BAD PICK

by Linda Lovely

  “Want the short answer or the long one?” I asked.

  “Long, of course,” Ursula replied.

  So I did a conversational rewind to explain how I’d inherited Summer Place. My twin aunts bought the dilapidated Southern mansion after I shared a pipe dream of turning it into a B&B that catered to vegans and vegetarians. They’d planned to start restoration and surprise me with Summer Place on my thirty-fifth birthday.

  My phone vibrated my butt, and I couldn’t take it anymore. What was so important?

  “I’m sorry, but someone really wants me. Do you mind if I look at this text?

  “No problem,” Ursula said.

  I ignored my mother’s nonverbal response and read Mollye’s text. Just two words: Erotic asphyxiation.

  What in blazes? I’d heard of erotic asphyxiation but why was Mollye texting me about it? I wouldn’t find out until I called my friend back. And that wasn’t going to happen during lunch. Not if I wanted Mom to continue speaking to me.

  When I looked up, all eyes were on me. “I’m sorry. Just Mollye. Anyway, when Aunt Lilly suddenly died in an auto accident, the plan changed. I inherited the mansion three years early.

  “Restoring an old structure requires money,” I added. “The sweat equity part is going great thanks to friends and family.” I paused to smile at Dad. “But I need to hire pros to tackle essentials like a new roof. I’d like to start catering events and hosting occasional dinners on Summer Place’s winterized sunporch to pocket money for repairs. My second goal is to start building a clientele. Fingers crossed tomorrow’s tasting will generate some glowing reviews.”

  “Who’s coming?” Ursula’s follow-up question helped push Moll’s puzzling erotica text further to the back of my mind.

  “A restaurant reviewer for the Greenville paper, a popular farm-to-table blogger, and the owner of a company that provides concierge services to people who rent luxury lake properties. Mom also invited Dr. Swihart, a professor who helps decide who caters Clemson faculty events. Honestly, I think they all agreed to come in order to meet you. So thanks.”

  She waved off my expression of gratitude. “Nonsense,” she began, “I—”

  Ursula’s gaze caught on something or someone across the room. Her mouth hung open a second, then her eyes narrowed and her breathing became audible. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam erupt from her ears.

  I looked to see who or what had riled unflappable Judge Ursula. A lanky gentleman, probably late fifties or early sixties, strode toward our table, right arm outstretched for a handshake. Two women followed in his slipstream. His wife and daughter? He seemed confident they’d docilely follow wherever he led.

  Had I met this man? I had a hard time telling some of my dad’s male faculty members apart, especially if I’d only been introduced once or twice. They all seemed to shop at the same frameless eyeglass store and wore the “casual” academic uniform—pressed khakis, open collared shirt, and sports jacket. This gentleman was no exception.

  His sparse hair, a wishy-washy color between sandy blond and gray, was combed back from a widow’s peak on his prominent forehead. I could practically see each comb mark.

  Dad rose to shake the man’s hand, bolstering my assumption he was a university colleague. “Lawrence, I’d like to introduce my wife, Iris, my daughter, Brie, and our friend, Ursula Billings.”

  Father’s smile matched the stranger’s toothy display. “Ladies, this gentleman is Lawrence Toomey. I just learned he’s been nominated to be a Justice on the Supreme Court. Congratulations, Lawrence.”

  Mom gave Dad one of her coded cease-and-desist looks. “Howard, you don’t need to introduce Mr. Toomey to Ursula and me. We attended law school together.”

  Given my mother’s uncharacteristically frosty tone I leapt to the conclusion Iris Hooker and Ursula Billings weren’t Toomey fans.

  Yet the Supreme Court nominee either wasn’t a genius at interpreting social signals or was determined to paper over the awkwardness by exposing a full-mouth dental display. “Yes, I’ve known these lovely ladies a long time. So happy to see you again, Ursula and Iris.” He turned his gaze on me. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Brie.”

