I did and she was one of Connie’s girls.”
“And that’s how she met P.C.?”
“You got it.”
“And he married her?”
“He wouldn’t be the first man who ever married a whore.”
“Well, shut my mouth. But P.C. Burkett, Mr. Got-rocks from Waycross, Georgia? I’m having trouble getting my mind around it. And how do you know this?”
Jane gave her a look again.
“You’re absolutely right. I really don’t want to know. I want you to protect that source until the day you die.”
Jane grinned. “I intend to.”
“So that’s Nicole’s secret.” She waved at Charles. “Dozen oysters, please.” Then she rubbed her hands together. “News like this makes me hungry. Listen, it doesn’t make any difference, but maybe you know this, too. Does Nicole have connections with the mob? I’m just curious.”
Jane shrugged. “Let’s just put it this way. P.C. Burkett’s not the only man in the world who might want to do her a favor. He’s certainly not the first rich and powerful man she ever slept with.”
“Nor the last?”
“I didn’t say that. I have no idea. Though now…” Jane gestured, implying Nicole’s injury.
“You think Miranda knows about her mother?”
“Not if Nicole could help it. No. I don’t think that’s why Miranda got herself involved at Tight Squeeze, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then why?
“Why did I?”
“I don’t know, Jane.”
“I needed the cash. I didn’t like myself very much.”
“You think Miranda needs money?”
“I don’t know. Not unless she has a drug habit.”
“Does she?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“What about liking herself?”
“Now that is a whole other can of worms. I’m not prepared to speak about her emotional health and well be
ing.”
“How about yours?”
“Do I like myself more these days?”
“Yeah.”
“You bet. Actually I had become rather enamored of myself some time ago. I was just waiting for Joan of Arc to come along and save me.”
“Go fuck yourself, Wildwood.” Sam toasted her with a raised glass.
Jane grinned and lifted her beer. “Same to you.”
*
George awoke when she came in later. Much later.
“Sam?” he called from his room.
“It’s me. Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You’ve been saying that since you were twelve years old. Where’d you go?”
“To meet Jane. Go back to sleep.”
“What’d she want?”
“To tell me something about Nicole Burkett.”
“What?”
“Probably nothing you didn’t already know.”
“And nothing you need to go spreading about either,” said Peaches, who just then glided into the hall through the kitchen door. She was carrying a tray with two cups of warm milk, starting back up the stairs to Horace.
“Peaches,” Sam said, “can you tell me why it is I’m the reporter in this family and I’m always the last one to know anything that’s of any importance? Wouldn’t you think my very own family would fill me in on something just once in a great while?”
Peaches slowed down for an instant and squinted at her. “You would think so.”
Sixteen
Peaches didn’t really know about Nicole Burkett, Sam said to herself as she drove across town to the offices of Lighthouse for the Blind the next morning. It was Saturday, but that’s where Felicity had told Sam she could find Emily. Which was fine, since it would be good to talk with her away from home.
If Peaches did know, wouldn’t she tell her?
Maybe not. Peaches was a mean old woman.
No, that wasn’t true. She was just crotchety. Set in her ways. And, Sam had to face it, her surrogate mother, which meant their relationship was as wacky as if Peaches had borne her instead of only taken her to raise.
Now what was she holding out about Felicity?
*
“Samantha! What a nice surprise. Come on into my office.” Emily walked from behind her desk, smoothing her khaki skirt, extending her hand. The gracious Southern lady on the job.
“Sorry to drop in on you like this.”
Then Hang All the Liars Page 15
