Cemetery Silk (5 page)

“Looks great, huh, Mom?”

“I'll say.” Mother stood in the doorway looking like an ad for Ralph Lauren in jeans and chambray shirt with a perky red bandanna around her hair.

“How about some lunch now that you have validated my decor? You are evil, wicked children! At least you had the decency not to slip me another one of those sedatives that dreadful Doctor Morbus ordered.”

“Mother, you look great. And yes, you are as right about decorating as you are about everything else.”

“Thank you, for the compliment, Paisley. At least I think so,” she replied. “Maybe after lunch you will let me convince you that some big weasel has been up to no good. If you promise not to call in the entire medical profession of Rowan Springs or send me to a home for the dim-witted and simple.”

“Really, Mother, that's unfair!” I argued. “I was just worried about you. You were very, very upset.”

“Well, wouldn't you be very, very upset if you had just figured out there was a possibility that some greedy villain might have done away with your dear, sweet cousin so he could abscond with her sick old husband's money?”

“Oh!” Cassie and I said together. We were stunned! Neither of us had thought of that little angle.

“Now, let's go have some lunch,” she said brightly. “You all look exhausted.”

Chapter Five

Mercifully, before playing Sherlock Holmes, Mother let us dive into a scrumptious shrimp salad with homemade mayonnaise, just the tiniest hint of capers, and fresh croissants. I don't know how she did it. Martha Stewart, eat your heart out!

I was just finishing my second helping and planning on a dainty third when the phone rang. Cassie, going on the assumption that no one over thirty ever receives a call and only uses the phone to dial 911, made a mad dash for the hallway. It made me wonder if there was a new love in her life.

“Mom, it's Pam in New York.”

“Thank goodness! Keep your fingers crossed, Mother. God, I hope she was able to negotiate a decent advance on my book.”

I stuffed the last bite of croissant in my mouth and struggled out of my chair. I was certain I had regained those seven pounds.

Pamela Alison Winslow had been my college roommate and was still my best friend. After graduation she had moved to New York, and into the publishing world. With a little help from her very influential family and a lot of her very own brains and talent, she had made quite a name for herself while I was happily filling the role of wife and mother.

After my reason to be a wife vanished into thin air, I called Pam for a job. She had already become the adoring godmother to my bouncing baby girl and hated to see me quit being a “stay at home mom.” It was at her suggestion that I began to write down the bedtime stories that I made up for Cassie. With her help, I had managed to make a successful career. My series of children's books had been in print for the last ten years. For the last couple of years, it had become more difficult for me to come up with ideas. I was out of touch with the younger set. I think they had outgrown me. It was a new generation of children. They all had little toddler computers and video games. They were busy zapping alien attackers from the crab nebulae and hacking into the local credit bureau. I'm sure they could tell I was afraid of them.

Cassie was whispering into the phone and giggling. I practically had to wrestle it away from her. Pam was still chuckling at their private joke when I got on the line.

“Okay, what's so funny?”

“Oh, Paisley, your daughter is wonderful! Why don't you send Cassie up to stay with me for a while? There are some really terrific new dance clubs, and I could take her shopping and.…”

“Yes, I know. And you all could play dress up and go to lots of lovely parties. With any luck you could turn her into a sophisticated, name-dropping, clotheshorse just like someone else we know and love.”

“Darling, that's so unfair! You know I have to keep up a facade of vapid insouciance. It's expected of me.”

I ignored her and continued. “Besides, where am I going to be all this time? Staying in my townhouse all alone hoping you all will drop me a line between chi chi parties? Perhaps bring me a CARE package of left over goat cheese and spinach in phyllo?”

“No, dear, your townhouse has been rented to a client of mine from Paris. You can't go there for nine months, maybe a year.”

“Pam!” Stunned was not exactly the word which described my feelings, maybe nuclear accident or direct asteroid hit, something like that.

“Relax, Paisley. I had an opportunity to make some terrific money for you. And since I knew you would probably really need it, I snagged this Frenchman and his wife and convinced them they should rent a pied-a-terre while his book of naughty but exquisite photographs was being edited. They are accustomed to the ridiculously inflated Parisian economy, so I managed to get them to sign a lease for an indecent amount of money. They also agreed to put a sizable sum up front. How does three months rent plus an even more indecent non-refundable deposit for their cher chien sound?”

“You couldn't unload the manuscript.” My voice sounded squeaky and desperate.

