Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

Now, my life was different. The safe roles that had protected me for so many years were no longer there for me. I was a hostess without a host. A wife without a husband. For the first time, I realized that Ashlee Davenport didn’t really exist except as the shadow of her husband, and the thought shocked me. But, I had no time to consider that now. I had time only for the senator and what had brought him to Chadwick Farms and Davenport Downs, the fancy-sounding name Jack had given to his horse-breeding business.

  In the kitchen, I removed my leather work gloves and washed my hands before offering fresh brewed tea, ice, and packets of artificial sweetener. As I worked, I tried to decide just how to respond to Vance. Nothing came to mind.

  Vance and I sat at the table, sipping and silent. Once, he cleared his throat and opened his mouth before changing his mind and swallowing back his words. It was probably the first time in years the politician had nothing to say. And I said nothing to make it easier on him, concentrating on the tea. It was delicious, but I wished he would get on with whatever he had come to say. Nervous, I tapped my glass, the sound a dull tink-tink-tink.

  "Ashlee." His throat was gruff and he cleared it again. "There is no way for me to express the depths of my sorrow for your loss."

  I stopped my fidgety tapping. It was verbatim the same phrase he had uttered when the reporters were listening at Jack’s funeral, and with his words, I suddenly thought of a way to handle Senator Vance. When in doubt, copy Mama. It would be a coward’s move, imitating Mama, but then, I wasn’t doing so very well on my own, was I? I smoothed back several loose strands of hair and waited, wondering if I could pull off the impersonation. After all, there was only one Josephine Hamilton Caldwell. Thank God.

  "Your Jack was a fine man. The salt of the earth, and we—uh—I will miss him."

  I figured he would really miss all the money Jack had poured into his campaigns over the years, but I kept my peace. A breeze blew through the kitchen window, ruffling the short curtain. I said nothing, just gave a vacuous smile and sipped my tea, thinking about Mama and the list of investors and what Vance knew about the letter hinting at murder. Wondering how some other, stronger woman would handle this situation. Wondering what Vance Waldrop was here for.

  He took a sip of tea and stole a look at me. The silence seemed to unnerve him, as if he had come prepared for all sorts of emotional responses from grief to misery to hysteria, but my silence was unexpected.

  "Ah, well." He drained his glass and set it down on the kitchen table with finality. I knew instantly that the preliminaries were over. I smiled and tilted my head when he spoke, showing how interesting I found him, just like Mama when one of her guests at some boring social function began to pontificate.

  "Ashlee, have you considered what you will do about the corporations and Davenport Hills?" Some small voice in the depths of my mind whispered "ahhhhh."

  "I realize it is a major undertaking and I worry that the . . . mmm . . . the strain of finishing the development will be too much for your slender shoulders in this, your time of mourning. And I’m not the only one of your husband’s friends who has grown concerned. Bret McDermott and I spoke on the phone just this week and he agreed with me that the corporation was a major undertaking for a delicate little lady such as yourself."

  I raised my eyelids politely, hiding my pique. The chauvinistic "little lady" comment aside, I didn’t particularly like my husband’s business partners talking behind my back. Especially when one was a powerful politician and the other held the purse strings. Then again, Bret was supposed to be my friend. I wondered who had initiated the conversation between him and Vance, and just how important the details were. But the senator hadn’t slowed.

  "I wish to offer the advice and assistance of my staff at any time for anything you might need. I won’t allow the widow of a close personal friend to be bowed down under the heavy stresses of . . ." blah, blah, blah.

  I searched his words for anything that might be pertinent to the letters and the problems mentioned in them. The senator droned on, using parts of different speeches, by different speech writers he had hired over the years. I bet that if I tried real hard, I could remember where each of the phrases were originally used.

  He talked about the South as a growing region of business and commerce, ripe for development. He talked about farming and the virtues of working the land as God had intended. And still there was nothing about problems, or Bill and his messages, or murder.

  And then Vance said something that captured my attention. "All those problems out at the development—the permit problems, the paperwork, the water problems, dealing with inspectors and such—well, I wouldn’t want you burdened down by them, not now, my dear. And I’m more than willing to help, my staff and I." Vance patted my hand gently.

