Money To Burn (25 page)

I watched, astonished, as Mrs. Tate slowly but steadily began to curtsy to the crowd.

“My God,” a woman across the table from me gasped. “She’s doing a Texas bow!”

A murmur spread through the crowd as Mrs. Tate curtsied even more deeply, her stout body bending all the way to the floor until she touched her forehead to her knee and rose again. All without the benefit of an escort. I don’t know how she did it, maybe she’d secretly been taking yoga lessons for the past six months, but, damn—I had to join in the standing ovation that followed. The old dame had done it with style. 

A general sort of hysterical relief swept through the crowd once the grand presentation had been completed. The bartenders were kept busy as former debutantes stormed the bar for their rewards. Lydia was swarmed with people offering their congratulations and both Mrs. Worthy and Mrs. Tate were basking in their well-deserved glory. Bobby D. was lost in the crowd, no doubt cooing with his oversized turtle dove. I noticed she had not attempted the stairs or a bow. Probably too busy feeding Bobby.

At one point, Randolph Talbot finally materialized out of the pack to grasp Lydia’s hands. He had abandoned his alcoholic second wife but was ready to reclaim his victorious daughter.

“A magnificent job. I am so very proud to have you as my daughter,” he told Lydia, his eyes shining with what seemed to be genuine pride. I suspected he really wanted to say more, like please forgive me for being the kind of father who would even be suspected of murder, but now was not the time or place. He gripped her hand so tightly, I feared he might damage it. But Lydia did not flinch. She stood, locked in a smile of triumph with her father.

“You are the most beautiful woman here tonight,” Talbot told his daughter. “And you’re a genius for coming up with this idea.”

I heard an unladylike snort behind me. Susan Johnson Talbot had lurched to life. She knocked over one of her many high Kher>

“That’s right,” Susan Talbot slurred in a drunken drawl that was equal parts nastiness and desperation. “She’s your little princess, isn’t she? A perfect darling. Except she was screwing the one man who was going to—”

“That’s enough,” Talbot ordered her sharply. Heads turned. Lydia’s face crumpled. I did my duty.

“Bathroom break,” I announced loudly. “And you know how we women like to go in pairs.” I smiled at the onlookers and grabbed Lydia’s stepmother by one arm, hoisting her aloft.

“Let’s go, cupcake,” I ordered her grimly in a low whisper. “Bedtime for Bonzo.”

Before she could protest, I hustled her out through the crowd, eyes searching for a bathroom. I wanted to stick her head in the toilet and flush repeatedly, but knew I’d have to settle for sponging her sorry ass off with a damp paper towel. Maybe I could lock her in a stall until she sobered up.

As we staggered past the lobby, I noticed Harry Ingram caught in a similar situation. He was supporting a very old—and very drunk—lady with both arms as he dragged her toward the front doors. His dancing days were over, at least for now. It was obviously time to put good old Mom to bed. How depressing. Mother’s Day must be a barrel of fun around the Ingram household.

But I had bigger problems ahead. What the hell? I rounded a corner and there was a long line of young women waiting to get into the bathroom, most of them looking mightily distressed and in imminent danger of peeing in their deb pants.

“Emergency,” I muttered grimly, shouldering past the line. If I couldn’t get a stall, I’d settle for a sink. Susan Johnson Talbot was turning green.

I dragged my drunken burden into the marbled bathroom and propped her up against the counter. She slumped over the basin like she was getting ready to blow lunch. I grabbed the back of her dress and held her aloft, hoping I could butt my way into an empty stall.

We were in luck. The handicapped stall was empty. I knew why: one of the biggest controversies among southern women is whether or not a perfectly able person is supposed to use the handicapped stall when it is not in use. Now, there wasn’t a handicapped person within ten miles of Memorial Auditorium at that moment, but most of these women were so loathe to do the wrong thing that they would not use the special facilities, no matter how desperate their situation.

I was of a different opinion. It’s not a parking spac K pap hee, for godsakes, and most of us aren’t going to be in there for more than a minute. Use it and cruise it, was my motto. I dragged Susan Talbot inside and held her head as she upchucked a couple fraternity parties’ worth of liquor. For this I get $100 an hour?

