Buried Bones (31 page)

"How'd you end up here?"

"Family inheritance." Her laughter was good-humored. "Can you believe it? I was living the good life in
Kansas City
, working as a graphic designer in a big advertising agency. Then my great-aunt somebody dies, and I inherit this place. I'd never even been here, but it sounded so romantic. I was hooked quicker than a bream on a cricket."

Listening to her talk I'd had an opportunity to look around the front desk area. It was exactly as Millie's aunt Bev had described it. I wondered if the buttons that would alert gamblers to a raid were still under the counter.

We sipped our wine and Edy Lavert told me about her family and the lodge. The gambling rooms and bedrooms had been preserved, as had most of the rest of the establishment. The kitchen had been remodeled in the seventies.

It wasn't hard to steer her to the summer of 1940, and by the time I did, the catfish had arrived. One taste of the delicate fish and I was in no hurry. I ate at the counter and she sat across from me. We finished the first bottle of wine and started on the second. Edy was obviously delighted to have a peer to talk to.

"What's so special about 1940?" she asked.

"Part of my book takes place then."

"There are some scrapbooks upstairs. Want me to get them?"

I could have fallen out of my chair. "That would be perfect."

We'd finished the main course and were waiting on bread pudding for dessert. "Come on," she said. "Take a look around."

I needed no second invitation. We climbed the stairs to the second level, which featured a huge wraparound room, all golden wood that glowed in the circles of illumination cast by the antique lamps she turned on to light our way.

"Back when the casino was in full swing, the band would set up at this end," she pointed, "and the dance floor was here. I think the front was open, but somewhere along the line it was walled in. I guess when air-conditioning came along."

She motioned to the wall behind us where a series of closed doors caught my eye. There were name plates on the doors, and I walked closer. Jungle Room,
Flapper Room
,
Yukon
Room. I stopped there. "In 1940 a young man was murdered in this room," I said.

"Yeah, a senator's son." She nodded as if she'd finally caught on to the real thread of my interest. "That was the summer the nest of troublemakers worked here."

"Troublemakers?"

She laughed out loud at my reaction. "The way the story came down to me was that
Tennessee
was always busy writing, but that Ambrose, he was always stirring up trouble with the wealthy guests, talking politics and civil dissent. It must have been something. From what I've been able to tell about
Mississippi
politics, these kids must have been extremely unusual. One time they did a benefit show to collect money for the starving children in
Europe
."

She led me to a framed photograph on the wall that clearly showed Lawrence and Madame in costume performing before a hand-lettered banner that said "Dimes for War Children."

"That crowd was way ahead of its time. A foreshadowing of the sixties."

The photograph captured
Lawrence
as alive and vibrant as I remembered him. Madame was stunning, a curvaceous package of verve and bounce. Several things clicked into place. Jebediah Archer's spleen was still bitter on my tongue. He'd avoided calling them communists, but he'd hinted strongly. And
Lawrence
had left the
United States
after the summer he spent here--the summer
France
fell and
Europe
was ground into hamburger.

When
Lawrence
had tried to come home and work at Ole Miss, he'd left without putting up much of a fight. His life had been threatened and no one had bothered to investigate. Now I knew why. He'd been tarred with the red brush--and Senator Jebediah Archer had either wielded that brush or put it in the hand of Joseph Grace. Anger isolated me from my surroundings, but in a few seconds it burned away. Edy was still talking.

"Ambrose was the ringleader. Hell, you know communism was more of an intellectual calling than political. From what I've been able to tell, only a handful of people in the entire state had a clue what communism or any other political philosophy might be."

She was correct. Up until the eighties, the South had voted straight-line Democratic. No questions asked; no ideology discussed. Deputy Dawg could have been on the ballot and he would have been voted in if he was a Democrat.

Edy walked to a coffee table filled with old scrapbooks. She dug through them, pulling one from near the bottom. "You'll like this," she said. "I've had a lot of free time to go through these things. I guess in the back of my mind I've been trying to decide what to do with all of this stuff when I have to sell the place."

"These could be valuable." I took the book she offered, sat down in a chair, and began to turn the pages.

The Crescent casino captured in the black and white photographs was a place of glamour and luxury. "Is that--?"

"Clark Gable, yes." Edy laughed, flopping into a chair.

We both looked up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The little boy peeked around the corner. "There's a car out front, Mama."

"Are they coming in?"

He shook his head.

"You want some bread pudding?" she asked him.

His smile was answer enough.

"Would you be a big boy and ask Cecil to serve us up here, with some coffee? Tell him to bring some for all of us and we'll talk. If he doesn't have to go straight home, he can join us, too." The look she gave me was direct, completely devoid of self-pity. "He's the best chef in this part of the state. Cecil's become like family to us, but he won't be able to stay on much longer."

"What about the man?" the little boy asked.

"What man, darling?"

"The one out front in the car. Can he have bread pudding with us?"

"If he comes inside he can," she answered.

I gave her a questioning look.

"There's a buzzer on the door. It'll ring up here. A lot of times people stop in the parking lot to look at the lake. We have the best view."

