Her brother surely wasn’t dressed as Oscar Richmond, Tinkie’s husband. That would be creepy. No, Hank’s dark suit looked severely Victorian rather than contemporary and bankerish, but his appearance was on the untidy side. His hair was not as carefully groomed as usual, and his pants pockets bulged under the contours of his jacket. His handkerchief straggled out of the breast pocket, and surely that was a pencil beside it. If he was going for messy, he’d achieved it. The suit looked like he had been wearing it for days.
“Good evening.” Hank turned to me and Helen Louise and inclined his head. “Thomas Pitt, at your service.”
The untidiness should have tipped me off because Anne Perry’s policeman hero went about in such fashion. Hank’s face, however, made me think more of Mr. Rochester, the tortured love interest of Jane Eyre. The skin beneath his eyes appeared bruised, and his eyes themselves were bloodshot. His handshake lacked firmness, and his whole demeanor betokened weariness, if not utter exhaustion.
Sissy, however, sparkled with energy and gaiety. “This is going to be the event of the year, Miss An’gel. Oh, Miss Dickce, you look absolutely fabulous. You, too, Miss An’gel.”
Hank smiled at the sisters, but it seemed an effort for him. “If I’m correct, you must be Amelia Peabody and Jacqueline Kirby. Right?”
“Right.” Miss Dickce nodded approvingly. “You’re so clever, Hank.” She batted her eyes in an overtly flirtatious manner, and Hank forced his lips into the ghost of another smile.
If I read him properly, I’d say Hank Beauchamp was near the breaking point. Was it merely physical exhaustion? Or was it emotional strain? I recalled the odd episode at Helen Louise’s bakery just last week. Helen Louise explained to me later that Hank evidently suffered from financial problems—due, she suspected, to a gambling habit—and that his law practice was in trouble, too. That was certainly more than enough to make a man look tired and perhaps desperate.
Two of the catering staff entered the room, bearing trays with drinks and finger food. Miss An’gel insisted that we all eat and drink. “Because things will start getting hectic soon, and we all have to be on our toes tonight. Remember, we want to get pockets open and money into our hands.”
We all nodded at that. I wasn’t looking forward to glad-handing people and urging them to donate even more money to the library. I believed in the cause, certainly, but I didn’t like feeling pushy, and that was the way fund-raising made me feel.
But the Ducote sisters would not be denied. The library was probably their favorite charity, and they worked hard to support it and literacy efforts in Athena and surrounding counties. So I’d have to suck it up, as the saying went, and do my best to solicit more donations.
If ever I could have used Diesel at my side, tonight was the time. He was a terrific icebreaker, and he charmed most everyone except the most hardened antifeline contingent. He made people feel good, and when they felt good, they were more open to giving money.
For a moment I wished I were at home with Diesel and Justin, but then I chastised myself for being such an old fogy. Tonight would be fun, and I should stop being silly and enjoy myself. I sipped at my champagne and nibbled on canapés and listened to the small talk.
Stewart came bopping—not a word I often used, but one that seemed appropriate at the moment—into the parlor right then. His breezy “How ya doin’, peeps? Ain’t we gonna have fun tonight!” put Miss An’gel at a temporary loss. Her expression went utterly blank.
Stewart had that effect on people sometimes.
Helen Louise and I exchanged glances, and that did it. We both burst into laughter, and Miss Dickce joined in. Miss An’gel’s face had taken on a slightly pained look. Neither Sissy nor Hank reacted that I could see. Sissy was too absorbed in staring into a mirror on the wall, and Hank seemed wrapped in apathy.
“I haven’t the foggiest notion what a peep is in this context, Stewart, but I presume you’re not talking about those absurd marshmallow candy things I see all over the place at Easter.” Miss An’gel reminded me of one of my high school English teachers, Mrs. Leverette, who abhorred any use of slang.
“No, ma’am,” Stewart replied. “It means comrades, I suppose, in this context, or perhaps fellows at arms. We are going into battle tonight, aren’t we? Fighting for dollars, so to speak.”
“We sure are,” Miss Dickce said. “I’ll be your peep, Stewart, even if An’gel won’t. She’s so proper sometimes.” For a moment I thought she might stick her tongue out at her sister.
