by Tamar Myers
It’s true what they say; one’s hair does stand on end. But I have short hair, and I had been having a bad hair day all along. My point is that I was scared, but not reduced to a quivering mass of jelly. I was, after all, Abigail the broom-wielding shadow slayer. Still, I was unnerved enough to head straight downstairs, out of Maynard’s territorial claim.
I was so intent on my departure that at first I failed to notice the light in the drawing room had been extinguished. It wasn’t until after I had tripped over my own pocketbook, and was almost sent sprawling, that the situation became clear.
“Damn you, Maynard,” I said, fumbling for the light switch.
To my great relief, the lights came on, but I had reason to be horrified nonetheless. There, right in the middle of the drawing room, practically centered on the antique Aubusson carpet, was a huge, rhythmically undulating white mass. No, it wasn’t Maynard, or Casper, or any other denizen of the spectral world. It was nothing more than Red Barnes’s bare ass.
“Oh my God—”
“What the hell?” Red glanced at me over his shoulder while the tart beneath him continued to squeal in ecstasy.
“Mr. Barnes!”
Red rolled over and sat up, in the process revealing something even more grotesque than his naked butt. I averted my eyes.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he roared.
Shakespeare was wrong. Hell has no fury like freshly converted fear.
“You bastard!” I screamed. “How dare you scare me like that?”
Red had managed to snatch up some piece of clothing—a shirt, I think—but the tart was still as naked as Eve before the fall.
“Me? What I do here is none of your goddamn business, missy. But you—”
“I’m here at the invitation of Miss Lilah,” I said, and I think I managed to say it rather regally.
“Hell. You could at least warn a body that you were here.”
“My car is parked out back,” I snapped. “And I had the lights on, and my purse was sitting right here on the bottom step. How much more warning do you need?”
“We always park in front,” the tart said.
“Shut up,” Red growled.
“And I suppose you always find the lights on, Mrs. Barnes?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m not Mrs. Barnes. I’m—”
“I said ‘shut up!’” Red smacked her with the back of a ham-sized fist.
The girl squealed, this time in pain.
“You son of a bitch,” I said.
There is one advantage to carrying a large, overloaded pocketbook. Especially one that contains a heavy flashlight. Red Barnes got tit for tat.
He stared at me stupidly, too stunned to react. I stretched a hand out to the girl.
“Come on, I’ll get you out of here.”
“I ain’t going nowhere with you, missy,” she hissed.
“My name isn’t Missy,” I said calmly, and scurried from the drawing room through the dining room and out the back door. Just as it was closing behind me I heard Red Barnes bellow with rage. But I was out of there, halfway down the oak-lined lane before he had a chance to get his pants on.
“Please, Mama,” I said. “Pretty please with sugar on top?”
I had foolishly asked Mama if she minded postponing the party. Although Frank had agreed to pick me up at nine, I didn’t want to miss a minute of the royal bash.
Her necklace whirled through her fingers. It amazes me that despite constant and vigorous use, Mama’s pearls look none the worse for wear. Daddy must have bought her cultured pearls with exceptionally thick nacre, or else they were natural and worth a fortune.
“What if I said I’d taken all those hors d’oeuvres and donated them to Pilgrim’s Inn?”
There was only one answer. “I’d say you were the saint I always knew you to be.”
“Ha!” The pearls slowed to a pace reminiscent of worry beads.
“Have you?”
“Well, I should have. After all that hard work, and then you turned on me like that!”
“Mama, I didn’t turn on you. I just foolishly accepted an invitation to a party. There’s a rumor that royalty will be present—”
Mama dropped her pearls and grabbed my hand. “Who? Not him?”
My mother is absolutely smitten with the Prince of Wales. Our birthdays—his and mine, Mama is much older—are only a few days apart, and Mama pegged me as his bride the day I was born. Nothing that Charles has done in the interim has shaken her faith in the suitability of our match. When Diana came along, Mama was livid. Even though I was already married to Buford and had two children, Mama saw the new princess as an interloper who had to be stopped. As far as I know, her letters to Buckingham Palace on my behalf have never been answered.
