Return of the Dixie Deb

by Nina Barrett

  “They might have considered giving us a bigger case or a tote bag or something.” She found a tissue in her bag and wiped the back of her neck. “I didn’t need that much of an audience. All those people looking at me.” She shivered.

  “It ought to get talk started. You doing all right?” He looked over at her as they cleared the city limits and he let his speed drift up.

  “Just tip top.” She fanned herself with their map, picking up the damp hair off the nape of her neck. “On the lam with the F.B.I., a hundred thousand dollars of stolen money in the trunk of our car.”

  “We’ll call Jake when we get to our motel in Cherry Grove tonight. From what he was saying, we may get a break while Whittaker comes down here to assess the operation and see how the story is playing out.” He looked over at her, winked, and gave what she assumed he meant as a reassuring smile. “After three bank jobs in a week, it sounds like we’ve earned a reward.”

  Chapter Five

  Mac let himself out of the car to stand and stare as she leaned forward for a better look down the long lane.

  “This has to be it, Jan.” He opened his door and slid in beside her again. “It’s the address on the mailbox, 4128 River Run Road all right. Jake’s message just said something had come up and left this address. I just didn’t think they’d be putting us up…” He shifted gears and turned into the drive.

  “At Tara?”

  Gravel crunched under the tires as he slowly drove toward the house in the distance. Sunlight filtered through the leaves on the trees dappling the windshield in shifting patterns of dark and light.

  “Get a look at these trees. They’re massive. What do you think?” He ducked his head down to look. “A hundred years old or more?”

  “Maybe. They’re live oaks. They do have quite a life span.”

  The trees’ branches arched above their twisted trunks to intertwine with ones on the other side of the lane and shade the drive back to the residence. She rested an arm on her open window and inhaled. From somewhere nearby came the fragrance of new-mown hay.

  He took his foot off the accelerator and let the car roll to a stop as the house came into view. It wasn’t Tara, but it was a world away from the budget motel back in Cherry Grove where they’d spent the night. The house was a two-story, white rectangle with dormer windows decorating the roofline. Tendrils of violet clematis climbed pillars beside the front door. A second floor, wrought-iron balcony overlooked the circular drive.

  “The Major’s Olde Home Place.” She read the curlicue lettering on the sign in a flowerbed.

  “Jake said they were putting us up somewhere out of the way. I wonder whose idea it was for the government to pick up the tab on this place.”

  “It’s sure a change from where we usually stay.”

  She got out of the car and shaded her eyes looking around. Clay urns of blooming plants spilled blossoms down the red-tiled steps. In the low branches of a dogwood, hummingbirds took turns at a nectar feeder.

  It was too much to take in all at once.

  Mac was holding the door for her. She met his eyes as he shook his head. The entryway was wide with an inlaid marble floor. A stairway with turned spindles led up to a sunlit landing. An oil portrait of a man in uniform hung above a sculptured fireplace in the corner. He followed her over to look at it.

  An older gentleman with gray hair and a moustache struck a dignified pose. One hand resting on a ceremonial sword, he wore a bright-blue uniform with gold epaulets and a scarlet sash.

  “What do you think?” she asked. “Not Civil War is it? Not down here in blue.”

  Mac leaned forward to study it, shaking his head.

  “No, not any branch of the military I know of. It almost looks like a…”

  “Welcome to the Major’s.”

  A young woman in her twenties wearing a white blouse and black pinafore stood behind them, her arms full of towels. Blonde, her hair swept back with a black bow at the nape, she gave them a cheerful grin.

  “You all must be Mr. and Miz McKenzie, right?”

  “Why, yes, we are.” McKenzie slid an arm around her shoulder and squeezed it.

  “Well, our only other guests still to check in today are the Matsuzakas, so I took a chance. Do you have your luggage with you?”

  “It’s in the car out front.”

  “That’s fine. My brother-in-law Junior will park your car and bring it up to your room while we get you registered. My husband’s overseas with his National Guard unit and Junior has been helping out around here, picking up the slack. He’s just back from a run into Denton and is unloading things down in the kitchen for my sister. He’ll be here in a minute. Ma’s in her office, so follow me please.”

