Death on the Family Tree (5 page)

Today, she would give herself a birthday party. Treat herself to creamy chicken salad in crispy, heart-shaped timbales with a generous slice of frozen salad on the side, rich with whipped cream and slices of peaches and bing cherries. She might even splurge for a meringue swan filled with chocolate mousse and covered in whipped cream.

She thanked the librarians, fetched her belongings from their locker, and stopped by the ladies’ room. As she came out the door, she didn’t notice the stranger in the hall until he spoke. “You looking for me?”

A lanky man detached himself from the wall. He wore crisp khaki slacks and a white Oxford-cloth shirt with green stripes, the sleeves rolled up to show muscular forearms. “The folks at the desk said a Mrs. Murray wants to ask me a question about something she’s found.” As he got closer, his jaw dropped. “Kate?”

Only one person had ever called her that.

“Hasty!” Katharine hadn’t seen Hobart Hastings for nearly thirty years, but for the last three years of high school he had sat in front of her every day in homeroom and many classes, because “Hastings” came immediately before “Herndon” on the roster. In tenth grade they had been assigned as biology lab partners for the same reason and without him, she might never have passed. She had never been able to see a thing under a microscope. In exchange, she began to edit his papers for spelling and grammar. Studying—and frequently bickering—together, they became so inseparable that their friends began to refer to them in one run-on word: Kat-’n’-Hasty.

But Hasty had wanted Katharine to apply to Kenyon, where he was going, and she had chosen Agnes Scott instead. All summer after graduation he had griped about that and insisted she would never be able to survive without him. She began to feel smothered, and insisted, “I have to do what’s right for me.” Then, the night before they were to leave for their separate colleges, he had drunk too much at a party and gotten himself entangled with a girl Katharine particularly disliked—one of the shapely, sun-streaked blondes in their class who seemed to stimulate raging hormones. When Hasty and the girl drove away together in the girl’s red Mustang convertible, Katharine found herself another ride home. An hour later, Hasty had turned up on her front porch. Furious and hurt, she had refused to let him in. He had stood out in the yard under her bedroom window, yelling things like “Hey, it was just a little fun” and “If you won’t go to college with me, you can’t expect me to become a monk, you know. I have to do what’s right for
me
,” until her father had gone out and sent him home.

He hadn’t called the next morning before she left for Agnes Scott, so they hadn’t said goodbye. He had called her two nights later, after he got to college, but he had sounded more belligerent than contrite, so she’d hung up on him. Several times. After that, he didn’t call again. She had nursed her anger until it subsided into a bruised and hurting heart. After a couple of months, she had permitted her roommate to fix her up, but the date was a disaster, so she didn’t repeat the experience until Christmas, when she met Tom.

Looking at Hasty now, she wondered: if Agnes Scott had been closer to Kenyon, or if her father hadn’t decided to move the family to Atlanta that same fall, would she and Hasty have eventually made up? Instead, they had never seen each other again.

Now he looked down at her with a surprised look that wasn’t particularly flattering. “When did you get sophisticated and beautiful?”

“When did you get so tactful?” But he had improved, too. She could see traces of the gangly boy he had been—the same square jaw, the same hazel eyes behind glasses that were now bifocals. However, he had filled out into an attractive bulk and the silver that threaded his black curls gave him a distinguished look. Unbidden, a memory of winding those curls through her fingers while she kissed him rose before her. She felt her fingers clench and heat rose in her cheeks. What on earth was the matter with her? She was a happily married woman.

“You’re teaching history at Emory?” she asked to cover her confusion. “I had no idea you were in Atlanta. Besides, you hated history.” His father had been an expert on the Age of Expansion and one of the shining lights of the new history department when Florida International University was founded in the seventies, but history used to be Hasty’s worst subject.

His lopsided grin and loose shrug hadn’t changed at all. “I discovered in college that it wasn’t history I hated, it was Dad ramming it down my throat. I got hooked on the Vandals, Goths, and Celts. All that ravishing and rape.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“You never did master a leer,” she informed him, “but if you know about Celts, you are just what I need.”

“I can’t remember anybody ever having that reaction to Celts. You intrigue me. Want to have lunch?”

She hesitated. “I was going up to the Coach House, and it’s pretty much all women.”

