Tressed to kill, p.19
Tressed to Kill, page 19
And I guess Ill enroll in beauty school, Mom said with a wry smile, and work on my cosmetology license.
Althea snorted. You could teach at a beauty school.
I had an idea for how we might get Mom a license without her having to go back to school, but I wanted to run it by Mrs. Mayhew before I got everyone all spun up about it. I smiled as I listened to the women discuss their plans. It was amazing how in only twenty-four hours the mood had gone from depressed to purposeful. If Mom and Althea ran the country, I was pretty sure the government wouldnt be bailing out failing businesses. Theyd never asked for handouts, wouldnt accept any if offered, and knew the power of hard work and a good attitude. I hoped Id inherited half of Moms gumption.
Some time later, she carefully slid the foils out and rinsed my hair with warm water. She began to blow-dry it, and I watched my reflection anxiously, eager to see how the highlights turned out.
Wow, Stella breathed, the golden highlights around your face make your skin glow.
And your eyes look greener, Althea put in.
Id effected transformations on my customers many times, but I hadnt expected simple highlights to make such a change in my appearance. Strands of gold and wheat framed my face and caught the light. Even the natural light brown looked brighter and glossier somehow. My brows and eyelashes appeared darker and more dramatic against the lighter hair. I shook my head, making my hair dance. I love it, I told my mom. I turned to give her a hug. I feel like a new woman.
Youre still my baby, she said, hugging me back.
THE DAY PASSED MORE QUICKLY THAN I ANTICIPATED. Getting ready for the gala felt like a slumber party as we did each others hair and nails. Stella and Althea went to their homes to get dressed, and Mom and I went upstairs. My black, Civil War-era maids costume with white lace at the wrists and neckline was fitted through the bodice, emphasizing the bosom my ex-mother-in-law thought was inadequate and accentuating the curve of my waist before swelling out into a full skirt. In the interest of comfort, I skipped the pantaloons that were historically accurate and stuck with my Jockey hipsters. I tied a white apron around my waist and put a cap that wasnt much more than a frill of lace on my head. Althea had pulled my newly highlighted hair back into a bun, calling attention to my cheekbones and the smooth line of my jaw. I applied makeup minimally, a little mascara and lip gloss, to stay almost historically accurate. Slipping on a pair of low-heeled black pumps that were not remotely correct for the period, but which my skirt hid, I glided downstairs to wait for Mom.
She came down ten minutes later, looking much as I did, except that her short, spiky hairdo and rimless glasses were too clearly twenty-first century. Im not wearing a wig and Im not going to wander around blind as a bat, shed said when Stella did the costume fitting and mentioned the anachronism.
Well, Scarlett OHaras got nothing to fear from us, I said, but I think we make comely serving wenches.
I hope no one asks us to pass hors doeuvres, Mom said, making a face at our reflections in the hall mirror. I may be dressed like a servant, but I intend to have fun at this party.
THAT FEAR PROVED GROUNDLESS WHEN WE ARRIVED at the mansion to find the staff, both male and female, wearing modern dinner jackets and pleated-front shirts with slacks. The grounds twinkled with fairy lights strung in the trees and shrubs. Light spilled from the windows of the house and the open front doors. An old-fashioned carriage drawn by four glossy horses stood in the circular drive as if Governor Brown and his wife, Georgias first family during the Civil War, had just alighted.
Thats a nice touch, I said to Mom as we passed the equipage with its smiling coachman holding the reins. A horse snorted and tossed his head as if agreeing with me.
It is, she said. Lucy Mortimers always been a stickler for details.
Lucy herself greeted us in the foyer. I almost didnt recognize her. Gone were the dowdy shirtwaist and the boring skirt and blouse. Unlike my mom, she had ditched the tortoiseshell glasses. Maybe she was wearing contacts. A gorgeous maroon gown hugged her shoulders and showed a moderate amount of cleavage. Its full skirt belled over a hoop. Her brown hair was twisted up into a complicated mass of ringlets. A replica of a beautiful cameo hung on a black velvet choker at her neck. She looked like the portrait of Amelia Rothmere that hung behind her come to life.
You look magnificent, I told her.
How kind of you to say so, she said. Thank you for coming this evening.
Even her elocution had changed. I exchanged a look with Mom. It was almost creepy.
