nineteen

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, glinting on Emerson’s cuffs. She still wore the black taffeta dress that Kendall had bought. She was waiting for Coop and me to say something, but a snug band had wrapped itself around my chest.

Coop knelt beside her. “Where’d you get those cuffs, princess?”

“It’s a secret.” She smoothed her free hand down her stained, wrinkled dress. One edge of the stiff petticoat hung down, beggar lice stuck to the netting. Hadn’t the Philpots noticed that she’d worn the same outfit for the last two days? Weren’t they taking care of her?

A wedge of light hit Coop’s face, outlining the edge of his jaw. “How did you get into the house?”

“I used Mr. Philpot’s Visa card. The lock popped open.” She glanced down at the handcuffs. “I got these from Red. They’re the icky, old-fashioned kind. I prefer the twist-tie ones.”

I thought Coop was going to lecture her about theft and delinquency, but he folded his arms. “I hope you stole the key, too.”

“Maybe.” With her free hand, she lifted a stained paper bag from her lap. “Anybody want a funeral cruller? I brought éclairs too.”

The strap around my chest loosened. If she’d swiped the doughnuts from the Philpots’ kitchen, then she hadn’t been roaming the countryside for days.

Coop pushed back his hair, the way he always did when he was flustered. “Teeny, where’s your phone book? I’ve got to call Helen Philpot. She’s probably frantic.”

“She’s not.” Emerson lifted her chin.

I peeked under the table. Her ankles were crossed primly; her shoes and socks were coated with Bonaventure County’s sandy loam, perfect for growing onions. “Why are you still wearing this outfit?”

“I didn’t have nothing to change into. My stuff is still in Red’s van.” She pushed the doughnut bag aside and lifted the blue envelope. “Is this your mail, Daddy? ’Cause you got a letter from Mrs. Philpot. She mailed it from South Carolina.”

Coop stopped looking for the phone book. He crossed the room in three long strides. He tried to snatch the envelope, but she pushed it into my hands. The seal had been ripped open, and a blue paper jutted up. I glanced at the postmark: Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, Saturday August 9. I recognized Barb’s handwriting—boxy, all capital letters. She’d addressed the note to Coop’s house on Isle of Palms.

“Go ahead and open it,” Emerson said.

I pulled out the blue paper and spread it on the table.

SEAPORT COED,

EMAIL RUB INTO. CLAMEL TOAD DEUCE

FOYER MANAGE TRASH. ALIEN WILL PIX.

A BUSHEL FETCH NEUTER

CHALET OWES NULL

CLOUDS FOURTEEN

**SUICIDE SOLEMNER**

VALOR EBB

XXOO

Suicide solemner? Manage trash? I glanced at Emerson. “What’s this? A joke?”

“No, silly. They’re anagrams.”

A muscle twitched in Coop’s jaw. “She used to write me letters like this back in high school. She sent them after we broke up, too. I couldn’t decode them. I never got past Seaport Coed.”

“It means Dearest Coop,” Emerson said. “Valor Ebb is Love Barb.”

“You and your mother just happen to have the same talent for solving anagrams?” I asked.

“No, she teached me,” Emerson said. “After every lesson, she gave me ice cream.”

“But I thought you were never around her,” Coop said. “You went to that school.”

“The Philpots made me come home for holidays. I had to crack anagrams to find my presents on Christmas morning.” Emerson wrinkled her nose. “So do you want me to decode the letter or not?”

“That’s okay,” Coop said. “I can look up the anagrams on my iPhone.”

“It’ll take you thirty minutes to type in the phrases on those tiny keys. I can decipher it in a flash. Let’s cut a deal.”

Coop shook his head.

“But the clues lead to a treasure. Don’t you want to find it?” She snatched the letter and began to read out loud. “‘Dearest Coop. I am in trouble. Call me after you decode the anagrams. I will explain. Love, Barb.’”

Trouble? I shook my head. “I’m confused.”

Emerson sighed. “Give me a pencil and scrap paper and I’ll make you a cheat sheet.”

I found an index card and a pen in the drawer. I set them in front of her. She lifted her free hand and began to write.

SEAPORT COED = DEAREST COOP

EMAIL RUB INTO = I AM IN TROUBLE

CLAMEL TOAD DEUCE FOYER = CALL ME AFTER YOU DECODE

MANAGE TRASH = THE ANAGRAMS

ALIEN WILL PIX = I WILL EXPLAIN

VALOR EBB = LOVE BARB

A BUSHEL FETCH NEUTER = CLUES BENEATH THE FUR

CHALET OWES NULL = CLUES ON THE WALL

CLOUDS FOURTEEN = CLUES UNDERFOOT

SUICIDE SOLEMNER = MORE CLUES INSIDE

Emerson tapped A Bushel Fetch Neuter. “This means clues beneath the fur. Chalet Owes Null means clues on the wall. And Clouds Fourteen means clues underfoot. And so on and so forth.”

