When they were all seated, Tom leaned toward Kenny and said, “Now tell me about these two different worlds you and Hollis inhabit. I sort of thought we all lived in the same world.”
Kenny looked around him. “I have to differ, sir. Hollis grew up in a place like this—a big house in the city. She’s like a butterfly or something. I grew up in the mountains in a—ah—very simple home. My people work hard for their living. I don’t mean you don’t work hard, or anything, but—”
“I understand. You mean they come home tired, sweaty, and dirty at the end of the day.”
“Well, yessir.”
“Do you? Come home sweaty and dirty, I mean. I understood you work with computers.”
“Well, yessir, I do. And I don’t get dirty, but I do work hard. I expect you do, too.”
“Some days. But talking about houses, Katharine tells me your parents live in a house that looks like Gone with the Wind.”
“Well, yessir, they built it a couple of years ago, but they don’t know what to do with it. Mama has filled it up with so many antiques, the only comfortable place to sit is the kitchen. And she never cooks or cleans like a real mother. She’s all the time off singing somewhere.”
“I heard Mama and the Aunts sing in Washington. They are a wonderful group.”
“Well, yessir, I guess they are if you like that kind of thing.”
“I do. They bring joy to a lot of people. And I want to let you in on a secret. Hollis’s mama never cooks or cleans, either. And Hollis hates her parents’ big fancy house. She lives in four rooms over their garage—by choice, not because they kicked her out. And she works very hard for her living. She sews costumes for theaters until late at night, and she has helped Katharine redecorate this entire house after a break-in—”
“—and she’s about to work mornings for an Oriental rug dealer, learning the trade,” Katharine interrupted. She added with a smile, “I think she doesn’t want you knowing more about rugs than she does.”
A smile flitted across Kenny’s face before he grew solemn again.
“Now, I don’t need to know details about the disagreement you had,” Tom continued, “but I don’t want you thinking that you and Hollis are all that different.”
Kenny’s face had gone stone hard again. “Well, I don’t like to speak ill of your relative, sir, but she is a bit of a snob.”
Tom laughed. “We’re all snobs, Kenny. Every one of us has some things we think are a lot better than others. I’m a snob where music is concerned. I won’t let you run down your mother’s music when I know it is excellent. You are a snob where your mother’s house is concerned. You think she isn’t quite good enough for it.”
Kenny’s mouth dropped open. “I never said that.”
“Not in so many words, but yes, you did. I’m a snob, you’re a snob—even Katharine is a snob.” He leaned close and said softly, but loud enough for her to hear, “She thinks SUVs turn people into bullies and are bad for the environment. She won’t hear of me buying her another one. So tell me,” he went on in a natural voice, “how is Hollis a snob?”
“She doesn’t like the way I talk. She says I talk like trailer trash. Well, sir, I am trailer trash, and proud of it!” His face was flushed and he blazed with anger.
Tom thought that over. “You think people who live in trailers—modular homes, I believe they are called now—are trash, Kenny?”
“No sir. I know some fine people who live in mobile homes. But Hollis doesn’t.”
“I wonder.” Tom pulled out his cell phone and punched one number. “Hello, Hollis? This is Uncle Tom. I have a question for you. As a representative of the young adults of America, what do you think about people who live in modular homes, mobile homes, whatever you want to call them?” He held out his phone so the others could hear her answer.
“Is this for a Senate investigation or something?” she asked.
“It’s for an investigation, yes.”
“Well, I think they need to set standards to make modular homes safer. Just because some people don’t make as much as your fat-cat legislators doesn’t mean they don’t deserve decent housing. People should be safe in their homes, not likely to be blown away by tornadoes or hurricanes.”
“What about the people themselves? What do you think about them?”
“What’s to think? They’re just like the rest of us. Modular homes make a lot of sense for single moms, young couples, and elderly people who don’t have big incomes or don’t want to spend all their time keeping house.”
“I understand you recently used the term ‘trailer trash.’ Would you define that for me?”