“No, Mama, not him. But possibly the Duchess of York, and some countess of somewhere. She has a steak sauce name.”
“A-1?”
“No. It doesn’t matter. The point is, I used you, and I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
Mama is nothing if not generous, so she gave me a warm hug. “Of course I will, dear. Now, Abby, just hold your horses, because I have an idea.”
I braced myself against a team of wild horses—hers, not mine.
“Yes?”
“What time is this party?”
“It starts at eight, but it’s open-ended.”
Mama’s eyes sparkled like the cubic zirconia in Tweetie Timberlake’s engagement ring. “Why, that’s perfect. I’ll call up our guests and tell them that the time of the soiree has been changed. I’ll tell them to come at six instead of seven, and to leave by eight instead of ten. Then, as soon as the last one leaves, we can head straight over to your party. We’ll only be fashionably late.”
“But Mama,” I wailed, “I have a date.”
“Oh, Greg won’t mind if I tag along.” Mama is truly fond of Greg, but only as a stand-in until Prince Charles comes to his senses.
“It’s Frank McBride.”
Mama took the news calmly. “Well, in that case I’ll bring a date, too.”
I stared at the woman whose body had given birth to me, but whose soul had been replaced with that of an alien from outer space.
“You will? Who?”
“Stanley.”
“Stanley Steamer?” I asked, laughing.
She smiled smugly. “Nope. Stanley Morris from Scrub A Tub-Tub.”
10
“Mama! That’s ridiculous. You can’t date your maid, even if he is a male.”
“He’s positively buff,” Mama said in all seriousness. “I’ll tell him to come at eight o’clock to help us clear things away before your date picks us up.”
“But you don’t know anything about him.”
“He’s twenty-two, and he has pecs like Sly Stallone.”
“Important stuff,” I shouted. “For instance, who are his parents?”
Mama stared at me insolently. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“You see, he’s got you brainwashed already. Does he have an education?”
“Who needs an education with a body like that?”
“This is asinine. You know that, don’t you? What are you going to do someday when you’re old and wrinkled, and he dumps you for a younger woman?”
“I’m already old and wrinkled. He doesn’t care.”
Now I stared at her. “Mama, you and Stanley didn’t—uh—well, you know what I mean.”
“No, frankly I don’t.”
“Are you doing the horizontal mambo, Mama?”
“Why, Abigail Timberlake! You should be ashamed of yourself!” She shook her finger at me, as if I were a little girl again. “That would be wrong. A sin even, outside the bonds of marriage.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. If only tattoos were morally off limits as well.
“Does he think maybe you have money?” I asked casually.
Mama’s expression reminded me of that time I forgot her birthday. “He thinks I’m intellectually stimulat
ing, Abigail. He called me witty. Do you think I’m witty?”
“You’re a barrel of laughs, Mama.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.” She sighed. “Just wait until you get to be my age. I hope your children treat you like a child.”
I cringed. When I was a teenager Mama wished two stubborn, rebellious teens on me. She got her wish. It was time to change the subject.
“Do you know how to curtsy, Mama?”
“Of course!”
“Could you teach me?”
She looked at me incredulously, as if I’d just admitted I couldn’t walk.
I was perhaps overdressed for Mama’s soiree, although frankly it is hard to be overdressed in Rock Hill. It was the last city in the United States to give up gloves for indoor daytime wear, and every now and then in the supermarkets you will spot one or two blue-haired ladies with mink heads bobbing over their shoulders. Stockings and heels are de rigueur, even at picnics. The first and only woman to wear pants to the Episcopal Church of Our Savior was pelted with wadded up bulletins (discreetly, of course), and made to double her pledge for the following year. Or so I am told.
