Beads of Doubt
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Looped Cell Phone Dangle
Barbara Burnett Smith Mentoring Authors Foundation 2007
Praise for Bead on Trouble First in the Kitzi Camden Mysteries
“Fun and interesting . . . I’d like to see more of Kitzi’s adventures.” —Rendezvous
“This wonderful new series is easy to fall in love with.”
—Romantic Times
“Kitzi Camden is a hoot! She has the crusty spirit of an ol’ Texas politician . . . When it comes down to loyalty and protecting the people she cares about, she can be as gracious and genteel as a coiled rattlesnake. I look forward to spending more time with her.”—Joan Hess, author of the Claire Malloy and Arly Hanks mysteries
The Kitzi Camden Mysteries
BEAD ON TROUBLE
BEADS OF DOUBT
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
BEADS OF DOUBT
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2007
Copyright © 2007 by The Estate of Barbara Burnett Smith and Karen MacInerney.
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One
“Ms. Camden, the letter was sent to you two weeks ago, and you signed for it. It is vital that you...”
Outside my second-story window a teal and white tent was being erected on the west lawn. The tent was sixty by eighty feet with the hugest stripes I had ever seen in my life. It was also being dragged perilously close, I mean within inches, of my begonia bed.
“Excuse me, Mr. Warrington—”
“Harrington.”
“Mr. Harrington. I have a situation here that I need to handle, and I would be happy to call you back in a few days.” I was fumbling with the window, which was refusing to move.
I love my house, all eight thousand square feet of it, and I even love most of its idiosyncrasies. The same kind you’ll find in every old house. At that particular moment, however, I was not particularly in love with this particular stuck window.
“Go up,” I commanded under my breath, but the window didn’t budge.
The Camden Manse, as it’s known, was built by my grandfather back in the twenties when he was governor. When I was a child, over fifty years ago, I thought if heaven was all it was cracked up to be, then it must be just like this house. With the wisdom of age I now think that if the house and heaven are alike, God must have an easier time keeping his place in good repair than I do mine, although I try my best.
I jerked at the window again and it flew up so unexpectedly I almost fell out. “Hello—hello!” I shouted at the truck driver, but he wasn’t hearing me.
On the telephone Mr. Harrington sounded exasperated. “Ms. Camden, you must read the letter today.”
Patience has never been my strong suit. In fact, I’m not sure I even have that suit. “Mr. Harrington, tomorrow we are having the Bead Tea for ovarian cancer on my grounds. There will be thirty-four vendors and artisans, tea for hundreds being served in the conservatory, and right now, even as I speak to you”—I looked out the window and yelped—“a truck is backing toward my begonia bed.”
“That is not really important. This letter is about your future.”
I turned away from the window. “Fine. Mr. Harrington, what is in this letter that is so terribly important it can’t wait for three days?”
“You need to read the letter.”
I huffed. “So you’ve said, but at the moment I can’t read the letter. I don’t even remember signing for it. That may have been my mother.” Who, at seventy-nine years old, is as elegant and charming as she ever was. She still has a great memory, too; it’s just short. She could have signed for the letter, then sent it off to her cousin, or thrown it out.
I knew for sure she hadn’t given it to me. “Mr. Harrington, you are going to have to tell me—”
“I’ll fax you a copy.”
“I don’t have a fax. Sinatra, my cat, ate the rubber and I haven’t replaced it. If you want some action, then you’d better explain the urgency.” I used the same firm tone I used to use on lobbyists when I was in the Texas Senate. “I have three minutes to spare, but that’s all.”
“All right, if this is the way it has to be.” He sounded testy.
“It is.”
“The letter states that you are, at this time, in possession of the Camden Manse and are occupying both the main house and the gatehouse.”
Since I was standing in one of the upstairs guest rooms of the main house, it seemed to me the letter wasn’t terribly informative, and he was using up his allotted time pretty quickly with this statement
of the obvious. “My mother lives in the gatehouse, but that’s close. And I knew that all along.”
His tone got a little snippier. “The letter also states that there have been some changes in the corporation that controls the Camden Manse—”
“There have been no changes to the corporation.”
“The changes are in the way the shares are being voted.”
