When Will the Dead Lady Sing? (7 page)

She wore what looked like a practiced smile as she listened to Chancey. I didn’t get the feeling she was as involved as Lance. Still, when Chancey paused for breath, I saw Renée ask a question that set Chancey off again. I wondered if the cotton shell had come with Renée’s outfit or if she was just unconcerned with dressing to please Hopemore. In contrast to Gusta’s diamonds, Binky’s pearls, and Georgia’s necklace of chunky black rocks set in heavy silver, Renée wore no jewelry except simple gold hoop earrings. In that crowd of folks who had hauled up their socks to look real nice on a Saturday afternoon, she looked exotic, casual, and comfortable. I eased one foot out of my dressy shoes for an instant and wished I had that much gumption.

When Renée turned away to stifle a yawn, Binky murmured, “Poor thing, she’s asleep on her feet. She flew in yesterday morning from Paris so she could come on this trip.”

“She and Lance are a great team. When they get to the governor’s mansion—” Georgia began, but Binky touched her forearm.

“Let’s don’t talk politics right now. We’re here to enjoy the hospitality of Mrs. Wainwright.”

Georgia nodded. “Of course we are.” She turned back to Joe Riddley. “And we are enjoying Hopemore so much. Have you lived here long?”

“All our lives,” he told her.

I’d lived in Hopemore long enough to be a flower girl in Gusta’s wedding—the one who tripped going down the aisle and showed the world her ruffled underpants. Gusta would be mentioning that any minute unless I headed her off. “We just moved out of the house Joe Riddley’s great-granddaddy built,” I told them. “How many families can make that claim?”

Gusta huffed, miffed at missing another golden opportunity to embarrass me. Georgia, of course, didn’t know that. She asked in the bright, interested voice of somebody trying to warm up to strangers, “And you are both judges?”

“I used to be. Mac, here, replaced me.” Joe Riddley stood there with a silly smile on his face, caught like a moth in Georgia’s sparkle.

When she turned to greet somebody else, I nudged him toward a waitress making her way through the room with a tray of little sandwiches. “Go get something to eat. I’ll see you in a bit.”

As he loped away, I watched anxiously to make sure he didn’t run into Burlin. The way he admired the man, it would be like him to take Burlin into the corner for a long chat. Fortunately, Burlin was nowhere in sight.

That’s because he was right behind me. I jumped when he murmured in my ear, “Hey, Mackie. You look wonderful. I wondered if you’d be here.” I shivered in spite of myself as I felt a puff of his breath on my neck. Then I blushed. I had to admit at least to myself that I hadn’t put on my most gorgeous outfit and made sure Phyllis did her best just so I’d look nice for my husband. Nobody wants an old boyfriend wondering, “What did I ever see in her?” But I had the grace to feel ashamed.

Gusta’s old eyes looked from one of us to the other with a most calculating expression.

Georgia raised her eyebrows. “Why, Burlin, do you already know the judge?”

“So do you,” he told her. “Remember MacLaren Crane? She came to a dance the year you came out and up to the lake house for your birthday that year.”

Binky’s hand flew to her pearls. “I didn’t recognize you, but I remembered you used to live in Hopemore.”

Georgia reached for both my hands and gave them a squeeze. “Mackie! How marvelous to see you again.”

From the way Gusta’s lips tightened, I’d have a few questions to answer later. Burlin must have noticed, because he leaned toward her and said, “This sure is a great party, Miss Gusta. You must be a lot like Georgia—she’s the organized one in our family and the one who knows how to throw a party. I sure thank you for having us.” Gusta preened to be getting so much attention from a political celebrity. He chatted with her for a few more minutes, then said again, “This sure is a nice party you’ve thrown for Lance. And speaking of Lance”—he took my elbow—“I want Mackie, here, to meet him.” He pulled me gently away and led me across the room.

I had to congratulate him. “Neatly done. She’s not generally that easy to leave.”

“It’s taught in politics training school, under the care and feeding of dragons.”

“That dragon feeds on scandal and gossip, so be careful.” I retrieved my elbow and put distance between us.

“Duly noted.” He raised his hand and beckoned to Lance.

Lance excused himself from Chancey and headed our way. His wife stayed long enough to listen to a few more words, then moved after him with the long-legged grace of a giraffe.

