Tressed to Kill (15 page)

Lucy’s tight-lipped smile didn’t approve of my humor. “All of the flowers came from the estate’s gardens,” she said as proudly as if she’d nurtured each bloom herself. Maybe she had. She crossed the expanse of polished-wood floor and threw open a set of French doors. “Isn’t the view lovely?”
I dutifully followed her and admired the view: topiary gardens, a glint of the river in the distance, and a peaceful cemetery shaded by live oaks and contained by a wrought iron fence. A small yellow backhoe dug its tines into the earth on the eastern edge of the cemetery and gouged out a bucketful of dirt. “What’s going on there?” I asked.
Lucy tapped a fingernail against the earpiece of her glasses. “They’re digging a grave for the burial tomorrow.”
“Is this a public cemetery, then?” I asked, confused.
She shook her head. “No. But when old Phineas Rothmere deeded the property to the city, he put in a clause saying Rothmere descendants could be buried here for free.”
“Really? I figured the family had died out. Are there many of them left?”
Lucy nodded, looking a tad smug about her superior knowledge. “Dozens. Amelia and Reginald had fourteen children, you know, of which nine survived to adulthood. And even though all but two of the male Rothmeres were killed off during World War I—they were such a patriotic family—the line survives through the distaff side.”
At my blank look she added, “Through the women.”
“I’ll bet there were some hard feelings when Phineas gave the plantation to the city, then,” I mused. “Surely someone was counting on inheriting the property.” The
beep-beep-beep
of the grave-digging machine backing up drifted up from the cemetery.
“Oh, yes. Some of the descendants, egged on by one of Phineas’s nephews, filed a lawsuit, but Phineas was a crafty old coot and a lawyer, and his will was unbreakable. And, really, it takes a fortune to maintain a place like this,” she added, “which is why we’re having the fund-raiser. You’d need to be a multimillionaire to have a prayer of keeping it up.” She cast a proud and proprietary look around. “And it would be criminal to let someone who didn’t properly appreciate and understand the family’s history take over.” She shuddered.
Horrors. They might paint the kitchen an unhistorically accurate shade of white or plant a variety of rose that didn’t exist in the 1800s.
“So, are there a lot of burials here, then?” I asked, watching the backhoe reverse and stutter forward again.
She closed the French doors and turned away. “Not so many,” she said. “Not surprisingly, people want to bury their loved ones near where they live so they can visit them, and many of the descendants live in California and the Midwest. This is the first burial we’ve had since the early 1980s, actually.”
We returned to the hall, and a change in the air currents told me a door had opened. “Anybody here?” Simone’s voice called. The
pock-pock
of stilettos crossing the foyer ricocheted like bullets. “I haven’t got all day.”
Lucy led the way back to the foyer, and we greeted Simone, who wore a pair of tobacco-colored linen slacks and a peach-colored shrug over a matching camisole. The color brightened her skin and made a nice contrast with her dark hair. “You look nice, Simone,” I said.
She gave me a half smile. “Thanks. Greg and I are going out to dinner after this, to talk about the wedding. We’re having such trouble getting the church and reception sites we wanted that he thinks we should elope.” She twiddled the engagement ring around her finger, making the diamond flash.
“I think it’s sweet that he’s so eager to get married,” Lucy said. “It reminds me a bit of Reginald’s courtship of Amelia. They were married a month to the day after they met. So romantic!”
Simone and I exchanged a speaking look, and Simone suggested we get down to committee business. Lucy led us to her small office, which had a table—it looked like someone’s recycled dinette set—for us to work at. Apparently Simone hadn’t heard about Mom’s arrest because she didn’t mention it. I presented my data from the interviews, and Simone passed out complicated charts showing how a Morestuf greatly increased a community’s carbon footprint. “We want to have a green community, right?” she said, taking it for granted that Lucy and I agreed. “So, we should recommend that the city vote against letting Morestuf build a store.”
I wondered how much of her vehemence was due to her ecological conscience and how much came from knowing her mother had opposed the store. “I think we should present all our findings and let the townspeople decide,” I said mildly. “I don’t know that we’re supposed to make a recommendation.”
Simone glared at me and tossed her bangs out of her eyes with a flick of her head. “Look, it’s not going to make any difference to you one way or the other, since your mom’s salon will be long gone before Morestuf can lay its first brick. Just today I—” She stopped, apparently realizing that antagonizing me by detailing her plans for getting Violetta’s shut down wasn’t going to persuade me to vote with her. Her cell phone rang, playing “My Way.” She glanced at the display and shut it off as I thought how appropriate her ring tone was.
