Candles Burning (13 page)

Maybe the mention of the Hotel Pontchartrain reminded her that the brioche baker there had proved to be a homicidal maniac. When I saw Tansy's face go blank, it crossed my mind that Mama might have been a little more delicate in her compliment.

Ford gave Mama a minute or so and then asked, “You gone bust some more windows today?”

“Maybe I will. You want to help?”

“'Less I get a better offer.”

Mamadee always had her first coffee in bed. Mama was still buttering brioche when Mamadee came down.

Ford immediately begged Mamadee to be excused and was, with a kiss.

“Excuse me, Mamadee,” I piped up.

“Are you still here, Calley?” asked Mamadee, watching Ford's exit with the addled ecstasy of a dog tracking a raw steak.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Her gaze moved glacially in my direction until she was staring at me. Then she made a noise of disgust—a
tzzt
.

“I'll be glad when the Good Lord closes my eyes and I don't have to look at your sullen pout until Judgment Day.”

“Me too,” I retorted airily.

“What?”

“I'll be glad when you're dead.”

She slapped me across the face and then across the back of the head.

“Shame!” Then she clutched at her chest and sank back in her chair. “Vipers in my bosom!”

Having heard from more than one preacher that the Good Lord never sends us trials we cannot bear, I wanted to hang around to see if she died, but keeping in mind that she might still have strength for more slapping and calling on the Good Lord, I went as far as the door and stood outside it.

The heart attack passed instantly.

“I swear that child is not human at all. Some troll stole your real baby and left Calley in her place,” Mamadee told Mama in a perfectly normal voice. “Winston Weems will be here at eleven-thirty, after church.”

“Really.” Mama lit a cigarette. “Gallbladder crisis all over?”

“It would seem so. I remember how I suffered with mine. Why, I begged Lewis Evarts to take it out and end my misery over and over, and he would not, because the operation is so dangerous. I was in bed from the day after Thanksgiving 1954, to Easter 1955, and thought sure I would faint and fall down right there in church, Easter Sunday.”

Mamadee's medical and surgical reminiscences might very well continue; the list included, besides the gallbladder, four lying-ins, an appendectomy, kidney gravel, a hysterectomy and chronic migraine, all a lot tougher on Mamadee than on other individuals so afflicted.

From up in the old oak, I occupied myself watching Leonard remove the bits and pieces of the broken French doors and sweep up all the glass inside and out. He measured every which way and scratched the numbers in a greasy old notebook.

He went off for an hour and came back with his old daddy. Daddy Cook was at least as old and deaf as God but he still helped Leonard out when it was a two-man job. It wasn't the work he enjoyed so much as bossing Leonard. Leonard backed his old homemade pickup truck as close as he could and the two of them unloaded several sheets of plywood. Leonard told Daddy Cook what to do and then Daddy Cook, who hadn't heard a syllable of it, told Leonard what to do. Their method seemed to work just fine.

It looked like the salon was going to be too dark for Mama's meeting with Mr. Weems.

Old Weems drove up the driveway on the mark of eleven-thirty. He had his big lawyering briefcase with him. On the verandah, he stopped to mop his brow with his handkerchief.

By then I was on the roof outside the window of my room, in the shadow of the eaves, watching for him. Ford was inside on the iron-framed cot, leafing through an old
National Geographic
and snapping a brass cigarette lighter that he had found behind the paperback books on the shelf over the bed. The lighter did not work as it had no fuel in it but the clicking was sufficiently irritating to amuse Ford.

“He's here,” I said.

Tansy admitted Mr. Weems into the house.

“He look sick to you?” Ford asked me.

“No more than usual. He's still all grey.”

From the top of the short flight of stairs, I could hear Tansy showing Mr. Weems into my granddaddy's library. Then Mamadee came to make Mr. Weems welcome.

I hissed at Ford. He dropped the
National Geographic
and the two of us crept to the corner of the short flight, waiting for Mama to leave her bedroom.

