“Lured by Circe?” Isabella looked over the rim of her cup.
“She could have drowned in that fountain,” I said.
“She didn’t,” said Honora.
Gladys grunted. “She could be dead now, for all we know.”
Honora reached for the phone. “Maybe I should call Louie.”
“He said he’d call,” Gladys pointed out. “We better just sit tight.”
“I’m not.” Isabella lit a cigarette. “I refuse to sit here and hold vigil for that miniature tart.”
“Oh, don’t speak ill of the unconscious,” said Honora.
“If you talk to him,” I told Honora, “ask him why he thinks I hurt Joie.”
“Because of them pearls,” said Gladys.
“It’s not just that,” said Isabella. “Louie’s a teetotal jackass when it comes to women.”
“But I’m his daughter. He knows I’m not capable of hurting anyone.”
“Honey, that doesn’t matter,” said Isabella. “To him, any woman he isn’t screwing is the enemy. Besides, I don’t want to talk about Louie or Joie, I want to hear about your director. Are those stories true? And if they are, will you dump him?”
“Of course she will,” said Gladys.
“You’re better off with someone outside show business. I mean, really. Directors are a tad vulnerable to ambitious starlets.” Isabella lifted one hand and rubbed her temple. “And I should know. I was one myself.”
“Ladies, let’s stick to the topic.” Honora opened a bottle of apricot brandy and tipped it over her friend’s cup. “Joie was found all splayed in my fountain. My granddaughter has been implicated by a pearl from her own necklace, a piece of lovely jewelry, if I do say so myself.”
“Louie was awful quick to blame her,” Gladys said.
“Louie’s just upset. And of course the pearls didn’t help,” said Honora. “I’m not defending him. I’m just stating a fact.”
“You are too defending him,” said Isabella. “Louie is a self-centered bastard, but he sure is a handsome one.”
“He’s not thinking straight,” said Gladys. “He’s crazy in love with that Joie.”
“What if she dies?” I asked.
“He’ll call the minute he gets news, good or bad,” said Honora. “Even if it’s just to rub it in, he’ll call.”
We sat there a minute, sipping tea. Honora said, “Your father loves you.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Isabella. “It’s just more soothing to him if he pretends otherwise.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Isabella.” Honora scowled.
“No,” I said. “Isabella has a point. How do you tell if someone is pretending not to love, or if they have no feelings? Isn’t the end result the same?”
“You’re being too cerebral.” Honora smiled. “He’s just afraid. Love cows everyone, even locally famous heart surgeons.”
“But he said I’m just like my mother.”
“That’s a high compliment,” said Honora.
“But he sneered when he said it,” I pointed out. “What was so wrong with her? He didn’t want her; she made a new life without him. And managed to do it without ever saying an ugly word about him, and you know it.”
The women exchanged glances. Honora was the first to speak. “Shelby was like a daughter to me. And you’re right, she never spoke ill of Louie to anyone, especially not to you, darling. Shelby’s goal in life was to make sure you grew up happy and well adjusted.”
“Then why is he badmouthing her? He knows I’m grieving for her.”
“We all are, honey.” Honora reached out to pat my hand.
“What did she do to him that was so terrible?” I asked. “She never came out and told me anything about their marriage, but I heard things. He was the one who left her, right? They got a divorce and were about to reconcile when he up and married that blond lady from Tennessee.”
“Her name was Bitsy,” said Honora.
“Why does he hate my mama?”
“That’s easy,” said Isabella. “He doesn’t really hate her, but he got really mad when she—”
“Don’t you say another word,” Honora cried. She got to her feet and pointed toward the hall. “Hush, or leave this house.”
“All right, then. I’ll leave.” Isabella grabbed her Chanel bag and stood up. “If I have a stroke, I hope you feel guilty. But Renata deserves the truth, and nobody but me has the decency to tell her.”
“You mean, there’s more?” I cried. “Wait, Isabella. Don’t go. Tell me.”