“I don’t object to women.” Seeing her look, he added, “But I have learned to respect them. Besides, isn’t this your birthday?” Part of what used to astonish her about Hasty was his memory for trivia. She nodded. “Then you mustn’t eat alone. Come on, my treat.”

She wasn’t in the habit of eating lunch with men, but she couldn’t think of any reason to refuse, and after all, he was an old friend. So she fell into step beside him and hurried to keep up. He still had the quick nervous stride that had earned him his nickname.

He also still had a propensity to lecture. “Did you know that this restaurant and gift shop are housed in a garage the Inman family built on their estate to house a collection of racing cars? The mansion, completed in 1928, was left to the Atlanta Historical Society on Mrs. Inman’s death in the nineteen sixties, and the society built the history center on the grounds. They opened the Swan House to the public, and created the restaurant in the garage to generate income.”

Katharine had memorized all those facts back when she became a docent, but she had neither the breath nor the inclination to tell him. His long legs were taking the steep incline much faster than hers. When he saw she was falling behind, he put out a hand and she took it without thinking. Holding Hasty’s hand felt so familiar that she didn’t realize she hadn’t let go until they started in the door and met two of her friends. She dropped his hand at once, but they gave Hasty a speculative look as he stepped back to let them out. Katharine’s cheeks flamed. Why had Hasty turned out so handsome? They wouldn’t have given her those looks if he’d been scrawny, ugly, and had a squint. Why hadn’t she suggested somewhere else for lunch—preferably miles from Buckhead and everybody she knew?

However, they were there, so she might as well enjoy it. Tom probably had lunch with women all the time as part of his work. That’s what they were going to have—a working lunch. Looked at that way, it was perfectly harmless. So why was she obsessing over this?

Because you have spent too much of your life with women and children,
she told herself crossly, taking a seat on an old chest that doubled as a waiting bench.

“What have you been doing since high school?” she asked as Hasty returned from giving his name to the hostess. His story included graduation from Kenyon, a Ph.D. from Columbia, and positions at two colleges in the Midwest before coming to Atlanta to teach at Emory a year ago.

“Your turn,” he finished.

Given her dreams in high school, her life sounded pretty lame. “Husband, two kids. Susan’s working in New York and Jon just graduated from Emory last month. Now he’s gone to China to teach for a couple of years. We hope to go see him at Christmas.”

The ponytailed helper from the library came in just then and greeted her with a grin and a wave. “I see you had the same idea I did.” He stuck out a hand to Hasty. “Hello, Dr. Hastings. Lamar Franklin. I caught one of your public lectures last winter on old burial customs. Fascinatin’ stuff.” He added in a lower tone, “The chow’s pretty good here if you can remember not to eat with your fingers and to keep your napkin in your lap.”

She feared Hasty would invite the man join them, but he was already crossing the foyer and greeting the hostess like an old friend. “Your usual table is ready, Mr. Franklin,” she said, and took him right in.

Katharine felt a pang at the name, remembering Franklin Garrett, a great Atlanta historian who had died not too many years before and was still sorely missed.

She turned back to Hasty. “So, do you have a wife?”

A shadow crossed his face. “Yeah, but we’re separated right now. When I came down here she and Kelly, who is fifteen, didn’t want to move. What does your husband do?” His tone shut out sympathy or questions.

When she told him, he raised his brows. “A lobbyist?” It sounded like a disease.

“More of a consultant, making sure his company’s interests are properly represented.”

“Ooh—prickly, Kate,” he chided her with a grin. “I’m sure he’s a nice lobbyist.”

“Very nice.”

“So what are you going to do with yourself now that everybody’s gone off and left you?”

He didn’t have to put it so baldly. “I’m figuring that out.” She hoped she sounded confident and enthusiastic. “I’m considering various options.”

His grin widened. “From past experience, I’d suggest you not consider anything in the realm of biology.”

She had forgotten how easy Hasty was to laugh with. They were still chuckling when the hostess came to tell them their table was ready.

He looked around at the white wallpaper with huge flowers, thick white tablecloths, dainty floral arrangement on each table, and the crowd of women and muttered, “So this is how the ladies eat.”

Lamar looked up from his menu at the next table. “You just doubled the masculine population of the room. Thanks.” He turned to give his order.

When they had ordered, Hasty leaned back in his chair and said, “Sounds like you’ve done well for yourself. Married a corporate executive, got a house in Buckhead, what more could a woman ask for? I’m happy for you. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me about?”

