Closer than the Bones (5 page)

Alice laughed, a harsh sound. “You’ve got gall, Mary Tucker. But then, women with money their daddies earned for them usually do. What if we don’t want to stay here and play this little game with you? What if we go back home right now?”

“Now, Alice,” Miss McElroy said, her voice mild. “I don’t think you really want to do that, do you? After all, I just might not remember some things the way I should, and it would be a shame for the wrong information to make it into print. Don’t you think so?”

“Like what?” Alice said, her eyes narrowing. Her husband and I sat there, watching the duel without saying a word.

“Like the time,” Miss McElroy said, her voice even sweeter than before, “some of my checks disappeared. Then later on they reappeared, but someone else had signed my name to them. Remember that?”

Alice Bertram howled with rage. She picked up her glass of tea and threw it straight at Miss McElroy.

Chapter Four

Miss McElroy moved faster than I would have thought possible. As the glass of tea arced through the air in her direction, she stood. The glass hit her just below her ample bosom, and tea spilled down the front of her lavender silk dress. The glass fell on the carpet at her feet, ice cubes splaying out in front of her. A faint scent of bourbon perfumed the air.

‘“A hit, a palpable hit,’” Miss McElroy quoted, with understated irony. I couldn’t help but admire her considerable sangfroid. She mopped at the stain on her dress with a handkerchief.

“Alice!” Russell Bertram choked out in a horrified whisper. “How could you?”

“Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?”

All heads swiveled toward the door, and there stood a stranger. At least he was a stranger to me, though I recognized him from the book-jacket photographs I’d seen. Brett Doran, in the flesh. Handsome flesh, too. If only I were about thirty years younger.

Stepping over the mess on the carpet, having forgotten her sodden dress, Miss McElroy moved forward with hands out-stretched. “Dear, dear Brett! How lovely to see you. And handsome as ever, despite the fact that you seem unable to find your razor more than once a week.” She chuckled.

He clasped her hand in his and raised it to his lips. Dressed all in black, with jet hair and a five-day stubble of dark beard on his face, he looked dangerous, like a man more at home on the mean streets than in the drawing room of a genteel Southern mansion. Which effect no doubt he intended to enhance his image as one of the “bad boys” of American letters. His face, however, lit with a big smile as he looked down at Miss McElroy; and danger receded, leaving only a bit of the playboy behind.

“What have I missed?” he asked, his voice low and husky. Miss McElroy turned to face the Bertrams and me, tucking Brett Doran’s hand into the crook of her left arm as she did so. “I’ve just been introducing my guest, Miss Ernestine Carpenter, to Alice and Russell. I’m afraid something I said caused Alice to have one of her little temper tantrums, but I’m sure that’s all over and done with. Isn’t it, Alice?”

The steel in Miss McElroy’s voice made that last sentence more of a command than a query. Alice Bertram was seething, but all she said was, “Yes, sorry, Mary Tucker. I don’t know what came over me.”

“How do you do, Miss Carpenter?” Brett Doran held out a hand to me, and I clasped it in mine. He was trying hard not to laugh at Alice, and I grinned at him. He gave off a warm, masculine scent, a mixture of expensive cigars and an understated cologne.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Doran. I’ve read your work, and I find it very provocative. And misunderstood, I’m afraid.” Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. Pleasure lit his face, making him younger and less jaded than he appeared to be. “Please, call me Brett,” he said. “I think we’re going to be good friends, Miss Carpenter.”

“And call me Ernie,” I told him. “That’s what my friends call me.”

“I’d very much appreciate it,” Alice Bertram’s voice cut through like the scritch of a diamond on glass, “if someone would refill my glass. I’m terribly thirsty, and it’s time for another of my painkillers. My hip is excruciatingly painful.”

“Let me do the honors,” Brett said as he shepherded Miss McElroy back to her seat. As she reached for a bellpull near her chair, he stooped down, picked up Alice’s glass, and began refilling it from the drinks tray. “In this world where few things are certain except death and taxes,” he said, turning to Alice with a debonair flourish, offering her the newly filled glass of tea and bourbon, “I’m ever delighted at how certain things remain constant, my dear, dear Alice. One does so regret the pain you are forced to endure, but we do all so much appreciate the efforts you make in sharing it with us at every possible moment.”

