I dutifully approached my mother and let her gush over me. “Oh, darlin’. You look a fright. Have you slept since you found that dead body?”
Crushed by her hug, I choked out, “Sort of.”
“Well, reporters are going to start beating down your door to get an exclusive, so you’d best either get some beauty sleep or some better concealer. Those dark circles under your eyes are going to be even more noticeable in high definition. You want to look your best when you go on camera.”
As I was disentangling myself from Mom’s grasp, Delilah caught my attention and rolled her eyes. My sister was never amused by Mom’s dramatic antics.
She said, “Quinn is not going on TV, Mom. The reporters have already been beating down the door and calling incessantly. We’ve all told them in no uncertain terms that Quinn will not be giving any interviews.”
Mom’s rosebud lips formed a little O. After hesitating a moment, she admitted, “Well, that’s going to be awkward when my old friend June Devereaux comes calling in about”—she glanced at the kitchen clock—“ten minutes.”
Delilah’s jaw dropped. “June Devereaux, the anchor from Atlanta This Morning? That June Devereaux?”
“Yes, that June Devereaux.”
“How in the world do you know her?”
Mom blushed. “Well, back in the early nineties, when I was following this really rad Poison cover band around, I met her backstage at an outdoor music festival—”
Delilah held a hand up. “I never enjoy your stories that start like that. They always end with something I can’t unhear.”
Papa Sal chuckled under his breath at Delilah’s spot-on assessment of Mom’s cringeworthy stories, which earned both him and Delilah a frown from Mom. She had no room to dispute any of our animosity toward her questionable past, though. When we were little, she’d left Delilah and me with Papa Sal and Grandmama Hattie and gone off to “find herself.” Not that I was complaining. D and I had the best childhood anyone could have imagined in the loving home our grandparents provided us. And I didn’t consider Mom a bad person for going off on her own. She knew she wasn’t cut out for motherhood in the first place, and when our dad left her, she couldn’t even fathom the idea of going it alone. However, that never stopped her from trying to meddle in our adult lives.
Mom dumped the contents of her recycled rice bag purse on the table and started lining up half-empty bottles of cosmetics and well-used palettes of makeup. “Anyway, as I was saying, we need to get you ready for your close-up, Quinn.”
I ran my hands through my dark hair, which I hadn’t even bothered to brush this morning. “Mom, I’m sorry, but I can’t. Above everything else, I’m still in shock about finding such a gruesome scene. I don’t want to talk about it, especially to some stranger, and especially in front of a camera that’s going to broadcast me into every household in six states.” And if I let my mom be in charge of my makeup, I’d end up looking like a reject from clown college.
She stood and came at me with a brush full of a garish fuchsia blush. “Sweetie, cameras don’t broadcast video. Television stations broadcast—”
“Mom, you get what I mean.” I wasn’t in the habit of interrupting and talking over my elders, but I couldn’t let her keep thinking this interview was going to happen. “Please understand why I’m not doing this. Tucker is very upset over his aunt’s involvement, and I don’t want to say anything that might falsely implicate her.”
She stopped dead in her tracks, her lower lip quivering. “So you’re choosing him over me?”
Delilah groaned. “This isn’t about you, Mom.”
Our mother replied, “What is my friend June Devereaux going to think about coming all the way here only to be snubbed and sent packing?”
“Who cares?” Delilah fired back.
I sank down into the closest chair and took my glasses off so I could rest my throbbing head on the cool kitchen table.
Papa Sal stepped in to smooth things over. He had the patience of Job when it came to dealing with my mother. Delilah always became infuriated and mouthed off at her. I normally clammed up and tried to find a way to escape.
He said, “Delilah, let me take this one. Dixie, honey, Quinn is upset and so very exhausted. I don’t think it would be good for her to have to go through the trauma of an interview on a major regional news program.” When Mom opened her mouth to argue, he put a hand on her arm. “And more important, Quinn is a grown woman who can make these decisions for herself. She’s already made up her mind not to speak to the media. I think she’s made a wise choice, and I think you need to honor her wishes.”
