When Will the Dead Lady Sing? Page 6

The bartender—a former student of Ridd’s who now played with him on our church softball team—perked up his ears. I said, “Burlin greatly exaggerates. We took history together back in college.” Please note that both statements were absolutely true.

  She shrugged. “Whatever. It would be nice to discover he was once interested in something besides politics.” She sipped her water while her eyes roved the room. When they stopped, I followed her gaze and saw she was looking at Lance, who was in the arch to the hall talking with several people. He had one hand resting on the doorframe and was stroking it.

  “It’s in their blood, I guess.” I sipped my own wine and wondered what it took to look as sophisticated as Renée. Had she been born elegant?

  I was surprised when she said forcefully, “It’s not in Lance’s blood.” She flared her nostrils like a nervous horse. “If the others didn’t keep his nose to the grindstone, he’d happily go back to work.”

  “What does he do?” I hadn’t read or heard much about Lance since he was a child.

  “Restores old houses for new uses. His degree is in architecture. He’d much rather be wandering around looking at this house than talking politics. And if he was, I could be dozing on the dock of the lake house this afternoon.” She stifled a yawn, then gave me what passed for a smile. “Sorry. I am just so tired! I guess that’s why I’m telling you all this. But Georgia would have a fit. Please forget what I said.” She smiled down at me and sipped her water.

  Georgia spoke brightly from behind me. “You two aren’t talking politics, I hope? Abigail says it’s off-limits this afternoon.” She put her arm around Renée’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “You’re too jet-lagged to think straight. Why don’t you go out on the porch and get some air?”

  “That’s a good idea. Excuse me.” Renée drifted through the crowd like green smoke.

  Georgia picked up a glass of red wine and sparkled down at me. “I can’t believe we’ve run into you again after all these years. What have you been doing with yourself since college?”

  I was wishing I’d gone with Renée. Georgia had so much energy, it wore me out to stand next to her. Besides, the story of my life was going to sound pretty tame. “The usual. Husband, two sons, four grandchildren. I help run the family nursery and agricultural supply store.”

  She inclined her head and managed to look interested. “And how did you become a judge? Did you go to law school, like Burlin? He graduated from Yale, you know.”

  I did know, but I was surprised Georgia didn’t know you don’t have to be a lawyer to be a magistrate in Georgia. They do in big counties like those around Atlanta, but down here, we don’t have that big a pool of honest lawyers to choose from. How could that information have slipped past somebody so involved in politics?

  Georgia didn’t care whether I went to law school or not. She was already giving my arm a little squeeze and saying, “I was so sorry when you and Burlin broke up. I’d have liked to have had you for a sister.”

  Now what is a woman supposed to say to that?

  I knew what this woman had to do. I had to shift us both away from the bartender’s big ears. I took her elbow. “Let’s find a quieter corner.” When we got there, I suggested, “Tell me about you.” I resigned myself to ten minutes of glamorous achievements.

  She surprised me. “Hardly a thing worth mentioning. I play a lot of tennis and serve on a lot of committees and keep both our house and Burlin’s.” Somehow, I didn’t think that meant she cleaned the toilets. “Edward’s my second husband, you know.” She put up a hand to hide her lips as she whispered, “He’s a bit younger than I, but don’t tell anybody. My first husband was a lot older, and after he died, I decided I deserved some compensation. Edward and Burlin are in business together, you know—lobbying and political consulting. Edward started out lobbying for the timber industry. Now he and Burlin represent a number of Georgia interests, both in Atlanta and in Washington, but mostly they serve as political consultants. I help out by planning and hosting dinner parties, planning events, writing thank-you notes, things like that. Abigail manages Burlin’s office—she’s the real organized one in the family, no matter what Burlin says—and he’s her whole life, bless her heart. But Burlin likes for me to plan his parties and serve as his hostess, because”—she lowered her voice—“Abigail is not exactly a firecracker at a dinner table.”

  She wouldn’t be the adornment Georgia would, either, but neither of us said that.

  “Burlin’s lucky to have you,” I told her. “He mentioned that his wife died.”

