The King Falls Page 3

  Wyvonne drew back, the wooden spoon she had been using nearly falling out of her hand before she awkwardly rescued it with an “Oops!” Then, “Wow! I guess that would take a while. You and your father must sell every piece of property in Rosalie, from what I’ve seen on every corner.”

  He smiled big for her. “Just about. We really are the only game in town now. The Silvertree Firm finally had to fold just recently after making a serious run at us these last few years. But I have to say that Marcus Silvertree just couldn’t compete with me and Pop in the end. We put him out of his misery, and I know he didn’t appreciate it one bit. In fact, I had quite a row with Marcus the evening he came to my office and told me he was hanging it all up now—that it was all over but the shoutin’. The man didn’t take defeat graciously, lemme tell you.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that, I’m sure, but I’d be interested in knowing how many signs you come up with,” she said, tossing her carnival-sideshow hair back for dramatic effect.

  “I promise to tell you, Wyvonne. I ought to know how many we have just by looking at the books. But I’m in the mood to verify my empire all for myself. Sometimes, you just have to experience things firsthand to believe they really exist, and you’ve accomplished what you’ve accomplished. I know that probably sounds strange to you, but that’s where I am in my head right now.”

  “No, sir, I don’t think it sounds strange at all. Everyone knows how successful you are. I’ve known it for some time now.”

  “Anyhow, I promise I’ll text you if I get too far behind and run late. I wouldn’t want you to burn that stew. I’ve been waiting to taste it all afternoon.”

  “Yessir, I know you have. And I’ll be on the lookout for your text.”

  King took his keys off the wall hook and walked through the kitchen door into the spacious garage, with its hoses and leaf blowers and other handyman tools, and where his spotless, shiny BMW awaited him. He did so without turning around and waving, and thus missed the dreamy, laser beam of a look that Wyvonne was shooting his way.

  Then she turned around and resumed stirring the stew, gazing down at it lovingly, as if it were actually liquid gold fit for a king.

  * * *

  King sat in his car, which was parked in front of the Kohl and Son office on Lambert Street, staring at the building with what he felt was conflicted affection. They were officially closed all week, since their secretary, Vera Maloney, was on vacation, and father and son had chosen to take the time off, as well. Lambert Street was a mixed neighborhood; that is, it was mostly residential, but a handful of lawyers, doctors, and Realtors had decided to spruce up a few of the raised cottages, gentrifying them and turning them into offices. Under Ethel’s guidance, their cottage had been painted a robin’s-egg blue with white gingerbread trim, and as a result, had come off looking more like an art gallery. Yet it was still pleasing to the eye, and the flower beds and pink crepe myrtles in the front yard made it even more inviting.

  Farther down the street and just out of sight was the family home of the late spinster, Evadee Appleby, a listing King had stolen from Marcus Silvertree right under his nose. His approach had been underhanded yet effective.

  “I need you to keep this strictly confidential,” King had said to Evadee at one of Rosalie’s Mardi Gras parties. “But I want you to have the best representation possible for your beautiful cottage. I know you’ll be selling soon so you can move in with your daughter up in Port Gibson. Word is that Marcus Silvertree has been wooing you for your business. I feel you need to be kept in the loop in this particular situation.”

  Evadee had taken a swig of her teetotaler’s soft drink and eyed him warily. “Do you know something I don’t know?”

  King had lowered his voice even further and leaned in with a wink. “I’m sure you know that Mr. Silvertree is a confirmed bachelor. Need I say more?”

  Evadee had frowned. “I think you’d better. I’m not at all a worldly person.”

  “It’s just that you don’t want the wrong type of person to be moving into your childhood home. You want it respected and cared for,” King had continued, exploiting quite well Evadee’s evangelical, dogmatic fervor. “Suppose he sells it to one of his . . . ahem, friends, and they decide to have all kinds of wild parties. Mr. Silvertree is well-connected that way, shall we say? I’m sure you don’t want me to go into detail, being the grand lady that you are.”