Mom looked from me to Papa Sal and back again. She seemed at a loss. Bottom line—she didn’t get me. She never had. “You honestly don’t want to be on TV, Quinn?”
“No, Mom. I don’t.”
She blew out a sigh. “Okay. Well, if it’s a hard no, then I guess I’d better call June Devereaux and tell her to turn around and drive all the way back to Atlanta.”
Papa Sal set a stern gaze on her. “Part of honoring Quinn’s wishes includes not giving her a guilt trip when your opinion differs from hers, Dixie.”
Mom huffed, “Suncloud, Daddy. Suncloud.”
Chapter 5
“You look like you’re dressed to go to a funeral, not a holiday party with the rich folk,” Delilah said, assessing me with a critical eye.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror, surveying the elegant but simple black dress I’d chosen. It certainly wasn’t designer, nor was it particularly pretty. “That may be, but this dress is tasteful and appropriate to wear to Tucker’s parents’ party, where I’ll meet all of their friends for the first time. I’m not going dressed as a hussy.”
Delilah shook her head. “You shouldn’t go dressed as someone’s granny, either. Wait here.” She flew out of the room and returned seconds later with a black garment bag. Unzipping it with a flourish, she sang, “Ta-da!”
The most gorgeous red dress peeked out at me. I breathed, “Oh, no. D, I can’t take that. You haven’t worn it yet.”
“Where am I going to wear something like this? To clean toilets around here? Someone should get some enjoyment out of it.”
She removed the lace sheath dress carefully from the bag. It was a thing of beauty. It had long sheer sleeves and came to the knee, the whole dress overlaid with a 3-D embroidered floral applique. Delilah had bought it last December for a holiday ball her then-boyfriend had invited her to, only to be dumped the morning of the event. She’d already removed the tags in preparation for the big night, so there was no chance of returning it.
Holding it in front of me, she said, “You’ll be stunning in this. Tucker will go nuts.”
“Are you sure you want to let me wear this? What if I spill something on it?”
“Then you’ll pay to have it cleaned.” She moved the red dress so I could see my own boring dress next to it. “Is there really a question?”
I smiled. “Okay, okay. Twist my arm.” I hugged her. “Thanks, D.”
“That’s what sisters are for.” As I changed clothes, she wandered over to my dresser and began perusing my jewelry collection. Then her eyes landed on the newspaper I hadn’t had the time or the courage to open today. She thumbed through it, a look of consternation on her face. “Did you read Esther Sinclair’s obituary?”
“No,” I murmured, unsure if I even wanted to.
Delilah didn’t give me a chance to think about it. She read, “ ‘Esther Sinclair was born in Savannah to Ada and Bert Sinclair. She was a 1986 Reynolds High School graduate, having been elected homecoming queen, cheerleading team captain, and class president. Esther enjoyed socializing with friends and going to church with her family. She worked at Earl’s Southern Fried Chicken and babysat neighborhood children. Esther was liked by all. She is survived by her parents; a brother, Ezra Sinclair of Savan
nah; and several aunts, uncles, and cousins. A private family graveside service will be held on Saturday afternoon’—that’s today—‘to lay Esther to rest. Memorial contributions may be made to Living Bible Church.’ Huh. They’ve wrapped everything up and even buried her remains already.”
I sighed, smoothing the dress over my hips. “Well, they’ve wrapped everything up except deciding who killed her. I’m worried Aunt Lela isn’t out of the woods yet. Rufus and Detective Flynn have been bothering her for days now. They’ve even looked into her finances from thirty-three years ago. I can’t imagine they found too much. Surely banks don’t keep paper records that long, although maybe in the eighties they were moving toward using computers.”
“Mmm hmm,” Delilah murmured, her head still in the newspaper. “Didn’t Mom and Dad graduate from Reynolds High?”
I slipped into some black strappy heels. “I think so.”
“In 1986?”
“Nine months before you were born? Yepper.”
