by Chacon, Iris
….
Ten minutes later Miranda and Shepard were sitting at the kitchen table. Shepard wore close-fitting old jeans and a tee shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders, six-pack abs, and melon-size biceps. He was still toweling his hair.
When Miranda could force herself beyond simply appreciating the view from across the table, she explained that she had found something strange among Phyllis’ personal papers. “But before I tell you what I found, I need to tell you something else.”
“Fire away,” Shepard said, draping the towel about his neck. He began combing the tangles from his hair. Miranda was mesmerized by the white-gold mane that ended between his shoulder blades. Her eyes followed the comb as it stroked again and again through the silky strands. “Bean?”
“Oh! Sorry. Distracted.” She gave her head a clearing shake. “Your mother came to see me a few days ago.”
He froze. “My m—? Are you sure it was my mother?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Tall lady? Nose in the air? Queen-of-England gloves? Chauffeur?”
“Exactly.”
He put down his comb and gathered the hair into a ponytail, which he secured with an elastic band he’d worn on his wrist. “Well, dog my cats,” he murmured. “Were you scared?”
“What?” She was genuinely surprised.
“Hermione can be pretty scary,” Shep commented.
“Whuff,” agreed Dave.
Miranda smiled at their concern. “I was impressed, that’s for sure! But I wasn’t afraid. It was nice to get to know her.”
“Nice?”
“Okay, maybe not really ‘nice,’ but it was ... interesting,” Miranda said. “See, at the time, I was thinking you and Pietro were a, uh, couple, y’know?”
“Annabelle’s gay theory.”
“Right. So, I was confused when your mother sort of told me not to, uh, set my cap for you.”
Shep grinned. “Your cap?”
“She was telling me not to plan on marrying you. That I’m not, uh, the right type I guess?”
“And you were wondering why my own mother apparently didn’t know I was gay.” Shep was smiling.
“I thought maybe you were, uh, in the closet where your parents are concerned.”
“But now you know better,” he said.
“Yes. Now I know,” she agreed.
“And what did you say?”
“What did I say? About what?”
“About marrying me. What did you say?” Shepard asked.
“Oh. That.” Miranda hesitated. “I think I said something like ‘I’ve not yet encountered the man I plan to marry,’ or words to that effect.”
Shepard shook his head in mock distress. “Beeeeean! Bean-Bean-Bean-Bean-Beeeean! What have you done?”
“Pardon?”
He parodied disappointment in the extreme. “You lied to my sainted mother!”
“I did nothing of the kind!” Miranda was insulted. “How dare you impugn my integrity!?”
In his most soothing tones, he explained: “You most certainly have encountered your future marital partner, Castor Bean. He is me.”
“Stop your teasing!” She punched his huge arm and laughed. “He is not you, or you are not he. Whatever. In fact, Dave and I may elope the moment your back is turned.”
“Whuff!” agreed Dave.
“Et tu, Dave?” Shepard intoned.
“Can I tell you what I came for now?” asked Miranda. She shook the onionskin document brought from Phyllis’ Audubon carton. Shepard reacted to the crackle of the paper.
“What is it?”
“It’s a letter Aunt Phyllis wrote ... to your mother!”
“And that’s strange because...?”
“Your mother acted like she had never been in that house before. Like she never knew my aunt.”
Shepard thought. His index finger tapped the tabletop four times before he answered, “I doubt my mother has ever been inside Phyllis’ house, come to think of it. They were not what I would describe as ‘close.’ But they definitely knew each other. Since they were kids, I expect.
“After all, Phyllis was the girl-next-door to my father during his entire childhood. Hermione went to an expensive private school—the Montgomerys always did—but Phyllis and my dad went to public school together all the way through high school.”
Miranda took a moment to assimilate the information. “Then, it’s more strange than I thought!”
“Why? They were acquainted their whole lives. Nothing strange about a friend writing a letter to another friend,” Shepard said.
