First Kill All the Lawyers (8 page)

“I sure would appreciate it.”

Suddenly the devil grabbed Sam’s tongue. “It must be hard for them up there,” she said, as if she didn’t know better.

Polite eyes rolled her way. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Well, isn’t Tate in Forsyth County? Where all those Klan marches and demonstrations were last year?”

A silence fell upon the group. Silk shifted. Champagne slipped between pursed lips.

“Why, no, actually, Tate’s in Pickens County,” said a redhead in pea green.

“But it’s more or less the same, isn’t it? I mean, all white? It must be uncomfortable for your help to be there.” Even as she spoke, Sam wondered at herself. Wasn’t she the perfect flaming liberal twit? What the hell was she doing? Just bored—cruising for a fight, looking for a hit? She was going to have to talk about this at a meeting: bitchery—an alternative to alcohol.

“I never thought of it like that,” the brunette said. “But then, our help stays with us, you know. It’s not as if they’re out gallivanting all over the countryside.”

“Tell us about San Francisco, Samantha,” interjected a silver-haired woman with a massive bosom
battened down beneath plum silk. The mediator. “It is the most
beautiful
city. I can’t imagine why you’d want to come back to little old Atlanta after living there.”

And they were off and running, expounding on California’s charms. Queen had done exactly the same thing. It was as if this set had agreed on travelogues as a sort of salve, a vanishing cream for confrontation.

“Look at those girls,” said a woman with a frizzy brown permanent. She tipped her head to one side like a listening bird. “Don’t they remind you of flowers?”

They did look that pretty, the nearby cluster of young girls in their bright party dresses. Their complexions were as creamy as Kay Kay’s magnolias. More than one of the women in Sam’s group fluttered an age-freckled hand to her throat.

A blonde in blue watered silk caught Sam’s eye, and smiled. It was Totsie, changed into a fresh dress. She came over.

“Come join us.” She took Sam’s hand. “I want you to meet some of my friends.”

Sam let herself be led away, and a collective sigh of relief rose from the women she left behind her.

“…didn’t mean to be rude,” Totsie was saying. “After all, I
am
a hostess.”

She looked better now, though her eyes were too bright. Was she on something? Sam wondered.

Totsie introduced her around the circle of animated young women.

“San Francisco!” one of them shrieked. “I
love
that city!”

“Oh, I
died
over the cable cars.”

“The foghorns,” mooned one who had the slow eyes of a poet.

“Oh, you
would,
Ashley,” Totsie twitted her friend. “Now,
my
favorite is the view from the top of the Mark Hopkins.”

“You’ve stayed there?” Sam asked.

“No, but I had drinks there once.”

“Totsie is
so
sophisticated,” one of them teased. She was right, Samantha thought. For despite the fact that the Kays’ daughter was obviously having a bad night, there was something very grown-up about her. She was no little girl in a pinafore, Sam thought, no simple, sweet confection.

“Totsie’s going to be the head of Turner Broadcasting one of these days,” another offered. “Going to push Ted Turner right out.”

“Over his dead body,” said Totsie. Her color was high, her skin so pale that the blood showed like bright stains in her cheeks. She laughed, took a gulp of champagne, and then started to choke.

Samantha patted her on the back. Totsie
was
having a rough time with the bubbly. Her color deepened. Sam considered the Heimlich maneuver, but instead reached for a sandwich from a nearby table.

“Here,” she said. “The bread will help.”

Totsie chewed and swallowed, then again. “Thanks,” she finally managed in a strained voice. “I’ll be okay.”

One of the girls turned to another, as if to politely draw attention away from Totsie. “Where’s Liza tonight?” she asked.

“Probably painting. She hardly ever comes to these things anymore. Always says she’s too busy.”

How many Lizas could there be in their circle? “Liza Ridley?” asked Sam.

“You know her?”

“I’ve met her. Saw some of her work. She’s quite good.”

The girls nodded all around.

“She’s super,” one said.

“She is,” a girl with dark bangs agreed. “When we were little kids, at Westminster”—she tilted her head in the direction of that very private school, farther out on West Paces Ferry Road—“Liza’s work was up in every show.” She laughed. “That Liza! I remember one summer when we were all up at Tate, Liza must have been eight or nine, and she had a whole bunch of us posing out on a rock in the lake, buck naked! Big Helen, my mama, caught us and threw a hissy. They thought we were playing doctor.”

“Playing what?” asked a young girl as she joined the circle. “Are you all talking about my daddy again?”

“No, Beth. We’re talking about Liza.”

Samantha turned to look at the newcomer named Beth, and then it was
her
turn to choke.

No question. This beauty was Beau Talbot’s daughter. With her dark hair, long elegant nose, and big long-lashed brown eyes, the girl was a female version of the young doctor who had taken Sam’s love.

“Samantha Adams, Beth Talbot.” Totsie was doing the honors.

When Sam touched the girl’s hand, her own tingled.

Beth smiled. Her front teeth were just a little crooked, charmingly so, like her father’s. “My dad’s mentioned you.”

Oh, yeah?

“He always reads you in the paper. He says you’re the best reporter the
Constitution
’s
ever had. He says—oh, here he is now.”

Sam closed her eyes. If she could conjure him up, she could conjure him away.

“Samantha!” There was his voice, the same surprisingly high voice with a laugh permanent-pressed into it.

He was bald. She knew he was going to be bald. He was fat. His teeth had gone bad. His face was a moonscape of valleys and wrinkles.

She opened her eyes. He was infuckingcredibly gorgeous.

He was grinning at her.
Grinning.
“Samantha, you’re just as beautiful as ever.” Then he laughed.

The circle of girls disappeared. So did the rest of the room.