I braced myself for a repeat of the earlier glass-tossing scene, but Alice said nothing. Instead she knocked back half the contents of the glass. Since I had seen Brett pour a liberal dose of bourbon into it, I wondered whether she’d choke. But the woman was made of sterner stuff than I had estimated. She didn’t even breathe hard as the tea-laced bourbon slid down her throat.

Brett held out a hand to Russell Bertram. “Russ, it’s great to see you, as always. How are you?”

“Fine, Brett, just fine. Good to see you.” Russell shook the proffered hand with greater enthusiasm than he had hitherto demonstrated. “We must talk later. I’m eager to hear about what you’re working on now.”

“It would be a pleasure,” Brett said, as he sat on a sofa across from Miss McElroy. “Now, tell me what I’ve missed.”

Miss McElroy smiled. “Just before you arrived, Brett, I had been explaining to Alice and Russell the reason for our little get-together. I’ve Anally decided to work on my memoirs, and Miss Carpenter is assisting me with them. Naturally I wanted my nearest and dearest here to help me remember some of the important occasions in my life.”

“I suppose,” Brett said in a quiet tone, “that you know what you’re doing, Mary Tucker.” He looked at her, and some sort of unspoken message seemed to pass between them.

“What harm can a little reminiscing do us?” she responded, flirting shamelessly.

“Indeed,” he said. The amusement he invested in that one word was palpable. He caught my eye and winked.

Miss McElroy had at least one ally among her guests, I supposed. That might make my job a bit easier. If Brett Doran was more willing to talk than I suspected either of the Bertrams would be, so much the better.

I kept staring at the puddle of tea and bourbon which had soaked into the carpet. I seemed to be the only one worried about it, however, because Miss McElroy hadn’t spared it a second glance after Brett’s entrance into the room. I decided that, if she wasn’t worried about her carpet being ruined, I wasn’t either.

The door opened, and Morwell Phillips entered. Miss McElroy indicated the carpet with a flourish of her hand and said, “Morwell, I’m afraid there’s been a bit of an accident. Alice spilled her tea. Could you send someone with a towel to mop it up, there’s a dear.”

“Certainly, Mary Tucker.” He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Our hostess stood. “I’m afraid, my dears, that I must retire for a little while. I really should change, so that someone can get the tea out of this dress before it’s completely ruined. Please stay and chat, if you like. But you all know your rooms, of course, so just make yourselves at home, as always.” Head held high, she proceeded out of the room. I resisted the urge to stand and curtsy. She did have such a regal way with her.

I caught Brett Doran’s eye, and he winked again. Before I could say anything, Alice announced in a peevish tone that she wanted to go to her room. “Help me up, Russell. You know how difficult I find those stairs. You’d think Mary Tucker would make some effort to consider the comfort of her guests and have some kind of lift installed. But I suppose I’ll just have to force myself upstairs, as usual.”

Russell grimaced as he leaned over his wife, assisting her up and out of her chair. Neither Brett nor I offered any comment. Instead we watched in silence as the Bertrams proceeded at a sedate pace from the room, Alice giving ill-natured comments with every step. For someone in as much pain as she claimed to be, she had little trouble drawing breath to speak, that’s for sure.

As the door closed behind the couple, Brett broke the silence. “So, Ernie, how did Mary Tucker rope you into this little shindig? Have you been ‘discovered’ like the rest of us?”

I laughed. “I have no claims to being a literary light, Brett. I did teach high-school English for nearly forty years, and I have several former students who are quite gifted writers. But I’m here merely as an assistant to Miss McElroy. Nothing more.”

“Assisting her in doing what, I wonder?” Brett smiled as he stood up. He pulled a leather cigar case from his inside jacket pocket. “Would you care to join me on the verandah while I indulge my filthy habit? I’m afraid Mary Tucker doesn’t allow anyone to smoke inside the house.”

Out on the verandah, he guided me toward a shaded corner with several comfortable chairs. An old and venerable magnolia tree shaded us from the noonday sun. Thank goodness there was a bit of a breeze, otherwise the sultry day would have driven me back inside in a heartbeat. But I figured Brett had a reason for inviting me outside, and I might as well hear what it was.

