No Nest for the Wicket(41)

“Yes, the photo,” I said. “I guess that’s why you didn’t recognize her. Only seeing the photo.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“I mean, I’d assume you’d recognize her, since she was a member of the historical society when she was here.”

“She may have attended a few meetings,” Mrs. Pruitt said.

“Enough meetings to get elected vice president and historian.” I pulled out one of my photocopies—the one with the photo of the society’s new officers.

Mrs. Pruitt studied it for a few moments.

“Oh, yes,” she said, handing back the photocopy. “I remember her now. Not a particularly satisfactory officer, I must say. We never saw that much of her. You can see why I didn’t recognize her, of course. The years weren’t exactly been kind to her, were they?”

Kind? If you asked me, the years had been downright lavish with their generosity. Lindsay had looked better at forty than many women did at half that age. But Mrs. Pruitt looked happier now that she’d found an excuse for her failure to identify the victim. Damn.

I changed the subject.

“By the way, I ran into a copy of your book at the library,” I said. “Fascinating stuff. Mind if I ask you a few questions about it?”

“Certainly,” she said. “Except—my goodness, look at the time! Lacie, how much longer are you going to take?”

“I’m sorry, Henrietta,” Lacie said. “Everything’s nearly ready.”

An optimistic estimate, since it took her twenty-five minutes to finish whatever it was she was doing. She might have done it faster if Mrs. Pruitt had continued to ignore her instead of micromanaging the process. Or was I merely miffed because Mrs. Pruitt’s nonstop harangue at Lacie effectively prevented me from continuing to quiz her about her history book?

Strange. Most authors I’d met were more than willing to talk about their brainchildren, whether you wanted them to or not.

Mrs. Pruitt finally bid Mother and me an effusive good-bye and exited, with Lacie trailing after, carrying so much stuff that Eric went to help her, unasked. Silence reigned in the kitchen at last. For a few moments.

“What a ghastly woman,” Mother said.





Chapter Twenty-one

“You see why Michael and I haven’t jumped at the chance to join the country club,” I said. “Or the historical society, or the garden club.”

“Quite understandable. The way she treats poor Lucy Butler!”

“Lacie,” I said.

“Whose only fault is that she really needs to speak up for herself more,” Mother continued. “Learn to say no. Someone should take her in hand.”

“I think Mrs. Pruitt already has,” I said, wincing. I could see Lacie’s life being made a living hell, caught between the devil of her habitual servitude to Mrs. Pruitt and the deep blue sea of Mother’s demand that she grow a backbone.

“And why wouldn’t she talk to you about her book?” Mother asked. “Most of the time, you can’t shut her up about her insufferable family’s history.”

“Because she suspects I want to interrogate her about the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge,” I said. “Which probably wasn’t the glorious Confederate victory Mrs. Pruitt’s book makes it seem. Even I figured that much out, so you can imagine what a real historian would say.”

“Oh dear,” Mother said. Conflicting emotions fought for control of her face—her dislike of Mrs. Pruitt warring with her sympathy for anyone betrayed by the harsh reality of history. She had forgiven Dad for proving that Isaiah Hollingworth, the ancestor who had gotten her and countless cousins into the DAR, had actually been an infamous Tory, rather than a patriot. Forgiveness came easier, since Dad made his genealogical revelation about the time she’d grown completely bored with the local DAR, thus giving her the perfect escape hatch. She’d spent weeks crafting her resignation speech—and practicing the look of dignified sorrow and resignation with which she’d deliver it.

On the other hand, she still hadn’t forgiven the historians who revealed, to her horror, that the subtle, muted, tasteful Williamsburg colors she was so found of using in her decorating schemes were only subtle, muted, and tasteful because they’d faded in the two centuries since our misguided Colonial forebears had painted their drawing rooms with electric blues, lush scarlets, and garish eggplant purples. I’d made the mistake of taking her to Mount Vernon after they’d repainted the dining room in a verdigris green so vivid, most people stopped to blink when they entered. I thought it was cool. Mother had spent the rest of the afternoon lying down in a darkened room with a cold compress over her forehead, sipping weak tea and muttering things about the father of our country that would have gladdened the heart of George III.