“Yes, I can see that. But what does it mean?” Coop asked. “What’s underfoot? Which wall was she referring to? What kind of trouble was she in?”

“She never said.” Emerson set down the card. “But it’s real clear that she wanted you to find something. Maybe we can find it together?”

I remembered the printout and sat up straight. Did Barb have a fur coat? If so, she might have left a note in the pocket.

Coop gave her a stern look. “How do I know that you’re telling the truth? Maybe you didn’t solve these anagrams. Maybe you’re making up phrases.”

“Take the letter to a cryptologist. Then I want a full apology and a double order of fries.”

“You can’t stay here, princess.” Coop shoved the letter back into the envelope, along with Emerson’s cheat sheet. “I’m going back to Charleston this morning, and Teeny is staying with my family.”

“Can I stay with them, too? Because your people are my people.”

“My mother isn’t good with children,” Coop said. “And if I don’t leave right now, I’ll be in trouble with my boss.”

Emerson reached into the doughnut bag, fished out a tiny brass key, and unlocked the handcuffs. After they drove off, I found the envelope on the floor. It must have slipped out of Coop’s pocket. I stuffed it in the silverware drawer. What clues had Barb meant? Would they prove she’d been involved in a chop shop? Was she reaching from the grave to implicate the Philpot brothers?

I massaged my forehead. I always thought better in the orchard, so I grabbed a basket and walked outside. Clouds drifted low over the trees. A mockingbird swooped down the row, its shadow rippling over the grass. The wind kicked up, bending the weeds. I took a breath.

Peaches. This was the smell of home, of a childhood that had been bruised in places but was still whole and mostly sweet. But I missed Charleston: the bells of St. Michael’s, horse drawn carriages, and the way afternoon light cast a rusty sheen over harbor.

I loved Bonaventure, too. Emerson had given me a new reason to stay. I’d promised Coop that I’d go straight to his mother’s house, but I wasn’t quite ready to face Irene. So I lingered in the orchard a few minutes longer.

She needs a little sweetness, Aunt Bluette’s voice whispered. Take Irene some peaches.

I smiled. Maybe I could fix an I’ll-Make-You-Like-Me Fruit Salad, with oranges, cherries, apples, peaches, and passion fruit. Make a sugar syrup and pour over fruit. A touch of lemon juice gives backbone to the syrup.

I loaded my basket and walked back to the house. The phone was ringing, and I snatched it up, praying I’d hear Coop’s voice. You’ve got heartburn, and I’ve got a burning fear in my heart, I’d say. Let’s make it stop. We’ll book a guided tour in Ireland. A stone cottage, an iron bed, a snapping fireplace. The name of the tour will be the Ring of Kerry Meets the Ring of O’Malley.

“Teeny Templeton, is that you?” a nasal-voiced woman asked. “This is Angie Trammel. Can you bake a cake for my daughter’s bachelorette party?”

“How’d you know I was back in town?” I asked.

“Mary Queen Lancaster mentioned it,” Angie said. “I desperately need a cake.”

“I wish I could help, but my baking supplies are in Charleston. Besides, I only do basic layer cakes. Nothing fancy.”

“Don’t be modest, Teeny. Mary Queen was singing your praises. Me and my daughter will be at your house in ten minutes.”

“Sorry, I won’t be here,” I said, but she’d already hung up.

Sir and I were on our way out the front door when the Trammels’ white Cadillac roared into my driveway. I reluctantly showed the ladies to the parlor, and Sir sniffed their heels as if they’d both stepped in doggie doo.

They refused my offer of coffee.

“I’m on a colon-cleansing diet,” Angie said. She was a middle-aged version of her daughter Suzy. Both women raked their red fingernails through shoulder-length black curls.

“Oh, Mama, hush.” Suzy flapped her hand. The sun glanced off her rhinestone-studded t-shirt, sending a dazzle around the room. Sir pounced on the rug, trying to trap the light with his paws.

“I’ll need more than a colon cleansing before Suzy’s wedding gets here,” Angie said, fanning herself. “The damn thing’s jinxed.”

“Mama, quit exaggerating,” Suzy said. “Only two bad things have happened.”

“Yes, but trouble comes in threes. I’m just waiting for the third one to show up.” Angie cupped her hand around her mouth and leaned toward me. “First, the groom’s blood pressure medicine took away his manhood—”

“Mama!” Suzy cried.