That got my full attention as every drop of blood in my body sank to someplace below my knees. “What voting changes?”
“You no longer have sufficient votes to maintain occupancy. Therefore, you need to move out within thirty days. Actually, that would be about fourteen days now. If you had only read the letter, this would not be coming as a shock to you.”
I thought I might fall over.
“That’s not possible,” I said. This was my home. I loved this house as much as anything in the world. My grandfather had built it, and when I was just six he had promised me that I would someday live here. Many years later, after he died and my grandmother had no longer wanted the burden of the Manse, she moved into the gatehouse and my parents and I had moved into the main house.
When I got married I lived elsewhere, but the house has a way of choosing its own, and after the divorce and my father’s death, my mother needed help. In fact, just six years ago nobody in the family would take the place. Of course, that was before I’d inspected every inch of it and spent all the income from my trust to restore it.
Mr. Harrington was going on, “. . . therefore, a meeting of the corporation board has been called, but that is just a—”
“Mr. Harrington, I want two answers. And I’ll bet you I already know what they are. Number one, who are you representing?”
“Mr. Houston David Webber.”
“No surprise.” Whenever there was a problem in the family, you could bet that my cousin Houston had something to do with it. It had been that way since we’d been kids. “And, who,” I went on, “is changing the way they vote?”
“I’m not at liberty—”
“Fax that letter to my attorney.” I snapped out the name.
“Certainly,” he said. “I’m pleased that I have finally convinced you of the gravity of my call.”
“I assure you, Mr. Harrington, I am suitably grave.” I looked out the window and saw that the truck was now in the begonias. “Get out of there!” I yelled, but of course, he couldn’t hear me.
Mr. Harrington went on, “Ms. Camden, please. We need to discuss some things. There are some arrangements that—”
“Mr. Harrington, at this minute I don’t have time to discuss anything with you. I have to get that damn truck out of my begonias, and I’ve got to have a very intense talk with Houston.” I took a breath and said, “Have a nice day.”
Then I hung up and stuck my head out the window. The truck was now parked in the begonias.
I grabbed something off the night stand, took aim, and threw. A solid and very satisfying smack let me know I’d hit the hood of the truck. I looked to see what I’d thrown and realized that I had pitched the one thing that might have helped. It was The Little Book of Calm.
Oh, well, I wouldn’t have read it anyway.
Two
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, so I went flying down the back staircase, the faster to get to my car and to my cousin Houston. While he has every right in the world to try and take the Manse away from me, I have every right to fight him right down to the door of the moving vans. That’s what I intended to do, although this little bombshell, coming out of the blue, or the Ethernet, is pretty typical of Houston.
In Apollo 13 when the space mission went awry they created that famous line, “Houston, we have a problem.” My brother and I have always said it a little differently: We have a problem; it’s Houston.
I was halfway down the stairs, traveling at about the same speed as the Apollo, when my cat came flying down behind me. He miscalculated, passed me up, and landed under my right foot. I grabbed the banister to avoid stepping on him, and Sinatra did a tuck and roll that would have impressed Nadia Comaneci.
“Sinatra!” I shouted, doing a pretty good midair gyration myself. “Cat, you cannot do that. You are going to kill someone.”
He stretched out and rolled over on his stomach, the better to have his fawn-colored belly petted.
A voice came up the staircase. “Nice to see Sinatra hasn’t changed his ways.” I looked down to find my friend Beth Fairfield watching us.
“He’s as charming as ever,” I said, patting Sinatra briefly. Sinatra originally belonged to Beth, but before he was four months old she knew he’d never work in their family. At least not with her husband Ron around. Then we caught the philandering Ron in the midst of a philander, and a month ago the two separated. It’s just a trial separation. I hope the jury makes it permanent, but I don’t say that. I also don’t let Beth hear me call Ron “Mo-Ron,” which is my very apt nickname for him. “Let me guess, you’re here early because Ron has changed his mind and wants you back. And Sinatra,” I said, making my way more carefully down the last of the stairs. Sinatra was now purring so loudly that the sound echoed all through the hall and the kitchen.