Tansy stumped upstairs and softly knuckled Mama's door. Mama came out wearing one of her Lauren Bacall getups: her navy silk trousers with the sailor waist and a striped jersey, with high-heeled sandals. Her hair was up, revealing her slender neck and the sapphires set in gold flashing from her ears. She did not look like a widow. Of course, besides the store-bought weeds, she had only the clothes with her that she had packed for New Orleans.

When Mama and Tansy were safely down the stairs, Ford and I crept into Mama's bedroom and gently eased the door shut. Her room was over the library. Since the library hearth shared the chimney with the one in hers, all we had to do was stretch out on the hearth and put our ears to the cool ceramic tiles.

“Mr. Weems,” I heard Mama say on entering Senior's library.

“Miz Dakin.” Mr. Weems sounded cold and dry as a dug-up old bone. I wondered if he smelled that way too.

There was a settle in the library, with two chairs to either side. Mama took the chair on the side nearest me. Mamadee dithered a moment and then punished the settle. I do not mean that Mamadee was heavy. She had a biggish bottom but the rest of her was no more than well upholstered. What I mean is that the settle was on the delicate side. Mr. Weems lowered his skinny buttocks into the other chair.

“I trust you are recovered,” Mama said.

“Thank you, my dear, I am.” Mr. Weems coughed then, as if to threaten a relapse. “May I ask when the visitation hours will be?”

“Never. I am not having every fool in Alabama gawking at my husband's coffin and trying to imagine what's inside and what it looks like. The funeral will be the day after tomorrow at ten.”

Mr. Weems drummed his fingertips nervously on the arms of his chair.

“I have spoken to the police,” he said, “and also an agent from the Birmingham office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI would like to interview you again at your earliest convenience. The search of the house has been completed. There is no objection to your returning there from either the police or the FBI. However, the lien-holder does object.”

“The lien-holder?” Mama's voice faltered and then recovered to assert, “There are no liens on that property. Joseph bought it outright. We owned it free and clear.”

“I am sorry to have to tell you, dear lady, that it is
not
free and clear. Your late husband, God rest his soul, mortgaged the property to the hilt. It has been in the process of foreclosure for some time. Had not the tragedy intervened, the foreclosure would have occurred on Ash Wednesday. The lien-holder has been patient because of the circumstances.”

Mama jumped up. “I don't believe you! It's a lie! He would have told me. He never kept his business secret from me. You know perfectly well that he always wanted me to know everything! You've heard him say it yourself, that he would be dammed if he left me a widow without a clue, the way so many men leave their wives! I have my own checking account and not only did he keep it full, he never once told me that I spent too much or unwisely!”

Tansy's knock interrupted Mama's tirade. Tansy came in, bearing coffee things tinkling and liquids sloshing on a tray. Nobody said anything while she served. Mama lit a cigarette and moved around below me, hunting up an ashtray.

Once the catch of the door clicked closed again behind Tansy, Mama burst out again. “Winston Weems, this is bizarre, this is crazy!”

“It is
true,
” Mr. Weems said stiffly. “The lien-holder is the Atlanta Bank and Trust of Atlanta, Georgia. Evidently your late husband did not want anyone in Alabama to know of his financial difficulties. Indeed, it was canny of him.”

Mamadee sipped coffee. Remarkably, she had remained silent.

“I want to see the mortgage. And Joseph's will,” Mama said, “right this minute.”

Mr. Weems sighed. A creaking of hinges and old leather followed, as he opened the briefcase to extract a file.

“Mortgages,” he corrected Mama. “The dealerships are mortgaged as well. Your late husband has been robbing Peter to pay Paul. Indeed, I fear there may be a question of fraud on his part.” Mr. Weems sounded inordinately pleased. “See for yourself.”

A weight of paper thumped onto the coffee table, followed by a scuffle of paper from the top.

“Here is the will. It is little more than boilerplate. As required by law, you as his widow receive one-third of the estate.”

Mama blew smoke harshly. “What kind of game are you playing? I saw Joseph's last will when he updated it. It was hardly boilerplate. There are trust funds for the children and I am his residual legatee.”

