Daughter of Deceit

by Patricia Sprinkle

  When she got home, she decided to treat herself to an afternoon swim. In one short day she had lived through the stress of two rides with Posey, a meeting, a disturbing conversation with Bara, the disappointment of Tom’s leaving, the challenge of renting a car, and thirty minutes of inch-worming her way down West Pace’s Ferry Road. She deserved a reward. As she pulled on her suit, she couldn’t help remembering how Posey got her own car, and the fond, indulgent tone Wrens used when he spoke of her. She asked the little cat curled on her bed, “Do you reckon fluffy-dithery dependent wives are the really intelligent ones?”

  Chapter 9

  Since Katharine didn’t have to cook for Tom, she might as well tackle the new dishes after her swim. “Definitely a bluegrass music job,” she said as she selected CDs from the rack in the den. She wasn’t talking to herself. The small cat had poked a curious head in the door.

  While she washed, Katharine sang along. Phebe jumped onto the countertop and curled up next to the cookie-jar pig. Savant, the big cat, crouched in the door to the utility room, watching the party but not committing to it. Katharine had brought the orphaned cats home with her in July from Bayard Island, and Savant was still ambivalent about his new home.

  As she lowered the first plates into the hot suds, memories of special meals the family had eaten on the former china rose to haunt her: Thanksgivings when her parents had been alive, Christmas dinners when the children were small, birthday celebrations with Tom’s parents. Her knees buckled as she thought of all that lying in shards in an Atlanta landfill. She grabbed onto the edge of the sink and waited for the grief to ease.

  Sudden sadness still swamped her since the break-in. Sometimes she tried to distract herself, but that afternoon she let tears flow while she worked her way through dinner plates, salad plates, bread plates, and saucers. When Atlanta’s former Everett Brothers crooned, “What have they done to the old home place? Why did they tear it down?” she broke down and sobbed.

  That, of course, was when the doorbell rang.

  She checked the clock on the stove. Who dropped in unannounced at five thirty in the afternoon?

  She grabbed a dish towel and swiped her eyes before heading for the front door, still holding a soapy cup. Phebe reached the door first and wove a pattern around her ankles as Katharine answered the bell, which had rung for the second time.

  Broad rays of late sunlight made it hard to see the face of the woman on her threshold, but Katharine recognized the voice. “Oh dear,” said Bara, “is this a bad time? I’d have called, but I didn’t have your number.”

  Katharine sniffed and forbore to mention that Tom was listed in the phone book. “I’m fine. I’ve been washing dishes….” She held up the cup to prove it.

  “That could make any woman break down and cry.” Bara held out a small wooden box. “I won’t keep you. I ran over to bring you Winnie’s medals, plus a couple of my brother’s.”

  The box brought a fresh sting of tears to Katharine’s eyes. “My daddy used to buy cigars in boxes exactly like that.”

  “Back when they could still get cigars from Cuba.”

  Katharine could now see Bara’s face. Her eyes held a matching shadow. “Come in and have a drink,” she offered. “I could use some company.”

  She regretted the impulse immediately. From the eau-de-alcohol that accompanied her, Bara did not need a drink. Besides, that was the first time Bara had ever been in her house, and the place was only half furnished. The upholsterer had promised the furniture for last week but was late.

  Katharine had a moment of hope that Bara would turn her down, but she nodded. “I don’t usually drink, but today I could use one.”

  Katharine knew it was silly to feel like she had to defend the half-empty rooms and the ladder in the living room, but sunlight was streaming in the bare front windows and she couldn’t keep herself from babbling an explanation. “We had a break-in a few weeks ago, and they slashed all of our upholstered furniture. It’s being re-done, so for now, I hope you don’t mind sitting in the breakfast room. As you can see, we have no sofas, armchairs, or dining-room chairs, so the breakfast room is the only place to sit, except Tom’s library.”

  Bara followed without comment until she saw the array of dishes draining on the countertop. “Are you washing every dish in the house?”

  “No, this is new china we bought to replace a set that was smashed. I wanted to wash it before I put it away.”