I watched as he chose a short, fat cigar from his case, then clipped and lit it. He exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke, being careful to direct it away from me, even though I didn’t mind. “My one vice,” he said, a boyish grin on his face.

“Somehow I doubt that,” I said in a wry tone.

“I’d better not forget those years you spent teaching.” He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. “No flies on you, I’m sure.”

“Not many,” I agreed, watching and waiting.

“You said something very interesting when we were introduced,” Brett said after a brief silence, expelling more smoke.

“What was that?” I prompted when he failed to continue.

“That I was misunderstood. What did you mean by that?” He examined the glowing tip of his cigar with care, but his attention was focused on me, waiting for my reply.

“I read your book, and I read a lot of what the press had to say about it. I also saw a couple of the interviews you did, the one with Barbara Walters, for example, and that idiotic piece on ‘Entertainment Tonight.’ Seems to me most of them missed the point of what you were saying, completely.”

“And what was the point, do you think?”

I watched him for a moment, through the haze of smoke circulating in a lazy pattern around his head. He reminded me of so many students I’d had over the years, bright, talented young people, aware of their gifts, yet insecure. Despite his success, he still wasn’t quite certain of himself.

“I’ll grant you that the level of violence in the book was almost too much,” I said. “But I thought it was fairly clear you were making a point about how our culture these days seems to glamorize violence against women. The way violence against women demeans and diminishes us all. The satire was mordant and pointed; but most of the men, and even the women, who reviewed the book didn’t get it all.”

He exhaled a plume of smoke into the air with great satisfaction. “Thank you. Knowing that someone who read the book got what I was trying to say makes me feel better, believe me. I thought I was being pretty obvious, even a bit too heavy-handed, but I was surprised. I never thought the book would be that controversial.” He grinned in self-mockingly. “But that just goes to show you how much a writer really knows about his own work. The most important thing I learned in all this is that you have no control over how the public will perceive and construe what you’ve written. You might as well try to herd cats.”

I laughed. “A good point. I do hope you didn’t take too much of the silliness to heart and let it interfere with your writing.”

Brett leaned over and tapped some ash off the end of his cigar into the flower bed beneath the verandah. “Wish I could say I had, but I have to admit it’s taken me a while to get a sense of perspective on it. The last few months I’ve finally been able to write again without feeling like the whole world was staring over my shoulder, goggling at every word I typed onto the computer screen.” He grinned.

“Good for you. You have to forget about them and write for yourself.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s taken me a while to remember that.” He drew on his cigar again and watched the smoke he emitted. “I think maybe I’m going to adopt you as my guardian angel. How’s that?”

Absurdly pleased, I forced myself not to blush. “If you’re not careful, I’ll have you in the principal’s office for insubordination, young man.”

Brett laughed. “I wonder if Mary Tucker realizes just what she has on her hands.”

“I doubt it.”

“I reckon Mary Tucker may have finally met her match, but she probably doesn’t know it yet.”

He laughed along with me, then told me a few amusing anecdotes about his first book tour, which I relished. He was a superb raconteur, and I relaxed and forgot about the job at hand while he talked.

“But enough of that.” All at once serious, he leaned toward me. “So,” he asked, his voice dropping to a stage whisper, “who do you think murdered Sukey Lytton?”

Chapter Five

I countered with another question. “What makes you so certain she was murdered?”

“No fair,” Brett sputtered, laughing. “I asked you first.” Smiling, I watched him. He attempted to stare me down, but he wasn’t in my league. He smoked in silence for as long as he could stand it, which wasn’t very long, then he broke.

“You win!” He threw up the hand holding his cigar. “I knew Sukey as well as anyone of this demented group Mary Tucker is gathering together. She sure wasn’t the type to commit suicide.” He shrugged. “I finally figured someone helped her along to the pearly gates.”

“Why wasn’t she the type to kill herself?”

“Sukey was a selfish little beast,” he said, his voice flat and hard. “She didn’t care how much she might hurt someone else, as long as she got what she wanted. She had a lot in common with Alice Bertram on that score.”