Money To Burn (24 page)

Translation: “My husband makes more money than yours and I happen to know that your younger sister had a baby out of wedlock in 1959. You better let me stand in the center or I’m going to announce it for all to hear.”

Mrs. Worthy retaliated with a few innuendoes of her own. “The true measure of a woman’s worth is in how well she passes southern values on to the next generation,”

she murmured modestly. “I have three lovely daughters, all of whom made their debut right here in this auditorium.”

Translation: “I’m still pissed that Mrs. Tate squeezed out a bunch of sons to carry on her husband’s name while all I popped out was a batch of spoiled daughters. Besides, I shelled out a fortune for those girls of mine when they made their debuts and now it’s payback time.”

“Now, now, Constance,” Mrs. Tate tittered playfully in reply. “This isn’t one of those dreadful gender issues at all.”

Translation: “You bitch. I’ll take you to the mat if I have to.”

Mrs. Worthy lost it. “I paid over five thousand dollars for the chance to—” she began.

I cut her off before she could finish. Even I knew it was tacky to bring up money at a benefit for underprivileged kids. They’d be talking about her faux pas for generations to come if I didn’t intervene and save her.

“I have a suggestion,” I said sweetly, putting a hand on Lydia’s shoulder so no one would question my authority. “Why don’t we let the oldest of you be in the center? Age before beauty, so to speak.”

There was a profound silence around the table. Neither woman wanted to admit that she was older than the other.

“Come on,” I prodded them. “Let’s have it. Which one of you is older?”

“Oh, she can do it,” Mrs. Worthy conceded crossly, her chin held high. “I’m quite sure she’s several years older.”

Mrs. Tate looked as if another war might break out at this, but Lydia intervened. “How lovely of you, Constance. I K Cot c’ll have the florist deliver one of the large centerpieces in the lobby to your home for your graciousness. And I think that you should lead the procession onto the presentation floor.”

Mrs. Worthy looked mollified and the two old ladies scurried away to begin their preparations for the wheel.

“Thanks,” Lydia said as the rest of the crowd dispersed to resume celebrating. “I didn’t know what we were going to do.”

“At your service,” I told her. I confessed how badly I needed a drink. “I’d kill for one,” I admitted. “But I can’t find a waiter.”

“Get one from the bar,” she insisted. “Please. I’ll be fine right here.”

She was probably right. Her stepmother was the only one within striking distance and she was far too drunk to attack anyone. In fact, I feared she might puke at any moment. I gathered a handful of white linen napkins from the empty seats around the table and hoarded them nearby, just in case. Hey, I’m a full-service detective.

“Back in a sec,” I promised.

I made my way through the crowd, aware that an excited murmuring was spreading through the auditorium. The presentation of former debs would begin soon and couples were starting to drift into place.

Great. That meant more elbow room at the bar.

I ordered a Tanqueray and tonic, reminding myself that not drinking on duty was not nearly so important as preserving my sanity. The bartender scurried to make my drink and I checked out the long tables of food and punch arrayed against one wall while I waited. As a concession to the younger members of the crowd, a large punch bowl filled with red liquid dominated one end of the table. Oranges floated around a huge chunk of lime sherbet that poked from the middle of the bowl like a lush deserted island surrounded by a sea of blood. This was not as strange as it sounds. The South takes its punch very seriously and if you don’t have at least three lurid colors competing for attention in your cup, then you’ve failed miserably as a creative hostess.

The rest of the refreshment tables were filled with platters of tiny sandwiches, ham biscuits, fruit kabobs and all sorts of regrettably healthy goodies. I planned to cut a swath through the food as soon as I had a drink.

Uh oh. I was too late. Bobby D. had planted himself behind the food table. I’d have to hurry to get in my licks.

But wait. He wasn’t eating. I stared in astonishment. He was laughing heartily with a fat woman dressed in a lilac evening gown. She had Kown ordered a mop of unruly gray curls topped by a funny little hat with a feather that jiggled whenever she laughed. She laughed a lot. In fact, she seemed to find Bobby hilarious. I could hear her booming merriment all the way across the room.

