In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [60]
She waved a scrawny arm at them, urging them inside. “Come into my lair,” she called in a voice as thin as cracked glass, following it with a throaty chortle that made Mel jump.
And it was indeed a lair: overstuffed floral chintz sofas with lacy antimacassars; ornate vases; porcelain statues of brightly colored parakeets and toucans; crystal knickknacks; embroidered footstools and carved whatnots. Mamzelle Dorothea had brought her past with her to the Fairland Nursing Home.
There was only one photograph, though, in a large, simple silver frame on the nightstand. It was of Ed, looking so handsome, so alive, so vital that Mel cried out in shock.
Ms. Fairland introduced them, and Mamzelle Dorothea sank back against the huge leopard cushions propping her up in the chair that looked way too big for her fragile frame. She took a long look at Mel. “You’re the one Ed’s in love with,” she said at last.
Mel crouched by Dorothea’s side. She took her sparrow-boned hand eagerly in hers. “You know?”
“Ed tells me everything. Everything,” she added with a wicked twinkle. “Always has. Ever since we met.”
She glared beyond Mel at Rhianna Fairland hovering in the background. “You may leave now,” she said haughtily. “My conversation with Miss Merrydew and Detective Camelia will be private.”
Ms. Fairland hesitated and glanced at Camelia. He nodded, and with a regretful sigh she exited, closing the door soundlessly behind her.
Long shadows reached across the room, leaving Mamzelle in the half-light, a waxworks figure, frozen in time.
“It took you long enough to get here,” she said sharply to Camelia.
“I’m sorry, Mamzelle, but I only received your message last night. We were in Hainsville.”
“Huh. Hainsville.” She made a little face of distaste.
“You’ve been there?”
“Never. Thank God. But from what Ed told me, it didn’t sound like the kind of place where anybody should live.”
“And what exactly did Ed tell you, Mamzelle Dorothea?” Mel was perched on a little round needlepoint stool, next to the old lady. She took her hand again, anxious for contact with this woman who obviously cared deeply for Ed. And who, in return, was obviously loved by Ed.
“Y’don’t look like the kind of gal I would have expected him to fall for.” Mamzelle inspected her sharply; and looking into her water-blue eyes, unclouded by the cataracts of age, Mel knew that, at least today, she wasn’t missing a trick. “I would have thought he’d go for the southern belle. Landed gentry, just the opposite of where he came from himself. That’s what usually happens when a man is on the way up.”
“I don’t think Ed is on the way up anymore, Mamzelle,” Mel said. “He is already there.”
“Ahh. Then he has no need of the trophy wife.” She looked shrewdly at Camelia. “Trophy wives come in all shapes and configurations, Detective. The blonde bombshell, the nubile teenager, the star. The southern girl next door.”
Camelia nodded uncomfortably. He had the feeling that this old woman could read minds.
“I suppose I had better introduce myself. I am Mademoiselle Dorothea Jefferson Duval. Kin to the famous president on my mother’s side of the family. And to the Creole Duvals on my father’s side. And a resident of Charleston for my entire life.”
“Nice place to live,” Camelia murmured, wondering why he was here. Was she just going to ramble on, tell them her life story, and explain that Ed Vincent was her hero because he paid her bills as an act of charity?
“Mamzelle Dorothea, tell me about Ed, please,” Mel begged. She needed to know the truth so badly, she would have sat all night at this old woman’s feet. She would have bathed her in tears and kisses, given her soul, to know what she had to say.
But instead, Mamzelle Dorothea fished a bottle of bourbon from behind the leopard cushion. They watched, stunned, as she took a water glass from the little crinkle-edged, round oak antique table, which was liberally stained