Cemetery Silk Read online

  “Okay, what’s so funny?”

  “Oh, Paisley, your daughter is wonderful! Why don’t you send Cassie up to stay with me for a while? There are some really terrific new dance clubs, and I could take her shopping and.…”

  “Yes, I know. And you all could play dress up and go to lots of lovely parties. With any luck you could turn her into a sophisticated, name-dropping, clotheshorse just like someone else we know and love.”

  “Darling, that’s so unfair! You know I have to keep up a facade of vapid insouciance. It’s expected of me.”

  I ignored her and continued. “Besides, where am I going to be all this time? Staying in my townhouse all alone hoping you all will drop me a line between chi chi parties? Perhaps bring me a CARE package of left over goat cheese and spinach in phyllo?”

  “No, dear, your townhouse has been rented to a client of mine from Paris. You can’t go there for nine months, maybe a year.”

  “Pam!” Stunned was not exactly the word which described my feelings, maybe nuclear accident or direct asteroid hit, something like that.

  “Relax, Paisley. I had an opportunity to make some terrific money for you. And since I knew you would probably really need it, I snagged this Frenchman and his wife and convinced them they should rent a pied-a-terre while his book of naughty but exquisite photographs was being edited. They are accustomed to the ridiculously inflated Parisian economy, so I managed to get them to sign a lease for an indecent amount of money. They also agreed to put a sizable sum up front. How does three months rent plus an even more indecent non-refundable deposit for their cher chien sound?”

  “You couldn’t unload the manuscript.” My voice sounded squeaky and desperate.

  Pam was quiet for a long moment and then answered me.

  “Oh, Paisley, I tried. You don’t know how hard I tried!”

  I believed her. I guess I had really known deep down that the end was near for Bartholomew and Whiskers. Bless their little hearts, I would miss them.

  She went on, “But cute little blue-eyed crickets with charming mousy friends just aren’t selling like they used to. I’m so sorry, darling.”

  “I know, Pam. It’s not your fault. It’s been getting harder and harder to come up with that crap. I guess it showed.”

  “Look, Paisley, you are a gifted writer. I don’t know if you started out that way, or it just happened, but you do have talent. Maybe you should try another genre, maybe a nice juicy crime novel, or a travel book about South America. Try to get something together and send it to me. Meanwhile, you have a really decent little bankroll thanks to Monsieur Beau Bucks. Have to go pet. My phone’s lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  And she was gone.

  I hung the phone up slowly. The receiver was wet from my sweaty palm.

  Five minutes ago I was an established writer. Now I was a temporary landlord with an uncertain future and no prospects.

  I felt shrimp and capers rising sourly at the back of my throat. I swallowed hard and made a conscious decision not to cry. Nevertheless, I felt the hot tears spill over as I came to the sudden realization that Bartholomew and Whiskers were dead, and I was homeless.

  “Damn!”

  I sat much too hard on the one hundred and fifteen year-old Windsor chair by the desk. Waves of emotion swept through me. At first I was almost overwhelmed by fear and sadness. Then something that seemed vaguely familiar made a timid bid for recognition in my shell-shocked mind. It was something I had not felt in a very long time. I tried hard and out it popped: joy! I had to be insane! But there it was: joy! An infant, a fledgling, born of sudden freedom and challenge. Out with the old, on with the new, “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!”

  “Wow!”

  I wiped my face on my soft flannel shirtsleeve. It was getting to be a habit. I marched boldly back to the kitchen. Cass and Mother were embroiled in an argument about the best way to load a dishwasher.

  “Ahem.” I made my bid for attention.

  “Gran, you’ve never even read the instruction book. How can you be so sure the knives go upside down?”

  “Ahemmm!” Louder this time.

  “Yes, dear? How is lovely Pamela? Any new girlfriends? Although, I always say the right man.…”

  “Mother!”

  “Mom, what’s wrong? You look really weird.”

  Cassie put her hand on my forehead.

  “If you all will stop that stupid bickering and sit down, I will tell you what’s wrong. I will also tell you what is right, really right, for the first time in a long time.”