“You look lovely,” Mama said, who just happened to be wearing an identical outfit.
“Thanks.” I stroked the soft skirt of my floor-length, off-the-shoulder black velvet gown. “If only I had some pearls to wear with this.”
“Nothing doing,” Mama said, her hand flying protectively up to her neck.
I had to make do with the faux diamond necklace Buford bought me for our fifteenth wedding anniversary. Apparently it was the same store where he bought Tweetie’s engagement ring. At least Buford told me at the time that my gems weren’t real. Poor Tweetie was going to be in for a shock if she ever tried to hawk that ring. Real diamonds have a higher refractive index and do not display dark areas when the table facet is tilted. Besides, the Buford I know would never spring for a ten carat diamond, even to possess the man-made treasures Tweetie has to offer.
Mama stayed in the kitchen while I greeted the guests. Believe me, my mother is not a wallflower, nor was she gallantly giving me center stage. She simply wanted to take all the credit for the food.
In Rock Hill everyone knows his or her place, and the docents all arrived precisely on time, and well before any of the board. The first two brought husbands. I dutifully allowed the men to peck my cheek—as is our custom in the South—and turned my attention to the women. I wouldn’t say that I pounced on them, but by the time they had drinks in their hands and were seated, I had ascertained that they knew no more about June Troyan than I did. Quite possibly they knew less.
“Oh, was she the one who got an Elvis tattoo on her calf?” one of them asked.
Her companion laughed, spraying good red wine on Mama’s white carpet. “No, that was Irma, silly. That’s why they fired her. June is the one who looked just like Oprah before she went on her diet.”
All my interviews went similarly. There were an even dozen docents, and only one woman (the docents were all female) remembered her.
“June and I volunteered on the same days,” she said. “Thursdays. She was a real nice lady, but very quiet. Oh, don’t get me wrong. She had a strong voice, and was a great tour leader, but between visitors she didn’t say much. And never a word about herself.”
My interviewee was not at all the quiet type, nor was she what I expected in a docent. Amanda was a gaunt woman with stringy hair, small but intensely bright eyes, and enormous ears that had been pierced many times. In her left nostril she wore a discreet nose ring. Call me a snob if you will, but the woman neither looked nor sounded particularly well educated. Buford would have pronounced her “rode hard and put away wet.”
“Did she seem to know her antiques?”
Amanda scrunched her nose in concentration, and the ring glinted. I wondered if it hurt to have it installed, and if it was inconvenient during a bad head cold.
“Not so that I noticed. We have these fact sheets to memorize, see. Everything we need to know is on them. All the history, all about the stuff in the house. But we aren’t allowed to say anything that isn’t on the sheets.”
“What if someone asks a question?”
“Well, then you can answer it, if you know your stuff. But people almost never ask questions, and when they do they’re always about silly things, like where’s the bathroom and do you enjoy your job.”
“To your knowledge, did June have any enemies?” I asked, trying another tack.
Amanda shrugged her bony shoulders. “Like I said, she never talked about herself.”
I thanked her and turned away.
“Oh, there is one thing,” she called.
I whirled. “Yes?”
“One time I showed up a half an hour early on account of I had to drive my husband to work that morning—he works over at Bowater, you see.”
I waved at her to speed up.
“Well, anyway, her car was already there, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. Then at nine o’clock, just when we are supposed to open the place, she shows up out of nowhere.”
“Oh?”
“And boy howdy was she ever dirty!”
“You mean dusty?”
“Yeah. She looked like she’d just crawled out of a chimney.”
“Where had she been?”
“I dunno. Like I said, she didn’t say much. She just asked me to cover for her while she went and cleaned up. But I can tell you one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“She seemed mighty excited about something. Kept humming to herself all day. Even when she was taking a group around.”
That was all Amanda was able, or willing, to divulge. Nonetheless I thanked her profusely, and then took advantage of the moment to ask her how she got her job.