Delilah was an unplanned child. I guessed to some extent I was, too. Our parents had been only eighteen when Delilah was born, which we assumed had contributed to the eventual demise of their relationship. They also hadn’t married, since according to Mom neither of them believed in marriage. For poor Grandmama Hattie, who was a genteel Southern lady through and through and the person who’d instilled proper manners and behavior in me from a young age, the whole situation was quite an embarrassing travesty. Unwed pregnancy was uncommon back then. And in respectable Southern circles, it was highly frowned upon and enough reason to snub an entire family.
“So that means Mom knew Esther Sinclair.”
“Probably. I don’t think their high school was particularly large.”
Delilah refolded the newspaper and set it back on my dresser. “Then why didn’t she say anything to us about it?”
I shrugged. “She was being pretty single-minded in her attempt to convince me to do an interview with her friend June Devereaux.”
“Right, but since she had a connection to the victim, I’m surprised she didn’t grab the interview for herself, especially once you told her no. Surely a former classmate’s take on Esther’s disappearance on their graduation night would warrant at least a sound bite on TV.”
I foraged in the jewelry case on my dresser and found some sparkly earrings. “I agree, but I gave up trying to understand Mom a long time ago. It’s easier to go with her flow.”
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Tucker: Ready? I’m downstairs.
Butterflies filled my stomach, but not the fun kind. I loved going out on dates with him, but this one was different. Tonight felt more like an interview or a parent-teacher conference than a date.
As if she were reading my mind, Delilah said, “Would you please quit stressing about whether or not Tucker’s parents and their friends are going to approve of you and just have fun tonight?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Yes. Now let me take a look at you.”
I twirled around for my sister. “What do you think?”
She looked me up and down and smiled proudly. “I think you’ll be the belle of the ball.”
I gave her a quick hug and hurried downstairs from the third floor. When I hit the landing for the second floor, I willed myself to slow down. As Grandmama Hattie always said, there’s nothing wrong with making a grand entrance as long as it’s tasteful. I tried my best to pass for graceful as I descended the flight of stairs down to the foyer. Tucker was waiting for me, dressed sharply in a black suit with a red tie. We couldn’t have planned our attire more perfectly. But miles better than that was the beaming grin that lit up his face when he saw me.
“Quinn…you’re breathtaking.”
I felt blush heat my cheeks. “Thank you, Tucker. You look very handsome as well.”
The moment he took my hand and led me out to his waiting truck, my apprehension about tonight faded away. We chatted comfortably on the way to his parents’ phenomenal historic home on Washington Square. Not that I expected any less, but Mrs. Heyward had the outside of her home swagged in fresh balsam and boxwood garland, punctuated by bright red velvet ribbons. Wreaths bursting with fresh fruit and magnolia leaves hung from every window and door. Dozens of antique lanterns were ablaze with candles, lighting our path toward the front door. Poinsettias in a rainbow of colors sat in urns and vintage pots on the front porch, more than I could count. Save a dusting of snow, it was a winter wonderland.
The interior of the Heywards’ home was even more exquisite. There was a real live Christmas tree in every room, dripping with carefully placed ornaments, beads, and bows. Each tree sported a unique theme that carried through the room. The whole place was warm and inviting, most of the light coming from twinkling Christmas bulbs and glowing candles. A piano virtuoso sat at the grand piano in the parlor, effortlessly playing versions of everything from excerpts of Handel’s Messiah to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Waiters weaved through the merry crowd, offering trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. I’d never felt so much holiday spirit all in one place.
Tucker leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “I realize it’s all a little much. Mom tends to go overboard on parties.”
I murmured back, “Are you kidding? This is amazing.”
He smiled. “Just know that I’m ready to leave whenever you are.”
“But we just got here.”
“Exactly. I’ve put in my obligatory appearance. We say a quick hello to my parents, and the rest of the evening is ours.”
A waiter came by with a tray of champagne flutes. I took two and thanked him. Handing one of the glasses to Tucker, I said, “It would be impolite to pop in and out so quickly. Besides, after the week we’ve had, we could use a little Christmas cheer to lift our spirits.”