Miss An’gel ignored her. “Money is the object of the gala, naturally, but I hope you’re planning to be a tad more genteel in pursuit of it tonight, Stewart.”
Stewart bowed. “I shall display every ounce of gentility I possess, dear lady, which is considerable.” He smirked.
“Get over yourself, Stewart. You’re such a poser.” Hank Beauchamp’s comment startled me because I thought he was oblivious to what was going on around him.
“Hank, darling, you are so utterly and divinely predictable.” Stewart’s cool tone didn’t fool me. I could see the color rising in his face. “I thought surely you’d be over me by now, but could it be you’re still pining?”
“Gentlemen, cease this at once.” Miss An’gel’s voice struck like the lash of a whip. “If neither of you can behave in a civil fashion, then you will leave right now.”
Both Hank and Stewart blanched. Hank apologized first with a muttered, “Sorry, Miss An’gel,” before turning away.
“I will be on my best behavior from now on,” Stewart said. The rigid set of his back and shoulders led me to think he was still angry but embarrassed enough by his outburst to comply with Miss An’gel’s orders.
“Very well.” Miss An’gel summoned one of the waiters to bring her champagne. Glass in hand, she turned to Helen Louise. “The canapés you provided are delightful. I don’t know what we’d do without your contributions every year.”
“Yes, they are nummy,” Sissy said.
“Thank you,” Helen Louise said. “I’m happy to do what I can.”
Their conversation continued from there, with Miss Dickce joining in. Hank remained aloof and quiet, however, wandering into a corner of the room away from the rest of us.
By this time I felt almost ill from all the tension. I hated confrontations, but I’d had little choice with this one. More than ever I longed to be home with Diesel and a good book, but if I tried to bolt now, Miss An’gel would have my hide. Plus Helen Louise would be sorely disappointed in me, and I didn’t want that.
So suck it up, Charlie, I told myself.
“I bet you’re wondering who I am.” Stewart sidled up to me and turned his back. “Maybe these will help you figure it out.”
By these I assumed he meant the small wings attached to the back of his vest. His tight pants and shirt showed off his physique, and I couldn’t reconcile that with the wings.
“Maybe if I told you I’m a fairy fairy?” Stewart grinned.
That gave me the answer. “Claude Crane. Of course.” I knew Stewart loved the Sookie Stackhouse books, and one of the characters was a gay fairy. Stewart obviously couldn’t resist the joke, and I laughed appreciatively.
“No sign yet of Cruella de Vil, I take it?” Stewart snagged champagne from one of the waiters, a handsome young man of about twenty who offered Stewart an engaging grin along with the bubbly. Stewart winked and smiled back. The waiter lingered a moment, then moved on as Miss Dickce beckoned him.
“No Vera yet,” I said. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that she came down with something and is staying home.”
“No such luck.” Stewart downed half his champagne at one go. “Vera wouldn’t miss this, even if she had to drag herself out of her sickbed to get here. One of my former students.”
The abrupt change of subject threw me for a moment. “You mean the waiter.”
Stewart nodded. “Took my freshman chemistry course last year. Bright young man, but very flirtatious. Even if he weren’t a stude
nt, he’s much too young.” He sounded depressed.
“You’re so old, after all.” I couldn’t resist teasing him, because I had close to a decade on him.
“Ha, ha.” Stewart drained his glass and motioned the waiter back for another. “End-of-semester blues, I guess. Pay no attention to me. A few days of no papers to grade and no lectures to prepare, and I’ll be fine.”
“I’m looking forward to the holidays myself. We can all relax and stuff ourselves with good food.”
“And spend extra time in the gym to work off the million extra calories.” Stewart quirked an eyebrow at me. “The invitation still stands, Charlie. If you decide you want to join, I’ll be happy to help you get started on your workouts.”
He would have to choose this moment to remind me, I thought as I suppressed a grimace. Between Azalea’s Southern cooking and Helen Louise’s amazing desserts, I watched my waistline enlarging—almost on a daily basis, it seemed. The walking I did helped, but I had the sad suspicion it was not nearly enough.
“After the first of the year.” I suppressed a sigh. “I promise.” It was a necessary evil, and for the sake of my health, I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Stewart said. “Trust me, you’ll feel better once you get into it.”
