The Clouds Roll Away (23 page)

“Tina,” she said. “Gimme a minute.”

Tina shook a fresh smoke from the pack and walked into the next room. She passed by her grandfather without acknowledgment, even though Burl Ives insisted somebody waits for you.

“I'm mighty scared of getting old,” Angela Crell said, lighting a cigarette. “You got kids?”

“No kids,” I said.

“You married?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Boyfriend?”

I shook my head.

“You're single?”

I gave my official smile, not wanting to explain, not to somebody who was about to find out what paternal death felt like. The simple truth was, after my father died I never wanted to feel that sad again. Loneliness hurt less than lost love.

“Okay, you're not here for that.” She took a drag, blowing it out. “What do you want to know?”

“Does the Klan get tattoos?”

“What kind?”

“Tattoos that say KKK.”

“You must really think they're morons.” She blew out the smoke, laughing bitterly. “Only a moron would do something like that. Besides, they're mostly Baptists. They think tattoos are a big sin. I had a guy tell me nobody was getting through the gates of heaven with ink on their body. So no tattoos with KKK. If you don't believe me, go check my daddy's body.”

I let the goading jab pass. The damaged condition of the men in the trees made it difficult to guess their ages. But they weren't old.

“The new guys you mentioned,” I said. “Do they get tattoos?”

“Where'd you see this?” she asked.

“I can't say.”

“But you saw tattoos that said KKK?”

I didn't reply.

She shrugged. “Anything's possible. The young guys are different.”

“How so?”

“For one, they don't drag God into the mix,” she said.

“They just don't like black people.”

“Or Jews or Catholics or Mexicans or the Chinese Commies. Did I leave anybody out? Oh yeah. Muslims,” she said. “And they've got money. That's probably why they don't talk about God.”

“How's that?” I asked.

“If you've got more money than God, who needs religion?”

“They're that rich?” I said.

She gave me a skeptical look, an expression that resembled her usual hard countenance, only mathematically squared. “I told you. If you want absolute facts, all I can give is measurements from shoulder to wrist. The rest just comes from what I hear, what I see, what I pick up.”

“But you're certain they have money?”

“One of them does. I mean, he didn't come right out and say, ‘I'm loaded,' but when I was taking his measurements he was talking with his buddy. After a while, they forget I'm there, like I'm the cleaning lady or something.”

“What did he say?”

“He was talking about his honeymoon, listing all the places they were going. His buddy says, ‘Man, that's a lot of places for one honeymoon.' And the guy says, ‘Yeah, well, we've got three months.' I almost swallowed my pins. Three months—for a honeymoon! After that, I didn't hear nothing. All I could think was, ‘You dummy, Angela. You should've married yourself a rich guy when you still had some looks.'”

DeMott's pickup was parked beneath an oak tree on the plantation's side lawn. Both doors were open but nobody was inside; as I came closer, I saw brown twine running from the steel cleats in the truck bed up into the old tree. The string bobbed and DeMott came around the side wearing a harness secured to the tree trunk, his spiked cleats biting into the bark. He was humming until he looked down.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He dropped the ball of twine, letting it bounce on the winter grass, and unbuckled the harness. With both hands he grabbed a tree limb and dangled, dropping himself into the truck bed, then hopped off the tailgate. He stared at me, the light in his blue eyes making me nervous. I thought he might open his arms. What scared me more was that I wanted to fall into them.

“What happened?” he said.

I glanced at the big house, waiting for words to speak. Thick clouds were blowing in from the bay, obscuring the sun. The mansion's wavy antique glass windows looked dark as slate.

“Where is everybody?” I asked.

“Let's see. Jillian and Mac went to some spa with the brigade of bridesmaids, my mom drove into Richmond to nag the wedding planner in person, and my dad's probably trying to find a loan to cover expenses.” He pointed up to the tree. “And I'm hanging lanterns by order of the princess. It's her way of saving Dad money.”

“Where are they going for their honeymoon?” I asked.

“Where aren't they going? Rome, Portugal, Paris. I think Tunisia's on the agenda.”

“How long will they be gone?”

“A few months.”

“Is Stuart around?” I asked.

He stared at me. “Stuart.”

“Yes. Is he here?”

He pulled off his work gloves. The golden suede was worn, blackened around the fingers. “Why do you want to talk to Stuart?”

“Please don't make me say I can't tell you.”

“He's not here. Mac ordered him gone until the wedding. She's superstitious.”

“Where is he then?”

“Home, I suppose.”

“In Richmond?”

DeMott brushed the work gloves against his jeans. He looked down and a section of his golden brown hair fell over his forehead. When he lifted his head, flicking the hair from his eyes, I couldn't read his expression.

“It's urgent, DeMott. Can you at least give me an address?”

“It won't do you any good,” he said.

“I can find it.”

“I'm sure you can,” he said. “But you'd never get past the guards.”

chapter twenty-nine

O
ne of America's best-kept secrets was an hour east of Washington, two hours north of Richmond, and a world away from struggle.

Upperville, Virginia, looked like an English village on the cusp of the industrial revolution. The main road divided its painted clapboard stores with their quaint wooden signs. Beyond that, tender valleys rolled into horse country, disguising the ambitions of its residents. They were CEOs of multinational conglomerates and owners of NFL teams. Venture capitalists with computer systems raking in billions. In fact, Upperville had so many powerful residents that the late Paul Mellon managed to blend in on a horse farm that produced a Triple Crown winner.

Adding to the rarefied atmosphere, an evening gloaming filled the sky, casting the clouds into lavender gray. A light snow fell like sparkling ice.

