Death on the Family Tree

by Patricia Sprinkle

  She feared Hasty would invite the man join them, but he was already crossing the foyer and greeting the hostess like an old friend. “Your usual table is ready, Mr. Franklin,” she said, and took him right in.

  Katharine felt a pang at the name, remembering Franklin Garrett, a great Atlanta historian who had died not too many years before and was still sorely missed.

  She turned back to Hasty. “So, do you have a wife?”

  A shadow crossed his face. “Yeah, but we’re separated right now. When I came down here she and Kelly, who is fifteen, didn’t want to move. What does your husband do?” His tone shut out sympathy or questions.

  When she told him, he raised his brows. “A lobbyist?” It sounded like a disease.

  “More of a consultant, making sure his company’s interests are properly represented.”

  “Ooh—prickly, Kate,” he chided her with a grin. “I’m sure he’s a nice lobbyist.”

  “Very nice.”

  “So what are you going to do with yourself now that everybody’s gone off and left you?”

  He didn’t have to put it so baldly. “I’m figuring that out.” She hoped she sounded confident and enthusiastic. “I’m considering various options.”

  His grin widened. “From past experience, I’d suggest you not consider anything in the realm of biology.”

  She had forgotten how easy Hasty was to laugh with. They were still chuckling when the hostess came to tell them their table was ready.

  He looked around at the white wallpaper with huge flowers, thick white tablecloths, dainty floral arrangement on each table, and the crowd of women and muttered, “So this is how the ladies eat.”

  Lamar looked up from his menu at the next table. “You just doubled the masculine population of the room. Thanks.” He turned to give his order.

  When they had ordered, Hasty leaned back in his chair and said, “Sounds like you’ve done well for yourself. Married a corporate executive, got a house in Buckhead, what more could a woman ask for? I’m happy for you. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me about?”

  She reached down and brought out the book and the cloth-wrapped parcel. As she passed them across the table, she warned, “I can’t guarantee they’re sanitary.”

  He had already removed the cloth from the necklace and glanced at its tag. Then he took off his glasses, set them on the table, and held the circlet close to his eyes. His big hands turned it with a gentleness that surprised her. “It’s bronze. Where on earth did you get this?”

  Katharine told him about Aunt Lucy’s box and about tracking down Carter Everanes in the history center library. “But I don’t know where he got those things.”

  He didn’t take his eyes from the circlet as he turned it again and again. “Hallstatt was a very important Celtic archaeological find. If this is genuine, it could be extremely valuable. But it shouldn’t be in private hands. The person who can probably tell you for certain is at Emory’s Carlos Museum, but he’s in Europe for a couple of weeks.”

  Katharine was about to say that was what she had been told at the history center when Lamar leaned across the space between their tables. “That looks fascinating. Is it real old? Could I see it just a minute?”

  Hasty didn’t hand it over. “Sorry, but if this is as old as I think it is, it needs to be kept in a very safe place and not handled.” He looked over at Katharine. “Why don’t I take it—”

  “Oh no, you don’t.” She grabbed it, surprising all three of them. But Katharine had recognized that look in Hasty’s eye. He used to collect stamps and had founded a stamp club at high school to which she initially belonged. Unfortunately, whenever anybody brought in a stamp Hasty didn’t own and wanted, he got a certain gleam in his eye. Then he badgered the owner until the poor soul would sell to him rather than put up with his persistent hounding. One student with a good collection had finally gotten so tired of losing stamps to Hasty that he had complained to the principal and the principal had shut down the club.

  Katharine used the distraction of the waitress setting down iced tea and hot cheese drop biscuits to reach over and take back the diary, as well. It was admirable that Hasty had turned his passion for things of the past into gainful employment, but she felt better with Aunt Lucy’s possessions on her side of the table.

  “What was that?” he demanded, putting back on his glasses and peering across at her.

  “A diary. It’s in German, and I haven’t tried to translate it yet.”

  He grew very still. “Was the diary with the necklace?”

  “In the same box.”

  “What else do you have in that bag?”

  “A piece of junk.”

  “Let me see.” He held out his hand.