“If that’s the case,” I said, feeling argumentative, “then I’m in favor of a Morestuf because I’ll be unemployed and I’ll need to shop as cheaply as possible.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
Unexpectedly, Lucy sided with me. “Having a Morestuf in the area might give people more disposable income,” she said. “That might help us see an increase in donations to arts and cultural causes.”
Read: people might give more money to the Rothmere mansion and museum. Lucy didn’t care diddly-squat about the town’s theater group or the women’s chorale society or the marine aquarium.
As storm clouds gathered on Simone’s face, I held up my hands placatingly, deciding to be an adult. “Look, I’m not saying I really want a Morestuf. Heaven knows, I don’t want Del Richardson to have a reason to hang around St. Elizabeth. I’m just saying it’s not up to us: we present our data impartially and let the town vote.”
“Fine,” Simone said in a not-fine voice. She slammed her leather folder shut, huffing papers off the table.
As she bent to pick them up, Lucy asked, “Are you coming to the gala, Simone? What kind of costume are you wearing?”
Simone straightened, her face slightly reddened. “I’m going to be a Southern belle, of course, and Greg’s going to be a dashing Confederate officer. I got my gown in Atlanta. What about you?”
“You’ll see,” Lucy said with a sly smile.
They looked at me expectantly. “I’m going as a maid-servant.” Renting a crinolined gown and hoop skirt was well outside my budget.
“A maid?”
From Simone’s tone you’d have thought I said I was going as a camp follower . . . and planning to conduct business on the premises. Truth was, I was going to be a lot more comfortable than they were. A maid’s simple cotton dress and apron were a lot cooler than the elaborate silk gown and layers of petticoats and underthings most of the women would be wearing. And the price was right: Stella, an accomplished dressmaker, had made matching costumes for all of us—me, Mom, Althea, and herself.
We agreed that Simone would put together a PowerPoint briefing of all our findings and email it to the mayor. What happened after that was up to him.

Chapter Fifteen

WHEN I LEFT ROTHMERE, I WAS LOOKING FORWARD to a quiet glass of wine with Vonda, but when I arrived at Magnolia House to pick her up, she hustled me inside. Her brown eyes were wide with agitation and her platinum hair looked liked she’d been pulling at it.
“I just got a call from a family reunion group that’s arriving tonight. Apparently, the hotel they thought they were booked into messed up the reservations, so they’re coming here. Five families! And of course Ricky’s taken RJ on a camping trip, and they’re out of cell phone range.” She sounded like she thought he’d done it on purpose. “Please, please, please help me make up beds and put out towels.”
“Then do I get wine?”
“Absolutely,” she said with a grin. “A whole bottle.”
Too bad I wasn’t wearing my maid’s uniform. I shuttled the fluffy sea green towels Vonda used to all the bathrooms and made sure supplies of soap and toilet paper were adequate. Then, I helped her make the beds. As I flapped a top sheet and watched it drift down to the bed, I told her about my day, starting with breakfast.
“Well, I can tell you why your detective was so cranky,” she said with a sideways look.
“Why?”
“He’s jealous.” She plumped up a quilted bolster and placed it precisely on the finished bed.
“No way.” I found the thought surprisingly pleasing and hid my smile by shaking a pillow down into its case.
“Of course he is. He finds you having breakfast with an attractive man—a big-city reporter—and he goes all snotty on you. He’s got the hots for you.”
We moved to the next room, a suite with an 1820s four-poster bed and anachronistic Jacuzzi tub. “Well, be that as it may,” I said, “it didn’t stop him from dragging Mom down to the police station today when her prints turned up on the murder weapon.”
Polishing an antique wall mirror, Vonda looked at me over her shoulder. “Well, when you put it that way, you really can’t blame him. I’m glad Walter Highsmith was able to explain how your mom’s fingerprints got on the sword.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “After he’d told his story, Dillon admitted that they found the prints on the blade, not on the hilt where you’d think someone would hold it to stab someone. The hilt was wiped clean—no prints at all.”
“And what’s up with this Martin Shears person? What’s his stake in all this?”
I eyed her with mild surprise. “The story. He’s a reporter.”
“Hm. Seems to me there’s not much of a tie between Constance’s death and Beau Lansky.”
“Probably not. Marty’s thing is proving Governor Lansky is taking kickbacks. He’s going to track down Rowan’s wife and see if the DuBoises or Lansky offered her money when her husband disappeared. Maybe she knew something and that’s why she took off so quickly.”