She, like Burlin, looked cool and collected, but Lance had beads of perspiration on his forehead. One curl had come loose and was dangling over one eye. Renée wiped it back gently as Burlin said, “I want you all to meet somebody. This is an old friend of mine, MacLaren Crane.”

“Yarbrough,” I amended, shaking the hand Lance shot out.

“Of course, Yarbrough,” Burlin agreed easily. “I forgot for a minute how old we all are.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lance informed him, giving him a fond punch. “I don’t think Ms. Yarbrough’s much older than I am.”

Burlin draped one arm around my shoulders and his other one over Lance’s. He drew us both close and murmured, “Boy, if things had worked out the way I planned, this woman would have been your mother and I’d be governor of this state.”

That’s how we were standing when the flash went off.

5

I pulled away from Burlin’s arm. He waved at the photographer. “Not now, Carstairs.” The reporter gave him a mock salute and disappeared.

A voice asked behind us, “An old flame of yours, Burlin?” It was the big man in black, Georgia’s husband. He came around me to offer a huge hand. “Glad to meet you. Any friend of the Bullocks is a friend of mine.” But behind rimless glasses, his dark eyes looked down at me like he was the judge in a fishing contest, trying to decide if I was the prize catch.

I stepped farther away from Burlin. “I’m not an—” I began, but Edward Tate was the type of man who seldom listens to an older woman unless she’s offering a contribution or calling him to dinner. He was already turning back to Burlin to speak in a low voice.

“You didn’t mention you had friends in Hopemore.” He sounded like he was accusing Burlin of a crime.

Burlin beamed at me. “We go back to college days, but I wasn’t sure she still lived here.”

What I wanted to say wasn’t fit for polite company, and saying it might get my name in the newspaper—that reporter was still hovering in earshot—so I took another step away and said, “Good to meet you, Lance. You, too, Renée.” I headed toward a group of people I knew.

I heard Edward ask Burlin in a low voice, “So you two were an item—when?”

Still in earshot, I slowed to a snail’s crawl long enough to hear Burlin say in an offhand way, “I told you, college days.”

“Well, we need to be circulating, not standing here. Lance, you go to the hall. Burlin, you take the sunroom, and I’ll work this room some more.” I heard them moving off.

I glanced back and saw that Renée had remained where she was, watching me with an odd look in those enormous sage-green eyes. Could she possibly feel sorry for me?

I could feel sorry for her. Edward hadn’t included her in his instructions, and Burlin had scarcely bothered to introduce her. I suspected she might be lonely at times in the Bullock clan.

What I needed to cheer me up was food, even Gusta’s feeble offerings. But Gusta had either stretched her budget this time or one of Lance’s political parties was paying. The table nearly creaked under the weight of shrimp, little pastries filled with lobster, exotic cheeses they hadn’t gotten at the Bi-Lo, tiny rolls to fill with sweet pink ham or rare roast beef with horseradish sauce, and enough vegetables to feed a rabbit for a year. I filled a plate, then wandered—glad to see Joe Riddley at the back of the hall with a bunch of men, probably expressing their doubts that Georgia’s football team could carry on that afternoon without them there. I kept one eye on Burlin, who was circulating, but so far he had been nowhere near Joe Riddley’s corner.

Gusta was having a marvelous time playing hostess in her house again. I heard her tell several different people, “You cannot imagine what I feel, coming back to my precious home and seeing it like this. And moving is so disastrous to your things. Mother’s dining table got scratched, Granddaddy’s clock has run slow ever since, one of Grand-mother’s Limoges plates got chipped—she bought the set on her honeymoon, you know—and I still haven’t found that Tiffany lamp my husband’s father gave us when we married.”

I knew for a fact that the table scratch was under the edge, the Limoges plate had been chipped for years, and the lamp had resided in her attic until her granddaughter took it home with Gusta’s blessing, but why mess up a good story with facts? As I well knew, it
was
hard to leave your old home. Let her find comfort anyplace she could.

I moseyed over to one of Maynard’s fancy tables and asked for white wine. Renée glided up beside me and said, “Perrier, please,” in a pleasant, husky voice. As the bartender filled her glass, she turned to me with a confidential murmur. “So—you used to date Burlin?”

