The Fixer Upper Part 33

"What does your wife's aunt think?" I asked.

Bobby made a face. "She didn't like your granddaddy Killebrew no way! She called him a lying, two-faced Yankee. What she says is-that man got Miss Olivia pregnant, and then, when he seen how rich her family was, he decided to get him some of that money for his own self. He just made up any old kind of lie he could get away with. And then he took the money, and that baby, and got as far away from Guthrie, Georgia, as he could get."

"Mitch can only remember coming back here a few times after the divorce," I told Bobby. "And then, of course, Olivia died when he was still pretty young."

"Yeah, that was awful sad," Bobby said. "Auntie says Miss Olivia pined for that boy. She never was right again after he took that baby away from her."

"What did she die of?" I asked.

"Uh, heart disease, or something like that," Bobby said.

"But she was so young!" I protested. "Barely in her twenties."

"Your uncle Norbert, he had a bad heart," Bobby pointed out.

"And he lived well into his nineties," I countered. "What else aren't you telling me? Come on, Bobby, I know there's something else."

Bobby came over to the bed and took the drawer out of the nightstand. He set it outside in the hallway. He stacked the framed photographs on another dresser, and leaned down and unplugged the lamp.

When he stood up again, his face was solemn.

"I told you Miss Olivia had a hard time in delivery, right? The doctor gave her some pills to help her sleep. And when she was so depressed, after your granddaddy took the baby away, he give her some pills to help calm her down. The wife's aunt, she did the was.h.i.+ng and ironing over here, and some housecleaning too. One morning, when she come to work, she went upstairs to ask Miss Olivia something. Only Miss Olivia wouldn't wake up. Auntie, she shook her and shook her, but it was too late. She was dead."

"Oh my G.o.d," I breathed. "She killed herself. With an overdose."

"The doctor told the family it was heart disease," Bobby said staunchly. "But they give Auntie a train ticket to Mobile to visit her cousin the very next day."

He picked up the nightstand and took it out to the hallway. I took the hand-knotted quilt off the foot of Ella Kate's bed, and then, carefully, stripped the bed of the thick white chenille bedspread, the same spread my grandmother's family had been making for decades. I folded it into quarters, and then carried it and the rest of Ella Kate's bedding downstairs, to her new room.

46.

Trey drove the last truckload of papers and magazines and kitchen debris to the dump just as the sun began to dip down below the horizon.

I saw the truck pull away from the house from the window in what had been Uncle Norbert's study, and what would now be Ella Kate's bedroom.

Bobby unrolled the worn pastel hooked rug with its faded pattern of pink roses on the freshly mopped floor. Then we placed the bed facing the window so she could watch the comings and goings on the street outside. I'd washed the curtains from her old bedroom, and hung them now in her new room. Her bed linens were freshly laundered too, and I'd dusted and polished the furnis.h.i.+ngs so that they gleamed and the whole room smelled like lemons and beeswax.

I re-created Ella Kate's old room as best as I could, minus the warehouse full of furniture.

She'd still have Olivia's dressing table with the sterling-silver brushes and combs and jars, and she'd have the dressers too, the ones with her things and the one that held Olivia's clothing. I brought down all the framed photographs and arranged them around the room, along with a representative collection of the porcelain cats. I prayed Ella Kate wouldn't notice the absence of the cat I'd broken the night of the storm.

When we'd finished, we stood in the doorway surveying the day's work.

"This looks real nice, Dempsey," Bobby said. "Real homeylike. Ella Kate is gonna love it."

I snorted. "She's going to hate it. And she'll hate me for doing this. She'll be furious that I trespa.s.sed in her old room, even angrier if she figures out I roped you into helping me out."

"Had to be done," Bobby said. "She might get her bowels in an uproar at first, but she'll get over it pretty quick. Long as Shorty's here, she'll be all right."

As if on cue, Shorty ran through my legs and into the room. He was still sore from his surgery, so I had to lift him up and onto the bed, where he immediately curled up on Ella Kate's pillow as though he owned the place.

"See? Shorty likes it just fine," Bobby pointed out. "And soon as Ella Kate gets used to the idea, me and Trey will move them sofas and chairs back downstairs where they belong."

After he'd gone, I wandered into the kitchen to check out our progress there. We'd had to put the tiling project on the back burner while we moved Ella Kate's things, but before we'd started on the bedroom, Bobby and Trey had slotted the junkyard sink into its place on the cabinet base, and hooked up the faucet.

Without thinking, I went to my bucket of cleaning supplies, found a can of scouring powder, and began working on the stained porcelain.

It took me a good half hour, but I managed to scrub away most of the old stains and caked-on debris. There were some minute chips in the porcelain in a couple of places near the top of the sink backsplash, but to my mind they were hardly noticeable. I was working on polis.h.i.+ng the nickel faucet and handles when my cell phone rang.

