When Will the Dead Lady Sing? (6 page)

“Pop could get upset,” Martha admitted. “He’s not always as steady and reliable as he used to be. Maybe this would be the perfect week for you all to rent a house at the beach.”

“We can’t. Joe Riddley has a workday tomorrow morning at the church, and he promised Gusta we’d come to her Do in the afternoon. We both have a dinner meeting Monday night, and I have traffic court in the south of the county Thursday morning. Not to mention those blasted quarterly taxes I have to prepare. Believe me, I’ve thought about this for hours, and there’s not a way we can leave town right now. The only good news I’ve had all day is that we are finally at the end of this blasted track.”

As we headed toward our cars, Martha reached out and felt my forehead. “No stretch of my imagination can order you to bed for a week with a fever, and it looks like there’s no way you can avoid seeing the Bullocks at least tomorrow. Maybe you ought to go ahead and tell Joe Riddley tonight that you all dated a few times. It’s been years, after all.”

“Honesty is the best policy,” I said glumly. “But I’d rather go have a root canal.”

When I got home, though, Joe Riddley was just coming in from work, wearing his favorite cap, a red one with YARBROUGH’S stitched on it in white. He’d gone all the way out to Dad’s BarBeQue to pick us up some supper, and he’d stopped and gotten us a video that was not a World War II movie. How could I hurt a man like that? If Burlin was going to be in Hopemore all week, I’d simply have to find ways to stay out of his path.

It was as simple as two plus two, and I was a math major, after all.

I failed to factor into that particular equation Burlin’s personality and a murder.

4

Parking was so tight for Gusta’s party Saturday that Joe Riddley left his car at the store. “You realize I’ll have to walk two blocks through this humidity in new shoes and a silk pantsuit,” I pointed out as we climbed from the car.

He pulled down the sleeves of his best black suit and ignored my complaints. “We’d better use the alley, or somebody will ask us about bedding plants, no matter how we’re dressed.”

A man sat on the ground with his back to our building and hands on the knees of a gray suit. He wore an old felt hat over a long gray ponytail and must have been sweltering in the heat. His nails were dirty and cracked, his hands broad with strong, stubby fingers. He was absently humming to himself, looking up at the clouds. As we approached, he shifted his head to peer at us. His face was lined from hard living and too much sun, and one of his front teeth was missing, but his smile was sunny—if a bit vacant.

Joe Riddley stopped. “If you are hungry, fellow, go to Myrtle’s around the block, to the back door. Tell them you’d like a meal. Our church is good for dinner every day for a week.”

“That’s nice. Real nice.” His voice was a husky whisper.

Joe Riddley loped toward Gusta’s and I panted along beside him. He’s never figured out that I have to take three steps every time he takes two. About halfway there he said, “I never feel like I do enough for those folks. If we were real Christians, Little Bit, we’d take him home and give him a bed and a bathtub.” I couldn’t answer. I was too out of breath trying to keep up.

Traffic was extra slow on Oglethorpe Street that afternoon. Tourists usually drove slowly to look at the string of big lovely homes with wide porches and tall white columns. What attracted attention now was the huge buffalo grazing on Gusta’s lawn. The skinny man called Sarge, again in jeans and a T-shirt, watched him lazily from under a magnolia tree.

As we started up the walk, the buffalo lifted its head. “He’s winking at you,” Joe Riddley told me. “I owe you an apology, Little Bit. Remind me to give you one someday soon.”

“It better be a good one.” I followed him up Gusta’s wide, shallow steps.

On the front porch, Hubert Spence threw a cigarette into the bushes and came to greet us with a guilty look. We all knew his doctor had told him to quit smoking after his heart attack.

Joe Riddley jerked a thumb toward the small brass sign by the door: WAINWRIGHT HOUSE ANTIQUES. “I don’t see how Maynard gets any business with that little bitty sign. Nobody can read it from the street.”

Hubert stuck his thumbs in his waistband to hold open his jacket and stuck out his chest. “He does most of his business over the Internet or by word of mouth. He’s not interested in hoards of tourists tramping over his fancy oriental rugs looking for bargains.”

“How’d you get so smart?” Joe Riddley clapped his shoulder. Hubert punched his arm.

