Free Baroque and Desperate by Tamar Myers Page A

a rusty grommet at least once.
    I took a step backward, the better to eavesdrop, when an obnoxious-sounding gong sounded inches from my ear. I whirled.
    â€œDinner,” Flora mouthed. At least that’s what I think she said. The gong noise was still reverberating in my ear.
    Tradd grabbed my elbow again. “Let the others go first.”
    Flora shot me a look capable of piercing a rhino’s hide, wheeled, and marched from the room. The others departed without drama.
    â€œSo, Abby,” Tradd said, when we were alone, “did you see anything?”
    â€œBesides a faux-French maid who has the hots for you?”
    â€œNot that. Flora’s old news. I mean in your room.”
    I blinked. “I saw lots of things in my room. Beautiful things. And they’re all still there.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œOf course!” I fully intended to return the tassel, so it was only a lie from a technical point of view.
    â€œBut how can you be so sure?”
    â€œWell, uh—I don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œLike she has all the bedrooms crammed with things. You know, beds, dressers, whatever. How would you know if something was missing? By the difference in wallpaper shades?”
    â€œCould be. Or from marks in carpets, or dents in floors. But if it’s a small item, something that sits on a dresser top or commode, well—then there wouldn’t be any way to tell.”
    â€œIt doesn’t make any sense, you know? Something that’s missing, but still in plain sight.”
    I sipped my cream whiskey. “It could be as simple as something out of place. Something out of order. Which means it could be anything.”
    He squinted at a painting across the room. “Well, not anything . It has to be something you can hide something in.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    â€œUh—”
    A snort from the doorway announced Flora’s presence. “Mrs. Latham said to come. Y’all are holding things up.”
    Tradd all but jumped for the door. I scurried after him, holding my slip aloft so that I wouldn’t trip.
    â€œSlut,” Flora whispered as I brushed past.
    â€œTramp,” I murmured behind me.
    â€œWhore.”
    I stopped and turned. That was going too far.
    â€œListen here, you—”
    â€œAbby!” Tradd called from down the hall.
    I waggled a threatening finger at Flora. “I’ll tell Mrs. Latham.”
    Flora shrugged insolently. “Nice slip,” she said, and ducked into the salon.
    Â 
    Everyone was seated when we arrived. I have never been so embarrassed in my life. Even the time Mama showed up at a Charlotte reception for an English countess, with Stan, her muscle-bound houseboy, paled in comparison. All eyes were on us, Mrs. Latham’s in particular, which glittered like black plastic buttons from across the room.
    â€œSorry, ma’am,” Tradd said. “Abby had to use the powder room.”
    I could feel myself flush. “And a beautiful room it is too, ma’am.”
    â€œSit,” she said, nodding at the two open places.
    She sat at the head of the table, and unfortunately both vacancies were on either side of her. I sat down obediently, next to Edith Burton Jansen. From the look of things, our hostess didn’t follow the old boy-girl-boy rule. And instead of a male at the foot of the table, there sat C.J., resplendent in her slime-green dress.
    The old biddy smiled thinly. “Well, now that we’re all here, let’s say grace. Edith, dear, do you mind?”
    Edith immediately launched into the longest extemporaneous prayer these Episcopalian ears have ever heard. We Frozen Chosen tend to stick to prayers found in the Book of Common Prayer, but Edith seemed to gather her inspiration from everywhere. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the Kama Sutra referenced. Finally, after a verbal meandering through world literature, Edith settled down and blessed the food for