The Clouds Roll Away (15 page)

His eyes, I decided, were his best feature. They were like bi­refringent blue prisms, splitting the light into playful rays.

“I want you to meet somebody,” he said.

We were heading back across the room, but suddenly it filled with the tintinnabulation of cocktail forks clinking against crystal. The band fell silent. DeMott stopped and looked toward the stage, frowning. His father, Harrison Fielding, and his mother, Peery, stood on the platform with the band. Peery surveyed the crowd, her unlined face glowing above a peach-colored gown, already very mother-of-the-bride. The tuxedoed Mr. Fielding stepped toward the microphone.

“Thank you all for coming to celebrate my beautiful daughter MacKenna and her groom-to-be, Stuart Morgan.” He paused, significantly. “This wedding has been a long time coming.”

There was a murmur through the crowd. DeMott leaned down, speaking into my ear. His breath felt warm on my skin. But I shivered. “Care to say something about the delays, Raleigh?”

I tried to glare at him. He laughed.

“My lovely wife, Peery, and I would like to offer a toast,” Harrison Fielding continued. “Please, raise your glasses and join us in wishing this young couple a long and happy life together.”

MacKenna Fielding stepped onstage with her parents, followed by her fiancé. She wore a fir-green dress, the lustrous folds of satin falling from the narrow bodice. Standing behind her, Stuart Morgan wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Among life's greatest blessings is a loving spouse.” Mr. Fielding raised his glass. “May you honor each other. May you remember the great legacy each of you brings into this marriage. May you know that your mother and I, along with Mr. and Mrs. Morgan and everyone in this room, wish you nothing but happiness.”

The crowd applauded and cheered and Stuart spun Mac around, dipping her into a luxurious kiss. The crowd erupted.

But DeMott growled under his breath.

I looked over. “What's wrong?”

He shook his head.

Mac wrapped her long arms around Stuart's neck, her hands fluttering a moment, the light from the chandeliers catching in the enormous diamond of her engagement ring. The gleaming spotlight provoked another appreciative response from the crowd.

“That's some diamond,” I said.

“She needs it.” He took my hand. “C'mon.”

The musicians were striking up a song I didn't recognize as we worked our way to the double doors that faced the river. Back when this house was built, air-conditioning was a breeze off the water. And it still worked. Braced open, the doors ushered in a fresh snap of air, diluting the room's heat. Sitting in a silk moiré chair, an elderly man took in the breeze.

“Granddad,” DeMott said, “I'd like you to meet Raleigh Harmon.”

His tuxedo shined at the seams, his red bow tie sitting cockeyed. And his hair was a sparse white Caesar ring, almost as white as his new Nike tennis shoes.

“Dennison Fielding.” He shook my hand, a surprisingly strong grip. “DeMott, bring Miss Raleigh a chair.”

He spoke with the syncopated rhythms of a true Virginian. A word like
chair
had two undulating syllables.
Chair-ruh
. DeMott obeyed the order and carried over a Windsor chair. It looked like it had crossed the Atlantic on the
Susan Constant
.

“Thanky,” said Dennison Fielding. “Now go see if your sis-tahs need help.”

DeMott excused himself and I sat down. His grandfather leaned over. His breath was brisk with whiskey.

“You're the gal who almost put my son Harrison in the clink?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

He sat back. “He shouldn't have tried cutting deals with that colored mayor.” He paused. “You're not one of those rightists?”

“Pardon me?”

“Women's rights, animal rights, human rights. You take offense when I say ‘colored'?”

“I've heard worse.”

“True. And personally, I don't care for this new word.
Black
. It doesn't fit. Of course, neither does white. We're pink. But I grew up hearing ‘white' and ‘colored,' and I got used to those words. I'm ninety-one years old and it's too late to change.”

He didn't look a day over ninety. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Fielding?”

“Hang on.” He lifted his hand, the fingers rough. Working hands. Signaling the waiter, he asked for a Bushmills straight up. Then he turned to me. “What did you want to ask?”