  She handed over Aunt Lucy’s peach pit necklace. He dropped it on the table after a quick look. “That’s disgusting. It’s even moldy.”

  “I told you it was junk.” She put it back in the bag and was starting to rewrap the necklace in its cloth when she heard someone greet her from behind.

  “Hello, Katharine.” She looked up into the ice blue eyes of Rowena Ivorie Slade. Rowena was one of those women for whom wealth, brains, and grooming achieve what nature has not. Born a silver blonde, she still kept her hair “Ivorie” white and beautifully coiffed and was invariably so well dressed and confident that people spoke of her as attractive, forgetting that her eyes were too close together, her nose long and sharp, her chin insignificant. Today she wore a two-piece dress of navy linen with a gold necklace and earrings that probably could have bought all the lunches served at the Coach House that afternoon.

  Aside from having sat on a few of the same committees, Rowena and Katharine had another thing in common: both were the only children of fathers who had been forty-five when they were born. With her father close to ninety, Rowena now reigned as queen in Atlanta’s conservative political circles, chairing more committees than she had fingers and flying to Washington at least once a month to keep government on track.

  Hasty stood. Katharine was about to introduce them when she met the startled dark eyes of her niece, who stood behind Rowena. Hollis gave Hasty an oblique look, then looked back at her aunt with a challenge in her eye. Katharine gave an inner sigh. Young adults could be so tedious about running into married relations eating lunch with somebody of the other sex.

  She again started to introduce Hasty, but Rowena forestalled her by sticking out a hand. “How do you do? I am Rowena Slade.”

  Hasty shook the proffered hand. “Hobart Hastings, ma’am. I teach over at Emory and I heard you speak on a panel last year. A very impressive mustering of facts.”

  “Thank you.” Rowena took it for praise.

  Katharine looked down at her plate to hide her smile. Unless Hasty’s politics had changed drastically since high school, he hadn’t agreed with a word Rowena had said. Apparently, though, he had learned a little tact and diplomacy in the past thirty years.

  Rowena turned and stepped aside slightly. “This is my daughter, Amy Faire Slade,” she continued, “and her friend, Hollis Buiton, who also happens to be Katharine’s niece.”

  Until Rowena mentioned her, Katharine hadn’t noticed Amy standing beyond Hollis. Poor Amy was easy to over-look—a pale, drab child with her mother’s sharp features and the hesitant look of a creature who fears the sun. Perhaps that was because she stood so consistently in the shadow of her mother and older brother. Even after four years of college, she seemed socially awkward, far younger than Hollis. Her summer dress was attractive and probably had cost as much as Katharine’s whole outfit, but it hung on her skinny frame in a shade of pallid pink that was far too bland for her coloring.

  “You’ve changed your hair,” Katharine murmured to Hollis while Rowena and Hasty chatted. She was determined not to let the meeting become too important for either one of them. “It looks great. When did you get it cut?”

  “We both got our hair done,” Amy boasted with the pride of a ten-year-old. “Mama gave us makeovers for my
birthday.” Her limp brown hair cascaded in curls that would last until she slept on them, and her face had the disconcerting look of a child’s made up for a beauty pageant.

  Hollis’s hair, however, was radically different. Instead of self-dyed black strings down her back or twisted sloppily on top of her head, it was beauty-shop mahogany with a burgundy stripe, and expertly cut to cup her chin in front but very short in the back. Her mother might have a fit, but the style suited her face. In an instant Hollis’s expression went from stony disapproval to self-satisfaction. “This morning. Do you really like it?”

  “Very much,” Katharine assured her. Which was more than she could say about Hollis’s vivid red lipstick, purple eye shadow, gold nose stud, and eyebrow ring. Worn with a black miniskirt and tank top, they made Hollis look like a vampire—or a New York model. Katharine wouldn’t have chosen black rubber flip-flops for lunch with friends, either, but she loved Hollis for herself, not her clothes, and appreciated that her niece used clothing as both a fashion statement and a declaration of independence from her mother.