  That concluded Bara’s interest in porcelain. She sat and stretched out her legs, as relaxed as if she sat at kitchen tables every day of her life. “I like your music. That country twang is so sweet it makes me want to crawl up on somebody’s lap and rock.”

  Katharine listened to identify the performers. “That’s Mama and the Aunts. Tom saw them in Washington a few weeks ago and bought me the disk. Do you like bluegrass?”

  Bluegrass music seemed an unlikely interest for a sophisticated woman in shoes that cost more than Tom’s first-class flight to Washington, but Bara nodded. “It reminds me of a woman from North Georgia who used to take care of me. Maisie would sing while she rocked me. Mother wasn’t much on rocking—or singing—but Maisie was a champion at both.” She leaned back and seemed lost in memory for a moment—or was she trying to find her way through an alcoholic fog?

  At last she confided, “My mother was so prejudiced, she didn’t want black servants in her house. A fine Christian woman in many respects, but she had an absolute blind spot where race was concerned.” She held out one tanned, skinny arm. “She didn’t even like me to go out in the summer sun, I turn so dark.” She gave a raspy laugh. “I’ve sometimes wondered if I am living proof that we brought in at least one ancestor from the woodpile, but you would never get my mama to admit something like that.”

  Katharine was shocked to receive such personal information on their slight acquaintance, and suspected alcohol had something to do with Bara treating her like a bosom friend. She didn’t want the woman sobering up later and ruing all she’d said at the Murrays’, so instead of the wine she’d been about to offer, she pulled out a pitcher of tea.

  Bara called across the kitchen, “Do you have a little bourbon? I had enough caffeine at lunch.”

  Katharine hesitated, then capitulated. “Sure.” She fetched it from Tom’s bar and poured herself a glass of white wine.

  Bara seized her glass and downed half of it in one swallow, then reached for the bottle. “May I? I’m really thirsty this afternoon.”

  Replying more out of good manners than good sense, Katharine said, “Of course. Help yourself. Would you like some cheese and crackers?” She had no idea how long Bara might stay, and she was getting hungry. Besides, maybe the crackers would soak up some of the bourbon.

  “That would be great. I haven’t had a bite since Ann Rose’s.”

  The simple thing would have been to get up and fix a plate of cheese and crackers. Katharine would never be sure why she asked, “Would you like an omelet and a salad instead? That’s what I was planning to fix for supper, since Tom’s not here.”

  “You know how to make an omelet?” Bara couldn’t have looked at her with more admiration if she had admitted knowing how to design a rocket to the moon.

  “Sure. Nothing to it.” Katharine moved to the refrigerator and took out eggs, milk, butter, Swiss cheese, ham, tomatoes, half a Bell pepper, and fresh mushrooms.

  Bara joined her at the counter and watched in fascination while Katharine chopped the vegetables and ham and grated the cheese. “We ought to make the salad next,” she suggested, feeling like a television chef with Bara watching her every move.

  As she took the ingredients out of the fridge, she half expected Bara to volunteer. Instead, Bara seemed to be taking an inventory of her fridge. “How do you decide what to put in here?”

  Katharine thought she was joking at first, but the intent way Bara was looking through bottles on the refrigerator door shelves implied she was serious.

  “Anything that is perishab
le—vegetables, milk, eggs, yogurt, cheese, anything I want chilled, like tea or Cokes, and anything labeled ‘Refrigerate after opening.’”

  Bara picked up a bottle of steak sauce and examined the label. “Where does it say that?”

  Katharine took the bottle and looked for the words. Finally she found them in eight-point type on the back. “There.”

  Bara frowned. “They ought to put a big symbol or something right on the front. What if people miss that little bitty type? They could die.”

  Katharine smiled. “That’s a great idea. Why don’t you call somebody in Washington and suggest it?”

  “I might.” Bara closed the fridge and leaned against the counter. She watched Katharine assemble the salad as if she were preparing a gourmet dish. When Katharine dropped butter in a pan and whisked the eggs and milk while it melted, Bara was right at her shoulder, following every move.

  “How much milk did you put in?”

  “Just a tad.”

  Bara huffed. “That’s why I can’t cook. Nobody knows how much of anything goes into what they make.”

