When Will the Dead Lady Sing?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “It’ll break a termite’s teeth,” Hubert agreed. He waved us inside. “I’m gonna stay out here a little while longer. Too crowded in there for my taste.”

  Joe Riddley steered me through the front door before I could offer to keep Hubert company.

  The hall looked a lot like it used to when Gusta lived there, full of impressive pieces of furniture and oil paintings.

  “Welcome,” said a woman near the door. She certainly wasn’t Augusta Wainwright. She wasn’t much taller than me, while Gusta was impressively tall even after shrinking an inch or two. This woman might have bought her navy dress at one of the expensive stores where Gusta shopped, but she wore it with comfortable Enzo flats Gusta wouldn’t be caught dead in at one of her Do’s. This woman’s skin was tanned and lightly wrinkled, as if she enjoyed the sun. Vanity had made Gusta careful of the sun long before anybody mentioned the ozone layer, and even in old age, Gusta was beautiful. This woman’s nose was thin and pointed and she wore no makeup except for red lipstick that looked applied on the run. Her straight hair was blunt cut, parted on one side, and held back by a small gold clip. It had once been brown like her eyes, but was now frosted with gray.

  Her prim mouth curved in a smile as she stepped toward us, fingering a string of pearls too long for the neckline of her navy dress. With the other hand, she handed us each a little red pin. “From Lance Bullock, with his compliments.” Her voice was deep and gravelly, the kind that can make a grocery list sound sexy.

  Before I could explain that I couldn’t wear the pin, Maynard hailed us from a back corner of the hall.

  “Where’s the beautiful member of your family?” Joe Riddley greeted him, looking around.

  “Working.” Maynard’s wife, Serena, was a nurse and worked with Martha.

  “You’re beautiful, too,” I assured him, giving him a hug. He’d come a long way from the skinny nervous little boy next door. Of course, his sleek blond ponytail had given Hopemore a lot of trouble when he’d first returned from New York after his daddy’s heart attack. That afternoon, tied with a brown velvet ribbon to match his coat, it looked downright distinguished.

  “You know,” I told him, “I’m even getting used to your earring by now.”

  “Watch out,” he warned Joe Riddley, “or she’ll be taking an ice pick to your ear while you’re sleeping.” He ran one hand under his collar and heaved a big sigh. “Sorry about the temperature. The air-conditioning is going full blast, but you don’t notice unless you happen to be near a vent. I’ve raised the windows, hoping for a breeze.”

  “It’s not that bad.” I comforted him. “You must be nervous about folks walking off with one of your precious doodads.”

  “Not particularly. They are insured. But I am mad that we were brought here under false pretenses.” He glowered toward the double doors leading to the living room. “I was a little surprised that Miss Gusta wanted to hold a party for Lance Bullock, since her politics run in the other direction, but she said his aunt is an old friend of hers, and I was willing to do my part for my party. She neglected to mention that Lance plans to announce in the next few weeks that he’s switching parties.”

  “You’re joking, of course.”

  I really thought he was, but he shook his head. “Miss Gusta told me herself, when she first got here. Said this way he avoids the primary and picks up a lot of votes. I cannot for the life of me figure out how a politician can let one party boost him or her up, then step over to the other party if the pickings look better. What do they stand for? And who’d trust them after that? No matter which party he switched from or to, who’d be dumb enough to vote for a traitor? Except my dad,” he added with a grimace.

  Before we could reply to that, I heard, “Yarbroughs, is that you? I want you to meet someone.” Gusta sat on her usual throne by the living room door. She beckoned with one long bony finger sparkling with diamonds. And although she looked a little shrunken in her purple linen dress—she’d aged a lot since her only son died the year before—she still sat regal as a queen and expected people to obey when she called. We moseyed in that direction.

  She reached for one of my hands. “Mac, Joe Riddley, I want you to meet my very dear friend Georgia Bullock Tate, Burlin’s sister. Georgia, this is Judge and Judge Yarbrough.”

