Queen Bee Goes Home Again (18 page)

In the four days it took Tommy and me to finish going through everything, drawer by drawer, page by page, panel by panel, never once did our mother mention what we were doing. She did, though, turn up fairly often with a spoonful of something for us “just to taste.” At nine hundred calories a spoonful, I forced myself to decline, but Tommy always obliged.

Not that it was easy to resist. The air smelled like cakes, pies, and cookies the whole time.

After day two of aroma torture, I finally came up with a plan. “There are so many shut-ins from church,” I reminded my mother after a breakfast of fried eggs and moist devil's food cupcakes with seven-minute icing, which she knew I couldn't resist. “Why don't you take these goodies to them?”

Miss Mamie brightened. “Excellent suggestion.” She carried our plates to the sink with a fresh bounce in her step, then stopped and turned to qualify. “Not the ones who have the sugar.” Southern for
diabetes.
“I'll do them some almond-meal cookies with Splenda and eggs and drawn butter. And baking powder, of course.” A woman with a mission, she headed for the pantry humming “I'll Fly Away.”

We went back to work. When Tommy and I finally finished with the den of iniquity two days after that, we'd found a lot, but not much of what we were looking for. Two deeds for vacant land were hiding under a false drawer bottom, but we didn't find any more.

What we'd really gotten was a picture of how gullible our father had been with any hyperconservative scammer who'd approached him for “investments” to make him safe from “the coming race war” or depression. He'd trusted these strangers with his hard-earned money, yet never trusted any of us.

How much of that was his illness, and how much was his stubborn, paranoid nature, we'd never know.

I felt as if we'd uncovered him, leaving him stark naked and exposed, and it didn't feel good.

He'd tried so hard to safeguard his treasure that we couldn't even find it.

No secret bank account records, on or offshore, materialized. All we found was a stack of receipts from coin dealers that valued Daddy's Krugerrands at over two hundred thousand when he'd first bought them, based on thirty-two dollars an ounce. Lord only knew what they would bring at current prices, but I didn't compute that for the same reason as Tommy.

The remainder of the den's nontoxic contents comprised seventeen Bibles of various translations—prompting Tommy to say that you have to read them and follow their teachings for them to count—two thousand dollars in crisp gold-standard hundred-dollar bills that had been stashed individually in various right-wing extremist books that we'd shredded with a satisfying growl from the giant commercial shredder; three glass jugs of high-quality (according to Tommy's nose) moonshine, which I poured into the toilet, wondering what effect it would have on the septic tank; four illegal boxes of hermetically sealed Cuban cigars; and five loaded handguns stashed away in hollowed-out pages of Daddy's radical Second Amendment books. But the kickers were two more assault rifles behind a spring-loaded door in the wainscoting that I just happened to bump up against.

Further investigation revealed no more secret panels in the desk, walls, or bookcases.

At least, not that we could find.

Once the room was emptied, we sent the faded rugs out to be cleaned, scoured every square inch of the place, then restored the floors to their former richness with Liquid Gold. But nothing was able to do away with the lingering hints of cigar smoke.

Frankly, I didn't mind. The den of iniquity wouldn't be right without it.

Surveying the revived colors of the oriental rugs when the cleaners brought them back, I said, “Man. The dust on those must have been half an inch thick.”

Tommy scanned the wholesome remains of Daddy's library on the almost empty bookcases, then collapsed on the sagging leather couch that had once been butter-colored, but was now stained brown wherever Daddy had sat or lain over the decades. “You sure you don't want a Glock?” he asked me.

“Very.” Why did he keep asking?

I flopped down at the other end of the sofa, only to encounter a resentful coil that popped up above the others. “This divan is shot, no good to anybody,” I said as I tried to shift to a comfortable spot. “But we probably ought to check inside the cushions and under the upholstery before we toss it.”

Tommy sighed in resignation. “Prob'ly so.”

We both sat there, not moving. My muscles had already seized up.

“But first,” Tommy said, “Golden Corral. My treat.”

Since Miss Mamie had been taking food to the shut-ins all over town, she'd stopped cooking anything for us but breakfast.