Hi, Lucy, Mom said. It looks like youve done a great job with this party. I hope youve raised lots of money.
Lucy waved a languid hand. Oh, the servants did all the hard work. I just drew up the menus.
By servants I assumed she meant maintenance personnel and gardeners. Personally, I thought she was getting a bit too much into character. I nudged Mom, and we joined the throng of people headed for the ballroom. The women had gone to town with elaborate gowns in jewel tones of sapphire, emerald, and ruby. Fringe and lace draped bosoms and flirted at hems and cuffs. One womans wig looked more Marie Antoinette-ish than Scarlett OHara-ish, but it didnt spoil the overall effect. Many of the belles had trouble maneuvering their hoops, and we had to stop for more than one traffic jam in the wide hallway. The men, not to be outdone, looked dashing in their Confederate soldier uniforms, pirate costumes, and riverboat gambler attire. I saw one man who looked more like he belonged at the court of Charles the First than in Civil War Georgia, and another who wore a modern tux, but most of them had made an effort. I paused at the door to the ballroom when we reached it and looked around, but I didnt see either Marty Shears or Special Agent Dillon. Of course, the latter had never mentioned that he was coming, so maybe he wasnt here. I ignored the small jab of disappointment that thought gave me.
Music swelled from the ballroom, almost drowned by the chatter of two hundred or so guests. I was relieved to recognize a Madonna track; at least the organizers had had enough sense not to inflict Civil War-era music and dances on us. My Virginia reel and quadrille were a little rusty. Servers moved around the room with trays of food, and a bartender mixed up martinis and margaritas at a station near the terrace doors. Mom and I drifted in that direction and ordered glasses of wine when our turn came.
Do you see Stella or Althea? Mom asked, craning her neck to try and see over the crowd.
My greater height gave me an advantage, but I didnt see them, either. Very few of the women were wearing black, so it would be easy to spot them when they arrived. I spied Vonda, beautiful in a yellow silk ball gown copied from one that had been in her family for generations. The original was on display at the Smithsonian. Vonda waved a mittened hand when she saw me and started working her way through the crowd.
You look very . . . subservient, she said after hugging me. Love your hair. Hi, Violetta.
She and Mom exchanged greetings and Mom wandered off, saying something about finding Althea.
And you look very Gone with the Wind, I returned. Wheres your Rhett?
Rickys back at the house with RJ, she said. The reunion family is still there. But they leave tomorrow morning, and Ricky and I are having a date night tomorrow night. Her eyes sparkled.
Its about time, I said, happy for her. She and Ricky belonged together, and I was pleased that they were patching things up.
A Confederate officer I didnt recognize, sword clanking in a scabbard at his side, strolled up and offered his hand to Vonda. Dance with me, pretty lady? Im off to war tomorrow and would like to take the memory of your pretty face with me.
La, sir, you flatter me, she said, batting her lashes. Waggling her fingers to me, she headed toward the dance floor, where the womens hoopskirts looked incongruous swaying to the beat of Play That Funky Music, like a mass of colorful jellyfish bells tossed by the surf.
Scanning the room, I saw many people I recognized, including salon clients, people from church, and Mayor Faricy with his wife. Simone DuBoisno, Simone Hutchinsonand her new husband stood in the doorway. She wore an elaborate green ball gown and had her dark hair styled in ringlets that caressed her cheeks. Greg was a dashing carpetbagger complete with a Clark Gable mustache. Susan DuBois strolled over to greet them, but I didnt see Philip. I spotted Mom, Althea, and Stella in line at the bar on the far side of the room. As I watched, the fire chiefWhat was his name? Roger something?joined their little group. My mom smiled at him, and I raised my brows. I wasnt sure Id ever seen that particular smile. Hm, maybe Walter had some competition for my mothers favor. I looked around but didnt see Walter Highsmith. Vonda waved to me from the dance floor, and I waved back. Dancing beside her was Amber from the restaurant, laughing into the face of a bearded pirate. Marty Shears still wasnt here. I wondered if hed been detained in New Jersey.
A hand on my shoulder made me turn. A lawman straight out of the 1800s, complete with gold star pinned to his vest, stood smiling at me. He looked dashing and a bit dangerous, and my breaths came a little faster as the surging crowd bumped him closer to me.
Marshal Dillon, I presume? I asked.
