Closer than the Bones (2 page)

Chapter Two

Three days later I drove through Tullahoma on my way to Idlewild. I had spent those three days mulling over what Mary Tucker McElroy had asked me to do. She hadn’t blinked at the outrageous fee I had quoted her. I guess she still had the deep pockets that local rumor had always attributed to her and her family.

After retiring from teaching I hadn’t intended to specialize in murders when I had let it be known among family and friends that I would be available to help sort out problems. Though I’d had some luck in ferreting out killers, I wasn’t all that keen on getting caught up in another murder investigation.

I couldn’t help admitting to myself, however, that Mary Tucker McElroy’s particular problem intrigued me. She had promised further details when I arrived at Idlewild to join her little “artists colony,” as she called it. She had no concrete proof that murder had been done, but something she had discovered in the time since the “accidental” death made her suspicious. Before she told me the full story, she insisted, she wanted me to meet the various persons involved. Having my impressions of them unclouded by her own knowledge of them made sense.

I’d have preferred more information up front before I got involved in such an undertaking; but when someone was paying as much for my services as Miss McElroy, I was willing to bend my rules.

I inherited enough money from my parents so that I don’t have to scrape by on my retirement, savings, and Social Security, thank goodness. I keep busy. I travel, I read a lot, I take care of my house and yard, and I do my bit for various charities.

All of that is pretty predictable, though, and I like challenges. Plus I’m good at figuring out things. And, as I’ve said before, I’m nosy. Finding a good outlet for one of my besetting sins means I don’t have to squirm in my church pew on Sundays when the preacher talks about being overly concerned with one’s neighbors’ lives.

Or if I do squirm, I don’t squirm that much.

The long, magnolia-lined drive to Idlewild stretched before me. I headed my red Jeep toward the house, and after half a mile, I drove over a slight rise. There below me stood one of the most breathtaking examples of antebellum Greek Revival architecture I’ve ever seen. Reminiscent of its sisters much farther south in Natchez, Idlewild had been built on a grander scale than all of them.

Over nearly a hundred and fifty years, successive generations of McElroys had lavished care and attention on the upkeep of the house, but they had rarely allowed the general public inside its walls, or even on its grounds. Miss McElroy, like her forebears, tended to keep to herself. As if I needed anything more to whet my curiosity over Mary Tucker McElroy’s problem, I was looking forward to the opportunity to explore the place.

I drove past the house, marveling at the sparkling white columns and broad verandah, around the back to a converted stable, where I parked my car. After hefting my two bags from the back of the Jeep, I made my way along a path toward the back of the house. To my right lay a small vegetable garden enclosed by a waist-high brick wall. To my left stretched a broad expanse of well-tended lawn, a brilliant green in the morning sun. Over under the trees, beyond the lawn, stood what looked like a summerhouse, not a gazebo or folly, but a small house.

Wooden steps led up onto the back porch, where I set down my bags near the door. I knocked, and a few moments later, the door opened. Framed in the doorway, a rail-thin man, late seventies at a guess, dressed in what I’d swear was a white linen suit, glared at me. Perhaps he had misplaced his Panama hat and mint julep glass before he got to the door. Despite his picturesque appearance, he looked about as welcoming as the Pope inviting the barbarian hordes into Rome.

“Good morning, I’m Ernestine Carpenter. I’m here as a guest of Miss McElroy’s.”

One thin eyebrow arched and disappeared into a shock of abundant white hair as he frowned. “Yes, I do believe Mary Tucker said you were coming this morning. Please, do come in.” He stood aside and bade me enter with an offhand gesture, as if he didn’t care whether I came inside or not. “No, no, just leave your bags right there. I’ll take care of them for you.” His tone betokened his impatience.

“Thank you,” I said, though I wasn’t at all certain he was strong enough to hoist them. But I figured I couldn’t insult the man by appearing to doubt him. Men have such tender egos, after all.

He stood with arms held stiffly at his sides. “Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Carpenter. I’m Morwell Phillips. During your stay here at Idlewild, please let me know if there’s anything you need. We do hope your visit with us will be a pleasant one.” I would have been more convinced that he meant what he said if he hadn’t uttered the last two sentences in a monotone.

