Free The Ladies of Garrison Gardens by Louise Shaffer Page B

Garrison Gardens and the Garrison resort were so tangled up legally and financially she'd never figure it out on her own. So it was very kind of Just Call Me Stuart to invite her, and there was no reason for the little shiver of dread that made its way up her spine every time she thought about it. The shiver came from the same place as the sweaty palms she always had when she did her income taxes, which on her yearly salary were a joke, but anything official and monetary had that effect on her.
    Just Call Me Stuart and Mrs. Just Call Me had lived in Charles Valley since he took over his daddy's duties at Garrison Gardens. Before that, they'd had a home in Atlanta, so there were many people in town, including Laurel, who had never seen the couple up close. She'd met Junior for the first time when he summoned her to his office at the gardens and gave her the news about Peggy's will. At that time she'd been in shock, and she hadn't registered much about him. She'd taken away a sense of a generic middle-aged guy in a muted plaid sports jacket. The wife was a complete mystery.
    On Tuesday night, before supper at the Big House, instead of putting on her usual jeans and T-shirt as she had sworn to herself she was going to, Laurel grabbed one of her skirt-and-blouse outfits from her days at the
Gazette
.
    “But I'm not wearing pantyhose for anyone,” she said defiantly to the dogs, who were watching her. However, she did shove her feet into the sandals with the one-inch heels. When she checked the address Stuart Lawrence had given her, she realized she'd be eating her supper in Fairway Estates, Charles Valley's only gated community. She probably should have painted her toenails.
    Fairway Estates backed up to the Garrison golf course. The enclave, which was ten years old, had been the subject of much controversy in Charles Valley because the land on which it was built had been owned by Garrison Gardens. The board that ran the gardens sold it to a developer, which was unthinkable to the locals. Not so much as an acre of Garrison land had been sold since the Great Depression, when the Garrison family acquired it by ripping off desperate farmers. Most people in town thought the gardens were protected by the Garrison Gardens Charitable Trust. It came as a nasty surprise to discover that the board of the trust could do pretty much whatever the hell it wanted.
    Laurel arrived at the entrance gate, was waved through, and drove down treeless streets to her destination. SUVs were clearly the vehicle of choice in the neighborhood, and the houses were built right up to the property lines, giving the place a claustrophobic feel in spite of the obvious wealth. But for such a densely packed area, it was as quiet as the surreal shopping plaza in Atlanta. Where the hell did rich people stash their kids? she wondered. Or their pets? Then she remembered she was a rich person. A rich person who had come to discuss her holdings.
    A maid wearing a Garrison resort uniform opened the door to the Lawrence manse, but the man of the house was right behind her. “Laurel, welcome,” he said, with what seemed to be genuine enthusiasm.
    Just Call Me Stuart wasn't bad looking. He was in his middle sixties, not quite six feet tall, with a compact body that was probably the result of upscale enthusiasms like swimming, tennis, and, given the game of choice at the resort, golf. He had a full head of snowy hair and a pair of mild brown eyes behind little square glasses. For dinner at home he wore a sports jacket in a plaid that was so muted it was practically nonexistent. He was also wearing a bow tie, a nerdy touch Laurel tried to tell herself was endearing.
    “Come into the living room, please,” he said, ushering her in. Laurel had an impression of high ceilings, oversize windows looking out on the unreal green of the golf course, and puffy furniture covered with pale silks that made her want to wash her hands before she touched them. Some kind of overhead