In a few minutes, I was a little out of town but still within the city limits at the white house on Partridge Road. House was a belittling term to apply to the senior Winthrops’ dwelling. Mansion or estate would be more accurate. I turned onto the semicircular drive that swept opulently through a huge front yard. The drive was illuminated by lampposts stationed at intervals on either side of the paved surface. Pools of water from an afternoon shower glistened with reflected light.
I went up the shallow front steps as quickly as I could. The wind was biting through my coat and jeans. I limped across the stone flags of the front portico, too cold to even think about standing back to admire the facade of the house. I punched the doorbell.
Mrs. Winthrop opened the door herself. I had to look down at her. I judged Arnita Winthrop to be in her midseventies. She was beautifully turned out in chestnut brown, which made the rich white of her hair glow. She was lightly made up, and her nails were manicured and coated in clear polish. Her earrings would have paid six months’ electric bills for my house. She was absolutely charming.
“Come in, come in, it’s freezing out there!” As I stepped past her into the glowing warmth of the entrance hall, she took my hand and clasped it lightly and briefly.
“I’m so glad to meet you at last,” she said with a smile. She glanced at my cane and courteously did not mention it.
Her southern accent, laced with the flat vowels of southern Arkansas, was the thickest I’d heard in years. It made everything she said sound warm and homey.
“Marie talked about you all the time,” Mrs. Winthrop continued. “You were so helpful to her, and she thought so highly of you.”
“I liked her.”
“Here, let me take your coat.” To my discomfort, Mrs. Winthrop eased the coat off my shoulders and hung it in a convenient closet. “Now, come on in the family room. My husband and son are in there, having a drink.”
The family room, predictably, was as large as the ground floor of the Shakespeare Garden Apartments. I had never seen a room that amounted to an investment. There were animal heads on the dark paneling, which had never been on sale at Home Depot. The colors in the upholstery and wallpaper were deep and rich. On top of the wall-to-wall was a rug that I could have stared at for hours, its pattern was so intricate and beautiful.
The two men in the room weren’t nearly as appealing.
Howell Winthrop, Sr., was a little rat terrier of a man, with thin gray hair and a thin sharp face and an alert expression. He was wearing a suit and tie, and looked as if that was his casual wear. I thought he was older than his wife, perhaps eighty. Howell Jr. looked much less at ease than his father; in fact, he looked terrible.
“Honey, this is Lily Bard,” Arnita Winthrop said as if her husband should be happy to hear it. At least her equal in manners, he tried to look delighted I’d come, and he and his son both rose without hesitation.
“Pleased to meet you, young lady,” the older man said, and I could hear his age in his voice. “I’ve heard a lot of nice things about you.” But his tone said “interesting stories” rather than “nice things.”
Howell Jr. and I nodded at each other. I hadn’t seen Howell since the day of the break-in. He was giving me the strangest, most intense look. I could see he was trying to transfer some thought directly to my brain.
This was becoming more complex by the second. Now, what might he want me to say, or not say? And why? Could I manage to care?
“Lily and I will just go into the other room for a minute,” Arnita Winthrop excused us. Underneath her courtesy and the mask of her expensive turnout, I realized the older woman was anxious. Very anxious. That made three of us.
Her husband looked cool as a cucumber.
“Now, sugar, wait a minute,” Howell Sr. said, with the greatest good nature. “You can’t just whisk the prettiest woman I’ve seen in ages out of the room before I have a chance to get a good look at her.”
“Oh, you!” said Arnita with an excellent imitation of perfect good humor. She relaxed visibly. “Sit down, then, Miss Bard.” She set an example by easing into the couch opposite the two men, who were in higher wing chairs. I had to comply or look like a clod.
I was sorry I’d come. I wanted to go home.
“Miss Bard, weren’t you in the church during the explosion, and at my son’s house at the time of this very mysterious break-in?”
My senses went on full alert. The older Winthrop knew full well I had been there.
“Yes.”
He waited a second for me to say more, saw I wasn’t going to.
“Oh my goodness,” Arnita murmured. “I know you were scared to death.”
I cocked an eyebrow.
Howell Jr.‘s forehead was beaded with sweat.
I didn’t want to talk about the church. “Actually, I didn’t know anyone was breaking into the house until he left. I probably scared him more than he scared me.” I hoped making the burglar singular would make me sound more ignorant. Howell Jr. looked off at a stag’s head, but I could read relief in his posture. I’d given the correct response.
Looking at the three other people in the room, I had the strangest feeling: It seemed so unlikely that I was in this house, in their company. It was like falling down the rabbit’s hole in Alice in Wonderland. I wondered if I was suffering some strange aftereffect of the explosion.
Howell Sr. found my last remark quite amusing. “You got any idea what they were after, young lady? You even know if they were niggers or whites?”
I was used to taking people in their context, but I felt my back stiffen and probably my face, too. I felt Howell Sr.‘s tone was contemptuous and hectoring. But if I’d been tempted to upbraid the old man, that temptation passed from me when I saw the anxiety in my hostess’s face.
“No,” I said.
“My goodness, a woman of few words, ain’t that unusual,” Howell Sr. cackled. But his faded blue eyes were not amused. The oldest living Winthrop was used to more respect.
“A break-in in broad daylight,” Arnita said, shaking her head at the evils of the modern world. “I can’t think what was going through their minds.”
“Oh, Mama,” said her son, “they could have taken the VCRs and the camcorder and even the television sets and gotten enough money to buy drugs for days.”
“I guess you’re right.” Arnita shook her head in dismay. “The world’s just not getting any better.”
It seemed a strange point to make with me, but perhaps the older Winthrops were the only two people in Shakespeare who didn’t know my history.
“Honey, Miss Bard knows how bad the world is,” her husband said, his voice sad. “Her past, and this terrible bombing…”
“Oh, my dear! Forgive me, I would never want to-”
“It’s all right,” I said, unable to keep the weariness from my voice.
“How’s your leg, Miss Bard?” the old man asked. He sounded just as tired as I was. “And I understand you lost part of your ear?”
“Not the important part,” I said. “And my leg is better.”
All the Winthrops made commiserating noises.
Arnita seized the ensuing pause to tell her husband and son firmly that she and I had something to discuss, and I heaved myself to my feet to follow her erect back down a hall to a smaller room that appeared to be Arnita’s own little sitting room. It was decorated in off-white, beige, and peach, and all the furniture was scaled down for Arnita Winthrop’s small body.
Again I was ensconced on a comfortable sofa, again Arnita sat, too, and she got down to business.
“Lily, if I may call you that, I have something of Marie’s to give you.”
I digested that in silence. Marie hadn’t had much at all, and I’d assumed Chuck would be handling whatever little odds and ends of business Marie had left to be completed. I nodded at Arnita to indicate she could continue when she chose.