Admit One (18 page)

“Now honey, you know better than that.”     

“I didn’t find anything.” This time she didn’t have to feign being annoyed. “Well, in the attic anyway.” Although come to think of it, she had brought down a box, which she’d sat somewhere and forgotten. The library, maybe? She’d have to look when she got home. “I did learn some interesting details of Eugene’s life from the book I checked out – and even more from one I found in Dad’s collection – though I’m not sure how that would help you.”

“Humor me.”

“Well, apparently Eugene – and he was really more of an uncle than a cousin, as he was the oldest son of Dellis Hawbaker and heir to River Oaks. However, he was involved in some sort of family disagreement or scandal – the book wasn’t specific – for which his father threatened to not only disinherit but disown him. Right about that time the war broke out, and as I mentioned before, Eugene was killed in the Raid at Combahee Ferry. Word was that his father had yet to forgive him for his previous transgression, whatever that was, and that’s why he’s buried in the cemetery behind the old church with some other assorted Hawbaker cousins, rather than here in the family plot. His younger brother, our many times great grandfather, who was little more than a child at the time, ended up inheriting. It also seems that Eugene would have been left where he’d fallen in battle – to be buried in a communal grave, more than likely, which was the common practice for that time – were it not for a particular friend of his, a fellow soldier, who brought his remains home to be interred.”

“Huh. I don’t recall hearing that particular story as a child.”

“Nor had I, which is why – or one of the reasons anyway – I found it so interesting. If Eugene had lived, and reconciled with his father, you and I likely wouldn’t be finding ways to get on each other’s nerves under the same roof.”

“Or we’d be getting on each other’s nerves under a roof that covered a lot less square footage.”

“Perish the thought.”

Will grinned, then tapped his foot as he studied the ceiling. “You’re right. I’m not sure how that helps me. Not yet, anyway.”

“You think this was something other than an overzealous entrepreneur collecting grave dirt?”

“I think this was something,” Will agreed. “But damned if I can figure out what. What were you hoping to find in the attic?” 

“I don’t know.” Allie shrugged. “Journals, letters, personal effects. I have to admit to being insanely curious as to what sort of disagreement or scandal prompted such a huge rift between father and son. By all accounts, Eugene was an upstanding southern gentleman and the apple of his daddy’s eye.”

“Well.” Will scratched his chin. “Fine, upstanding gentlemen are often as not the ones you need to watch out for. Thanks for the information, Al.”

“Sure. Don’t forget to stop in and see Josie before you leave.”

“Do I look stupid?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

When he had his hand on the knob, Will glanced back at her over his shoulder. “You know you can come to me anytime, Allie, don’t you? About anything at all.”

Allie had to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. “Of course I do. You might be a fly, but you’re my fly.”

He squinted in concentration. “I’m sure that made sense to you. By the way, I bumped into Mason outside, poking around your car, and he mentioned that you need a new battery.  I called Beecher over at the Auto Spa and he’s delivering one sometime before noon.”

Allie could only shake her head. At least he hadn’t asked her about Alan. “Thank you.”

When he winked and walked out the door, Allie reminded herself that for all his high-handedness, her brother acted out of love.

The door opened again, and Sarah bustled in, feminine and colorful as the basket full of flowers she carried in one hand. Allie was just relieved that it wasn’t a platoon of Marines, but she guessed whatever higher power was having a little joke at her expense thought that might be pushing it.

“Good morning,” Sarah said, opening a file cabinet drawer with the toe of her sandal, dropping her purse inside, and then sitting the steaming cup of tea she carried in her other hand directly in front of Allie. “Coconut green,” she said. “It’s new. Tell me what you think.”

Allie blew across the cup and took a cautious sip. “It’s good. Really good.”

“Then we’ll stock it for the summer. I think it will do well iced, too. And now that that’s out of the way…” She sat the basket on the desk beside the tea.

“Pretty.” Allie leaned over and inhaled the delicate fragrance of the cheerful bouquet of yellow gerbera daisies combined with baby’s breath. “Did you take these from the garden?”

“No, I took these from the florist who just delivered them to the front door.”

When Allie glanced up, Sarah slid a little white envelope across the desk. “For you.”

“Me?” Allie looked down at her name scrawled across the paper. Curiosity followed surprise, along with a subtle glow of pleasure.

“Will you open it already? We’ve got a betting pool out there to settle.”

Allie slapped the card down on the desk. “People are placing bets on who sent me flowers?”

“The safe bet is obviously Mason, though Imogene Tuttle did mention as how she saw you sitting awfully close to Alan Barger in his truck last night.”

“Imogene Tuttle is blind as twelve bats. I was not sitting… Oh, shut up,” Allie said when she noted the light in Sarah’s eyes. “Branson, that darling little pot-stirrer, told you that Alan gave me a ride to the theater. I probably should have strangled him with an umbilical cord in the womb. There’s no pool.”

Sarah shrugged. “Well, there could be. What with you being the belle of the town and all.”

Allie narrowed her eyes, and then slid her fingernail under the flap of the envelope. “That better not have been a Disney reference.”

Unfazed by Allie’s glare, Sarah considered. “Well, we know that Wesley is Gaston, but would that make Mason or Alan the Beast?”

“Neither, because I am
not…
” Her voice trailed off as she read the card.

“What?” Sarah said. “Allie? What is it?” She reached across the desk and snatched the card from Allie’s suddenly limp fingers. Confusion colored her features, but then disbelief brought the stain of anger to her cheeks. “Oh my God.”

She raised her eyes, burning green. “That bastard. It’s him, isn’t it? Wesley? How did he find out?”

