Money To Burn (12 page)

“Herbert is eavesdropping again,” she confided. “That should do the trick.”

The man coughed and moved a few paces back, glaring at me.

“Why’s he giving me the evil eye?” I complained. “You’re the one who blew the smoke in his face.”

“Because he can’t afford to glare at me.” The old woman blew more smoke his way. “I pay his bills. He’s the Talbot family lawyer. You should talk to him. If you can bear it. He’s even more stupid than my late husband was.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. This woman was completely free to tell it like it was. And that’s exactly what she was doing.

“Aren’t you afraid your son will get angry that you’re talking to me?” I asked.

“My son is a cruel and indifferent man,” she confided, then paused for a gulp of champagne and a drag on her cigar. “He invited you here to frighten you with his money. I can’t stand bullies. What about you?”

“I don’t like them either,” I said, staring at my empty glass.

She waved her cigarette holder and it was magically replenished. Maybe it wouldn’t be such an awful night after all. I’d just stick close to Lucrezia Borgia.

“No, I mean, ‘What about you?’” she said. “Tell me your story so I don’t have to talk to these people. You have no idea how many parties I’ve been to with the same old faces. They bored me the first time I met them and, for most of them, that was at least thirty years ago. They whine endlessly about the same old troubles, only now they’re having them with different people—their second wife, their new husband, their spoiled child who has grown into a surly teenager, their latest banker, another dishonest servant. Talk to me please, and do not whine. I’d be eternally grateful.”

A pert brunette tanned the color of pecans and packed into a short white dress darted into the room, then scurried by as if afraid the old woman might bite her.

“See that one?” Marie Talbot asked, nodding toward the rapidly disappearing woman. “Look quick now, darling, before she dies of skin cancer. She is married to a man three times her age, but right now she’s heading to the library to meet my grandson for a quickie. She has the morals of an alley cat.”

“What about your grandson?”

“He has no morals at all.” She dragged on her cigar and sighed. “Don’t avoid the subject. Tell me your story.”

There was no way I was walking away from the lady, not when she was overflowing with Talbot family secrets. If nothing else, I was greatly entertained and happy to pay the price of admission. I told her about my upbringing, about my parents being killed when I was seven, my grandfather stepping in, the lack of money—hell, the lack of running water—the hot cotton and beet fields, the barren soil, the nearby swamps, the ragged clothes. I told her about growing up bigger than the other kids and how I’d learned to use my physical strength early.

“And in case you’re wondering,” I added. “Red isn’t my real hair color.”

“Believe me, dear, I wasn’t wondering. But what about men?” she demanded. “Why are you living here instead of in Florida? Tell me. Some stupid man is behind it, I’m quite sure.”

“More like a stupid woman,” I told her. “As in me. My life was such a mess down there that I knew I’d never untangle it. I came here to start over.” I could not confess to her why I was really in North Carolina—that I was fleeing a drug conviction and the memory of a year and a half in a Jacksonville prison. Instead, I just told her about my ex and his many unpleasant personal habits.

She sighed when I was done. “I envy you your independence. I was born at the wrong time,” she confided. “If only I had been born five years later, I could have run off and joined World War Two. Maybe married a Frenchman. Someone with courage and honor—or at the very least, a charming accent.” She paused and considered another scenario. “Or if I had been born twenty years later, I’d have marched with Gloria Steinem to the White House and helped women take over the world.”

“I don’t think Gloria was actually into marching,” I said dubiously as a waiter refilled my glass yet again. “She was too busy shaving her legs.”

“Then with Betty Friedan,” the old woman said. “Surely, she marched. She was positively weather-beaten.”

“No,” I said carefully. “I think Betty spent a lot of time indoors, writing.”

Marie Talbot was thinking hard, her cigar balanced between two ruby lips. “I know,” she finally said, triumphantly. “Bella. Tell me Bella Abzug didn’t march. I dare you.”

“Okay,” I conceded. “Bella probably did march. At least once.”