“You haven’t changed,” she managed to say. She felt like she was going to explode. The last time she’d seen this bastard, she’d been nineteen years old. He’d kissed her good-bye at the airport—kissed her again and again. “It won’t be long,” he’d whispered in that high voice that broke. “You’ll come to New York.” Then he’d held her one last time and whispered into her curls, “I’ll love you always.”

Shit! He might as well have said, “Let’s have lunch.” But nineteen-year-old girls didn’t know that meant the same thing as “Let’s be friends” or “I’ll call you.” Girls were usually women by the time they figured out that’s what men said when they meant “Adios.”

“Well…” He laughed and ran a hand across the top of his thatch of hair, which
had
changed—from
black to silver. Gorgeous silver. “I’d beg to differ with you.”

“Nawh,” she said, sounding like a Dead End Kid. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

His eyes shifted a little at that, as if he weren’t sure what she meant. He was off balance. Great.

“So. How do you like the
Constitution
?”

“So far, so good.” She was volunteering nothing. He wanted to know how the last twenty years had gone? Let him ask.

“They’re treating you nicely down there?”

“Yep. Sure are.”

“You’re not going to talk to me, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Come on, Sam.” He reached for her arm.

She shrugged away from him. “Please don’t.”

The truth was, if he touched her, she didn’t know what she’d do. Cry. Scream. Detonate. She’d had a hate-on for this man for so many years, and now that she’d finally laid eyes on him again…what? What was this she felt?

Nervous. That’s it.

That’s not it. Try another four-letter word.

Hate.

No, you said that.

Anger.

Too many letters.

Fear.

That’s warmer. That’s partially right. And why do you fear him? What are you afraid of? What do you
really
feel? Nervous actually was warm, too. Try twitchy.

Twitchy doesn’t have four letters. Neither does ants-in-your-pants, but that’s what you feel.

I do not.

Do too.

You mean…I can’t believe it…
lust?
This is not lust.

You can lie to them, babe, but you can’t lie to me. For my money, it’s lust. Heat. Same thing. Lust.

She’d always been a sucker for a pretty face. A pretty body. Pretty smile. Beau Talbot—cad, four-flusher, scoundrel, cheat, heartbreaker—had all three. Years, miles, water under the bridge—and still, just looking at him made her hot. This was not logic operating here. She wanted his body. She hated his guts.

But there were other people around. This was a party. She’d been raised a Southern lady, to be polite. She didn’t throw her club soda in his face. She didn’t walk away. And she didn’t want to let him see that he was getting to her.

“They’re treating me very nicely downtown,” she said. “I have a lot of latitude.”

He was anxious to make small talk. “Well, be careful. You know what they say about plenty of rope.”

She smiled politely. “That’s what George says. He’s been warning me off a story I’m beginning—says it’s too dangerous.”

“What’s that?”

“A look-see at rural sheriffs.”

“I’d say he’s right. They play hardball, those ole boys. I wouldn’t mess with ’em, Sam. Why don’t you stick to something safe, like murder? You do that awfully well.”

She wouldn’t ask him how he knew. “Thanks.” She nodded.

“I’ve read—” he began, but then a white-jacketed waiter appeared at his side.

“Dr. Talbot, there’s a phone call for you, sir. I hate to interrupt, but the man said it was urgent.”

“Excuse me, Sam.” And he did touch her then—just tapped her arm. It tingled as if she’d been shocked. “Please don’t disappear. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She stood rooted, not thinking about what she ought to be doing: mingling, making conversation, or, if she had any sense, making tracks. Beau Talbot, after all these years. Her arm sent electric messages up, then down to her breast.

He returned quickly, wearing a very odd expression. But before either of them could say another word, Edison Kay stepped up.

“Well, well,” Kay blustered around an expensive cigar. “How nice to see you getting to know some people, Samantha. Though I must say that, even though Dr. Talbot here’s the handsomest dog in the room, he is that, a dog. You ought to be careful.”

Beau smiled politely, then blurted, “Excuse me, Samantha, Edison, I’ve got to leave.”

“Rushing out?” Edison protested. “Why, the party’s only just begun.”

Beau leaned over to his host and murmured in his ear, but loudly enough that Sam could hear him. “I just got a call from the GBI. They’ve found Forrest Ridley’s body at Apalachee Falls, up in Watkin County.”

“What the hell do you mean, Forrest Ridley’s body?” Edison exclaimed loudly. “The man’s a senior partner. He can’t be dead!”

And with that, the party froze, dead still. Champagne tulips stopped halfway to lips. Words were bitten half-through like cigars. Then the buzz began, and grew and grew until it was almost a roar, and in the midst of it, there was a sharper swell of noise as a woman screamed. George suddenly appeared at Sam’s side, and she never did see who had uttered such an anguished, unladylike sound.

Six

Sam jolted awake and, with her eyes still closed, slammed her hand down on the alarm clock on her bedside table. But it kept ringing. She peeled one eye open and stared at it. Seven A.M. Harpo glared at her from the foot of her bed. Still ringing. She fumbled for the telephone.

“Meet me at the IHOP on Ponce for breakfast,” the voice on the other end said. “I have something important to tell you.”

“Who
is
this?”

“Come on, Sam. It’s Beau. Get up and get dressed and meet me.”

“Are you crazy?”

“For Christ’s sake, it’s about Forrest Ridley. Don’t you want this story?”

Sam was quiet for a moment as the events of the previous night played back through her mind like an old movie: the announcement of Ridley’s death, the hubbub and confusion, the drive back home, skipping the Varsity. But she remembered too the way she’d felt when she’d seen Beau again—the confusion of all those years of hating him, blocking him, forgetting him, and then
zap!
he touched her, and that tingle.