  Her gray eyes grew sad. “Yes, bless her heart. She died in a fire at a rehab clinic. It was very tragic.” We paused for a few seconds of respect.

  “Was it in the papers? I never read it.”

  “No, we kept it quiet. Burlin didn’t need those old stories raked up again, so Abigail and I made sure the press didn’t get even a whiff of it. Poor Sperra.” She sipped her wine and seemed to be thinking. “I’ve been helping Burlin out for—golly! It’s twenty years now.” She leaned closer. “Don’t quote that figure to anybody. I don’t admit to a day over fifty.”

  “You don’t look even that.”

  “Thanks. I try to keep fit. And now that Lance is running for governor and Edward’s running the campaign, I won’t have a minute to call my own.” If she glowed any brighter, Maynard could cut off all his chandeliers.

  “You look like you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t. I love politics. And if we can get Lance in as governor—well, who knows where he might go after that?” Clearly she had some idea of where she wanted him to go, and I suspected it involved a large white house. But right now a small frown creased her forehead. I followed her gaze and saw that Renée had come back inside and was standing behind Lance. As the businessmen he’d been talking with moved away, she leaned over and spoke urgently into his ear. He shook his head. She narrowed her eyes, flared her nostrils. He gave her a pleading look and stepped forward to greet a couple who’d been looking like they were working up their courage to speak to him. Renée glared at his back.

  Georgia spoke very softly. “Do you think it would be terrible if I told Renée she can go on back to the inn for a nap? She is plumb worn out, bless her heart.”

  “I doubt if anybody would notice. The only person she might possibly offend is Gusta, and she’s got a granddaughter . . .”

  Georgia smiled to show she’d picked up my hint. “Thanks.” She went straight to Renée and put a hand on her shoulder. Renée listened to what Georgia said and gave a relieved nod. Georgia drew her toward the living room arch and spoke in a voice audible from where I stood. “Renée just got back from Paris yesterday in time to drive down here with all of us, because she wanted to be here for this week’s round of events, but she hasn’t gotten her time zones straight yet. Would you mind if she went and took a nap?” She gave a little laugh that implied, “You know how these young women are—no stamina.”

  Gusta reached out and patted Renée’s hand. “You go stretch out on your bed and catch up on your sleep. We’ll take care of your husband.”

  “Thank you.” Renée started out, then grabbed Lance’s elbow and tugged. “I need to talk to you a minute before I go.” He followed her to the porch.

  Georgia moved back into the living room. Conversations dwindled as men watched her walk past with a confident little sway to her hips.

  I talked to a few other people, but I was beginning to feel warm and sticky. Maynard was right—the air-conditioning wasn’t up to that kind of crowd. I headed for the porch, trying to walk like Georgia, but I didn’t hear any conversations stop as I passed.

  The porch was empty except for Hubert, Lance, and Binky, who were leaning against the railing like cronies. Hubert and Binky were both smoking. “Those things have already almost killed you,” I murmured to Hubert as I joined them.

  “You sound like Burlin,” Binky told me. “He’s always on to me about quitting, but I tell him we all need one vice, and this is mine.�
� She slid something into her pocket with her free hand. “Well, Hubert, it’s been good talking to you, but I’d better get back to the party. You coming, Lance?” She stubbed her cigarette out on a small plastic plate and picked the plate up to carry it inside.

  “In a minute.” He craned his neck and peered at the ceiling of the porch. “I wonder if those are the original boards.”

  “Gusta would be proud to tell you they are,” I informed him.

  “Don’t be long,” Binky warned him as he strolled down the porch looking at siding. The front door closed behind her with a click.

  Hubert looked at his cigarette in disgust. “It’s an addiction, Mac. You know that.”

  “Fight it,” I advised. “You’re a grown-up.”

  “I know.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a book of matches. “But see that? I just got ’em this week. Aren’t they pretty? I had ’em printed for my fortieth anniversary celebration next month. Here, Lance,” he added as Lance headed back our way. “Take home a souvenir.”

  The cover was bright cherry red, with SPENCE’S APPLIANCES, HOPEMORE, 40 YEARS dropped out in white. “Thanks.” Lance pocketed it absently, still looking at the ceiling.

