Daughter of Deceit

by Patricia Sprinkle

  Upstairs Bara left the bottle in the kitchen and made her way through the recesses of the house. “Uncle Scotty?” she called. “Are you here?”

  “I’m here.” He was in the front of the house, standing with his hands in his pockets, looking around the spacious foyer and elegant rooms with a wistful expression. “How are you, shug?” He gave her a kiss.

  At eighty-six, Scotty Payne had shrunk until he was almost her own height, but he was still a handsome man, with crisp gray curls and a ruddy complexion. He looked hopefully at her glass, but she wouldn’t have offered him a drink if she’d had any to offer. She didn’t intend for him to stay that long.

  “How did you get in? And who is driving the Miata parked out back?”

  He jingled his key ring. “I still have my old front-door key from when I used to live here. We didn’t see a Miata.”

  “We?” Bara looked around.

  “Hey,” Murdoch called from the dining room. “I was looking at the Dolley Payne Madison tea set before I go to Boston. I ought to know something more about it by this time next week.” She sounded as excited as if she were off on a Star Trek expedition to discover worlds where no man had ever gone before. Or woman.

  Bara ignored her. “What did you want?” she asked Scotty. “Have you got good news?”

  “Sorry, hon, I don’t. But I’m going to need some money on your account. I can’t work for free, you know, as much as I’d like to. I’ve got bills to pay.” By which he meant greens fees, bar bills, and his tailor.

  “I can’t pay you any more until you get me some money. You know I can’t lay my hands on cash right now.”

  “You’ve got your father’s shares. Sell some of them.”

  “Who are you working for? Those shares are what this whole thing is about right now.”

  “This thing is about a divorce,” he said bluntly. “I don’t care if you sell the shares to Foley or to Santa Claus, I need to get paid. I have expenses, you know.”

  “If you would get them to drop those ridiculous ideas about Winnie’s estate, I’d have plenty.”

  He shook his head. “No can do. They do have a point, you know. It’s hardly fair for you to get half of Winnie’s estate and Foley to get nothing.”

  “You are nuts! Who are you working for?” she asked again.

  He peered around the hall, moved over to a table and peered at the painting over it. “Is that my grandmother’s Monet? I’ll bet it would fetch a pretty penny.”

  “It’s part of the inventory of the contents of the house. Besides, Nana left it to me. I wouldn’t sell it.”

  He looked around the lavishly furnished house. “So what isn’t part of the inventory?”

  “Not much, according to Foley.”

  “Not the tea set!” Murdoch called from the dining room in indignation.

  Bara didn’t bother to raise her voice, since Murdoch could obviously hear her. “No, Nana’s will stipulated I was to pass it to my daughter, if I had one. I’ve told Foley and his lawyer, but I don’t know if they’ve absorbed that fact. I ought to go ahead and give it to Payne, to get it out of the house. But everything else here, we both had appraised. Not that our appraisals always agree.”

  “What did they value the Monet at?” Scotty peered at the dreamy water scene.

  Bara hesitated, but she might as well tell him. It wouldn’t be a secret once Foley took her to court. “My appraiser said it could go for as much as fifteen million. Some sell for more, but he thinks that’s a fair value for this one. Foley’s man evaluated it higher, of course. Foley’s getting high appraisals on everything I want to keep.”

  Murdoch’s shoes clattered on the marble floor. “Fifteen million dollars?” She peered up at the painting. “Nana paid that much for a painting?”

  “It was her mother’s, and has increased considerably in value since my grandmother bought it.” Scotty’s voice was bitter with envy.

  Bara used to feel guilty that her grandmother Payne had given her three family treasures while Scotty and Murdoch got stocks and cash. Even if they had invested wisely—which they hadn’t—the sum Nana had left them in lieu of the tea set, the painting, and her Tiffany lamp would not have kept pace with the increase in value of the painting alone. Still, Bara doubted whether either of them would have kept the painting long enough for it to appreciate much. The tea set was all Murdoch valued, and Scotty was not sentimental.