  He finally seemed to remember his female shadows. “Oh, I should introduce my lovely wife, Esther, and my daughter, Ruth,” he added.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Dad said and nodded at the women, who made no move to shake hands. Mom and Ursula remained mute, granting only obligatory nods of acknowledgement. The wife, Esther, was quite attractive though model thin. The fattest thing about the woman was her hair, a throwback bouffant do. The daughter, Ruth, was really pretty, and would have been more so if she’d smiled. Sandy hair, hazel eyes, full lips, and a slightly pointed chin.

  Mom interrupted my visual inspection when she pushed her chair back with an almost violent burst of energy and stood. “If you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving. Ursula and I want to stop in the ladies’ room. Howard, Brie, we’ll meet you at the car.”

  Mom and Ursula made a point not to acknowledge the Supreme Court nominee or his family members as they walked briskly away. I kept my seat. My curiosity whetted. How had this man made enemies of my mother and Ursula?

  Dad, looking puzzled, signaled a waiter to bring our bill.

  Time for me to take up the interrogation slack. “Congratulations on your nomination,” I began. “I hope you’ll excuse my ignorance but are you a judge here in South Carolina? Do you live in the area?”

  “Yes, on both counts.” He smiled. “I serve as a judge for the 13th Circuit Court, located in Greenville. But my family and my wife’s folks”—he paused to nod at Esther—“have lived in Ardon County for four generations. We’re continuing that tradition, though I keep an apartment in Greenville for convenience during the week. That also lets me keep tabs on Ruth here.” Another slight dip of the chin, this one toward his daughter. “She’s a nurse practitioner and has her own apartment in Greenville.”

  Not a word from the women.

  “So how are you and Dad acquainted?” The relationship seemed curious. Weird, given my father’s friendly attitude and my mother’s clear distaste.

  “We just met,” Toomey answered. “I’m on the University’s Board of Directors and Howard made a wonderful presentation yesterday. He has some great ideas for expanding the school’s horticultural curriculum.”

  Got it. They were strangers, didn’t know beans about one another.

  Dad put down his pen after adding a tip to the bill. “Guess we’d better be off. Don’t want to keep the ladies waiting.”

  “No, can’t have that.” Toomey chuckled, though it seemed forced. “Have a good day.”

  As Dad and I stood, Toomey turned toward his wife and daughter. “Esther, Ruth, come along. I see some more friends I should greet.”

  I nudged Dad’s arm as soon as we spotted Mom and Ursula outside the restaurant. Heads close together, features grim.

  “What’s the deal with Mom, Ursula, and the Toomey clan?” I asked. “Do you know?”

  “Not a clue,” he replied. “But I’m pretty sure your mother will set me straight soon enough.”

  EIGHT

  We all scooted into our previously assigned seats in Dad’s SUV.

  “Ursula and I are discussing a legal matter involving Lawrence Toomey,” Mom announced. “It’s confidential, so no questions about Mr. Toomey.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Iris,” Ursula broke in. “We can make an exception for your family. However, since that slimeball Toomey’s appearance made us bolt before dessert, I vote for having a drink in hand before I tell all.”

  At the house, Dad dutifully played bartender and I waitressed, delivering glasses of chardonnay to Mom and Ursula. Dad and I opted for cold beers. No one in my family tended to imbibe before sundown. Yet this was the second time in twenty-four hours someone had suggested booz
e as an appropriate daylight response to a puzzling event.

  Seated on the couch beside Mom, Ursula shucked her shoes and curled her long legs beneath her body. After a sip of wine, she took a deep breath.

  “Once rumors surfaced that Larry the Lech was being considered for a seat on the high court, I started wrestling with my conscience,” she said. “He plays the pious conservative to the hilt, railing against our nation’s failure to protect the unborn, our loss of family values. This is the same man who waited until I was drunk and semi-conscious to screw me without protection. Once I discovered I was pregnant, he demanded I get an abortion. Said if I tried to lay the blame on him, he’d paint me as a whore.”

  What? The look on Dad’s face said he was as shocked as I was.

  “That’s not the capper.” Ursula’s long finger worried the stem of her wine glass. “At the time, Toomey was married, though none of us in law school knew about his shotgun wedding over Christmas break. When I learned I was pregnant, graduation was just weeks away. I told people I planned a well-deserved vacation, backpacking and enjoying nature before starting my career. I stayed with cousins on a Montana ranch. Gave my baby daughter up for adoption.”

