Three Bedrooms, One Corpse
Chapter Six

MARTIN'S Mercedes was already parked in front of my mother's house. I took a deep breath and exhaled it into the nippy air as I swung my legs out of the front seat of Aubrey's car. He extended his hand and helped me out, and we went up the long flight of steps to the front door still holding hands. The glass storm door showed us the fireplace, lit and welcoming, and my mother's new husband, John Queensland, standing in front of it with a glass of wine. He saw us coming and held the door for us.
"Come in, come in, it's cold out tonight! I think winter is just about really here," John said genially. I realized that he now felt at home in the house, he was the host. I, therefore, must be a guest.
This evening was beginning on several jarring notes.
My mother swept in from the kitchen. She could sweep even in quite narrow dresses; you'd think lots of material would be required for that gesture, but not with Aida Teagarden Queensland.
"Aubrey! Aurora! Come get warm and have a glass of wine with our guests," Mother said, giving me a peck on the cheek and patting Aubrey's shoulder.
He was sitting on the couch, his back to me. I had a little time to get myself steeled. I held Aubrey's hand tighter. We went around the corner of the couch to enter the little "conversation group" before the fire.
"Have you gotten over your shock of yesterday?" asked Barby Lampton. She was wearing an unbecoming dress in dark green and mustard.
"Yes," I said briefly. "And you?"
Aubrey was sliding my coat off. He smoothed my hair gently before he handed the coat to John to hang up. My eyes finally met Martin Bartell's. His face was quite expressionless. His eyes were hot.
"I guess so," Barby said with a little laugh. "Nothing like that has ever happened to me before, but a woman I met at the local library this morning was telling me you've had an exciting life."
"Were you taking out a library card?" I asked after a moment. "Oh, no," Barby said, letting out a little shriek of laughter. "I wanted to look at the New York Times, at the sale ads. I was thinking about flying up to New York before I go home."
Her marriage must have left her pretty affluent.
"You're going back so soon?" John asked hastily. Aubrey and I sat on one of the love seats flanking the couch, and Aubrey took my hand again.
"I'm sorry. I must not be cut out for rural living," Barby said rather smugly. "This is such a sweet little town, all the people are so--talkative." And her eyes cut toward me. "But I miss Chicago more than I thought I would. I'll have to go back and start apartment-hunting. I think Martin was hoping I'd keep house for him, but I don't think I'm quite ready for that." She smirked at us significantly.
"I understand you got hurt quite badly a couple of years ago?" Barby went on, oblivious to the fact that my mother's back got very straight and even John looked rather grim. Martin's eyes were going from one face to another curiously.
"Not seriously," I said finally. "My collarbone was broken, and two ribs."
Aubrey was looking studiously at his wineglass. My brush with death had always seemed a little lurid to him.
"Oh, my God! I know that hurt!"
"Yes. It hurt."
"How did it happen?"
My side began to ache, as it always did when I thought about that horrible night. I heard myself screaming and felt the pain all over again.
"It's old news," I said.
Barby opened her mouth again.
"I hear you have a wonderful cook, Aida," Martin said clearly and smoothly.
Barby looked at him in surprise, Mother in gratitude.
"Yes," she agreed instantly, "but Mrs. Esther is not my cook, really. She's a local caterer. If she knows you well, she'll come into your home and cook for you. If she doesn't know you well, she'll prepare it all and leave it in your kitchen with instructions. Fortunately for me, she knows me well. She picks her own menu, and the next day everyone gets to talk about what Mrs. Esther felt like cooking for Mrs. Queensland, or Mr. Bartell, or whomever. We've all tried to figure out how she selects her dishes, but no one can pick out a pattern."
Mrs. Esther's cooking and character had provided more conversational fodder for parties than any other topic in Lawrenceton. Martin segued smoothly from Mrs. Esther to catering disasters at parties he'd attended, Aubrey ran that into bizarre weddings at which he'd officiated, and we were all laughing by the time Mrs. Esther appeared in the doorway in a spotless white uniform to announce that it was time to come to the table. She was a tall, heavy black woman with hair always arranged in braids crowning her head, and thick gold hoops in her ears. Mrs. Esther--no one ever called her Lucinda--was a serious woman. If she had a sense of humor, she kept it a secret from her clients. Mr. Esther was a secret, too. Young Esthers were always on the honor roll printed in the newspaper, and they were apparently as closemouthed as their mother.
We all went into Mother's dining room with a sense of anticipation. Sometimes Mrs. Esther cooked French, sometimes traditional Southern, once or twice even German or Creole. Most often it was just American food well prepared and served. Tonight we had baked ham, sweet potato casserole, green beans with small new potatoes, homemade rolls, Waldorf salad, and Hummingbird Cake for dessert. Mother had placed herself and John on the ends, of course, and Aubrey and I faced Barby and Martin, respectively.
I looked at Martin when I thought he was unfolding his napkin. He instantly looked up, and we stared at each other, his hand frozen in the act of shaking out the napkin.
Oh, dear, this was just awful. I would have given anything to be miles and miles away, but there was no excuse I could make to leave just then. I looked away, addressed some remark at random to Aubrey, and resolutely kept my eyes turned down for at least sixty seconds afterwards.