The caller ID screen told the tale. Mitch. I felt my gut clench. We hadn't talked since that angry exchange over the Was.h.i.+ngton Post story.

I let it ring three times before answering, wondering how I would handle him.

"Hi, Dad," I said. Wow, way to put him in his place, Demps, I thought.

"Now listen, Dempsey," he started.

Uh-oh.

"I just had a visit from a woman named Camerin Allgood. Does that name ring a bell with you, young lady?"

I winced. He hadn't called me "young lady" since discovering I'd blown all my freshman year meal money on a spring break road trip to Key West.

"The FBI agent. Yes, we've met."

"She showed up at my office and announced she was with the FBI. My secretary nearly had a coronary!"

"I hope your secretary is all right, Dad," I said.

Especially since if she did have a heart attack, he would blame it on me.

"She'll live," he said. "The point is, this Agent Allgood woman says you are refusing to cooperate with the FBI. I told her in no uncertain terms that I thought she was mistaken. I told her I was sure you wanted to clear up this whole shameful episode and get it behind you, and that of course you would want to do anything in your power to help the government bring this slimeball congressman to justice. That's right, isn't it?"

"Uh, Dad," I said. "I do want to get it cleared up. And I have been cooperating. The thing is, I've given them concrete proof that I hired those women at the direction of Alex Hodder. They have this crazy idea that I should wear a wire and get Alex to incriminate himself, which is ludicrous. He'd never do that. I told them that, Dad. I gave them the evidence. They have everything they need already."

"That's not what Agent Allgood told me this morning," Mitch huffed. "This woman is a veteran at these kinds of investigations. And if she says she needs you to wear a wire, I say you d.a.m.ned well better do as they ask."

"Dad-" I started.

"This whole thing has gotten completely out of control," Mitch went on. "I think you need some solid legal advice."

"I have a lawyer, Dad," I interrupted. "Carter Berryhill and I have met with these agents twice. And he told them that I'm not going to do anything until they bring me a signed agreement from the U.S. attorney's office, stating that they won't pursue charges against me."

"Carter Berryhill?" Mitch bellowed. "You mean that country-b.u.mpkin lawyer handling my great-uncle's estate? For G.o.d's sake, Dempsey, use some common sense, for once. Now look. I've talked to somebody in our Atlanta office, and they've recommended an ace criminal attorney. He used to be a federal prosecutor, and he's handled dozens of cases like this. I'm calling him tomorrow."

I felt the blood pounding in my ears. My gut clenched and unclenched. I held my breath, let it out.

"What, Dad?" I said. "I can't hear you. I think my cell phone battery is dying."

I punched the disconnect b.u.t.ton. If the phone hadn't been my only link to the outside world, I think I would have stomped on it with the same disgust I'd used earlier on the silverfish.

And now the doorbell was ringing. My day was complete.

I glanced down at my attire, hoping that my visitor wasn't Tee. My overalls were caked with grime and dead silverfish, and my hands were rubbed raw from all the cleaning compounds I'd tortured them with.

When I opened the front door, I immediately wished I hadn't.

Jackson Harrell leaned up against the door frame, gazing around the porch with frank curiosity. He was dressed in starched and pressed blue jeans, a starched yellow dress s.h.i.+rt, s.h.i.+ny white Nikes, and a dark blue baseball cap with FBI emblazoned across the bill. He was the face of the new FBI. I wanted to slam the door in that face, but I restrained myself.

"How ya' doin'?" he asked.

"What do you want?" I said stonily.

He looked taken aback. "Hey now. You call that Southern hospitality?"

"I don't feel particularly hospitable right now, to tell you the truth."

"Bad day?" he asked, starting to step inside.

"I've had better." I stepped in front of him to keep him from going any farther. "No offense, Agent Harrell, but I'm kind of busy right now. So, if this is a social call, I'm going to have to ask you to give me a rain check."

His easygoing smile vanished. "Oh, it's not social," he said. "This is business. All business."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "In that case, I'll ask you to wait out here on the porch until I can get my attorney over here."

"You do that," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "I can wait."

I slammed the door and went for my cell phone.

"Tee? Is Carter there?"

"No," Tee said. "I'm down at the newspaper. He's at home, as far as I know. What's up?"

"The d.a.m.ned FBI is here again," I said. "It's that Agent Harrell. And he says he means business. I wouldn't let him in. I'm not talking to him until your father gets here."

"Good thinking," Tee said. "I'll get hold of Dad and send him over there right away. Did the guy give you any idea of what he wants?"

"I didn't give him a chance. But I do know that that woman, Agent Allgood, showed up down in Miami at my father's office today. They're pressuring him to pressure me to wear the d.a.m.ned wire."

"Jesus!" Tee said. "These guys don't give up."

"Neither do I," I said grimly.