Keeping her eyes on Isabella, Honora said, “Now is not the time.”
“You have kept their secrets too long, Honora,” said Isabella. “It’s time to drag them out of the basement.”
“I just don’t think my grandchild should hear this rubbish.”
“She’s not a child,” Isabella said. “She’s a grown woman, in case you haven’t noticed. And it’s not rubbish.”
“But your timing couldn’t be worse, Isabella,” said Honora.
“When would be the right time? The girl has a right to know.”
“Know what?” I asked.
“The truth,” said Isabella. “The truth about your mama and your daddy and the passion that tore them to bits. You need to hear the real story of your life. The missing pieces, the parts you don’t remember, the parts they covered up. Why, if Honora and Shelby had worked for Richard Nixon, Watergate wouldn’t have happened.”
“Stop being melodramatic,” said Honora.
“Me?” Isabella rubbed her left temple. “I don’t have a dramatic bone left in my body.”
“Me, neither,” said Gladys. “The only bone I’ve got left is backbone.”
Chapter 17
MARRIAGE, MURDER, COVER-UPS, AND AFFAIR-ETTES
I took Isabella home. As I helped her upstairs, she talked nonstop. “I go to the Birdcage Lounge every afternoon,” she was saying. “That’s over at the Grand? You ought to join me sometime. The bartender gives me free drinks, seeing as I’m a local celebrity and all. Did I ever tell you why I left my glamorous career?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, thinking back to what my father had whispered.
“It was a mistake. Because I exchanged one shallow, inbred society for another. Hollywood isn’t a zip code, it’s an airborne virus. Don’t let anyone tell you that showbiz is fair. It’s all about who you know. It’s about vendettas, favors, debts.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered.
“It takes courage to stay in the business. I fled to the Gulf Coast, only to discover the good-ole-boy network in Alabama was not only alive, it was as strong as its evil three-piece-suit counterpart in L.A. Why, I could have stayed in L.A., and only the cuisine and landscape would have changed. Backstabbers are the same everywhere.”
“No, the accents are different.” I guided her over to the bed, pulling back the covers. The sheets felt silky and looked custom-made. Isabella glanced up as her bony hips dented the mattress.
“You keep staring at my bed. Why? Do you like it?”
“I was just admiring the linen.” I walked over to the windows and began shutting the heavy draperies.
“Honora believes in thousand count linen. And it really does last a lifetime, if you care for it properly. Naturally Honora does.” Isabella rubbed her hand over the sheet. “My husband died in this bed. You don’t remember Dickie Boy, do you? Well, he was a little too Old South for my taste, but he was so rich, I forgave him. His moods were entirely dependent on the stock market. A one-percent shift could make or break the man’s day.”
“I’ve heard Honora mention him,” I said, heading out of the room. “Do you want the door closed?”
“Stay a while, don’t run off.” She yanked the sheet up to her chin. “Sometimes I get so lonely I just want to check out of this crappy life. It’s been worse than a three-star hotel in Austria. The Europeans have different standards, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s
right. Louie has taken you everywhere.”
“No, he didn’t. My mother and Andy took me to Europe, and when I got old enough, I took myself.”
“That’s the spirit.” Isabella clapped her hands. “I am woman, hear me roar!”
I just stared.
“Well, at least you got to go. That’s the important thing, right?” She smiled and pointed to a dresser. “See that crystal decanter? Will you be a dear and pour us some whiskey?”
I found two glasses in the bathroom. While I poured, she patted the sheet. “Bring that over here and come sit with me awhile. I’ll tell you a few tidbits about your mama. I have seen her roll up her silk sleeves—yes, silk—at parties and wash dishes. During parties, she’d get in Honora’s kitchen and help the caterers.”
“Why?” I smiled, remembering how my mother had never liked large gatherings. “Was she avoiding the party?”
