That’s the first y’all I’ve heard from Louisa Rawlings. At least it’s a contraction.
She faces forward again and heads for the house. I fall into step behind her, but the Kydd doesn’t move. After a few paces I pause to look back at him. “Kydd,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t seem to hear.
“Kydd,” I repeat, a little louder this time.
He blinks and shakes his head, as if he’s snapping out of a trance. His expression suggests he’s never seen me before.
I hold his gaze and walk back to him, so our client won’t hear my words. Even at this distance, I don’t dare risk more than a stage whisper. “I don’t want to be bossy, Kydd, but I think you ought to close your mouth.”
He steals a glance ahead, at Louisa, and swallows hard before he takes my suggestion.
“Now come on,” I tell him. “Let’s get to work. After all, we’re rat on tam.”
My teeth have grown fur. One sip of Louisa’s home brew did the trick. I don’t dare take a second. Calling it sweet tea is like saying there’s a pinch or two of salt in the Atlantic.
The Kydd is already finished his and I wonder for a moment if I can get away with switching our glasses. Too late, though. Our hostess is pouring him another. “You were thirsty,” she says.
He shakes his head as he watches her pour. “Not especially, but this is fine tea, Mrs. Rawlings. Mighty fine.”
That settles it. The Kydd is definitely speaking a new dialect. He’s always had a distinct drawl, but he’s never sounded like a Ewing before. I expect he’ll swagger any minute now.
“Please,” she says to him, “call me Louisa.”
Either my eyes deceive me or my associate is blushing, right up to the rims of his sizable ears.
Louisa sees it too. She smiles and hands him the refill. “I’m so glad you like it,” she tells him. “Herb always said my sweet tea should be patented.”
Plenty of liquids are patented. Chemicals, for instance. Commercial fertilizers. Industrial-strength disinfectants. That doesn’t mean they’re fit for human consumption. I clear my throat, intending to put an end to this meeting of the Southern Admiration Society, but the doorbell drowns me out.
“Excuse me,” Louisa says, wiping her hands on a terry-cloth towel at the sink. She leaves the Kydd and me in the kitchen and heads back through the living room toward the front door. Another non–Cape Codder has come to call, it seems, using the wrong door.
I cross the kitchen and hand Louisa’s file to the Kydd. For a split second, he seems not to know why. “We came here to work,” I remind him. “Not to attend a tea party.”
He drains his glass, sets it on the counter, then stands at attention and salutes. I hand him my glass, still full. “Drink that,” I tell him. He does.
Louisa returns with a tall, sharp-featured man in tow. He’s dressed in a well-cut navy blue suit, starched white shirt, and maroon tie. He looks as if he might be campaigning for political office, canvassing door-to-door in search of votes. “This is Steven Collier,” Louisa says to the Kydd and me. “I believe I mentioned him to you, Marty.”
She did. He’s the money guy, Quick-draw McGraw. He apparently makes house calls. And on Saturday afternoons, no less.
Quick-draw’s slicked-back hair is far too black to have come from Mother Nature. He greets the Kydd with a vigorous handshake and then accepts my outstretched hand more reluctantly, tossing his glossy head back toward the other room. He wants to speak privately, his dark eyes tell me. Maybe he plans to diversify my portfolio. Money guys sometimes assume that I have one.
He cups my elbow in his palm—a gesture I find utterly irritating—and propels me toward the living room. “I need some advice,” he says as he closes the heavy doors between us and the kitchen.
Yes, he does. And I should give it to him. Don’t steer women around as if we’re on wheels, I should say. But I don’t. No need to alienate a potential witness. “Advice about what?” I ask instead.
“About what I know.”
“Pardon?”
“How much do I know?”
“How much do you know?” He knows more than I do at the moment. I don’t even know what he’s asking.
“About Louisa,” he says.
Now I’m thoroughly confused. “You want me to tell you how much you know about Louisa?”
He crosses the room and leans over to rest one forearm on the mantel, his back to me. He’s quiet for a second, staring down at the few logs crackling in the fireplace. The living room’s heavy drapes are closed and the only other light in here is thrown by a floor lamp in the far corner.
“I’m asking you how much I should know,” he says, turning to face me again.
I shake my head. I don’t know what the hell he’s driving at.
“About her finances, for example.” He puts one hand on his hip and raises the other, along with his eyes, to the ceiling. He’s annoyed.
“You’re her money manager. You should know everything about her finances, shouldn’t you?”
He runs both hands through his inky hair and laughs, staring into the fire and then eyeing me sideways. I’m apparently one of the denser people he’s come across in life. “I do,” he says. “Of course I do. But I don’t have to tell them that.”
“Them?”
“The cops. If they think Louisa offed her husband to get at the insurance proceeds, they’re going to want to talk to me, aren’t they?”
“They probably will,” I tell him, “if the investigation goes that far.”
“Then you need to tell me what to say.”
I pause for a moment to look him in the eyes, to make sure he means what I think he means. He does.
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Collier. I don’t need to do any such thing. In fact, I’m specifically prohibited from doing anything of the sort.”
“What do you mean, you’re prohibited? You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”
Every once in a while I meet someone who seems to feel compelled to inform me that I am a lawyer. Generally speaking, I don’t like these people. Implicit in the pronouncement is the arrogant assumption that I’m not acting like one.
“Mr. Collier,” I tell him, “if the police question you about this matter, you should tell them nothing but the truth.”
“The truth.” He half laughs, staring at me, as if he’s waiting for my real answer.
I nod. “No need to volunteer anything,” I tell him. “Just answer the questions asked. But don’t try to hide information either.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Yes, it is. Get cute with them and you’ll be the target of the next investigation.”
He laughs again, a full one this time, and heads back toward the kitchen. Apparently I’m dismissed.
“Mr. Collier,” I say as he approaches the doors, “I was wondering…”
He hesitates, his hand on the doorknob, as if whatever portion of his day he’d allotted for his discussion with me has been used up. After a moment, he turns to face me, his impatience plain.
I walk closer to him, so I can look him in the eyes when he answers. “I was wondering if you might know anything about the Rawlingses’ marriage.”
“Their marriage?”
“Yes. I’m curious as to whether they were having problems of any kind, what the prospects might have been for their future.”
He plants both hands on his hips, forcing his suit coat open in the process. My eyes rest on a shiny revolver in a shoulder holster at his rib cage.
His gaze follows mine for a moment, and then he looks back up at me, smiling. “Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s legit. I’m licensed.”
I consider telling him I’m not as worried as he might assume—I’m packing my own Lady Smith, after all—but decide against it. “I was asking about the Rawlingses’ marriage,” I remind him.