by Tamar Myers
“How rich are you?” I wanted to ask.
She read my mind. “How rich am I?” she said, and laughed. It was the sound of gold nuggets swishing around in a miner’s pan. “I’m not as rich as Oprah, but almost. But, like I said, they can’t wait for me to go naturally. They want to hurry my demise along by uprooting me. No doubt they hope the shock of my having to adjust to new surroundings will do me in.”
“My mother is considering one of those retirement communities,” I said. I was trying to be supportive. Really, I was.
“And you would let her do that?”
“Well—uh, Mama has a mind of her own.”
“So do I! And I’m not budging. If I have to hire the entire staff of Georgetown Memorial Hospital, so be it.
“You go, girl,” I said, “and I hope you live to be one hundred and ten.”
“That’s exactly what my grandchildren are afraid of. Old age seems to skip a generation in this family. All four of my grandparents lived well into their nineties. My parents, on the other hand, died in their seventies. And my children…” Her voice trailed.
We sat in silence for several minutes. “You know,” she said at last, “only one of my grandchildren seems to love me for who I am. What would you say if I told you I am considering a new will in which I leave that grandchild everything?”
“You have another grandchild?” I asked innocently. “In Europe, perhaps?” I couldn’t imagine any of the sniveling suck-ups I’d already met loved the old lady for herself.
She seemed to pale. “No,” she said flatly. “All my grandchildren are right here. Now answer my question.”
I shrugged. “Well, it’s your money, but personally, I don’t believe in inheritances. They’re a terrible thing to do to someone you love.”
The button eyes shone. “Explain, child.”
“Say, just for the sake of argument, I was that special grandchild of yours—the one who loves you for yourself. There would be still be a part of me that would wish you were dead.”
She gasped.
“Subconsciously, of course. And after you were dead—and I was rolling in moolah—that same subconscious part of me would be happy. Those negative feelings—even on a subconscious level—couldn’t be good for my psyche. So, unless you want to do psychic damage to this favorite grandchild, don’t leave him or her any money.”
“Well, you certainly know how to lay things on the line.”
“I do my best, ma’am.”
She smiled cunningly. “So, child, what would you suggest I do with all my money?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You mean you don’t have any investment opportunities you want me to consider?”
I was aghast at the insinuation. “Mrs. Latham, I do not want your money! How dare you suggest that?”
My anger seemed to delight her. “So what would you suggest?”
“What did your mother die of?”
“Breast cancer.”
“There you go. Leave your money to research. They might even find a cure for breast cancer by the time they run through all your dough. Your death might eventually mean saving the lives of millions of women world wide, rather than padding the pockets of pampered potheads.”
She looked alarmed. “Do they smoke marijuana?”
I shrugged. “Who knows? But it alliterated nicely, didn’t it? Anyway, you get my point.”
She nodded soberly. “You make a lot of sense, child. I just might do something like that. Are the folks at the American Cancer Society the ones I want to get in touch with, or is there a separate foundation for breast cancer?”
Something crashed in the hallway. I distinctly heard the sound of breaking glass. Mrs. Latham stiffened.
“Shall I see who it is?” I whispered.
The woman had keen ears. She nodded, putting a finger to her lips.
“Keep talking.”
To her credit, the old matriarch was quite skilled in the art of soliloquy. She made a smooth segue from breast cancer to her early childhood. As long as she worked her way up the ladder of her life, she had plenty to talk about. While she rambled, I tiptoed.
Small as I am, I normally make an excellent stalker. I have lots of experience, mind you, having been the mother of two teenagers and an unfaithful husband. But the centuries-old wooden floors of the Latham house would give Tinker Bell away. Every step I took, no matter how light and well placed, elicited a creak or groan loud enough to wake the dead in Los Angeles. Funny how I hadn’t heard that racket before.
It was surely a lost cause by the time I reached the door. Still, I flung it open dramatically, hoping to startle the eavesdropper into dropping something else, or, with any luck, having a mild heart attack.
But there was no one there. The hall was just as empty as Mrs. Hubbard’s cupboard. I glanced down at the ancient hardwood floor and the threadbare Kazak at my feet. Not a shard of glass to be seen.
I hurried back to Mrs. Latham. “You don’t have ghosts, do you?”
She cackled delightedly. “Every house this old has ghosts, child. But that was no ghost.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Latham Hall Plantation ghosts have no reason to eavesdrop. If they want to listen in to a conversation, they come right in and plop themselves down on a chair. It doesn’t matter if the door is closed, either.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She shook her head. “I’ve seen it a hundred times. Especially the colonel. Why he—” She put a hand to her mouth. “You probably think I’m batty, don’t you?”
“No, ma’am.” I only hoped she didn’t ask Daniel the same question.
“So, you’ll stay the remainder of the weekend?”
“Yes, ma’am, if you really want me to.”
“I wouldn’t ask, if I didn’t want you to. Now run along for a bit, I feel the need for a morning nap.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Now that I wasn’t moving out, I didn’t have to bother collecting my things. While the old lady snoozed I could roam the house with impunity. I could spy, as Daniel so eloquently put it.