“And I’ll hold you to that.” I grimaced.
Further discussion of the merits of exercise would have to wait. Vera and Morty Cassity arrived, evidently in the middle of an argument.
“…and why you had to wear that damn big skirt I don’t know.” Morty’s deep voice cut easily through the hum of conversation. “I’ve nearly tripped on it five times already.”
“Then don’t walk so close. You are the clumsiest man alive.” Vera’s hissing response echoed through the sudden hush. Belatedly she appeared to notice that the rest of the room was silent, and her face colored to match the scarlet of her hoop skirt and bodice. Though she was decades too old, and had nothing close to a seventeen-inch waist, Vera had to be Scarlett O’Hara. Her wig mimicked Vivien Leigh’s hair, and the extravagant hat with its long velvet bow called to mind the one Miss Leigh wore in the film.
Sadly for her, Vera’s Rhett Butler looked much better in his getup than she did in hers. Morty Cassity stood an inch or so taller than his wife. His hairline had receded a couple of inches, but his broad shoulders, handsome face, and general air of confidence more than compensated for his lack of height.
“Good evening, Morty, Vera.” Miss An’gel was equal to any occasion, and she greeted her guests as if there had been no unpleasantness between Vera and Morty just now.
Morty bent over Miss An’gel’s hand and brushed it with a kiss. “You’re looking mighty fine, Miss An’gel, though I’ve got no idea who or what you’re supposed to be. Vera’s the reader in our family.”
Vera grimaced. “Evening, An’gel.” She nodded in the direction of everyone else. “Sorry we’re late, but Morty had a meeting he couldn’t postpone.”
“No matter,” Miss An’gel said. She motioned the waiters forward. “The guests won’t be arriving for a few more minutes yet. In the meantime, help yourselves to the champagne and nibbles. They’re delicious.”
Morty reached eagerly for the champagne, I thought. And his eyes fastened just as avidly on Sissy Beauchamp. I couldn’t blame him. She was stunning in her Tinkie costume, and she knew it. She preened for him, but from my vantage point, it looked like she was staring right at Vera. Hank, at Sissy’s side as always, gazed straight ahead, as if he didn’t see either Vera or Morty.
The babble of conversation resumed, but for the moment I stood alone. Helen Louise had gone off to use the ladies’ room, while Stewart sauntered over to talk to his former student. Morty sidled closer to Sissy, and Miss An’gel joined them. Probably a good idea, I reckoned, if the fire in Vera’s eye was anything to go by. If we made it through the night without an eruption from her, we’d be extremely lucky.
Miss Dickce approached me, and we chatted happily about our joint favorite, Elizabeth Peters. Miss Dickce, while she loved Amelia Peabody, absolutely adored Jacqueline Kirby and lamented the fact that there weren’tmore Kirby novels.
“I know, but it’s a shame. Jacqueline is such a hoot. I’d love to be her when I grow up.” Miss Dickce giggled, and I felt a sudden rush of empathy and affection for her. She was truly endearing, and behind the humor I sensed a certain yearning, perhaps for the adventurous life of her chosen character.
“Jacqueline has nothing on you, Miss Dickce,” I said.
“You’re so gallant, Charlie.” She smiled up at me. “A true Southern gentleman. It’s a shame that Diesel couldn’t be here. He’s a gentleman, too.”
We chatted further about my cat and soon shifted into discussion of plans for the money to be raised from the gala. Miss Dickce wanted to ensure adequate funding for the literacy programs, which I supported, but I also hoped to see some money spent on materials for the library, like children’s books.
A shriek of rage accompanied by a resounding slap interrupted us, and conversation ceased immediately. Startled, Miss Dickce and I turned to see what was going on.
ELEVEN
All eyes focused on the area near the parlor door. Vera and Sissy stood barely a foot apart, chests heaving in anger. Vera had one hand cupped to her cheek.
Vera uttered a nasty word in a low, vicious tone. Sissy drew back as if to strike Vera again, but Hank rushed forward to get between them. Morty darted toward Vera. They dragged the women apart.
