Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels (22 page)

Minutes later, the door opens again and Edward Temple steps inside.

“Creep alert,” Queenie whispers to Violet.

Violet smiles. “Let me guess. You got that from Tia and Leisha?”

Queenie nods. Violet loves the effort Queenie makes with her daughters. Not that many great aunts would be so doting.

Edward eyes the collection of people, aiming his intense gaze for several seconds on Rose as if surprised she’s there. He takes a seat close to the lawyer’s desk. Is it possible that the room got even colder with Edward here? Violet’s teeth begin to chatter, and she clenches her jaw to stop them. She doesn’t want Edward to mistake her coldness for fear. But even Edward seems agitated. Perhaps the latest secret has him on edge, too. Meanwhile, the Temple drama seems far from over.

In a trait that reminds Violet of his mother, Edward sits perfectly straight. After he crosses his legs, he runs two manicured fingernails along the crease of his pants as though wanting to perfect the perfect line. There are few people Violet dislikes, but Edward Temple tops her list.

Seconds later the lawyer enters the room, papers stacked in hand. His smile looks fake and he gives a nod to Edward, the other rich white guy in the room. Violet’s only dealings with Bo Rivers were answering the door on the two occasions when he joined his father who was calling on Miss Temple. He always wanted his coffee black and made comments about watching his waistline. He flirted with Violet, too. But not enough that she could actually call him on it. She imagines his preference for women to be younger and blonder, like the secretary who showed them into the office.

“Please make yourselves comfortable.” Bo Rivers’ accent has the smoothness of one of Violet’s meringues that always get compliments.

Yet comfort is the last thing Violet feels. Not only is she in danger of freezing to death, but other than Queenie, she is in a room full people much lighter-skinned than her. Of course she is used to this kind of thing by now, but somehow being in a lawyer’s office makes being outnumbered more unnerving.

Every chair in the elaborate office is made of leather and whenever somebody moves, the leather makes a raspberry sound, as if the cows themselves are getting the last laugh. If Violet wasn’t so cold, she might find this funny. Unfortunately, as soon as she sat down, her bare legs adhered to the leather, anchored in place by a healthy crop of goose bumps, so she couldn’t make a raspberry sound if she tried.

“Someone may have to pry me off of this sofa at the end of the meeting,” she whispers to Queenie, who assures her that she will help.

Seconds later, Miss Temple’s prickly presence enters the room, as if rushing in late for the meeting. Her chaotic energy hovers around Spud and has a certain pitch to it, almost like a minor musical chord. But instead of a sound, it registers on a feeling level in Violet’s chest.

Sometimes Violet wishes she could return this “gift,” as her grandmother often calls it. It’s not like she asked for it. One day it was just there—and without a return receipt.

While waiting for the lawyer to begin, she remembers the day the weird vibrations started. She must have been six and Rose around ten. It was winter and they were playing in the attic because all of Rose’s old toys were stored there. An old white man with solid white hair appeared. Rose couldn’t see him, which was strange given Rose always saw her great-grandfather out by the oak tree. But maybe that was because a tiny piece of Rose’s finger was buried out under that tree.

Violet looks at Rose now and she can see the girl Rose used to be. She wonders if Rose sees her the same way.

The ghost in the attic that day scared Violet because he didn’t go about his business like most ghosts do. He kept asking her questions. Not every ghost is harmless, yet they do share some common traits. Most ghosts do the same things over and over again, like they are locked into a pattern. They walk the entire length of a hallway before disappearing. They rattle a few glasses, as if pouring themselves a drink. They move through the same rooms at the same times of day. Their routine doesn’t vary. But the guy in the attic didn’t have a pattern. To this day, she avoids going up there.

What’s unusual with Miss Temple’s ghost is that she isn’t locked into staying at the house. She’s here this very minute. Violet scans the room, but her former employer refuses to be pinned down. She is everywhere and nowhere at once.

Grandmother always told her that the dead don’t move on if they have something incomplete in their lives. If this incompleteness has nothing to do with you, you just wish them well and tell them to move on along. After Miss Temple’s death, Violet has tried to move her along, but she refuses to go anywhere.