Maybe his feet were hurting, or maybe he was just rude. Whatever the reason for his less-than-gracious behavior, he was certainly high-class for an old family retainer. His voice was pure Mississippi gentry, and he had more the look of a retired lawyer or gentleman planter than that of a butler. I’m sure there was an interesting story here, and if I had the chance while I went about my job, I’d do my best to find out what his was.

“If you’ll follow me, please,” he said, as he shut the door behind us. My eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light inside the house, and I could see that we stood in a small room. On one side a half-closed door led into the kitchen. The murmur of voices and the aroma of something appetizing came from behind it.

To the left of us, through another doorway, were the back stairs, and ahead of us was a thickly paneled door. Morwell Phillips conducted me through it toward the front of the house.

The hallway, as was typical in houses of this kind, ran straight through from front to back, with the rooms off either side. The floorboards, covered in richly colored rugs, creaked slightly as we walked across them.

As we neared the foot of the broad wooden staircase, he waved a hand toward a room at the front of the house. “Mary Tucker is in there waiting for you. I’ll show you your room first, and you just take your time settling in, then come on back down and talk with her when you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” I murmured. Despite the admonition to take my time, I doubted that Miss McElroy would care to have me linger over the amenities, whatever they might be, in the room she had assigned.

We paused at the head of the stairs, and I beheld a wide and spacious hallway, like the one on the floor beneath us. Behind us, the stairs continued to the third floor. Along the walls were doorways, and in between the doorways were various oil portraits and occasional bits of statuary. In several places stood small groups of chairs and a couple of sofas. I remembered from tours of other antebellum homes that often the upper hallways were used almost as we would use living rooms or dens these days, and it appeared that Idlewild was no different.

Phillips conducted me down the length of the hallway. “There are six bedrooms on this floor,” he explained, continuing to sound utterly bored with his task. “Most of them have their own bathrooms.” He paused in front of the last doorway on the left. “The room there is Mary Tucker’s”—he then pointed to the right—“and she’s put you in this room, directly across.”

Not the servants’ quarters after all,
I reflected wryly. I opened the door he had indicated and walked inside. My breath caught in my throat as I looked around the spacious chamber. The furnishings were enough to make any antique dealer swoon. At home I had a canopied bed much like the one here, but I didn’t have the rest of the items that complemented it. Not the dresser, not the wardrobe, not a set of Duncan Phyfe chairs (if I wasn’t mistaken). I sighed in sheer pleasure.

“I’ll have to thank Miss McElroy,” I said, and I meant it. I hadn’t expected such comfort. “This is a lovely, lovely room.”

Phillips remained aloof. “This was Mary Tucker’s mother’s room, and she rarely has anyone stay in it. I’m sure you’ll find it eminently suitable.” He gestured toward a door to our right. “Through there is your bathroom. On the bedside table you’ll find a phone which connects with the kitchen, and if you need anything, anything at all, you just pick up that phone and let someone downstairs know.”

“Thank you,” I told him. “I’m sure everything will be just fine.”

He inclined his head. “Then I’ll leave you. Your bags will be here shortly, and please join Mary Tucker downstairs when you’re ready. Perhaps later I can give you a tour of the house?” He added that last bit as an obvious afterthought; I’m sure it was part of his instructions from Miss McElroy, but he had no enthusiasm for the task.

“I’d like that very much,” I said. “The house is spectacular, and I’d love to see it.”

“Then it would be my great pleasure to show it to you.” With a small, courtly bow, he was gone.

I wondered idly whether he treated everyone this way, or whether it was just me. Although my family wasn’t as wealthy as the McElroys, we had been in Mississippi just as long. But that really didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

Dismissing these thoughts as unproductive, I set my handbag down on the bedside table and hoisted my rump up onto the bed to test it. I’m six feet tall, but this bed was built high off the floor. Near the foot stood a two-step device for the use of those whose legs were too short to get them there on their own power. The mattress was firm and comfortable, and I resisted the urge to lie back and wallow.