  I blinked. Georgia was only a year younger than I, so what had she done with her crow’s-feet? She didn’t look a day over forty-five. She was still slender, but filled out her black linen shift in a way I could find it in my heart to envy. Nothing sagged, and her hair—that light yellow that only good salons can achieve—was cut short with long pixie bangs that brushed her forehead above eyes the same dark gray as her brother’s.

  I resolved to see about getting myself a makeover as soon as I got some free time.

  Thank goodness, she didn’t recognize me. She put out a hand and greeted us with the comfortable charm that comes from years of being with the right people in the right places. “I’m delighted to meet you and so happy to be in Hopemore. It’s a lovely town.” As she clasped my working paw, I was glad I’d thought to ask Phyllis for a manicure that morning, but Georgia wasn’t the least bit interested in me. She was looking up at Joe Riddley with an earnestness that made him hold her hand a lot longer than was necessary.

  He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “We’re real glad to have you here, Mrs. Tate. I’ve admired Burlin for a long time.”

  Georgia’s face crinkled into a beautiful smile. “Why, thank you, Judge. What a sweet thing to say.”

  Normally I’d have stepped in about then to be sure Joe Riddley didn’t get carried away. He’s not real skilled at handling pretty women who smile up at him. However, Gusta’s deep voice distracted me. She spoke behind her cupped hand, but in a normal voice that defeated the purpose. “Georgia’s husband, Edward, is Lance’s campaign manager. She’s down here helping Lance run his campaign.”

  “Lance is going to be our next governor, you know.” Georgia nodded proudly toward the windows where a tall stocky man in a black suit was talking enthusiastically to a group of men. His hair was black and very thick, his shoulders powerful. He looked like the kind of man I wouldn’t want to cross. And he didn’t look more than ten years younger than Burlin.

  I’d gotten that far when the woman in navy came up behind me. She must have heard Georgia and noticed where I was looking, because she murmured in my ear, “Not the man in black. That’s Edward, Georgia’s husband. Lance is talking to the large woman in red. He’s prettier than Edward.” Her smile was still prim, but her brown eyes danced. Suddenly I knew who she was. I almost exclaimed “Binky!” without thinking.

  Georgia reached out an arm to draw her into our circle. “This is my baby sister, Abigail.” Nobody who saw the two of them together for the first time would believe that, but Georgia didn’t give anybody time to say so. “She’s worked as Burlin’s secretary for years. Now she’s helping Edward run Lance’s campaign.”

  “What happened to the ranch out West?” I wanted to ask.

  Instead, I looked at the real Lance. He was thirty-six, I remembered, and nothing like his daddy. He was as tall as Burlin, but stocky, with dark hair curling down to a thick neck. His navy suit looked rumpled, like he’d done some living in it, and the lines in his pink face seemed to have been drawn by laughter. As I watched, he threw back his head and laughed so hard I could see fillings in his back teeth.

  What on earth could he find so funny, talking to Chancey Carter? Chancy was circulation manager for our local paper, and a front-runner for Hopemore’s most boring woman. We were too far away to hear their conversation, but I went to school with Chancey from first grade on and had yet to hear her talk about anything except herself, Georgia history as it pertained to her own family’s genealogy, or her mother—who, at ninety, was a hellion over at the nursing home. Burlin would have chatted with her briefly and excused himself, I suspected, but Lance bent over her and listened like he enjoyed it. When Edward Tate touched his elbow
and seemed to want him to move on, Lance gave a little wave to say, “In a minute.”

  “That’s his wife behind him—Renée,” Binky said with pride.

  Renée must be ten years younger than Lance, but stood almost as tall, with narrow hips, a long face, and a strong nose. Her eyes were large and green, her mouth wide with a full lower lip. As I took her in, from the tips of her taupe pumps to the top of her almost black hair, I couldn’t help thinking that these Bullock women were expensive to keep. Renée’s haircut was so ugly, it had to have cost a fortune—cut long to brush her collar at the back, chopped unevenly at the bottom, tucked behind her ears. Her green suit was raw silk and exactly matched her eyes.

