Carolina Heat (37 page)

Annabelle could tell Mark’s amusement had vanished when his hands fisted at his sides.

“She’s gone too far this time. I ought to throw the temperamental old bat out on her bony ass,” Mark threatened.

“Took care of it already.” Ashby’s expression was grim. “Picked her up, threw her over my shoulder, and carted her up to her office. Either I surprised her or knocked the wind out of her. She shut up fast. Told her to stay in the office until she cooled down. Said she’d better not come down until she was ready to be pleasant to everyone. One more harsh word and I’d kick her the hell out of her own party.” His blue eyes burned with ferocity. Annabelle guessed his temper had been carefully banked, but not anywhere close to extinguished.

“I also mentioned that if she ever laid a hand on Jillian again this gardener would find a place to plant her where the sun doesn’t shine.”

Mark clapped him on the back. “Way to go.”

“He was my very own knight in shining armor. I’ll never forget it.” Jillian pecked him on the cheek, careful to scrub off the lipstick she left behind.

“She came down after half an hour. You better believe we left the damn painting hanging up. She had to walk right past it on her way down. Hasn’t spoken to either one of us since.” Ashby turned to stare at the entryway. “If she’s got the sense God gave a chipmunk, she’ll keep her distance for the rest of the night.”

“Jillian, I am so sorry you went through that, especially tonight. But you can’t let it spoil the evening. You’ve worked too long and hard.” Annabelle raised her champagne flute in a toast. “To Jillian; the mastermind behind this grand event.”

They clinked glasses as a pink flush spread across Jillian’s powdered cheeks. “Normally, my inbred modesty would prevent me from accepting all this praise. Annabelle, I think some of your Northern brashness has rubbed off on me. I just want to bask in the glow of all the compliments people have heaped on me. Can you believe I’ve already had four people ask me to help with their events?”

“That’s terrific. I bet you’re swimming in new business before the evening is over.”

“Oh, but I completely forgot to ask about your afternoon. Did you have any luck with the book?”

“State secret,” Mark snarled. “I’m afraid Annabelle’s shut us out of the investigation. No, my mistake, I should’ve said
her
investigation.”

Okay, so clearly Mark wasn’t as easily distracted as she’d hoped. Quite the opposite, in fact. He looked as if he planned to nurse this grudge for quite a while. Annabelle sipped her champagne, using the few seconds it afforded her to come up with a gentle way to explain. Jillian’s and Ashby’s faces held mirror images of shock and confusion.

“It’s not that I’m shutting you out,” she said carefully. “But we’ve progressed to a stage of the investigation which is very delicate. It’s best handled by one person.” She looked at Mark, but as expected, he didn’t appear willing to help her get through to the other two. He leaned against the wall, glowering at her. “But you’ve all been a tremendous help,” she finished lamely.

“Did we do something wrong?” Jillian asked in a small voice.

Annabelle was quick to reassure her. “No, no, not at all.”

“Then why wouldn’t you want our help?”

“Of course I want your help. But I can’t accept it. The situation is far too dangerous to involve anyone who doesn’t already have a stake in the proceedings.”

“But we do have a stake in it. We have you. You’re important to us, and important to Mark, and he’s important to us. That means we’re in as deep as we can possibly be.”

Annabelle shot Mark another helpless look, but he shook his head. “Can’t make your argument for you, not when I think it’s a load of crap. You know where I stand.”

Time to try another approach. “Jillian, you know how horrible it was for me when I learned Jonathan was in the hospital. Imagine how bad I’d feel if one of you were injured, and it was my fault.”

Jillian’s retort was sharp and fast as the crack of a whip. “Imagine how bad we’ll feel if something happens to you because we weren’t there to help.”

Ashby nodded. “Safety in numbers. Always the way to go.”

“In the past month I’ve lost my best friend, and almost lost my brother. I simply could not handle losing one of you.” Her voice caught on a sob. It was all too much.