Normally, the sounds coming from our stall would have inspired a few murmurs. When no one seemed to care, I realized that some greater force was at work in the ladies bathroom. For starters, the smell of sulfur was everywhere and I could hear the scratch of matches being lit up and down the line of stalls. This was not as bizarre as it sounds. Every well-bred southern woman is taught from junior high school on to carry a pack of matches in case she pollutes the bathroom while others are waiting to use it. A flick of the non-Bick and the odor was gone, meaning you didn’t have to lurk in the stall for fifteen minutes pretending to adjust your pantyhose when you were actually attempting to wait out either the smell or the other people in line, whichever disappeared first. Wearing a skintight evening gown with no pockets was no excuse to shirk this important responsibility. Which was why these women were lighting up matches faster than the crowd at the end of a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert.

My question was—why? I dragged Susan Talbot out of the handicapped stall and a desperate deb trampled me in her haste to claim it. From her contorted face, it was clear she was well beyond convention and in dire need of relief.

I stood, bathing Susan Talbot’s face with cool water, as debs took turns upchucking in the sink or racing to the toilets.

Oh, my God. What if the chicken salad was bad? Lydia would die from the embarrassment.

Then it struck me. With few exceptions, all of the sufferers were young. And it had been the older women, those less concerned with their figures, who had hit the food tables the hardest. So why were mostly young women suffering?

I let go of Susan Talbot as my brain formulated the answer. She slumped to her knees and caught the counter with her elbows, laying a cheek against the cool porcelain as she half-dangled to the floor. I ignored her and continued to puzzle it out. Young meant… no liquor. No liquor meant the punchbowl.

The punchbowl meant Jake Talbot.

The little shit had put something in the punch that had wreaked havoc with the delicate gastronomical systems of these flowers of southern womanhood.

When I found him, I was going to rip his head off and serve it up on a platter for the dogs.

I left Lydia’s stepmother in a heap on the floor and raced from the bathroom, scanning the crowd for Jake Talbot’s smug profile. Ten minutes later, I was still searching. No way was I giving up. I was madder than a wet he Kthaont>n. I finally spotted him heading out the front door. I slipped behind a marble statue and waited a moment, then quickly walked out into the hot summer night, ignoring the gaze of Randolph Talbot and his cigar-smoking cronies as I hurried past.

Jake was turning the corner of the auditorium, heading toward the darkness of one of the parking lots. I followed him, using shadows and shrubs to hide my presence. My stupid dress fit me like skin and made it tough to crouch down. I was tempted to hike it up to my waist but settled for ripping the side seam up to my thigh. It gave me more maneuvering room and wouldn’t look all that out of place once I dragged his sorry ass back inside for a public flogging-

The parking lot was deserted. Long rows of luxury vehicles and assorted sports cars gleamed beneath the safety lights. I ducked behind a black Lexus for cover and watched as Jake Talbot stood, waiting, near the end of a row. After a moment, a thin black man dressed in red baggy trousers and a dark-striped poker-dealer shirt stepped from the shadows. He wore a floppy Dr. Seuss top hat that he held onto with one hand as he quickly walked over to Lydia’s brother.

What followed was a soundless ballet enacted on street corners and park benches everywhere: the stranger passed a plastic package over to Jake. Jake put it in his pocket and handed the stranger a fistful of dollars. The two nodded good-bye, then strode away in separate directions.

Okay. Add drugs to Jake Talbot’s resume as a slimeball.

I followed Lydia’s brother back toward Memorial Auditorium, wondering just how I would break it to his sister—and if it had any bearing on the death of her fiancé. Maybe I’d have a little private chat with Jake on my own, instead.

Randolph Talbot was waiting for me near the edge of the front lawn, a good twenty feet from the well-lit entrance doors. “Miss Jones,” he said loudly as I tried to slip past. I had no choice except to stop.

“Mr. Talbot,” I replied, stepping toward the light. I had a sudden urge to flee.

“Taking a break?” he asked, clipping the end off a fresh cigar and holding it up to his nose.