“You see,” she cried. “And I could have been with her.” She shook a fist playfully and diamond tennis bracelets slid up and down her bony arm. I’d seen one of them for sale during a gawking expedition to Jewelsmith. It had won a design prize and been priced at over twenty-four thousand dollars.

“But no,” Marie Talbot moaned theatrically, “I get stuck in the middle, raising a dreadful child in the dreadful fifties, surrounded by lazy, stupid men. And my crowning achievement is giving birth to a man who has facelifts, for godsakes, and would rather count his money than pay attention to his own sons.”

She stopped abruptly and stared at me with dark, aware eyes. “So who really hired you?” she demanded again.

Before I could reply, I was saved by the devil himself. Randolph Talbot hurried up to us, no doubt appalled by my proximity to his mother.

“Miss Jones,” he said hastily, grabbing my elbow and dragging me away from the grand old dame. “We mustn’t let Mother monopolize you. She always traps the most interesting guests.”

I was touched by his concern. Behind me I could hear Marie Talbot’s derisive snort and I waved a hasty goodbye.

“Remember the Alamo!” she called gaily after me.

“What were you talking about?” Talbot demanded as he hustled me back through the sitting rooms.

“Oh, Texas,” I murmured, hiding a smile.

“Mother drinks,” Talbot said tersely. “Don’t believe a word she says.”

I believed every syllable that had poured from that old lady’s mouth. And if Randolph Talbot didn’t want me to meet her, he should have thought twice about inviting me to his damn dinner party.

“May I have my elbow back?” I asked.

“What?” He stared down at my arm. The flesh had turned red from his grip. “Sorry.” He released me and anxiously rubbed his jaw. “Have you met my daughter Lydia yet? I think she’s in the blue room. Come with me.”

He marched me into a room painted the color of a robin’s egg, then stopped and looked around for his daughter. His glance lingered on me and he blinked.

“You look different from this afternoon,” he said. “What is it?”

“I’ve lost weight,” I confided. Maybe if I’d dyed my hair purple, he would have noticed.

He blinked again, then spotted Lydia in the far corner. “There she is. Come this way.” He manhandled me over to Lydia and made formal introductions. I mumbled something and avoided her eyes.

“I want you to tell her everything you know,” he instructed Lydia. “Nash’s family has hired her to look into his death and I want one hundred percent cooperation from the Talbots.” He nodded to me. “Excuse me. There’s someone I must speak to.”

Having accomplished his goal of separating me from his mother, Talbot dumped me with his daughter and set off in search of richer company.

“Thank you for not telling him,” Lydia said in a low voice. She looked like a knockout in a white pantsuit. And she was also wearing no blouse beneath it. Together, we looked like a pair of flight attendants for Air Force One.

“No problem,” I assured her. “So far, it’s been very interesting. I met your grandmother.”

“Oh, lord.” Her eyes got wide. “Mimmi’s an experience.”

“She certainly is. She seemed to know about you and Nash. Did you tell her?”

Lydia shook her head. “She found out on her own. She has more spies in this town than Daddy. I’m not surprised she knew. But she never said a word to me.”

“She thinks a lot of you,” I said. “As opposed to the rest of your family.”

Lydia smiled, but it took effort. “I’m not sure it’s a good thing to have Mimmi thinking of me at all.”

“Are you enjoying the party?” I asked. She seemed depressed.

Lydia shrugged. “I feel like I’m a robot walking around and going through the motions. No one knew I was engaged to Tom, so they don’t understand.”

“Well, besides your grandmother and father, Franklin Cosgrove had guessed something was going on,” I reminded her.

Her face scrunched up in disgust. “Frank has a strange way of expressing his condolences. He keeps trying to pick me up.”

“I think he’s gone on to a horse of a different color,” I told her, thinking of the woman in the short turquoise dress. “Or something close.”

“I’m trying to figure out why he’s here at all,” she said. “Daddy’s up to something.”