  She wore what looked like a practiced smile as she listened to Chancey. I didn’t get the feeling she was as involved as Lance. Still, when Chancey paused for breath, I saw Renée ask a question that set Chancey off again. I wondered if the cotton shell had come with Renée’s outfit or if she was just unconcerned with dressing to please Hopemore. In contrast to Gusta’s diamonds, Binky’s pearls, and Georgia’s necklace of chunky black rocks set in heavy silver, Renée wore no jewelry except simple gold hoop earrings. In that crowd of folks who had hauled up their socks to look real nice on a Saturday afternoon, she looked exotic, casual, and comfortable. I eased one foot out of my dressy shoes for an instant and wished I had that much gumption.

  When Renée turned away to stifle a yawn, Binky murmured, “Poor thing, she’s asleep on her feet. She flew in yesterday morning from Paris so she could come on this trip.”

  “She and Lance are a great team. When they get to the governor’s mansion—” Georgia began, but Binky touched her forearm.

  “Let’s don’t talk politics right now. We’re here to enjoy the hospitality of Mrs. Wainwright.”

  Georgia nodded. “Of course we are.” She turned back to Joe Riddley. “And we are enjoying Hopemore so much. Have you lived here long?”

  “All our lives,” he told her.

  I’d lived in Hopemore long enough to be a flower girl in Gusta’s wedding—the one who tripped going down the aisle and showed the world her ruffled underpants. Gusta would be mentioning that any minute unless I headed her off. “We just moved out of the house Joe Riddley’s great-granddaddy built,” I told them. “How many families can make that claim?”

  Gusta huffed, miffed at missing another golden opportunity to embarrass me. Georgia, of course, didn’t know that. She asked in the bright, interested voice of somebody trying to warm up to strangers, “And you are both judges?”

  “I used to be. Mac, here, replaced me.” Joe Riddley stood there with a silly smile on his face, caught like a moth in Georgia’s sparkle.

  When she turned to greet somebody else, I nudged him toward a waitress making her way through the room with a tray of little sandwiches. “Go get something to eat. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  As he loped away, I watched anxiously to make sure he didn’t run into Burlin. The way he admired the man, it would be like him to take Burlin into the corner for a long chat. Fortunately, Burlin was nowhere in sight.

  That’s because he was right behind me. I jumped when he murmured in my ear, “Hey, Mackie. You look wonderful. I wondered if you’d be here.” I shivered in spite of myself as I felt a puff of his breath on my neck. Then I blushed. I had to admit at least to myself that I hadn’t put on my most gorgeous outfit and made sure Phyllis did her best just so I’d look nice for my husband. Nobody wants an old boyfriend wondering, “What did I ever see in her?” But I had the grace to feel ashamed.

  Gusta’s old eyes looked from one of us to the other with a most calculating expression.

  Georgia raised her eyebrows. “Why, Burlin, do you already know the judge?”

  “So do you,” he told her. “Remember MacLaren Crane? She came to a dance the year you came out and up to the lake house for your birthday that year.”

  Binky’s hand flew to her pearls. “I didn’t recognize you, but I remembered you used to live in Hopemore.”

  Georgia reached for both my hands and gave them a squeeze. “Mackie! How marvelous to see you again.”

  From the way Gusta’s lips tightened, I’d have a few questions to answer later. Burlin must have noticed, because he leaned toward her and said, “This sure is a great party, Miss Gusta. You must be a lot like Georgia—she’s the organized one in our family and the one who knows how to throw a party. I sure thank you for having us.” Gusta preened to be getting so much attention from a political celebrity. He chatted with her for a few more minutes, then said again, “This sure is a nice party you’ve thrown for Lance. And speaking of Lance”—he took my elbow—“I want Mackie, here, to meet him.” He pulled me gently away and led me across the room.

  I had to congratulate him. “Neatly done. She’s not generally that easy to leave.”

  “It’s taught in politics training school, under the care and feeding of dragons.”

  “That dragon feeds on scandal and gossip, so be careful.” I retrieved my elbow and put distance between us.

  “Duly noted.” He raised his hand and beckoned to Lance.

  Lance excused himself from Chancey and headed our way. His wife stayed long enough to listen to a few more words, then moved after him with the long-legged grace of a giraffe.