Pam was quiet for a long moment and then answered me.

“Oh, Paisley, I tried. You don't know how hard I tried!”

I believed her. I guess I had really known deep down that the end was near for Bartholomew and Whiskers. Bless their little hearts, I would miss them.

She went on, “But cute little blue-eyed crickets with charming mousy friends just aren't selling like they used to. I'm so sorry, darling.”

“I know, Pam. It's not your fault. It's been getting harder and harder to come up with that crap. I guess it showed.”

“Look, Paisley, you are a gifted writer. I don't know if you started out that way, or it just happened, but you do have talent. Maybe you should try another genre, maybe a nice juicy crime novel, or a travel book about South America. Try to get something together and send it to me. Meanwhile, you have a really decent little bankroll thanks to Monsieur Beau Bucks. Have to go pet. My phone's lit up like a Christmas tree.”

And she was gone.

I hung the phone up slowly. The receiver was wet from my sweaty palm.

Five minutes ago I was an established writer. Now I was a temporary landlord with an uncertain future and no prospects.

I felt shrimp and capers rising sourly at the back of my throat. I swallowed hard and made a conscious decision not to cry. Nevertheless, I felt the hot tears spill over as I came to the sudden realization that Bartholomew and Whiskers were dead, and I was homeless.

“Damn!”

I sat much too hard on the one hundred and fifteen year-old Windsor chair by the desk. Waves of emotion swept through me. At first I was almost overwhelmed by fear and sadness. Then something that seemed vaguely familiar made a timid bid for recognition in my shell-shocked mind. It was something I had not felt in a very long time. I tried hard and out it popped: joy! I had to be insane! But there it was: joy! An infant, a fledgling, born of sudden freedom and challenge. Out with the old, on with the new, “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!”

“Wow!”

I wiped my face on my soft flannel shirtsleeve. It was getting to be a habit. I marched boldly back to the kitchen. Cass and Mother were embroiled in an argument about the best way to load a dishwasher.

“Ahem.” I made my bid for attention.

“Gran, you've never even read the instruction book. How can you be so sure the knives go upside down?”

“Ahemmm!” Louder this time.

“Yes, dear? How is lovely Pamela? Any new girlfriends? Although, I always say the right man.…”

“Mother!”

“Mom, what's wrong? You look really weird.”

Cassie put her hand on my forehead.

“If you all will stop that stupid bickering and sit down, I will tell you what's wrong. I will also tell you what is right, really right, for the first time in a long time.”

And so I told them about the untimely demise of B&W and all their furry friends. Oddly enough, Cassie did not seem too perturbed about the loss of the childhood companions who had buttered her bread for the last decade. She was miffed, however, about the townhouse. She finally confessed that she had invited, unbeknownst to me, several friends to spend a week in Manhattan during Christmas. Then suddenly the light dawned for her.

“Oh, my God! We are going to be poor and homeless bag ladies! No! I'll get a job at K-Mart or the Dairy Queen, and you can return that cashmere sweater I charged for Gran's birthday.”

“A cashmere sweater, for me? How lovely, dear. What color? I do hope it's something I can use. Maybe a nice shade of blue.”

“Quiet!” It was becoming harder for me to stay in control.

“Well, really, Paisley. There's no need to be unladylike. Come, Cassandra, and let's listen to what your mother has to say. It's clear that she is under somewhat of a strain.”

Mother took Cassie by the hand as they sat side by side at the table. They each gave a fair impression of naughty little schoolgirls mocking their teacher.

I clenched my teeth but, I am proud to say, I did not give up my increasingly good humor. I was feeling stronger and more certain of my decision with every passing moment.

“There will be no returning the periwinkle blue cashmere birthday present,” I ordered.

“Oh, goody, I have a silk blouse that.…”

“Mother, please! Cassie, please wipe that ‘deer in the head lights' look off your pretty face. We are not going to be poor if my plan works. Now, Mother, tell me exactly what made you say that Ernest Dibber and Company killed William and/or Abigail. We are writing a crime novel!”

For a moment, they both sat in stunned silence. Then their faces began to unfreeze, and they looked remarkably like sisters—twins in delight and conspiracy. The forty years that separated them were erased.

“Oh, Mom, how absolutely delicious,” breathed Cassie.

Mother let out a smaller but equally important sigh.

“So, you do believe me after all. You don't think I'm ready for Sunny Acres.”