“You might say that. It’s been quite a successful evening, hasn’t it? You must be very proud of your daughter.” I left before he could answer me.

Too late. Jake had been lost in the crowd and I couldn’t find Lydia, either. The ball was breaking up and chaos reigned. I tried to battle my way back inside, but was constantly pushed back by the departing crowd. By the time I reached Lydia’s table, it was empty and being cleared by a pair of weary-looking waiters.

It was stupid of me to have ever left her side. Figuring that everyone had to eventually pass through the exit, I returned to the lobby and took up a spot outside the main bank of doors. I was just in time to see Jake Talbot climbing into the passenger seat of a late-model Porsche—with Franklin Cosgrove at the wheel. The two men pulled away from the curb and I watched the car make its way to Person Street, where it turned left and headed toward downtown. My, my, I thought. Very interesting, indeed. What could Franklin Cosgrove be up to with Lydia’s little brother? 

I waited outside in the evening air, watching the other revelers depart and wondering about the connection between Jake and Cosgrove. Half an hour later, my thoughts were interrupted by Lydia herself.

“There you are,” she said, grabbing my arm. “My father can’t find my stepmother. Got any ideas where she might be?”

“Floor of the bathroom?” I suggested.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Leave her there,” she decided. She gave the parking valet a ticket and turned back to me. “What’s your friend doing with Fanny Whitehurst?” she asked, nodding toward Bobby. He was framed in the exit doors and rapidly heading our way.

“Hell if I know,” I confessed. “Maybe he thought she looked like his type?”

“Then your friend has good eyesight,” Lydia explained. “Fanny just won half of her husband’s assets in a big divorce battle. She’s worth forty million dollars.”

“Holy shit,” I said. Yes, it was totally low-class of me. But wait until Bobby heard. I couldn’t wait to tell him.

“Casey, babe!” Bobby bellowed happily as he charged across the sidewalk, towing the fat woman behind him. “You’ve got to meet my new main squeeze. I’m telling you, it’s love at first sight. This is Miss Fanny Whitehurst, a former Miss Asheville and currently the toast of Raleigh.”

The woman collapsed in giggles at Bobby’s excessive pronouncement. Her big bosom vibrated like someone had dropped a quarter in her slot. “He’s being silly,” she protested in a fluttery voice. “You are a big tease, Bob. Now you just stop that.” She was holding a lilac fan that matched her dress and she playfully bopped Bobby over the head with it.

Bobby grabbed her and pulled her close, squishing her up against his bulk. “Fanny’s husband just left her for a woman thirty years younger,” he announced, shaking his head in disbelief. “Can you believe that some man would let her go? Why, this is the most good-natured woman I’ve ever met. And I’ve known plenty.” He wiggled his eyebrows and I resisted the urge to slap the silly grin off his face. Traitor. He’d found someone.

“He left me for some skinny, snippy thing with no appetite,” Fanny added. “She used to be my personal trainer. Now she’s training him. Good riddance to bad rubbish. They deserve each other. As for me, I’m out to have some fun!”

She pulled her floor-length dress up a few inches and did a sprightly jig, inspiring Bobby to join her. The two of them capered away on the sidewalk, oblivious to the curious stares they were attracting. I decided they had spent the entire evening hanging mighty close to the bar.

Lydia and I stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the spectacle, too tired to comment. It had been a long night.

“Where have you been?” a young voice asked, interrupting our reverie. Haydon Talbot raced up and grabbed his sister’s arm. “I’m tired and I want to go home. Where’s the limo?”

“Coming,” Lydia promised.

“He’s vibrating,” Haydon said to me.

“What?”

“That fat man you’re with is vibrating.”

The kid was right. Bobby’s left-hand pocket was jumping and jiving like he had a couple of jitterbugging ferrets stored inside it.

“Hey, Bobby,” I yelled across the sidewalk. “Is that a snake in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

He stopped jigging and glanced down. His face lit up. “Cool,” he said as Fanny stepped closer. “My new forwarding device works.” He pulled yet another ridiculous electronic device from his pocket and began to unfold it. “If someone calls the office and tries to leave a message,” he explained. “I can program it to automatically forward it to my cell phone instead.”