  And so I told them about the untimely demise of B&W and all their furry friends. Oddly enough, Cassie did not seem too perturbed about the loss of the childhood companions who had buttered her bread for the last decade. She was miffed, however, about the townhouse. She finally confessed that she had invited, unbeknownst to me, several friends to spend a week in Manhattan during Christmas. Then suddenly the light dawned for her.

  “Oh, my God! We are going to be poor and homeless bag ladies! No! I’ll get a job at K-Mart or the Dairy Queen, and you can return that cashmere sweater I charged for Gran’s birthday.”

  “A cashmere sweater, for me? How lovely, dear. What color? I do hope it’s something I can use. Maybe a nice shade of blue.”

  “Quiet!” It was becoming harder for me to stay in control.

  “Well, really, Paisley. There’s no need to be unladylike. Come, Cassandra, and let’s listen to what your mother has to say. It’s clear that she is under somewhat of a strain.”

  Mother took Cassie by the hand as they sat side by side at the table. They each gave a fair impression of naughty little schoolgirls mocking their teacher.

  I clenched my teeth but, I am proud to say, I did not give up my increasingly good humor. I was feeling stronger and more certain of my decision with every passing moment.

  “There will be no returning the periwinkle blue cashmere birthday present,” I ordered.

  “Oh, goody, I have a silk blouse that.…”

  “Mother, please! Cassie, please wipe that ‘deer in the head lights’ look off your pretty face. We are not going to be poor if my plan works. Now, Mother, tell me exactly what made you say that Ernest Dibber and Company killed William and/or Abigail. We are writing a crime novel!”

  For a moment, they both sat in stunned silence. Then their faces began to unfreeze, and they looked remarkably like sisters—twins in delight and conspiracy. The forty years that separated them were erased.

  “Oh, Mom, how absolutely delicious,” breathed Cassie.

  Mother let out a smaller but equally important sigh.

  “So, you do believe me after all. You don’t think I’m ready for Sunny Acres.”

  “No, Mother, I don’t think you’re anywhere near ready for Sunny Acres, but I also don’t think you’re right about Ernest Dibber.”

  “You said you were going to write a novel about Abigail’s murder!”

  “Right you are, about that, anyway. But I don’t think for one minute that Dibber killed Abigail, or William. Ordinary people don’t get murdered every day, no matter what you see on television.”

  I tried to sound patient and reasonable.

  “But.…” She was clearly exasperated with me. Patience and reason had not worked.

  “Let me finish, Mother. Just because I don’t think Ernest killed anyone doesn’t mean I don’t think he’s the worst kind of sleaze-ball. He set about to con a sick old man out of money, and then he had him baptized to salve his miserable conscience. I get really angry when I think about the job of brainwashing Mr. Creepo Dibber must have done on William. How he must have worked at convincing William that we no longer cared and that he was the only one who did. He was very calculating in the way he stole your inheritance. And worst of all, he let William die feeling alone and abandoned by his family. So, I am going to write a novel about William and Abigail. I will have Ernest kill Abigail, like you imagined, and then force William to leave them all his money.”
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  “But can you do that, Paisley, dear? I mean is that legal?”

  “Of course. I’ll make sure all the names are so different that nobody will ever make the connection.”

  “Mom, can my name be Fleur, please? I am in the book, right?”

  “Yes! We are all in the book as the grieving relatives. And we can choose our names. This has got to be fun or it’s not worth doing. Who do you want to be, Mother?”

  “Allow me a moment for consideration, please, Paisley.”

  She looked up at the ceiling reflectively and counted off the points of her deliberation on her fingertips before she spoke.

  “I can’t really prove that Ernest Dibber is guilty of anything. If I went to the police with only my suspicions they would laugh in my face. Your writing a best selling novel would be a wonderfully clever way to get our own back. And maybe,” she smiled, “during our investigation you will come around to my point of view. Very well, my dear, you may count me in. As far as names go, Jessica Fletcher has been taken, so how about Milly Tatum?”

