CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning is Thursday, my day off. I choose to take a break from the grounds, hoping that by separating myself from the estate, I can relieve some of the tension that hovers in the back of my mind after my encounter with Elizabeth in the garden the day before.

I don't feel up to the hustle and bustle of the city, so I head instead to the historic district. The horse-drawn carriages and cobblestone streets call to mind the elegance of the pre-war South. Unfortunately, that thought only reminds me of the rot that often lies underneath beauty.

I sigh and press on, determined to enjoy a peaceful and relaxing day. I walk through the historic district and find more to admire in the antiquated buildings and charming parks with their bubbling brooks and peaceful ponds. I deliberately give the center of the district a wide berth. I know from my research into Savannah that the center of the historic district is dominated by the Cathedral Basilica of Saint John the Baptist. Considering my poor relationship with the statue of the Wrathful Moses, I am not enthused by the idea of a trip through a Gothic-Revival cathedral.

My detour deposits me in a quaint farmer's market that dominates the edge of one of the district's parks. I wander through the charming little market and marvel at how this rural market could exist, surrounded by the wealth of Savannah. A closer look tells me that the wealth is not so far away as I think at first. The vendors all wear clothing that, while casual, is clearly of excellent quality and quite expensive. I catch quite a few labels from designers far posher than seems appropriate for clothing such as blue jeans and khakis.

Must everything be fake? Can nothing simply be what it seems to be and nothing else? Why am I always surrounded by mystery? Just once, I'd like to go through a day encountering nothing but what's supposed to be there.

A voice in my head reminds me that I've just spent several months in such a sensible environment while working through the Tylers. I purse my lips at the thought. Well, why can't life always be like that? Why can't that be the normal and not this ever-present charade?

Still determined to enjoy myself, I decided to make some purchases. I buy a few jars of honey from different flowers and home-canned tomatoes. I stop at a flower stall and ask if there are any live plants I can purchase.

The florist gives me a defensive frown and replies, "All of my flowers were picked this morning."

"And they're lovely," I reply. "I was just hoping to have a plant for my room that would last through the summer."

The florist's frown deepens. "Summer will be over in a couple of months. And anyway, if you want a plant, you should get one from the garden. The Greenwoods have plenty to spare, I'm sure. We sell cut flowers here. Not so fancy as potted plants, but they liven some people's day."

I have no interest in arguing with someone over the quality of their flowers, so I only smile and bid them good day. I am a little disturbed that they recognize me as an employee of the Greenwoods. I have been recognized as an employee of wealthy families before, but Savannah is a large city. There are nearly one hundred fifty thousand people here. How could the Greenwoods be known well enough that I would be recognized as their new housekeeper?

I suppose that I haven't gone far enough. The Greenwood Estate is close to the historic district, close enough that I walk from the house to the park. Perhaps that florist is a neighbor.

Somewhat relieved by that, I decide I've explored enough for the day and begin the journey home. Almost immediately, I am accosted by a woman in her mid-sixties who waves energetically to me as though I were some long-lost relative.

"Hello!" she cries, crossing one of the cobblestone walkways to approach me. "You must be Mary Wilcox."

I nod warily. "And you are?"

She extends a hand. "Clara Beaumont. You and I are neighbors now."

I take the hand because manners dictate that I do, but I remain wary. "Are we?"

"Of course we are!" she says, as though it's ridiculous that I don't already know that. "The Beaumont Estate is just west of the Greenwood Estate."

"I see. Well, it's nice to meet you, Miss Beaumont."

"Oh please, call me Clara."

She takes my hand and leads me with her. Politeness doesn't necessarily dictate that I allow her to do this, but if the woman is a neighbor, then I'd rather not have her complaining about my rudeness to the Greenwoods, even if she is the one being rude here.

I suppose I'm being unkind. Aggressive neighborliness may be annoying, but it's not rudeness.

"I must confess," I say, "I'm surprised to be so well-known after only a week spent in their service. Or at all, really. Is it common for people to interest themselves in the household staff here?"

"All people are interesting," Clara replies, "whether they believe to be so or not. And the Greenwoods, of course, are the most interesting of all."

"Is that so?"

"Oh yes. Especially since that poor girl died."

I feel the pull again, so strong that I physically stiffen. My mind pleads with me to ignore the feeling, but I can't. "What girl?"

