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ONE
“Charlie Harris, what are you doing hiding in the kitchen? Stiffen up that spine, young man, and get yourself in there where you’re needed.”
Miss An’gel Ducote didn’t wait for a response. The grande dame of Athena society turned and strode back toward my living room. She had been telling the citizens of Athena what to do for more than seventy of her eighty-odd years. Far be it from me to cast aside my Southern upbringing and defy her—even if the last place I wanted to be this Wednesday night was my own living room. Confrontation unsettled me, and I had taken refuge in the kitchen, ostensibly to brew fresh tea. I wasn’t going to avoid the unpleasantness that easily, however.
The tea forgotten, I scurried after Miss An’gel as fast as my fifty-two-year-old legs could move. My feet tangled together just inside the living room, and I grabbed at the door frame to steady myself.
Miss An’gel had resumed her place on the sofa with her younger sister, Miss Dickce. Her fire-engine red, vintage Chanel woolen dress provided a startling contrast to her sister’s sober black. I didn’t ordinarily pay much attention to women’s clothing, but my actor daughter, Laura, waxed ecstatic whenever we encountered one of the Ducote sisters. Evidently they’d inherited a considerable wardrobe of designer clothing from their mother and grandmother. Laura practically swooned over the creations of Worth, Chanel, Balenciaga, and Dior she’d seen them wear, and I’d picked up enough detail to identify the designers’ work. I drew the line at shoes.
Diesel, my Maine Coon cat, nestled between the sisters. His head and upper torso lay across Miss Dickce’s lap, and his purr rumbled from across the room. He lifted his head briefly to acknowledge my return, but as long as the Ducote sisters remained in my house, he would stick close to them. The ladies adored my cat from the first moment they saw him, and Diesel appeared to be every bit as smitten with them.
Vera Cassity’s strident tones claimed my wandering attention as I eased toward my chair. She cast a frown in my direction as she held forth. “As I was saying before Mr. Harris left the room, it’s ridiculous to consider holding the gala anywhere else but Ranelagh. We have the only private dining room that can seat seventy.” She leaned forward in the wingback chair and glared at the other members of the board of the Friends of Athena Public Library.
Besides Vera Cassity, the Ducote sisters, and me, the board was composed of Teresa Farmer, the library’s new director; my boarder, Stewart Delacorte; and Sissy Beauchamp. The three of them appeared no more inclined than I to wander onto the battlefield.
“Vera, honey, we all know how big the dining room at Ranelagh is.” Miss An’gel treated her adversary to a brief smile. “But we are not proposing to have a state dinner. We’re having a gala, and I believe that means a festive occasion. Darling, there’s nothing festive about a sit-down dinner for that many people.”
“Pardon me for trying to inject some class into the event.” Vera puffed up like a porcupine about to discharge her quills. “I seem to recall last year’s gala at River Hill got downright rowdy, and there were several complaints from your neighbors. Although apparently that’s nothing unusual.” She sniffed and twiddled with the oversized collar of her dowdy pea green dress. The color did not flatter her sallow skin.
The annual duel of the antebellum mansions, I thought. From what I’d heard before I joined the Friends board two months ago, Vera and Miss An’gel argued over the site of the gala every year. Miss An’gel usually won. The Ducotes, after all, had lived at River Hill ever since it was built way back in 1838. Vera Cassity and her husband, Morton (“call me Morty”), bought Ranelagh from its impoverished owners only fifteen years ago. Vera has apparently been trying to wrest control of Athena society away from the Ducote sisters ever since.
“Can Dickce and I help it if people actually have fun at River Hill?” Miss An’gel’s sweet tone fooled no one, I was sure. “The point of a gala is to loosen people up so they’ll whip out their checkbooks and write numbers with a bunch of zeros in them. The looser they are, the bigger the donation, darling. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“Getting people drunk, even in the name of charity, is downright disgusting.” Vera bared her teeth in her version of a smile. “But I suppose River Hill has seen its share of heavy drinking.”
Sissy Beauchamp smothered a laugh, while both Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce regarded Vera with catlike disdain. “The Ducote men have always enjoyed their liquor, I must admit.” Miss Dickce coughed delicately. “Before I forget, Vera, honey, how is your poor brother doing these days? Is he comfortable down at Whitfield?”
Whitfield was the state mental hospital near Jackson, and everyone in Athena knew that Vera’s brother, Amory Hobson, had lived there for the past thirty years. According to local gossip, Amory was crazy as a betsy bug and given to stripping off all his clothes and running around hugging anyone he saw.
Vera’s face turned an angry red, and she gripped the arms of her chair so hard I feared she’d rip the sixty-year-old fabric.
Before she could form a reply, Teresa Farmer—brave soul that she was—attempted to scale back the hostilities. “Miss An’gel, Miss Dickce, Mrs. Cassity, it’s really wonderful that you all want to host this year’s gala. If it hadn’t been for your support over the years, the Friends wouldn’t be the highly effective, respected group it is. Everyone in Athena has benefited from your efforts, and I hope we can continue to work together for even more success this year.” As head of the Athena Public Library now, Teresa had to play peacemaker. I knew she hated confrontations like this as much as I did, and I didn’t envy her the challenges of her new job.
Sissy Beauchamp spoke next. Her sultry voice always made me think of Lauren Bacall, but with a Southern accent, of course. “I think we should be guided by the theme of this year’s gala, don’t y’all? We’re going to be dressing up as our favorite literary characters and giving out prizes for the cleverest costumes and holding a contest for who can name most characters correctly. Who’s going to have time to sit down to a formal dinner at a masquerade ball?”
Sissy—real name Judianne—treated Vera to a malicious smile. The two women loathed each other. Sissy—again according to local gossip—had recently started an affair with Morty Cassity. She was nearly half Vera’s age and a real stunner, with gorgeous red hair, a creamy complexion, and a figure reminiscent of Hollywood glamour girl Ava Gardner.
Stewart Delacorte, a new board member like me, nodded emphatically. “A formal dinner would cost a lot more, too, and we need to keep the expenses down as much as possible. Finger food is a lot cheaper and works just fine with a costume party.” He smiled at the Ducote sisters. No doubt at all where his sympathies lay.
Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce exchanged glances, then looked at me. “Well, Charlie,” Miss An’gel said, “what’s your opinion? Formal dinner or finger food?”
That wasn’t the real question, and we all knew it. Was I going to support the Ducote sisters and River Hill publicly or go over to the enemy and vote with Vera Cassity and Ranelagh?
Considering that I didn’t like Mrs. Cassity any more than the other members of the board did, I had little difficulty in answering, “Finger food.” I hated, however, the atmosphere of hostility and dissension brought on by an absurd power struggle.