  Her rubber-soled shoes made no sound as she led them across the entry into an adjoining parlor. Rose-velvet loveseats and a baby grand piano stood on a sun-faded carpet. Crystal pendants hung from a chandelier suspended below a ceiling medallion.

  “We were wondering about the portrait back there,” Mac said. “Is it a member of the family?”

  “My grandpappy. He married Miss Verbena, Ma’s mama. They’re both gone to glory now. He was an inventor, founder of the family fortune such as it is. Or was. Miss Verbena grew up in Denton and always had her eye on this place. They bought it cheap and started fixing it up to receive guests. It was a sight for sore eyes up till then. Anyway, their daughters all got saddled with flower names and my mama, Miss Lily, continued the tradition. She runs the place now. I’m Dahlia Cahill. You’ll see my sister Daisy around too.”

  “So it’s a family business.”

  Dahlia stopped at a door marked office, made a face, and knocked.

  “Oh, yeah, especially since Daddy passed on. Mr. Lincoln may have freed the slaves, but he didn’t say nothing about kin.”

  She pushed the door open. “Heads up, Ma. Mr. and Miz McKenzie are here.” She smiled and stepped aside. “I’m going to get Junior on their things.”

  An older woman with carefully arranged, white hair turned her wheelchair away from a computer screen to face them. An antique highboy with brass drawer pulls stood against the wainscoting. Her smile of welcome seemed to contain a wince. She placed her hands on the desk blotter and looked up to greet them.

  “Thank you, Dahlia dear. Please do come in, Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie.” Her voice was deep South.

  Jan balled her hands with their bitten nails into fists as Mac took the carefully manicured hand Miss Lily extended. The nerves of the past week had taken their toll.

  “I’m Lily Mayhew Rhodes. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding us. This is your first visit to the Major’s, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. The directions were fine. It’s quite a place here. More than we expected.”

  “How did you hear about us?” Miss Lily tilted her head and looked at them.

  “Oh, through friends. Didn’t we, Jan?”

  “Yes.” She stepped up beside him. “But they didn’t begin to do justice to it.”

  “Well, we’ve been in business approaching half a century now. I’m sure any of the locals around here could give directions if needed. The Major’s is a Fawcett County landmark as well as being on the national historic register.”

  “Your daughter was telling us about the portrait in the hall.”

  “The late Major Charles Mayhew was my papa.” Miss Lily produced a register and turned it to face him. “You’ll be staying the two nights?”

  “Yes, till Tuesday morning.” The feathered quill pen Miss Lily offered looked tiny in his big hand. She watched as Mac bent over the register awkwardly holding it, his shoulders straining his knit shirt.

  “So is this your honeymoon?”

  “Oh, no!”

  Miss Lily’s head jerked up, sending a wave of gardenia scent her way.

  “Just taking a little break from the daily grind.” Mac stood and pulled her close. Her cheek grazed his shoulder. At least the F.B.I. had found someone the right height for her.

  “
Mr. and Mrs. Michael McKenzie of Atlanta.” Miss Lily raised a pair of reading glasses on a gold mesh chain. “I’ve put you in the Rosebud Room. It’s one of our loveliest. It has a wonderful view of the back grounds.” She rang a bell on her desk.

  “Now we pride ourselves on our Southern hospitality here at the Major’s. Dahlia will show you to your room. My other daughter helps with our spa and beauty services. Let us know when you prefer your meals. We can serve them in your room or you can join our other guests in the Heart of Dixie dining room. Please feel free to use the grounds or other facilities. Oh, Dahlia, I think Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie are ready to go on up. Will you show them, dear?”

  “Gotcha, Ma. This way, please.” Dahlia held the door for them.

  Miss Lily’s smile seemed fixed as they followed her daughter out.

  “This is a big place for your mother to manage in a wheelchair.”

