Then Hang All the Liars (15 page)
No doubt about it. Laura was a stunner. And so young. What was her relationship with Beau? Should she warn her about him?
None,
she said to herself firmly,
of your business.
Besides, you heard her dealing with Miranda Burkett. She's no more helpless than Jane Wildwood.
They sure built girls tougher these days. Was it something in the water?
Speaking of tough, down the stairs marched Emily Edwards. With herself firmly in hand.
“I am
so
sorry, Sam. You must excuse me. I'm sure you must think me a silly old woman. I took Felicity up the back way, gave her a sedative, and put her to bed.”
“Anyone would be rattled.”
“
Anyone
might. But not Colonel Emily Edwards. It is not in my nature to be a quivering fool.”
“Don't be so tough on yourself. I'm glad I was here. Now how can I help you?”
But Emily couldn't quite stop yet. “If I could survive the Japanese, you'd think I could deal with this little
contretemps
.”
Gently, she said, “That was a long time ago.”
“You're right. And I
am
getting to be an old woman. I guess I just don't have the strength I used to. This business is wearing me down.”
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Come with me.” Emily's grasp on her arm was firm as she led Sam toward the back door. “I want you to take this puppy for me and have it autopsied.”
“Do
what,
Emily?”
“I know it sounds strange, but something crazy is going on here, and by God, I'm going to get to the bottom of it.” As they walked through the house, she told Sam about Felicity finding the Gold Bricks and the doll.
“
Now
this ridiculous card and my little dog. I shouldn't say it, but I think Randolph Percy has something to do with this.” She stopped. “If anything else happens to my dogs, there's going to be
hell
to pay.”
Sam agreed. “I'd kill anyone who hurt Harpo.”
“Of course you would. Now, do you think Beau Talbot will do this if you ask him? I know it's out of the ordinary, but I do think someone maliciously murdered this puppy, and I want the best opinion on it.”
“The last time I spoke with Beau, he was autopsying a pig, Emily. A puppy'll be a snap.”
*
“You're kidding!”
“I'm not. He's right here in my purse.”
Beau looked up and down the hall outside his office. “You've got a dead puppy in your purse?”
“In a plastic bag.”
“Jesus!”
“So you'll do it?”
“These laboratory facilities are state of the art, Sammy. Better than the FBI's.”
“I've heard this spiel before. You took me on the tour. I saw you lift prints off bed sheets. Catch embezzlers by the lint on their copying machine screens. All the miracles of modern-day crime busting.”
“I'm merely pointing out that crime lab is not here just for your convenience. Or for dealing with your friends' dead dogs.”
“One dog. Singular. Belonging to a friend of your mother's.” She handed him the bag. “One tiny puppy.”
“Why am I doing this?”
“Because you owe me.”
“I don't owe you.”
“You'll owe me till death. Till they stab you with a silver stake through the heart.”
“I hate it when you're like this.”
She grinned. She loved it. “Listen, I've gotta run. Date with a stripper I'm fixing Hoke up with.”
“What about
me
?”
“What
about
you? ASAP with the puppy, okay? I'll call you later this afternoon.”
*
“Great stuff in Savannah with the bus, the pig, right? I knew you'd bring home the bacon,” Hoke shot out of the side of his mouth. The other side was still on the phone. A cigarette took the middle ground.
“That's the worst pun I ever heard.”
“Give us a kiss.”
“I brought you something better.”
“What?”
“Hurry up and finish.” She turned.
“Don't you walk out of here!”
“Who's gonna stop me? Your assistant?”
“She's gone.” He shrugged and added, “Lois.”
Sam threw up her hands and left, closing the door just a little harder than she meant to.
“He'll be half a second,” she said to Jane, who was waiting outside the door.
She was right.
“What the hell do you mean, walking out of my office like that?” He spotted Jane. “Oh, hello.”
The redhead didn't wiggle a whisker.
“I walk out of your office almost every day.”
“But not slamming the door,” he said and smiled sweetly, anxious to change the subject. “Who's your pretty friend?”
“Jane Wildwood.”
“I'm Hoke Toliver.”
They shook hands.
“I know who you are.”
“You do!”
Hoke's chest puffed up like a pigeon's. He was a pigeon.
“Like I said, Hoke, I'm not doing the Savannah story. It's not news. It's local color.”
“Why, that's fine, Sam. Whatever you think. I trust your judgment. Now. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Miss Wildwood?”
“I'm taking her over to Simmons and Lee. She's looking for a job.”
“A job! You're aâ¦ahâ¦?”
Hoke couldn't take his eyes off Jane, her short black leather skirt, and the tight white turtleneck that loved her considerable bosom.
Secretary.
Sam could feel him willing Jane to say the word.
“Poet.” Jane smiled. “And I dance.”
“Dance!” Hoke clapped his hands together. “Isn't that wonderful?”
“She doesn't do both at the same time.”
“Oh, I bet she could if she wanted to. She looks awfully talented.”
