Tressed to Kill (21 page)

[Saturday]

WILD DREAMS PLAGUED MY SLEEP. AMELIA Rothmere—or was it Lucy?—announced her determination to save Tara, come what may, and my mother, dressed as a Civil War nurse, asked me silly questions like who the president was. I told her that guy from Illinois . . . Lincoln. Del Richardson asked me to dance and turned into an alligator as we spun around to a Bee Gees song. Then I was falling into a deep pit . . . falling, falling. I jerked awake before I hit bottom. Breathing heavily, I lay still for a moment, trying to orient myself.
Yellow gingham curtains; 1950s-era print of Jesus with the little children, one boy holding a model airplane, little girl seated on Jesus’ knee; white rocking chair in the corner. My old bedroom. Tension drained from my muscles. My headache was substantially better. Thank goodness.
Mom came in before I could muster the energy to get out of bed. Steam wisped up from a mug of tea, which she put on the bedside table. “How many fingers am I holding up?” she asked.
“Twelve,” I said. At her frown, I amended, “Three.”
“Good. And what day of the week is it?”
I thought a moment. “Saturday.”
A smile plumped her cheeks. “No permanent brain damage, I guess. The doctor said you’ve got a hard head. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. I’ll go scramble you an egg.” She left.
Pushing to a sitting position, I groped for the mug and took a swallow of hot tea. Ah, much better. Caffeine can fix all sorts of problems medical science doesn’t have a clue about. I took another pain pill with my second swallow. My mind played back images from the ball and my dreams, and I knew I had to see Lucy Mortimer before we left today. Mom wouldn’t be happy, but I was going back to Rothmere before we hit the road to Decatur. I finished my tea and dressed slowly, examining bruises on my knee, thighs, and arms. I was glad I couldn’t see my shoulder blades where the shovel had whacked me the second time. I brushed my hair and left it loose, enjoying the play of light on the highlights.
I stepped into the kitchen, clutching my tea, to find Special Agent Dillon forking up eggs at the table. “That better not be my egg,” I said by way of greeting.
“Good morning to you, too,” he said. He took a sip of coffee.
“I’m making you another egg,” Mom said, scrambling the contents of a cast-iron skillet with a spatula.
“That was a fine breakfast, Mrs. Terhune. Thank you,” Dillon said.
“Thank
you
for pulling my daughter out of that grave,” Mom said.
Dillon relaxed back into his chair and pulled out his notebook. “Speaking of which, we talked with the Rothmere staff last night, including Miss Mortimer, and she said the grave was dug for a Nathan Philpott, a distant Rothmere relation, but his casket ended up in Dallas due to an airline snafu. The burial that was supposed to be Friday is now scheduled for later today.”
I was incredibly grateful not to be spending eternity underneath Nathan Philpott. I took the plate of eggs and toast from Mom with a murmur of thanks and joined Dillon at the table.
“The shovel,” Dillon went on, “was already at the grave site, so the minister or Mrs. Philpott could tip in a ceremonial shovelful of dirt. So, that makes the attack on you seem like a crime of opportunity, not premeditated,” he finished, leveling his gaze at me.
“Then it was probably Richardson or Philip—if it was Philip,” I said, peppering my eggs.
“Or someone who saw you leave and followed you, like you followed Richardson.”
“But that could be anyone,” I said in dismay, my vision of Special Agent Dillon arresting and interrogating Del Richardson evaporating.
“I can rule out a few people,” Mom said. “Althea and Stella were talking to me, and Vonda was on the dance floor the whole time. I also chatted with the Kitchenses and Roger MacDonald for quite a while. I let folks know we’d be out of town so they can keep an eye on the house.”
“What about Philip DuBois? Did you see him?” I asked.
She thought a moment, pursing her lips. “No, but Susan was with Simone and her fiancé.”
“Husband,” I said. “I forgot to tell you that they eloped. Vonda and I ran into them at The Pirate Thursday night.”
“Well!” My mom took in the news. “I’m glad Simone had enough respect for her mother not to have a big wedding celebration before Constance is cold in her grave.”
“What about Lucy?” I asked. “Or Walter?”