  And that had done the trick. Promising to keep King’s revelations in strictest confidence, Evadee had given him the listing, and Marcus Silvertree was none the wiser but all the poorer.

  King came out of his remembrance of things past. He was halfway through his tour of the real estate signs, which was taking him all over the city, and he wanted to come to a stop and contemplate everything again. Suddenly, something began churning in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t painful or anything close to that, but it definitely felt intuitive to him, demanding his full attention. Yes, the tour had its purpose—surveying the kingdom was certainly appropriate at this point. There truly were signs galore on nearly every block, particularly since both Rosalie and the country were going through a recession. As a result, not everyone was a winner. But the mental debate about the method of delivering the message to the important people in his life had made an appearance earlier in the day when he had been reviewing the guest list. Was the party indeed the right format to announce such a thing?

  He decided to discontinue the tour that he had disclosed to Wyvonne and made his way instead to the parking lot in front of the St. Mary Basilica Rectory, where he knew Father LeBlanc would advise him as he had been doing lately. He idled the engine for a while under the shade of one of the great live oaks that had been preserved when the lot had been paved about ten years ago. A group of very vocal, wealthy, older historians of the female, poofed-hair persuasion had picketed the construction site, demanding that several of the trees be saved from the buzz saw and the bulldozer, and they had succeeded. As a result, those mature, muscular branches still provided their shade to the concrete below, branches that had taken at least a hundred years or more to reach their size. Such treasures, the ladies insisted, were not to be cast aside so callously, and their voices had been heeded.

  Finally, King shut off the engine and sighed. Whatever Father recommended at this point would determine his final decision. He would either go through with the bridge party that really wasn’t a bridge party, or he would tell each person on a one-to-one basis, face-to-face, pulling no punches. That would ensure some measure of privacy should the revelation run someone off the rails, which might be a real possibility. Hell, there might even be an actual train wreck, with boxcars spilling all over creation and first responders speeding to the rescue. After all, this wasn’t business as usual he was going to discuss.

  As he entered the two-story brick rectory that stood next to the mighty Gothic basilica itself—the center of Catholicism in the early years of Mississippi history—he tried to envision his parents, as well as Bella and Patrice, reacting to it all. But images refused to pop up in his brain. Instead, there was only a curious but impenetrable fog, one composed equally of self-doubt and stubborn determination to go through with it. How could those two things exist at the same time? Yet, they did. King could only hope that Father LeBlanc would clear things up as quickly as reciting the rosary usually did for him. Except in the matter of Patrice. There was always that.

  But the lanky, balding priest with the pockmarked face didn’t seem to be in such a seamless, straightening-things-out mood once they had settled into his crowded little office with one square, stained glass window as the only source of multi-colored incoming light. In fact, there was a decided lack of empathy in his tone for the face-to-face session.

  “Before we go much further,” Father LeBlanc said, “are you having second thoughts about this?”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “Of course I mean.”

  King gave him a most emphatic, “No! Absolutely no second thoughts.”

  “I believe you, son. I don’t think there’s any way you could fake such emotion. Then, full speed ahead, but I think one-on-one is your best option. You were right to balk at that party idea. I wouldn’t have advised it had you come to me first. This makes everything so much more private, and I think that’s what you need in this situation. Incidentally, were you actually going to play bridge on such an occasion? Truthfully, I can’t see the two mixing very well.”

  King managed to crack a smile. “Well . . . yes. I thought we could start with that, and then when everyone had had enough to eat and drink, I was going to make the announcement. Aren’t things easier to take when people have full stomachs?”

  “Depends. Sometimes it’s best to reveal things to empty stomachs. That way, people won’t get sick if the news upsets them.” Father LeBlanc briefly turned his head to one side, seemingly mesmerized by the stained glass. “I know what grand parties your family throws—I’ve been invited to more than a few and enjoyed myself thoroughly. But you need to sit down and decide your pecking order, who gets the news first and who needs a little more careful handling. But I believe you’re up to it. Because if you can’t handle this, you won’t be able to handle all the rest that will surely follow.”