“Well, it’s the truth. How am I supposed to get a grandchild? Randy might as well be sterile. I could just cry.” Angie twisted one of her curls around her thumb and turned to me. “The second bad thing is so awful. Suzy’s wedding dress, a full-beaded gown, the most beautiful dress ever created, is being altered by Clair-Beth Butts.” Angie paused to load her lungs.

I gave the mother/daughter pair an I’m-sorry-I’m-out-of-time smile and made a big show of checking my watch. “About the cake…”

“It’s Kendall McCormack’s fault,” Angie launched back into her story. “If she hadn’t died, her cousin Clair-Beth could have finished altering Suzy’s wedding dress. But she hasn’t touched her needle. Said she just knew she’d nick her finger on every bead and cover the dress with hundreds of bloodred polka-dots.”

Suzy’s hands fluttered like a bird. A bird that had just eaten some poisoned wedding cake. “Some people are saying Kendall was drunk. Others are saying it was an unfortunate accident. But she didn’t drink.”

A prickle ran down my spine.

“That’s true,” Angie said. “Kendall was allergic to alcohol. One sip of wine, and her face would turn pink as a baboon’s butt. She’d break out in hives, too. She couldn’t even get near cooking sherry.”

“She wasn’t supposed to fornicate, either, but she did,” Suzy said.

“I think Lester drove Kendall to the bottle.” Angie wrinkled her nose. “He was too old for her. It’s so sad about his wife. First, I heard she killed herself, and now they’re saying she might have been murdered. At least, that’s what I heard at the viewing. I was standing right by Lester when the Sweeney police showed up. Personally I think Lester killed Barb and made it look like suicide.”

Suzy leaned forward. “Or maybe Norris did it.”

I caught a breath, then slowly released it. Never mind that I shared their opinion; the Trammels were rumormongers, and they would repeat everything I said. But my desire to pump them for information was greater than my fear of slander.

“Why would he murder her?” I asked.

“Revenge.” Angie patted my hand. “Barb and Norris used to be lovers, you know.”

I felt a buzzing in my throat, as if I’d swallowed a wasp. “Seriously?” I asked.

“It was a scandal,” Angie said. “If you want the lowdown on Barb, talk to Emma Underwood. She used to be an art teacher. Now she’s got Alzheimer’s. Didn’t your mama take lessons from her? Lordy, Emma used to know all the gossip. And she was particularly interested in Barb Philpot.”

“Visit Miss Emma early of a morning,” Suzy said. “Her memory is better before lunchtime.”

“Does she still live on St. James Square?” I asked, picturing the blue house on the corner of Louisiana and Juniper. Her backyard faced the O’Malleys’ pool and gazebo.

“Yes.” Suzy thrust a thick pile of computer printouts into my hands. Each one showed a photograph of a risqué cake.

“I like the one of the nude sunbathing couple,” she said, and handed me the instructions. “You’ll need to make the penis out of marzipan. I want a nice, big one on my cake.”

“Eek,” Angie said. “I couldn’t eat a marzipan unmentionable. Why don’t you get Teeny to bake you a cute beach cake instead. She can put candied shells all over it.”

“I want the penis cake,” Suzy said.

“I can’t make that.” I shook my head. “I don’t have the training.”

“It’s a freaking cake,” Suzy cried. “How much training do you need?”

“It takes skill to make sugared genitalia.” I struggled to keep a straight face. “If you want a red velvet cake with cream cheese icing, I’m your girl. But when it comes to fondant body parts and flesh-toned icing, I’m sadly lacking.”

I gave the Trammels the phone number of a Savannah cake lady. They reached for matching Louis Vuitton bags and left. I could already hear the little beep-beep from Angie’s cell phone as she punched in the number.

Sir was staring at the floor, as if waiting for the sparkles to return. I wandered through the house, checking locks and pulling the window shades. After talking to the Trammels, I was even more convinced that Norris had worn that Bill Clinton mask. If Norris and Barb had been lovers, maybe they’d also sold body parts.

But at least I wasn’t dealing with an unknown enemy. At least the enemy had a face and a name. Just knowing this made me feel calmer.

The kitchen phone rang and I hesitated before picking it up. I wasn’t sure if I could take any more craziness. I answered with a curt hello.

“Hey, girl,” Dot said. “Don’t bite off my head. I guess you heard about Kendall?”

“Yes.”

“I feel so bad that I didn’t help you.”

“Forget it.”

“You sound depressed. I know what’ll perk you up. Let’s go to the Tartan Hair Pub today. You can get a makeover. My treat. ”

I lifted a hunk of frizz, tempted to accept her offer. “Thanks, but I’d better pass.”

“Oh, come on. You’d be so cute if you thinned your hair a little. A new style will give you a new outlook. So will a pedicure. When’s the last time you had one?”

I slipped my foot out of my boot and stared at my toes. “Never had one.”