“As far as I know, Lucy was still in the foyer, greeting people,” Mom said. “And Walter didn’t come. He refused to buy a ticket because he was so mad at Constance for terminating his lease. Then, after Constance died, they were all sold out.”
I bit my lip. That didn’t make sense. Marty Shears had told me he’d secured a ticket only a couple of days ago. Which reminded me I hadn’t seen him last night.
Special Agent Dillon interrupted us by standing. “This won’t get us very far,” he said. “The time period is too tight. Would you be able to swear, Mrs. Terhune, about anyone’s whereabouts between, say, eight forty-five and nine o’clock precisely? Did you check your watch?”
Mom shook her head.
“People were coming and going all night long, dancing, standing at the bar, walking on the terrace, using the restroom,” he continued. “Establishing a rock-solid alibi for most of them would be impossible. Not to mention, the attacker doesn’t have to be someone who was at the party at all.”
“So, what do you suggest?” I asked, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin.
“Go to Aunt Flora’s like you planned,” he said promptly. “We got some prints off the shovel handle. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get a hit in AFIS.”
“I need to go out to the Rothmere mansion and talk to Lucy before we go,” I told them. I stood and collected all our plates, putting them in the sink.
“I’ll come with you,” Mom and Dillon said simultaneously. They exchanged glances and chuckled.
I was touched by their concern, but I thought my errand would go better if I was on my own. “That’s not necessary. I need to have a conversation with Lucy. I’ll make sure she knows you all know that I’ve gone to see her. I’ll be perfectly fine. No strolling in the cemetery or exploring dark basements,” I said, crossing my heart with my index finger.
“We should plan to leave no later than noon if we want to get to Flora’s by dinner time,” Mom said, tacitly accepting my plan.
“I’ll be back,” I promised. I hugged Mom. “Thanks for the breakfast.”
Special Agent Dillon walked out with me. “Check in with me before you leave,” he said. “And make sure I’ve got a way to reach you at your aunt’s.”
“Will do, Marshal,” I said. “I’ll call you after I talk to Lucy. I may need your help with something.”
He looked curious but didn’t press me. “As long as it’s not snake removal,” he said, getting into his car.
ARRIVING AT ROTHMERE, I WAS STRUCK BY HOW DIFFERENT it looked this morning. Gone was the magical antebellum atmosphere. Only a pile of horse apples in the circular carriage way marked where the coach had stood. Maybe it had turned back into a pumpkin. A caterer’s van was parked, back doors open, near a side entrance. Maintenance workers with telescoping poles removed lights from the trees. Groundskeepers stabbed trash with a pointy tool and put it in garbage bags. The grass beyond the parking lot was flattened and muddy where cars that wouldn’t fit in the lot had parked. The great doors stood open, and I walked in, seeing similar signs of postparty cleanup. A bucket and mop stood abandoned in a corner. Jeans-clad workers from the caterer lugged cartons of dirty glasses to their van. A vacuum whirred in a distant room. Ignoring it all, I went directly to Lucy’s office and tapped on her door.
“She’s in the museum,” a voice said from behind me.
I turned, thanked the helpful caterer’s assistant, and headed toward the museum, the former carriage house. A covered path connected the main house to the museum, and a small card announced the museum’s hours. A larger poster advertised the new exhibit that would open Monday. I opened the door on the cavernous space large enough to hold at least four carriages without crowding. Windows and skylights had been added not that long ago—I remembered the fund-raising campaign—to brighten the exhibit space. On my left, mannequins wore Rothmere family clothing from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Displays of jewelry and personal artifacts were neatly labeled in glass cases around the walls. Professionally done placards discussed plantation farming techniques, slavery, and the effects of the Civil War on the plantation lifestyle.
I spotted Lucy squirting glass cleaner on a case and wiping it with old newspaper. “Lucy,” I called from the doorway, not wanting to startle her.
She turned, dropping the crumpled newspaper. With her tortoiseshell glasses back in place and a beige cardigan over her shoulders, Lucy looked nothing like the plantation housewife she’d impersonated last night. “Oh, Grace. I was going to call you later today. I was so sorry to hear about your accident. I wouldn’t have had such a thing happen at Rothmere for the world.”