  “Point well-taken,” King told him with a gentle nod.

  Now, there was nothing left to do but go home, eat Wyvonne’s dependably delicious stew, and then work out the all-important logistics of the multiple sessions that lay ahead of him.

  * * *

  About an hour later in his den, King’s pecking order wasn’t even beginning to fall into place for him. Was it the two generous helpings of stew and two glasses of Merlot that he had enjoyed as the perfect accompaniment that were weighing him down, making h
im sleepy, unable to fully concentrate? After thirty minutes of putting numbers by names, scratching through them, printing new names in all caps, and numbering those all over again, he wondered if he should just give up, get some sleep, and tackle it again in the morning. There was still plenty of time to let people know before Saturday rolled around. Plenty of time for them to make other plans or get used to what he had to tell them. If they possibly could.

  Frustrated, he crumpled the sheet of paper he had been scribbling on into a ball and dropped it into the trash can by his feet underneath his desk. It was nearly full, as he had not let Wyvonne in to empty it all afternoon. But instead of heading off to bed, he decided to give it one more try. With a fresh sheet, he listed everyone in all caps once more:

  MOM AND POP (Together? Separately? Last? First?)

  BELLA (Before Patrice? After?)

  PATRICE (Same as above)

  WENDY RIERSON (Last of all?)

  WYVONNE (?)—When? She’ll have to know. Sooner rather than later?

  MARCUS SILVERTREE (?)—Option? Does he even need to know? Do I even owe him?

  VERA MALONEY—When she comes back from vacation, obviously. She will do as she is told.

  Then, an additional scribble:

  HOUSE OR OFFICE?

  A couple of quick knocks at the doorframe of the den startled him, and he looked up from his paper to see Wyvonne smiling his way.

  “I’ve put all the dishes in the dishwasher, so I’m heading home.”

  King managed to return her smile, but he was not feeling it at all. “Great.” He gave her a thumbs-up. “Primo stew, as usual.”

  “Thanks.” There was a pause, during which she worked her fingers together nervously. “Oh, you be sure and leave the shopping list for the party on the counter so I can go to the grocery store for you tomorrow afternoon.”

  Her words sounded like she was a recording on the wrong, slow speed. They crawled along in his brain and refused to stop.

  Well, there it was—out in the open. Should he tell her now or wait? It was all a matter of timing for what lay ahead of him.

  “About the list and the party Saturday,” he began at last. “I’ve decided to call it off. You don’t have to come in or prepare anything.” He faked a couple of coughs for effect. “I think . . . I think I may be coming down with something. I’ve had the sniffles all day . . . and sneezing, too.”

  Wyvonne looked and sounded startled. “Really? I didn’t hear any of that from you today. You must have been covering it up awfully well.”

  “I kinda suppressed it, but yes, I’ve got that scratchy throat feeling I always get when I’m getting a cold,” he continued.

  “I know that feeling. I hate it. But this isn’t flu season.”

  “It’s just now coming to a head, and people can get the flu in May.”

  She was still glancing at him sideways. “But you may be better by Saturday. Are you sure you wanna call the party off now? You could always wait and see how you feel tomorrow. To tell the truth, I was looking forward to putting together another of your parties for you. We’ve got quite the track record, you and I.”

  He coughed again, this time adding a sniffle or two. “I’m sure you were. But it wouldn’t do either of us any good to have it while I’m sick, now, would it?”

  She didn’t answer immediately but finally gave in. “No, I guess not. Are you gonna go to the doctor tomorrow?”

  “I never like to go unless I have to. I have a thing about that. I’d rather not hear bad news if there is any.”

