Art's Blood (31 page)

By the time they had finished their tea, Lily Gordon had deftly elicited the pertinent facts of Elizabeth’s background: schooling, marriage, decision to move from Florida to the mountains, children, and widowhood. She had particularly inquired about Ben and had nodded approvingly as Elizabeth related his story.

“A fine young man, I’m sure. Lovely manners, unfortunately rather unusual these days, don’t you find?” The old woman put down her empty cup and leaned toward Elizabeth. “I hope that you won’t misunderstand me when I say that I am concerned about his…infatuation for my great-granddaughter. It won’t do, Mrs. Goodweather.” The hawk eyes were piercing.

“But you wanted to know about my involvement with the Center.” Lily Gordon segued easily and firmly into her story, overriding and ignoring Elizabeth’s surprised expression at the reference to Ben. The old woman’s face lit up as she spoke of her youthful idealism, her eagerness to bring a richer life to the young women of Appalachia. She described the programs offered at the Center, her interest and participation and then, ultimately, her disenchantment.

“I like to believe that we did good, that lives were changed for the better, but somehow…” Her hooded hawk’s eyes dropped. “There were conflicts, as there always are, and as time went on I began to feel that the two founders of the Center were…not entirely suitable for the task they had undertaken. I left the Center and went to stay with friends of my family in Asheville.

“And then I met Robert. He was the eldest son, a young lawyer, recently graduated from Harvard, and from the moment he saw me, he was determined that I would be his wife. I was not in love with him but he was persistent. And, speaking frankly, I had battled my parents so fiercely in order to be allowed to come to the mountains that I was unwilling to return to Boston and admit my disillusionment. So Robert and I married and I gave up social work.”

Lily Gordon looked at the thin platinum and diamond band that was almost hidden by the massive diamond solitaire on her left ring finger. “I don’t know what more I can tell you.”

“Let me show you the quilt and the article I told you about.” Elizabeth went to her desk, took up the fragile newspaper, and handed it to her guest. “The quilt’s in my workroom; I’ll just be a minute.”

When she returned with the folded quilt, she saw that there were tears in the old woman’s eyes and that her thin finger was tracing one of the faces in the photograph. “So young,” she said, as if to herself. “So young and impetuous.”

She looked up as Elizabeth spread the quilt out on the sofa beside her chair. She inspected the charming squares of appliquéd and embroidered animals politely, but with a strange lack of interest. The gray woolen owl, the rust-colored fox, the cardinal— its shining red silk still bright— the various birds and beasts of Appalachians, all so skillfully portrayed, received only a cursory glance. The old woman’s gaze seemed to linger slightly on the embroidery in the lower corner: ornate script that read
Fanchon Teague~Marshall County, North Carolina~1934.

“Yes,” she said at last. “This is the quilt that was to have gone to President Roosevelt. I never expected to see it again. I suppose you’ve heard the story?”

“I’ve heard
a
story but it was thirdhand, at least. I wondered what you could tell me.”

Lily Gordon made a harsh sound that was not quite a laugh. “I spoke of being disillusioned. This quilt, as well as the accompanying disaster, was the final straw. You see, Mrs. Goodweather, I had worked very hard, using all my family’s influence, to arrange a meeting with President and Mrs. Roosevelt. There were high hopes for increased exposure and funding that would allow us to expand our programs.

“Fanchon Teague, this girl in the photograph, was chosen to present the quilt. She was the most personable and talented of all our girls, really quite charming and naive. I had rehearsed her over and over in a simple speech and she was to sing a ballad as well. The ladies agreed that, of all our girls, Fanchon would present the best picture of the Center, and we had pinned our hopes on her. I bought train tickets and suitable clothing for this girl with my own money…and two hours before we were to leave for the depot, she eloped with an uncouth local man, a lout and a bootlegger.”

The bony hands began to close as if to crush the yellowing pages, but Lily Gordon restrained herself and carefully laid the newspaper on the table beside the tea things. “I had been too generous in my belief that this backwoods girl could rise above her beginnings. Blood will tell, after all.”

“But what happened to the quilt?” Elizabeth asked.