  “It should have all been mine,” Scotty grumbled. “The house, the painting, all of it. I was the older son. Nettie was taken care of by Winnie.”

  “Granddaddy offered you the house when he decided to downsize,” Bara reminded him. “You told him it was too big and expensive to run, so since Ray and I were getting married, he gave it to us.”

  “He should have sold it and given me the money,” Scotty insisted. “You and Ray didn’t need all this space. If you and Foley sell, I’m tempted to sue you for at least half of what you get for it.” Before Bara could reply, he returned to his earlier question. “Isn’t there anything you could sell right now, that’s not on the inventory?”

  “Nothing but a few necklaces Foley gave me. He claimed he wouldn’t take them back because they were given in love,” Bara grimaced in distaste, “but the truth is, he didn’t want anybody finding out how cheap he is. I could sell them, I guess, but all together they aren’t worth as much as Mama’s pearls—and Foley had no scruples about putting them on the list.”

  She was talking to air. Scotty had gone into the dining room and was examining the silver teapot. “This set certainly ought to have come down to me. You aren’t even a Payne.”

  “Nana left it to me as her oldest granddaughter.”

  “You were always her favorite,” Murdoch complained.

  “Nettie should have gotten it, at least.” Scotty peered at the hallmark on the bottom.

  “Mother and Nana had quarreled about something. You’d know more about that than I would.” Bara hoped her uncle would tell her what he knew. She had always wondered why her grandmother had cut Nettie out of what she privately called the silver service succession.

  Scotty didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he put down the teapot and examined the inscription on the tray. “Murdoch would appreciate it a lot more than you do.”

  “I sure would,” Murdoch agreed.

  “Nana wanted me to have it, the Monet, and the lamp. She left them to me by name, remember? ‘To my beloved Bara Holcomb I leave…’” Bara had memorized the words, held them to her heart in the bleak weeks after her grandmother’s death. My beloved Bara. Even Winnie had never called her beloved.

  Scotty was examining the bottom of the creamer. “It should have come to me. Mama probably made up that ‘oldest granddaughter’ bit so she could do what she wanted to with the set. That means you can sell it or give it to us if you want to. It’s worth a pretty penny, I’ll bet.”

  “It’s not mine to sell,” Bara insisted. “It is to go to Payne.”

  Scotty remained unconvinced. “Payne wasn’t even born when Mama gave you that set. You were still in college when Mama died. Murdoch cares a lot more about that sort of thing than you or Payne, either one. Sell it to Murdoch. Then you can pay me what you owe.”

  Murdoch looked willing to write a check on the spot, but Bara dashed her hopes. “Murdoch couldn’t afford to pay me anything like what it’s worth, and you both know it. Still,” she added to her cousin, “if you paid room and board, your daddy wouldn’t be so hard up.”

  “That’s none of your business.” Murdoch flounced out to the front hall. “Come on, Daddy.”

  Scotty set the creamer down and murmured, “Listen, if you want to sell this thing on the QT, I’ve got somebody who could get you a good price. More than Murdoch could pay, that’s for sure.”

  Bara sighed. Scotty and her mother had looked a lot alike, but inside they had been made of different fiber. Nettie had been rigidly righteous and proud of it. Scotty was softer and superficially easier to like, but had the moral
s of a cuckoo.

  “I told you. It will go to Payne. It has been handed down for hundreds of years.”

  “Come on. If it disappeared now, who’d know it wasn’t stolen? Like I said, I’ve got somebody who would make you a good price.”

  “Go home.” She rubbed her throbbing temples. “I can’t deal with this right now.” She was developing a two-drink headache, and the bottle in the kitchen was calling her name.

  Scotty paused at the arch to the hall. “I’m not a public defender, hon. I can’t keep working for free.”

  “You’re not working at all. If you’d do what I’ve already paid you for, you’d get me out of this mess and we’d both have enough to live on.”

  His laugh was short and brutal. “Face facts, sweetie. Foley holds all the cards in this divorce. He has supported you for years.”