Clara grins triumphantly at me. I get the sense the woman lives for gossip, and I understand now why she's latched onto me. I am a new arrival, and better yet, I am an employee of her neighbors. I am a fresh ear for the tales she has to tell, and possibly a source of new tantalizing information to quench her thirst.

"Oh yes," she says. "Deirdre McCoy. A lovely girl, but quite silly. She was one of those Southern belles who are praised for their beauty by people who don't value anything but. Unfortunately, she was too foolish to realize the jealousy that would provoke in certain people."

My heartbeat quickens. It occurs to me rather unpleasantly that I am no better than Clara. Perhaps my "thirst for justice" is nothing more than an old woman's love of other people's business.

Still, I can't resist asking, "Annabelle Greenwood?"

She laughs, a tittering sound that is neither harsh nor grating but is still somehow unpleasant. "No, of course not! This was long before she was born."

"Elizabeth then?"

"No." She grins conspiratorially at me as though she is about to reveal the secrets of the ancients. "Violet."

"Violet?"

"Yes. This would have been… let's see. I was in the tenth grade, so that would be… fifty-two years ago."

The pull weakens considerably. She's relating a scandal to me that took place decades ago, perhaps even before I was born. I might fancy myself an occasional champion of justice, but I'm not going to harass an old woman over a conspiracy from fifty years ago related to me by a nosy neighbor.

"I see," I reply noncommittally.

"Deirdre was just beautiful, just beautiful! When I tell you that you have to have seen her to understand, believe me. Hers was the kind of beauty that comes along once a generation. All of the men in town wanted her. Poor little thing."

"Yes, that sounds terrible." I hope she doesn't pick up on the sarcasm in my voice.

"Now Violet was… well she was pretty too, of course, and her family had money to make her look even prettier, what with fancy silks from Europe and makeup from Japan and all of that, but she wasn't the sort of beauty that Deirdre was. No one was.

"Violet, however, was smart. I'll give her that much. She was smart as a whip, and I'm afraid to say that intelligence did little to raise her stock among the traditionally minded men of Savannah. She was forced to watch all of those men fawn over vapid, gorgeous little Deirdre while ignoring her. Now me? I was never very pretty or very smart, so I just accepted that I would have to trap some poor unsuspecting man from outside of Savannah. I didn't need to be jealous, or else I'd have to be jealous of the whole city.

"But Violet… Violet was jealous. She befriended Deirdre, and the poor little thing was too foolish to see that Violet was only manipulating her. We all saw it, but of course, no one expected her to disappear."

I still have no intention of harassing the senile Violet over an alleged event from before I was born, but my eyes widen in surprise nonetheless. "Violet killed her?"

"You didn't hear that from me," Clara insists. "But let's just say that had Violet not been engaged to Johnathan Henrickson, they would have asked far more questions than they did."

"About what?"

Clara's smile widens. "Well, Johnathan was engaged to Violet, but quite a few people observed the lovely Deirdre giving Johnathan some… shall we say, attention?"

"Goodness!"

"To quote a famous thespian, goodness had nothing to do with it. It seems that they weren't particularly careful with the affair. Let's just say…"

She stops herself here, and this time instead of waiting for me to probe further, her smile fades, and her eyes widen, as though she's realized that this time, she really has gone too far.

"Anyway, I should let you walk the rest of the way. I'm welcome at the Greenwood Estate, but it's best I only come when invited so they have a chance to keep Violet out of the way."

I look up and realize that we've walked all the way back to the estate. I blink in surprise. I wasn't aware she had talked for that long.

"Oh, and if you don't mind, please keep this to yourself. Violet gets confused these days. She probably doesn't even remember poor Deirdre."

I manage a smile. "Of course. Thank you for the conversation."

She gives me a shark-toothed grin and replies. "Thank you . I'll see you around, Mary."

"I'll see you, Clara."

I head up to the house and try to make sense of my thoughts. Clara is almost certainly lying. Violet is senile, but senility tends to reach such memories as the murder of a classmate last. Violet would be more likely to reveal her guilt than to conceal it, were she guilty at all, which I very much doubt.

And anyway, if her mind is compromised, there's no justice for me to pursue. She won't fully understand why she's being punished if she's punished now. There's no mystery for me to solve.

Still, as I walk hurriedly past the vengeful eyes of Moses, I can't help but wonder if the existence of that secret is a sign that others lurk in the dark corners of the Greenwood estate. Perhaps I should look a little more closely at the secrets this family hides. Perhaps Moses' wrath isn't for my meddling but for the victims buried under his gaze who have yet to receive justice.