by Tamar Myers
“What the hell? That’s not at all what I mean. Edith’s family may be rich, but they have a bourgeois mentality. Yes, I know, I’m just an engineer, but I read. Three or four books a week. The last book Edith read was Catcher In The Rye.”
“That’s practically a classic. I read it in high school.”
“My point exactly. She read it in the tenth grade. And she has no interest in art or music, either. Yeah, I know Grandmother Latham has a collection of antiques and art that will knock your socks off, but not so the rest of us. Do you know what Edith did with the money her folks left her?”
“Do tell.”
“She took the Concorde to Paris, and then hired a limo to take her all the way down to Monte Carlo, where she lost more money gambling than I’ll ever make in my life.”
“But it was her money, right?”
“Strictly speaking, yes, but there are so many better ways she could have spent it.”
“I see. So you’re what Spiro Agnew would have called an ‘effete snob.’”
He pushed up the wire rims and rubbed his eyes. “Your name-calling doesn’t bother me. I’m just stating the facts.”
“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely, “it must be the lack of carbohydrates. Please, go on.”
“Well, as you can imagine, my family was dead set against me marrying into the Burton-Latham clan. Edith knows how they feel about her—how can she not? Even my mama has a Ph.D., for crying out loud. As a consequence Edith has been extremely insecure in our marriage. Jealous as hell of any woman who even looked at me. You know what I mean?”
I nodded just to humor him. Contrary to some nasty rumors that have been circulating, I am not a shallow woman. I require my beaux to be more than just buff—brains are a definite plus. Maybe Albert Jansen had been blessed with a high-powered cerebrum, but he was totally without charm. I’ve seen store mannequins with more charisma.
“Sooo,” Albert said, sounding like he was shifting into a low gear for a long haul up a steep hill, “it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me when she freaked out about Flora.”
“You mean her death?”
“No, no,” he said impatiently, “before then. Last night. Didn’t you hear us? We had a terrible row.”
“No, sir. Last night I was oblivious to the world.”
“Well, trust me, we had one of our biggest go-arounds ever. She accused me of sleeping with Flora.”
“Slut,” I hissed.
He blinked. “She is still my wife!”
“I meant Flora, dear.”
“Well, she did sort of come on to me earlier in the day. I was the first one downstairs for dinner—Edith can never make up her mind what to wear. Anyway, Flora came into the drawing room to serve me a drink, and then offered to remove a bit of lint from my collar. Only she got a little closer than she really needed to, and that’s when Edith walked in and saw what Flora was doing.”
“What you mean to say is that when Edith walked in, Flora was draped over you like a flag on a coffin at a state funeral, right?”
He squirmed. “Yes.”
“That woman saw more traffic than the Charlotte-Douglas International Airport. It’s a wonder she didn’t have landing lights installed on her stomach.”
Albert was clearly shocked, and perhaps rightly so. One does not speak ill of the dead in the South, and my lips had been flapping like Panther pennants in a stiff breeze.
“Well, you have to admit she was a floozy,” I said defensively.
“Yes, I guess so. I don’t know why grandmother kept her on after what happened last year.”
“Oh?”
“With Harold. But it was a one-time thing,” he added quickly. “Miss Timberlake, please forget I said that.”
“Harold, too? Lord have mercy! That woman—” I clamped a hand over my mouth. After counting to ten in Spanish, I removed it. “Forgotten. So, you think Edith killed Flora in a jealous rage?”
He shrugged. “Edith doesn’t have a violent bone in her body, but she was so angry—and then this morning Flora turns up dead. I’m afraid I don’t know what to think.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Angry words didn’t kill Flora. Somebody stabbed her with a kris.”
He removed his glasses, folded them, and jabbed one arm of the frames into his fancy-shmancy pocket protector. “Miss Timberlake, I—uh—sometimes have to get up in the middle of the night. Last night when I got up, Edith wasn’t in our room.”