The bartender—a former student of Ridd’s who now played with him on our church softball team—perked up his ears. I said, “Burlin greatly exaggerates. We took history together back in college.” Please note that both statements were absolutely true.

She shrugged. “Whatever. It would be nice to discover he was once interested in something besides politics.” She sipped her water while her eyes roved the room. When they stopped, I followed her gaze and saw she was looking at Lance, who was in the arch to the hall talking with several people. He had one hand resting on the doorframe and was stroking it.

“It’s in their blood, I guess.” I sipped my own wine and wondered what it took to look as sophisticated as Renée. Had she been born elegant?

I was surprised when she said forcefully, “It’s not in Lance’s blood.” She flared her nostrils like a nervous horse. “If the others didn’t keep his nose to the grindstone, he’d happily go back to work.”

“What does he do?” I hadn’t read or heard much about Lance since he was a child.

“Restores old houses for new uses. His degree is in architecture. He’d much rather be wandering around looking at this house than talking politics. And if he was, I could be dozing on the dock of the lake house this afternoon.” She stifled a yawn, then gave me what passed for a smile. “Sorry. I am just so tired! I guess that’s why I’m telling you all this. But Georgia would have a fit. Please forget what I said.” She smiled down at me and sipped her water.

Georgia spoke brightly from behind me. “You two aren’t talking politics, I hope? Abigail says it’s off-limits this afternoon.” She put her arm around Renée’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “You’re too jet-lagged to think straight. Why don’t you go out on the porch and get some air?”

“That’s a good idea. Excuse me.” Renée drifted through the crowd like green smoke.

Georgia picked up a glass of red wine and sparkled down at me. “I can’t believe we’ve run into you again after all these years. What have you been doing with yourself since college?”

I was wishing I’d gone with Renée. Georgia had so much energy, it wore me out to stand next to her. Besides, the story of my life was going to sound pretty tame. “The usual. Husband, two sons, four grandchildren. I help run the family nursery and agricultural supply store.”

She inclined her head and managed to look interested. “And how did you become a judge? Did you go to law school, like Burlin? He graduated from Yale, you know.”

I did know, but I was surprised Georgia
didn’t
know you don’t have to be a lawyer to be a magistrate in Georgia. They do in big counties like those around Atlanta, but down here, we don’t have that big a pool of honest lawyers to choose from. How could that information have slipped past somebody so involved in politics?

Georgia didn’t care whether I went to law school or not. She was already giving my arm a little squeeze and saying, “I was so sorry when you and Burlin broke up. I’d have liked to have had you for a sister.”

Now what is a woman supposed to say to that?

I knew what this woman had to do. I had to shift us both away from the bartender’s big ears. I took her elbow. “Let’s find a quieter corner.” When we got there, I suggested, “Tell me about you.” I resigned myself to ten minutes of glamorous achievements.

She surprised me. “Hardly a thing worth mentioning. I play a lot of tennis and serve on a lot of committees and keep both our house and Burlin’s.” Somehow, I didn’t think that meant she cleaned the toilets. “Edward’s my second husband, you know.” She put up a hand to hide her lips as she whispered, “He’s a bit younger than I, but don’t tell anybody. My first husband was a lot older, and after he died, I decided I deserved some compensation. Edward and Burlin are in business together, you know—lobbying and political consulting. Edward started out lobbying for the timber industry. Now he and Burlin represent a number of Georgia interests, both in Atlanta and in Washington, but mostly they serve as political consultants. I help out by planning and hosting dinner parties, planning events, writing thank-you notes, things like that. Abigail manages Burlin’s office—she’s the real organized one in the family, no matter what Burlin says—and he’s her whole life, bless her heart. But Burlin likes for me to plan his parties and serve as his hostess, because”—she lowered her voice—“Abigail is not exactly a firecracker at a dinner table.”

She wouldn’t be the adornment Georgia would, either, but neither of us said that.

“Burlin’s lucky to have you,” I told her. “He mentioned that his wife died.”

Her gray eyes grew sad. “Yes, bless her heart. She died in a fire at a rehab clinic. It was very tragic.” We paused for a few seconds of respect.

“Was it in the papers? I never read it.”