“But the letter reads like they hadn’t been speaking to each other for a very long time, Shep. Phyllis even apologizes for breaking their silence. Like she wasn’t supposed to contact your parents ... ever. And vice versa. Is that how it was between them?” Miranda asked.
Shep was quiet. Remembering. He nodded and said, “It could’ve been that way. My dad brought me to see my grandparents often, and I always spent time with Phyllis. But my mother almost never came to Minokee. And after they were married, neither of my parents ever went over to Phyllis’ house.
“I was a child. I was happy visiting my friend Phyllis. I guess I wasn’t conscious of bad blood between Phyllis and my parents. My grandparents loved her.”
The kitchen clock clicked off ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty seconds while Miranda and Shepard sorted through their separate thoughts. Finally, Shep rose from the table. “How about a glass of sweet tea? Then you can read me that letter.”
Minutes later, over iced sweet tea, Miranda read to Shep and Dave the carbon copy of Phyllis Ogilvy’s recent letter to Hermione Montgomery-without-the-darn-hyphen-Krausse. It was dated six weeks earlier — or two weeks before Phyllis Ogilvy died.
“Dear Hermie,”it began.
“If you have opened this envelope rather than tossing it out, I am already obliged to you. Please forgive me for violating our pledge of silence. I assure you I do not break my vow without good cause. Not for my sake, but for the sake of those whom both you and I have loved, please continue reading until the end.
“Although I will mark the envelope ‘personal and confidential,’ the reality is that your personal assistant or corresponding secretary may, in fact, open and read such letters for you as a matter of course. For that reason, I will identify all parties by childhood names only you and I will remember. The need for such secrecy will shortly become obvious.
“Quite by accident, while conducting an Audubon Society field survey of Wood Stork nesting sites, I photographed two rats. Or perhaps weasels. I had hiked deep into the Little Cypress National Forest that surrounds Minokee. There at the end of an old logging road were two parked cars. Iggy was the driver of one. The other man you would readily recognize from numerous newspaper photos published of late.
“The man has been widely suspected of criminal activity. The key word to describe it would be the same as your least favorite part of a game of bridge.
“Iggy has stated publicly and often that he does not know this man and has never had business dealings with him. I regret to say that I have several very clear photographs showing an exchange of envelopes between the two men. If their relationship were to become known, both men could end up in prison.
“The one person in the whole world to whom Iggy might listen, Hermie, is you. Can you not persuade Iggy to step forward, denounce the scandalous actions of this man, make restitution to those whose businesses have been harmed by those actions, and publicly apologize? How much better for Iggy to be the heroic figure who stands for justice and truth — rather than to deny his crimes until confronted with damning and incontrovertible evidence!
“I know that Iggy could lose his present job, and he almost certainly would not receive the big promotion everyone expects for him in the near future. But he could receive a shorter prison term, gain public sympathy, and take pride in having done the right thing. He will never be able to hold his head up again if these pictures are made public.
“You may say Iggy is an adult and should reap what he has sown. And this is true. But stop a moment and consider someone else whose future could be ruined. Think about Speedy. True, he has not yet begun to pursue the future I know you wish for him. But that future awaits him. It needs only for him to decide the time is right, and he will begin a meteoric rise to levels of power and success about which one can only dream.
“I wish I did not have this horrible responsibility. But the evidence fell to me, and I am committed to doing the right thing. I will wait until the first of the month — that is three weeks from now. If by that time Iggy has not come forward on his own, I will deliver the evidence to the State Attorney. I would not stand by and see Speedy’s life destroyed, nor, I think, can you.
“I do not wish to sully anyone’s good name. I do not wish to see Iggy arrested and tried like a common gangster. You are my last, best hope of resolving the situation as positively as possible.
“Thank you for perusing what has been hard to write and must be incredibly difficult to read. I will say nothing of this to anyone else. I resume our pledge of silence. You will never hear from me again.
“Sincerely,
“Phil.”
Miranda folded the letter and waited for Shepard’s reaction.
“Wow,” he breathed.