“Oh, oh. At the very least she broke the contest rules.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, Miss Timberlake.”
“Sorry, but I’m starving, and we seem to be getting no place fast. Unless you sneaked downstairs after her and saw her plunge the dagger into Flora…”
He leaned toward me. I leaned away. It was a small bench, after all, and I detest conversations—especially with strangers, when I can feel their breath on my face.
“Actually, I was going to sneak downstairs, but before I could get my robe, I heard her coming. This might sound silly to you, but I jumped into bed. Anyway, Edith was panting when she came into the room. Her hair was—well, mussed up, and her nightgown was ripped.”
“Maybe she was outside checking the boathouse again and somehow snagged it.” I didn’t want to get my hopes up.
“There’s one more thing, Miss Timberlake.”
“Yes?” My heart was pounding like a madman on a xylophone. Albert Jansen might well be the key to C.J.’s release.
“There was blood on her nightgown,” he whispered.
14
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. The first things she did was go into the bathroom and wash the nightgown. When she got into bed she was wearing another one.”
“Wait a minute. How could you see all that—the messy hair and the blood—in the dark?”
He scooted sideways on the bench, and I had no choice but to hop off. “But the room wasn’t dark, you see. Edith is afraid of the dark. We always sleep with the bathroom light on.”
I could very easily believe that someone as hulking and belligerent as Edith would be afraid of the dark. Buford was terrified of insects, after all. Once, as a gag, I gave him a tequila-flavored lollipop with a worm inside. When he took off the wrapper he nearly fainted.
“Why are you telling me this? And why now? My friend C.J. confessed this morning, remember? Why didn’t you say something then?”
“Well—uh—like I explained, I’ve always been on the outside looking in, so to speak. I couldn’t just bring this up, without talking to somebody else first.”
“It’s the sheriff you should be blabbing to, not me, dear.” Suddenly I was furious. “You had no right to sit on this information, damn it! It’s obstruction of justice. Don’t you know that they could charge you with something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—aiding and abetting, or something like that. The point is, it was wrong of you to keep that information to yourself.”
“But you saw how Grandma Latham and the sheriff get along,” he whined, “the two of them are thick as thieves. I want to be sure I’m not jumping to conclusions.” He put his glasses back on. “Besides, I love Edith,” he added in a small voice.
This was no time to lecture him on taste. “Come on,” I said, and almost grabbed his hand.
We were halfway back to the house when we heard the car drive up. I must confess, that despite the gravity of the situation, and my extreme vexation, I found myself hoping that it was Alexandra returning from her shopping trip into town. Perhaps she had thought to pick up some bread and a package of pickle loaf. No doubt the Latham kitchen already stocked catsup. Flora wasn’t going to get any more dead, or C.J. any deeper into trouble, if I indulged in a pickle loaf and catsup sandwich.
Both my heart and my stomach sank when I saw Sheriff Thompson’s car parked in front of the manor house steps. The sheriff was still in it, but C.J. was nowhere to be seen.
I sprinted for the car.
Sheriff Thompson got out to greet me. He looked as happy as a possum in a traffic jam.
“Where is she?” I demanded. The sheriff glanced at Albert, who was still trudging back from the garden, and not yet within earshot. “I’m sorry, Miss Timberlake, but Jane Cox signed a full confession.”
“And you believed her?”
“Personally, I think something is rotten in the state of Denmark, but I had no choice but to book her.”
“But why? You know she didn’t do it, don’t you?”
“Sometimes it pays for the mouse to play dead.”
“What does a rat have to do with this?” I wailed.
He put a finger to his lips. Albert seemed to be walking faster.
“You mean you think he did it?”
“Look, we can’t discuss this now. But believe me, Miss Timberlake, when I say you have a fine pair working hard on your friend’s behalf.”
I looked at him stupidly.
“Lawyers,” he said quickly. “The twins.”