Mr. Weems went on, “This latest will was executed on February seventeen of this year. It was not executed in my office. I never saw it until it was discovered in your late husband's safety-deposit box here in the Carroll Trust. In this testament, Ford Carroll Dakin is the residual legatee, receiving the other two-thirds.”

Mama's breathing was hardly louder than the whisper of the coal of her cigarette.

“Unfortunately,” Mr. Weems continued, “there is no estate. There are no assets, only debts.”

“That is not possible,” Mama said.

There was a chink of china and a slop of coffee, the sounds of her pouring herself a cup with a less than steady hand.

“Lies, lies and libels. How dare you slander Joseph.”

“You may not believe me, Roberta Ann,” Mr. Weems replied, “but I am genuinely sorry for your loss, and genuinely appalled to discover the state of your late husband's affairs. The fact remains that he has left you with one-third of less than zero, and he has left young Ford with two-thirds of less than zero.”

He stood. The briefcase latch snapped. “The lien-holder advises me that you may remove some personal effects from the house, under my supervision. The list is in the folder, along with my resignation. Good day, madam.”

Mama took a single step forward and made a sudden movement. Liquid sloshed through the air and spattered something. From the immediate gasp, it was clear that the something was Mr. Weems's face. Mamadee gasped at nearly the same instant.

For a moment there was only sniffing and shuffling and the snap of Mr. Weems's handkerchief being whipped from his breast pocket. He cleared his throat and mopped his face, and then his tie and shirtfront.

Mama blew prideful smoke. Then she calmly poured herself another cup of coffee.

The lawyer picked up his briefcase and made for the door.

Mamadee followed him at his elbow, murmuring to him:
She was horribly embarrassed, horribly shocked, she would never be able to look him in the face again, poor Roberta Ann was unhinged with grief and shock, not that that was any excuse,
and more of the same.

Mama snorted contemptuously. Her nails scratched a little on the coffee table and the paper as she picked up the files. She took a few steps to the desk and the weight of paper whumped again onto it. The wheels of the desk chair creaked as she pulled it under herself and sat down.

She heaved a big disgusted sigh. “Joe Cane Dakin,” she said, “I would like to dig you up and put you through a meat grinder! Hell will feel good to you when I get finished!”

Tansy opened the door without knocking.

Covering our mouths to stop ourselves giggling, we listened to Tansy's indignant heavy breathing and muttering as she mopped and wiped and scrubbed at upholstery and rug.

Ford and I did not speak until we were back in Junior's radio room. He flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

“This is some fancy caper,” he said. “Some scheme afoot. We need a detective.”

I sat down at the end of the bed, next to Betsy Cane McCall. “This ain't TV or a movie or a story.”

He crooked his arm to put his wrist under his head. “You know where this is headed, Dumbo?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“The Chair. The Hot Seat. Your daddy got himself murdered and your mama hired it done.”

I picked up Betsy Cane McCall and threw her at him. “Liar!”

He swatted Betsy Cane McCall away.

“
Your
daddy,” I said. “
Your
mama. You will go to hell for lying about your own mama for the worst crime there is.”

“Think so? There's worse. You ain't old enough to know what they are. One of them is havin' ears like yours though.”

“The better to hear your lies,” I said.

“You ain't special. You are a freak. A throwback Dakin. You know what a throwback is, don't you?” He came to his knees and pretended to be a monkey.
“Huhhuhhuh,”
he gibbered. Then he stopped being a monkey and put his feet on the floor. “You are a degenerate.”

I waggled my ears at him.

He took a quick step toward me, grabbed me by the shoulder and tried to shove me off the end of the bed. My glasses nearly fell off my face. I shoved back and kicked him in one knee. His pretty Carroll eyes went all watery.

He staggered out of the room. He never could take it as hard as I could give it out.

The odd thing was that he never mentioned the ransom money, or the even odder fact that Lawyer Weems, Mamadee, and Mama had said nothing about it. It was as if it had evaporated.