Mrs. Esther did not serve, though she did remain to clean up afterward. So we were all busy passing dishes and butter for a few minutes. Then Mother asked Aubrey to say grace, and he did with sincerity. I poked at the food on my plate, unable for a few minutes to enjoy it. I stole a quick glance across the table. He was freshly shaved; I bet he'd needed to, he was probably a hairy man. His hair must have been black before it turned white early, his eyebrows were still so dark and striking. His chin was rounded, and his lips curved generously. I wanted Martin Bartell so much it made me sick. It was a dangerous feeling. I had always been wary of dangerous feelings.
I turned to Aubrey, who had chosen this evening of all evenings to tell me about his sterility. To tell me how lovely Emily Kaye's little girl was. To warn me that he wanted children and couldn't have them with me, but that Emily already had a child who could be his in all but name. I had always theoretically wanted a baby of my own, but--I thought now--if I loved Aubrey enough, I would have forgone my own children. If he had loved me enough.
This was not going to happen. Aubrey was not going to hold me fast to his anchor while the danger of Martin Bartell passed by. He was going to cast me adrift, I thought melodramatically. I took a bite of my roll. Martin looked at me, and I smiled. It was better than smoldering at him. He smiled back, and I realized this was the first time I'd seen him look happy. My mother eyed us, and I took another bite of roll.
An hour later we were all protesting how full we were and that the cake had been the clincher. Chairs were pushed back, everyone stood up, my mother swept into the kitchen to compliment Mrs. Esther, Barby excused herself, and I walked back into the living room. Martin fell in beside me. Behind us Aubrey and John discussed golf.
"Tomorrow night," Martin said quietly. "Let's eat dinner in Atlanta tomorrow night."
"Just us?" I didn't mean to sound stupid, but I didn't want to be surprised when he turned up with his sister.
"Yes, just us. I'll pick you up at seven." His fingers brushed mine.
After thirty or forty more minutes of polite conversation, the little dinner party broke up.
Aubrey and I went to his car after Martin and Barby had pulled away, and we exclaimed over how cold it was and how soon Thanksgiving seemed, all of a sudden. Talking about the food lasted us until my place, when he courteously got out to walk me to the door. This was where our dates usually ended; Aubrey wasn't taking chances on being swept away by passion. Tonight he kissed me on the cheek instead of the lips. I felt a surge of grief.
"Good night, Aubrey," I said in a small voice. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye, sweetheart," he said with some sadness. He kissed me again and was gone.
I dragged myself up the stairs to the bedroom and undressed, moving slowly with an exhaustion so deep it was like a drug. Once I'd washed my face and pulled on my nightgown, I crawled into bed and was out when my head hit the pillow.
I woke up slowly the next day. It was sunny and cold. The tree on the front lawn of the townhouse row flicked its bare branches at my window. I was house-hunting this afternoon and had a date for the evening: that made it a very crowded day indeed, by my recent (non working) standards. I pulled on an old pair of jeans and a shirt, some thick socks and sneakers, and made myself a big breakfast: biscuits, sausage, eggs--Then I had three hours before Eileen picked me up. Rather than wander around restlessly thinking about Martin, I began to clean. Starting with the downstairs, I picked up, scrubbed, dusted, vacuumed. Once the downstairs was done to my satisfaction, I moved to the upstairs. The guest bedroom was full of boxes of things from Jane's I'd decided to keep, and another bedstead was leaning up against the wall; so cleaning wouldn't be of much use. But in my bedroom I really went to town. My sheets got changed, the bed was perfectly made, the bathroom shone with cleanliness, the towels were fresh, and all my makeup was put away in the drawer where it belonged instead of cluttering the top of my vanity table. I even refolded everything in my chest of drawers.
Then I decided to pick out my clothes for the evening, in case I had a lot of houses to look at today and got home late. What did you wear to a presumably fancy restaurant with a worldly older man you had the hots for?
I'd recently discovered a women's clothing place in the city that stocked things just for petites. My purchases there were among my best and most becoming, because my friend Amina's mom's shop, Great Day, just didn't carry that many petites. Now that I had money, I could buy things even when I didn't need them at the moment. I had one dress I'd been saving for something fancy, if only I had the guts to wear it. It was teal and it shone; it was a little above the knee and had a low neckline and was cut exactly along my body. I took it out of the closet and eyed it nervously. It wasn't what I thought of as indecent, but it certainly complemented my figure.
Now came the indecent part. On the same day, I'd bought an amazing black lace bra and a matching garter belt. This was being seriously naughty for me, and I had been very embarrassed at the cash register. With a sense of casting all caution to the winds, I laid out these garments on the bed, along with some sheer black hose and high-heeled black pumps, and hoped I wouldn't disgrace myself by falling over in them. I wasn't at all sure I had enough confidence to wear this ensemble, but the time was now, if ever. I would aim for this, and if my confidence seeped away during the day and I wore more ordinary undergarments, no one would know I'd chickened out but myself.