“Heavens no. Shelby was a marvelous cook. Louie was better, of course. Shelby was more adventurous than your father. Growing up in all that craziness gave her a tougher hide. But if she liked you, she would do anything. You had a friend for life. Whenever Honora threw a party, Shelby would cook one special dish, and it was always a hit. She would have made a stunning chef on Food TV, a blonder, thinner version of the Barefoot Contessa.”
Isabella took a sip of whiskey, then raised one finger. “I just remembered something else. Years ago, I used to have Yorkies. In fact, Zap is from my line. Once I was staying at Chateau DeChavannes, and my favorite Yorkie, Bebe, ran out during a tropical storm. It was night, and the wind was gusting forty miles per hour. Everybody said, Oh, don’t worry, Bebe will come back. But the little thing only weighed four pounds. She wasn’t any match for that storm. Your mother put on a raincoat and grabbed a flashlight and went outside looking for my Bebe. She was gone so long that we nearly had to send a search party for her, too, but she came back holding my little Bebe. They both looked like drowned mice. Your mother took bronchitis, but Bebe was fine. That’s when I started liking your mother.”
“Before then you didn’t?” I laughed.
“Well, you know how I distrust pretty women. But Shelby was such a good mother. She’d get down on the floor with you and spend hours building Lego cities. You had thousands of books, and she’d curl up in your little bed and read aloud until her voice was hoarse. You demanded it, of course. The same stories over and over. But I’m sure you remember that part. I’m just telling you this so you won’t turn on her later on.”
“Turn on her?” I leaned forward. “Why would I do that?”
“When you hear the truth.”
“What truth?”
“Me and my big mouth. Honora will skin me alive if I don’t shut up.”
“I won’t tell.”
“She’s a witch. She’ll know.” Isabella paused. “Did I ever tell you about Dickie Boy and me? How I killed him and all?”
I choked on the whiskey. “You killed him?”
“Well, sort of. It was accidental. Besides, his days were numbered. He had liver cancer. And no matter what his mama said, if he’d lived, he would have suffered. But he went real easy. Well, I think he did. Actually, I’m not one hundred percent sure. Your father helped me cover it up. We were having the most divine affair. Well, it was more like an affair-ette. Short but intense. Did you know that he was a virgin until his junior year at Tulane? Don’t tell Honora I said this, but she was way too overprotective. She almost ruined him.”
“Wait, back up.” I set the whiskey glass on the table. “You and my father were lovers?”
“Does that shock you? Don’t let it.”
“Was he married to my mother at the time?”
“No. Well, just barely. Dickie Boy died right before your parents divorced. So I didn’t break up that marriage. Your father only slept with me to punish your mother.”
“Punish her? Whatever for?” I shook my head, wondering if she’d already had a stroke, and she was confused.
“Because of what she did to him.” Isabella paused. “She fell in love and she had great sex and she caused a scandal. Not in that order, of course.”
“She didn’t love anybody except my father.”
“Oh, yes, she did. She cheated on your father, and it turned him into a cad. Well, maybe it didn’t turn him into one. It was already coiled up inside him, just waiting to get out. But I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t broken his heart.”
“It’s the other way around, Isabella.”
She raised one eyebrow. “And you’re getting your information from whom? From someone who painted your childhood pink and then glued lace to the edges? Because that’s what Shelby and Honora did. They redecorated the past.”
“They did no such thing.”
“Think what you want, but you grew up in a structured world.” She yawned, then put her empty glass on the night table. “You were fed a script. And you believed every word of it.”
“What script?” I said, reaching for my whiskey. “If you really slept with my father, why wouldn’t I have heard about it?”
“You haven’t heard a lot of things.”
“But if you really slept with my father—that’s pretty juicy, considering you’re my grandmother’s best friend. Does she know?”
“She suspected.”
“And?”
“We never discussed it. She was my friend, and no matter what, she forgave me.”
I thought she might be drunk or cuckoo, but one thing stuck in my mind, and I had to clear it up. “He really was a virgin that long?”
“Yes,” Isabella said without opening her eyes.