  “Yeah, she’s been in it since a car accident left her with back trouble. Then my daddy was struck by lightning when he was at a NASCAR event. She doesn’t hesitate to play the widow woman card so my sister and I have been helping out here since we were small fries.”

  “That’s a shame about your father.”

  Mac paused again in front of the portrait in the entry.

  “So this was your mother’s dad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a uniform like this before.”

  “Upper Mississippi State College marching band.” Dahlia stopped beside him. “He was the drum major and my granny, Miss Verbena, was head of the Twirlettes. A flaming baton caught her uniform on fire at the Homecoming game against Magnolia State Teachers’ College. She didn’t get hurt too bad, but after graduation, Grandpappy developed the spring-loaded, battery-operated streaming baton. Looks like it’s lit, but it’s not. You may have seen it in shows. All the big bands use it now. His patent paid for this place. They moved in, did the renovations, and opened the business.”

  “Quite a history.” It looked like Mac was trying not to laugh. She glared at him as they followed Dahlia up the stairway.

  “Here you go.” Dahlia stopped in front of a white door. The words Rosebud Room had been painted among a sprinkle of falling flowers and smiling cherubs.

  “How…unusual.” Mac was regarding the door doubtfully.

  “Ma’s sister Azalea did it years ago. Before she lit out for the big city and bright lights.” She opened the door. “Junior brought your things up.”

  It wasn’t the luggage she was staring at though. Any more than it was the worn Oriental rug on the wide pine board floor, the beaded gas lamps, or the floor-to-ceiling windows with their lace tiebacks.

  It was the high, rosewood, canopy double bed with its white bolster and mounded pillows.

  From the look on Mac’s face, he was taken aback as well.

  “On through there is your powder room.” Dahlia indicated the porcelain-tiled fireplace. “The fireplace is strictly ornamental nowadays. I can’t imagine that during summertime down here in Alabama, you’d want a fire although some couples might appreciate a touch of atmosphere.”

  “We should do fine without it,” Mac said.

  “I’ll leave you all to settle in. You let us know when you’d like supper.” She picked up a leaflet lying on the desk. “This brochure tells you all about the Major’s. Don’t hesitate to call down if you have any questions.”

  “Thank you.” Mac went over to fasten the door behind her.

  “So…” He stood looking at her.

  “So what are we doing here?” She picked up the leaflet Dahlia had left and seated herself in one of the padded chintz armchairs in front of the fireplace.

  “I can understand wanting to secret us away somewhere, but here in ‘North Central Alabama’s return to yesteryear’?” She looked up, made a face, and continued reading. “‘The family of Major Charles and Miss Verbena Mayhew welcomes you to the Southern hospitality the Major’s Old Home Place is known for.’”

  “I wondered about that uniform.” Mac sank down in the armchair opposite her. “He was a drum major.”

  “And inventor of the spring-loaded, flaming baton or whatever. Well.” She opened the leaflet to the inside. “There’s an ornamental pool out back. The breakfast buffet begins at nine. Picnic lunches are available upon request. Refreshments on the veranda at five. We can have dinner served in here or join the other guests in the dining room. Anything sound interesting?”

  “Maybe. Shall we unpack before we take a look around?”

  “Sure.” She put the brochure down. “I think the Major’s better days are in the past.” She rubbed her fingers on the fraying upholstery on the arm of her chair. “I don’t have a whole lot with me, but I’d like to dress down for a while.”

  “Yeah, I’m not anxious for anyone to I.D. us and have Miss Lily produce the family musket.”

  She hung a few things in the cedar-lined closet. It had felt good to be back in jeans for a while, but later she’d need something dressier for the return to yesteryear the Major’s seemed to require.

  ****

  She took a final look in the mirror. Okay, the lime-green sundress seemed to pass muster for a day at the Major’s. It looked simple and carefree—two words she hadn’t used in connection with her life lately.

  Make-up? She repressed a shudder. She’d had more than enough of dolling herself up for their bank jobs. Maybe just a little lip-gloss. She pursed her lips together, used it, and tried a smile. It kind of looked like she meant it. She had to admit their weekend break came as a welcome breath of relief. It was clear Mac wasn’t enjoying his career in crime any more than she was. Maybe the past year had been rocky for him too.