  I pulled it away and drank my tea, holding the glass in both hands like a child, to hide their trembling. Inspector. He had said inspector. Jack’s letter flashed through my mind.

  The senator smiled. I wasn’t certain it was a pleasant smile. I gulped the rest of my tea, wondering for the first time if I should be afraid.

  "Old friends are the best in times like these, Ashlee. You should call on us when trouble finds you. Are there any problems you might want assistance with?"

  "No," I said, surprised at the sound of the word. Calm, in control, not shaking as I was inside. "Not that I can think of, Vance." I put the glass on the table and folded my hands in my lap to hide my fear. What did he know? In one sentence he had mentioned problems, developments, inspectors . . . Just how involved with the murder was he? A strange disquiet settled on me, thinking what a powerful man might do to hide his involvement in a murder.

  "Old friends like Bret, and family members, perhaps even your mother would be willing to help you in this time of difficulty. You should consider contacting them. Perhaps even the Becks could assist you. They all have experience in dealing with life’s tragedies."

  Tragedies, and my mother? My mind latched on to his words. What did my mama have to do with this? Caldwell and Caldwell, Inc., my mind whispered. Mama and Daddy’s company, listed among the investors. I shook my head. And then, almost as an afterthought, I heard the other names. Bret and the Beck’s. Bret. My fear grew.

  Vance lapsed into silence, having said what he came to say. Was it a warning, delivered in the most oblique terms possible? I had no idea what to say in reply.

  In a faint panic, I opened my mouth. "More tea?" The persona of my socialite mother took command. I smiled brightly. "Cookies?"

  Ignoring his upraised hand, I poured him a second glass of iced tea. "Aunt Mosetta baked a fresh batch this morning." I rose from the table and lifted the cake plate cover, exposing two dozen delicately brown cookies. "Try the oatmeal. They’re Aunt Mosetta’s best I think. Of course, I must admit, I’m a bit prejudiced. I grew up eating cookies at Aunt Mosetta’s and I always thought she cooked the oatmeal just for me." I rambled on, the words ascending from some dark pit of buried memory and unknown evil talent. I stacked cookies on a china plate, acting just like my mother did when she was faced with something unpleasant that couldn’t be handled with simple hysterics. Retreating into the formalities of southern graciousness like the senator’s "delicate little lady". "She uses South Carolina’s own Adluh flour and local honey, and only the freshest homemade butter she purchases from an old friend." My act would have been more appropriate had I been wearing a pink organza tea dress, pearls, and white gloves, instead of dungarees and work boots, but it served well enough. The senator’s eyes simply grew bigger and bigger as I rattled on.

  "Ashlee—"

  "Here you are Senator," I interrupted, putting the small plate in front of him, the cookies arranged just so. "I remember when Jasmine was a little girl, she just loved these cookies. It’s in the genes, I always say. Here try one." I smiled sweetly, and pointed to the cookies.

  The ruse of cookies and tea wouldn’t hold off Vance Waldrop for long, but Mama could always come up with something to keep any unpleasa
ntness at bay. I figured I could, also.

  "Ashlee, I’m sure the cookies are wonderful but I’m—"

  "Indeed they are. And you should especially try the sugar cookies. I know you always had a soft spot for sugar cookies. I remember hearing you say so at a church bake sale one year." I remembered nothing of the sort, but it seemed like the kind of thing a politician would say.

  "Well, yes, but I—"

  "And I’ll bet you’ve never tasted anything so wonderful as one of Mosetta’s chocolate chip cookies. Do taste one, Senator." And honest to God, I think I simpered. I was overdoing it, making a fool of myself, but I couldn’t stop.

  He took a breath as if to object, and I smiled even more sweetly, just like Mama does when she wants her way. Dutifully, he took a sugar cookie—his favorite?—and bit into it. And while his mouth was engaged I spoke again.

