by Karen Young
She looked, but didn’t touch. “What is this?” Her voice was a whisper.
“I think you know.” Beatrice closed it up, retied the ribbon and set it on top of the suitcase. “I don’t know what your reaction will be when you finally get around to sorting through all this, but please do be careful. I treasure everything I ever received from Laura Marsh. She was a gracious and loving and forgiving woman. You were lucky—I was lucky—to have her as your mother.”
“You don’t think I’m anything like her, do you?”
Beatrice smiled on her way to the door. “I’m hoping.”
In the end, they stayed for lunch. When Anne emerged from the bedroom pulling her suitcase and carrying the chintz box under her arm, a lunch of cold cuts and fresh French bread was already on the table. One look at her father’s hopeful expression and Buck’s single raised eyebrow—an outright plea—and she mentally threw in the towel. To refuse would have been tacky.
“See, that wasn’t too bad now, was it?” Buck wanted to know as soon as they pulled out of the driveway.
“You never think anything’s bad as long as it comes with a square meal,” she shot back. “You ate so much I was embarrassed.”
“You forget I missed dinner last night and breakfast this morning.” When she gave a ladylike snort, he added, “I have to keep my strength up if you expect a repeat tonight of my incredible performance last night.”
“I don’t plan to be caught in another burning building tonight.” Slanting him a sideways look, she pretended surprise. “Oh, that performance.”
Coming up to Tallulah’s only red light, he stopped and made a grab for her. As much as her seat belt allowed, she scrambled out of reach, hugging her door and laughing. He grinned back. “Just wait, I’m punishing you for that.”
“Hey, it’s tough being a hero.”
“Aw, shucks.”
“I mean it.” When he sputtered a denial, she suddenly released her seat belt. Leaning over the console, she plucked off his sunglasses and tossed them on the dash, then pulled his face toward her and kissed him. “You really are a hero, you know that?” she said softly before turning him loose.
His look turned suspicious as he retrieved his sunglasses. “That’s another trick question, right?”
She chuckled. “Let me count the ways. Just lately—” she began ticking off her fingers “—you’ve rescued two females from a burning building, you’ve had a hand in reuniting a pair of star-crossed lovers—”
“Me and you?”
“Don’t interrupt. No, Jack and Claire, even though it’s crazy. You’ve reinstated an unfairly terminated employee at Belle Pointe, you’ve stepped in this growing season when your mother would have been up the creek otherwise—not that she’ll ever admit it—and finally, I’m halfway reconciled with Franklin and Beatrice because you’ve personally nagged me into it.”
“Speaking of Claire,” he said, “she told Pearce she wants a divorce.”
“No. Really?”
“Cross my heart. Just this morning.”
“And you didn’t tell me until now?”
“Too much going on. I forgot.” He accelerated as the light changed. “And I meant to ask you this, too. Do you think my mother looks sick? Claire’s convinced she is.”
“Actually, I have noticed that she’s looking her age. And today I thought she seemed tired. It could be she has too much on her plate. After all, she’s sixty, not forty. There’s Pearce’s campaign not going well, disapproval of just about everything Claire does, your unexpected return. And then there’s Paige flaunting her disregard for Victoria’s rigid standards. As for being sick, I never thought to consider that possibility.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’ve always thought of her as almost indestructible. The idea that she could be sick comes as a shock.” He waved at a couple of teenagers passing in a soupedup pickup. “I’m cornering Miriam tomorrow. If anybody noticed a change, she would. She’s the only person allowed in my mother’s bedroom and that’s only because it’s her job to clean it.”
When he turned the opposite way from the road that led back to Belle Pointe, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“I thought I’d drop in on the family lawyer.”
“Joel Tanner? Why?”
“I’ve got questions, he’d better have answers. Let’s see what kind of reaction he has if I get too close to anything that might reflect on my big brother.” He shoved his sunglasses on his face. “I’m also checking that old ginning contract with Jim Bob Baker.”