“An’gel’s going to have a cow,” Miss Dickce confided to me in an undertone. “Not that I can blame her. I wonder what on earth Vera said to Sissy.” Without waiting for a response from me, she approached her sister and spoke to her.
My stomach knotted up. I frankly didn’t care what Vera had said to Sissy. I hated the intense feeling of hostility in the room.
Helen Louise moved closer and slipped her arm around me. “This is awful,” she said in an undertone. “You’d think Vera had more sense than to provoke Sissy publicly like this.”
“If I never see that woman again after tonight,” I said, “I will be really and truly happy. She is pure poison.”
“Well, Sissy’s not entirely blameless, you know.” Helen Louise shook her head. “She and Morty haven’t been very discreet with their rendezvous from what I’ve heard. I can’t blame Vera for being angry over the infidelity, but still….” Her voice trailed off.
Miss An’gel strode purposefully to the corner of the room where Morty had pulled a furious Vera. Miss Dickce went to talk to Hank and Sissy.
Stewart, Helen Louise, and I stared at one another. “I’ve never seen Miss An’gel so angry,” Stewart said after a moment. We continued to watch uneasily. I couldn’t hear either of the low-voiced discussions going on, and I wondered whether Vera or Sissy—or perhaps both of them—would be sent home in disgrace.
Teresa Farmer and Cathy Williams, the final two board members, walked into the parlor then. They paused after only a few steps and glanced uncertainly around the room. Stewart hurried over to them and urged them forward to where Helen Louise and I waited.
We all exchanged greetings, and Stewart explained quickly that there had been an argument between Vera and Sissy. He didn’t elaborate, but apparently he didn’t have to. From what I could see, as they both shook their heads, Teresa and Cathy seemed aware of the reasons that Vera and Sissy were at odds. The grapevine in Athena had sturdy roots and long tendrils. There were probably few people in town who weren’t part of it.
As we waited in silence to see what would happen next, I took a moment to identify the characters Cathy and Teresa had chosen to portray. That was certainly better than dwelling on the unpleasantness.
Cathy wore a caftan in a colorful print, with a scarf wound around her head, and long earrings dangled from her earlobes. I knew she was a huge fan of Alexander McCall Smith, so it took little imagination to peg her as Mma Precious Ramotswe of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective A
gency in Botswana.
Teresa, wearing a long black wig, her torso encased in leather and a metal bra, sported a costume like the one Lucy Lawless wore as Xena, Warrior Princess. Armbands, knee-high boots, dagger at her belt—she looked fierce and ready for combat. Since public librarians often had to campaign hard for their funding, I had to admire her choice. I also knew that, behind Teresa’s normally modest and easygoing demeanor, there lurked a strong and determined will.
Miss An’gel turned away from Vera and Morty, and Vera scuttled from the room. Morty glanced over at Sissy and Hank. The naked yearning in his face unnerved me. Sissy ignored him, though Hank stared back at him. Morty trailed off after his wife.
“There will be no more such incidents tonight.” Miss An’gel’s implacable tone made me want to squirm, as if I were somehow at fault. “Vera will remain, but I trust that you will all stay out of her way until the gala is over. I will not have this event ruined by sordid personal matters.” She glared hard at Sissy and Hank as she uttered that last sentence.
Sissy and Hank both reddened, but they nodded.
“Our guests will be arriving any minute now,” Miss An’gel continued. “I suggest you all station yourselves in the hallway to greet them. I am going to check with the caterer but will return shortly.” Without waiting for a response, she moved in stately fashion from the room.
“I’d better go with her,” Miss Dickce said after a moment, and she, too, went out.
“All right, kiddies,” Stewart said, “time to get to work.” He began to herd us all into the hallway.
Helen Louise and I took up position near the grand staircase while the others ranged themselves around the entranceway. The butler waited by the front door, and I wondered how much of the brouhaha in the parlor he had heard. The door stood open the entire time, so if he had been in the hall he’d probably heard most of it. More grist for the gossip mill, but there was nothing any of us could do about it now.
I hoped the hordes were advancing up the walk right this minute. The sooner the house filled with people, the better. Plus, the less likely—or so I hoped—that we would witness further histrionics from the board members.
Out of Circulation (CAT IN THE STACKS MYSTERY) Page 7