Then Hang All the Liars (3 page)

“Who and how little and why?”

“Well, we got a few from Agnes Scott—college tuition's awfully high these days. Maybe the fifteen-year-olds do it to keep themselves in crack-flavored bubble gum. Or just for kicks, little rich girls flaunting their behinds. Hell, what do I know?”

“Names?”

“Let's just say their daddies' faces, frequently pictured on the front page of your rag, are gonna be awfully red if this gets out.”

“We're talking precocious girly acts and you're hinting at occasional freelance juvenile prostitution starring the cream of nubile Atlanta society?”

Of which, she reminded herself, she'd once been a part.

“That's pretty much the size of it. Photos of Vanessa Williams lost her the Miss America tiara ain't got a thing on this stuff.”

“Why me? Sounds like yours. You guys too busy?”

“Sounds like a mine field blowing up is what it sounds like. Ain't nobody downtown gonna touch it with somebody else's dick.”

Sam's left eyebrow lifted. “Which is why you're giving it to me?”

“Don't want to be messing with a man about his little girl.”

“You think I do?”

“Sammy, love, I think these folks are right down your alley. I also think you got a natural curiosity that, no matter what, is gonna get the best of you.”

*

So she'd opened a file and was hanging around in potted palms, which was pretty much how she worked, her deal with the paper being that if they wanted to steal her away from the San Francisco
Chronicle,
it would be on her terms. She dug up her own stories, unless they had something downtown that was too tasty to pass up, and she always worked alone. She dropped into the office in the rare off-moment, skipped the whole chain of command, reporting only grudgingly to Hoke Toliver, the managing editor, whom she'd just now spotted across the Players' vestibule.

He was giving her his Jack Nicholson grin behind the back of his wife, Lois. Sam raised her glass of Perrier with her middle finger extended; he saluted her with his ginger ale. Hoke was a recovering drunk, too, the only thing they had in common, she frequently reminded him.
Except our mutual and enduring lust
was his predictable reply which she just as routinely ignored.

Suddenly there was a flurry of excitement, a drum roll, and then a burst of applause as Margaret Landry entered the room. Heads swiveled. Sam listened.

“You were wonderful, sugar.”

“Child, ain't you something?”

“Lady Macbeth's got nothing on you!”

An admiring swarm circled Margaret, but then it was her theater, her performance, her party, and she was the star.

She surely looked it this opening night. She'd changed from Lady Macbeth's robes to a flowing gown of gold cloth. Her hair was a reddish halo. Margaret Landry was a short, light-skinned black woman built like a diva. Her broad face was beautiful, her smile dazzled. She beamed now at the young beauty, Laura, who had enveloped her in a big hug.

Then someone boomed, “A toast to Lady Margaret.” Sam recognized the speaker. It was Mayor Andrew Young. He raised his glass and added, “To her talent.”

“Her beauty,” said Congressman John Lewis.

“Amen,” called someone from the crowd.

“Her spirit.”

“Tell it, brother,” a woman added.

“And her soul,” concluded former Mayor Maynard Jackson.

The power was certainly out in force tonight.

“Amen!”

Feet were stomping, gold bangles jingled. The dressed-up and sophisticated crowd was making sounds like old-time religion, having a good time.

Sam did a quick 360-degree turn around the room. Blacks outnumbered whites by about two to one, the same as the general population of New Atlanta. Not that there was anything ordinary about this crush of political and cultural movers and shakers, so elegant they glittered when they moved.

A band tucked in a corner began to play. She bounced with the music, glad to be there. Yes indeedy, she'd done right coming home.

“Ms. Adams! I am
so
delighted that you could come!”

It was Margaret Landry, the lady herself. God, the woman positively glowed.

“I wouldn't have missed it for the world. And I'm so flattered you recognize me.”

“Why,
everybody
knows you. What with the fantastic work you've done in the past year, there's never going to be any hiding your light under a bushel. My dear, you're a
star
!”

Margaret's delivery had a kind of magic. A charisma that grabbed your attention and your imagination and thrilled you. She was bigger than life, a force of nature. Her very presence brought tears to your eyes.

“Why, thank you.”

“Don't thank me.” She reached up and tapped Sam's chin with a plump forefinger, giving her a dimple, Sam knew it. “Thank yourself.”

And then, razzle-dazzle, Margaret was gone.

Oh, yes. There was no place on earth Sam would rather be at this moment. These were good times. Good people. And no matter how long she'd hidden out there in California pretending she was a sunshine girl, Southerners were her kind of folks.

She said as much to the good-looking older man who had just slipped his arm through hers, her Uncle George.

“Indeed, indeed! Couldn't agree more. Can't imagine why you ran off and left us for so long.”

She flashed him a watch-your-mouth look, but he just smiled.

“You know,” he went on, “I remember when Margaret Landry first came to Atlanta, bound and determined to found her own acting group and equally set on its being the city's first multiracial theater.”

“People said it couldn't be done, didn't they, George? But you helped Margaret prove them wrong.” Miriam Talbot slid in and patted the arm of her neighbor and constant companion.

“Well, I didn't do all that much.”

“That's what he always says,” Miriam said to Sam. “But you know he used the weight of Simmons and Lee to do a lot of good. Certainly more than other attorneys I could name.”

“Now, Miriam. Hold on. She's still mad at Burton Simmons for serving divorce papers on Beau,” he said to Sam.

“I know.”

“And what are you grinning about?” Miriam asked Sam. “I swear, between the two of you, you certainly know how to pick on an old woman.”