I didn’t believe it for one second. But I wanted her to say more. “Why hasn’t he ever told me?”
“Don’t be silly. That’s the sort of thing lovers tell each other, not fathers and daughters.” She fell silent, as if her mind was folding up like a daylily. “I’m tired of all this talking. I’m sleepy. Be a dear and lock the door on your way out.”
When I stepped into Chateau DeChavannes, I found a note propped on the counter: “Try to get some sleep. Here’s an Ambien if you need it. Love you, Honora.” I barely made it upstairs before the drug collided with Isabella’s whiskey. I collapsed on the bed and fell into a dreamless sleep that poured over me like an oil slick.
Chapter 18
ARTIFACTS
I awakened to the sound of screeching gulls and the clanging buoy, thinking I was in Nags Head. I remembered how, depending on the time of day, the light in the cottage changed the walls from pale celadon to dark sea foam. When Mama and Andy had been in residence, they’d flown an aqua flag embellished with a tiny green mermaid. Inside, the aqua rooms were filled with overstuffed checkered sofas and honeyed wicker armchairs. Andy and I had helped her place the sisal rugs, the old pine tables, and the knotty shelves that overflowed with books and baskets of shells.
Unfortunately I wasn’t in Nags Head, I was in Alabama, the land of magnolias and crystal meth. Pulling up on my elbows, I glanced at my travel clock. It was a little after one p.m. Which meant it was seven o’clock in Dublin. Ferg didn’t know I was in Point Clear, and I probably should have told him, but I’d only been here a few days. Maybe it would do him good to wonder. In my mind’s eye, I imagined him dialing the Nags Head cottage, then my drowned cell phone. What if some stranger had found that phone in the sand? Renata who? they’d say. You’ve got the wrong number, buddy.
I slid off the bed and knelt beside the trunk, sifting for clues. If Isabella’s stories were true, then the evidence had to be here somewhere. Still, I couldn’t imagine my mother having an affair. Isabella was just theatrical, and she was noted for embellishing stories. I reached into the trunk and pulled out the lace shawl. An invitation floated to the floor, and I picked it up.
Dr. and Mrs. Nigel DeChavannes
request your presence at a
BIRTHDAY DINNER & GOLFING WEEKEND
Celebrating Dr. Nigel’s fifty-first birthday
Friday, August 14, 1972,
Dinner at seven o’clock p.m.
Pinehurst Hotel
Pinehurst, North Carolina
RSVP Black Tie
Nigel was my grandfather’s brother. Now, he was nearly eighty and lived in a condominium in Naples, Florida. I didn’t know if the invitation had ended up in my mother’s trunk by accident, or if it was another puzzle piece. I shook out the shawl and draped it over my shoulders, wrinkling my nose at the moldy smell, then tucked the invitation into my pocket and went looking for my grandmother.
I heard voices coming from the sunroom, and I headed down the hall and turned into a sunny, glassed-in room. Honora was sitting on one of the wicker sofas, serving tea to a balding police officer. When she saw me in the doorway, her eyes clouded, but she quickly recovered.
“Detective Bass, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Renata DeChavannes.”
“Pleased to meet you, miss.” He stood up, briefly scrubbing his hand on his gabardine trousers before he extended it. I gave it a firm shake, then looked at Honora for further directions.
“Faye sent the detective to ask a few questions about Joie’s accident,” said Honora, gesturing for me to sit down in the brocade chair.
Detective Bass cleared his throat. “I understand Miss Mayfield tripped on your pearls?”
Honora caught my eye and gave an imperceptible nod, tugging at her shell necklace.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Joie broke my necklace, and then she tripped.”
The detective opened a spiral notebook. His pen scratched across the paper. Then he looked up. “Miss DeChavannes, may I see your pearls?”
Honora got to her feet. “I hardly see what this has to do with—”
“Well, ma’am, it’s like this,” said the man. “I’m afraid I have to take your granddaughter’s pearls into custody.”
“Whatever for?” Honora’s eyebrows slanted.
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