Mark pulled her into his chest, in complete disregard of her makeup and his starched white cravat. “Poor little darling. You put up such a brave front we all overlook how hard this has been. And just maybe, you’re the one who’s overlooked it the most.”

“Maybe,” Annabelle sniffed. If they wouldn’t listen to reason, she couldn’t
actually
stop them from helping. Maybe they were right. Maybe sticking together was the smarter plan, the best way to keep all of them safe. Was there an instruction manual she could get to teach her how to work with a team?

“Good then, we’re back on track.” Jillian beamed. “Did you find anything useful in the book?”

“No flashing neon clue signs,” Mark said wryly, “but we did come up with an idea. I’d like to compare it to a full listing of D of C members. We agree someone in the organization is involved, so cross-referencing is the next logical step. Only problem is married names won’t do us any good.”

Jillian raised her fan and swooshed it in a lazy motion. “Consider it already crossed off the to-do list.”

Annabelle pulled herself out of the comfort of Mark’s embrace. “Now you’re showing off, trying to prove I was an idiot to contemplate excluding you.”

“Maybe a touch,” she giggled. “But really, it couldn’t be simpler. Every member has to provide documentation of their ancestry, going back at least one hundred years, although we prefer longer. We play up the Confederate angle, of course, because it’s what folks care about. Most people can’t let go of the past, and the more Confederate soldiers in their family tree, the more proudly they rub it in everyone else’s face. And the people who are related to officers, well, you can’t shut them up at all. But regardless of how my mother likes to spin it, honestly, the Daughters of the Confederacy already have that angle covered.”

“Jillian, focus,” Ashby remonstrated. “You’re beginning to sound like you do want to become their president.”

“Sorry. It’s been pounded into me from birth. And for the record, you couldn’t pay me to take over as president. Bad enough my grandmother submitted my name for membership when I turned sixteen.” She bit her lip. “To sum up, the legal stricture is that you can’t become a member unless your family’s been here in Charleston at least one hundred years. In our roster, each member listing includes the name of the original family name by which the lineage is traced.”

“That’s exactly what we need!” Annabelle blotted her eyes with the handkerchief Ashby handed her. Mark’s shirtfront was unblemished, but she knew her makeup hadn’t survived her mini-meltdown.

“I can go upstairs and print it out for you. Should only take a few minutes. Why don’t you come with me and I can show you where to refresh your makeup?” Jillian asked, the model of tact.

“That would be wonderful. I must look a mess. But first,” Annabelle turned to Ashby, returning his handkerchief, “has your mother arrived yet?”

“My mother is a social butterfly. She was here before the doors opened, and she’ll stay until we turn out the lights. She’d never miss a moment of a party. And she’ll still be up at dawn tomorrow to bake your cinnamon rolls. The woman has the stamina of a teenager.”

“Would you pull her aside and ask her if she’s heard any rumors regarding Nathaniel Bellamy being adopted?”

“I told Annabelle if there’s even a whisper of scandal, Mrs. Haley would know about it. She’s always been the lynchpin of the local gossip mill,” Mark explained. “In the nicest sense of the word, of course.

“Oh, it’s true. Mom knows everything about everyone.” Ashby’s tone was dour. “And don’t think that hasn’t kicked me in the ass over the years.”

“Do you really think he’s adopted? It seems a little like grasping at straws.” Jillian looked doubtful.

“Jonathan logged some serious computer time this afternoon, and he’s absolutely certain Bellamy was adopted. What he couldn’t find out was from whom.”

“I’ll go ask her before she puts back any more drinks.” Ashby winced. “Mom really likes to tie on one.”

Mark roared with laughter. “Understatement of the year, my friend. Remember when she out-drank both of us at your graduation party?”

Jillian bustled into action. “Ashby, you’d better scoot along and get a hold of your mama right away. Mark, you stay here and watch for Bellamy. He hasn’t arrived yet. Probably waiting to make a dramatic entrance right before we serve dinner.”