“What’s this really about?” She sounded suspicious.
“I’m trying to get the full picture of people who live in mobile homes. You worked with some of them down in Savannah, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but there was nothing trashy about them. They were poor and couldn’t afford anything better, but they were as smart, as ambitious, as deserving…” She ran out of adjectives.
“So trailer trash would be…?”
“Folks who don’t care about themselves, don’t try to better themselves, and spread garbage around for other people to pick up.”
“Thank you. I have that duly noted as the opinion of the young adults of America. And listen, I’ll be home all this week. If you want to come over some evening to visit, I’d love to see you and thank you for the work you’ve done on the house.”
“You owe me a check, too—a fat one. I’ve worked my buns off on that house.”
“It shows. Thanks.” He closed the phone and put it in his pocket. “Hollis is never shy about giving me an opinion from the young adults of America. I check in with her from time to time to keep abreast of things.”
Kenny scratched the side of his face. “That’s different from what she said on Sunday.”
“She said you didn’t need to talk like trailer trash,” Katharine reminded him. “At least that’s what I heard.”
“Is that right?” Tom asked. When Kenny nodded, he said, “What do you suppose she meant by trailer trash?”
“Folks who don’t bother to learn how to talk educated?”
“But you are educated. Is it possible that Hollis doesn’t understand how educated people from the north Georgia mountains talk? Maybe you need to educate her.”
Kenny shook his head. “I don’t reckon she’d want to learn.”
“You won’t know unless you try. Now tell me how you think Tech football is shaping up for the season. Is that new quarterback any good?”
They drifted from football to computers, and sat chatting until nearly nine. As Kenny stood on the front veranda saying his goodbyes, Tom said casually, “You might give Hollis a call sometime. I know she’s missing Jon, and she could use a friend who doesn’t have purple hair.”
Again a smile flickered on Kenny’s face, but all he said was, “Thanks for a great evening.”
Not until he had driven down the drive did Katharine remember the original reason for his visit. “He forgot to give us Hollis’s clothes.”
“Good. Maybe he’ll deliver them in person. Hollis could do a lot worse than that young man, Kat. And think about it—we could have Mama and the Aunts in the family!”
“Don’t marry them off yet,” she suggested. “They still aren’t speaking.”
Chapter 32
Tuesday
Tuesday morning Katharine called the upholsterer and was told the furniture would be delivered after four. Since Tom was making important calls from his library at home, she decided she might as well run errands for the party. Seeing a shoe sale, she stopped and bought a new pair. When she passed Piedmont Hospital on her way home, she decided to stop and see how Bara was doing, and remembering Rita Louise’s icy looks the day before, replaced her sandals with the new shoes before going in.
That was a mistake. By the time she walked to the ICU, the little toe on her left foot was tingling. There, she was told, “Mrs. Weidenauer ha
s gone into a private room.” That entailed another long walk. By the time she got to Bara’s hall, the toe was burning like fire.
At least the room was easy to spot. It was the only one with a police officer at the door.
Katharine cautiously peeped in. Bara had not been given a view—another building of Piedmont’s burgeoning complex was right outside her window—but the room was as bright as a carnival, full of flowers, fruit baskets, and cards. Even suspected of murder, Bara Weidenauer was a favorite in Buckhead.
Payne and the small, dark woman Katharine had glimpsed on Saturday afternoon occupied Bara’s two visitor chairs.
“I thought you’d deserted me,” Bara greeted her. “Haven’t seen you for days.”
“I need to talk with Katharine a minute.” Payne rose and dragged Katharine into the hall. “Can you stay a little while? I’d like to run down and get some breakfast, but I don’t want to leave Mama alone.”
“I hadn’t planned on staying long, but she has another visitor.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know that woman, and I’m afraid—” Payne bit her lip and glanced back into the room. “Look, you probably know Mama has a drinking problem. I don’t want anybody sneaking her in some liquor.”