  She, like Burlin, looked cool and collected, but Lance had beads of perspiration on his forehead. One curl had come loose and was dangling over one eye. Renée wiped it back gently as Burlin said, “I want you all to meet somebody. This is an old friend of mine, MacLaren Crane.”

  “Yarbrough,” I amended, shaking the hand Lance shot out.

  “Of course, Yarbrough,” Burlin agreed easily. “I forgot for a minute how old we all are.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Lance informed him, giving him a fond punch. “I don’t think Ms. Yarbrough’s much older than I am.”

  Burlin draped one arm around my shoulders and his other one over Lance’s. He drew us both close and murmured, “Boy, if things had worked out the way I planned, this woman would have been your mother and I’d be governor of this state.”

  That’s how we were standing when the flash went off.

  5

  I pulled away from Burlin’s arm. He waved at the photographer. “Not now, Carstairs.” The reporter gave him a mock salute and disappeared.

  A voice asked behind us, “An old flame of yours, Burlin?” It was the big man in black, Georgia’s husband. He came around me to offer a huge hand. “Glad to meet you. Any friend of the Bullocks is a friend of mine.” But behind rimless glasses, his dark eyes looked down at me like he was the judge in a fishing contest, trying to decide if I was the prize catch.

  I stepped farther away from Burlin. “I’m not an—” I began, but Edward Tate was the type of man who seldom listens to an older woman unless she’s offering a contribution or calling him to dinner. He was already turning back to Burlin to speak in a low voice.

  “You didn’t mention you had friends in Hopemore.” He sounded like he was accusing Burlin of a crime.

  Burlin beamed at me. “We go back to college days, but I wasn’t sure she still lived here.”

  What I wanted to say wasn’t fit for polite company, and saying it might get my name in the newspaper—that reporter was still hovering in earshot—so I took another step away and said, “Good to meet you, Lance. You, too, Renée.” I headed toward a group of people I knew.

  I heard Edward ask Burlin in a low voice, “So you two were an item—when?”

  Still in earshot, I slowed to a snail’s crawl long enough to hear Burlin say in an offhand way, “I told you, college days.”

  “Well, we need to be circulating, not standing here. Lance, you go to the hall. Burlin, you take the sunroom, and I’ll work this room some more.” I heard them moving off.

  I glanced back and saw that Renée had remained where she was, watching me with an odd look in those enormous sage-green eyes. Could she possibly feel sorry for me?

  I could
feel sorry for her. Edward hadn’t included her in his instructions, and Burlin had scarcely bothered to introduce her. I suspected she might be lonely at times in the Bullock clan.

  What I needed to cheer me up was food, even Gusta’s feeble offerings. But Gusta had either stretched her budget this time or one of Lance’s political parties was paying. The table nearly creaked under the weight of shrimp, little pastries filled with lobster, exotic cheeses they hadn’t gotten at the Bi-Lo, tiny rolls to fill with sweet pink ham or rare roast beef with horseradish sauce, and enough vegetables to feed a rabbit for a year. I filled a plate, then wandered—glad to see Joe Riddley at the back of the hall with a bunch of men, probably expressing their doubts that Georgia’s football team could carry on that afternoon without them there. I kept one eye on Burlin, who was circulating, but so far he had been nowhere near Joe Riddley’s corner.

  Gusta was having a marvelous time playing hostess in her house again. I heard her tell several different people, “You cannot imagine what I feel, coming back to my precious home and seeing it like this. And moving is so disastrous to your things. Mother’s dining table got scratched, Granddaddy’s clock has run slow ever since, one of Grand-mother’s Limoges plates got chipped—she bought the set on her honeymoon, you know—and I still haven’t found that Tiffany lamp my husband’s father gave us when we married.”

  I knew for a fact that the table scratch was under the edge, the Limoges plate had been chipped for years, and the lamp had resided in her attic until her granddaughter took it home with Gusta’s blessing, but why mess up a good story with facts? As I well knew, it was hard to leave your old home. Let her find comfort anyplace she could.

  I moseyed over to one of Maynard’s fancy tables and asked for white wine. Renée glided up beside me and said, “Perrier, please,” in a pleasant, husky voice. As the bartender filled her glass, she turned to me with a confidential murmur. “So—you used to date Burlin?”