The lawyer stands behind the large mahogany desk and opens a leather encased folder. After taking out several sheets of paper he pauses. Is he trying to build the suspense? He clears his throat, but doesn’t appear the least bit nervous. If anything, he comes across as overconfident. It occurs to Violet that they are in his territory and have to play by his rules. It is a game he appears to relish.

“As you all know, you are here at the request of Iris Temple, who specifically asked that the five of you be brought together as the will is read. It should be noted that the will was updated June 4th of this year.”

“Isn’t that the day she had the stroke?” Edward asks.

“Yes it is,” Bo Rivers says. “But I assure you, Edward, the updated will is perfectly legal. There’s no question that your mother was of sound mind when I saw her that afternoon.”

The two men exchange a look that Violet has trouble reading. Are they friends or enemies?

The lawyer puts on a pair of dark-framed reading glasses that look like they’d be sold at a specialty shop that carries lawyer accessories. He begins to read the document. Most of it is legal jargon. Violet glances at Queenie who winks at her and gives a slight roll of the eyes that Violet translates to mean,
Don’t worry
.

While Edward studies her, Rose crosses her legs and leans back in the chair, as if determined to relax. Growing up, Violet would have given anything to have a brother or sister, even a half-sister, like Queenie had Miss Temple. But having a sibling like Edward would be worse than not having one at all.

Spud straightens his bow tie again. Grief hangs around the corners of his eyes. He is the only one in the room who seems to remember why they are all here. Violet’s mind wanders. Now that Miss Temple is dead, she hopes Spud will meet someone new. He deserves to be happy.

Even though Violet listens to every word, she understands only half.

Rich people make things so complicated,
she thinks,
especially when it comes to their money.

There is a trust for this, a trust for that. Trusts rest on top of trusts, housed in multiple banking institutions, along with assets of corporations and land contracts dating back two hundred years. In contrast, she and Jack have one checking account and a savings account opened for the girl’s college fund that they rob for household emergencies. They don’t even have credit cards, just a debit card. Life is a struggle sometimes, but the payoff is a simple life.

As he reads the document, the lawyer’s voice falls into a steady rhythm like a washing machine on wash cycle. Already tired, Violet daydreams about the chores left to do at the Temple house, as well as the ones to do at home. The next time she looks at her watch, minutes have passed in what feels like seconds. Opening her eyes wider, she forces herself to pay attention. In the event that her position is terminated, she doesn’t want to be caught unaware.

Miss Temple’s energy spins across the room and distracts Violet from what is being said. Is her former employer trying to tell her something? Maybe she’s worked up over the latest secret, although it never occurred to Violet that ghosts might read the newspaper. But maybe they read the vibes of people who read the newspaper.

I wish Grandmother were here,
she thinks. Her skills are better than Violet’s when it comes to dead folks.

Meanwhile, everyone else in the room appears oblivious as Miss Temple’s power grows. The vibration makes Violet’s head hurt, like all the air is being sucked out of the room. Then her shoulder begins to ache for the first time that day. Whatever has Miss Temple furious is also threatening to Violet. A blast of cold air confirms that whatever game Miss Temple is playing is about to begin.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Queenie

Queenie glances around the office furnished with dark antiques and law books and then takes a quick stab at her hair, wishing she’d worn one of her hats.
If for no other reason than to add some color to this dreary room,
she tells herself. The space is enveloped in beige, deep browns and burgundy. The color of wealth.

Queenie chews on a fingernail thinking about the latest secret. Is it someone in this room who is releasing them? No, she decides, this would make no sense. It has to be someone who wants to see the Temple’s status in the community fall. That first day that an ad appeared, she and Iris had gone straight to the bank. According to Iris, the book was right where it should be and hadn’t been moved.

As Bo Rivers reads Iris’s will, Queenie grasps for understanding of the document. She has devoured enough courtroom dramas in books and on television that the lingo isn’t completely foreign to her. But still, it seems that some of the words are obscure on purpose, in order to sneak things by.