The old woman lifted her eyebrows. “It was nowhere to be found. At the time, we assumed that Fanchon had taken it with her. There was talk later that her stepsister had destroyed it in a fit of jealousy. But for me, the whole affair was over. I left the Center the same day.”

Lily Gordon looked at the quilt with something like displeasure. “And when did this come to light?”

“A lady in Shut In, the aunt of a friend of mine, says she found it in a trunk up in her barn loft some time in the fifties. Her place is next to where Fanchon lived.”

“Is this ‘friend’ the ex–police officer Kyra told me about? The one she’s asked to look into the death of that young man after that ridiculous performance at the museum?”

Dark eyes held Elizabeth, who suddenly recalled whispers at the museum opening to the effect that Mrs. Robert B. Gordon was also known as the Gorgon of Asheville.

“Yes, ma’am. We’ve, that is, he’s been following up various leads but—”

Lily Gordon held up a forestalling hand. “Perhaps I can help you. Has Kyra told you that she believes her father is involved in this young man’s death? And in the death of her mother as well?”

Elizabeth squirmed, feeling uncomfortable with the old woman’s directness. “Well, she…ah…” The icy gorgon glare froze her. “Yes, ma’am, she did.”

To Elizabeth’s great relief, Lily Gordon closed her eyes and leaned back. “Mrs. Goodweather, Kyra is a very troubled child. She is my only living relative and I love her dearly— but not blindly.”

The eyes reopened but now the gaze was soft and the old woman smiled sweetly at her hostess. “Sit down, Mrs. Goodweather, and indulge an old woman by listening to a little family history.”

Feeling a bit like the Wedding Guest faced with the Ancient Mariner, Elizabeth sat and listened.

“My daughter Amanda married William Sheffield, the child of another old Asheville family. Amanda was only eighteen and he was in his thirties— a boring man but an excellent lawyer. Rose was born when Amanda was twenty, but there was never another child. My daughter didn’t particularly enjoy maternity— she was completely engrossed with raising show dogs— those yappy little Yorkshire terriers. She was a rather…detached mother. So Rose was often with me and we were quite close.

“Oh, Amanda did her duty— saw to it that Rose went to the right schools and came out at the Rhododendron Ball. And she had a stuffy young lawyer picked out for a son-in-law. But Rose was a rebel. She met Marvin somewhere and was head over heels in love before her parents had any idea what was going on. In fact, the first hint they had of his existence was when Rose announced that she was expecting— four months along, she claimed— and was marrying Peterson, with or without their approval.

“Rose told me all about it. As I said, we were very close, far closer than Amanda and I had ever been. My granddaughter came to me because she knew that I would understand, having been a rebel myself— she had always loved hearing how I left my sheltered Boston home to work among the savage mountaineers of Marshall County.”

The old woman’s expression softened. “Rose was smitten, as was Marvin. They were Romeo and Juliet, Héloïse and Abelard, Dante and Beatrice— at any rate, Rose made these comparisons. At the time of their marriage Marvin was not up to such literary flights of fancy, but he did love my granddaughter extravagantly.”

Lily Gordon sighed heavily. “My daughter set her face in a frozen smile and gave Rose the lovely wedding that she had so carefully planned. But as soon as the couple left on their honeymoon trip to Europe, Amanda and her husband announced that they were moving to Connecticut. They are both gone now but while she was living, Amanda never returned to Asheville, not for her granddaughter’s birth nor even her daughter’s funeral.”

The old woman paused and Elizabeth refilled her cup, asking, “Kyra seems to be very angry with her father now. Do you still see him since—” She broke off, hesitant to bring up the subject of the mistress and successor to Lily Gordon’s beloved granddaughter.

“Marvin?” The old woman sipped at the tea. “We are on very good terms. He visits me at least once a week.” She put the cup down again. “A woman of my age has few friends to gossip with, but I hear the whispers. They ask how I can maintain a friendship with the man who led a double life while married to my darling granddaughter. The man who married his mistress a week after Rose’s death.”

The gorgon eyes bored into Elizabeth’s. “But a woman of my age can ignore the whispers. I know the circumstances that led Marvin to behave as he did, and knowing them, I can forgive. And it is my firm belief that Marvin would never have hurt my Rose in any way.”

