by Tamar Myers
“But I did know her,” Marsha Barnes said.
Red and I stared in surprise. “How?” he asked.
“She came to one of our Newcomers Club meetings.”
I was confused, and said so. I knew there was a group called Newcomers in town, but surely Marsha Barnes didn’t belong to it. She was as local as the trees on Mama’s lawn.
“But I’m originally from Lancaster,” Marsha protested. “I moved here only eighteen years ago, the year I met Red. As long as you renew your membership, they don’t care how long you’ve lived here.”
Now I understood why Marsha was in the Newcomers Club. Lancaster, South Carolina (not Pennsylvania!), is the next county over. It is also the name of the county seat. But for we South Carolinians—who are, by and large, a very sentimental lot—twenty miles may as well be two hundred. Any farther than that and one is, ipso facto, from out of state, in which case one would be inclined to join the Foreigners Club instead.
“Did you know her well?” I asked, trying not to lose track of my agenda.
She shook her head. “She seemed nice enough, but she only came once or twice. I remember her because we have a birthday drawing each month and she won the centerpiece. She was sitting next to me, but Judy Farewell was on my other side and we kinda got carried away talking about miniatures. But I could tell June was really moved, because she actually started to cry.”
“Women,” Red snorted.
I patted Marsha, who seemed pretty choked up herself. “Do you know if she made any friends?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I invited her to come to church with me, but she wasn’t a Baptist.”
“What was she?” Trust me, this is a perfectly acceptable question south of the Line.
“A Buddhist, I think. Like I said, we didn’t talk much.”
“No damned way,” Red snarled. “She was as white as grits.”
I was beginning to like the mousy, mysterious women who had come hurtling through the plate glass window of my shop. She obviously had been plucky, moving to a new state by herself. And intriguing, appearing out of nowhere as she did, covered in grime. Of course she was exotic, since Buddhists don’t grow on trees in Rock Hill. And then there was the thing with the Ming. If only I had waited on her out of turn.
The doorbell rang again, and I shoved the Barneses toward the dining room.
“The food is in there. Eat as much as you can and make my mama a happy woman.”
Marsha smiled, and I sensed that she was grateful to be here. The poor woman was clearly in need of social acceptance, if not friends. When I got all my ducks in a row, I’d give her a call. Maybe even sooner—before she came hurtling through my window as well.
Red must have sent his wife on ahead. Just as I reached for the door, he grabbed my elbow. His grip was much harder than necessary.
“Why the nice act?”
“Because I’m a lady.”
The doorbell chimed again, and a couple of guests glanced over, no doubt wondering what was going on.
“Say anything to anyone and you’ll be sorry,” he hissed.
I flung open the door.
11
It was the Roach, the third board member, which put her smack-dab in the middle of the totem pole. I honestly endeavor to be a good Christian—or at least a proper Southern lady—but I have to get this off my chest. From the very first moment I lay eyes on her, I could not stand Gloria Roach. She brought out the worst in me.
Maybe it was her name, maybe it was her occupation, maybe it was the weight lifter’s body crowned by the ferret face, but I just wanted to slap her. Almost as much as I wanted to slap a mime once in Charleston. That man followed me for three blocks, despite my demands that he get out of my face. Then he had the nerve to ask for money—in mime language.
“Good evening,” I said cheerily. If hypocrisy in the name of decency is an art form, then Mama is Michelangelo. I had studied at her feet.
Gloria gave me a swift, appraising look. “Well, well, we’re a bit of a sycophant, aren’t we?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It means one who is fawning and obsequious.”
“I know what it means, dear; I just can’t believe you said it.”
“Miss Lilah is not going to be impressed by your dress. It’s a bit too much for a soiree of this sort, don’t you think?”
I glanced at her dress. It was knee length, navy with white piping, and had cap sleeves. Even with long sleeves, there would have been no way to disguise those bulging muscles. But physique aside she was more appropriately attired.