They’d been neighbors most of their lives, growing up on adjoining farms and eventually moving back into their parents’ old homeplaces. They’d never agreed over politics, religion, or whether Georgia or Georgia Tech was the better school, but otherwise they’d been good friends. I, however, took an experimental sniff before I gave Hubert a hug and was delighted to find that living with Gusta and Pooh continued to improve his personal hygiene. He used to think deodorant was for sissies and two baths a week plenty for a man who worked indoors. Now he wore a starched shirt and a well-pressed suit, and smelled of a pleasant after-shave.

“Looks like Maynard wouldn’t want hoards of Gusta’s guests tramping all over his carpets, either,” I told him.

He gave me the smile of a man whose only child has done far better than the parent ever expected. “He’s rolled up the rugs. Don’t set a glass down anywhere, though, except on the little trays he’s got scattered around. He doesn’t want water circles on his furniture.”

“I’ll set mine on the floor,” Joe Riddley assured him. “Nothing can hurt heart pine.”

“It’ll break a termite’s teeth,” Hubert agreed. He waved us inside. “I’m gonna stay out here a little while longer. Too crowded in there for my taste.”

Joe Riddley steered me through the front door before I could offer to keep Hubert company.

The hall looked a lot like it used to when Gusta lived there, full of impressive pieces of furniture and oil paintings.

“Welcome,” said a woman near the door. She certainly wasn’t Augusta Wainwright. She wasn’t much taller than me, while Gusta was impressively tall even after shrinking an inch or two. This woman might have bought her navy dress at one of the expensive stores where Gusta shopped, but she wore it with comfortable Enzo flats Gusta wouldn’t be caught dead in at one of her Do’s. This woman’s skin was tanned and lightly wrinkled, as if she enjoyed the sun. Vanity had made Gusta careful of the sun long before anybody mentioned the ozone layer, and even in old age, Gusta was beautiful. This woman’s nose was thin and pointed and she wore no makeup except for red lipstick that looked applied on the run. Her straight hair was blunt cut, parted on one side, and held back by a small gold clip. It had once been brown like her eyes, but was now frosted with gray.

Her prim mouth curved in a smile as she stepped toward us, fingering a string of pearls too long for the neckline of her navy dress. With the other hand, she handed us each a little red pin. “From Lance Bullock, with his compliments.” Her voice was deep and gravelly, the kind that can make a grocery list sound sexy.

Before I could explain that I couldn’t wear the pin, Maynard hailed us from a back corner of the hall.

“Where’s the beautiful member of your family?” Joe Riddley greeted him, looking around.

“Working.” Maynard’s wife, Serena, was a nurse and worked with Martha.

“You’re beautiful, too,” I assured him, giving him a hug. He’d come a long way from the skinny nervous little boy next door. Of course, his sleek blond ponytail had given Hopemore a lot of trouble when he’d first returned from New York after his daddy’s heart attack. That afternoon, tied with a brown velvet ribbon to match his coat, it looked downright distinguished.

“You know,” I told him, “I’m even getting used to your earring by now.”

“Watch out,” he warned Joe Riddley, “or she’ll be taking an ice pick to your ear while you’re sleeping.” He ran one hand under his collar and heaved a big sigh. “Sorry about the temperature. The air-conditioning is going full blast, but you don’t notice unless you happen to be near a vent. I’ve raised the windows, hoping for a breeze.”

“It’s not that bad.” I comforted him. “You must be nervous about folks walking off with one of your precious doodads.”

“Not particularly. They are insured. But I am mad that we were brought here under false pretenses.” He glowered toward the double doors leading to the living room. “I was a little surprised that Miss Gusta wanted to hold a party for Lance Bullock, since her politics run in the other direction, but she said his aunt is an old friend of hers, and I was willing to do my part for my party. She neglected to mention that Lance plans to announce in the next few weeks that he’s switching parties.”

“You’re joking, of course.”

I really thought he was, but he shook his head. “Miss Gusta told me herself, when she first got here. Said this way he avoids the primary and picks up a lot of votes. I cannot for the life of me figure out how a politician can let one party boost him or her up, then step over to the other party if the pickings look better. What do they stand for? And who’d trust them after that? No matter which party he switched from or to, who’d be dumb enough to vote for a traitor? Except my dad,” he added with a grimace.

Before we could reply to that, I heard, “Yarbroughs, is that you? I want you to meet someone.” Gusta sat on her usual throne by the living room door. She beckoned with one long bony finger sparkling with diamonds. And although she looked a little shrunken in her purple linen dress—she’d aged a lot since her only son died the year before—she still sat regal as a queen and expected people to obey when she called. We moseyed in that direction.