“Do you know if the KKK is still active around here?”

“Not the small-talk type.” He grinned, nodding happily. “I don't particularly care for small talk myself. But I've noticed most people are invertebrates, no backbone to them. They don't appreciate us straight shooters. We come into heaps of discord because piffles rule the world.” He reached over, patting my bare arm. “Your daddy was a judge, wasn't he?”

I nodded.

“Then we'll do this like court. I'll ask a question right back. When the federal government took its first census out here, what year do you reckon that was?”

“The federal government? I'd guess about1800.”

“Right close, 1790,” he said. “They counted some five thousand folks. White and colored, neck and neck.”

“The colored being slaves.”

“Not all, not all.” He wagged a long finger. “People forget. We had right many free blacks in these parts. Ol' Lott Carey, he was free. They all should've been. Slavery was an evil kind of stupid. And most Southerners knew it had to end. The Yankees just hurried us along. Half a million men were killed in the process.”

The waiter arrived with his drink and Dennison Fielding thanked him, taking a long draw. The band was playing a song about an enchanted evening.

“The most recent census,” he said, “was two years ago. How many people you figure they counted?”

“I'd rather hear from you.”

“You're the girl for DeMott, all right. They counted nearly the same number as was here in 1790. You see where I'm going?”

“No change is the best change.”

“You hear me. Folks along the James River want things to stay how they always were. Of course, that gets expensive, holding back time. Take that little gal over there.” He lifted his glass, aiming into the crowd. “Every month, she's got to figure out how to cover her bills.”

It took me a moment to realize who he was talking about.

Flynn Wellington stood with her husband, Leighton, and another couple. Flynn wore black silk trousers and a white sequined top, her platinum hair combed back with a sparkling headband.

“She's a hard worker, I'll give her that,” he said. “Grew all the flowers in here tonight. We paid her right well.”

A soft wave of exclamations rippled through the room. The crowd parted as waiters wheeled a three-tiered chocolate cake covered with sparklers. I watched bits of stray sulfur leap and pop in the air.

“All so foolish, celebrating like this before a wedding.” He shook his head. “I give MacKenna six months before she runs home crying her eyes out over that boy.”

DeMott walked over. “Granddad, they want a toast from you.”

Sighing with the weight of ninety-one years, he lifted an arm. DeMott helped him out of the chair. I stood up.

He tugged his worn tuxedo into place. “Don't let her get away,” he said.

“I don't plan to,” DeMott said.

The old man looked over at me. “And don't you be leaving Virginia again. Stay where you belong.”

He headed toward the cake with the sidling amble of a crustacean. DeMott guided me toward the crowd, placing his hand on the small of my back. Heat radiated through my dress, my knees weak again. When I felt something tingle near my heart, I wondered if I was going to be dumb enough to faint.

But when the tingling came again, I took my purse out from under my left arm. I was almost relieved. My cell phone buzzed a third time.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I'll be right back.”

Dennison Fielding began his toast as I walked down the long hall toward the front door. Stepping outside, the cold air felt like a slap on my bare arms.

Detective Nathan Greene sounded like he was dying.

“He set up a buy,” he said.

“Who, Sully?”

“Yeah.” He sneezed.

“Bless you.”

“We don't show, they get suh-suh—”

“Suspicious? Bless you.”

He groaned. “I can't go.”

I found a pen in my purse but no paper and wrote his address on my left palm. Closing the phone, I went back inside, searching for the maid who took my cape. DeMott came down the hall.

“Raleigh, what's wrong?”

“I have to go. Can you help me find my . . . coat?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, but I have to go.”

He hesitated, then nodded and walked across the room, speaking to one of the maids. He walked me back to the front door.

“Last to come, first to leave,” he said.

“But I was here.”

“Yes, you were.”

We stood by the front door, waiting for the cape. DeMott was smiling, but I kept looking away, the bright light in his eyes making me feel uncomfortable.

“What?” I finally said.

“You get one point for keeping your promise.”

“How many points are there?”