I’m sure I blushed. “Yes, the Tripletts. My ex-husband said—”
The massive door to the house flew open, and out stepped Edith. No doubt she’d been watching us through the peephole, and couldn’t stand being excluded from our conversation any longer.
“Why, Sheriff Thompson, how nice to see you,” she boomed.
The sheriff tipped his hat, reconsidered, and removed it altogether. There was business to be conducted inside the house.
“May I have a word with you?” he called.
“Please, come in.” She sounded almost gay.
I followed the sheriff into the house. By then pudgy Albert had caught up with me and was panting at my heels. Edith glared at me but held her tongue.
She led the sheriff toward the drawing room, but then too had a change of mind, and opened the door directly across the hall. It was the library. I had seen libraries like that only in pictures; the dark wood shelves from ceiling to floor filled with leatherbound tomes, the enormous antiquated globe, and the heavy Edwardian furniture, most of it leather covered as well. And of course the ladder!
Maybe it’s because I am vertically challenged, but I have this thing for ladders. A hardwood ladder that rolls around the room guided by a track is positively seductive. Therefore, I cannot be blamed for trotting right after the sheriff with my tongue hanging out, Albert still in tow. Now there were two of us panting.
Edith loomed suddenly over me. “What are you doing here?”
“I—uh—”
“I’d like her to stay,” the sheriff said quickly. “In fact, I’d like to see everyone.”
Edith scowled. “Grandmother Latham’s taking a nap, and Alexandra is off shopping. I’ll get the others.”
Sheriff Thompson cleared his throat. “I want Genevieve to be here as well.”
“Really, Sheriff!” She caught herself. “I mean, is that really necessary?”
He nodded. “I’m afraid so, ma’am.”
Despite her age, and the fact that she had been awakened from a deep sleep, Mrs. Latham was not the last family member to make an appearance. Tradd, of course, had still not returned from recruiting his lawyer friend, Billy, but that’s not whom I’m talking about.
“Where is that boy?” she said, tapping her slippered foot impatiently.
She was referring to Rupert, he of the shiny dome and pierced ear. According to Harold and Sally, Rupert had last been seen rummaging around in the attic.
“He wouldn’t admit it,” Sally said, “but I know he was looking for the—uh—you-know-what.”
Edith shot her sister-in-law a warning look.
“Ah, the treasure,” Sheriff Thompson said.
Heads turned.
The sheriff winked at Mrs. Latham. “I’ve been interviewing one of the players all morning. Of course, I know about the treasure.”
Sally, who was sitting on a high-backed leather chair, crossed her arms. “Well, I think it’s disgusting—I mean that Rupert is still playing the game. Someone is dead, after all.”
Edith arched a sparse eyebrow. “And what were you doing all morning, Miss High-and-Mighty?” she growled.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Miss Bossy?” Sally snarled.
Frankly, I was shocked. We southerners maintain a degree of politeness in public (mass murderers excepted). Sure, we snap and hiss at each other from time to time, but to snarl and growl, is practically unheard of. And name calling? That has got to be a custom imported by latter-day carpetbaggers fleeing the Rust Belt.
Mrs. Latham was shocked as well. It was a good thing she was sitting. She had turned the color of cuttlebone and was swaying from the waist up.
“Children!”
“But, Grandmother! You’ve said yourself that Sally is nothing but a vamp who got her claws into Harold just so she could reel in the family fortune.”
Mrs. Latham’s mouth opened and closed several times before any sound came out. “I most certainly did not,” she finally managed to say. “Perhaps you misunderstood me. I said I found it interesting that our Harold would choose to marry a woman with certain financial liabilities.”
“It’s the same thing,” Edith said triumphantly. She turned first to the sheriff, then to me. “Sally has a gambling problem.”
Harold, who had been sitting with his chin in his hands, jumped to his feet. “Grandmother, this time Edith has gone too far.”
The grande dame said nothing. The black shiny buttons were even shinier now that they were reflected through tears.
“Edith!” Albert said, on the old lady’s behalf.