“You're making an ass of yourself, Hoke.”
“Would you like a job here, Miss Wildwood?”
Jane shifted her gum like the managing editor of a major metropolitan newspaper offered her a job every day.
“Doing what?”
“As my assistant. I mean, to begin with.”
It was amazing how Hoke could put a fresh spin on the line each time. As if he didn't say it to all the girls.
“I'm sure you'd move up quickly. Exciting game, the newspaper business.”
“She can't type.”
“Good.”
“She doesn't get coffee.”
“Perfect.”
“She doesn't speak English.”
“Swell.”
“You got it.” Sam smiled at the girl. “Now would you excuse us for a minute, Hoke?”
“I'll be in my office when you're finished. Then you'll come on in, Jane.
Jane
.”
He lifted his eyes to the heavens. “What an extraordinary name.”
“He's always like that?” the redhead asked when the door closed.
“Nope. Sometimes he's worse. Just let him lick your ankle once in a while and you could end up publisher.”
“I can handle it.”
“Didn't doubt that for a second. Now,” she said and put her hands flat on the desk, “when do I get mine?”
Jane really did have a great smile when she chose to use it. “I
do
appreciate this,” she was saying while reaching into the world's largest bag. It probably held her entire wardrobe, though from what Sam had seen her wear so far, she'd need only a Baggie. Now Jane was holding out a piece of paper.
“I told you I could type.”
“Only a little joke. So what's this?”
“The names and phone numbers of the girls you're looking for. And the best I can do on the owners. I think they're just fronts, though. Somebody else behind it.”
“You are something, Wildwood.”
“I try.” She leaned back in her chair, trying unsuccessfully not to look smug.
Sam ran down the list of names. It was worse than she thought. Warren. Woodward. Delany. Graham. Teetor. MacNeil. Mitchell. Poor. Stewart.
And
Burkett. Blood ran no bluer.
Jane was watching her. “So now what?”
Sam rubbed her brow with the back of her hand and sat down. “All of a sudden I feel like I got hit with a bag of shit.”
“But that's what you wanted.”
“I know it's what I wanted. It's exactly what I wanted. What I was willing to cut short my trip to the beach and bring you here for. Get you this job. And nowâ”
And now, though Charlie had told her from the very beginning what she was going to find, she really hadn't thought about what it was going to mean when she held a list of names she'd known all her life. Add a few more and she'd have an invitation list for a party. These were the children, younger sisters of people she'd gone to school with. They'd grown up next door.
“Hmmmmm.” Jane's mouth stretched tight, tucked in at the corners.
“What?”
“They didn't teach us this in school. You have an obligation to write everything you dig up?”
“Of course not. Lots of things aren't worth printing.”
“And this one?”
“I don't know.” Sam stood and took a little stroll around the desk while the professional in her scratched at an itch. “If I
really
wanted it bad, you could get me inside, right? Inside the action?”
“Right.”
“I could get pictures with a camera hidden in my bag.”
“Sure.”
“I could catch the bastards with their pants down. Literally.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And ruin these young girls' lives.”
A feature writer who'd not spoken to Sam since she'd come on staff slowed as he caught sight of Jane and then came to a complete halt.
“Hi, Sam. How's it going?”
“You're wasting your time,” she said and pointed at Jane. “He's a transvestite.”
“Let me ask you something.” Jane leaned across the desk without a blink as the man stomped on.
“What?” She was already getting a little cranky at being asked hard questions by this girl whom she'd brought on staff only four minutes ago.
“What if the names on that list were all girls like me? From Nowhere, Florida? Grits? White trash? Would you be as hesitant about blowing the whistle? Wouldn't you just jump on the story like fresh meat?”
Sam's lips pursed to one side of her mouth and she stared off into the distance. Jane definitely had a point. Was she hesitating because of elitism? Was she toying with professional ethics because she was a snob?
“It's an interesting question.”
“And the answer?”
“I don't know. I honestly don't.” She ran a hand through her short dark curls. She stabbed the list with her finger. “This is gonna break their parents' hearts. But if I sit on it, not only have I compromised myself, but the crap keeps going on.”
“So?”
Sam stopped pacing and leaned close in to Jane. “What any belle would do. Sleep on it. Think about it tomorrow.”
“I have a suggestion. I'd call Miranda Burkett's mother.”
Sam straightened. “I beg your fucking pardon.”
“You know her?”
“No.”
“Call her.”
“Do
you
know her?”
“Sort of.”
“What are you telling me?”
“This isn't part of our bargain.”
“Jesus Christ, Wildwood.”
“You need a quarter?”
*
The woman who answered the phone spoke with a French accent.
“No, Madame Burkett is not at home.”
“When do you expect her?”
“Not for some time.”
“Is she in Atlanta?”
“No, madame.”
“Then she's away?”
“Yes, madame.” But there was a little bobble there.
Sort
of away.
“Then do you mind telling me where I might reach her?”