  “Figure on a teaspoon per egg,” Katharine suggested. “Maybe a little more. Now a dash of salt and pepper, and into the butter it goes.”

  Katharine put a couple of sourdough rolls into the oven and divided the salad onto two of her new plates. Bosom buddies or not, she would not feed Bara Weidenauer on kitchen dishes.

  She was gratified when the omelet folded smoothly instead of falling apart like some did, and browned perfectly. She slid half of the omelet beside each salad, added a roll, and carried the plates to the table. She went back for a couple of her new silver forks and cloth napkins.

  Bara drifted over to the table and stared at her plate like the food had magically appeared. “I cannot believe you did that so fast. That’s all there is to it?”

  “That’s all.” Katharine filled water glasses and joined her. “I usually ask a blessing. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.” Bara bowed her head. “Pray that I don’t kill Foley, will you?”

  She ate every bite, but accompanied the food with bourbon, not water. When she had finished eating—including a large wedge of the chocolate cake Katharine had made for Tom the night before—she shoved away her cake plate. “That was marvelous. Thank you very much.”

  She made no move to carry her dishes to the sink.

  As Katharine rose to get them off the table, Bara pulled the cigar box toward her. “Shall we look at the medals now? This is one of the few things I have from Winnie.” She stroked the lid. “He gave Payne his house and most of the furniture, thank God. I never cared for Mama’s taste in furniture, but Payne loves it. All I have are the contents of his offices—downtown and at his condo. I didn’t keep any of the furniture, except one desk, one chair, and his bedroom chest, but there’s lots and lots of boxes. Someday I need to go through it all, but I can’t seem to find the time.” She gave her raspy laugh. “Maybe I’ll die and let Payne do it.”

  She tilted the bottle over her glass and stared when nothing came out. “I seem to have finished this bottle.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s all there is.” Katharine told herself it was not a lie. That was all there was in that particular bottle. She was not about to open another.

  Bara sipped her water. “I am so glad Winnie deeded Payne the house and moved into a condo before he…died. Otherwise, the house would be tied up in all this mess. Foley’s holding up probate of Winnie’s will. Had you heard that?”

  Katharine shook her head. She really didn’t want to sit through more confidences about Bara’s personal life. The woman would never want to lay eyes on her again once she sobered up and reconsidered some of the things she’d shared.

  Bara went right on sharing. “He and his lawyer want me to sign an acknowledgment that Foley has a claim to part of Winnie’s estate, because we were married for more than ten years and still married when Winnie”–again a pause before the final word—“died.”

  Katharine stared. “That can’t be right. Not if Foley divorces you.”

  Bara gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I didn’t say it was right, I said it’s what they are doing. They are trying to apply some law about a survivor’s rights to an ex-spouse’s pension or something, saying that Foley would be entitled to a hunk of Winnie’s money once I die because Winnie’s estate is, in a sense, my retirement income. However, he is generously willing to accept a flat sum—an outrageous flat sum—as soon as the will is probated. Uncle Scotty assures me they don’t have a leg to stand on, but they’re holding up probate, which is all Foley really wants. It’s been hard on Payne and Hamilton. They want to use her inheritance to make improvements on the house.” She didn’t mention her own cash-strapped situation, but Katharine suspected she had it in mind.

  “Has Scotty pointed out that Foley might die first?” Katharine asked. “Maybe you could counter-sue for a lump sum based on his pension.”

  Bara laughed. “I like the way you think. Unfortunately, they’ve got it all charted out. I’m a little older than he, you know”—she dismissed fifteen years with a wave of one hand—“so the lawyer has devised a complicated actuarial table based on our ages, Foley’s opinion of the relative states of our health, and the likely appreciation of the estate’s value in coming years. They’ve come up with an astronomical figure that I owe Foley. Uncle Scotty says it’s all bluster, but so far he hasn’t gotten me a dime.”

  Appalled at how avarice had replaced affection in their marriage, Katharine sipped wine and said nothing.

