Tressed to Kill (7 page)

Chapter Seven

[Saturday]

I HAD A LOT TO THINK ABOUT THE NEXT MORNING as I got ready for Constance’s viewing. Not owning anything black, I donned a forest green shirtwaist dress in a fluid cotton-rayon blend. Big gold buttons marched from collar to hem, which might have been too festive for a viewing, but it was my best option. I cinched it at the waist with the wide, black belt Vonda gave me two Christmases back and slipped on matching sandals. No hose. It was just too hot. Taking a little extra time with my hair, I French-braided it, tucking the ends under. Off my neck, it would be cooler.
Mom was waiting on the veranda when I arrived. Wearing a navy pantsuit with a black shell underneath, she was appropriately funereal, although the suit’s boxy cut made her look stockier than usual. She greeted me with a hug, and we set off on foot for the Fagin-Jones mortuary, around the corner from Bedford Square. We walked in silence and stepped into the ultracool lobby of the funeral home with a sigh of relief. Even at nine, the humidity was building, and angry clouds promised a storm before day’s end. A somberly dressed man, Aaron Fagin, who had given an oral report on embalming techniques when we were in the eighth grade, ushered us to the room where Constance DuBois reclined in a coffin surrounded by banks of flowers. The cloying scent of lilies pervaded the room, and I sneezed, drawing several people’s heads around.
While my mom signed the guest book, I took in the crowd. Simone stood near the coffin, a slim figure in a black suit with a peplum and a small hat with a wisp of veil. Her brother Philip, who I always thought looked like a praying mantis with his biggish head and stick-thin limbs, stood beside her, his arm around a petite blonde I recognized as his wife, Susan. A handsome man I didn’t know stood on Simone’s left, a proprietary hand at the small of her back. He was tall, about six-two, and had bronzy gold hair that had been razor cut by an excellent stylist. His black suit seemed equally expensive, draping across his broad shoulders and chest with a fluidity you didn’t find in cheap wools. I wondered who he was . . . maybe a boyfriend of Simone’s from New York?
I spotted many of the town’s leading citizens and members of the various committees Constance had served on. The bank’s board of directors and employees were there in force, as well, the former wearing expensive dark suits and a collective air of consequence, the latter huddled together by the coffee urn, ill at ease and sneaking glances at their watches. Althea wasn’t there—she’d said she wasn’t a hypocrite—and I knew Rachel had a family commitment, but I spotted Stella as she came through the door behind two older women. She wore a black chiffon dress with a black straw picture hat and looked willowy and elegant with her auburn hair pulled into a chignon.
“You look nice,” I greeted her.
She smiled her thanks and scanned the room. “Everyone who is anyone in St. Elizabeth is here, aren’t they? Well, Constance was one of the town’s most prominent citizens.”
Even if not the most beloved. We made our way to the front of the room to pay our respects to Simone and Philip as Mom joined a knot of people I recognized as SODS. She had told me earlier that she was going to keep a low profile, not wanting to upset Simone after the scene at Violetta’s on Thursday, so I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t join us in the receiving line. Stella murmured, “So sorry,” as we shook hands with Simone and her escort. Simone thanked her and shot me a dagger glance.
“I’m praying for you and your family in your time of grief,” I told her. I was. I could see I’d startled her because she opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Finally, she said, “This is Greg Hutchinson, my fiancé.” She patted the blond man’s arm and looked up at him adoringly.
Only then did I notice the large diamond solitaire on her ring finger. Had it been there when she was at the salon on Wednesday or Thursday? I didn’t remember seeing it, and I think I would have noticed because it was at least a carat and a half and sparkled like a Fourth of July fireworks display was trapped in the gem.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand. His grip was firm and his nails buffed. “I’m looking forward to getting to know all of Simone’s friends.”
Simone almost gagged but had the grace not to point out that we were hardly friends.
“Are you from around here?” I asked.
“I met Simone in New York,” he said, squeezing her waist.
“Well, I wish you both happiness,” I said, letting myself be pushed along by the press of people waiting to offer Simone their condolences. I felt weird offering condolences one minute and congratulations the next. Telling Philip how sorry I was about his mother, I found myself alongside the coffin. Clad in an oyster-colored silk suit, her personality air-brushed away, and her hair a deeper blonde than usual and stiffly coiffed, Constance didn’t look like she was sleeping or at peace; she looked fake, a macabre Funeral Barbie. I didn’t envy the mortuary assistant who’d had to dye her hair to get rid of the orange. Or maybe they’d used some kind of spray-on product. I leaned over the gleaming casket to get a better look.