She read my mind again. “Be careful, dear.”
“Excuse me?”
“I would never accuse one of my grandchildren, of course. That’s not what I’m saying, at all. But that girl—what’s her name—”
“C.J.?”
“Yes, that’s the one, she is no killer. Like I said, she might not have all her oars in the water, but she didn’t stab Flora.”
I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
“Now help me up the stairs, child. I’m suddenly very tired.”
I helped Mrs. Latham up the stairs. She brushed off my suggestion that she install an elevator, or at the very least a mechanical seat. Climbing the stairs was her one form of exercise, she said. Her only fear was toppling over backward and breaking a hip, or worse yet, her spine. She had to have both feet on the same step before attempting the next, and she was swaying like a pine tree in a hurricane. By the time I got her to her room (she wouldn’t allow me to put her to bed), I was ready for a nap myself.
Of course, I didn’t pamper myself with a few hard-earned “Zs.” Mama says there will be plenty of time for sleeping when we’re dead—a sentiment I’ve often sneered at—but she has a point. In fact, there are very few things one can do in a coffin but sleep—unless you’re Candy Woodruff, a girl I went to high school with. Candy was both a tramp and a mortician’s daughter. The girl found more uses for a coffin, than a cook has for water—or so I heard. At any rate, as soon as I closed the door behind Mrs. Latham, I got right down to work.
I began my reconnaissance mission peering into the room next door, the bedroom that had been assigned to Edith and her husband Albert. I couldn’t help but gasp. I should have known Edith would get the best room—she was the eldest, after all. But—and I know this will sound spiteful of me—all that beauty had to be wasted on a woman of her sensibilities. Sure, she had exquisite gold jewelry, and expensive clothes, bu
t the woman probably wouldn’t recognize a poem if the iambic pentameter jumped out and bit her. And that’s exactly what this bedroom was—a poem!
Allow me to describe it briefly. The principal furniture consisted of a suite of painted Chippendale, in cream and emerald green. The four-poster bed cover was a rich cream and gold brocade, the bed curtains were green silk taffeta topped with a cream flounce. On the floor was one huge Bidjar medallion carpet with a cream background, and a green and rose floral border. The heavy velvet drapes at the windows were a dusty rose, lined with cream satin, and they complemented the carpet perfectly. A pair of French gilt armchairs had been added, almost as an afterthought, but they were the touch of genius.
I don’t know how long I stood and stared—five minutes, maybe ten, when I felt someone tap me on my shoulder. I would have jumped out of my skin, but my jeans were too tight. Instead, I screamed.
13
“Shhh! You’ll wake Grandmother Latham.”
I glared at Albert Jansen. “What the hell are you doing scaring me like that?”
“Me? I come out of the bathroom and there you are, standing in the middle of my room, gawking.”
“I wasn’t gawking,” I snapped. “I was appreciating.”
He glanced around. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? Edith tries to copy her grandmother, but it’s either something you’re born with, or not. Grandmother Latham was definitely born with it. She did all her own decorating, you know. No imported Yankee designers for her.”
I nodded vigorously. What a relief to hear that her overbearing granddaughter was a failure. I always said that money couldn’t buy taste.
“If I died right now—in this room—I’d go happy.”
“I hear you.”
I took a second look at the man. He was still plump and balding. His wire-rimmed glasses were badly in need of cleaning. He was an engineer for Pete’s sake. Did there beat an artist’s heart behind the expensive Italian leather pocket protector?
Like his grandmother-in-law, he seemed to read my mind. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me when people do that—large print is easy to read, after all—but it’s disconcerting nonetheless.
“I never wanted to be an engineer,” he said. “I became one because of my dad. He was one. If I had to do it over, I’d go to art school. What would you do?”
It is a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times, and each time I’ve come up with a different answer. Either I am the mother of all multiple personalities, or a fascinating woman, blessed with a vast array of interests.
“I suppose a gardener,” I said. I must have been inspired by the floral motif of the carpet.
“Really? I love gardening, as well. Have you seen Grandmother Latham’s?”
“No.”
“Then come with me, I’d like to show it to you.”
“That’s very nice but there’s someone waiting for me downstairs.”
“Who?”
“A brilliant attorney who is going to prove that my friend C.J. did not kill your grandmother’s maid.”
Albert smiled. “If you mean Little Wet Daniel, he’s already gone.”
“He has?”
“Oh, don’t worry, he said he’d be in touch with you as soon as he learned something.”
He grabbed my arm. “I have something very important to discuss with you.”
I was shocked by his behavior, but not too shocked to peel his fingers off my arm like they were the tentacles of a slimy octopus.
“Please.” He was practically begging.
My mama didn’t raise a fool—she raised two fools, Toy and me. Against my better judgment I followed him outside and to the garden.
It really wasn’t much of a garden. Just a straggly hedge of boxwood planted in the outline of a heart. Inside the parterre a dozen or so badly spotted rosebushes strained for the sun, and in their midst, at the core of the heart was a flaking, whitewashed plaster statue of the Venus de Milo. Obviously Mrs. Latham preferred to keep her wealth inside the house.