I looked at my watch. Two o'clock in the afternoon, already. The senior special was on till three: seven ninety-nine, plus tax, iced tea included. “You're on. But you'll have to help me up. I'm so sore and stiff, I can hardly move.”

Tommy collected himself, then launched himself aright with a groan. Offering me both hands, he braced his running shoes against mine. “Upsy-daisy.”

I forced myself to stand. “Okay. Golden Corral it is.”

“We'll talk about that road trip when we get back,” he said. “I got a current Georgia map at the Welcome Station, then marked down where the deposit boxes are so we can plan our route, assuming the banks still exist.” A very big assumption, lately. “Then I've got to catch up with some of my meetings.”

“Amen to that.” The last thing we needed was for him to fall off the wagon.

Ahead of us, Stone Mountain loomed afresh, times ten: the enormous task of trying to find the General's gold, investments, and bank accounts so we could pay the Home and take care of Miss Mamie and the house. But I could wait till after a good, healthy lunch and lots of artificially sweetened tea to face it.

Tommy headed for his ratty truck, pulling the keys from his pocket. “We'll need to check out the yard and the rest of the house with a metal detector before we start searching elsewhere.”

“I'll research what's available secondhand on the Internet,” I said as I followed, “and try to find a good deal on one.” Stone Mountain got bigger. And bigger.

Then the road trip. Or two. Or ten.

The thing was, what if we just found tax liabilities? Heaven only knew when the General had stopped paying his property taxes. If he did have more property, some or all of it may have been auctioned on the courthouse steps already. If so, I doubted the new owners would let us prospect for those Krugerrands, much less keep them.

Getting into the passenger seat of Tommy's truck, I scolded myself.
Stop projecting the worst. Focus on the food. Be with Tommy in the moment.

I thought about the butterbeans and baked chicken at the Corral, and was grateful.

But I still dreaded what remained for us to do.

The only good thing about it was, it took my mind off Connor.

Well. At least some.

Till we were invited to a political rally in the basement of the drugstore.

 

Twenty-six

While I was picking up Miss Mamie's and my prescriptions at the drugstore the next day, Shelia leaned forward and asked me, “We're having a rally downstairs at seven tonight. Can y'all come? Donnie's gonna be there, and we hope to find somebody to run for his job as mayor, now that he's leavin' to take that church up north.”

I hesitated, remembering another meeting there ten years ago, when we'd drafted Donnie to run against our crooked mayor. Whoever succeeded Donnie would have some mighty big shoes to fill.

“I'll talk to Tommy and Miss Mamie,” I deflected, leaving us an out, though my conscience urged me to come support Donnie in finding a candidate.

“We really need all our old-timers to come,” she whispered, “so the transplants won't take over and put in somebody who doesn't know a thing about us.”

Heaven forbid.

Still, I knew what she was talking about. It would serve us well if the next mayor had some sense of where we'd come from when he or she decided where we were going.

“I'll try,” I told her.

What if Connor showed up?

I wasn't sure I could handle it.

But when I told Mama and Tommy about the meeting, they both said without hesitation that we should go.

“Donnie's done so much for this town,” Tommy prodded. “It's the least we can do for him.”

Miss Mamie nodded. “You're right. I'll bring a flag cake.” She hurried to bake her famous U.S. flag sheet cake, with a moist white cake under a layer of sweetened, thawed strawberries, topped with Cool Whip icing and fresh sliced-strawberry stripes that complemented a fresh-blueberry square of “stars.”

I'd have gone just for the cake, but I knew it was the right thing to do, Connor or not.

So I went.

This time, the warehouse under the pharmacy was in much better shape than it had been ten years before. The funeral home had provided chairs, and a couple of long folding tables offered tea, soft drinks, ice, and various homemade desserts.

When Tommy walked in with Miss Mamie's flag cake, a ripple of anticipation erupted among the people there, only a few of whom I knew. As Shelia had worried, the townies were far outnumbered by the transplants. But as the numbers grew, I spotted the last three of the coffee club members (from before the new owner closed the soda bar at the drugstore). And most of the members of Miss Mamie's garden club, aged husbands in tow. And at least half of her prayer chains and Bible study members.