“I’m going to another function later,” I felt compelled to say. “A reception for the Prince of Wales.” If one is going to embellish, do it in a grand way, I always say.
“Here?” Only a dog could tell her laugh from a bark.
“No, in Charlotte.”
“Funny, but I don’t recall hearing anything about it. It wasn’t in the papers.”
“It’s all very hush-hush. For security reasons.”
“I have many clients in Charlotte. Important people. I would know if there were any royals in town.”
“This is an unofficial visit. Charlie is just visiting some close personal friends.”
That part wasn’t a lie. My son, Charlie, was spending the weekend with a buddy.
The ferret face was awash in skepticism. “Would you swear to that under oath?”
“I have sworn many oaths,” I said, and left her standing at the door. I had other guests to attend to, and a quick glance at my watch told me that Mama was about to make her second appearance.
No matter who was at the Charlotte party, it was not going to be a night sans royalty. Anne Holliday showed up right on cue, placing her fourth from the bottom on the pole. She was dressed in a pink-and-blue pastel floral dress, a pink hat the size of a basketball hoop, matching shoes, and a blue purse every bit as large as an attaché case. She came alone. Apparently there was no prince consort.
“Miss Timberlake?” she shrilled.
“Yes, ma’am. We met at the interview, remember?”
“I haven’t the foggiest recollection,” she said. “All I know is that Mozella asked me to come. Is she here?”
“Yes, ma’am. Please come in.”
She staggered in and stood blinking while I breathed in her fumes. It took me a minute, but I figured it out. Anne Holliday was a tippler. Mama must have had a hard time holding her tongue on that one.
“There is some nonalcoholic punch over there,” I said kindly, pointing to the dining room, where the crowd had gathered around Mama’s treats. “Would you like me to get you some?”
She was staring at me. “You look familiar. Are you and Mozella kin?”
“Yes, she’s my mama, and we’ve met before.” I reminded her of where and when.
“That’s right,” she said. “And I told you we didn’t need an appraiser, because there is nothing out there worth appraising.”
“Bingo.”
“No thanks, but I play bridge. Do you need a fourth?”
“We’re not playing bridge tonight, dear. This is a party for the docents.”
She looked like a sheep that had been asked an algebra question.
“The Upstate Preservation Foundation docents,” I said patiently. “The guides at Roselawn.”
She swayed, but not dangerously so. “That’s right. And you wanted to be one.”
“And you didn’t want me. Now how about that punch? Or would you prefer some nice strong coffee?”
She swayed again, and in an attempt to steady her, I was nearly decapitated by the brim of her hat. It was with risk to life and limb that I got her seated in the nearest armchair, whereupon she immediately began to snore. I have very little experience with drunks, and none at all with women drunks of a certain age. Mama was going to have to hustle her bustle out of the kitchen and take over.
I tried to slip away discreetly, but was able to take only one step before finding myself jerked
backward like a toy on a string. Somewhere along the line Her Majesty had managed to grab the skirt of my gown and was clinging to it with a bony talon.
“And you didn’t find anything out there of value, did you?” she demanded.
“I beg your pardon?”
“At Roselawn, child!”
I peered under the hat brim and found her eyes. She was definitely wide awake now, and full of fire.
“Well, actually there are a number of nice pieces. No—make that excellent pieces. Upstairs.” I wasn’t about to confide my horrible discovery to her until I had had a chance to speak with Miss Lilah.
“Liar!” she croaked.
Everyone except Mama, who was still in the kitchen, looked our way. What’s a gal to do at a time like this, except to lie through her teeth?
“She said she passed a big fire on the way here,” I called out.
Several folks nodded, but that was it. Frankly that ticked me off. It might have been their own houses burning to the ground for all they knew, but they couldn’t tear themselves away from the food long enough to ask questions.
“I didn’t say anything about a fire,” Her Majesty said, but her eyes had closed and within seconds she was snoring again. I tilted her hat so that it hid her face and muffled the snores. Then I found Mama.