The eldest of the Latham-Burton grandchildren turned to her husband. I once saw a pit bull in Charlotte with much the same expression, seconds before he took a bite out of his master.
“What the hell business is this of yours, anyway? You signed a goddamned premarital agreement.”
Albert, bless his pea-picking heart, looked just like the pit bull’s owner the second after those nasty yellow teeth reduced his thigh by an inch.
Sally, meanwhile, was treating her sister-in-law to a cryogenic stare. I half expected Edith to shatter into a million freeze-dried pieces.
It was Sheriff Thompson, bless his badge-wearing heart, to the rescue. “Ladies and gentlemen!”
Sally continued to stare, and Edith mumbled something under her breath. The rest of us gave the officer our full attention.
“There has been an arrest made in the murder of Flora Dubois. Miss Jane Cox of Charlotte, North Carolina, is now in custody in the Georgetown County jail awaiting a hearing to set her trial date. As for Miss Dubois, her body will be released to relatives following a complete autopsy.”
Harold sat down again. “Did you say an autopsy?”
Sheriff Thompson turned to him. “Yes.”
“But an autopsy isn’t necessary, is it? I mean, we all know Flora was stabbed to death with a kris. Right?”
For some reason the sheriff glanced at me. “That would appear to be so. There are, however, certain findings that warrant an autopsy.”
Sally found her tongue. “How does Flora’s family feel about this?”
“At this point we have their full cooperation.”
“Grandmother, do something,” Edith whispered.
Mrs. Latham responded by closing her eyes.
“It just isn’t right,” Albert said softly. “Flora was a family friend.”
I fully expected Edith to turn on her husband and accuse him of being more than a friend to the unfortunate Flora, but that was not the case. Not only did she affirm his assertion, she went on and on about how close the deceased was to the family—“practically blood”—she put it.
Sheriff Thompson merely shrugged and turned to me. “Miss Cox asked if you would pack a few personal things for her.”
“What kind of things?” Surely in jail there were restrictions. C.J. might well like to wear her ball gowns in the big house, but I didn’t want to make a fool of myself
by packing them.
Mercifully, the sheriff had anticipated just such a question and handed me a list.
toiletries (shampoo, deodorant, toothbrush, etc.—NO makeup)
prescription medications (prescriptions must be included)
socks (4-6 pair)
brassieres (optional)
underpants (4-6)
That was it. No dresses, no slacks, no tops. And no makeup! I hoped the sheriff did indeed supply polka dot uniforms to his inmates. Without makeup a gal needs something to make her pretty.
I sighed, blinking back the tears. “Can do,” I said, in a voice that sounded like I’d swallowed a frog.
It took me all of five minutes to gather C.J.’s essentials and stuff them in the overnight bag I brought with me. I grabbed my purse as well, since I intended to bum a ride back to the jail with the sheriff.
When I returned to the library, I found that the cast had been increased by one player. Tradd, handsome as ever, sat on the arm of his grandmother’s chair, his own arm protectively around her.
“Hey, Abby,” he said almost casually.
I thrust the overnight bag at the sheriff. “So?”
Tradd shook his head. “No dice. The guy I had in mind has a full caseload. But I hear Rhett and Little Wet Daniel are good. We used to play with them as children, you know?”
“Is that so?” I turned my back on him and faced the sheriff. “I’d like to ride back with you to the station, if you don’t mind.”
He bit his lip. “All right. We usually don’t allow visitors until after the arraignment unless they’re immediate family, but I guess an exception can be made.”
“That’s what exceptions are for,” I said. I know, I can sometimes be too cocky—but it was either exude a little sass, or blubber like a baby.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I waved my purse jauntily.
The Fabergé egg that flew out of my purse and landed on the Aubusson carpet was a complete surprise, I assure you. I do not tote million-dollar items in my pocketbook along with car keys, facial tissues, hand lotion, and other items I am too much of a lady to mention. If I were to transport something that valuable, I would stash it in my bra—people seldom look there.