Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels (30 page)

Queenie thinks back to the bucket of original recipe she placed in Iris’s casket the morning of her funeral.
Not my finest moment,
she thinks, realizing that with all the preservatives they put in things these days, the chicken will probably stay crispy for the next thirty years.

She pauses with the regret that sweeps over her occasionally, but it’s not like she can take it back. Queenie’s feelings for Iris have softened over the last months, like a mother who forgets the pains of childbirth. Although she has a vivid memory of giving birth to Violet at her mother’s beach house in the middle of the night on the 13th of August. Violet was a perfect baby and it broke Queenie’s heart to not claim her as her own. It was a death of a sort, too.

After she finishes the chicken, Queenie drives back to the Temple house where the black Buick remains at the end of the block. On this particular day, the driver has changed shirts from the one he wore earlier. At least the sleeve sticking out of the window is different. The windows are tinted so she can’t see his face.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this once and for all,”
she tells herself.

Queenie parks the Town Car in the carriage house next to the big house and then sneaks back toward the gate so the anonymous driver won’t see her in his rear-view mirror. She tiptoes down the sidewalk, wondering when she might have last tiptoed anywhere. Hiding behind a forest of pink azalea bushes, Queenie then scoots along the edge of the hedge. Finally, about twenty feet from the sedan, she begins to half-run, half-pounce toward the driver’s window.

“Who are you?” she demands. “Why are you watching our house?”

The driver jumps and says, “Holy shit! Where’d you come from?”

The element of surprise has worked in her favor. She looks into his sunglasses that shield his eyes, and sees her own reflection. She has to resist fixing the bow in her hair.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

The driver turns on the car and quickly closes the window. She pounds on the dark glass. “Tell me who you are,” she insists. “Are you the one releasing the Temple secrets?”

He guns the motor, but waits until she is a safe distance away before he races off.

Her heart racing and still huffing from the exertion, Queenie retrieves her groceries from the car and goes inside to find Violet, who despite her windfall inheritance, works every day as she always has. With everything in limbo until probate is over, Queenie has been paying her salary from her own savings, although she told Violet that she is using some money Iris left behind for household expenses.

“What’s up with you?” Violet asks. “Why are you panting?”

“That guy’s still out there,” Queenie says. “I walked right up to his window this time, and I think I scared him to death.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Nothing,” Queenie says.

“It’s not like we’re doing anything worth watching,” Violet says.

“Exactly,” Queenie says. “But that makes twice I’ve tried to get a look at him and haven’t been able to.”

They agree that maybe Queenie should leave the sleuthing to someone else.

Everything from the refrigerator is on the counter and Violet is wiping down the shelves. For the last couple of weeks, Violet and Queenie have done the spring cleaning of a lifetime. After taking down the heavy, lined curtains that covered every window of the house, they donated them to one of the black funeral homes in town. Every day the rooms get brighter. Queenie and Violet have also cleaned the inside windows, hiring a man to help with the outside. As her lower back can attest, they have scoured everything that can be scoured. She likes to think that they are cleaning out all the secrets that were ever hidden in the Temple house.

“Oh, I almost forgot, Spud will be here at six,” Queenie says. “He’s making shrimp and grits.” She hands Violet the Portobello mushrooms.

“I’ll marinate these and make some fresh collards,” Violet says.

Collards are one of her mama’s specialties and her mouth waters just thinking about them. For some reason Queenie has been thinking about her Gullah ancestors more than usual lately. She has a few ghosts to deal with on that side of the family, too. She thinks again of the man in the sedan. Even though she saw only a sliver of him through the window, there was something about him that seemed familiar.

Later that evening, Queenie sets the kitchen table with regular plates, stainless steel cutlery and worn cloth napkins—the ones the servants always used when she was growing up. No bone china. No silverware polished to a high gloss. No crystal water goblets. While incredibly casual in comparison to the high dinners Iris insisted on, Queenie loves the informality of her meals now. She has not missed the exotic smells that always hovered around the dining room one iota—including the ones coming from Iris.