“No, Mother, I don't think you're anywhere near ready for Sunny Acres, but I also don't think you're right about Ernest Dibber.”

“You said you were going to write a novel about Abigail's murder!”

“Right you are, about that, anyway. But I don't think for one minute that Dibber killed Abigail, or William. Ordinary people don't get murdered every day, no matter what you see on television.”

I tried to sound patient and reasonable.

“But.…” She was clearly exasperated with me. Patience and reason had not worked.

“Let me finish, Mother. Just because I don't think Ernest killed anyone doesn't mean I don't think he's the worst kind of sleaze-ball. He set about to con a sick old man out of money, and then he had him baptized to salve his miserable conscience. I get really angry when I think about the job of brainwashing Mr. Creepo Dibber must have done on William. How he must have worked at convincing William that we no longer cared and that he was the only one who did. He was very calculating in the way he stole your inheritance. And worst of all, he let William die feeling alone and abandoned by his family. So, I am going to write a novel about William and Abigail. I will have Ernest kill Abigail, like you imagined, and then force William to leave them all his money.”

“But can you do that, Paisley, dear? I mean is that legal?”

“Of course. I'll make sure all the names are so different that nobody will ever make the connection.”

“Mom, can my name be Fleur, please? I am in the book, right?”

“Yes! We are all in the book as the grieving relatives. And we can choose our names. This has got to be fun or it's not worth doing. Who do you want to be, Mother?”

“Allow me a moment for consideration, please, Paisley.”

She looked up at the ceiling reflectively and counted off the points of her deliberation on her fingertips before she spoke.

“I can't really prove that Ernest Dibber is guilty of anything. If I went to the police with only my suspicions they would laugh in my face. Your writing a best selling novel would be a wonderfully clever way to get our own back. And maybe,” she smiled, “during our investigation you will come around to my point of view. Very well, my dear, you may count me in. As far as names go, Jessica Fletcher has been taken, so how about Milly Tatum?”

I had watched her go through her little litany with amusement. Now she floored me.

“How on earth did you ever come up with that?”

“Never mind,” she grinned.

“Okay, let's call William and Abigail, Will and Abby.”

“Oh, Paisley, now you are playing with fire. Be reasonable. Choose something less similar.”

“Look, the book isn't even on paper yet. Let's just call them that as working names.”

That seemed to appease her.

“Who are you, Mom? I mean, what's your pen name? Try to think of a really tough guy name. Crime novels are usually written by tough guys.”

“Unfortunately, my pet, you're right. How about Leonard Sterling?”

“No Sterling and no DeLeon,” insisted Mother. “That really is too close to home, Paisley.”

“I've got it, Mom: Leonard Paisley!”

“Hooray! Happy Birthday, Leonard Paisley! May you live a long and prosperous life, at least for a three book deal and a TV movie of the week!” I gave Cassie a high five.

“How do we get started?” Cassie asked excitedly. “I know with the children's books you always wrote a story about something that had happened to me. Usually something I did wrong, only you made the cricket do it. By the way, I always hated being a role model for a mischievous cricket. I'm glad he's dead.”

“Slow down, baby. Sorry about comparing you to Bartholomew, but please appreciate he was our bread and butter for ten years. You're right about the way I got into a story. I guess we'll have to find another avenue of approach. Maybe we need to do some research. Mother, does this town still have a library?”

We spent the next day at the George P. Witherspoon Library. We read everything they had on the psychology of the criminal mind and forensic science. That amounted to three books that were at least forty years, and in one case, sixty years old. Cassie broke the spine on that one. Miss Gertrude Houghton, the librarian with a spine at least as old, made me pay to have it repaired. She didn't want it rebound—that would have been too cheap and easy—but hand repaired by some old fogey she knew who charged a small fortune.

I wanted to accuse Miss Gertrude of getting a kickback, but I had been afraid of her when I was a child and nothing had changed. Her frozen eyes still sent chills to my very soul. I meekly paid up, and we filed out of the dusty book lined mausoleum thoroughly cowed. Only the bravest of the brave would dare to borrow a book from that old dragon.

With the idea of restoring our sagging spirits, Mother made us an offer we could not refuse. She directed us to the cozy confines of Ye Olde Tea Shoppe.,

“Well, what now, Mom?”

“If I might offer a suggestion?” The pinky was fully extended as a dainty teacup paused at her lips.

“Please, Mother, when have you ever been stopped from offering anything, especially some more shortbread, and please pass the muscadine jelly.”