“Yeah, wow,” said Miranda. “She said she would go public in three weeks. But two weeks later, she died.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know what she was talking about? Who these people are?”
“I don’t know anybody called ‘Iggy,’ but I do know Speedy,” Shepard said. “Phyllis used to compare me to the cartoon boy in an old television commercial—big eyes, big smile, lots of yellow hair. She called me ‘Speedy Alka-Seltzer’ for years.”
Miranda was silent, turning the letter over and over in her hands. Shepard absently stroked Dave’s head and neck.
“Do you think Iggy is a gangster?” Miranda asked, barely audibly.
“Dunno,” Shep said.
“Shepard...” Miranda couldn’t force the question from her throat.
“You wanna know if I think Hermione told Iggy about Phyllis and the pictures.”
“Not just that,” Miranda said. “If this Iggy guy really is a gangster, ... well, ... do you think he had Aunt Phyllis killed?”
“I don’t know. But the timing would be about right, wouldn’t it.”
“But she had a heart attack, right?” Miranda whispered.
“Do you want to have the body exhumed for an autopsy? Maybe it wasn’t a heart attack. Lots of things can be made to look like a heart attack – especially if the authorities have been…influenced…to see it that way.”
Miranda shook her head. She was thinking he had not put on his sunglasses after his shower.
“Miranda?” said Shepard softly, finding her hand on the table and covering it with his own.
“What?”
“Autopsy?”
“Oh!” Miranda shook off her wayward thoughts. “No, sorry. Aunt Phyllis was cremated. That’s why we had a ‘memorial service’ rather than a ‘funeral.’” She used her fingers to form quotation marks in the air, then made a wry face and flapped her hands before dropping them to her lap. Trite gestures – any gestures – were wasted on those blue eyes.
Shepard stood purposefully. Dave jumped to his feet and moved immediately to his master’s side, ready to go.
“What are you going to do?” asked Miranda.
“First,” he said, “I’m going to call my mother.”
Miranda excused herself to return to her closet-cleaning chore — and to give Shepard privacy in which to talk to his mother. As she let herself out the Krausse kitchen door, Shep was punching Hermione’s number into the phone.
13 THE TEA
Hermione had been more than a little surprised to receive a call from her only son on a Saturday morning. Usually if she wanted to hear his voice she had to listen to his abominable radio program in the wee hours. Occasionally, she would have her personal assistant place a call to Shepard. Nine times out of ten, Hermione would be too busy to pick up the phone immediately, however, and Shep would usually hang up after holding for two or three minutes.
It was frustrating to actually have Shepard on the phone yet not have a real conversation with him. He only wanted to set up a visit—perhaps tea on Sunday afternoon.
“Marvelous!” Hermione told him. “Three-thirty. I’ll have Cook bake those tortes you like.”
“Set an extra place for Bean,” Shep said. “She’ll be driving.”
“Bean?” Hermione’s voice was cold. “You’re bringing someone named after produce?”
“It’s a nickname. You’ve met her, actually. Phyllis Ogilvy’s niece.” Shep waited a long time while his mother processed the unwelcome news and constructed what, to her, would be a tactful response.
“Indeed,” was Hermione’s careful reply. “I understood that she was not ... involved ... with anyone. Are you telling me she is involved with you?”
Shep laughed. “She’s involved. She just doesn’t know it yet. See you tomorrow, Mother.”
They disconnected. Hermione didn’t pretend she was looking forward to it.
Miranda agonized about what to wear to tea with the queen mum, but in the end it made little difference. Every outfit Miranda owned fell into one of two categories: Librarian/Nun or Servant/Urchin. She wore the first style.
She was ready when Shep and Dave knocked on her back door. She grabbed her purse and keys and led them around the side of the house to her tiny, second-hand commuter car. Dave led Shep to the passenger side of the car, and Miranda opened the door. Shep ran his hands over the door, the miniature seat, and the roof—which didn’t reach as high as his armpits.