  I had watched her go through her little litany with amusement. Now she floored me.

  “How on earth did you ever come up with that?”

  “Never mind,” she grinned.

  “Okay, let’s call William and Abigail, Will and Abby.”

  “Oh, Paisley, now you are playing with fire. Be reasonable. Choose something less similar.”

  “Look, the book isn’t even on paper yet. Let’s just call them that as working names.”

  That seemed to appease her.

  “Who are you, Mom? I mean, what’s your pen name? Try to think of a really tough guy name. Crime novels are usually written by tough guys.”

  “Unfortunately, my pet, you’re right. How about Leonard Sterling?”

  “No Sterling and no DeLeon,” insisted Mother. “That really is too close to home, Paisley.”

  “I’ve got it, Mom: Leonard Paisley!”

  “Hooray! Happy Birthday, Leonard Paisley! May you live a long and prosperous life, at least for a three book deal and a TV movie of the week!” I gave Cassie a high five.

  “How do we get started?” Cassie asked excitedly. “I know with the children’s books you always wrote a story about something that had happened to me. Usually something I did wrong, only you made the cricket do it. By the way, I always hated being a role model for a mischievous cricket. I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “Slow down, baby. Sorry about comparing you to Bartholomew, but please appreciate he was our bread and butter for ten years. You’re right about the way I got into a story. I guess we’ll have to find another avenue of approach. Maybe we need to do some research. Mother, does this town still have a library?”

  We spent the next day at the George P. Witherspoon Library. We read everything they had on the psychology of the criminal mind and forensic science. That amounted to three books that were at least forty years, and in one case, sixty years old. Cassie broke the spine on that one. Miss Gertrude Houghton, the librarian with a spine at least as old, made me pay to have it repaired. She didn’t want it rebound—that would have been too cheap and easy—but hand repaired by some old fogey she knew who charged a small fortune.

  I wanted to accuse Miss Gertrude of getting a kickback, but I had been afraid of her when I was a child and nothing had changed. Her frozen eyes still sent chills to my very soul. I meekly paid up, and we filed out of the dusty book lined mausoleum thoroughly cowed. Only the bravest of the brave would dare to borrow a book from that old dragon.

  With the idea of restoring our sagging spirits, Mother made us an offer we could not refuse. She directed us to the cozy confines of Ye Olde Tea Shoppe.,

  “Well, what now, Mom?”

  “If I might offer a suggestion?” The pinky was fully extended as a dainty teacup paused at her lips.

  “Please, Mother, when have you ever been stopped from offering anything, especially some more shortbread, and please pass the muscadine jelly.”

  “No need to be sassy, Paisley.”

  “Sorry, Mmufher.”

  “And don’t speak with your mouth full.”

  She dabbed delicately at her lips with the dainty little paper napkin and topped off our teacups with the last of Ye Olde Earl Gray.

  “I have a box of Abigail’s papers that William gave me after she died. He asked me to go through it and see if there was anything I wanted. Something always came up each time I sat down to do it, and I never got around to even taking the top off. I guess I just really didn’t have the heart. Maybe we can get some ideas from her papers. Something from that box may spark your literary imagination.”

  “Great!” saluted Cassie. “That’s a stupendous idea, Gran.”

  “Of course.” She had never been accused of being humble.

  It had been comfortably accepted by all parties without even being voiced that Cassie and I would stay for a while, maybe even a long while. I now had no home to go to and Cass had attended both sessions of summer school and was ready for a break. We all agreed that it would be a terrific idea for her to take a vacation this fall and return to school for the spring semester.

  When we got home I was ready for a little siesta. I could tell that Mother had an itch to try out a new recipe, so Cassie and I wobbled off for some naptime and left her to her muse.