We followed a weed-choked gravel path around the river side of the heart, and sat on a concrete bench, under a live oak, facing the water. Between us and the house was a screen of magnolias and cypress trees. Since the boathouse was on the other side of the mansion, this seemed like a very private place to talk.
This was as close as I had ever been to the Black River, and I was so charmed by its beauty that I temporarily forgot Albert’s rudeness. The black opaque water made a perfect mirror. The trees and shrubs on the opposite bank were reflected in minute detail.
“It seems so mysterious,” I gushed. “The water is so dark, it’s unreal.”
Albert pointed at a black bumpy log in the water not twenty feet away. “It’s also full of alligators.”
“You’re kidding! That log’s a gator?”
Albert smiled. “Alligators don’t usually attack adult humans. Dogs and small children, now, that’s a different story.”
He didn’t say just how small a child had to be before a gator showed interest, but I tucked my feet up under me just the same. Now that we were in the garden he seemed in no hurry to talk, but that was fine with me. Under the moss-draped oak it was cool. I could have sat there all day and watched the black water flow by.
“Hey,” I said, emerging from my reverie, “why did the current stop?”
Albert chuckled. “It didn’t. That’s just an illusion. Since we’re so close to the ocean, this is what is called a tidal river. For the past six hours the tide has been going out, and the river, which normally does have a weak current, looked like it was flowing rather faster. Now, the tide is coming in, but it’s countered by the current. That’s why the water looks like it’s standing still, but it’s actually rising.” He pointed across the river. “See the mud banks over there?”
How could I not? They were as black as the river, but nonreflective. They reminded me of the herds of wallowing water buffaloes I’d seen on National Geographic.
“I see them.”
“See that dead tree trunk sticking out of that one? The one that’s tilted at a forty-five-degree angle?”
“Yes.”
“See how the bottom two-thirds of it is black? That’s how high the water will rise in the next six hours.”
“Fascinating.” I really meant it. Maybe if I played my cards right the old lady would ask me to stay on indefinitely—sort of as a home companion, a live-in curator, whatever. Just as long as I didn’t have to clean bathrooms and mop floors. A little vacuuming never hurt anyone, and it would be a joy to dust her treasures.
I’m ashamed to say that my reverie was further disturbed by the rumbling of my stomach. “Has anyone mentioned lunch?” I asked sheepishly. “I’m afraid I haven’t had anything to eat today.”
“Ah, lunch on Saturday is usually a do-it-yourself affair. Saturday dinner, however, is the high point of the week—well, it usually is. But now with cook out of commission and Flora dead…” He shrugged. “Alexandra’s offered to cook—she’s in town now getting a few groceries—but between you and me, that woman can’t cook. Not real food, at any rate. Just that frilly nouveau stuff that tastes like perfume.”
“And omelettes.” I jumped to my feet. “I’m sure your grandmother wouldn’t mind if I helped myself to a little something now. She wants me to stay the weekend, you know.”
“She does?”
“Is that so incredible?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that with Flora’s death, and all—well, and I won’t know how to put this any more delicately—one would think she would find the presence of outsiders stressful.”
If I had bit my tongue any harder the gator would have had an hors d’oeuvre. Contrary to public opinion my tongue is not large enough to make a full meal. At any rate, I counted to ten before speaking.
“We still haven’t had that important discussion—unless this is it.”
He took a linen handkerchief out of his pants pocket, removed his glasses, and wiped his brow.
It was a melodramatic gesture unworthy of even a freshman drama student.
“It’s my wife,” he said.
“Go on.”
“It all seemed so real back there in the house, but here”—he waved a stubby arm at the river—“it almost seems too bizarre to mention.”
I sat down, cross-legged again. Come hell or high water, I was going to hear what he had to say. Stomachs can be filled anytime, but really good gossip is hard to come by.
“Tell me about it.”
He glanced in the direction of the house. “I know you’re going to think I’m nuts, but…” His voice trailed off. He shook his head. “God, I shouldn’t even be thinking this. It’s just too weird.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
He took a deep breath. “I think Edith may have had something to do with Flora’s death.” He exhaled loudly and mopped his forehead again.
“Get out of town!” Okay, so maybe it wasn’t an appropriate response, given the gravity of his statement, but I was plumb blown away.
He put his glasses back on. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” I said quickly, “I’m just a bit taken aback. Please, Albert, elaborate.”
“Well, I really don’t know where to begin. I—uh—well—uh—”
“Begin at the beginning, dear.”
His sigh was pitiable, the last whiff of air to escape from a crumpled beach ball. “I guess the beginning would be my marriage to Edith. This might come as a surprise to you, but I don’t really fit into this family. Edith and I come from opposite ends of the spectrum.” He paused, presumably giving me a chance to comment.
“I understand,” I said cooperatively. “She came from a wealthy family of ancient lineage, and you were poor white trash.”