“Nobody’s getting liquor through that door,” the police officer assured her.
Payne gave him a withering look. “You have no idea how persuasive my mama can be.”
Katharine knew how persuasive Bara could be. Why else was she standing in that hospital when she’d scarcely known the woman eight days before? However, her experience in keeping a determined alcoholic away from liquor was minimal. “I can stay until you get back from breakfast,” she agreed, “but I don’t know how much good I can do. If somebody comes in and tries to hand her a bottle, shall I wrestle them to the ground?”
Payne ignored her flippancy. “Your being here will do her good. She really likes you.”
Katharine felt a flush of pleasure, mixed with surprise. In spite of herself, she was becoming fond of Bara, too.
“Mrs. Anderson? I’m glad I caught you.”
They hadn’t noticed the detective coming toward them, but Katharine should have been alerted. He was jingling the coins in his pocket.
“I wanted to let you know we got more information on that second gun we found, the one in your mother’s drawer that was reported stolen by Winston Holcomb. Turns out it fired the bullet found in the skull of Mr. Holcomb.”
“Mama had the gun that killed Winnie?” Payne sounded like she was having trouble taking it in. “She must have found it in his condo.”
“No, ma’am. We went over that condo at the time of death. Mr. Holcomb’s death was officially closed as a suicide, but this opens that case again.”
Finally Payne understood. “You can’t think Mama killed Winnie! That’s impossible! She worshiped him.” She looked to Katharine for assent.
Remembering Bara’s confession, Katharine said nothing.
“Most murders are committed by somebody close to the victim, ma’am. But Mr. Weidenauer also lived in that house. Maybe he killed Mr. Holcomb and Mrs. Weidenauer found out.”
He didn’t bother to complete the thought. Katharine saw her own conclusion dawn in Payne’s eyes: this gave Bara a far stronger motive for murder than self-defense.
Payne clutched Katharine’s elbow. “Go stay with Mama. I’ve got to call Hamilton. She’s got to have a lawyer, no matter what she says!”
As soon as Katharine went back in the room, Bara growled, “Was Payne telling you to keep me off the sauce? No, you don’t have to answer. She’s alerting everybody who comes in. She’s a better watchdog than a pit bull. But she doesn’t need to worry. I’ve got Maria.” She gestured to the woman who had risen to give Katharine the chair by the bed. “Maria, this is my new friend, Katharine Murray. Katharine, this is my long-time friend and AA sponsor, Maria Ortiz. Maria will do a lot more than Payne ever could to keep me on the straight and narrow, now that I’ve climbed back on the wagon. She’s worse than two pit bulls. But dammit, Maria, I need a drink!”
“She’s on pain killers,” Maria told Katharine. “It makes her mean, but not dangerous. And she knows mixing liquor and drugs can kill her.”
“How are you feeling?” Katharine asked Bara. She accepted the chair Maria had offered and, with relief, slipped both feet from the confining shoes and relaxed them on the cool floor.
Maria moved to the chair on the other side of the bed, playing the hospital visitation version of musical chairs.
“Lousy,” said Bara. “The people who moved me up here must be accustomed to moving furniture. They shoved me around like a couch or something. And the food is terrible.”
“She had a delicious breakfast and ate every bite. Her daughter spoils her rotten, her friends bring her fruit and flowers—” Maria gave a deep chuckle, but one filled with sympathy. “She is grumpy because she cannot have the one thing she craves, which she knows will kill her if she does not give it up. I know,” she added humbly. “I have been there myself. She will make it, but it will not be easy.”
“Maria saved my life,” Bara told Katharine. “She was the one who called nine-one-one.”
“Don’t tell her!” Maria said sharply.
Katharine was already asking, “Have you told the police?”
“I cannot tell the police. They will not believe me. They will think we beat Bara and killed her husband.”
“We?” Was that simply Maria’s grasp of English pronouns?