From the kitchen they hear a crash in the foyer. They exchange surprised looks and Queenie rushes into the dining room toward the noise, with Violet a second or two behind. A large tropical plant in the hallway has fallen on its side with dirt scattered everywhere.

“Maybe our toddlers have shown up again,” Violet says. “This kind of thing happened a lot right after Miss Temple passed.”

Together they right the container, sweep dirt onto a dust pan and return it to the pot.

“Maybe she isn’t happy with the changes we’ve been making,” Violet says.

“Iris never did like change,” Queenie offers.

Violet stops in the foyer and tilts her head to listen. “Oh my, Miss Temple is definitely worked up over something.”

Will Iris ever be at peace?
Queenie wonders. It’s sad to think of her half-sister rattling around this old house, dragging her unfinished business through the rooms like an invisible steamer trunk, knocking over whatever gets in her way.

“We should tell Mama about it,” Queenie says. “I hate to worry her with stuff like this, but maybe there’s a Gullah spell that’s like Valium for ghosts.”

“Or maybe she can conjure up something for the humans who have to put up with them,” Violet says.

Queenie smiles. “Now there’s an idea,” she says.

Violet pauses. “You know, Queenie, I’ve been thinking that it’s time that I learned the Gullah secrets. Old Sally’s been offering to teach me for years.”

“She’ll be thrilled to hear that, Vi, provided she doesn’t already know through her tea leaves or something,” Queenie says. “The minute you were born she was convinced you had the family sensitivity. She even thought your gift might be stronger than hers. And, as you know, that’s saying a lot. She’ll be thrilled to hear your decision.”

As far as Queenie is concerned, the family ‘sensitivity’ skipped a generation, leaving Queenie with a tone-deaf instrument. Not that she minds that much. Having the family gift seems as much a curse as a blessing. If she were as sensitive as Violet is to the entire goings on in this house, she would probably be popping Xanax like after-dinner mints.

They scoop the last of the dirt back into its ornate pot and within seconds someone bangs on the front door. They both jump.

“Maybe it’s that man watching the house,” Queenie whispers.

“He’s kept his distance for months,” Violet whispers back. “Why would he knock on the door now?” The knocking continues harder and louder.

“Or maybe it’s someone pissed because their secret got out,” Queenie whispers again. “Did any show up in the mailbox today?”

“Not that I know of,” Violet says.

They exchange a look. Thankfully, the protesting out front has all but stopped. But they’ve received packages of rat poison in the mail. A brick through a carriage house window closest to the gate. Not to mention they pull enough posters off the fence every week to build a bonfire. But who knew that that crazy
Book of Secrets
contained enough confidences to release one every day for over a year.

Violet approaches the door with Queenie close behind. As she passes the ornamental stand by the door, Queenie grabs one of the large black umbrellas.

“I’m not afraid to use this,” she says. “In fact, I welcome the opportunity.”

Queenie pulls back the umbrella like it’s a bat and she’s winding up to hit a baseball out of the ballpark.

“Let me in,” a voice demands.

Every muscle in Queenie’s body tenses as she recognizes the enraged voice of Edward Temple.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Violet

Violet’s shoulder throbs as Edward Temple pounds the ancient beveled glass. If he breaks the glass it will be next to impossible to replace. She and Queenie hide behind the door. Edward is furious and Queenie looks about as terrified as Violet feels.

Before opening the front door, Violet takes a deep breath and tells herself to stay calm. Edward’s face is red and he smells of alcohol. Behind him, Spud has arrived for dinner and strides up the walk, looking alarmed. Violet appreciates his timing. They could use reinforcements.

Unfortunately, Edward has at least twenty pounds on Spud, but Edward’s anger makes it seem like even more.

Spud asks Violet if she’s all right. She says she is, but in fact she’s been better.

“Can I help you with something?” Spud asks Edward.

Edward narrows his eyes at Spud as if attempting to focus. “Oh, it’s you,” he says, “the family butcher. Making another delivery?” Edward smiles, as though he finds himself funny. Then he turns and glares at Violet like she has something he wants.

“I suggest you calm down, Mister Temple,” Spud says from behind him.