  "Now Senator, you just put any worries about poor little old me right out of your mind." Oh my . . . poor little old me? I had my mother down perfect, though I didn’t know whether to be proud or ashamed. At least the barrage of words was suppressing my fear. "I’m doing just fine here, and I’ve made a few decisions about the development. You remember Peter Howell? You met him when Jack took ya’ll duck hunting last year."

  The senator nodded, his mouth full of sugar cookie. They were all oversized. After raising ten children, Aunt Mosetta didn’t know how to cook anything regular sized. Vance washed the cookie down with tea, but before he could reply I took up my prattle, imitating my mother with flighty words and useless gestures.

  "Well, anyway, I’ve decided to put Peter in charge of finishing the development." I had made no such decision, but perhaps my mind had been active on some deeper level, because it was an excellent solution to all the unsolved problems coming over the phone in Jack’s office.

  "And the CPA will be handling all the money transactions except for the signing of the checks—you know that Jack had a thing about allowing power of attorney."

  Again, I had not contacted the CPA, but it was a good idea. "And, Senator . . ."

  "Call me Vance, Ash. I—"

  "Vance, you kind man, try one of these chocolate chips." I lifted a cookie and carried it to his mouth. He had no choice but to bite.

  "I just adore chocolate chip cookies," I continued. "Anyway, you needn’t worry about me at all. I’m stronger than I look and I’m sure I’ll do just fine with the business. Jack was well insured both professionally and personally," I said, dropping my voice to imply some great and confidential disclosure, "and has provided for my welfare."

  I stood and took the senator’s hand with my right, picking up three or four cookies with my left. Like any well-bred, southern gentleman, Senator Vance Waldrop stood as well, chewing and swallowing at once. "And I do appreciate you coming to look in on me, Vance. But I assure you I’ll be all right." I guided him by the elbow to the door, opened it and stepped out on to the deck as I spoke. The senator followed, scraping chocolate from his dental work with his tongue.

  "You and the other investors out at Davenport Hills should be receiving a letter from my business manager by the end of next week concerning target dates and such like." I looked up at him beneath my lashes as I’ve seen my mama do a thousand times, but he didn’t notice my ploy. It seemed a chocolate chip was wedged in a precarious spot in the senator’s front teeth.

  "And again, I do appreciate your kind visit, but I assure you I’m doing fine. Here, take some of Mosetta’s cookies for your trip back to Columbia." I shoved the cookies into Vance’s hand and stepped back inside, shutting the door in his face.

  My last picture of Senator Vance Waldrop was his open mouth, chocolate stuck between his upper front teeth, a confused look on his face. It was exactly the expression I often wore after dealing with my mother, overwhelmed, nonplused, and completely outmaneuvered.

  I laughed softly, resting my head against the jamb, ignoring the tiny jabs of my guilty conscience. I had long ago promised myself that I would never succumb to the wiles and ways of my manipulative mama, but that was before I had to deal with the likes of Vance Waldrop. Considering that Ashlee Davenport didn’t have the slightest idea who she was anymore, I thought I had handled the senator quite well.

  "Very nice. I had no idea you were so talented. It must be the Hamilton genes. I know no Chadwick could ever pull that load of crap off."

  I whirled, dropping back against the jamb, my hands behind my back like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Which I was, sort of. Nana was propped against the hall entry, her arms crossed and a half grin on her face. My Nana was in her seventies, her exact age a well-kept secret. She was stocky, gruff, and weather-beaten, a woman who had run a four hundred acre farm alone and overseen three others for over forty years, since the death of Pap Hamilton. Determined, astute, and competent, she was the most straightforward woman I had ever met. She was also the richest woman in Dawkins County though you would never have guessed by looking at her.

  "Nana. You ’bout scared me out of my skin," I said, sinking further against the wall. I noticed for the first time that the John Deere was silent, and wondered just how long she had been listening.

  Nana’s eyebrows went up and one corner of her mouth went down in an expression that said, "Try that one elsewhere, my girl." Apparently she had been there awhile.

  I grinned, feeling flushed with success. It was my first foray into the world Jack had bestowed upon me, and I had survived. "Personally, I thought I caught your daughter to a ‘T’. I especially like the part where I shoved a chocolate chip cookie into his mouth."