I’m not sure I called getting thumped with a shovel and dumped in a grave an “accident,” but I let it go. “I’m feeling much better,” I said. “Just a little leftover headache.”
I crossed to the display case where she was standing. “What’s the theme of the new exhibit?” I asked, studying the documents in the glass case.
“Civil War love letters,” she said proudly. “And not just from the Rothmeres. This one”—she pointed to a brief note on yellowing paper—“is from Jefferson Davis to his second wife, Varina. And Robert E. Lee wrote this one to his wife, Mary Custis Lee, moments before the Battle of Antietam. It’s taken me years to persuade museums and private collectors to lend their documents.”
“I’m sure it’s fascinating,” I said, “and I’ll come view the exhibit when it opens. But I want to talk about last night.” For a town not much larger than an amusement park, St. Elizabeth hid a lot of secrets. And Constance had been privy to too many of them. One of them, I suspected, had gotten her killed. I needed to be sure it wasn’t Lucy’s secret. “That cameo you wore—it was Amelia Rothmere’s, wasn’t it?”
Lucy blinked behind her glasses. “It was just like it,” she said. “And my dress was a copy of—”
“The cameo wasn’t a copy, Lucy,” I said gently. “Constance DuBois was holding you responsible for the disappearance of some Rothmere artifacts, wasn’t she? And she was going to have you dismissed as curator. Did she know you took them?”
Lucy looked to the left and right, as if searching for an escape route. “I couldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . I didn’t steal—”
I chose my words carefully, not wanting to scare her into silence. “I’m sure it didn’t seem like stealing to you, because you . . . identify so closely with the Rothmeres.” I stopped short of saying she thought she
was
Amelia Rothmere.
“They’re my—they’re like my family,” she said. Pulling a lace hanky from her pocket, she dabbed at her eyes under the glasses. “I knew Amelia would want me to have that brooch,” she said, sniffing defiantly. “It’s not as if anyone else around here cares that the brooch was Reginald’s betrothal present to Amelia, or that she gave the Wedgwood tea cup to their daughter Caroline after she almost died of typhus. These are family memories, not just baubles for people to gawk at.” She glared at me. “You have no proof that I took anything,” she said belatedly. She took a step toward me. Fluid sloshed in the spray bottle she still held in her right hand.
I stepped back, keeping a wary eye on the container of glass cleaner. I didn’t think she’d attack me, not with the workers outside to hear me if I screamed, but I wanted to stay out of spraying range. “You should know that I told the police I was coming here.”
Her face turned an ashy gray. “You turned me in? Not even Constance—”
“I didn’t tell him why I was coming to see you,” I said, feeling sorry for her.
She paused for a beat, then gasped and said, “You thought I might hurt you? How could you? I’ve never hurt anyone, ever. Did you think I—?” She faltered. “Constance?”
“No,” I said. “No one thinks that.” Not anymore. She was too genuinely confused and horrified. “And I don’t think anyone else has figured out about the jewelry and mementoes. But someone will, Lucy. That’s why I came today. You need to return the stuff you took. ‘Find’ it all in a box in storage if you want, but you’ve got to replace it.”
Her lips thinned to a mulish line. “What gives you the right?”
I hesitated, not sure how to phrase it. “It’s not about right, I don’t think. Well, it is, in a way, but not completely. I think the people who visit Rothmere, who come to pay their respects to the Rothmere family, would appreciate seeing the mementoes that meant so much to Amelia and Jeremy and Caroline and—” I broke off, not remembering any of the other names.
“Reginald and Elizabeth and the others.” Lucy looked thoughtful. “I guess it was a bit selfish of me.”
Not to mention criminal. I stayed silent, letting her find her own way.
“If the items that have gone missing turn up, can we keep this just between us?” she asked, her expression hovering between supplication and defiance.
I found myself troubled by what I was doing. I’d written her impersonation of Amelia Rothmere off as a harmless delusion. What if it was more than that? And who was I to decide that because she’d “borrowed” the mementoes for her personal enjoyment, rather than to make money off them, that her thievery was any more acceptable? “I don’t know, Lucy,” I said honestly. “I hope so.”
She turned away from me, her shoulders slumped. “Fine.”
“There’s one other thing,” I said. “I need a favor.”