“One.” He was still smiling. “There's only ever been one.”

chapter nineteen

T
he detective lived in Highland Park, an old neighborhood north of downtown that showcased noble Victorians and Queen Annes and ancient oaks that leafed out in summer like stage curtains, concealing the huge homes. Like so many streetcar suburbs across America, Highland Park's decline began soon after World War II, when returning veterans wanted newer homes and the automobiles that carried them farther out. Later, when white flight swept through, crime marched in. And today the latest stabbings, break-ins, and murders had an almost conversational air. The detective had the worst kind of job security.

I pulled up to his house on Second Avenue just after 10 p.m. and glanced at my palm, where I'd written the address. I wasn't sure I had the right house.

It was pink.

Bright pink.

The house next door was cerulean blue. And across the street, a cadmium yellow Victorian. I got out, stepping over the cracked concrete invaded by tree roots. I'd heard young families were moving back to Highland Park, picking up the historic homes for a pittance, pouring in their sweat equity. The brightly colored houses with the filigree details reminded me of stern-wheel riverboats.

At the front door, Lisa Greene waited. Pretty and petite and put-together, she looked like the kind of woman who yanked up old linoleum without breaking a nail.

She handed me the envelope of cash and said, “I sprayed it with Lysol.”

“He's that bad?”

“Quarantined in the guest room,” she said. “The kids haven't seen him all day. I've got an open house on Christmas Day. I'm not serving my guests the flu.”

I thanked her and was walking back to the K-Car, stepping over the rupturing tree roots, when she called out my name. She was still standing in the doorway, the light silhouetting her tiny figure, making her look like a boxed doll.

“Pardon?” My breath clouded the night air.

“Thank you for what you did,” she said.

“I don't know—”

“For Mike.”

It took me a moment to realize who she meant. And then I was grateful for the distance and the dark between us. She meant Mike Falcon. Detective Michael Falcon. Her husband's dead partner.

“If that one had turned into a cold case, it would've ruined my family.”

I nodded, got into the car, and was shivering before I reached the end of the driveway. Against my legs, the vinyl bench seat felt like a cold compress. The dreaded cape lay on the seat next to me—I had refused to put it on with DeMott watching—but now I swung the thing over my shoulders, snapped the collar, and drove down to Chamberlayne Avenue with my right hand slapping the dashboard. Even if the heater didn't kick on, beating the thing would warm me up. And maybe it would even knock some of the annoyance off me. I didn't want to make this buy, didn't want to see Sully again. And I really didn't want to think about the expression I'd seen in DeMott's eyes. For some reason, it scared me.

Cutting over to Montrose Avenue, teeth chattering, I trolled up and down the road until Sully finally stepped from the shadows of Battery Park.

“So we meet again.” He deposited himself on the bench seat.

My teeth chattered.

“Nate sounds really sick,” he said cheerfully.

I pulled a U-turn, heading south.

Sully slouched down. “How come you're not, like, totally humiliated driving this car? Man, I'd die if somebody saw me in this thing.”

The wicked temptation swept over me. I wanted to lean on the horn. Wave out the window. Let the whole world see him in this car. Instead, I drove silently down Broad Street, listening to Sully sniff as though he had a cold. We passed a kooky Caribbean restaurant painted bright green and yellow, some pawnshops, the city's convention center, and at Ninth Street I hung a right and followed the hill down to the river.

With office buildings purged for the weekend, Richmond felt eerily quiet until I crossed the bridge to Southside. It was busy in a worn-out sort of way, like broken-down shoes kicked off at the city's back door.

Sully sat up. “Your hair—”

I looked over.

“Your hair.” He sounded panicked. “Why is your hair like that?”

“What?”

“And why—why are you dressed like that?”

“Like what?”

“Hold on.” He sat up even higher. “Stop the car.”

“What's wrong?”

“Stop the car!” he screamed.

I kept driving across the bridge.

Sully leaned forward, splaying his pale hands on the dashboard. “Don't even think about it.”