  I had learned long ago not to take an afternoon nap in my nighttime bed. Instead, I sought out the sofa in the library. That room always made me think of my father because, after his retirement, it had also served as his office. His desk still stood in the corner facing out toward the fireplace. It was surrounded by floor to ceiling bookcases filled with his books. There were some volumes of poetry belonging to Mother on the shelves here and there. And some of the more interesting college texts of Velvet’s or mine peeked out from the corners. But most of the books were Dad’s. The authors’ names gave proof to his eclectic reading habits. They ranged from his beloved Louis L’Amour to Shakespeare, Samuel Eliot Morrison, John Steinbeck, Wilbur Smith to Hemingway and back again to John MacDonald and Thomas Wolfe.

  Dad loved a good story. He was a great storyteller himself. His literary advice to me had always been to tell the truth. That had always been the best part of my stories. I had done painstaking research on whatever little creature I wrote about, making sure that I would not mislead the kiddies about its true nature.

  Now I had another creature to write about and I wanted no one to be misled about his true nature, either. He was a scoundrel and a scallywag if he had treated William the way I assumed he had. I wanted to get as close to that truth as I could. That kind of research could not be done in any library. I would have to do some footwork. I would have to become a regular gumshoe. I couldn’t go to the police and say, “My mother thinks someone killed her cousin. Why? Well, just because, that’s why.” They would lock us all up in Sunny Acres. Besides, Mother was right: writing the book was much better. We could get our revenge and maybe make some money at the same time. I was sure I wouldn’t make three million dollars but I would have my career back, and that was worth more to me than money.

  I pulled the pretty afghan that Abigail had knitted for Mother last Christmas up to my shoulders and snuggled down in the softness of the sofa cushions. I slowly drifted off to a fitful but adventurous dream starring Sam Spade and Nick and Nora Charles. I awoke feeling terribly lonely because I had no cute little doggie like Nora’s Asta, or husband like her Nick. Rafe was in there somewhere hovering in the background, faceless, as in all my dreams.

  I awoke feeling slightly groggy and stumbled into the bathroom where I washed my face, combed my hair, and paused to examine myself in the mirror. My cheeks were glowing and my eyes were not the usual humdrum hazel but a nice mysterious shade of green. Yes, this life was definitely agreeing with me. Ritzy Fifth Avenue with all its smut, grime and pollution couldn’t hold a candle to the invigorating early autumn air on the farm. Although, in another week or two I was going to run screaming into the night if I
did not find someone who could give me a decent haircut. Also, I really had to do something to my nails. Meanwhile I settled for that timeless beauty aid, a big rubber band, and pulled my messy auburn curls back into a ponytail.

  Chapter Six

  When I entered the kitchen I saw Cassie “ohhing” and “ahhing” at something in the oven with Mother beaming proudly at her side. For once she had impressed her granddaughter. I decided to wait for the surprise and was about to start setting the kitchen table when Mother stopped me.

  “Paisley, we’re celebrating tonight. The table is already set in the dining room.”

  “Mom! Wait until you see what Gran has made. You will not believe it!”

  “What’s the celebration, Mother?”

  “The beginning of our first big adventure as private investigators, that’s what!”

  I started to hoot, but talk about sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks! Mother was a firecracker about to go off. Besides, the dinner smelled wonderful, and the dining room looked beautiful. All the sparkling and glowing surfaces shone from the work Cassie and I had done.

  Mother had set the table with heavy linen place mats and her autumn china, old Josiah Wedgwood’s Bianca. A big straw basket with fresh flowers sat at one end of the long table and we three sat cozily at the other end and ate by candlelight.

  It was our most companionable meal so far. Cassie and Mother laughed and smiled often at each other’s jokes. A lovely Pouilly Fuisse sparkled in the Waterford goblets and the silver cutlery gleamed in the candlelight. As politely as possible, we dispatched a delicate pastry filled with wild mushrooms, pecans, and the thinnest slivers of tender, roasted, breast of quail.

  Cassie and I had eaten so many meals wrapped in paper or served in polystyrene during the last few years that I had almost forgotten how nice it was to eat like a civilized person. I loved the weight of the silver knife in my hand and the big oversized damask napkin on my lap. I felt like one of the landed gentry, to the manor born.

  “Boy, if I had known about the feedbag you were going to put on, I would have suggested that we dress for dinner,” I offered irreverently.