  She started to open the bathroom door, stooping over to fasten her sandal again. From the other room, she could hear Mac on the phone. He was keeping his voice low. She should shut the door and give him some privacy. She started to, then hesitated. He sounded tense. Was something wrong? She waited, the door half cracked.

  “…just calling to check. It’s been a year today. That was supposed to be the critical period, to see how things were working out.” He paused.

  “Right. I was wondering if there was any further news.”

  Her fingers clutched the doorframe as she leaned in.

  “Okay, good. That sounds great. Maybe we could meet sometime. Not right away, of course. I’m caught up in something for business. But if we could arrange it soon, it’d mean a lot to me, you know, if the two of us…” His voice relaxed.

  She pushed the door on shut.

  ****

  A graveled path circled something a sign called a kitchen garden. Patches of herbs were identified with lettered stakes. Bees buzzed in scented magnolias as Jan chose a path away from the house.

  “So did you know what you were getting into when they started talking about this investigation?” she asked.

  “More than you did, I guess.” The green sundress she had on didn’t showcase her butt the ways jeans did, but her bare legs looked good, her sandals working her muscled calves, the bodice clinging to that nice upper story.

  Down, boy. He shook his head as he followed her. Anyone would think you haven’t been around an attractive woman in ages.

  Instead of nineteen months. Since his cousin’s Christmas party back in Lake Claire had ended with playing Auld Lang Syne with Rita Marie Jenkinson. But his old high school crush had no desire to pursue a relationship any further just as she was negotiating an exit from her third marriage. After that, he and Jake had been busy following the money trail of a phony Internet charity until the phone call had come.

  All in all, just as well. So what if it had been nineteen months.

  And four days.

  Ahead a bare foot pulled out of a sandal. Bare foot, bare legs leading on up to…

  “I still don’t understand why this one particular case is so important. I mean it was a quarter century ago. Seems like the government could be focusing on something more current.” Jan leaned forward to bury her face in a clump of bl
ooming hydrangeas.

  He froze in place, keeping himself from positioning himself in back of her as she bent over. His hands were damp. He shook his head to dismiss the impulse to pull her back to him and snuggle that ass against his groin.

  “Oh, the Bureau aims to resolve every case.”

  “They always get their man. Is that the slogan?

  “I think that’s the Mounties.”

  She looked up to laugh at him, her hazel eyes shining under the fringe of her dark lashes.

  “Have you done a lot of this? Undercover work?”

  “Not personally, no. I worked more in white-collar stuff, financial fraud. People moving illicit funds around. I was stationed in New York before, well, before I left the Bureau for a while. Jake Derossiers worked in the same office. He did the online investigating while I did the grunt work. We were in a couple of sting operations together. I did some traveling.”

  “Like to Europe?” She sounded curious.

  “No, not there, not then.” He stopped. “The F.B.I. sent me down to the Caribbean, then to Mexico. Once to Brazil. Some people get real creative about hiding money.”

  “People like me, you mean.”

  “No, big fish, sophisticated con artists.” He caught up with her as she turned away and took her hand. “What happened? For a first-time offender, the I.R.S. really came down on you.”

  It didn’t add up no matter how he pushed the pieces around. It’d been on his mind since Atlanta, trying to figure out the logic behind the government’s desire to re-open an ice-cold case and plant a small-town accountant with no previous criminal history in the middle of it.

  “It was more than a little, Mac. It was thousands, six figures, in my e-account I couldn’t explain. I wasn’t paying attention. I just kept making deposits while I worked on getting the corporate returns filed for our clients.” Her voice quavered.

  “Sounds like maybe they suspected you of money laundering, engaging in a pattern of corrupt activities. You were trying to do everything on your own then?”

  “Yeah. Things were in a mess. Tim was gone. People were leaving.” She shrugged wearily. “How much longer do we have to keep doing this? Did Jake tell you anything? I’d like to get back to a real life.”