“Wrong on both counts.” I heard the little catch in her voice and it worried me. Beth and I have been friends since we were eight and met at summer camp. I may not think much of Ron, but she loved him enough to marry him and have two children, Shannan and Brian, who are now almost completely grown.
“Are you okay? I thought you weren’t coming over until the reception. What’s up?” I picked up my purse off the dining room table.
“Long story.” She sighed and I stopped to give her my full attention. “The short version is that Ron sailed in last night and announced to Shannan that they needed some time together, so he was taking her to San Francisco for a week. Starting Saturday.”
Tightwad Mo-Ron, Mr. Ultraconservative, was doing something on the spur of the moment. He should have started that habit years ago. “And what did you say?” I asked.
“You’d be proud of me. I said, ‘Oh, Ron, isn’t that sweet of you, but I wish you’d given me some notice. The Bead Tea is this weekend, and I promised Kitzi I’d stay at the Manse and help her. The two of you will have to go without me.’ Like he’d bothered to invite me.”
“Way to go, Beth.” We did a high five.
“Yes, but then I had to pack and get out of there. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Absolutely not; I’m delighted. You can have any room in the house, including mine, but I’m on a mission now, so we’ll have to bring your things in later.”
“No problem. Where are we going?” She straightened the runner on the table, which I’d mussed, and followed me into the kitchen. “What happened in here?”
The kitchen is long and wide and vanilla. The only things not antique white are the natural wood counters and the sinks, which are metal. It needs color and some pizzazz, but pizzazz takes energy and time, and after all the other work I’ve done on the house, I’ve run out of both. Today the place was particularly drab because the counters were absolutely barren. Not a piece of paper, not a dirty dish or a canister in sight.
I glanced around at the newly empty counters. “For the caterers. They’ll need every inch of counter space and more.”
During parties this is the staging area and it buzzes with activity. Caterers putting last minute touches on trays and plates of food so delicious looking they would tempt Gandhi on a hunger strike. Waiters whizzing in and out of doors, and the organizers, overseeing, double-checking, and making sure that everything runs smoothly.
Our family has always believed in not only sharing the Manse with organizations, but also helping out when someone is shorthanded. My grandparents started that tradition, and my parents and I have carried it on. As a child I liked the time before and after a party best. Before is when you can sneak a taste of one of the ripest strawberries and the most scrumptious desserts. Afterward always seemed fu
n to me, too, because that’s when the stories start getting told. As a child I used to beg my grandparents to let me stay here during a party. When they said yes, I’d get paid a quarter to help with the cleanup, only it wasn’t the money I was after. I loved to hear the adults talking. “Did you see that woman in red? I heard that she . . .” I learned pretty fast that as long as I kept my mouth shut and kept working, no one paid any attention to me. The minute I stopped to look at whomever was talking I got sent to my room.
Even now, there are times when the cleanup is as much fun as the event itself.
Beth opened the door and we stepped outside into as beautiful a clear June day as you could ask for. The tent was repositioned and apparently about to be raised. The big pecan trees fluttered above it, and the begonias in the bed to the right of it were blooming a clear pink except where they’d been run over.
My mother stood by, still with her clipboard. She looked as regal and lovely as she ever had, if a bit more worn from her seventy-some years. Think of Pat Nixon in her seventies, only more petite.
Today she was wearing tan slacks and a mint green sweater. From the back you might mistake her slender figure for that of a teenager, except she was too well dressed and her peachy blonde hair isn’t a shade or style seen on today’s youth. She turned and caught sight of us.
She and I have the same light coloring, although I’m four inches taller and outweigh her by a good twenty-five pounds. I don’t have my hair done as often, either, so mine is more blonde with what I like to call silver highlights.
“Beth, I’ve been meaning to tell you how good you’re looking,” she said as we neared her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Camden.”
My mother was right. Since the first revelation of Ron’s extramarital activities, Beth has lost twenty-one pounds with only forty-five to go. By her count. She has cut her hair in a style that looks like a modern version of the old shag, and she’s started spending money on a new wardrobe for herself. A first. Used to be that Beth spent money on everyone but herself. Today she was in beige crop pants with a sage green T-shirt. In her hand were sunglasses that looked like something purchased from the estate of Jacqueline Kennedy.