She reached down and brought out the book and the cloth-wrapped parcel. As she passed them across the table, she warned, “I can’t guarantee they’re sanitary.”

He had already removed the cloth from the necklace and glanced at its tag. Then he took off his glasses, set them on the table, and held the circlet close to his eyes. His big hands turned it with a gentleness that surprised her. “It’s bronze. Where on earth did you get this?”

Katharine told him about Aunt Lucy’s box and about tracking down Carter Everanes in the history center library. “But I don’t know where he got those things.”

He didn’t take his eyes from the circlet as he turned it again and again. “Hallstatt was a very important Celtic archaeological find. If this is genuine, it could be extremely valuable. But it shouldn’t be in private hands. The person who can probably tell you for certain is at Emory’s Carlos Museum, but he’s in Europe for a couple of weeks.”

Katharine was about to say that was what she had been told at the history center when Lamar leaned across the space between their tables. “That looks fascinating. Is it real old? Could I see it just a minute?”

Hasty didn’t hand it over. “Sorry, but if this is as old as I think it is, it needs to be kept in a very safe place and not handled.” He looked over at Katharine. “Why don’t I take it—”

“Oh no, you don’t.” She grabbed it, surprising all three of them. But Katharine had recognized that look in Hasty’s eye. He used to collect stamps and had founded a stamp club at high school to which she initially belonged. Unfortunately, whenever anybody brought in a stamp Hasty didn’t own and wanted, he got a certain gleam in his eye. Then he badgered the owner until the poor soul would sell to him rather than put up with his persistent hounding. One student with a good collection had finally gotten so tired of losing stamps to Hasty that he had complained to the principal and the principal had shut down the club.

Katharine used the distraction of the waitress setting down iced tea and hot cheese drop biscuits to reach over and take back the diary, as well. It was admirable that Hasty had turned his passion for things of the past into gainful employment, but she felt better with Aunt Lucy’s possessions on her side of the table.

“What was that?” he demanded, putting back on his glasses and peering across at her.

“A diary. It’s in German, and I haven’t tried to translate it yet.”

He grew very still. “Was the diary with the necklace?”

“In the same box.”

“What else do you have in that bag?”

“A piece of junk.”

“Let me see.” He held out his hand.

She handed over Aunt Lucy’s peach pit necklace. He dropped it on the table after a quick look. “That’s disgusting. It’s even moldy.”

“I told you it was junk.” She put it back in the bag and was starting to rewrap the necklace in its cloth when she heard someone greet her from behind.

“Hello, Katharine.” She looked up into the ice blue eyes of Rowena Ivorie Slade. Rowena was one of those women for whom wealth, brains, and grooming achieve what nature has not. Born a silver blonde, she still kept her hair “Ivorie” white and beautifully coiffed and was invariably so well dressed and confident that people spoke of her as attractive, forgetting that her eyes were too close together, her nose long and sharp, her chin insignificant. Today she wore a two-piece dress of navy linen with a gold necklace and earrings that probably could have bought all the lunches served at the Coach House that afternoon.

Aside from having sat on a few of the same committees, Rowena and Katharine had another thing in common: both were the only children of fathers who had been forty-five when they were born. With her father close to ninety, Rowena now reigned as queen in Atlanta’s conservative political circles, chairing more committees than she had fingers and flying to Washington at least once a month to keep government on track.

Hasty stood. Katharine was about to introduce them when she met the startled dark eyes of her niece, who stood behind Rowena. Hollis gave Hasty an oblique look, then looked back at her aunt with a challenge in her eye. Katharine gave an inner sigh. Young adults could be so tedious about running into married relations eating lunch with somebody of the other sex.

She again started to introduce Hasty, but Rowena forestalled her by sticking out a hand. “How do you do? I am Rowena Slade.”

Hasty shook the proffered hand. “Hobart Hastings, ma’am. I teach over at Emory and I heard you speak on a panel last year. A very impressive mustering of facts.”

“Thank you.” Rowena took it for praise.

Katharine looked down at her plate to hide her smile. Unless Hasty’s politics had changed drastically since high school, he hadn’t agreed with a word Rowena had said. Apparently, though, he had learned a little tact and diplomacy in the past thirty years.