“I was wondering that myself,” I said as I spotted Cosgrove heading our way. “Here comes the man himself. I think I’ll make tracks.”

“I can handle him,” Lydia assured me. “Good luck. Happy hunting.” She managed a smile that transformed her face and I reminded myself that it was dangerous to like a client too much. Many of them were guilty as sin. Liking clients was a luxury I could not afford.

I left Lydia to cope with Franklin Cosgrove and thought about wandering back to where the old lady sat. But my private investigator instinct kicked in instead. Marie Talbot had declared that a passing brunette was on her way to meet one of Lydia’s brothers for a little one-on-one. I wanted to know if what the old lady had predicted was true. After all, following cheating spouses was my specialty. A little practice wouldn’t hurt. And I wanted to meet the brothers.

I asked a waiter for directions to the library, then casually wandered down the halls, smiling aimlessly at everyone I passed. How old was this grandson anyway, that he was boffing someone on his grandmother’s couch? Lydia had said she had two brothers, one in college and one who was much younger. What would I do if it was the underage brother? Rescue him? Take a number and wait in line? Listen—I didn’t put anything past this spoiled, well-watered crowd.

The library was at the far end of the house. I passed back through the room where I’d met Marie Talbot, but she had decamped for wetter pastures. Two rooms later, I was confronted with an enormous oak door that had to lead to the library since it was a dead-end. I was hesitant to simply barge in—after all, this was the first closed door I had encountered in the Talbot mansion. On the other hand, I could hear distinct sounds issuing from behind the heavy oak, especially if I crouched really low and cocked an ear at the base of the door where it met the marble floor. Either someone was reading the diaries of
Anaïs
Nin aloud, or someone was not reading at all.

The doors were locked. Do you think that stopped me? I took my maxed-out Visa card from my evening bag and slid it between the two sides of the door. I suspected it would be a simple spring mechanism, given that it was an interior door. The lock was easily pressed back and I stepped inside the darkened room, quickly surveying the empty fireplace and massive bookshelves that lined the walls. Moans were coming from behind a couch positioned in front of a far wall. There was a white dress puddled at one end of the sofa and a pair of dress pants draped over the opposite arm. One hairy, well-muscled leg protruded from behind the sofa and I was pretty sure it didn’t belong to the brunette. For a moment I was lost in thought, trying to figure out where the hell the matching leg was and what page of the Kama Sutra they’d worked up to. But it was apparent from the well-toned calf muscles that whoever was engaging in hanky panky was old enough to know better and that I’d best find a more suitable time to meet Lydia’s brother. I slipped from the room and left the doors unlocked, in hopes that the brunette’s elderly husband might discover his wife and add some excitement to the dinner party for us all. Hey, obviously they got off on doing it in public. I was only trying to add to their ambiance. Besides, they were being very tacky.

My appetite is always dulled by public displays of sex but, even so, it seemed like the dinner hour would never arrive. I decided to wait it out with the riff raff in the sitting rooms, but I was only one room away from the library when a young boy dressed in a blue blazer and khaki pants rounded the corner at full speed, head down and out of breath. He careened into me and we both bounced off the same armchair and into a wall.

“Whoa,” I said. “I’m pretty sure there’s a thirty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit in town unless otherwise marked.”

He hung his head. “Sorry, I was looking for my brother.”

“You must be Lydia’s little brother,” I said. “I’m a friend of hers. I mean, we just met. But she seems very nice.”

He looked up and I was treated to a roundish face sprinkled with freckles and a mop of reddish-brown hair that would have curled had the owner not so fiercely plastered it down for the night’s festivities. Two large strands had escaped on either side of his forehead and ch trehead urled upward like miniature devil’s horns. It gave him an impish air at odds with his sad face. It was far too serious a face for a twelve-year-old boy.

“What’s your name? Mine’s Casey,” I said.

“Haydon,” he mumbled, looking uncomfortable.

“You’re really hating this party, aren’t you?” I said.