“I told him.” Allie’s voice sounded artificial, like the tinny, distorted echo of a child’s toy to her own ears. She cleared her throat. “Or I told him enough, anyway. The other night, just before Mason hit him. He asked if I remembered how it used to be between us and I… told him. Out of spite, I guess.” Or the hurt that she’d never quite managed to entirely put away. “Maybe this is his way of getting back at me. For not telling him. Or for causing him public embarrassment. That would likely concern him more.”

“Well then he’s a cold, soulless sonofabitch. Allie. Honey.” She tucked the card away somewhere, where Allie couldn’t see it. “I’m so sorry. I know that’s inadequate for something like this but…” she took both Allie’s hands in her own. Strangely enough, Allie couldn’t feel them. She couldn’t seem to feel much of anything.

“Do you want me to help you kill him?” Sarah said. “I know lots of places we can hide the body.”

That startled Allie enough that she almost smiled. “You would, too, wouldn’t you?”

“In a New York minute.”

Allie squeezed her best friend’s hands. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid it won’t be necessary.  If there were ever any doubts in my mind with regards to Wesley, this resolved them. He’s not worth even one more minute of my time, let alone twenty years to life.”

Sarah searched Allie’s face, and finally seemed satisfied by what she saw there. “Okay. But if you change your mind, let me know.”

She reached for the bouquet as she stood up. “I’ll dispose of this.”

“Wait,” Allie said, stopping her. She filled her lungs with air, though the scent of the flowers threatened to choke her. “Leave it. They’re lovely, and I know just what to do with them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Thank you for the sentiment, but yes. I’ll handle it.”

Sarah looked like she wanted to argue, but finally nodded. “Fine. But if that bastard ever shows his skinny little ass in here, I’m putting Visine in his coffee.”

“Deal,” Allie agreed with the ghost of another smile.

“Allie? I love you.”

She had to squeeze the words out through her thickened throat. “I love you, too.”

When Sarah had gone, Allie realized that though she’d left the flowers, she had taken the card that had accompanied them with her.

But Allie didn’t need to look at it to remember what it had said.

“I
can’t believe I got suckered into this,” Tucker complained as he lumbered along beside Mason. “I look like I’m running a freaking doggy daycare.”

“Crash seems to be enjoying the company,” Mason observed, as he watched the animal’s halting progress down the sidewalk in the company of Sarah’s brother’s dog, Bark. “Although I might suggest, if I may, that you take the lead when it comes time to name your offspring. Sarah’s family tends to be singularly
obvious
in that department.”

Tucker arched a brow. “You’re not poking fun at my dog’s name, now are you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. And besides, it saves one from having to explain why it is that he walks with a limp.”

He stopped, eye caught by something in the shop window they were about to pass. The display featured a lovely mahogany sideboard – Georgian, if he wasn’t mistaken – set with what looked to be a Victorian Limoges tea and coffee set in black and white, whimsical black and white polka-dotted napkins, and palmetto fronds spraying forth from a very contemporary white blown glass vase. The look was eclectic, but striking. What really interested him, however, was the necklace arranged artfully on one of the napkins. A miniature teacup and saucer were suspended from a delicate gold chain.

He knew just whose neck it should adorn.

“No,” Tucker said firmly, before Mason could even open his mouth. “I am not waiting outside while you browse another antique store.”

“You could tie the dogs up and come inside with me. One of them is practically lame and the other seems to be the world’s first canine/snail crossbreed. I don’t think there’s any threat of them running away.”

“No.”

“I believe,” Mason said placidly as he peered through the glass, “there is a case of exquisite looking books in the back. Wasn’t Sarah just commenting the other evening on the illustrated volume of fairy tales you purchased when you were wooing her?”

“I’ve never
wooed
anyone in my life.”

“My mistake. Very well, then. You can go on without me. I see something that I’d like to purchase for Allison.”

“Because you’re wooing her?”

“I could,” Mason suggested, “simply club her over the head, but not all of us were lucky enough to have our caveman DNA remain completely unadulterated.”

Tucker scowled, but then sighed. “Shit.
Help me tie the hounds to this bench.” He muttered something about
British dandies
which Mason ignored. Tucker had always been a sore loser.

After the dogs were secured, they strolled into the cooler air of the shop. Refined without being pretentious, the furnishings and accessories were that casual mix of old world elegance and farmhouse comfort that Mason was beginning to associate with the American south.  The scents of oranges and vanilla wafted through air stirred by slowly rotating palm frond fans, while plantation-style shutters held the bright afternoon sun at bay.

The most eye-catching feature, however, was the extremely well packaged, candy-coated blonde, who looked particularly pleased to see them.  

“My
,
my. Two for the price of one. And here I was, unaware that happy hour was starting early.”

Tucker muttered something far more offensive under his breath, and Mason took a moment to place the woman’s face.

Victoria Hawbaker.

He hadn’t run into Allison’s ex-sister-in-law since he’d been back in Sweetwater, and quite frankly had forgotten not only that she owned a shop of this sort, but indeed her very existence. Upon seeing her again, he marveled as to how that could be, considering she was the type of woman most men – or other women, for that matter – didn’t forget easily. She had the breathless, slightly dim air Mason often associated with Marilyn Monroe’s public image, but one look at her eyes disabused him of any further notions of that ilk.

Her eyes, though an undeniably lovely shade of green, were the patient, hungry eyes of a predator.

She came from around an elaborate desk, somehow managing to exude cool professionalism while looking like sex on a stick.

Victoria Hawbaker was beautiful and gracious, charisma oozing from her perfect pores.  And all of it was artifice.  It was rather horribly like looking in a mirror, gender reversed.  

Victoria angled her body – aimed it, really, exactly like the weapon it was – toward Mason, apparently having marked him as the easier target for her charms.