mostly Baker reproductions from the last time she had the house redecorated—almost thirty years ago, when her husband was still alive. I’d heard serious furniture collectors sneer at Baker reproductions, but they looked pretty nice to me.
I also noticed that the upholstery was worn and the curtains were sun-faded. My grandmother wouldn’t have had them in her living room. I know this was supposed to be old money, and Elizabeth was saying she didn’t need to impress me with expensive new curtains. But what’s the point of being rich if you live like you’re poor?
There was nothing worn about Elizabeth’s manner. She was in full command of everything but Cordelia. “I agreed to see you this once,” she said frostily. “I wish to inform you that my son and grandson will not speak with you at all. I do not want to discuss my late daughter-in-law, except to say that her unfortunate end is what happens when you associate with the wrong element. The city is no longer safe for our kind of people.”
Wow. Talk about cold. That woman could flash-freeze beef. I didn’t think I’d ask her what she admired about her daughter-in-law. Oh, why the hell not? “I am sorry for your loss,” I said. “Perhaps you could tell me what you admired about Sydney for my story.”
“I prefer not to discuss my family in the newspaper. If Sydney had stayed where she belonged, caring for her home and family as a proper wife, this would not have occurred.”
She wasn’t going to tell me anything. She was going to throw me out in two seconds. Since I had nothing to lose, I answered back. “I thought Sydney tried to do that, until your son threw her out for another woman,” I said.
“Cordelia!” commanded Queen Elizabeth. “Please bring Miss Vierling’s coat and show her out.” The audience was over. Cordelia gave me my coat and the bum’s rush, and I was out the door before I knew it. I wondered why Elizabeth had me drive out there. She could have delivered that message by phone.
I went back to work at the
Gazette
and tried to call Hudson at his office. His secretary said he was in a meeting. I started calling every fifteen minutes, which must have driven the woman crazy. Finally, after two hours and eight calls, Hudson himself picked up the phone. “Miss Vierling, do not call here again. I will
not
meet with you. I
will
call your managing editor if you persist in calling my office and badgering my secretary.” He hung up. The boy got all his charm from his mother.
No point in calling the son, Hud Junior. I’d better try to track him down in person. It was, of course,twenty minutes away, in Richmond Heights, an older brick neighborhood on the edge of St. Louis. I knocked at the door of the apartment where Endora said Hud was now living, but no one answered. Next I went to the Clayton coffeeshop where she said he worked. It was called Has Beans. It sold the usual array of coffee, sweets, and bottled juice. A long blond wood counter had a collection of crumbs and crumpled napkins and a pile of newspapers and magazines. The place looked like it had had a rush of customers but was suddenly empty. Hud was cleaning up behind the counter. He wore a black-and-brown Has Beans T-shirt. He was a handsome blond kid with dark circles like bruises under his eyes. He didn’t look like he’d been getting much sleep. His eyes were red rimmed, and so was his nose. He wiped the crumbed up counter with a kind of twitchy energy, but at the core he seemed listless. Was this someone in deep mourning? Or someone on drugs? I couldn’t tell. In the 1980s, I’d worked for an editor at the
Gazette
who was a cokehead. He was also a relative of the managing editor, so nobody did anything about him. The coke gave him a curious flattened personality. The cokehead editor finally went to L.A., to break into movies. Since he didn’t have any relatives there, it didn’t happen. It took me months to tumble to why my editor had these odd mood swings. I
I also noticed that the upholstery was worn and the curtains were sun-faded. My grandmother wouldn’t have had them in her living room. I know this was supposed to be old money, and Elizabeth was saying she didn’t need to impress me with expensive new curtains. But what’s the point of being rich if you live like you’re poor?
There was nothing worn about Elizabeth’s manner. She was in full command of everything but Cordelia. “I agreed to see you this once,” she said frostily. “I wish to inform you that my son and grandson will not speak with you at all. I do not want to discuss my late daughter-in-law, except to say that her unfortunate end is what happens when you associate with the wrong element. The city is no longer safe for our kind of people.”
Wow. Talk about cold. That woman could flash-freeze beef. I didn’t think I’d ask her what she admired about her daughter-in-law. Oh, why the hell not? “I am sorry for your loss,” I said. “Perhaps you could tell me what you admired about Sydney for my story.”
“I prefer not to discuss my family in the newspaper. If Sydney had stayed where she belonged, caring for her home and family as a proper wife, this would not have occurred.”
She wasn’t going to tell me anything. She was going to throw me out in two seconds. Since I had nothing to lose, I answered back. “I thought Sydney tried to do that, until your son threw her out for another woman,” I said.
“Cordelia!” commanded Queen Elizabeth. “Please bring Miss Vierling’s coat and show her out.” The audience was over. Cordelia gave me my coat and the bum’s rush, and I was out the door before I knew it. I wondered why Elizabeth had me drive out there. She could have delivered that message by phone.
I went back to work at the
Gazette
and tried to call Hudson at his office. His secretary said he was in a meeting. I started calling every fifteen minutes, which must have driven the woman crazy. Finally, after two hours and eight calls, Hudson himself picked up the phone. “Miss Vierling, do not call here again. I will
not
meet with you. I
will
call your managing editor if you persist in calling my office and badgering my secretary.” He hung up. The boy got all his charm from his mother.
No point in calling the son, Hud Junior. I’d better try to track him down in person. It was, of course,twenty minutes away, in Richmond Heights, an older brick neighborhood on the edge of St. Louis. I knocked at the door of the apartment where Endora said Hud was now living, but no one answered. Next I went to the Clayton coffeeshop where she said he worked. It was called Has Beans. It sold the usual array of coffee, sweets, and bottled juice. A long blond wood counter had a collection of crumbs and crumpled napkins and a pile of newspapers and magazines. The place looked like it had had a rush of customers but was suddenly empty. Hud was cleaning up behind the counter. He wore a black-and-brown Has Beans T-shirt. He was a handsome blond kid with dark circles like bruises under his eyes. He didn’t look like he’d been getting much sleep. His eyes were red rimmed, and so was his nose. He wiped the crumbed up counter with a kind of twitchy energy, but at the core he seemed listless. Was this someone in deep mourning? Or someone on drugs? I couldn’t tell. In the 1980s, I’d worked for an editor at the
Gazette
who was a cokehead. He was also a relative of the managing editor, so nobody did anything about him. The coke gave him a curious flattened personality. The cokehead editor finally went to L.A., to break into movies. Since he didn’t have any relatives there, it didn’t happen. It took me months to tumble to why my editor had these odd mood swings. I
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