“Of course she drinks,” Mama said as she triumphantly took a cookie sheet of golden brown sausage rolls out of the oven. “Everyone drinks.”
“Not some Methodists,” I said. I reached for a sausage roll, but Mama slapped my hand.
“What do you want me to do, Abby?”
“I don’t know—call her a cab, put her to bed. What does one do with drunks?”
“Tsk, tsk,” Mama said as she slid a new sheet of snacks—cheese puffs, I believe—into the oven. “Anne Holliday is not a drunk. She’s just fond of drinking. And you’d drink, too, if your husband had neglected to write a will.”
“She was his mistress, Mama. You said so yourself.”
Mama cringed. “So I did, but she stood by that old goat for thirty years. Kept house for him. Helped him nurse his wife through the last years of her Alzheimer’s. He should have left her something.”
“Nonetheless, she’s sitting out there in your living room, sawing logs. We’ve got to do something.”
Mama wiped her hands before removing the crisp white apron that covered the lap of her black velvet dress. “Okay, Abigail, I’ll go out there and do something, but you watch those puffs. Check them every couple of minutes or so. As soon as they get as dark as the back of your hand, yank them out and put them over there to cool. Then pop those salami roll ups in. Think you can handle that?”
I rolled my eyes.
And I would have done a fine job, too, if Shirley Hall hadn’t strayed into Mama’s inner sanctum.
“Can I help?” she asked sweetly.
I shook my head, despite the fact that Shirley obviously knew her way around a kitchen. “How’s the food holding out in the dining room?”
She held up an empty tray. “Your mother’s a good cook. Did you help her?”
I suppose I could have taken credit for watching the cheese puffs and said yes, but I didn’t. I gave Mama all the credit.
“You know, you two look very much alike,” she said. “Almost like sisters.”
“My mother thanks you.”
“My mother and I don’t look alike at all.”
“My father was six foot and blond. If I didn’t know Mama better, I’d suspect the milkman. Although come to think of it, my brother, Toy, is six foot four and looks like a Viking.”
She laughed. “Family traits are funny things, especially given the mix of genetics we have in this country. My grandmother was pure Cherokee, but I don’t think I look Native American at all, do you?”
I shrugged. It seemed like half the people I knew claimed to be part Cherokee. Why was it nobody claimed to be part Navaho? Or Sioux? Perhaps it was a regional thing. At any rate, if all the part Cherokee in the eastern half of the United States were given full tribal membership, the Native Americans could have their country back in a flash.
“Are you into genealogy?” Shirley seemed to have an agenda.
“Not much, but Mama is. She did a thorough job of researching her family tree to see if she could get into the DAR.”
“Did she?”
“No. Mama won’t join any group that will have her as a member. Except for church. She sings in the choir every Sunday, but if you ask me the only reason she really goes is because her granddaddy’s name is on one of the windows.”
She laughed again. “Anyway, I find genealogy fascinating. It’s a form of history, you know. Take Miss Lilah, for instance—”
“Damn!” I shouted.
She recoiled in surprise.
“Not you,” I cried, and flew at the oven.
They weren’t smoking yet, but Mama’s puffs had browned to the color of my hair.
It wouldn’t even begin to cross Mama’s mind to throw a hissy fit in public. With lips as tight as a clam at low tide, she went to work on a new batch of cheese puffs while I mingled with the guests and awaited the arrival of the grande dame. Miss Lilah Greene, the real queen of Rock Hill, showed up at precisely seven o’clock, one hour late. Given her position, however, she was exactly on time.
We pecked cheeks and complimented each other on perfume choices—we had, after all, spent an entire evening together in a plantation house. After she had made her courtly rounds and was comfortably ensconced in one of Mama’s easy chairs with a plate of sausage rolls and a glass of cranberry punch, she got down to business.
“Have you had a chance to look things over more carefully?”