“Maybe.” Vonda didn’t sound convinced. “I think his showing up here right now is strange. He pops into town, and someone tosses a Molotov cocktail at your mom’s house and then breaks in. The timing’s a bit too coincidental for my taste.”
“You could say the same thing about Del Richardson,” I countered. “And probably about a dozen tourists we’ve never heard of. Just because a stranger shows up and then bad things happen doesn’t mean there’s a causal relationship.”
Vonda sniffed, still doubtful but willing to leave the subject. “Have the police talked to Philip?” she asked. “Didn’t you say Constance gave the sword to him?”
“She bought it for his birthday, at any rate.” I smoothed wrinkles from the quilted coverlet in the small back bedroom that looked out on the garden. “I don’t know if the police have talked to him or not, but I’m going to.”
“Do you think you should?” A worried look creased Vonda’s face. “I mean, if he killed his mother . . . Maybe you should let the police handle it.”
“This was bad enough when people thought Mom might be involved just because we found the body. But now, someone’s deliberately trying to implicate her in the murder. I’m going to find out who.”
Spritzing the room with an aerosol container of a cinnamony scent, Vonda asked, “Do you think the murderer planned to frame Vi from the get-go?”
“How could he make the timing work? No, I think he or she only thought of framing Mom after we found the body and the police questioned us.”
“Maybe your asking so many questions gave him the idea,” Vonda said.
I stopped in the process of opening the linen closet to put back the unused bedding. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”
“No! Of course not. Not really.”
“Not
really
?” Despite myself, there was an edge in my voice, honed by doubt. Could I have precipitated this with my insistence on trying to clear my mom’s name?
“No.” She sounded definite. “I’m sure he only got the idea when people started talking about Vi being arrested, even though she wasn’t. It was bad luck that Constance threatened to close down Violetta’s and then went and got herself killed that same night.”
“I’m sorry I jumped on you.”
“Maybe now would be a good time for that wine.” Vonda accepted my apology with a smile.
But before we had made it down the wide central staircase to Vonda’s living quarters, we heard cars pulling up out front.
I peeked out the heavy crimson drapes at the front window. “It appears your guests are here.”
“Dang.” Vonda stripped off the ruffled apron she’d worn to clean and raked her fingers through her hair. “Rain check on the wine?”
“Sure,” I agreed. I gave her a hug as the doorbell pealed. “I’ll slip out the back.”

[Thursday]

MIDWAY THROUGH THE MORNING THURSDAY, WE were fairly busy at the salon. Although we’d had a few cancellations, we also had some walk-in customers. Most of them, I noticed, were special friends of my mom or Althea, but it was nice that they were making an effort to show their support. The usual hubbub of conversation and blow-dryers made the salon feel more normal than it had all week. And tomorrow would be busier, as even the women who thought my mom killed Constance DuBois would show up to get coiffed before the Rothmere Ball. The prospect of not having ringlets or an updo to complete their antebellum look would make them put aside their principles and patronize the salon again. I winced at my own cynicism as I trimmed the bangs of a middle-aged tourist from Nevada who gushed about the alligators she and her family had seen on an Okeefenokee boat tour the day before.
“So big and so . . . so prehistoric looking,” she said. She studied her reflection critically, her head cocked. “Maybe a bit shorter?”
I accepted her credit card at the register and wished her a good time on the rest of her vacation. As she went out the door, another woman entered. Another tourist, I thought, not recognizing her. She was petite and looked to be in her late fifties, with her hair expertly dyed a soft strawberry blonde and razor cut to feather around her face. She had a fair complexion with a fish-shaped port wine birthmark at the corner of her jaw. A royal blue jacket over a white A-line skirt gave her a vaguely nautical air. “May I help you?” I asked.
She glided forward with a slight smile. “Yes, thank you. My name is Barbara Mayhew. I’m here to see Mrs. Violetta Terhune, if she’s available.” Her voice was soft but assured, and testified to her Georgia roots.
The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it. “She’s with a client,” I said, indicating my mother with a nod. “But if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Thank you.” She drifted to the waiting area and looked around, flipping through the magazine pile before rubbing a fern frond between two fingers, maybe to see if it was real.
I went to tell Mom she had another customer waiting. She looked over her shoulder at the woman and nodded. “Tell her I’ll be another five minutes.”
“I see you offer facials,” Ms. Mayhew said when I returned to the counter. “May I ask what products you use?”
I smiled. “Our aesthetician, Althea Jenkins, uses only all-natural ingredients. No chemicals or preservatives to irritate your skin.”