“Does he…do you have any idea who might have been responsible for her death? There are still rumors that it was done to harm Mr. Peterson— a disgruntled…business associate or something of that kind.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” the old woman said. Her face was suddenly very weary. “Before their marriage he had had many…shall we say, questionable business arrangements. Probably nothing to touch the activities of some of the corporate executives of today.” A hint of the rebellious Lily Cabot flared and subsided. “But when they married, Marvin swore to Rose and to me as well that all his dealings would henceforth be completely legitimate— and ethical, as well.”

The thin lips sketched a sardonic smile. “The two don’t always go hand in hand, you know. But Marvin has, from that time, conducted his various business enterprises with the utmost rectitude. It never seemed reasonable to me that a— how did you phrase it?— a disgruntled associate from long ago would have waited so many years for revenge.”

“Could the motive have been burglary?” Elizabeth persisted.

“No, there was no burglary, nothing taken. I went through Rose’s jewels myself. Her grandfather and I had given her several very nice things, as, of course, had her parents and Marvin.” The wrinkled brow furrowed deeper. “I could find only one thing missing: a pendant we gave her on her sixteenth birthday— a small platinum rose covered in tiny rubies with a single diamond dewdrop on one petal— not particularly valuable but a pretty piece. Robert had it made to his own design— he gave me this brooch the same year.” She indicated the jewel at the neck of her pale gray silk blouse: a graceful calla lily in pavé diamonds with a ruby spadix and an emerald leaf and stem.

A peal of barking rang out on the front porch. Elizabeth excused herself and went to the door to see Buckley easing the SUV up the road. She quieted the dogs and returned to her guest.

“Your driver’s back, Mrs. Gordon.” She hesitated. “It’s probably none of my business, but— do you have him follow Kyra occasionally? Or anyone else?”

The old woman stiffened. Then she fixed Elizabeth with that bone-freezing stare. “Kyra is my only living relative. Her mother was my only grandchild. My daughter Amanda died two years ago, shortly after
her
brother, my only other child, was killed in a hit-and-run accident. He had never married. So there is only Kyra. Like many old families, we are diminished. So yes, sometimes I feel the need to take particular care of what remains.”

A discreet triple knock at the door announced that Buckley had arrived. Elizabeth let him in and he helped Mrs. Gordon to her feet. She thanked Elizabeth for the tea and Elizabeth walked with her to the porch, expressing her gratitude for the information about the Center. “It will be so much more interesting to have some actual history to accompany the quilt; I really appreciate your coming out to talk to me.”

As Buckley picked up the fragile old woman, she called, “Oh, Mrs. Goodweather, it just occurred to me: perhaps you’d like to speak with Fanchon herself. She’s at the Golden Years retirement center just south of Asheville— or rather,
they
are.”

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. “What? Excuse me, I don’t understand. I didn’t know she was still—” Elizabeth stared at the little woman who was smiling serenely from her perch in the arms of her driver.

“Oh yes, Fanchon and her stepsister Tildy are both still alive— they’re much younger than I. Of course I haven’t seen them in years. Tildy had a stroke and finds it difficult to communicate. And Fanchon and I really have so little in common.”

As Elizabeth struggled to assimilate this news, Buckley began to descend the steps with stately care. At the bottom he turned and Lily Gordon lifted her hand in farewell.

“One last thing, Mrs. Goodweather. Your handsome nephew. You must persuade him to stay away from Kyra. It really isn’t safe.” The thin lips stretched in a charming smile. Above the fluffy white coiffure of his employer, Buckley’s face was impassive. Then his eyes narrowed. He held Elizabeth with a stern gaze and gave a slow nod.

The Goodweather woman is no fool. I believe that she will take my warning seriously and I will not be forced to extreme measures.

She is an interesting woman, a lady, one would say, with education and some breeding, who has, nevertheless, chosen to live her life working like a farmhand. Puzzling. Her home is rustic but attractive— she has an eye for beauty. Wide-planked oak floors, comfortable denim-covered sofas, somewhat shabby, a nice reproduction Sheraton secretary, fresh flowers in a fine old silver pitcher, some antique tables, worn Persian carpets— all very welcoming and tasteful, if a little doggy in places. (How Reba fussed as she brushed off the black skirt I had worn on my visit!)