“There may be something about it in John Whitaker’s journal for that period.” Suddenly, she remembered to check for the journals. Craning her neck, she surveyed the back of the SUV and found nothing but her luggage and the chintz box. “Speaking of which, I don’t see them. What did you do with them?”
“I asked Franklin to hold them for the time being.”
“Buck! Why did you do that? You know I’ve been dying to look at them.” With a scowl, she flopped back against the seat, crossing her arms. “Now if I want to read them, I’ll have to go back there to do it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You did that on purpose! Is this another one of your ideas as a facilitator?”
He barked a laugh. “A what?”
“An intervention facilitator. Someone who pushes people into doing things they don’t want to do…for their own good.”
Still grinning, he dipped his head to eye her over the top of his sunglasses. “Well, hell, I didn’t realize I was so damn smart.”
“You want me to have to be around Franklin and Beatrice, don’t you?”
“Franklin and Beatrice,” he repeated, gently chiding. He let a bit of his smile go. “You’re calling your parents by their first names now? Didn’t I hear you scolding Paige for doing that?”
She let out an exasperated breath. “When you work out your problems with Victoria Whitaker,” she said loftily, “then you can give me advice.”
“I hope it won’t be that long,” he said with feeling.
“Then stick to your own family problems,” she said, looking stonily ahead, “and I’ll handle mine.”
“Here we are,” he said, pulling up in front of a renovated Victorian. Joel Tanner was one of only two names on a tasteful green-and-gold sign set unobtrusively on the landscaped lawn. The other was James Tanner, CPA.
“James just happens to be Joel’s brother and the Whitaker accountant,” Buck remarked. “That job used to be Harmon Jackson’s, but I guess he retired.”
“Or, since James is Joel’s brother, Pearce decided to keep things all in the family,” Anne said.
With his hand on the door handle, Buck turned to look at her. “Like I said, m’dear, you have a suspicious mind.”
“Takes one to know one.”
The sight of Buck Whitaker, pro baseball star, flustered Tanner’s receptionist, who was no doubt trained to head off individuals who had no appointment. She made an exception for Buck.
As Pearce’s campaign manager, Anne expected to see evidence of the campaign strewn about Joel’s office, but it was uncluttered, as tastefully and expensively furnished as suggested by the building and landscaped grounds.
Once they’d all shaken hands cordially, Joel’s practiced smile included them both. “You two must be looking forward to going back to St. Louis.”
“I’m entertaining myself at Belle Pointe,” Buck said. “And my wife’s getting a chance to polish her journalistic skills at the Spectator. Neither of us can complain. At any rate, we’re here until the cotton’s picked and processed.”
Joel made a sympathetic sound. “That knee is still not up to par, eh?”
“It’s fine.” Buck gave his knee an affectionate pat. “As long as I don’t overdo it, I’m right on schedule, according to my PT.”
“That would be Tyrone Pittman, wouldn’t it?”
“It would.”
“I heard he’s considering setting up a full facility here in Tallulah. I sus
pect you had something to do with that.”
“The way I see it,” Buck said, settling back in the comfortable leather wingback, “we Whitakers owe Ty and his family for the years Oscar put in as a loyal employee at Belle Pointe. Still, in spite of considerable hardship, Oscar and his wife managed to educate every one of their children. Reinstating him at Belle Pointe and helping Ty set up his own shop seemed the least we could do.”
“It was unfortunate that Oscar was so openly defiant of the established system at Belle Pointe. If he’d only—”
“Knuckled under? Worked from daylight to dark for straight pay?”
“What can I do for you today, Buck?” Joel’s smile was tight. Lawyerlike, he knew when to fold up.
“Couple things.” Too irritated to stay in his chair, Buck stood up. “First, I want to see the books, current and past, plus the complete Whitaker and Belle Pointe files. You probably have appointments scheduled today, so I won’t impose on you while I look them over.” He glanced toward the door. “I assume you have a conference room we can use?”