She raised her thin brows. “You mean she doesn’t use a commercial product? She mixes something up in her kitchen sink?”
“I don’t think it works quite like that,” I said, not comfortable with her tone. “If you’re interested in a facial, I can ask Althea to tell you about the products. We’ve never had a complaint; in fact, many women have told me it’s the best facial they’ve ever had.”
At that moment, Beauty emerged from the Nail Nook and sashayed to the front window where she sometimes liked to sit in the sun. “Lots of people are allergic to cats,” Ms. Mayhew said, staring at Beauty.
“If you’re allergic, I can put her in the back,” I said, beginning to get a bad feeling about the pleasant-looking woman in front of me. “C’mere, Beauty.” I scooped the cat up and carried her to the kitchen. Her plumed tail tickled my chin. “Behave yourself,” I admonished her, shutting the door.
When I returned to the front, Mom was inviting Ms. Mayhew back to her station.
“I’m afraid I’m not here for a haircut,” the woman said. “I’m from the Georgia Board of Cosmetology licensing. My sorority sister, Constance DuBois, sent me an email the day she died to urge me to investigate this salon’s practices, and yesterday I heard from her daughter, Simone. And I must tell you that what I’ve heard and seen so far proves that they were right to have concerns. My staff tried to look up your cosmetology license, Mrs. Terhune, but couldn’t find one.”
“That’s because I don’t have one,” Mom said calmly, her fingers clenching on the comb she held.
“And you use untested products for facials and allow animals to roam about the salon,” she added. She shook her head. “Violetta’s is clearly in violation of numerous regulations. Until such time as you can address these problems, I’m afraid I have no choice. I have to close the salon.” She clapped her hands until she had everyone’s attention. “Ladies, Violetta’s is closed until further notice.”
I felt like things were happening in slow motion. Customers’ heads turning, their slow migration to the door, my mother’s face crumpling, Stella dropping a bottle of red polish that spurted little drops onto the floor. I heard nothing but a heavy buzzing in my ears and the refrain “closed . . . closed . . . closed” echoing in my head.
JUST AFTER NOON, MOM, ALTHEA, STELLA, RACHEL, and I sat around the kitchen table staring glumly into our mugs of tea, coffee, or cocoa.
“This sucks eggs,” Rachel summed up our feelings.
“I’ll have to tell Jessie she can’t take flute lessons anymore,” Stella said. “We can’t afford them, what with Darryl only working part-time.” Stella’s husband Darryl was a mechanic whose hours had been cut back a couple of months earlier.
“I can’t believe she objected to my facial products,” Althea grumbled. “Why, I’ve been using them for nigh on forty years. Oatmeal and honey and avocado and sugar are much better for the skin than red dye number whatever and polyethylene something. My great-granny Stone gave me my recipes.”
“My skin looks ten years younger since you started giving me facials, Althea,” Mom affirmed.
It was true. Her skin and Althea’s looked years younger than their peers’ skin; I’d noticed it before. I eyed her closely. She sounded normal, but a stricken look in her eyes told me she was taking the closing hard.
“And no one’s ever complained about Beauty,” Stella said, stroking the cat that lay on her lap. “Never.”
“It’s like Constance is reaching out from the grave to get back at us,” Althea said darkly. “She never could stand not getting her way. I don’t suppose she’s changed just because she’s dead.”
“Oh, hush,” Mom said. “There’s nothing more we can do for today. Let’s pretend we’re on vacation and do something fun.”
I looked at all the morose faces; no one looked like fun was on the agenda.
Mom continued in a determinedly cheery voice, “Tomorrow, we can get together and figure out a plan for reopening Violetta’s. There must be a way. We’ll look at those documents Mrs. Mayhew left and see what we need to do.” Her foot tapped restlessly, a sure sign of her agitation.
Rachel drained her cocoa and pushed to her feet. “I’ve got to get back to school. Lunch is, like, almost over, and I can’t be tardy again. Maybe we could find something on the web that would help us. I’ll look when I get home.”
“Thanks, Rachel,” Mom said, squeezing the girl’s hand.
Rachel banged out the back door in her black Crocs, and I stood up. “I’m going to see if there’s water in my apartment yet,” I said. I arched my back, trying to dump the load of gloom that slumped my shoulders. “I’ll call you later, Mom.” I’d have stayed if she’d said something, or even looked at me, but the set of her mouth told me she’d rather be alone.
I was going to the bank. The silver lining to being temporarily (I hoped) unemployed was the opportunity to track down Constance’s killer. And I was going to start with the man who owned the sword that killed her.