I claimed my drink, checked on Lydia, then spied on Bobby for a few moments. The two of them were having the time of their lives. The fat lady kept plucking tidbits of food from her plate and hand-feeding Bobby, who, I swear, would approach each piece of food like a giraffe: his lips would nibble slowly closer until they closed over the morsel, then he’d give her fingertips a gentle lick before retreating. Each time he did this, she giggled and the feather on her hat bobbed. Then they switched places and Bobby began to hand feed her.

The woman in lilac lacked Bobby’s eating finesse. In fact, she practically engulfed his hand each time she lurched in for a bite. But the two of them seemed mighty entertained by this pastime, so who was I to complain?

I wondered what was up. She was a little older than most of Bobby’s many conquests and had to be pushing sixty. She was also as fat as he was. The lilac satin did nothing to disguise her barrel shape. But she had a sweet face, with round cheeks and twinkly eyes and a rosebud mouth somewhat at odds with her boa constrictor style of eating.

As I watched, Bobby leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She blushed and the feather jiggled again. Then she put a hand on his arm and whispered something back that caused Bobby to erupt in bellowing laughter. He was acting positively giddy.

Good God. Maybe those Research Triangle scientists were spraying Viagra in the air. Was everyone in the world but me finding a mate this week? I was starting to feel like all those solo animals left behind when Noah’s Ark pulled out from the dock.

As I turned to get back to work, my eye caught a flash of movement at the punch bowl. Lydia’s college-age brother, Jake, was bending over it, yet he held no cup in his hand. He straightened up and slid his right hand into a pants pocket. Had he been spiking the punch? Most of the people at the ball were of drinking age and obviously preferred the bar. Spiking the punch seemed redundant. He hurried away before I could question him. I watched as he wormed his way through the crowd, seeking his date.

I shrugged it off and went in search of Lydia. I found her behind a bank of heavy red velvet curtains, inspecting an enormous set of movable white stairs and directing the initial procession. She had decided to forego her own chance at making a second debut so that she could oversee the event. She was pairing women with their escorts and handing out bouquets of long-stemmed roses.

Some of the women were staring anxiously at the backside of the movable stairs. I didn’t blame them. In order to reach the top of the artificial stairway—where the crowd gathering in the ballroom area would see them—the women first had to ascend a far steeper set of steps b Ket wtext”>Aackstage. For some of the older lovelies, particularly the tipsy ones, this was likely to be a real challenge. The escorts could be in for more than they had bargained for. Why is it that you can never find a Sherpa when you need one?

Gradually, husbands and wives lined up between younger girls and their dates, and everyone got busy squirming and primping their way into perfection. Lydia marched down the emerging line, straightening bow ties, loosening necklines, adjusting bows and rearranging roses in the crooks of elbows.

“Everyone looks magnificent,” she announced.

I had to admit, I was impressed. There must have been a hundred women in line, and every one of them had been magically infused with a ramrod posture that would have made a marine sergeant proud.

“Let’s go out front,” Lydia whispered to me and we quickly claimed seats at her table. She sat next to Haydon and I had the honor of keeping her stepmother from falling over into her paté.

The lights in the auditorium dimmed and the orchestra began playing some classical tune I’d heard before but could not pinpoint. My one drink had been strong enough to fell a Kentucky Derby winner and I was a bit lightheaded. Between the music, two-story stage set and the roar of the crowd, I felt as if I were watching the beginnings of a Vegas revue. I would not have been surprised had six topless showgirls popped into view, carrying Siegfried and Roy on their shoulders. In fact, I would have preferred it.

Instead, the music swelled and the lights rose dramatically on a resplendent Mrs. Worthy, posed at the top of the majestic sweep of stairs. Her shoulders were held back, her cloche hat perfectly still, as she basked in her moment of glory.