You didnt really think you were the first one to come up with that, did you? Special Agent Dillon returned. Would you care to stroll on the terrace? Its damned hot in here.
What I really wanted, I discovered, was to dance with him to the strains of the dreamy waltz just starting. I imagined his strong arm around my waist, my right hand clasped firmly in his. Startled by the direction of my thoughts, I mumbled, Sure. I could use some air.
Holding my wineglass high, I followed him to the open doors and out onto the terrace. It ran the length of the house and had a stone balustrade. Shallow staircases led down into the garden from both ends and the middle. Beyond the twinkle of the fairy lights strung over the topiary, dark fields stretched into the distance. An almost full moon cast shadows in the garden and glanced whitely off the grave stones and statuary in the cemetery. A wisp of night breeze cooled my sweating forehead, and I drew in a deep breath. I dont know how women put up with these clothes, I said, fluffing the skirt to encourage air flow around my legs. Theyre stifling.
He studied me for a moment. You look nice, he said. Theres something different.
His compliment pleased me, but I hid it, saying prosaically, Highlights.
Um. His mouth crooked in a half smile. The upstairs maid attire doesnt fit your personality, though.
Oh?
Well, youre not exactly the meek, obedient type, are you? Id think any plantation owner giving you an order would get nothing but back talk.
I dont know why you say that, sir, I said demurely, eyes downcast.
Dillon laughed. Maybe because youve ignored everything Ive ever said to you.
My mom and I are leaving tomorrow, I said, proving him wrong. Were going to stay with my Aunt Flora in Alabama.
Good. Maybe then I can concentrate on finding Mrs. DuBoiss killer.
Was he saying I disturbed his concentration? I felt a little tingle at the thought. Its more likely, my sensible side said, that hes saying you get in the way. Another couple appeared on the terrace and strolled toward the far end. The music was upbeat again and I found myself tapping my foot to the beat.
Dillon caught my eye and stepped closer, hand outstretched. Would you His cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen. I have to take this, he said. Excuse me. He descended the middle stairs to the garden, his finger plugging one ear, saying Dillon, as he went.
I leaned against the stone railing, feeling the hard edge of it against my stomach and the rough stone under my palms. Five minutes passed. I could no longer hear Dillonhad he been called away on a police emergency?but voices behind me told me others were seeking the relief of the night air on the terrace. As I was debating whether to return to the ballroom or wait longer for Dillon, a mans voice floated up from beneath me and to my left.
We cant talk here . . . meddling beautician . . . Meet . . . five minutes.
Del Richardson! Who was he talking to? And why did he mention me? I leaned as far over the balustrade as I could, but I couldnt see anyone in the darkness below. Without stopping to think, I lifted my skirts and ran down the stairs at the left end of the terrace. A dark figure slipped behind a topiary stag as I reached the grass. I didnt see whoever hed been talking to. The man emerged from behind the stag and headed for the bottom of the garden and the cemetery beyond. His stride and height told me it was probably Del Richardson. I had to see who he was meeting. My black dress gave me an edge in remaining unseen, but my cap and apron had to go. Snatching the cap from my head and untying the apron, I balled them up and stuffed them into a huge ceramic urn planted with what smelled like mint and rosemary. As I walked, I folded the lace cuffs up inside my sleeves.
For a moment, I thought Id lost Richardson, but a mans silhouette broke away from the shadow of a huge magnolia fifty yards in front of me, and I ran toward it. The thick grass underfoot was dense and muffled the sound of my footsteps. I was grateful not to be wearing a hoop skirt as I trailed the man. Within minutes it became clear he was headed for the cemetery. A good place for a secret meeting. None of the donors laughing and dancing at the ball would go farther than the terrace, or maybe the garden if they were looking for a private place to snatch a kiss. The squeak of an unoiled hinge told me Richardson had opened the cemetery gate.