  “You men are all alike,” she told him with a wry grin. “You wait until things get out of hand before you do anything about ’em. Then, when it’s too late and you do get really sick, you act like the biggest babies. I don’t know how those of you who don’t have wives to look after you get by.”

  King recognized himself in her sentiments and allowed himself to smile, holding up his right hand. “Guilty.”

  The conversation seemed to lapse at that point. Nonetheless, he wondered if he should leave it at that. She would have to be told sooner rather than later, even if he had taken care of the matter of the party. At least he had done that much. Should she now be his trial run? Would he learn anything at all from her reaction? And then beyond all that, could he trust her? What if he told her part of his decision but not all of it? Maybe that was the way to go.

  CHAPTER 2

  On Friday morning, a little before 9 a.m., Wendy received a text on her cell as she sat in her cubicle at the Citizen and focused. The message from King Kohl was more than surprising. Furthermore, her investigative instincts were fully aroused, alerting her to the probability that something unexpected was hunkering down just below the horizon.

  Canceling the party tomorrow; need to explain in detail; come to my house; is 10 AM doable?

  Wendy didn’t have to check her schedule. There was nothing urgent that had to be composed that day, and she had just tied a ribbon neatly around the piece Lyndell had assigned her about whose bones those were that had been found in the basement of Lacework House on Broad Street during a recent renovation. In an unsensational manner, it was revealed that they had belonged to a carpenter named Billy Caspian, who had gone missing seventy-five years ago. Rosalie’s longest missing person case was now solved, thanks to Wendy’s superb “poking around” skills. Mind you, what had caused his death had not been determined, nor did it seem likely that it would ever be, given the three-quarters of a century that had elapsed. But her reputation as the town’s greatest amateur sleuth—one who simultaneously held down her paying job—would only be further enhanced by the episode. “Billy Caspian’s Bones” would be yet another notch on her gun.

  10 is fine, came the reply from her deft fingers.

  please don’t be late; tight schedule; come right on in.

  She texted back: I understand; see you soon.

  What was up with King? Why go to all the trouble of issuing expensive invitations to one of his events and then canceling it at the last minute? Rosalie people in the social swim of things were experts at coordinating their events, always making sure they did not conflict with something else going on at the same time; unless there was an unexpected death and subsequent funeral to attend. No one could ever foresee something like that, of course. King surely could not have been guilty of committing such a grievous error. No, something else was in the works, and Wendy could hardly contain her curiosity. But first, she needed to drop in on Lyndell and let her know about the curious development. It was always protocol to go through channels at the Citizen.

  “In the couple of years I’ve been living here in Rosalie, I’ve become more than familiar with the Kohls and their influence,” Lyndell said, after Wendy had explained everything in a concise manner. Then she leaned forward in her leather chair behind her desk, looking every inch the professional editor she was: her streaked hair in the flattering, short style she preferred; her mustard-colored business suit making her pop in an office featuring nondescript beige walls decorated with numerous journalistic award plaques.

  “So you think something strange might be going on?” Lyndell continued.

  “You know all about me and my instincts,” Wendy said. “The text was so matter-of-fact. Not an atom of flirting, which he’s always doing. I think there may be a scoop for the paper that comes out of this meeting.”

  “But you have no inkling as to what that scoop might be?”

  Wendy hesitated at first, then thought better of her reluctance. “He’s Rosalie’s most eligible bachelor. So if I had to guess, I’d say maybe some sort of wedding announcement was intended with the bridge party in the first place. I have to admit, it seems like the ideal way to spring that on people. As I don’t have to tell you, Rosalie loves its weddings.”

  “Your father went all out for ours, I know that much,” Lyndell said, her long, angular face lighting up with what were obviously her many cherished memories of the occasion.

  Wendy smiled back and nodded. “Agreed. Daddy did both mine and yours up right. But if I had to second-guess myself, I’d say that maybe King Kohl’s wedding plans with a certain someone fell through at the last minute, and he figures the one-on-one approach is the best to let everyone know. Maybe less humiliating.”