Gone with the Twins

by Kylie Logan

  And so did the man at her side.

  “Bill Barone.” I touched a finger to the frame of the photograph closest to me. “He was a good-looking guy.”

  I hadn’t realized Chandra had left the kitchen and was standing right behind me. “Yeah, he was. And he was the sweetest guy to ever walk the earth. At least until Vivien got ahold of him and messed with his head.”

  I examined another one of the pictures. This one was in a frame studded with fake gemstones. “He was older than you,” I said.

  Chandra didn’t so much agree with me as she grunted. “I guess that was one of the reasons he lost his mind when Vivien came on to him. Middlelife crisis. That’s what we used to call it. I was six years younger than Bill. Vivien was fifteen years younger. Imagine any middle-aged guy resisting when this sweet young thing—” She choked over her words and cleared her throat.

  I allowed her time to compose herself, looking over the rest of the pictures as I did. Bill at the marina. Bill standing outside Perry’s Victory and International Peace Memorial. Bill eating sweet corn at a party in the park.

  Knowing what I knew about everything that had happened after these happy pictures were taken, my heart squeezed.

  And a question popped out of my mouth. “Didn’t Hank mind that you had all these pictures of Bill around?”

  “Well, you know they weren’t always here.” Chandra went back into the kitchen and came out carrying two steaming mugs of tea. “You’ve never seen them before, right?”

  “Yes, of course.” I sipped my tea. Carefully. Chandra was known for herbal concoctions that often tasted as bad as they smelled. Peppermint and lemon balm, it turned out, was a pleasant combination. “Then why—”

  She lifted one shoulder. “It would have been our anniversary. Twenty. I just thought . . . oh, I don’t know. I was just feeling sentimental. You know, with what happened to Vivien and with the anniversary, it all just kind of came back at me. I thought it would be nice to pay a little tribute to Bill. He might have gone loco when Vivien got her claws into him, but deep down, he was a sweetheart. And no, I didn’t have the pictures out when I lived here with Hank. They’ve been packed away for years.” She took a glug of her tea. “So, what did you stop over for?”

  Don’t worry, I knew she’d be bound to ask sooner or later, and I had an excuse all planned. “I was just wondering about the gala on Saturday night. What do you think I should do about my hair?”

  Chandra stepped back and cocked her head from side to side, sizing me up. “Up,” she said. “But you’ve probably seen enough Civil War movies to know that.” She set down her mug and scooped my hair into what could have been a ponytail, except that she left out a section over each of my ears. While she worked, I watched our reflection in a nearby mirror framed in wood that was studded with bits and pieces of colored glass. “You’ll twist the back of your hair into a bun like this.” Quickly, Chandra demonstrated. “But you’ll leave these front sections loose for now. When you’re done with the bun, you’ll twist each of these sections . . .” Again, she demonstrated. “Then wrap the twists around the bun. Simple—and it’ll look great.”

  I looked at her standing behind me in the mirror. “What were you doing at Vivien’s on Friday?” I asked her.

  Chandra stepped away and my hair fell back around my shoulders. “Why do you—”

  “Come on, Chandra!” I spun to face her. “Remember what I said. I’m not looking to jam you up on murder charges, that’s for sure. But if I’m going to prove that you didn’t do it, I need answers.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “What makes you think I was there at all?”

  “Because you left a piece of yourself behind.” I pinned her with a look. “You were dressed all in white that day, Chandra, and there was a piece of white fabric caught on Vivien’s doorframe. And don’t tell me a lot of people wear white. You were there. And I need to know why.”

  She looked up at the ceiling. “I can’t tell you.”

  I set down my tea on the dining room table, the better to be sure it didn’t slosh over the side of the mug when I stomped my foot. “Then you admit you were there?”

  She pursed her lips. “Maybe.”

  “Then you’ve got to tell me why.”

  “I wasn’t there killing Vivien, I can tell you that.”

  “Obviously, because she wasn’t killed at home. But speaking of that, you were seen at Estelle’s, too.”

  “I told Hank, I was out taking a walk.”

  “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

  Her lower lip protruded.

  “Fine.” I raised my arms and let them flop back to my side. “If that’s how you’re going to be, then there’s nothing I can do to help you. But I’ve got a little advice for you, Chandra. If Hank comes around, he’s not going be so easy on you. You need a better answer than ‘I can’t tell you.’”

  Her gaze flickered over to the candles and the pictures and the happy memories of her life with Bill. “I wish I could,” she said. “But I’d have to say the same thing to Hank that I did to you. I really can’t tell.”

  It was beyond frustrating, and I couldn’t stand it another minute. I headed out the door, determined to leave the aroma of patchouli, the bittersweet memories of Bill Barone, and the most maddening friend in the world behind me until I could regain my composure and, hopefully, some sort of perspective.

  Good thing I picked that moment to do it, too, or I wouldn’t have seen the Twins just leaving my front door.

  They caught sight of me and waved, and we met halfway on my front lawn.

  That day, the Twins looked like they were all set for lunch at a Hollywood country club, Riva in a pink sundress and platform sandals and her brother in white pants and an equally blinding white shirt.

