Free Perfect Little Ladies by Abby Drake Page A

needed scolding; he escorted her to appointments and into Manhattan for lunch. Since the incident years ago, Momma had never been “quite right,” a diagnosis that had grown more apparent with time. Still, Momma seemed content.
    “I had Lila set out tea in the silver room,” Poppy said, leading Momma by the arm, up two flagstone steps, through the covered walkway, and into the house that was too large for Momma, even with Lila, Lucky, Bern (driver and all-around handyman), Fiona (Bern’s wife and Momma’s personal secretary, though she hardly needed one anymore), and Cain and Abel, the two flat-headed Pekinese.
    They settled in the Queen Anne chairs that had been handed down for generations, like the money from the railroads and the “skyscrapers” in Manhattan.
    “Momma,” Poppy said, “I need your advice.” She poured the tea and passed the crumpets, then told her about Elinor and the lavender lace panties and the quest to find the blackmailer before Jonas’s engagement party. Even with Momma’s peculiar personality, Poppy still depended on her for wisdom when it counted. It wasn’t as if she’d tell a solitary soul.
    “I’ve always loved a good mystery,” Momma said. She dotted strawberry jam on her crumpet, then took a tiny bite.
    “I thought you might have a suggestion about my upcoming trip to the Lord Winslow,” Poppy said. Though Momma had married only Papa (“There could never be another”), she’d had her share of lovers after a mugger shot Papa as he left the 1964 World’s Fair, the theme of which had been Peace through Understanding. Momma maintained that most of life was irony, anyway. “I’m going to wear a wig,” Poppy continued. “I’ve always wanted to be a blonde.”
    Momma took another bite, chewed a little, then closed her eyes as if it were naptime. After a thoughtful moment, she said, “I’m not sure blonde is a good idea. The less attention you call to yourself, the better. That way if questions come up later, you won’t be memorable.”
    Momma was a genius, no matter what people said.
    “Play down your looks,” Momma continued. “Wear short heels, not stilettos. Leave your big purse here and take one of my small ones. And get rid of the coral nails.”
    Looking down at her nails, Poppy smiled. Then she delved into her Miu Miu with glee. “Oh, Momma, you are the best. And just for that, you get a prize.” She pulled out the silver call bell and held it up for inspection.
    Ding-ding, ding-ding.
    Momma clapped her hands and jumped up from the Queen Anne. “From the Lord Winslow?” she asked and Poppy nodded and Momma snatched it from her and flip-flopped to the grand piano, where she added it to the “hotel collection” as she called it: the creamer from the Waldorf, the salt and peppers from the St. Regis, the water pitcher from the Plaza before the place had been gutted. Some were gifts from Poppy, others Momma had collected herself; all were shinysilver, like the stars. Next to growing orchids, Momma liked looking at “her” stars.
    “I must go to Yolanda’s now and try on a few wigs,” Poppy said, then kissed her mother’s paper cheek. “But first, I’ll get a small purse from Lila. I love you, sweetest Momma.”
    But Momma, sweet or otherwise, was now distracted by her latest acquisition and didn’t seem to notice that her only child was leaving the room.
    “Momma says I shouldn’t attract attention,” Poppy said to Yolanda, when she arrived after a quick drive to New Falls. “So I’ll be a brunette after all. Do you have something nondescript?”
    Yolanda frowned. “You told your mother about Elinor?”
    “Well, of course. Momma won’t tell anyone. She’s probably forgotten already.” Poppy sat down at a big round mirror and stared at her reflection. She hadn’t combed her hair since they’d left for Manhattan that morning. Maybe she could get Yolanda to do a comb-through while she was there. No sense looking like a banshee in case her