  “He has not! I’ve paid most of the household bills our entire marriage.”

  “Stupid you. But if we fight him, you know Mason. He’ll get Foley everything you’ve got.” At the front door he delivered an ultimatum. “I need a check by next week. Okay?”

  She didn’t bother to reply. They both knew the answer to that.

  He was halfway down the steps when she remembered something. “I want your key to this house.”

  Scotty laughed and kept walking.

  She locked the door after him and dragged a chair to prop under the knob. A nap. That’s what she needed. Another drink and a long nap.

  A stealthy sound upstairs caught her ear. It must be whoever had come in the Miata. She probably hadn’t put on the security system when she left the house. She never could remember to punch all those little buttons.

  “Hello?” she called up the stairs. “I know you’re up there. I heard you. Come on down, right this minute.” Perhaps she should have been nervous, but she was too tired. Besides, what burglar would park on the drive and remain upstairs while she and Scotty quarreled? There was a back staircase leading to the kitchen.

  She crept up the curving marble staircase, listening intently. The silence was too pregnant to be empty. She could feel somebody listening as intently as she.

  She still carried her shoulder bag, so she reached for her cell phone and was punching 911 when somebody spoke above her. “Who are you calling?”

  Bara looked up to see Carlene Morris beside the ebony newel post Granddaddy Payne had been so proud of. “It’s me,” Carlene said with a simper. “Foley sent me to get a few things.”

  Fluffy gold hair flowed over a cotton top that showed off high little breasts and left her midriff bare. Her skirt barely covered the minimum. Everywhere else her skin was an unwrinkled, golden tan. Something long and bright dangled from one hand.

  “How did you get in?” Bara demanded, climbing a few steps.

  Carlene shrugged. “I still have my key to the back door from when I worked here. Nobody asked for it back.” She descended a couple of steps and peered down at the foyer. “What was it you said was worth fifteen million dollars?”

  Bara didn’t answer the question. She had recognized what Carlene held, and was enraged. “Those necklaces are mine!”

  Carlene shrugged. “Foley bought them. Now he wants me to have them.” She smiled the satisfied smile of a young woman on the make who has found a generous middle-aged lover.

  “They aren’t his to give. Put them down and get out of this house. Do you hear me? Get out!”

  Carlene came down toward her, swinging the jewelry insolently. Bara saw that in addition to the necklaces, she carried Grandmother Payne’s diamond tiara, the one Granddaddy had bought prematurely for her to wear as First Lady of Georgia. Foley must have given that slut the combination to Bara’s safe!

  Bara stepped aside to let Carlene pass, then gripped a banister with one hand and a handful of hair in the other. She twisted the silky strands around her fingers and tugged hard.

  Carlene screamed and writhed.

  Bara tugged a second time. “Drop it!” she commanded. “Drop all of it!” When Carlene hesitated, she tugged again.

  Carlene dropped the jewelry with a stream of sewer language.

  Bara let go and shoved her shoulder. “Go on,” she said. “Get out. He deserves you. You speak the same language: gutter-raised filth.”

  Carlene stumbled down the steps and ran to the front door. She yanked the chair away from the knob and shouted, “You are crazy. I’m telling Foley, and he’s going to get you committed. You are downright crazy!” She wasn’t so pretty with her face red and her mascara streaked with tears.

  Bara threw back her head and laughed. “You haven’t seen crazy yet. If I ever catch you in this house again, I will strangle you with my bare hands. That is not an idle threat.”

  As she locked the door again she remembered Carlene’s key. Did the whole world have keys to the house? She’d gotten Foley’s back—that was one thing Uncle Scotty had accomplished—but Uncle Scotty still had his, Murdoch probably had one from when she used to come to Nana’s after school, and Carlene had one. How many other servants had taken keys when they left? For all she knew, all of Nana’s living servants still had keys as well.