Duty first. I inspected my face in the mirror, assuring myself that I looked presentable. No need to touch up the minimal makeup that I wear. The bathroom could wait until after I had seen Miss McElroy and found out what she wanted me to do today.

Down the hallway I went, taking a moment here and there to examine a portrait or a piece of statuary, but not lingering too long. The space was cool and quiet, as if the great house around me slumbered in the midday sun. Walking down the stairs, I listened to the small sounds the wood made. I’m a sucker for old houses. I had already fallen in love with this one, and I hadn’t even been inside it for half an hour yet.

Shaking my head at myself, I approached the door of the room where Miss McElroy awaited me. The door stood a tad ajar, and I could hear voices from inside the room as I drew closer.

I was about to knock to announce my presence when I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to stop and listen for a moment. Something about the tone of the voices behind the door alerted me.

“... respond to threats,” Miss McElroy was saying, her voice frosty.

“But, my dear Mary Tucker,” the other person said, oozing honey, “I wouldn’t exactly call it a threat. Think of it more as a promise.” A throaty chuckle. “And you know, dear heart, I never go back on a promise.”

“Come in, Miss Carpenter,” Mary Tucker McElroy called out, startling me so that I almost stumbled into the door. I’m afraid my face was a bit red as I came into the room.

Miss McElroy frowned as she said, “My hearing is quite acute. You’ll do well to remember that.”

As humiliated as I felt at the moment, I doubted I’d ever forget it. “Duly noted,” I said, with what composure I could muster.

As discreetly as I could, I examined the other woman standing near Miss McElroy. Short, plump, and homely were the first three adjectives that came to mind. She wore a Laura Ashley dress that did its best to lend her appearance some kind of charm but failed miserably. Her faux-blonde hair framed her face in a mass of curls better suited to a woman forty years younger.

Miss McElroy sniffed. “Miss Ernestine Carpenter, I’d like you to meet one of my other guests. This is Lurleen Landry. I’ve no doubt that you’ve read her work. Lurleen, this is Ernestine Carpenter, who is joining us this week.”

Lurleen Landry! I examined her more closely while I tried to keep my mouth from hanging open. The woman in front of me looked very little like the pictures I had seen on the dust jackets of her more recent books, and I wondered how on earth a photographer had managed to turn this little dumpling of a woman into the sleek authoress in the photos. I would never have recognized her.

Miss McElroy covered the looming awkwardness by continuing, “Miss Carpenter’s assisting me with my memoirs.” That was the fiction she had insisted upon to explain my presence among her select little collection of literary lions. I believe she was working on a memoir, but whether I’d be privy to any of it was anybody’s guess.

“How do you do, Miss Carpenter,” Lurleen Landry said, inclining her head in acknowledgment.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Landry. I’ve enjoyed your work, ever since your first book,
Down on the River Road
.” My composure had begun creeping back.

“Thank you, my dear. So many these days seem to have forgotten about my dear little first novel.” She preened in happiness at my words.

I wasn’t quite so bold as to tell her that, as far as I was concerned, her first book was without a doubt the best thing she’d ever done. The thirty or so books she’d penned in the forty years since had become progressively bloated and stale, peopled by brittle stereotypes whom it was difficult to like. Not, of course, that these problems kept the books from riding high on the bestseller list.

“
Down on the River Road
is a classic,” I said, “and before I retired from teaching, I had it on my required reading list for my senior honors course. Few writers have ever been able to capture what it was like growing up Southern and female in the 1950s the way you did in that book. The friendship between the two girls and the racial tensions which eventually drove them apart are so beautifully done. I reread the book every two or three years, and it has never lost its impact.”

“I can’t tell you how gratifying it is to hear that,” the beaming author replied.

Miss McElroy saved me from having to perjure myself on the topic of her later work by dismissing Lurleen. “I’m sure you’d like to go and rest a while before luncheon, my dear, and Miss Carpenter and I do have a number of things to discuss.”

“Why, of course, my dear,” Lurleen purred back at her. “We can always continue our little discussion later on.” She gave me a demure wave as she walked out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.