  Bara didn’t seem to need a response, just a new set of ears. “I won’t let him get his greedy hands on Winnie’s money. He wants to spend it on that—” She broke off. “I don’t need to be using nasty language in your house, but let me tell you, if your husband ever brings home a sexy maid, you go straight to the bank, take out every penny in your joint accounts, and stash it where he can’t find it. I cannot believe I was so dumb.”

  She reached for the bourbon glass, gave it a disappointed frown, and set it down. “He’s not getting my money, though, and he’s not getting my house. I’ll fight him to my last cent. Granddaddy Payne gave me that house when my first husband and I got married, so we could raise our children there. That put Murdoch’s nose permanently out of joint, I can tell you that. But she wasn’t but thirteen and didn’t need a house. When she got out of college, Granddaddy gave her stocks equal to the value of the house, but she has never stopped harping about the fact that I live in what she calls ‘our old family home.’” Bara deepened her voice on the last three words, then she gave her raspy laugh. “It’s not our old family home. It’s not even old. Granddaddy built it after he got defeated in that gubernatorial election, and Mama and Uncle Scotty were grown by then. I think Granddaddy only built it so he’d have a house grander than the old governor’s mansion. The place is hard to heat and the devil to keep—especially now that Foley is pinching pennies like Ebenezer Scrooge—but I’ll be damned if he gets it or makes me sell. He cannot have my grandparents’ house!” She slammed her fist on the table so hard her fork jumped. “Sorry. I get carried away sometimes when I think about Foley.”

  She leaned over the table and confided, “I’ve put Winnie’s stuff where he can’t find it, though. All his bank statements and lists of investments. I will never know what made me do that, but as soon as Winnie died, even before Foley started making noises about divorce, I called movers and had them pack up everything in Winnie’s office downtown and in his condo. I sent his furniture to the Salvation Army and the rest to a storage company, and I paid the movers and the storage fees for a year in cash. What do you reckon made me do that? My guardian angel? In any case, Foley has no idea where the stuff is. It’s driving him crazy. I keep the key with me at all times.” She patted her flat chest. “And I make sure I’m not followed when I drive there.”

  She grew thoughtful in another lightning mood swing. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty about giving away Winnie’s furniture,
though. When Foley finishes with me and I’m standing in West Pace’s Ferry Road in my skivvies, I may wish I’d kept a bed and a chair. Blankets and pillows, too. Oh well, maybe the Salvation Army will take me in.”

  “At least you got your daddy’s medals.” Katharine thought it was time to channel her thoughts in happier directions.

  “Yeah. And his business papers, books, awards and trophies, knickknacks he had on his shelves, things like that.” Her voice grew so remote, Katharine suspected she was talking mostly to herself. “When I was little, I used to play in Winnie’s library in the evenings while he worked. Sometimes I’d draw, and sometimes I’d play store with foreign money he kept in a wooden box on his bookshelf. Not this box,” she patted its lid, “but another box he said was made of olive wood.” She stopped with a look of dawning comprehension. “That’s where that locket was!” She spoke softly, as if to herself.

  To Katharine, she explained, “This morning I found a locket I thought I had seen before, but I couldn’t remember when or where. It was in that box, in Winnie’s bottom drawer, the only other time I saw it. I opened the drawer one evening while he worked and found the box with the locket. I held the heart up to Winnie’s ear and said, ‘Listen, Winnie! It’s beating.’ But he said, ‘Let me have that, Bara. It’s too valuable to play with. When you get older, I’ll give it to you. But you can have the box.’ I pitched a fit, of course—it was what I did best—and I think that was when Winnie showed me the medals.”

  “Probably trying to distract you,” Katharine suggested.

  “Probably. And I’ll bet it was after that night that he filled the smaller box up with coins from around the world and put it on his bookshelf—and forbade Art and me to go into his desk. I had never seen either the locket or the medals again until this morning.”

  She dumped out the medals and spread them like a rainbow across the table. She placed a Bronze Star at the end. “This and one of the Purple Hearts were my brother’s. His name’s on the Bronze Star. I didn’t bring my son’s Purple Heart. I know what it was for.” Her voice was bleak as she fiddled with the three Purple Hearts. “I can’t believe how cute I thought these hearts were, back when I was a child. I had no idea…”