“You've heard the poem?” DeMott said.

I looked over. I'd offered to follow his truck up here, but he insisted we needed to talk. I changed clothes at the carriage house and left the K-Car because civilians were banned from Bureau vehicles—and because his Ford truck was a much better ride. But after insisting we needed to talk, he was silent for most of the drive. And I didn't mind. I was busy mulling over facts and speculation.

“What poem?” I said.

“The one about Upperville,” he said.

“You read poetry?” I said.

“Someday you're going to realize you don't know everything about me.” He grinned. I looked out the window, unable to tell him I was already coming to that point.

He drove through the glittery snow to Delaplane Grade Road. The bare trees filamented darkening hills, the tangled limbs an amethyst felt.

“There it is,” DeMott said.

Down in the valley, the white stone mansion with a copper roof looked airlifted from the British countryside and was encircled by a quarter-mile driveway. Another long spur linked the various outbuildings, each larger than my carriage house.

“Morgan Manor,” he said. “When I say old money, think geologic time. This is Jurassic wealth.”

He turned into a cleft of the hills and stopped at a gated house. The young man who stepped from the lower portion donned a black riding hat, the kind worn by English cabbies in the 1800s. It matched his black trousers and cape.

DeMott leaned out his window. “Hey, Barry,” he said. “How you been?”

“Fine, Mr. Fielding,” he said. “I don't see your name on the list. Was they expecting you tonight?”

“No, I'm just dropping in to say hi.”

The sparkling snow dusted his top hat. With his simple face and clear eyes, he looked like a bit player in a Dickens drama. Some hardscrabble youth who worked long hours on the estate, then went to quaff an ale in the tavern before shuffling home to his grubby garret.

He also looked concerned, casting his eyes over DeMott's flannel shirt.

“You know it's dinnertime, right?” he said.

“I bet I can steal a biscuit off the table before they notice.”

“Ah, Mr. Fielding.” Barry restrained a grin.

“I just wanted to surprise Stuart.” He leaned out a little farther. “You know, something before the wedding?”

Barry shifted his head, taking a quick glance at me. He looked back at DeMott, still doubtful.

“Promise not to get me in trouble?” Barry said.

“Promise.”

He turned and walked inside the guardhouse. Moments later the black iron gates opened, dividing a double
M
soldered to the bars. Along the driveway, white Christmas lights blinked on, delicate pinpricks punctuating the hedges.

Waving to the guard, DeMott drove through the gate.

The Morgans were not, in fact, eating dinner. The butler escorted us from the imposing front entrance flanked with Greek statuary to a wood-paneled library where a fire blazed in the fieldstone hearth. Announcing our arrival, the dry wood crackling, the butler said, “Mr. Fielding and a Miss Harmon.”

Like the guard at the gate, the butler wore antiquated formal clothing. Gray striped trousers, black waistcoat, tails, all of it ready for Grosvenor Square. The four people sitting in the library were also dressed formally. A middle-aged woman faced the fire from a deep red couch embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis. An elderly gentleman sat beside her, wearing a moth-eaten uniform, and the teenager who stood next to the fire squinted his eyes at DeMott, as if trying hard to remember something. Or to forget.

A middle-aged man, short, smiling, walked across the Persian rug and extended his hand. I suddenly remembered his face from Mac's party last week. He had stood next to the stage during the toast. His teeth were too large for his face.

“Marshall Morgan.” He shook my hand, then turned to DeMott. “You're not dressed for dinner, but I can get you a jacket.

And I'm sure something for your friend.” He glanced sidelong at my slacks. Nice slacks too.

“Thank you,” DeMott said. “I just stopped by to see Stuart for a moment.”

“He's not here.” It was the woman, raising her voice. She was pretty and plump and large-breasted so that her lovely clothes gave her the trussed-up appearance of the Christmas bird. “He's gone hunting with his cousin Jackson.”

“Hunting!” exclaimed the old man. “Bringing us some bear!”

She placed a dainty hand on his arm, where the gray uniform was worn thin. “Father, please.”

“Indians, they like to eat the heart first,” the old man continued, as though she'd begged him to continue. “Say it gives a soldier courage. That's why I don't mind fighting with this Injun.” He nodded at the youth by the fire. “He's a brave one. More like him, and we might stop McClellan.”

Mr. Morgan turned toward me, weighing my reaction to the old man and swirling the drink in his hand. It released the steeped scent of hundred-year-old casks. “As I was saying, they've gone hunting.”

“When do you expect him back?” DeMott asked.

“I'm surprised he's not home already. They left yesterday and planned to spend the night in the woods. Stuart's usually home before dinner the next night. So he's late. Perhaps they're staying out longer because he's about to become an honest man.” He showed his large teeth.

“Renegades!” the old man shouted.

“Father, stop,” said the woman.

“Throw 'em in the brig!”

“You're upsetting Barky,” she insisted.

Barky was apparently the young man, because they all turned to stare at him, including DeMott. His red hair was tangled in wiry nests of copper. His black tie showed Big Bird and Elmo from Sesame Street. And he was still squinting at DeMott as he said, “You are the brother of MacKenna.”

“Oh, very good,” said the woman, smiling. “That's very good.”

He smiled, looking relieved. Only the left side of his freckled face moved. The right side was stiff, like molded plastic. “He was him before, I knew that.”

“And he's going to be your brother-in-law,” she said.

He looked confused. “My what?”

Mr. Morgan drew a deep breath. “DeMott, would you like me to tell Stuart you stopped by?”