“Lose something, darlin’?” a familiar voice drawled in my ear.
I jumped. “My sense of humor.”
I sidled away from Del Richardson, who was pressing in close, breathing coffee breath on me. He followed me toward the refreshment table. Today’s Stetson was black, for the funeral maybe, or possibly because it fit his villainous personality.
“I can’t believe you told the police you saw my mother with Constance,” I said, facing him.
“Just wanted to let you know we were playing hardball,” he returned. He smiled, showing a lot of white teeth, but it didn’t lighten his eyes. “Consider that a free lesson.”
“In what? Lying?”
“A lesson in the Del Richardson Philosophy of Business. I don’t lose. Ever. And certainly not to a two-bit beautician. At least Miz DuBois was a worthy opponent. I’ll bet she had a trick or two up her sleeve.” He sounded almost admiring. “You, on the other hand,” he shrugged, “wouldn’t be any more challenge than shooting a pit bull in a pen.” He made a gun of his thumb and forefinger. “Pow.”
“Don’t you mean stabbing?” I asked sweetly.
“Are you threatening my daughter?” My mother was suddenly at my side, her eyes snapping with anger.
“Mom, this is Del Richardson, from Morestuf,” I introduced them, good manners winning out over anger and fear, as they frequently do in the South. Etiquette trumped emotion every time.
“I know who he is,” she said. “What I don’t know is why he’s bothering you.”
“Why, I hope I wasn’t bothering Miss Terhune,” he said. “We were discussing what a boon a Morestuf would be to the St. Elizabeth economy. Right?” And with a tip of his hat, he faded into the crowd.
“What a high-handed—”
“Mom, did you know Simone is engaged?”
That distracted her. “No! Really? To who?”
“Him.” I pointed discreetly. “His name is Greg Hutchinson.”
She studied the pair as they greeted more mourners. “Handsome. Something about him looks familiar . . .”
“He looks kind of like that actor from the Batman movie, the one who played the DA who loses half his face.”
“Mm.” She put two cookies on a plate. “The engagement must be recent. I can’t believe Constance didn’t mention it. Remember how she went around when Philip got engaged, telling everyone what he spent on the ring and how many people were invited to the wedding and that they were honeymooning in Fiji?”
“Tahiti.”
“Remember how mad all the local businesspeople got when she and Susan’s mom went to Savannah for the cake and the flowers? And they hired a photographer from Atlanta. My, my!” She shook her head.
A commotion near the door brought our heads around. Several people entered. A buzz of whispered comments swept through the room. One of the newcomers was Governor Lansky. Half a head taller than most of the men in the room, he had the kind of presence that takes a politician far, even without much in the way of academic credentials or real public service. He looked like a game show host. Thick, dark hair waved naturally across his brow. His perfect teeth probably put his dentist’s son through college, and his smooth tan had an orangey undertone that told me it came from a bottle. His suit was perfection: black wool crepe, pale gray shirt, somber tie. His manner, though, seemed more fit for a political rally than a funeral as he glad-handed everyone who greeted him while making his way to Simone and Philip by the casket. His entourage of wife, chief of staff, and aides surged around him like remora fish cleaning a shark.
“Time for me to bug out,” Mom said, giving my arm a squeeze. “I told Althea I’d get to the shop no later than ten. We’re booked up clear through ’til six this evening.”
“I’ll get there soon,” I promised. “I just want to say hi to Vonda first.” I waved a hand to signal my friend, who had come through the door on the governor’s heels.
Mom wove her way through the crowd and ducked out as Vonda reached my side.
“Hi, girlfriend,” she said. She’d slicked her bangs back with gel and wore a fitted suit that emphasized her lean build.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said. “Not after what happened at the town hall meeting.”
“Constance DuBois really cared about St. Elizabeth,” she said, hugging me. “The least I can do is pay my respects.”
“How adult of you,” I said admiringly.
“Isn’t it?” She looked around at the crowd. “I see the gov is here.”
“Yeah, treating the occasion like a photo op.” As I watched, Del Richardson approached Lansky, and the two shook hands and stepped away from the grieving siblings to engage in a brief conversation. Lansky clapped Richardson on the back, and they both chuckled before remembering the occasion and pasting sober expressions back on their faces.