  Ursula turned to look at me. “Amber’s your age, Brie. Iris and I were pregnant at the same time. Of course, so was Toomey’s wife, Esther. Iris is the only person I ever confided in back then or since.”

  “Did you consider bringing rape charges against Toomey?” Howard asked.

  Ursula’s laugh was dismissive. “We were at a party. I drank way too much and passed out. When I began to come to, I felt a weight on top of me. Toomey had his fun while I was in that twilight zone.”

  “That’s horrible,” I said.

  “When I sobered up and confronted Toomey, he laughed it off. Said I didn’t scream so it had to be consensual. It’s different today—well, at least it’s slightly better. I was no angel in my twenties, though I was very careful about birth control. But every sexual encounter I’d had would have been exploited to make me look like a harlot. My reputation would have been destroyed before I could begin the career I’d worked my ass off to earn.”

  I frowned. “I understand why you want to expose this guy’s hypocrisy, but it’s been decades. Wouldn’t your charges be dismissed out of hand? After so many years, there’s no way to prove Toomey took advantage of you, is there?”

  Ursula smiled. “No there isn’t. I came here to talk the situation over with Iris—and Amber. While I can’t prove date rape, Amber’s date of birth and DNA provide concrete proof that Toomey fathered her while his brand new wife was pregnant.”

  “How long have you been in touch with Amber?” Dad asked.

  “We connected five years ago through an adoption reunion registry. Amber considers her adoptive parents her real parents—as she should. We’ve built a good relationship but have kept it private. Amber thinks it might hurt her adoptive mother’s feelings to know she sought contact with her birth mother. I’d never go public without Amber’s permission. I’m not sure I even have the right to ask.”

  “Does Amber know who her father is?” I wondered out loud.

  “Naturally she’s asked. I’ve always declined to answer. Said it didn’t matter. I was never in a relationship with the man, and he was unaware she existed. I told her I always loved her. I gave her up for adoption because I thought she’d have a better life.”

  Judge Ursula’s normal steely demeanor vanished. Tears meandered down her cheeks. Mom scooted across the couch to put an arm around her.

  “I just don’t know what to do. What woman would want to learn she was conceived in a sick version of date rape? Should I tell Amber the truth, let her make the decision about going public? Or will knowing only cause Amber more heartache?”

  Mom patted Ursula’s hand. “Not a word of this can leave this room. If Ursula tells her story and just says she gave a baby up for adoption—no birth date or DNA evidence to prove when Toomey fathered the child, the man can dismiss it as a politically motivated lie. If Amber’s not willing to provide DNA, the charges would be pointless, ugly publicity that is far more likely to damage Ursula than that scumbag.”

  Dad nodded. “Not enough to stop Toomey’s nomination from being approved.”

  “True,” Mom agreed. “We’ve been wracking our brains trying to come up with a legal maneuver that could keep Amber’s identity secret while using her DNA and date of birth. Have yet to come up with a foolproof option.”

  Ursula wiped the tears from her face, and bolted upright. “Brie, maybe you can help me solve my lodging problem. I love your folks but I really do want a little privacy for Amber and me. Are any rooms in your future B&B ready for occupancy?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, no. I don’t even stay inside Summer Place when I sleep over. I camp out in a little ramshackle cottage on the grounds. The previous owners rented it to hard-up students. You wouldn’t want to stay there. It’s drafty and the roof leaks. The toilet and sink boast matching rust stains, and the shower’s so small you need to exit and reenter to rinse your back.”

  Ursula chuckled. “Who could resist that sales pitch? Sold. It sounds perfect. Private. Out of the way. Nobody will look for me there—or Amber once she arrives.”

  “Isolated and uncomfortable,” I countered. “I threw out the moldy mattress the last students left behind. There’s just a blow-up mattress on the bedroom floor, and if it turns cold again as predicted, the wood fireplace is the only source of heat.”