Joel, who had been kicked back in his chair, straightened and rolled close to his desk. “You must know that’s impossible, Buck.”
“Why?”
“Well…” Joel cleared his throat, politely discomfited. “First of all, about the books, I’m not the accountant of record for Belle Pointe.”
“I’m aware that James, your brother, has taken over from Harmon Jackson. And since I noticed his office on the other side of the house, I don’t see the problem. I’ll just step over there and tell him what I need. I don’t recall ever meeting James, but you can vouch for me being who I am.” He paused and looked Joel directly in the eye. “A Whitaker with equal standing to Pearce.”
“Look here, Buck, I can’t just turn over my files without first consulting Pearce. You know that.” He reached for the phone.
“No, I don’t know that, Joel. Hear me on this, my man. I’m up to my eyeballs in the affairs of Belle Pointe. Examining the books would seem perfectly logical. You can consult with Pearce, of course, but I expect to have everything brought to me in your conference room. As for other Whitaker documents, I don’t see the problem in letting me access them…seeing as I’m family.”
He watched Joel’s hand ease away from the telephone, guessing the lawyer was calculating a way to stonewall. “And another thing, Joel. From now on, no matter what town I’m in, St. Louis or Tallulah or Timbuktu, I’m playing a major role in the affairs of Belle Pointe. Your position as legal counsel for the family isn’t necessarily a lifetime appointment. And managing Pearce’s campaign is actually a disadvantage. Some might say it looks bad for you professionally, smelling of conflict of interest.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Joel said, but he seemed unfazed. “So if I were you, I’d consult with Victoria before taking any drastic action.”
“There’ll be no drastic action so long as I get what I came here for today,” Buck said, wondering at the man’s confidence. What did he know that gave him that kind of confidence? “But I think I heard a message somewhere in there. Would you care to be more specific?”
“I haven’t lasted thirty years as Victoria’s lawyer without being privy to certain matters that could be embarrassing, to say the least. You might want to be careful digging around in the past. You may turn over a few nasty stones that would be better left in place.” Tanner paused with a gleam in his eye as Buck processed his words. “Consider that free advice. I won’t bill you for it.”
Buck moved over to a world globe on a stand near a window. He touched it, watched it rotate for a minute before turning to face the lawyer again. “Since you claim to be privy to family secrets, maybe you’ll be able to give some insight into the second matter I’m here to discuss. It’s a bit more delicate.”
Joel was silent, but spread his hands as if to say, go for it.
“It’s about that hunting trip when Jim Bob Baker was killed by a blast from his own shotgun,” Buck said. “You recall that, Joel?”
“I’m not sure—”
“You were in that hunting party. I was seventeen years old but, as I recall, you were partnered up with a cousin of the Watkins’. Kid was visiting from somewhere on the coast, Biloxi I think it was.”
“No one forgets a tragedy like that, Buck. Of course, I remember. I was going to say that I’m not sure where you’re going with this. It happened twenty years ago. Pearce has worked diligently to erase the cloud of that accident. You must know that his campaign would take a hit if folks were reminded of it.”
“Well, you see…” Buck rubbed the back of his neck, looking somewhat apologetic. “It’s a funny thing. My wife—” he smiled at Anne “—is purely fascinated with Tallulah history. She’s writing a book, isn’t that right, honey?”
Anne acknowledged that with a cautious lift of her shoulder, uncertain where he was headed, but fascinated with what she’d heard so far.
“And in doing her research down in the archives, she stumbled across the Spectator’s account of that accident. Naturally, having a reporter’s instincts and training, she had a few questions. Anne probably wasn’t thinking about the effect it might have on Pearce’s campaign if she dug up this old—what did you call it?—tragedy, which is sure enough what it would have been to Miz Baker, Jim Bob’s mama. With Jim Bob gone, that makes two of her sons dead, Jim Bob in that hunting accident and his big brother, Rudy, in Vietnam.”