“I’m going to chat him up about computers for the school. He
does
call himself the ‘education governor,’ after all. I’ll give you a shout at Vi’s this afternoon.” And she faded into the crowd. I watched until I saw her claim the governor’s attention, then I turned away. A quick stop in the ladies’ room and I’d head over to the salon.
I wound my way through a labyrinth of plushly carpeted halls looking for the restroom. I heard voices from around the corner ahead of me and recognized Simone’s. I couldn’t place the man’s voice. Memories of the last time I’d inadvertently eavesdropped on a conversation plagued me, and I almost turned around. But the need to discover something that would clear my mother glued me in place.
“I’m not selling,” Simone said, keeping her voice low.
“You have to. I can’t sell the bank.”
Ah, the other voice must be Philip’s. I’d stumbled on a brother-sister spat.
“Well, I won’t. Greg and I have plans for Sea Mist.”
“Greg! He’s nothing but a fortune hunter. Even Mom said so.”
“Greg and I love each other. Just because we haven’t known each other from high school, like you and Susan—”
“Sea Mist should have been mine.”
“Oh, get over it. You got the bank shares and the house. That’s fair.”
“It’s not about fair, it’s about liquidity. I need cash.”
“Sell the house.”
I almost gasped. Selling the DuBois family mansion would be like Jefferson putting Monticello on the market. Apparently, Philip thought as I did.
“I can’t do that!”
“Sounds like a personal problem.” A hint of glee in Simone’s voice told me she was paying off dozens of childhood slights from her older brother.
Desperation tinged Philip’s voice. “There’s more to this than you know—”
Something cold and wet poked my ankle. I smothered a scream and jumped back. Bright black eyes peered up at me.
“Shoo, Peaches,” I whispered.
The Yorkie wagged her tail.
I backed up a step. She followed.
“Rrurf.”
“Peaches!” Simone called.
The dog looked over her shoulder, then turned back to me. “Go to Mommy,” I urged her. Simone was going to come around the corner looking for the darn mutt and find me. She’d know I’d overheard everything and be furious. It would fuel her desire to destroy my mom. A thought came to me.
Before Peaches could gauge my intentions, I leaned over and scooped her up. She growled deep in her throat.
“Play along,” I told her. “Or I’ll feed you to Beauty.” I raised my voice. “Simone? Simo-one.” I hurried around the corner, clutching the dog under one arm. Simone and Philip sprang apart like illicit lovers caught by a spouse.
“There you are!” I said, as if I’d been looking all over for her. “I found Peaches wandering around and knew you would be worried.” With a smile, I handed the dog over.
“Thanks, Grace,” Simone said grudgingly. “Are you Mommy’s naughty doggy?” she cooed to Peaches.
Philip looked at me from under his brows. An awkward silence fell. “Well—” I started.
A huge woman sailed around the corner and put a hand to her heart at the sight of us. “Oh, Simone, Philip!” Tears started to her eyes, and she dabbed at them with a lace hankie. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you how terribly,
terribly
sorry I am about your mother’s tragic demise. I was shocked, absolutely
shocked
when I heard. Oh, what a cute little doggy. And you
poor
children . . .”
As the newcomer bathed Constance’s children in condolences, I muttered, “Good-bye,” and backed away, willing to sacrifice the restroom for an easy escape. I’d hold it until I got to the salon. I stepped from the cool of the funeral parlor to the increasing humidity outside and took a deep breath to rinse away the scent of lilies.
“Grace!” A voice stopped me before I walked two steps. I turned to see Stella and a fortyish African American woman hurrying to catch up with me.
“This is my friend Janelle Stevens,” Stella said. Janelle was gorgeous, with skin the color of a Hershey’s kiss, high cheekbones, and heavy-lidded eyes with curling lashes. She wore a mulberry-colored suit that showed off her tall, slim figure. “She’s the head teller at the DuBois’s bank.”
“Nice to meet you, Janelle,” I said.
“Likewise.” Her tone was businesslike, but she glanced over her shoulder as if afraid of being observed.
“Look,” Stella said, “Janelle’s willing to talk to us, but let’s go somewhere where Philip won’t stumble over us.”
“And I’ve got to be back at work in twenty minutes,” Janelle said.
“How about Filomena’s?” I suggested. “There’s no reason why three women couldn’t run into each other at a boutique, right?” And it was nearby and had a powder room I could use. We walked the half block to the store and I disappeared into the restroom while the other women riffled through the racks. When I came out, Stella was holding an emerald silk blouse up to her neck.