“Presenting Mrs. Constance Ann Broadhurst Worthy,” a deep voice slowly intoned over a public address system.

Applause broke out and she stepped gracefully down the wide staircase, roses balanced in one arm, her other hand lightly looped around her husband’s steadying arm. Mr. Worthy was something of a fox, especially considering his age. He had silver hair and a jaunty handlebar mustache that curled upward at each end. Mrs. Worthy held her chin high and her expression was one of solemn dignity. Mr. Worthy was less formal. He beamed out at the crowd as he proudly escorted his wife down the stairs.

Mrs. Worthy was followed in succession by every one of her three daughters, each of them well into middle-age by now and, yet, oddly beautiful when seen one after the other, as they were.

It could have been ridiculous, so many women of varying sizes and wearing unflattering dresses, taking turns parading down the staircase like Norma Desmond seeking her close-up from Mr. DeMille. But it was oddly moving, Kodd ste instead. Lydia had decreed that every mother be followed by each of her daughters and the effect was inspiring, at least to this motherless daughter.

I sat in the darkness next to Lydia, surprised at my own reaction. Most of the women were well over thirty and few embodied the ideal of a fresh unspoiled deb. Yet each looked special, standing in her moment in the spotlight as her name was announced, a gentleman on her arm guiding her down the stairs as if she were the most precious of cargo. The oldest women, in particular, took on a beauty that transcended the physical, especially when followed by their daughters. It was something in their bearing, I decided, a certain set in their shoulders, that told everyone of how very proud they were of the lovely young—and not-so-young—ladies that followed them. It was as if they finally had the chance to say to the world, “Yes, I have spent my life in what some may consider a frivolous way, but look at what I have created. This is my family.”

It would have been so easy to make fim of them. They had the advantages I’d never had: money, great teeth, expensive clothes, years of hairdresser appointments and the luxury of believing that appearances could be everything. Yet I had no stomach for ridicule watching them.

Lost in thought, I watched the endless procession move down the stairs. At the base, the men silently disappeared into the shadows and the women began taking their place in the famous wheel. I had one surprise when I realized that Franklin Cosgrove was at the benefit, acting as escort to a plain-faced, middle-aged brunette. Why would Nash’s business partner be here? Then I remembered Lydia’s theory that he was shopping for a new, rich wife. If so, what better place for browsing than here, amidst a sea of moneyed candidates?

Old Mrs. Tate would be out last, I suspected, her traditional first place in line having been given to Mrs. Worthy in the name of politics. As the supporting cast of women took their positions on the main floor of the ballroom, I heard a sound like a Weed-Eater sweeping through grass. Lydia’s stepmother was sobbing behind me, emitting a keening that sounded like a cross between a snivel and a steady whine.

What a mess that woman was. She was slumped over a highball glass, sniffling into her cups. Good God. Was she mourning a never-realized dream of being a debutante, which was really pathetic, or had something terrible happened to her recently? I watched for a moment, trying to get a reading, and finally decided that she was crying because every cell in her body was saturated with alcohol and she was in dire need of some serious rehab. I ignored her, as everyone else at the table was doing, and returned to watching the spectacle.

“How do you think it’s going?” Lydia whispered to me in the darkness.

“Perfectly,” I said. “Are you starting to relax?”

“A little,” she whispered back.

I wished I could say the same. It wasn’t until Mrs. Tate had made her grand entrance at the rear of the procession, then taken her place at the center of the wheel, that I could take a deep breath. It couldn’t last much longer now. A few chosen escorts had been moving discreetly through the formation, linking each deb to her neighbors and inward to the next concentric circle of the wheel with ribbons that stretched from bouquet to bouquet.

Finally, as Mrs. Tate took her place in the very center of the formation, the other former debs began to revolve around her slowly. Her silvery-gray dress made her look like a tugboat in the middle of a harbor celebration, but her joy was unmistakable. As the crowd burst into loud applause, her extra pounds and years seemed to melt away. The music swelled, signaling a special moment and the crowd fell silent.