I clinked my glass with his.
“To Christmas cheer,” he said.
Chapter 6
Tucker wasn’t kidding about the “quick hello” with his parents. In their defense, they were being pulled in several directions at once as they entertained the growing crowd and flitted back and forth to the kitchen to oversee the waitstaff. Tucker and I mingled a bit with his parents’ friends, who were all thrilled to see him. He’d moved back to the area only a couple of months ago, so they were eager to hear what he’d been up to. They smiled and nodded kindly when Tucker introduced me, not particularly impressed by the fact that I helped my family run a bed-and-breakfast hotel. I supposed it wasn’t glamorous work, but the tourist industry was the backbone of Savannah’s economy. I felt it was a rather noble profession, providing a quiet, relaxing oasis for people to stay while they visited our beautiful city.
But then my last name started clicking for people, and the conversations began going one of two ways:
The older folks would say something like, “Not many Bellandinis in these parts. I suppose you’re Hattie’s kin? Rest her soul.”
I would smile and reply, “Yes, I’m her granddaughter. Dixie’s younger child.”
They would turn up their noses and mutter, “Oh.”
Or the younger people (non-senior citizens, who weren’t quite as caught up in family pedigree) would say something like, “Quinn Bellandini? Oh.” Then they’d lean in with eyes gleaming, itching for some juicy inside gossip. “You’re the one who found the bones in Lela’s backyard. Was it as gruesome as they said on TV?”
I would try to keep my voice steady as I gave the stock answer, “Yes, I found Esther Sinclair. I’m sorry, but I’m not supposed to discuss it since the investigation is still going on.”
Their excitement would visibly evaporate before my eyes, and then they couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
So much for Christmas cheer.
Tucker took my hands. “Now do you understand why I said I’m ready to leave anytime?”
I nodded. “I do. Let’s thank your parents and head out.”
I sighed and cast a yearning glance toward the dessert table. It was a baker’s fantasy, with seemingly no end to the intricate and gorgeous confections in a spread befitting a royal wedding. The table was bursting at the seams, with candles and flowers tucked amongst the desserts for decoration. I’d spotted the table several minutes ago and had been salivating ever since.
Tucker read my mind. “You look like you need cake first. Let’s make that happen.”
I could probably find the strength to endure another awkward conversation or two if I could get my hands on a big slice of that scrumptious-looking buche de Noel, a rolled cake of chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate, and maybe a couple of the gold leaf–dusted macarons. I let Tucker lead me toward the table, but as he handed me a plate, we heard his mother calling him over the din of the party.
“Tucker, dear! I need your help.”
He waved to her across the room and gave me an apologetic smile. “She probably needs a toilet unclogged. That’s usually all I’m good for at one of these parties. I promise I’ll be right back.”
I could easily keep myself entertained alone with the dessert table. Taking a deep breath, I inhaled the sugary aromas of the various pastries, pies, cakes, and cookies arranged artfully before me. I chose several items, then zeroed in on the buche de Noel. I had to set my plate on the edge of the table and reach across to cut a slice of the chocolate Yule log. I took the knife and sawed as gently as I could to free a slice of the decadence without ruining the look of the remaining cake. Having to lean even farther, I used my other hand to grasp a cake server to scoop up the slice.
But then the unthinkable happened. When I’d leaned in, I had unknowingly pushed my plate with my thigh and caused a chain reaction. My plate shoved a plate of cookies into a top-heavy flower arrangement, which overturned and flooded the cookies with icky water. Horrified, I gasped and dropped the knife and cake server to grab a napkin to sop up the watery mess. The cake server hit a candle and toppled it onto some greenery, which burst into flame. My heart pounding, I did the only thing I could think of, which was to grab the nearest vase of flowers and empty the water onto the fire. The room suddenly got quiet as I surveyed the destruction I’d caused. At least a quarter of the magnificent dessert table was now either singed or drenched or both, thanks to me.
Southern Harm Page 3