After I hung up the phone, I ran upstairs and jumped in the shower, fuming. I had no intention of meeting with Harrell while looking like a fugitive from a pest-control convention.

Did he think he could just drop in and scare the c.r.a.p out of me with his big, bad FBI self? Uh-uh. No more. I was done being intimidated, patronized, pushed around. I nearly scrubbed the skin off my body while I plotted my revenge on all those who'd done me wrong. Leading the list were Alex Hodder and Congressman Anthony Licata, with Agents Harrell and Allgood right behind. And my father. I wouldn't mind showing him up while I was at it. As I scrubbed, a plan began to form. It was evil, vindictive, and manipulative. It was a thing of real beauty.

I washed my hair and blew it dry, then pulled it back in a semisevere French twist. I put on makeup, including enough black eyeliner to give me the feeling of a warrior queen. I dressed in my best pants suit, the black wool Dolce & Gabbana one with the tight-fitting jacket-what Lindsay always referred to as my "Power Ranger" suit. I put on pearl earrings and the gold Piaget watch Mitch had given me when I graduated from law school. For the first time since I'd arrived in Guthrie, I found the need for heels, my black Jimmy Choo boots.

When I'd dressed, I stood in front of the wavy mirror on the back of the closet door and a.s.sessed the look. Hair: professional, not too d.y.k.ey, not too girlie. Clothes: excellent. The pants suit, which had cost an un-G.o.dly sum, gave me a tall, slim, stripped-down silhouette. Jewelry: also excellent. The pearl Tiffany earrings had been my mother's graduation gift. They were precious to me because I knew she'd chosen something she thought I'd like, rather than the funky, ethnic jewelry Lynda herself favored. As for the watch, I knew Mitch had bought it in a deliberate attempt to outspend Lynda, which he'd managed, in spades. He'd given me a piece more suitable for a Wall Street hedge funder than a junior lobbyist, because that's what he secretly hoped I would someday become-the gift was aspirational rather than inspirational, but no matter. I'd noticed that Agent Harrell wore a Rolex. My Piaget would trump his in any contest. Shoes: double check. The wicked two-inch boot heel, along with my hairdo, would give me what I estimated was a one inch advantage over Agent Harrell.

The doorbell was ringing again. I marched carefully down the stairs, clinging to the banister with both hands to avoid tripping and falling in the now-unaccustomed high heels. When I got downstairs, I could see three men through the front-door sidelights: Carter, Agent Harrell, and yes, Tee Berryhill. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. Showtime.

47.

Jackson Harrell did a double take when I opened the door. I like to think he was astonished by my thirty-minute transformation.

"Agent Harrell," I said coolly, motioning him inside. "I can't say it's a pleasure to see you again."

"My dear," Carter said, kissing my cheek and giving me a malicious wink. "You look lovely tonight."

Tee trailed in the door last, giving me a long, searching look. When Harrell and Carter were out of earshot and eyesight, he kissed me too-only with a little more pa.s.sion and a lot more tongue. "Love the outfit," he whispered in my ear.

I dragged the dining room chairs into the parlor, ch.o.r.eographing the seating so that Harrell was seated closest to the drafty windows.

"Well now," Harrell said, looking from me to the Berryhills. "Now that the whole choir is a.s.sembled, I guess we should just get down to bra.s.s tacks."

"Oh. Isn't Agent Allgood joining us tonight?" I asked.

Harrell s.h.i.+fted in his seat. "She's out of town on business."

"Yes," I said. "I understand she's been down in Miami. I spoke to my father just now. He mentioned that Agent Allgood paid him a call. Unannounced. At his place of business."

Carter's fluffy white eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"Yep," I said, making a show of crossing my legs. "I guess it's a new tactic. Maybe something you guys learned from the Department of Homeland Security? Pressuring family members to get a witness to cooperate? Or maybe just trying to embarra.s.s them by showing up and announcing to everybody within shouting distance that a federal agent wants to speak to them about 'government' business? Personally, I think it's pretty tacky."

"Tacky? It's unconscionable," Carter said, his face coloring. He turned to Harrell. "You people have no business involving her parents. Miss Killebrew has told you she'll cooperate. We gave you proof that Alex Hodder instructed my client to hire what she reliably believed was a ma.s.sage therapist and a surfing instructor."

"Wakeboard instructor," I told Carter. "Apparently there's a difference."

"I don't care if she was a mambo teacher," Carter said. He was really getting himself worked up on my behalf. It was wonderful to behold. He leaned toward Harrell. His ears got quite pink when he was angry. "These efforts to intimidate Miss Killebrew must stop. Immediately. After our last discussion with you, we were a.s.sured that you would take the evidence we gave you-Alex Hodder's golf scorecard, with his handwriting on it-and in return, we'd receive a written agreement from the U.S. attorney's office that no charges against my client would be pursued."