  “It’s quite the family day today, isn’t it?” Now it was Rowena’s curious gaze that roved from Katharine to Hasty. “We’ve been celebrating Amy’s birthday. If I’d known you were coming here, Katharine, I’d have invited you to join us.”

  “We just arrived,” Katharine replied. “We came up from the Kenan Research Center.” She was speaking more to Hollis than Rowena, but Hollis was looking at the floor. Was she embarrassed because she had caught her aunt with another man, or because Katharine had caught her hobnobbing with the Ivories? Given Posey’s opinions of the family, Katharine wondered whether Hollis had mentioned whose birthday she was celebrating.

  Katharine hadn’t realized Hollis and Amy were special friends. In fact, when they were all in high school, she remembered Jon saying that Amy was a “space cadet” who had no friends. If Hollis was dating Zach and he was working for the Ivorie Foundation, Katharine hoped she wasn’t cultivating Amy for ulterior reasons.

  Amy slid Hasty an admiring look and held out a clutch of bright gift bags with a giggle of delight. “Mama really went all out, didn’t she? And Hollis gave me these great earrings she designed and made herself.” She held back her hair and shook her head. Bright beads swung against her cheeks.

  “It’s Kate’s birthday, too,” Hasty informed them, “so we’re celebrating.”

  “We were in the same class at Coral Gables High School years ago, and ran into each other over at the history center library. Isn’t that amazing?” Katharine knew she was talking too fast. Were her cheeks as pink as they felt? She wished he hadn’t called her Kate. Hollis had noticed, and was again looking at her with a speculative eye. “Hobart agreed to join me so I wouldn’t have to celebrate alone.” Maybe he’d get the hint if she used his full name.

  Hollis looked down at the necklace lying by her plate. “Looks like you got a present, too. Did Uncle Tom send it?” She put a slight emphasis on his name.

  “No.” Katharine hoped she sounded cheerful and normal. “He’ll bring me something when he gets home Friday, then we’re going to dinner and the symphony that night to celebrate.”

  “So what’s that?” Hollis asked warily.

  Katharine picked it up and held it out to her, ignoring Hasty’s glare. “Something I found among Aunt Lucy’s stuff. In fact, that’s why a curator over at the history center suggested I talk to Hobart. He’s a history prof at Emory.”

  Hollis eyed the necklace with the eye of an artist. “It looks real old. Is it?”

  “Hobart thinks so. How old?” Katharine asked him.

  He was watching the necklace like he wanted to snatch it and keep it safe. “If it’s genuine, it could be twenty-five hundred, maybe even three thousand years old.”

  “Wow.” Hollis had been lightly touching it, but jerked her hand away like the bronze was hot. Lamar Franklin was craning his neck to get a good look as well.

  “The diary may be an important find, too,” Katharine added. “It may be the detailed record of an important archaeological dig, lost for a hundred and fifty years.” She gloated at the surprised look on Hasty’s face. He hadn’t been going to tell her about the missing diary.

  Hollis looked from the necklace to the diary with a puzzled frown. “So how did Miss Lucy get them?”

  “That’s a mystery.” Katharine stowed both artifacts in her tote bag. “I’m working on it as my birthday present to myself.”

  Amy giggled. “I hope you have as good a birthday as I am. I had lunch with Hollis and Mama, and Papa—my granddaddy—has promised to come with us to the club for dinner. That’s really special, because he almost never leaves his house anymore.”

  Rowena turned to Katharine. “It was good to run into you. Happy birthday.” She ushered the girls ahead of her, checking her watch and picking up her pace as they reached the door.

  “Probably running late for some important meeting,” Hasty said as he resumed his seat.

  “Don’t knock it,” Katharine told him. “Rowena’s a competent woman. It makes me mad enough to spit that her daddy may skip over her and make her son head of the Ivorie Foundation.”

  “Brandon Ivorie is her son?” Hasty’s brows rose in surprise. “I thought he was her younger brother.”