  "Played hell with his dentures. I was watching from the hall."

  "Yes. Well. I never realized the . . . the . . . power my mother wielded with her little-girl-lost-please-let-me-serve-you routine. Well," I amended, "I knew it kept me in line, but I never knew just how successfully it could work on the public." I pushed away from the door jamb and walked to the kitchen, washing my hands at the sink and pouring Nana a glass of tea. My grandmother didn’t move to take it, retaining her position against the hall entry, a speculative look in her eyes. The silence in the room was uncomfortable and just a bit disapproving.

  I could see Jack’s golf bag in silhouette beside her, the club heads rounded shadows. I’d have to move it eventually. There were a lot of things I’d have to do eventually.

  Nana hated Mama’s "dithering" as she called it, yet instead of commenting again on the little act she had witnessed, she said simply, "You’re a lot stronger than your mama. Stronger and brighter and more capable. I don’t think you’ll have to hide behind her image for very long."

  While I was trying to digest that, Nana turned the topic away from me. "You want to tell me why a United States Senator would fly down from Washington, drive across state in his wife’s private car, without his ‘yes’ men and visit with my granddaughter?" It wasn’t exactly a question, it was more in the nature of a demand.

  I put her glass on the table near Vance’s empty, filled my own again and took my place at the table. In the background, I heard the senator drive away in his wife’s Lincoln, the dogs barking in a desultory fashion. Sighing, I covered my face, trying to organize my thoughts. Tears of frustration and confusion filled my eyes. I bit my lip and waited them out. After a moment, I was able to speak in a normal voice. "Nana," I took a breath and uncovered my eyes, focusing on the calm face of the woman I admired most in the whole world. "I think Jack was involved in something he shouldn’t have been." Her eyes didn’t change, yet I felt myself flush, and looked away. I picked up my sweating glass and put it down again in a different spot, making the edges of the water rings touch just barely.

  "I think he did something—or maybe many somethings—that were unethical. And, well, illegal." I paused. "And dangerous." I thought of Robyn and the pictures I had found, knowing I could have added sinful, evil, and adulterous. Instead I said, "And it’s even possible there was a . . ." my thoughts veered away from the word murder. ". . . death involved. S
omehow."

  Nana said nothing, but I could feel her watching me, her eyes sharp and loving all at once, just like when I was a child and had something to confess. Like the time I stole Wallace’s clothes while he was skinny dipping in the back forty’s pond. Or the time I hid a king snake in Mama’s bed just minutes before she was to arrive for a summertime visit. No one could not say something like my Nana. Her silences were more powerful than words.

  "And Senator Vance is involved in it up to his armpits."

  Nana snorted and I relaxed suddenly, grinning, making a third water ring. The chair legs scraped as Nana sat, and I watched as she drained her tea glass, placing it squarely back into the water ring it had made. A psychologist might have thought there was something significant about the placement of our water rings.

  "Always was a sneaky old toad," she said, and poured herself a second glass of tea. A silence played itself out between us as Nana ordered her thoughts. She was a methodical woman and I was accustomed to her long pauses. Dealing with Nana had taught me the virtue of patience, but her insights had always been worth the wait.

  "When Pap died," she said, "Joanetta Chadwick came to me and claimed that Wallace had been fathered by Pap. I didn’t want to believe her, but it made so much sense I couldn’t help but." Nana looked at me across the table, her eyes matter-of-fact and steady. "I found check stubs where Pap had been supporting her and the boy for years. And so I took responsibility for my husband’s light-of-love and his illegitimate child. Sent ’em both to school, gave ’em a place to live, though there’s those who laughed at me for it. And some white bigots criticized me for it."

  I made another water ring on the table. There were four of them now, all touching. I understood where Nana was going with the story of Wallace and his African American mother, and yet I waited. Listening.

  "The point, my child, is that no man is perfect. Given the opportunity, seven out of ten would break every one of the ten commandments without blinking if they thought they could get away with it. Some get caught. Or they die early and their families get left to clean up the mess.