Franklin Harris, who'd given us our famous local wildflower garden, arrived with a crowd of Donnie's African-American constituents. Franklin nodded a greeting, and I sent back a warm smile.

Such a wonderful man. He'd worked hard with Donnie to start a neighborhood improvement volunteer program and fund to help elderly homeowners all over Mimosa Branch spruce up their houses.

I was looking for Shelia when someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned to find Connor so close I could smell his subtle Jade East cologne. Talk about a blast from the past. Grant had worn the same cologne, but for some reason, it smelled a lot better on Connor.

Afraid I'd slip up and embarrass him and my entire family, I did my best to get rid of him. “Oh, hi, Connor. Glad you could come. If you'll excuse me, I need to find Shelia.”

“She's gone to get some ice,” he answered, clearly pleased that I no longer had an excuse to leave him. “She'll be back in a while.”

Nostrils flaring in panic, I smiled as I backed away from him. “Good. Then I'll go keep Mama company.”

“I'll go with you,” he said evenly. “I'd like to thank her and Tommy for inviting me to the movie.”

“Of course.” Shoot! Shoot, shoot, shoot!

All those inappropriate feelings came rushing back, as if I'd never gotten a grip on myself in the first place.

On the way across the room, he commented, “Tommy tells me you won a full scholarship. Congratulations.”

Rather than go into the details, I simply smiled, aloof, and said, “Thank you.”

Why did he have to glom on to me? The room was full of his congregants.

As we approached Mama, who was talking amid the din of her prayer chain mavens, he cocked his head at me and asked, “Lin, are you angry with me about what I did in the foyer?” When I didn't answer, he went on. “Or have I insulted you somehow? Please tell me.”

Not now. Not in public. Way too public!

“Of course not.”
Kiss! Kiss, kiss, kiss!
“I was just thinking about our agreement.”

He regarded me with open desire. “So have I. Every … single … day.”

I realized I'd been holding my breath as he spoke.

Suddenly, the room seemed stuffy beyond endurance.

My reaction was so transparent, I might as well have ripped off my clothes and thrown myself into his arms. Anybody with the slightest knowledge of body language had us pegged, but when I looked around me, everyone else seemed to be engaged in private conversations.

There I went again: totally narcissistic.
You are not the center of the universe,
my inner critical parent scolded
. Focus on the big picture, not yourself.

Was there no hope for me?

I sat down before I fell down from lack of air.

Connor frowned. “Let me get you some iced tea. Plain, with Splenda, right?”

I nodded. What I needed was a tub full of the stuff to jump into and cool off.

Fortunately, Donnie arrived with a huge group of his supporters, drawing all the attention to him.

He worked his way into the crowd, calling everyone by name. When he got as far as where I sat, he bent down and murmured, “You okay, Lin? You're white as granny's grits.”

At which I promptly felt scalding embarrassment rise from my chest to the top of my head, my face throbbing. “I'm fine. Fine.”

Connor arrived with the tea. “Here you go. Have a few sips of this.”

Donnie looked from Connor to me, then back again, and broke into a huge grin. “Wow. Does the Lord have a sense of humor, or what?”

I glared at him. “Somehow, I'm not finding it so funny.”

Donnie sobered. “Sorry. I'll pray for you.”

Now, those were some prayers that would carry weight.

I turned to Connor. “Connor, have you met Donnie West, our mayor? He's one of my favorite people in the world.”

Connor shook Donnie's hand. “Good to see you.” Then he turned to me. “We have lunch every Wednesday together at the diner. With all the pastors in town who can make it.”

My cheeks throbbed even harder, if that was possible. “Ah. How nice.”

Donnie excused himself, leaving me with Connor, whom I did my best to ignore. Except when he brought us each a square of the flag cake. By the time we were finished, half an hour had passed.

Somebody thumped a portable mike, bringing everyone to attention, then I recognized Franklin Harris's voice say, “Folks, I want to thank you all for comin' out to help us find someone to succeed Donnie, here, as our mayor. And if you know somebody you can call to invite, please tell 'em there's still plenty of time to get here. We can lend you a cell phone if you don't have one. We need all the concerned citizens of Mimosa Branch here to help us.”