“His brother? Vietnam?” Joel looked ready to laugh. “Please tell me how a war casualty forty years ago is relevant.”
“Patience,” Buck said with a purely false smile. “I was just dropping that bit about Rudy as an aside, don’t you know? What I want from you are the details of the deal to gin Belle Pointe’s cotton that Jim Bob had going.”
“This is ridiculous!” Joel rose abruptly, his patience gone. “Even if I recalled the details of a transaction that happened back then, I’m bound by attorney-client privilege. Your status as an heir might be equal to Pearce’s, but I’m not free to discuss personal matters entrusted to me.”
“As the attorney for the family, you represent the entire family and if any member of the family has entrusted personal information that affects any one of us, Pearce, myself or my mother, there is no privilege, Joel. You are required to share it.” Buck gave him a few moments to digest that. “So I’m asking, did he discuss the Baker-Belle Pointe contract with you?”
Joel sighed. “It was so many years ago that I’d have to pull out a file to refresh my memory. And I’m not discussing it with you until I talk to Pearce. You can threaten all you want, but I’m not doing it.”
Twenty-Three
The house at Belle Pointe was quiet when Anne and Buck let themselves in after leaving Joel Tanner’s office. With Victoria’s signature approving the outrageous terms of the agreement to gin Belle Pointe cotton with Baker, Buck figured she was the logical person to question.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he told Anne. “She’s probably in the master bedroom suite where she has an office of sorts. The only reason I know about it is that a few days ago she needed me to install a new ceiling fan. For some reason, she’s never claimed Dad’s library-office. Too masculine, maybe.”
“Or it could be that she has too much reverence for Belle Pointe tradition to disturb what’s existed for over a hundred years,” Anne said.
“Yeah, probably worried that the ghosts of Whitakers past will haunt her.”
“I don’t think we should just barge in on her,” Anne said, lagging behind. “Let’s call her first.”
“We’re right here in the house, sugar.” He caught her hand and pulled her along with him up the winding stairs.
“What if she’s not in her office, but is resting?”
“In the middle of the day? Never happen. C’mon, actually she’s likely to be more polite at being questioned if you’re along.”
“She doesn’t like me very much as it is,” Anne said in a tense whisper. “Now she’ll hate
me.”
“That’ll make two of us she hates. No, three. Claire thinks she hates her.”
But he slowed as they approached the area of the house that was exclusively his mother’s. Even as a kid, he never dashed in to his parents’ bedroom. The rules Victoria laid down left no room for kids’ spontaneity.
At the door of her office, he had his hand raised to knock when he saw her. In the plushness of the carpet, she had not heard his approach with Anne. She sat at her desk, leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed. Was she asleep, he wondered in sudden concern. Then he realized she wasn’t sleeping. One hand was pressed to her middle and her face was—God, it was awful. Pale, strained and ravaged with pain. Serious pain.
He knew that feeling.
Reaching behind him, he stopped Anne and silently backed out of sight of the open door. Turning, he put a finger to his lips and caught Anne’s hand to lead her back to the stairs. “Maybe we should call,” he whispered.
“What? Why?”
He reached for the cell phone at his waist, pressed a programmed number and waited. In his mother’s office, he could hear the ring. Once, twice. On the third ring, she answered.
“Hello.”
“Ma, it’s me.”
“Buck.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, what is it?”
“We’re in the house, Anne and me. We need to see you for a minute. Can we come up?”
“Well, of course. I’m in my office.”
He clicked off his cell, stood without moving for a full minute with Anne’s questioning gaze on his face. “Okay, let’s go.”
She hesitated, debating whether or not to go along, then fell into step beside him. “I want to know what that was all about as soon as we’re done here,” she told him in an irritated whisper. “And just for the record, I’m against this.”
At his mother’s door again, he tapped politely, even though it was still wide open. “Hey, Ma. How’s it goin’?”