It was now almost time for Eileen to come, and I walked through the whole townhouse checking it for details. Everything was clean, orderly, and inviting. I only hoped I wouldn't run into Martin today, since I looked my worst right now.
The doorbell rang at one o'clock on the dot, and when I opened it with my purse in hand and coat halfway on, I was relieved to see Eileen wasn't wearing one of her "realtor" outfits, but a pair of nice slacks and a blouse, with a bright fuchsia jacket and sneakers.
"Hi, Roe! Ready to start looking?"
"Sure, Eileen. Is the wind blowing?"
"You bet, and colder than a witch's tit."
At least it wasn't raining or snowing. But by the look of the leaden sky and the way the trees were tossing, it felt as if it would be raining before long.
"You seemed unsure about what you really wanted," Eileen began when we were buckled up, "so I just called around and found out what I could show you today, in your size and price range. We have five houses to see."
"Oh, that's good."
"Yes, better than I expected at such short notice. The first one's on Rosemary. Here's the sheet on it... it has three bedrooms, two baths, a large kitchen and family room, a formal living room, small yard, and is all electric .. ."
The house on Rosemary needed new carpet and a new roof. That was not insurmountable. What struck it off my list was the narrow lot. My neighbors could look right in my bedroom window and shake hands with me, if they should be so inclined. I'd had too many years of townhouse living for that. If I was going to own a house, I wanted privacy.
The next house had four bedrooms, which I liked, and a poky kitchen with no storage room, which I didn't.
The third house, a two-story in a rather run-down part of Lawrenceton, was most attractive. It needed some renovation, but I could pay for that. I loved the master bedroom, and I loved the breakfast area overlooking the backyard. But the house next door had been divided into apartments, and I didn't like the thought of all the in-and-out traffic--there again, I'd had enough.
The fourth house was a possible. It was a smaller house in a very nice area of town, which meant it cost the same as a larger home elsewhere. But it was only ten years old, was in excellent shape, and had a beautifully landscaped, low-maintenance yard and lots of closets. Also a Jacuzzi in the master bath, which I eyed with interest. It was over my price limit, but not too drastically.
By the time we pulled up in front of the fifth house, Eileen and I had learned a lot about each other. Eileen was intelligent, conscientious, made a note to find out the answer to each and every small query I had, tried to stay out of my way as I considered each property, and was in general a really great realtor. She at least pretended to consider that not knowing exactly what you wanted was normal.
I was trying to overlook things that I could do something about if I were really interested in the house, and concentrate instead on things that would absolutely knock the house out of the running. These things could be pretty nebulous, though, and then I felt obliged to come up with a concrete reason to give Eileen.
The fifth house was the killer. There was nothing wrong with it. It was a three-bedroom with a pleasant yard, a small but adequate kitchen, and the usual number of closets. It was certainly big enough for one person. If toys were any evidence, it was not quite big enough for a couple with several children. It was very similar to its neighbors ... the exterior was one of three or four standardly used in this subdivision. I was sure anyone on the street would have no trouble finding her way to any particular room or closet in any house.
"I hate this house," I said.
Eileen tapped her fingernails absently on the imitation wooden-block Formica of the kitchen counter. "What is it you dislike so much, so I won't waste our time showing you anything else with that feature?" A reasonable question.
"It's too much like all the other houses on the street. And everyone else on this street seems to have little children. I wouldn't feel a part of the neighborhood."
Eileen was resigning herself to the fact that I wasn't going to be the easiest sell she'd ever had.
"This is just the first day," she said philosophically. "We'll see more. And it's not like you have a time limit."
I nodded, and Eileen dropped me back at my place, thinking out loud the whole time about what she could line up to show me in the coming week. I listened with half my attention, the other half wrapped up in my date tonight. I was trying to keep my mental screen absolutely blank, trying not to imagine any scenes from the evening, trying not even to conjecture on its outcome.
Of course, I still had time to kill when I got home, and with the house clean and my clothes selected, nothing to kill it with. So I turned on the television, and when that failed, I tried to concentrate on an old Catherine Aird, counting on her never-failing blend of humor and detection to get me through a couple of hours. After ten minutes of concentrated effort, Aird worked, as she always did. I even forgot to look at my watch for minutes at a time.
Then I remembered I hadn't done my exercise video that morning. Madeleine came to watch with her usual amazement, and I worked up quite a sweat and felt very virtuous.
Finally it really was time for a shower.
I hadn't scrubbed myself this much since my senior prom. Every atom of my skin and inch of my hair was absolutely clean, every extra hair was shaved from my legs, and when I emerged I slapped everything on myself I could think of, even cuticle cream on my messy cuticles. I plucked my eyebrows. I put on my makeup with the care and deliberation of a high-fashion model, and dried my hair to the last strand, brushing it afterward at least fifty times. I even cleaned my glasses.
I wiggled into my incredible underwear without looking in the mirror, at least not until I pulled the black slip over my head. Then, very carefully, the teal dress, which I zipped up with some difficulty. I switched purses, put on my high-heeled pumps, and surveyed myself in Jane's mirror.
I looked as good as I possibly could, and if it wasn't good enough ... so be it.
I went downstairs to wait.