“Is this your car?” he asked Miranda. When she said yes, he continued, “Where’s the rest of it? There’s not, like, a side car or a trailer or something?”
She said no.
“Maybe Dave should stay home,” Shep said.
“Nonsense. There’s plenty of room—well, not plenty of room, but—there’s room for Dave in the back. He won’t mind. Will you, Dave?”
Dave whined.
Miranda bent down to look in his eyes and pat his head. “You’ll be fine. I’ve ridden back there.”
“It’s small enough, you can probably drive from back there!” quipped Shepard.
Miranda turned on Shepard. “You’re not helping.”
He shrugged.
She turned back to Dave. “C’mon. Try something new. Don’t be a big baby like you-know-who.” She poked a thumb over her shoulder toward Shepard.
“I saw that,” he said.
“No, you didn’t,” she said. She raised her eyebrows at Dave and gestured with one arm toward the open car door.
“Whuff,” said Dave, and wormed his way into the miniscule back seat. From outside the car, the rear window appeared to be a shag carpet.
Miranda turned to Shepard. “Your turn.”
He began angling to squeeze into the passenger seat. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got a duffle bag that’s bigger than this,” he said. “I’ve never tried to sit in it, though. Maybe when we get back I’ll do that. Just for comparison.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re both a couple of whiners,” said Miranda. “Man up!” She closed the passenger door and circled the hood to climb into the driver’s seat.
Miranda drove for over an hour with Dave’s lolling tongue hanging beside her left ear. Shepard’s shoulders touched the passenger window on the right and the driver’s seat on the left. Miranda knew she would later find long, golden hairs snagged in the overhead fabric where his head had rubbed the ceiling.
….
Miranda’s overloaded mini-car chugged through electrically opened security gates and onto a vast circular driveway. Miranda thought that if two driveways like this one were placed as mirror images, they would comprise an oval the size of the Daytona Speedway.
She parked at the apex of the driveway arc, directly in front of massive double doors opening off a snowy-marble colonnade that spanned the mansion’s facade. The house seemed a football field wide. It was three stories plus gables projecting from the attic level. That meant to Miranda that small rooms for the servants made up the fourth floor.
Shepard unfolded himself from the car with exaggerated moans and elaborate stretching. Dave squirmed out the driver’s side door because there was no room for him to turn around and exit on the passenger side. Dave went immediately to Shepard’s side, where Dave executed his own yawning and stretching.
“Very funny,” Miranda said.
Shepard was all innocence. “What?”
As they walked up the wide steps toward the front door, Miranda said, “You’re better than a GPS system. I’ve never received such specific, accurate directions from anyone before. ‘Take County Road 162 west for three-tenths of a mile, then turn right on Weaver’s Mill Road and go north for two point three miles....’ Who gives directions like that?”
Shepard chuckled. “What, did you think I’d use landmarks? ‘Turn right at the yellow house with the blue birdbath?’”
“Point taken,” said Miranda.
Dave stopped at the front door, and Shepard rang the doorbell. Miranda looked surprised.
“It’s your mom’s house. You don’t just walk in?”
“Not unless I develop a death wish.”
The huge doors divided ponderously, revealing a black-clad butler. He did not smile, but stepped aside and gestured for them to enter. “Good afternoon, Mr. Shepard. Madam is expecting you. Please go through to the east parlor.”
“Good afternoon, Hanson. This is my neighbor, Miss Ogilvy. She was … is … was Miss Phyllis’ niece,” said Shepard.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hanson,” Miranda said, extending her hand.
“Just ‘Hanson,’ miss,” said the butler. He did not shake her hand. “Sorry for your loss.” He didn’t sound particularly sorrowful.
“Thank you, ... Hanson,” Miranda said, retracting her hand awkwardly.
Shepard placed a hand on Dave’s back and said, “East parlor, Dave.” Dave led the way, with Shep and Miranda following. “Safer to let Dave navigate,” Shep whispered. “Mother’s always rearranging the furnishings.”