  Bara checked outside doors to be sure they were locked, rammed chairs under each knob, and armed the security system with furious fingers. Feeling marginally more secure, she stomped to the library, flung her purse on a chair, and headed for the desk telephone. “I’m going to change every lock in this blessed house!”

  She stood helpless with the phone in her hands. She could not afford to change her locks.

  The receiver beeped a muted busy signal, announcing she had voice messages. She might as well check them, then she’d have that drink and take a nap.

  She’d had three callers.

  Ann Rose said, “You forgot your groceries. Call me when you get home and Francie will bring them over.”

  Payne said, “Hi, Mom. Just checking in to be sure you are okay.”

  Maria Ortiz cried, “¡Querida!” My dear! “Are you all right? I hope you are simply on one of your fabulous trips, but I have not seen you for two weeks, and I am worried. Call me.”

  Bara’s hand hovered over the button to call Maria back, but she slammed her fist on the desk and hung up the phone.

  In the kitchen, she filled a tumbler to the brim, tossed back half of it, refilled the glass, and carried both glass and bottle as she climbed three flights to the attic. She searched dim corners until she found a box labeled COLLEGE STUFF. The box was covered with dust, the sealing tape gold and brittle. Inside, wrapped in felt pennants that used to decorate her dorm room, she found a silver gun. Winnie had bought it for her when she was in college and had insisted on teaching her how to use it. She had carried it faithfully until she married Ray, but had soon realized that with his volatile temper, she was in more danger with a gun than without one. For years it had been hidden in the attic.

  She lifted it out and sighted along the barrel with a desperate whisper. “How did I get to this place?”

  She found bullets for the gun in the bottom of the box and loaded it as Winnie had taught her. She carried it downstairs, then stood uncertain what to do with it. Should she carry it in her purse? Didn’t you need a permit nowadays to carry a gun? Where did you get a permit? Were the bullets still good? Did they wear out with age?

  By then she had drunk three glasses of whiskey and was weary beyond endurance. “I’ll think about all that later.” She laid the gun on the dining-room table, strode to the powder room and took two pills to make her sleep, downing them with whiskey.

  She returned to the hall and stood frowning at the Monet. “I really ought to increase the insurance on that thing,” she muttered, then gave an unfunny laugh. “With what? But I ought to at least take it to the storage unit until this mess is over.”

  She stared at the misty scene and knew she couldn’t bear to take it down. It had hung there as long as she could remember. She and Nana used to stand and admire it together.

  “Putting it in storage w
ould be like losing Nana all over again!” she cried.

  But she wouldn’t put it past Foley to steal it—or send Carlene to do it.

  “Slut! What am I going to do?”

  The pain was a physical thing, racking her whole body. She collapsed into a chair in the foyer and sobbed.

  Gradually the whiskey and pills began to take effect. The Monet was another thing she would think about later. At the moment, all she wanted to do was fling herself down on the leather sofa in the den and get some sleep.

  Chapter 8

  Posey pulled into Katharine’s drive and brightened to see the black Lexus parked at the front walk. “Tom’s home early!” She obviously thought he was inside pouring wine for a romantic afternoon tryst.

  Posey seemed convinced that Katharine and Tom spent the few hours they had together each week making passionate love, feeding each other frosted grapes, and giving full body massages. Katharine suspected that Posey—married to a large, comfortable man who looked like his passion meter never rose above two on a ten-point scale—projected on her brother and his wife all her own romantic fantasies.

  More experienced in what her husband considered romantic, Katharine eyed the car with a jaundiced eye. Tom never parked outside the garage unless he had to go out again soon. She hurried up the steps, wondering what was wrong.

  She nearly stumbled over several large boxes left beside her front door, and bent to read the labels. “Oh, no!” They contained a set of china and a set of silver flatware for twelve, which she and Tom had purchased to replace what had been stolen or smashed. They must have been delivered after Tom got home.

  She picked up the box of silver and struggled inside, dreading what he would say if he found out that thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise had been left on their veranda. He had instructed her not to sign permission for deliveries to be left outside when they weren’t home. Could she get them inside to her study without him hearing her?