“Oh, my god. Are you freaking kidding me?” Dot cried. “How do you expect to hold on to Coop O’Malley with gross toenails? Meet me at the Tartan Hair Pub in ten minutes.”

“Can’t. I’ve got to be somewhere.” But a pedicure did sound nice.

“This is an emergency beauty intervention,” Dot said. “If you don’t show up, I’m coming to get you.”

“I’ll be there.” I hung up. If Coop learned I hadn’t gone to the O’Malleys’, he’d be upset. But maybe improving my looks would improve his mood. No, I was just stalling. Because I didn’t want to stay with Irene.

I unzipped my suitcase and dragged out my vocabulary book. Debacle. A catastrophe, fiasco, or calamity. I put Sir in the parlor with his toys and a water bowl.

On my way out of the house, I grabbed a roll of Scotch tape. I locked up, then I climbed onto a wicker table and placed a strip of tape over the screen door. I patted it against the frame. If Norris tried to break in while I was gone, the tape would come loose. James Bond had used a hair in Dr. No, but he’d done that in a hotel room. Out on the porch, a gust of wind might dislodge the hair. A false alarm would feel like a real one, so I hoped the tape would stick.

I wasn’t in a hurry to get a pedicure, so I knelt beside the porch and picked wild daisies. I felt a powerful longing to set them on Aunt Bluette’s grave.

I pulled into Bonaventure Cemetery. Tourists milled around the tombstones, photographing the cherubs and old-timey monuments. Many of them dated back to the Revolutionary War and they were engraved with epitaphs from the Bible; but one tombstone always drew tourists.

A lady in a red dress aimed her camera at a black granite marker. Carved into the stone was XAVIER ST. CLAIRE, PHILANDERER.

I walked past the monument. In the distance, a hearse cruised through the narrow lane, followed by a row of cars with bright headlights. They were headed toward a maroon tent, where Vlado and Mr. Winky were setting up chairs.

I stopped in front of Aunt Bluette’s marker and set the wildflowers on the grassy mound. She’d thought up a special epitaph before she’d died. I ran my fingers over the rose granite, tracing the letters.

STEP SOFTLY, AN AUNT LIES HERE.

A shadow fell over the grass. I looked up. Son Finnegan smiled down at me. He wore sandals, cut-off jeans, and a Burberry shirt. He held a dozen yellow roses. “Well, if it isn’t the cute cemetery chick.”

“Don’t you ever work?” I said.

“Not if I can help it.” He grinned. “I’m not stalking you. I came to see Mama. She’s just over yonder.”

We walked to Cissy Finnegan’s stone. It was black granite, heaped with ceramic frogs and angels. Son propped the roses against a smiling toad. “Can I buy you a latte?”

At first, I thought he was talking to the frog, but then he looked up at me.

“Quit trying to feed me.” I glanced past him. In the funeral procession, I saw Irene O’Malley’s red Eldorado.

Now she would know I’d been in the graveyard with Son.

He rose to his feet, the wind kicking up his ponytail. “Like it or not, Boots, we have unfinished business. If your aunt had shown you my letters, we might have ended up together.”

“There’s a tiny hole in your logic,” I said. “If you loved me so much, you would have found a way to tell me. Other than letters.”

“So much was happening in my life. I was in my last year of med school. I lived at the hospital. They owned my ass. And afterward, I did an internship in Boston. A five-year surgical residency in Los Angeles. A fellowship took two more years. Then I was putting soldiers’ faces back together.” He looked up at the sky. “I wasn’t a monk. I had lovers. But in my whole life I loved one woman. I’m looking at her right now.”

Sweat trickled down my back, sliding just beneath my dress. “It’s too late, Son. I don’t want to be hurtful. But I’m in love with Coop.”

“Big mistake. Because his mama is a cannibal. How can you love a man who takes marching orders from a female Jeffery Dahmer? Irene has ruined every relationship Cooter has ever had.”

“That’s a lie. She had nothing to do with Coop’s divorce.”

“I sat next to her at a cookout. She polished off a dozen baby back ribs. In between bites, she told me how she got rid of Ava—isn’t that the wife’s name? Then Irene started bitching about you.”

A cramp flickered in my belly. “What did she say?”

“Hurtful things.”

I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. “Tell me.”

“She called your hair a lethal weapon. I stood up for you. Then she asked if we’d dated. I denied it, of course. But I don’t think she believed me.”

Great. Perfect. I was spending the night with a paranoid, burglar-hating, flesh-eating woman who knew all about me and Son.

“It’ll never work out, Boots. You and Cooter are too different. The farmer’s daughter and the doctor’s son. You say tomato, he says tomahto.”

I reached up to pat my bangs, and I shot him a bird that only he could see. Then I left.