The dark marble-sized eyes regarded me unabashedly. “Miss Lilah Green is my auntie. By marriage,” she added, perhaps sensing my incredulity.
Just as I said. In Rock Hill it isn’t necessarily who you are, but who you know.
The board began their fashionably late trickle at half past six. I’m not claiming that they coordinated their arrivals, but Shirley Hall was the first to arrive, and as a Yankee she was at the bottom of the totem pole. I breathed a loud sigh of relief. I hadn’t expected Miss Lilah to be the first to show up, but with my luck you never know, and I was dreading her arrival.
“Hi,” she greeted me cheerily.
“Hey. Glad you could come,” I said, and stepped back so she could enter. Shirley Hall is not someone with whom to share doorway space.
But Shirley had her own agenda and stepped back as well. Her appraisal was quick and ended with a warm smile.
“I love your dress, Miss Timberlake. I have one identical to it.”
I sincerely hoped her dress was several sizes larger. “Thank you. Won’t you come in, Dr. Hall?”
“Shirley. Only students call me doctor, and half of them don’t anymore.”
I liked the woman. “In that case, you needn’t call me bachelor.”
She laughed. “Winthrop?”
“Yes. But way before your time.”
“Before I retired last year, I’d been at Winthrop twenty-five years.”
“I graduated thirty years ago,” I said, and could scarcely believe it myself.
We chatted amiably about this and that, but before I could get around to zeroing in on important issues, Mama came in bearing the first tray of hors d’oeuvres. Mama owns enormous sterling silver English trays, large enough for a roast pig, and this one was definitely a sight for hungry eyes. Mama got the round of applause she expected—and deserved—but before I could get back into my conversation with Shirley, the doorbell rang again.
Since Mama is vertically challenged, the peephole on her front door is much lower than most, and I was able to peer through it. I liked what I saw. Despite—or perhaps because of—his male appendage, Angus “Red” Barnes ranks just above a Yankee on the Rock Hill totem pole. All his money, while useful to the
foundation, cannot buy him the box seat in society that he desires. Backfield upper bleachers are all he’s ever going to get. One does not diddle Mattie Markham’s daughter and get away with it. Especially when one is married to a Sunday School teacher at the First Baptist Church.
I was surprised that Red had the nerve to show up at the docents’ party, but frankly I would have been more surprised if he hadn’t. Staying away would have given credence to any rumors I might be spreading. Of course I wouldn’t have spread any—telling Mama and Wynnell doesn’t count, nor does the Rob-Bobs—but Red, given his principles, would assume that I had.
It took me a minute to realize that he had the little woman in tow. His lawful bedmate, Marsha Barnes, was standing a full step behind him. Perhaps she didn’t like being seen with him, either.
I flung the door open and forced a big smile. “Hey y’all! Come on in.”
Red stared at me suspiciously. “Ms. Timberlake?” he asked, as if there might be another short, perky woman who looked like me at the same address.
“Yes. And you’re Mr. Barnes. We’ve met before.”
He blushed, a color that was incompatible with his orange freckles. “How’s that?”
“At my interview, remember?”
“Ah, yes!”
His relief was pitifully evident. But this cat had only begun to play with her mouse.
“Mrs. Barnes?” I pushed past him and all but dragged his wife into the house. “I’m Abigail Wiggins Timberlake. It’s so nice to meet you.”
That she regarded me suspiciously was understandable. I am, after all, not unpleasant to look at, and she was undoubtedly aware of her husband’s reputation.
Red looked around the room. “Miss Lilah here yet?”
I laughed appropriately. “Heavens no, you’re only the second board member to arrive.”
I had yet to let go of Marsha’s arm, and with only minimal tugging I steered her to the table. Red was right on our heels, probably the first time he’d stuck so close to his wife.
“What a terrible thing, Miss Troyan’s death,” I said, shaking my head. “Did you know her well, Mrs. Barnes?”
“Of course she didn’t know her,” Red growled.