I braced myself to tell her the awful truth of my discovery. “Yes, ma’am—”
“Well, I think it’s a stupid idea!” Red’s voice drowned my words like rain on a corrugated tin roof.
“They do it at Brattonsville.” Shirley Hall was referring to another plantation and historic site near Rock Hill. “They even have Civil War reenactments there.”
“The War Between the States,” Red corrected her. “And the NAACP isn’t going to sit still for folks dressed up like slaves parking cars.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Shirley said calmly. “The white docents would dress up like southern belles and the black docents—”
“We don’t have any black docents.”
“But that’s my point; we should. Plantation life is their history, too.” She looked appealingly at Miss Lilah.
Miss Lilah took a sip of the cranberry punch but said nothing.
“Fine,” Red said, “let’s advertise for black docents, but we can’t have them dressing up like slaves. Nobody will stand for it.”
“We can’t keep revising history,” Shirley said firmly. “Roselawn had black slaves, and if we’re going to show it as a working plantation, we need to be as authentic as possible.”
“With whips and slave auctions? It won’t fly for one thing, and for another thing it just isn’t right.”
I must confess that I was stunned. As despicable as he was, Red was apparently not a racist.
“What do the docents wear?” I asked Miss Lilah.
“Why, whatever they like, dear.” She meant that while dresses were mandatory, style, within reason, was up to the individual.
It was a generous policy, and I told her so. I also sided with Red on the issue of adopting costumes, particularly slave costumes. Frankly I belabored my points, anything to delay delivering the truth. But Miss Lilah did not maintain her position on top of the cream by being stupid.
“What are you not telling me, child,” she said bluntly.
“Well, Miss Lilah, uh—I—”
She stood up. “Out with it, dear.”
“You know all those lovely pieces you have stored upstairs?”
Her back stiffened, and the empty punch cup trembled. “Yes?”
“At least half of them are reproductions, Miss Lilah.”
12
It takes a great deal of panache to appear calm and collected when the grande dame of Rock Hill is lying spread-eagle (modestly, of course) across one’s living room floor.
“More canapés?” Mama said brightly, proffering a silver tray to her guests that was almost as large as a surfboard.
In the meantime I set about reviving Lilah Greene. Not having smelling salts handy, I removed my right shoe and held it, sole side up, over her nose. It worked like a charm. In no time at all I had her fully conscious and sitting in a chair. Some folks, like Anne Holliday for instance, weren’t even aware of a disruption.
“What do you mean they’re reproductions?” Miss Lilah managed to ask, gasping between each word.
I explained that they were, in fact, very good reproductions, and that as such, they were still worth a good deal of cash, although of course not nearly as much as the originals.
“But,” I added, “don’t take my word alone for it. By all means, get a second opinion. Rob Goldburg and his partner, Bob Steuben, at The Finer Things in Charlotte are the area experts on antiques. And there are lots of others, too. I won’t be at all insulted if you bring in someone else.”
Good breeding will tell, as Mama often says, and during my brief explanation Miss Lilah had managed to compose herself. Except for a few hairs that had managed to escape the confines of her chignon, she appeared as cool, calm, and collected as ever.
“I appreciate your candor, Miss Timberlake.”
“Please, call me Abigail.”
“Thank you, Abigail. But it won’t be necessary to get another opinion. I have taken the liberty of doing some background checking, and I am quite satisfied with your knowledge and, most importantly, your ethics. Everyone I spoke to thinks very highly of you.”
I was both flattered and annoyed. The idea of someone doing a background check was reminiscent of my college days during the Vietnam War. My best friend, Lorrie Anderson, took part in an antiwar demonstration in Washington, D.C., and as a consequence the FBI opened files on us and for months followed us around the Winthrop campus in their gray suits and fedoras. It was a horrible and humiliating experience. Actually I have no proof that the FBI even heard of us, much less harassed us, but Lorrie swore it was true.