  “No, he was the product of a disastrous early decision, or so Rowena tells high school students when she preaches to them about the dangers of having sex before marriage. And to give her credit, she knows what she’s talking about. Brandon was born when she was barely sixteen. The rumor is that her daddy held the proverbial shotgun to the young man’s head and made him marry Rowena to legitimate the baby, but within weeks of Brandon’s birth, Napoleon had paid the young man and sent him packing. Rowena got a divorce, took her baby to her parents, reclaimed her maiden name, and changed Brandon’s last name to Ivorie.”

  “Bad precedent,” said Lamar from the next table, lathering a biscuit with butter. “Shows young men that sex before marriage can pay off real good.”

  Katharine wished he’d stop eavesdropping and butting in uninvited. She lowered her voice as she continued. “After high school, Rowena went to Bryn Mawr, graduated summa cum laude, and came back to Atlanta. Her second husband was old and died not long after Amy was born. Since then, Rowena has devoted herself to politics and good works. And as much as I deplore what the Ivorie Foundation stands for, she would make an excellent director. She’s more human than either her daddy or her son, and might moderate its politics a little—or its ferocious pursuit of them.”

  “Which may be why the old man is leaning toward Brandon,” Hasty suggested. “We can’t have women running things. You know that. You all aren’t capable.” He grinned, to show he was joking. “Did you ever forgive me for what I did back in Miami? I was a pig.”

  “You were,” she agreed, “but I wasn’t exactly a saint myself.”

  “All square?” When she nodded, he held out one hand and motioned with his fingers. “Then let me see that book. Please? I read German. Fluently.”

  “I read it, too.” She put one protective hand over the tote bag, which was still in her lap. Hasty could probably read the diary in a day, but she wasn’t about to let him take it away.

  “You have no right to those things,” he protested. “If that diary is what I think it is, it ought to be in a museum. So should that necklace. Heaven only knows how they got among your Aunt Lucy’s things.”

  “Heaven only knows and I intend to find out.” She stowed the bag under her chair. “Besides, Aunt Lucy was a history teacher. She’d have known if these things ought to be in a museum. The diary’s probably unimportant and the necklace a copy or something.”

  His voice hardened. “Marked Hallstatt 1850? I don’t think so. I know about these things. You don’t.”

  “Aunt Lucy wouldn’t have stuck them in a box if they were really valuable.” It was amazingly easy to fall back into adolescent patterns with Hasty.

  “Unless she was in the h
abit of pilfering.” His expression was stony, and his eyes darted to the floor and back like he was measuring the distance to the tote bag and calculating whether he could grab it and run.

  “Aunt Lucy was not a thief!” Katharine looped one of the handles over her right foot. She wouldn’t let it go without a fight.

  The waitress set food before them, but they didn’t pay any attention.

  “Come on, Kate. History teachers don’t make enough to buy things like that. She had to have stolen it—or maybe her brother did. In either case, you don’t have any right—”

  “Neither do you!” She buttered a biscuit and reminded herself they were both past forty-five and ought to be able to conduct a civilized conversation, even a disagreement, without resorting to rudeness or raised voices. “I’ll keep it safe,” she promised, trying to mollify him. But his temper was up.

  “You don’t know the first thing about storing valuable artifacts. If anything happens to that necklace and that diary—”

  She glared at him. “Are you threatening me?”

  He pushed back his chair. “Not yet, but if anything happens to either one of them, I’ll make sure somebody sues you for everything you’ve got.” He flung his napkin onto the table and took out his wallet. He selected a fifty-dollar bill and dropped it beside the napkin. “Happy birthday. Keep the change.” He strode from the restaurant, followed by the gaze of every woman in the room.

  Katharine heard a low chuckle from the man at the next table.

  Chapter 6

  During the rest of her meal, Katharine felt other women’s eyes sliding her way. Thankfully, the man at the next table ate quickly and left, but on his way out he called, “Be seein’ you, Mrs. Murray,” attracting more stares from other women.

  She devoutly hoped she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Or Hasty.

  She forked in chicken salad and frozen salad without tasting a bite, mulling over the past hour. She knew she was reasonably attractive, but she had not consciously set out to attract either of those two. Was she sending out some subliminal chemical that announced, “I’m lonesome, pay me attention”? Was this the first sign of menopause?