I turned my attention back to the scrapbook. It was a fascinating glimpse into the past. There were photos of Madame dancing and Beverly McGrath, a beautiful young woman singing to handsome movie stars. An excellent photograph of Lawrence and Tennessee Williams had them in conference at a table, the sunlight filtering in an open window behind them as they focused on whatever plans were in front of them.

There was a vaguely familiar photo of
Lawrence
, his bright eyes alive as he held a string of trout. The background of the picture had been cut out, but I remembered it had contained a clench. My gut told me I had stumbled on something significant. "What happened?"

"I can't imagine." Edy examined the book. Several additional photos had also been cut. "I don't remember this. Dammit, I'm afraid I'm going to have to have a talk with Johnny. These old albums aren't paper dolls."

The book was magic. Time was forgotten as I leafed through the pages. The casino was even more wonderful than
Beverly
had described it. I could see how such a summer would capture the hearts of four young people.

I'd lived in
New York
, hoping for just such a life. Now I saw that with the passing of the forties, true glamour had disappeared from this country. I had missed my era.

"That's my great-aunt," Edy said, pointing to a dark-haired woman in an exquisite gown. She had her arms around
Lawrence
and
Tennessee
. "That's how I knew about the communist thing. She joined up, too. It almost got the casino shut down, and she was sent out to
Missouri
, along with her younger sister. They met and married brothers, and that's how my branch of the family got there."

"Sisters marrying brothers. It sounds terribly romantic."

"A double ceremony, yeah. It was romantic, except both of their husbands were drafted and killed in the war. They were both left widows with a kid in the oven."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't think Aunt Kate even knew what a communist was. After her husband was killed, she became more politically active. And more radical."

There was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, and we paused as a short, wiry man brought up a tray of desserts and coffee. As soon as he set the tray down, Edy poured us all a cup and we sat back. The bread pudding was delicious. Johnny squeezed into the chair with his mother and we ate in silence.

"Delicious," I said. "Bourbon sauce made with George Dickel?"

Cecil smiled. "Maker's Mark. Similar in a sauce."

We all laughed and I felt the tension begin to drain from my neck and shoulders. Outside night had fallen, but in the glow of the old lamps that gave the wooden walls a warmth, I felt that time had stopped. Still, I needed to go home. I had only a few more questions.

"Did your family stories include any other activities of
Lawrence
and his friends. Anything that might make someone want to silence him?" It was a hard question to phrase delicately.

"Is it a book or a murder you're working on?"

She was one smart cookie, and I liked her chutzpah. "Both."

She shook her head. "The whole communism thing became a joke, you know.
America
, home of the free. In the forties it was a crime to be red, but not today. So what? And they were kids. I'm not certain they were anything except opposed to the concept of human beings slaughtering each other."

She put her finger on
Lawrence
's picture. "He was a great writer. We have a collection of his books here. He sent them even when he was in
Europe
. Sometimes we have a literate hunter who wants something to read, and I loan him a book."

I had a terrific thought. "Why don't you turn this place into a museum?" I sat forward with a flush of excitement. "Look at it." I swept my arm around. "Everything is perfect. You could still keep it a lodge, but it could also be a museum. You could get state and federal grants."

Her eyes widened. "Do you think?"

"I'm not certain, but it wouldn't cost anything to check it out. And all of this could be preserved. This is a page from the past, a place where people could come and see what it was like. You could hire young people to bring it to life."

I saw the idea catch fire in her eyes. She leaned forward and gripped my hands. "Thank you," she said. "Dinner is on the house."

Though I tried repeatedly to pay for the meal, Edy adamantly refused. She and Johnny and Cecil hugged me and walked me to my car. They watched as I started to leave. Except the car wouldn't start. It didn't even make a sound. It was as if the spark of life had been stolen from it.

Cecil opened the hood and looked at the engine, then closed it again. "Fancy motor. I wouldn't even begin to tamper with it. I'd do more damage than good."

"It was running fine." Stomping my foot, which is what I wanted to do, wouldn't do a bit of good. I was stranded.

"Johnny and I heard a car." Cecil's face was thoughtful. "Kids come to the parking lot to look at the lake, usually they're up to romance, not making trouble."

Great. Vandals. That was all I needed. At nine o'clock in the evening, there wouldn't be a garage open anywhere nearby. Chances were I'd have to go to
Clarksdale
to find a Mercedes dealer.

"You'll have to stay the night," Edy said, more delighted than disturbed by the turn of events. "As it happens, we have a vacancy."

I shook my head as I got out of the car. "I don't have any clothes or anything."

"You can borrow some from me. We'll call the
Clarksdale
dealer in the morning and have it towed to the shop."

There was nothing else to do. I had to give in gracefully. At the desk I made a call to Tinkie, who agreed to check on Sweetie Pie. My hound had a doggy door, but she needed food, water, and human companionship.

Edy and Johnny had an apartment downstairs, but my room was on the third floor. It, too, looked as if it had been created in the forties and left untouched.

"Sorry about the lack of television," Edy said as she brought fresh towels and a nightgown designed for a sex goddess. There was nothing kittenish about this piece of lingerie.

"It's an antique," she said, laughing at my look. "I thought you'd enjoy the whole experience. Maybe someone famous like Lana Turner left that gown here."