“Old woman, hell.” Sam hooted. “Besides, I can't help it. You know I think stringing up would be too good for your son Beau.”

“Ladies. My dear sweet ladies,” George interrupted, though he knew their bantering was all in good fun. Or
almost
all. “Samantha, how long are you going to have to be back in Atlanta before you relearn your good manners?”

“If it hasn't happened in a year, George, I wouldn't be holding my breath,” Sam answered. “Besides, reporters don't have manners. Not if they're any good.”

“And you are that.” He rumpled her dark curls. “We need more like you spreading the good word about the South.” He gestured around the room. “About successful ventures like this one.”

“I think you have me confused with some other writer. Mine's the murder and mayhem beat. Remember?” Then she cocked the trigger of an imaginary pistol at Hoke Toliver as he once again passed within firing range. “Of course, this week my esteemed managing editor is trying to con me into doing some color on a bus hijacking in Savannah.”

Miriam turned just in time to see Hoke waggling his ears back at Sam. “I swear, that man hasn't changed since he was a bad little boy coming over to play with Beau. Does he think that new editor brought you here to have you write about such nonsense?”

“May I warn him that you're going to put him over your knee if he doesn't shape up?”

“I might do just that.” Miriam paused as a waiter approached with a tray of champagne glasses. “Here, dear.” She carefully handed a tall glass to George who, mindful of his failing eyesight, took it gingerly. She turned back to Sam. “What
are
you working on these days?”

“Strippers.”

“Oh. Well!”

“My dear,” said George, “I'd have thought by now you'd have learned better than to ask questions like that of Sam. No more than you'd want to know the details of Beau's days.”

Her son was the state's chief medical examiner.

“Oh, my goodness, no. I'd
never
ask.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me, Miriam. Never does any good to ask men questions anyway.” The words riffed up and down the scale.

Sam turned to find the owner of the wonderful voice, and there stood the most beautiful old woman she'd ever seen—every inch of five feet tall. Her posture was queenly, with clouds of white hair piled high like a crown. Sam straightened her shoulders.

Miriam did the honors: “Felicity Edwards Morris. Samantha Adams.”

“I've heard wonderful things about you from my sister, Emily. A beautiful woman isn't long in Atlanta till word gets around.”

“Considering the source of the compliment,” Sam said and smiled, with a nod toward Felicity's loveliness, “I'm quite flattered.” Then she couldn't resist reaching out and touching Felicity's dress. “Is this a Fortuny?”

Felicity ran a hand down the tiny pleats of fuchsia silk. “Yes, it was an antique when I bought it. A rather extreme example of the wisdom of buying good things, don't you think? Sometimes I feel like a walking museum.” She tapped George's lapel. “Have you had fun reconverting this prodigal child into a belle since she's been home?”

George rolled his eyes.

“I'm afraid I'm incorrigible,” said Sam. “Though I've never gotten the South out of my blood, I never was much of a lady.”

“You should have known her when she was a teenager. She finagled me out of a little green sports car in lieu of a debut,” said her uncle. “It hasn't gotten any better since then.”

“What a delicious idea.” Felicity laughed. “You modern girls! I wish I'd half your spunk.”

“Why, you went off to New York when you were just a child,” said Miriam.

“Oh, yes, but—well, that was very different.”

Sam watched as Felicity's face clouded over. Her eyes unfocused and slid off somewhere. She began to sway, and Sam reached out, afraid that she was going to fall. But then she realized there was a rhythm to the motion, and Felicity was humming. Sam leaned closer.

“Come to momma. My sweet…embrace me.”

The words were jumbled, though she had the right tune.

Sam turned to Miriam, but she and George had been lassoed into a conversation with a judge.

Felicity began a graceful turn. The little fuchsia pleats curved and flowed.

“Naughty baby…momma…embraceable…”

Sam looked around the room. Neither cops nor doctors were ever around when you needed them. Where was Beau?

“Hi, sweetie, are you having a good time?”

Sam whirled. Thank God. The ever-capable Emily Edwards was throwing her arm around her sister's shoulders.

“How are we doing here?”

Felicity shook her head, puzzled, but then her violet eyes snapped. She was on her way back.

“Aren't you proud of yourself, seeing all your hard work come to fruition tonight?” Emily continued as if Felicity hadn't missed a beat.

Felicity smiled up at her, all dimples now. The bad moment, whatever
that
was all about, was gone.

Then Miriam and George were back. “Emily,” he exclaimed. “How nice to see you!”

“Yes, they let me out every once in a while.”

“How are George's lessons coming?” Miriam asked.

“She means, has the Lighthouse succeeded in teaching me how to avoid making an ass of myself?”

“Well,” teased Emily, “we do the best we can with the training. I make no promises about your personal behavior.”

“Did you enjoy the play?” Sam asked.

“Oh, indeed,” said Emily. “Of course, the Players is very special to us. Felicity does all of their voice coaching.”

“I give them a little help from time to time.” Felicity smiled right on cue.

“Don't be so modest,” her sister insisted. “You've been a wonderful help to Margaret and the theater.”

“Well, it's fun. I never had any children,” she explained to Sam, “but I've always loved working with young people.”

“Do you give private lessons, too?”

“Occasionally. It's hard, you know, when you get older, to do very much, but along comes a special case, young and talented, and you can't refuse. Oh, look,” she said and pointed at someone behind Samantha, “there's one of my private students now.” Sam turned and followed her finger. Once again it was the lovely Laura. She was standing with her toes out now, her back against a pillar. Her tilted green eyes were locked into those of the handsome man leaning toward her.