Last fall, Bo Rivers came to the house to visit Iris with his father, Rutledge Rivers, who was so out of it at the time that Queenie wondered if dementia had set in. Queenie, of course, was never included in any of their meetings. As Edward Temple, III’s,
bastard
daughter, she was treated with indifference by Rutledge Rivers, who she heard died last winter. At the time, she had to resist saying,
Good Riddance.

Iris and Rutledge were Catholic school chums and she confided in him quite a lot. Could he have had access to the
Book of Secrets
? If so, what would he gain from it? More law suit battles for Iris? With her being his biggest and best client, perhaps he would have a motive for releasing them, but how would he have gotten to that ledger in the first place? Queenie hates that she hasn’t been able to solve this mystery.

Secrets aside, Queenie took it as a good sign that after Bo Rivers initially entered the room, he shook her hand first. Perhaps he realizes that when the Temple house reverts to her they will continue to have dealings together. Or perhaps she was simply sitting closest to his desk.

As controlling as Iris could be, for the last decade she has turned most house-related things over to Queenie and always talked of when the house would be left to her. Hopefully, Iris filled Edward in on her plans, too. Whenever Iris spoke of the future, she referred to her eventual demise as a kind of extended vacation. Never actually using the word death.

When I go away,
she would say,
you need to do
this and that.

Well, you’ve gone away now, haven’t you Iris?
Queenie thinks.
Although maybe you haven’t.

She glances around the room. Violet is shivering and she wishes she had a sweater to give her.

Meanwhile, Edward taps a finger against the arm of the chair as if both irritated and inconvenienced. However, Queenie knows nothing short of a total apocalypse would keep him from this meeting. Edward is the oldest son—the male heir—here to collect his legacy.

Even though Queenie wouldn’t dream of threatening Edward’s inheritance, the house should be hers. Not just because of Iris’s promise all these years but because Queenie has taken care of the mansion like it was her own for decades now. No small feat, given how obstinate Iris was about every little detail.

Her mother’s warning from earlier that day causes Queenie to sit straighter, as well as feel a little queasy. If anyone knows what Iris Temple is capable of, it is her mother.

But if anyone knows how to hit curve balls thrown by Iris, it’s me
, she thinks. “Bring it on, Iris,” she says under her breath.

While the Temples have their share of eccentricities—the males with their penchant for bedding the servants and the females with their controlling yet delicate constitutions—Rose has somehow escaped that fate, as well as Queenie. As for not being a “true Temple,” as Iris reminded her daily, she responds with a hearty
halleluiah
that she isn’t. It is her mother’s DNA, after all, that keeps her sane.

Queenie focuses in when Bo Rivers reads a clause stipulating that anyone contesting the will loses all rights to any of the monies. He glances at Edward when he reads that part. It is just like Iris to not want any talking back, even in death.

“This could get interesting before it’s over,” Queenie whispers to Violet, who nods her agreement, her arms folded across her chest. She hears a chattering and leans closer. “Is that your teeth?”

Violet nods again.

When it comes to the bequeathing part of the document, her name is read first: Ivy Temple. She hasn’t heard her real name in so long it sounds unfamiliar to her. Remembering her mother’s warning, Queenie braces herself for Hurricane Iris.

“Ivy Temple will receive a stipend of $20,000 a year for the remainder of her natural life,” Bo Rivers reads.

“Say what?” Queenie says. Rose and Violet gasp. All Iris has done is extend her allowance.

Edward Temple laughs. “You were expecting more?”

Queenie looks at Edward thinking:
You are damn lucky I don’t have one of Mama’s spells at my disposal
. Then she wonders how much damage she could do if she sat on him. At the very least it might mess up his crease.

She turns her attention to her present dilemma. In the twenty seconds it took to read the part of the document that pertains to Queenie, her world has shifted into something unknown.

“Mama was certainly right about this one,” she says under her breath.

Violet looks concerned.

Never mind that there is no mention of the house or other properties, or any of the Temple millions hidden away in stocks and bonds. This news sticks in Queenie’s throat like a wedged chicken bone. She coughs to dislodge it. Iris not only gets in the last word but she also has her revenge. Queenie has been put in her place from the grave.