  “No problem. I’ll buy whatever we need. I’m sure Amber won’t mind roughing it. She’s a tough cookie, guess that comes with being a cop, a detective. Anyway, I’ll pay three hundred dollars a night for your cottage. That should give you a leg up on funding your B&B repairs.”

  Holey Swiss cheese.

  I glanced over at my folks. Mom and Dad shrugged. My mind whirled. What a windfall? Three-hundred smackers a night. Even three nights and I’d have a down payment on the three-thousand-dollar low bid for a new roof.

  Don’t let dollar signs sway you. Not fair to Ursula.

  “Three hundred is way too much. You need to actually see this cubbyhole before you decide. I’m making my shack sound better than it is.”

  Mom smiled. “Before you accept any deal, Brie, let me look over the contract. Don’t want Judge Ursula sneaking in loopholes that let her sue for spider bites or exposure to dust mites.”

  I stood. “I’m heading to Summer Place now to start prepping for tomorrow’s tasting. I’ll be there all afternoon. Drop by any time for a look-see, Ursula. I won’t hold you to a sight-unseen offer. Even if you decide to go ahead, you’ll have to wait till tomorrow to move in. I need to move my stuff out, and I haven’t a minute to spare before the tasting.”

  “Fine with me,” Ursula agreed as she glanced over at Mom. “I figure the Hookers can put up with me one more night. I really do appreciate the hospitality. Just need my own space when I’m camping anywhere this long, as well as some time alone with Amber.”

  NINE

  “Yoo-hoo, anyone here—a frazzled chef in need of more hands?”

  I jumped at the unexpected voice and dropped a glass jar of Blue Agave. The sweet sticky syrup oozed around glass slivers on the kitchen’s old plank floors.

  I wet a towel and knelt to clean up the mess. “Mollye, you scared me silly.” I glanced at my friend in the doorway. “Why aren’t you at your shop?”

  She smiled. “Told you I might swing by this afternoon. Is interrogation any way to greet a volunteer sous chef? I just finished glazing a batch of pierced vases and put them in the kiln to fire. Not much traffic at Starry Skies so I closed up. One of the perks of owning your own business. I also was more than ready to think about something besides Karen’s murder.”

  “Did Danny confirm it was murder?”

  “Heavens, no. He won’t tell me squat when he’s working a case. But I�
�m sure someone killed her. I’m just not sure they planned to. What do you think about my idea?”

  “What idea?”

  “Erotic asphyxiation. Naked. Scarf around her neck.” Mollye’s voice had gone sultry. “Do you think Karen might have been doing the nasty? Tied to the bed when things went too far?”

  “Thanks. There’s a mental picture I won’t be able to purge. What people do behind closed doors is their business. Even church secretaries who accuse me of devil worship.”

  “Okay, we’ll shelve that for now. I forgot how sensitive you are.”

  “I’m not sensitive. There are just some things I’d rather not imagine.”

  Moll closed her eyes and touched her fingers to her temples like she was getting a psychic message from the great beyond. “My powers also tell me you need my wit and sass to keep you from obsessing about tomorrow’s luncheon. Figured you could use help with chopping, stirring, and what not.”

  “I was doing okay until you scared the cottage cheese out of me.”

  Mollye shrugged. “If you don’t want people barging into your kitchen, you need to lock the sunporch door.”

  “Not sure it’s worth the bother,” I answered. “Doesn’t take a lot of talent to pick that old skeleton key lock. I need to install a new lock, but that’s way down my to-do list. Nothing to steal in here except groceries and pots and pans.”

  The prior owners had sold Summer Place’s contents to an auction house. They’d cleaned out everything. Not a stick of furniture, a coffee mug, or even a salt shaker left behind. So theft wasn’t a big worry.

  Since I didn’t live here, vandalism and the possibility of homeless folks seeking shelter and getting injured in the renovation mess did worry me. But thanks to vigilant—okay nosy—across-the-street neighbors, neither were huge concerns.

  “You know the Medley sisters noted your arrival time,” I added. “If my car wasn’t in the drive, they’d have phoned by now to give me an intruder alert. They’re better security than a paid service. That reminds me, I’d better tell them I may have folks renting that cottage out back for a week or so.”