“Mark, Ashby, both of you keep your eyes and ears wide open,” Annabelle cautioned. “Bellamy may be our only solid lead so far, and this adoption nugget only strengthens our case, but it’s far from open and shut. Anyone here tonight could be working with him, or working a completely different angle we haven’t uncovered yet. I can’t tell you what to look for. But you know at least some of these people. Ask leading questions, see where they go, and be sure and notice if anyone is listening in.”

Jillian snorted. “God, Annabelle, this is the Deep South. We learn to eavesdrop before we learn to walk. It’d be more suspicious if somebody wasn’t cocking an ear to the conversation next to them.”

Annabelle spread her hands wide. “See? That’s why you’re all going to be such a big help to me. But most of all, be on your guard at all times.”

“Okay, enough of the pep talk. Annabelle, we’ve got to fix you up before anyone notices this.” Jillian waved a hand in the general direction of Annabelle’s mussed hair and tear-stained cheeks. “You come along with me.” She hustled Annabelle toward the stairs.

Mark clinked his glass against Ashby’s. “Quite the little firecracker you’ve got your sights set on. Think you can handle her?”

Ashby’s grin was wide and knowing. “Don’t doubt it for a second, buddy.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Which one is the troublemaker?” Annabelle asked. She trailed her hand up the silky mahogany banister as she perused the portraits on the stairwell.

“Oh, you mean the picture?”

“Mmm, hmm. The one that sent your mother off the deep end.”

“This one.” Jillian pointed at the gold octagonal frame.

“When I came earlier in the week,” Annabelle remembered, “nothing was hanging here. And I think your mother mentioned something about you rearranging and going through the attic.”

“I’m sure she complained to anyone who crossed her path. It was when this one arrived in the mail that I got the idea to switch out the pictures from our overflow attic storage.”

“So your mother didn’t hide it away years ago. The first time she ever saw it was when she returned from her trip a few weeks ago?” A germ of an idea was taking root. Vanessa’s notes had been rudimentary at best, but there was something in there about a painting. Annabelle had dismissed it as useless. How on earth could she track down an unnamed painting in an unnamed location? But suddenly the leap to connect the dots was considerably shorter.

“That’s right. Which is why her reaction was completely unfounded. With such an unusually shaped frame, it’s quite a striking piece. I thought she’d be thrilled. Several visitors commented on it.”

Striving to appear nonchalant, Annabelle resumed her climb up the stairs. “Really? Out of all these pictures, this one in particular caught their eyes?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Jillian led them down a long hallway. The noise from the party dropped away. “It was strange, because we rarely get male visitors, but one day a man showed up specifically to tour our portraits. Said he was a huge Civil War buff, and had heard we had a collection not to be missed. Odd, because he was clearly a Northerner. I had to explain I was just filling in, and he should come back for a more detailed tour when my mother returned in a couple of days.”

Annabelle’s heart raced. It had to be Tad Thornton. But why did he care about this particular portrait? “Jillian, this is very important. I realize you might not know the full story, but can you at least tell me who the man in the painting is?”

Jillian nodded as they entered a sitting room. It was filled with dainty gilt furniture. Annabelle copied Jillian’s movements to arrange her skirts before sitting on an overstuffed pink davenport.

“Colonel Horatio Lippincott. There was a letter that came with it from a lawyer explaining that it was an anonymous deathbed bequest. All I know is it was sent from Massachusetts. We haven’t figured out which member he’s related to yet, but we will. Maybe someone here tonight will recognize him. We had another visitor who might’ve known more about Colonel Lippincott, but Mama had already taken the picture down.”

“Why do you think your visitor knew about the Colonel?”

“Because when she came, I all but ran into her in the hallway. She asked if we had any paintings in octagonal frames. Well, I told you how unusual that is. I don’t think I’ve seen another one in the whole city. But I was so busy that day I didn’t have time to explain it was put away. I pointed her towards Mama’s office. I figured if she was going to insist on hiding the darn thing, she’d have to be the one to make the explanation.”