  “They are nothing but temptation at my fingertips,” Hubert grumbled, taking out another matchbook and frowning at it. “I keep picking up a few and carrying them around, and whenever I want a smoke, there they are.”

  I reached for it. “Let me relieve you of temptation, then.”

  He snatched it back. “I’m not handing them out in town before the celebration. You can have as many as you want then.”

  “Maybe you ought to advertise on packs of gum instead,” Lance suggested, leaning against the rail again to examine the front of the house.

  “Didn’t think of that.” Hubert took one last puff and tossed his lit cigarette over the rail.

  It landed in the grass with a little flare. “Maynard won’t have to worry about rings on his furniture if you burn the place down,” I told him.

  He huffed, but he trotted out onto the grass and ground the butt under his foot.

  “Not again,” Lance muttered, looking toward the street.

  The homeless man in the gray suit was shuffling past. At the front walk, he paused to give us a jaunty wave. Lance shook his head and made a small, amused sound. “I don’t know if we’re on his circuit or if he’s on ours, but that man has been in almost every town we’ve been in these past two months. He even shows up at some rallies—the ones that give free food. Watch out, or he’ll be mingling with Mrs. Wainwright’s guests.”

  “Not if she sees him, he won’t. Maybe he’s a very loyal supporter.”

  He chuckled. “Registered to vote in every county? I could use some of those.”

  Before I could reply, Hubert shouted, “Hey! Git out of here! Git, you hear me? Git!” He ran across the lawn, arms flailing. “Git out of my barn, too, and stay out. You hear me? Go back where you came from.” Too busy looking at the homeless man to watch where he was going, he tripped over the buffalo’s chain and fell sprawling onto the grass.

  The buffalo gave an angry snort and jerked its head.

  “Hey!” shouted Sarge, the keeper. “Watch where you’re going.”

  Hubert hauled himself to his feet and trotted on across the lawn. The homeless man had stopped at the corner of the lot to watch him. “Git!” Hubert waved his arms.

  He wasn’t getting much reaction from the homeless man, but the buffalo was fascinated. He trotted after Hubert. I guess his chain wasn’t sufficiently anchored, or maybe Hubert had dislodged it, because it came loose and dragged along behind him.

  “Hubert!” I yelled in warning. He looked back, and panic spread all over his face. He started running faster. The buffalo picked up speed.

  “Oh, Lord,” Lance breathed as Hubert dashed toward the street. The buffalo loped after him. Sarge ran after the buffalo. Lance pelted after Sarge.

  Tires squealed. People shouted. I hardly dared to look.

  Hubert was safe on the other side of the street, but the buffalo and a Toyota had collided. Thank goodness, nobody had been going very fast. The buffalo shook its head as if clearing flies. The Toyota’s front end had a buffalo-shaped dent.

  An angry man got out of the car, waving his arms. “Get him out of here,” Lance shouted to Sarge, gesturing at the buffalo. Sarge grabbed the animal’s chain, shaking his free fist at the driver. Lance went to talk to the driver, who was shouting the kind of words I won’t bother to repeat. Your imagination is at least as good as his.

  The homeless man was nowhere to be seen.

  People streamed from Gusta’s party to fill the lawn, discussing what might have happened as if they’d been there. Lance continued to talk to the man in the car. Edward hurried out to join him, and pretty soon he and the driver were both writing something down. I saw Edward motion to Sarge, and he led the poor buffalo to a truck parked down the block.

  Hubert limped to join me, his face redder than a man’s ought to be after a heart attack.

  “That was real smart,” I greeted him. “Just what Gusta expects of her guests. Sit down.”

  He was wheezing in a way I didn’t like. He collapsed into a porch rocker. “Dangnabit, that bum is camping out in my barn, and I can’t get rid of him. Leaves out food to attract mice, uses my woods for a toilet—” He obviously wasn’t planning to discuss the buffalo.

  “How do you know it’s him?”

  He gave me a look that said I didn’t have the sense I was born with. “How many homeless people we got in Hopemore?”