“I suggest you go fuck yourself, Mister Grainger,” Edward answers, not taking his eyes off Violet.

A sharp pain shoots through Violet’s shoulder and she grabs the door jamb to steady herself. Meanwhile, Queenie holds up the umbrella like she’s ready to swing for the fences if Edward takes another step forward.

Weeks ago, Violet heard that Edward’s case against Miss Temple’s will wasn’t going in his favor. This is the part about having money that Violet doesn’t like. It can make people greedy and not think clearly. She has no idea why Miss Temple didn’t take better care of Edward in her will, but she is certain she had her reasons. Miss Temple always had her reasons.

“Perhaps we should speak about this in the lawyer’s office,” Violet says. She crosses her arms, getting a ghost of a chill.

“Those fucking attorneys don’t know what they’re doing,” Edward says, as a spitball of saliva hits her cheek.

Violet hates the
f-word
as much as she despises Edward.

Edward’s eyes are red, like he’s had too many martinis. A piece of toilet paper clings to a small dot of blood on his neck.

“I need to look for something in the house,” Edward tells Violet. “It’s very important.”

Even if he is her half-brother, Violet isn’t about to let him in, and resists telling him it isn’t his house anymore.

Seconds later a police car arrives, flashing lights twirling but no siren. Edward cusses under his breath. In Violet’s and Jack’s neighborhood the police would have sirens blasting and two or three squad cars. Yet here they don’t seem to want to disturb Savannah’s wealthiest citizens. For the first time Violet realizes that because of inheriting this house, she is now part of the wealthy, too.

One of the police officers walks up to the front door and Edward straightens his clothes like he’s getting in character. He turns to greet the cop.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Spud asks Violet and Queenie.

“A bit shaken, that’s all,” Violet says.

Violet and Queenie hold hands, and Spud looks at them like he’s seeing the family resemblance for the first time. It is still odd for Violet to think of Queenie as her mother. But she looks forward to getting used to it.

“Who called?” one of the police officers asks. He looks barely old enough to shave. A drop of mustard christens his shirt to the right of his identification tag. Violet’s first inclination is to grab the spot remover from the laundry room and get that stain out before it sets.

Violet looks at Queenie who shrugs, her umbrella still poised. “I’m not sure who called,” she says.

“Ma’am, I need you to put that down,” the officer says to Queenie.

Queenie glances at the umbrella like she forgot she was holding it. Then she returns it to the stand just inside the door and the officer thanks her.

Edward steps forward. “Officer, I’m Edward Temple.” He holds out his hand for the young officer to shake. The officer doesn’t take it, but puts his hand on his holstered gun instead.

“Step over here, sir,” the second officer says. He is older, with a substantial middle-aged paunch.

“Don’t you know who I am?” Edward asks the officer, his voice raised. “Who is your commanding officer? I could have you fired, you know.”

Edward may know how to talk to a high society crowd, but you don’t talk this way to regular people. Especially if they work for law enforcement.

“Yes, sir, I’m sure you could get me fired,” the officer says. “And my wife would be all for it, too.” The officer leans next to Edward and sniffs. “Is that alcohol I smell on your breath, sir? Did you drive here?”

“For God’s sake, go catch some real criminals,” Edward says.

Within seconds, the officer has Edward walking a straight line and touching his nose. A test he appears to fail. What prompted Edward to lose control like this? In the distance, he points at Violet and Queenie like they are the real criminals.

“Those women have something I need,” Edward says. “They are thieves. They are living in my house under false pretenses. They must be removed immediately.”

Edward holds his stomach and releases a burst of flatulence like a warning shot over the bow of a ship. Violet cringes, feeling mortified for Edward. But Edward doesn’t seem embarrassed by it at all.

“Good heavens, man.” The older officer covers his nose with his sleeve.

Edward points a finger at Violet and Queenie. “It’s my house. Not theirs. Look at them,” Edward continues. “Do they look like they belong here?”

The older officer looks at Edward, then at Violet and Queenie. He shakes his head like he’s sick and tired of dealing with people like Edward.