  “We thought you’d be home,” Riva said. “Not that you have any guests or anything, but . . .”

  She was the one who brought it up, so I was perfectly justified to ask, “How would you know if I have guests or not? Unless you’re keeping an eye on me.”

  Quentin paled. Riva, I couldn’t help but notice, didn’t bat an eyelash. “Don’t be silly.” She giggled as if I actually were. “We have too much on our plates to think about you. We’re being interviewed on Nightline, you know. And then there’s our movie.”

  I guess I was supposed to be impressed. The way my day was going, it was going to take a lot more than Hollywood faux congeniality and a perky smile to bring me around.

  I cut to the chase. “What do you want?”

  Riva’s laugh rang like crystal. “The real question is what do you want? Or I should say, how much do you want? We’re here to make you an offer, darling. We’re going to do you a favor and buy your inn.”

  15

  The call came in about four the next afternoon, and to tell the truth, I almost didn’t answer it. I mean, that’s why caller ID was invented, right? To dodge the people we don’t want to talk to.

  Then again, after what happened the evening before with the Twins and all I realized it meant, I’m pretty sure curiosity spurred me to pick up my phone from the kitchen counter next to where I was chopping vegetables for the salad that would be my dinner. I think anger had something to do with it, too. Then again . . . I stabbed the knife I was using into a zucchini and left it there as a sort of emblem of my mood . . . there was also a perverse sort of pleasure in realizing that maybe I’d have a chance to prove I wasn’t nearly as dumb as certain people obviously thought I was.

  I not only answered the call—I agreed to a meeting with the person on the other end of the phone.

  This, of course, is all by way of providing an explanation for what I was doing at Tara at eight o’clock that Thursday evening.

  Unlike the last time I’d visited, the inn was relatively quiet. But then, it was late. The gentle tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall an
d the chirruping of feminine voices washed over me the moment I stepped foot in the lobby. The women in question were lined up at the main desk, where a young man in a Confederate uniform dutifully checked them into their rooms. There were six of them, each with a ball gown on a hanger slung over her shoulder, and they were obviously anxious to get their Civil War weekend started. At least if the way two of the women harmonized on “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” meant anything.

  I stood back and patiently waited my turn, but just as he was starting with woman number three, the young man spied me and pointed toward the parlor.

  I was expected.

  I thanked him with a nod and stepped into the parlor but there was no one around. A second later, I heard the clink of glasses from the direction of the room where the Twins served breakfast to their guests. The person waiting for me at one of the tables wasn’t the one I expected.

  I stopped just inside the doorway. “Riva was the one who called.”

  Quentin, looking like the cover model from a romance novel that evening in black pants and a crisp white shirt with its three top buttons left undone, had been pouring champagne into two tall flutes, and he looked my way and flashed a boyish grin. “I thought if I called, you wouldn’t come.”

  “I’m surprised you thought I’d come at all. I told you last night—both of you—I told you I’m not selling Bea and Bees.”

  He nestled the champagne bottle in a gleaming chrome bucket filled with ice and held up one hand, palm out, as if he’d expected that’s exactly what I would say.

  “I get it. I do. You have every right to be angry at us. My sister is a . . .” He hauled in a sigh and let it out slowly. “You might have noticed that Riva is a little spoiled. She thinks she can always have whatever she wants.”

  “Just her?”

  He waved me toward the chair across from where he stood. Like the other tables in the room, it was laid for the next day’s breakfast: white linen cloths, small bouquets of fake flowers, gray napkins on the tables on one side of the room, blue on the tables on the other side. No doubt, Tara was drawing its own lines for the next day’s breakfast, North versus South.

  Quentin sat down at the gray-napkin table where, in addition to the flutes and the champagne, there was one candle glowing from a glass holder.

  He ignored my question. “I’m not going to try and change your mind about selling your inn, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said and laughed in a way that made me think of country club cocktail parties. “Though I can guarantee you, you’ll hear from Riva about it again. Like I said, spoiled, and she doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  “She hasn’t heard no from me before.”

  Since I hadn’t moved, he tried another wave, and this time when I didn’t budge, he pulled in a breath and let it out in what might have been a huff from a less godly young man. Quentin, with his aquiline nose, trim body, and three-hundred-dollar haircut, made it sound as if being frustrated by my stubbornness was his natural right.

  “I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he said.

  It was exactly the opening I’d been waiting for. I smiled and sashayed just a little closer. “If you’re talking about the bad reviews online for my inn, the bedbug story, and the fact that half the population of the island now thinks I’m an ex-con, you’re absolutely right.”

  Of course I had no proof that the Twins were the ones who spread the rumors, but if I’m good at anything, it’s putting two and two together. No business? A bad reputation? Rumors of my instability?

  And then out of nowhere, a lowball offer to buy the inn?

  One look at the way a muscle jumped at the base of Quentin’s jaw and I knew I was on the right track, so I allowed myself a smile. “Just because we live on an island doesn’t mean we’re country bumpkins,” I told him. “I’ve had my suspicions for a while, but as soon as you made your offer on the inn, the pieces fell into place. With business down and my rooms empty, you figured I’d be more likely to sell.”