  He had a point. We had poor people, of course, but most of them had relatives somewhere around who could squeeze them in during a financial crisis.

  “Besides,” Hubert said, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his face, “I saw him once. I’ve run down several times trying to surprise him, and once I saw him out on the edge of the woods, but he saw me, too, and scuttled away before I could catch him.” He stopped to do some more wheezing. “How can I sell the place with him hanging around?”

  “Poor Hubert,” I commiserated. “But Lance said the man is following him around, so just wait a week. He’ll leave with the Bullock campaign.”

  Lance mounted the steps as I spoke. He had been looking worried, but now he chuckled. “That’s me, Pied Piper of the Homeless.”

  I liked this fellow. That didn’t mean I would vote for him if he changed parties, mind, but I liked him. He didn’t take himself too seriously, which I always regard as a virtue.

  He pulled out his own handkerchief and wiped his flushed face. “I’d better get back inside and soothe Miss Gusta. We’ve spoiled her nice party.”

  “You’ve made it a success,” I assured him. “She’ll talk about nothing else for days.”

  He sighed. “Maybe so, but it looks like I’m gonna need a lawyer.”

  When he’d left, I asked Hubert, “Have you asked the sheriff to get rid of the man?”

  Hubert gave a snort. “I told Charlie Muggins at our Thursday-night poker game, but you know Charlie. He loves strutting around in his police chief’s uniform, but he sits there and tells me he doesn’t have the manpower to stake out my barn.”

  “It’s not his jurisdiction anyway,” I pointed out. “It’s the sheriff’s.”

  Hubert glowered. “I may take my shotgun, climb up in the loft, and just wait for the fella to show up. Then I’ll blow him to kingdom come.”

  Guests who were returning to the party looked at him oddly.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t. I don’t want you appearing before me on charges of murder. And think how Maynard would feel if his children’s grandfather was in jail for life.”

  “There is that,” he admitted, “but I gotta do something. I’m getting desperate. The Realtor said the last family was pretty interested in the house, but when they got to the barn and saw signs somebody was bedding down, they said they didn’t want to live so far out.”

  “Huh,” I grunted. “Fo
lks want to get away from it all, but once they get half a mile from streetlights, they get antsy.”

  Hubert gave a bitter laugh. “You got that right. Every city slicker’s dream: a private, gated five country acres smack dab in the middle of town.” He rocked a few minutes, then said, “I’ll tell you what, Mac. Do some of that detecting you’re so good at. Sneak up on him, get him to talk to you. Tell him I’ll buy a bus ticket to anywhere he wants to go. One way.”

  Hubert knew I wouldn’t do that, but talking seemed to have helped him let off steam. We were quiet for a spell after that. We’d been neighbors so long, we didn’t need to talk. I don’t know what Hubert was thinking, but I was thinking how terrible it must be not to have a safe place to sleep or a modern bathroom when you needed one.

  Out of the blue, he asked, “Did you see the little lady I was just talking to? Her name’s Abigail, and she’s Burlin Bullock’s sister.” He smoothed his hair, which was a bit thin but still wavy. “She’s coming over to our place for dinner tonight. Would it be proper for me to ask if she’d like to go for a little spin afterwards, to see the sights? Gusta and Pooh generally shut down pretty early—” He was looking at me just like Lulu did when she hoped I had a treat in my hand.

  I didn’t want to spoil his party. On the other hand, I didn’t want Hubert courting Abigail. Hubert wasn’t any older than us, and he had a sizeable bank account. Now that Pooh and Gusta had taken him in hand, he even smelled good. Georgia hadn’t mentioned any romance in Abigail’s life. Had anybody even mentioned her last name? What if she were susceptible and married Hubert? Could I live in Hopemore with the constant threat that Burlin might come back? Was that reason enough to stand in the way of Hubert’s happiness?

  “You’ll have to ask her,” I said.

  Maynard’s phone rang just inside the open window. “I’ll get him,” I heard Maynard say.

  I heard Joe Riddley’s voice. Next thing I knew, he was striding through the door waving me to follow him. “Come on, Little Bit. That was Bethany. The barn’s on fire, and she can’t get either Martha or Ridd.”