“She was with a friend,” Bara explained. “Somebody else from AA. I’d promised to attend a meeting.” She asked the building outside her window, “Why didn’t I keep that promise? None of this would have happened if I had.” She continued her explanation. “Bert, the guy who drove her to my place, has a record for robbery and assault. We can’t drag him into this mess. He’s gone straight since he stopped drinking.”
“But if they knew he was in that house…” Maria’s eyes were wide with fright. “Please tell no one!”
“You’ll have to tell your lawyer,” Katharine told Bara. “This could be very important.”
“I told you, I’m not getting a lawyer. I can’t afford to pay one. I’ll tell my own story and hope they believe me.”
Was Bara really that brave? Or was she counting on her family’s membership in the Good Old Boys’ network to save her? Katharine would leave it to Payne to tell her mother they were hiring a lawyer over her protests, but she did want to impress Maria with how serious her testimony could be.
“They think Bara called nine-one-one. They think she shot Foley, made the call, and fainted.”
“But she was unconscious! I tried and tried and could not wake her.”
“Tell Katharine what you told me,” Bara instructed.
Reluctantly, Maria complied. “I went to see why she did not come to the meeting like she promised. My friend drove me to her house, for I have no car. Such a big house! I never imagined. When we got there, the only lights were upstairs but the front door was open, so I rang the bell and peeped into the hall. I know how easy it is to drink too much and forget to close your door. I think maybe Bara is getting ready for bed upstairs and will hear the bell, but she does not come, so we tiptoe into the front hall. I step on broken glass. This is strange, I think. Surely such a grand house has servants to sweep. My friend, he thinks we should get out of there, but I am worried for Bara. ‘Get your flashlight,’ I tell him. ‘I do not want to turn on a light, but I want to make sure she is okay.’ When we shine the flashlight in the front hall—a very grand hall!—we see Bara lying at the foot of the stairs, all in a heap. I think she has gotten drunk and fallen down the stairs. I try to waken her, but she will not wake up. And while I am trying, my friend sees a man lying in the dining room, and he is shot through the head. We were terrified! Whoever has shot the man must have hurt Bara, as well, and he may still be in the house! My friend insists we leave. I do not want to go without Bara, but I know it could be dangerous to move
her. My friend pulls my arm. He says he must not be found there. Back when he was still drinking, he was a thief and once he beat a man. He cannot give the police a reason they will believe for why he is in that house. So I fetch a pillow from the living room and put it beneath Bara’s head—”
“You put the pillow under her head?” Katharine interrupted. “That’s one reason they think Bara shot Foley. They think she was conscious long enough to call nine-one-one and get a pillow.”
“Oh, no, she was deeply unconscious. I could not wake her. Because I knew we should not move her, I did the only thing I could think of to make her comfortable. My friend is urging me to get out of there, pronto! But before we go, I call nine-one-one on a phone lying on the table. I do like I read once in a mystery book, where someone calls and does not speak, but leaves the telephone on so the police can trace the call and know where to go. We drive down the block and wait. Soon we see the police and emergency vehicles come, so we know someone will take care of Bara.”
“She saved my dadgum life,” Bara repeated.
“Do you remember anything more about what happened?” Katharine asked her.
Bara shook her head, then pressed one hand to it as if it ached. “Not a thing. I know I fixed supper and ate it, and Foley came in and tried again to make me give him Winnie’s shares.” She grinned. “I do remember something else. I pulled a knife on him. Nearly scared him to death.”
“Don’t tell the police that,” Katharine warned.
“I won’t. But if I’d stabbed him, none of the rest would have happened, would it?”
“If you’d stabbed him and remembered it, you’d be in a worse fix than you are. You don’t remember a thing about being downstairs later, though?”
“Not a thing.”
“She was in an alcoholic blackout,” Maria said with conviction.
“I’m getting old, and I have a concussion,” Bara insisted.
“You were in an alcoholic blackout,” Maria repeated. “But that will not save you. No jury or judge will permit that as an excuse for murder.”
Daughter of Deceit Page 29