She reached for one of my hands. “Mac, Joe Riddley, I want you to meet my very dear friend Georgia Bullock Tate, Burlin’s sister. Georgia, this is Judge and Judge Yarbrough.”

I blinked. Georgia was only a year younger than I, so what had she done with her crow’s-feet? She didn’t look a day over forty-five. She was still slender, but filled out her black linen shift in a way I could find it in my heart to envy. Nothing sagged, and her hair—that light yellow that only good salons can achieve—was cut short with long pixie bangs that brushed her forehead above eyes the same dark gray as her brother’s.

I resolved to see about getting myself a makeover as soon as I got some free time.

Thank goodness, she didn’t recognize me. She put out a hand and greeted us with the comfortable charm that comes from years of being with the right people in the right places. “I’m delighted to meet you and so happy to be in Hopemore. It’s a lovely town.” As she clasped my working paw, I was glad I’d thought to ask Phyllis for a manicure that morning, but Georgia wasn’t the least bit interested in me. She was looking up at Joe Riddley with an earnestness that made him hold her hand a lot longer than was necessary.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “We’re real glad to have you here, Mrs. Tate. I’ve admired Burlin for a long time.”

Georgia’s face crinkled into a beautiful smile. “Why, thank you, Judge. What a sweet thing to say.”

Normally I’d have stepped in about then to be sure Joe Riddley didn’t get carried away. He’s not real skilled at handling pretty women who smile up at him. However, Gusta’s deep voice distracted me. She spoke behind her cupped hand, but in a normal voice that defeated the purpose. “Georgia’s husband, Edward, is Lance’s campaign manager. She’s down here helping Lance run his campaign.”

“Lance is going to be our next governor, you know.” Georgia nodded proudly toward the windows where a tall stocky man in a black suit was talking enthusiastically to a group of men. His hair was black and very thick, his shoulders powerful. He looked like the kind of man I wouldn’t want to cross. And he didn’t look more than ten years younger than Burlin.

I’d gotten that far when the woman in navy came up behind me. She must have heard Georgia and noticed where I was looking, because she murmured in my ear, “Not the man in black. That’s Edward, Georgia’s husband. Lance is talking to the large woman in red. He’s prettier than Edward.” Her smile was still prim, but her brown eyes danced. Suddenly I knew who she was. I almost exclaimed “Binky!” without thinking.

Georgia reached out an arm to draw her into our circle. “This is my baby sister, Abigail.” Nobody who saw the two of them together for the first time would believe that, but Georgia didn’t give anybody time to say so. “She’s worked as Burlin’s secretary for years. Now she’s helping Edward run Lance’s campaign.”

“What happened to the ranch out West?” I wanted to ask.

Instead, I looked at the real Lance. He was thirty-six, I remembered, and nothing like his daddy. He was as tall as Burlin, but stocky, with dark hair curling down to a thick neck. His navy suit looked rumpled, like he’d done some living in it, and the lines in his pink face seemed to have been drawn by laughter. As I watched, he threw back his head and laughed so hard I could see fillings in his back teeth.

What on earth could he find so funny, talking to Chancey Carter? Chancy was circulation manager for our local paper, and a front-runner for Hopemore’s most boring woman. We were too far away to hear their conversation, but I went to school with Chancey from first grade on and had yet to hear her talk about anything except herself, Georgia history as it pertained to her own family’s genealogy, or her mother—who, at ninety, was a hellion over at the nursing home. Burlin would have chatted with her briefly and excused himself, I suspected, but Lance bent over her and listened like he enjoyed it. When Edward Tate touched his elbow and seemed to want him to move on, Lance gave a little wave to say, “In a minute.”

“That’s his wife behind him—Renée,” Binky said with pride.

Renée must be ten years younger than Lance, but stood almost as tall, with narrow hips, a long face, and a strong nose. Her eyes were large and green, her mouth wide with a full lower lip. As I took her in, from the tips of her taupe pumps to the top of her almost black hair, I couldn’t help thinking that these Bullock women were expensive to keep. Renée’s haircut was so ugly, it had to have cost a fortune—cut long to brush her collar at the back, chopped unevenly at the bottom, tucked behind her ears. Her green suit was raw silk and exactly matched her eyes.