An old live oak grew twenty feet from the cemetery entrance, and I paused in its shadow to get my bearings. Something tickled my neck, and I swatted at it, turning so fast I almost fell. Ghostly tendrils of Spanish moss trailed from the branch above and fingered my cheek. I let my breath go. Peering around the trunk, I saw nothing unusual, just a few rows of gravestones and the gentle sweep of a marble angels wing. The smell of freshly turned loam was strong in my nostrils, and I remembered watching the backhoe dig a grave on Wednesday. Leaving the safety of the gnarled tree, I crept toward the gate, tripping and almost falling on an exposed root. Maybe Id do better without the pumps. I kicked them off, and the cool grass tickled my feet. I scrunched my toes in it for a moment, getting used to the feel, and then tiptoed the remaining steps to the fence. Twigs and acorns pressed into my soles, but the grass provided enough cushion to keep them from being too painful. I felt along the cold iron until I came to the gate. Richardson had left it ajar, and I sucked in my stomach and plastered my skirts to my legs to avoid bumping it as I sidled through. I didnt need its rusty complaint alerting Richardson and his cohort.
A cloud shrouded the moon, and I paused, trying to get my bearings in the near total dark. The murmur of voices came from in front of me and to my right, so I crept that way, arms extended in front of me. Banging my knee against a granite headstone, I bit my lip hard to keep from crying out. I waited a second for the pain to ebb, then edged forward again. My dress rustled slightly, but I hoped the sound blended with the sighing of the breeze through the tree leaves. A break in the clouds allowed the moon to emerge again, and a gaping hole appeared at my feet. Ye gods. One more step and I would have tumbled into the grave Id watched the backhoe dig. Some kind of hitch must have prevented the burial.
I stepped back carefully and drew in a deep breath. The voices were louder now. Inching around the empty rectangle, I started forward again until I saw the silhouettes of two men. Dropping to a crouch, I duckwalked as close as I dared, stepping on my long skirt and almost pitching onto my nose. I stopped when I reached an ornately carved tombstone about twenty feet from the men. Still in a crouch, I put one hand on the ground for balance, feeling the crisp grass against my palm, and the other on the smooth surface of the marble marker. I leaned forward until I could just see around the edge of the gravestone.
Del Richardson was facing me, easily recognizable in his riverboat gambler vest and hat. The other man was shorter and slighter and wore a Confederate uniform. With his back to me, I couldnt tell who it was.
. . . Lanskys on board, the unidentified man said.
Was it Philip DuBois? I couldnt tell for sure because his voice was little more than a whisper.
. . . usual terms, I guess? Del Richardson said. He said something else the wind snatched away and ended with . . . take care of that reporter and the Terhune gal.
My eyes widened, and I put a hand to my mouth. He knew about Marty. And he had plans for taking care of us, whatever that meant. I was afraid it meant poisonous reptiles in my bedroom . . . or worse.
A twig snapped behind me, and both men froze, looking in my direction. I dropped down, flattening myself against the grave. My black dress merged with the shadows, but I knew the white glimmer of my face would give me away. The chemical smell of fertilizer assailed me as I plastered my face to the ground.
What was that? Richardson asked.
A possum or a coon, maybe, the other man said. I was almost positive it was Philip. Except . . . had I caught a glimpse of a mustache when he turned to look my way?
I lay still for a long two minutes before daring to peep around the tombstone again. Both men were gone. I backed away from my hiding place on my hands and knees, not sure which direction Richardson and Philipif it was Philiphad gone. They were probably back in the ballroom by now, but I didnt want to take any chances. I had reached the brink of the empty grave when my knees started complaining. I couldnt hear anything, so I stood cautiously. My dress was probably a muddy mess. I could only hope my apron would cover the worst of it. I didnt need Mom asking suspicious questions about what Id been up to.
Another twig cracked, this one closer, and I started to turn. Something hard and metallic thwacked the back of my head and knocked me off balance. Pain sang through my head and reverberated down my spine as my toes scrunched, trying to grip the grass. I windmilled my arms to keep from falling, but a second blow across my shoulders knocked me forward. I plunged into the grave.
Chapter Twenty
MY HEAD THROBBED LIKE A WOODPECKER WAS TRYING to drill through my skull. An unpleasant coppery taste filled my mouth. I brought a hand to my face to brush away dirt. Dirt? I lay still for a moment, trying to think where I could be. I opened my eyes to darkness broken only by a thin glimmer of starlight overhead, beyond the walls of the tunnel. I frowned. I couldnt be in a tunnel. After another second of confusion, memory returned. The grave! I was in the grave at the Rothmere cemetery. Someone had hit me. I sat up and dirt cascaded from my chest and shoulders. An inch or so covered my legs. Ye gods, my attacker had tried to bury me! Maybe he was still up there.