  “There’s only so long anyone can hold out.”

  “True.” I took one step back toward to the doorway and was rewarded when he winced. Quentin was used to having the upper hand with women; he didn’t expect me to cut and run so quickly. Or with so little interest in anything he had to say.

  That made it all the more delicious when I added, “When it comes to the inn, though, you need to know that I can hold out forever.”

  I would have said his smile was repentant if I didn’t know it was also practiced. “How about when it comes to the curly maple highboy?”

  It was my turn to wince, and darn it, he noticed.

  This time, his smile was genuine.

  I tried not to do it. Really. But I just couldn’t help myself. My gaze flickered to the highboy on the other side of the room, its warm wood and polished hardware glowing in the hushed lighting, silently beckoning. This time when Quentin motioned toward the empty chair across from where he stood, I walked over and sat down.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Wow, you don’t waste any time!” He sat down, too, and handed me the champagne flute. “Come on, let’s at least pretend to follow the formalities. Besides . . .” He tipped his glass in my direction. “It’s Dom Pérignon. Courtesy of our producer.”

  I was supposed to be impressed. I wasn’t, but I wasn’t one to waste perfectly good champagne, either. I sipped. “And the curly maple highboy?” I asked.

  He drank down half his glass and refilled it. “I told you, Riva is spoiled. The first time she saw the highboy, she fell in love with it, but Vivien told her that her aunt had already promised it to you. That was all Riva needed to hear. What anyone else has, Riva wants. And what Riva wants, Riva always gets.”

  “And you don’t.”

  He sat back. “What I want . . .” Call me a sucker for nice champagne and the siren’s call of maybe getting the highboy; this time when he sighed, it didn’t hit me like fingernails on a blackboard. I think there might have been a tiny thread of sincerity hidden away beneath the Hollywood-heritage and I’m-so-cool exterior.

  “There’s something about you, Bea,” Quentin said. “You’re open. Friendly. I haven’t gotten to know anyone well here on the island yet because we’ve been so busy with interviews and our book, and the movie, of course.” He glanced my way long enough to see if I was salivating yet, and when he saw that I wasn’t, he coughed and went right on. “We haven’t made any friends, either. Not really good friends. I mean, except for Vivien, and now . . .”

  He washed down what he might have said with another sip of champagne. “Everyone else we’ve met on the island, they’re all so . . .” Did he really have to search for the word? I doubted it, but at least he tried to make a show of it. “All they see is the wealth and the fame and our reputations. All they think about is the stories they’ve read about us and everything they heard in those awful months when we were gone. They look at us . . . they look at me . . . and they think of all the media reports and the scandal and the sensation!” He twitched his shoulders. “But somehow, you’re different. And I don’t think it’s because you’re not impressed. I think it’s because you know that there’s more to a person than what’s just on the outside. That’s why I think I can be honest with you.”

  Oh, how I like a good spot of sarcasm! “You mean despite the fact that I’m a mentally deranged ex-con!”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll clear up that little rumor in no time at all. It was just a ploy. Just business. You understand that, don’t you? All those rumors, we had to spread them. This has always been just about business.”

  “The business of buying my inn.”

  He screwed up his face. “Like I said, what Riva wants, Riva gets. She fell in love with your little place the moment she saw it.”

  The way to butter me up was not to call my home a “little place
.” I managed not to point this out, but then, I was busy being surprised when Quentin went on.

  “See, here’s the thing,” he said. “This place . . .” He glanced around the breakfast room. It was big and at this time of the evening, shadows were gathering in the corners and outside the window that looked out over a fountain, a rose garden, and . . . I couldn’t quite believe my eyes, so I squinted and leaned forward . . . cotton plants?

  “This is not exactly the kind of place I ever pictured myself living,” Quentin said.

  I set aside thoughts of how the Twins must have had the cotton plants shipped in and how they would surely not live through an Ohio winter so I could look at him levelly. “Yet here you are.”

  His nod was barely noticeable. “Like I said—”

  “Riva is spoiled.”

  “And Riva gets what she wants. And she’s the one who wants to live on this island,” Quentin said. “I’m more the Malibu type. Or maybe Anguilla. Anguilla, it’s an island in the—”

  “Yeah. I know.” I did not point out that I had a home there that I didn’t visit often enough, and at the same time I wondered what Levi would think about a Caribbean getaway, I took another tiny taste of the champagne and pointed out, “Maybe after a while you’ll change your mind. There’s a lot to like about the island. I love it here.”

  His mouth twisted. “Well, yeah, but you—”

  I sat up, my elbows on the table. “I’m what, a hayseed like the rest of them? Unsophisticated? Easily amused?”

  His laugh didn’t fool me. “That’s not what I said. It’s not what I meant. I meant that we’re used to a different life, me and Riva. Glamour. Excitement.”

  “And now you’re hosting Civil War galas.”

  His shoulders dropped. “She’s making me wear a uniform.”

  Just seeing him looking that despondent cheered me right up, and I guess he knew it because Quentin caught himself, sat up, and inched back his shoulders. “The point is—”

  “The point is, you say you crave peace and quiet, but you take every opportunity you have to put yourself in the spotlight.”