Frankly My Dear, I'm Dead. Livia J Washburn

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СКАЧАТЬ over at Riley, who had tugged his toupee back into place. “How about you?”

      “I’m tempted, believe me, but…nah, I’m not going to back out. A deal is a deal, I always say. But I’m going to stay as far away from this guy as I can.”

      I thought that was a good idea. The more distance between the two men, the better.

      I looked at Dave the security guard. “Does that work for you?”

      “They didn’t damage anything as far as I could see,” he said. “Sure, they could be arrested for disturbing the peace, I guess, but what’s the point? It’s all over, right?”

      Mueller nodded, and a second later so did Riley. They had made their peace, such as it was.

      “All right,” I told them. “Mr. Riley, you go on back to the tour. Mr. Mueller, give him a minute, then you can rejoin the others, too.”

      “I could sue you for slander, you know,” Riley told Mueller. “Making false accusations against me that way.”

      I made shooing motions at him. “Go on now.”

      Riley left the office. A minute later, so did Mueller. I looked at Dave and said, “I’m sorry about all the fuss.”

      “You’re going to be bringing more tours here, right?”

      “All the time, I hope.”

      “Maybe the next bunch won’t start fighting World War II again. They’d better not.”

      All I could do was agree with him.

      CHAPTER 4

      The rest of the tour went smoothly enough that day, with Riley and Mueller staying well apart from each other. The best part of the ruckus was that it got Riley’s mind off of flirting with me. He didn’t bother me again about dancing with him at the plantation ball the next night.

      The bus that would be taking the tour group out to the plantation the next morning would pick them up at their hotels. They were on their own, free to enjoy Atlanta, until then.

      By the next morning, I was over being upset with everything that had happened the day before. When you’re trying to get a new business off the ground, you can’t afford to brood about the past. You have to just charge ahead and do your best.

      So that was the plan. The girls and I were at the office early, ready to meet the bus. Luke and Melissa showed up a short time later, and right behind them, the charter bus pulled into the shopping center’s parking lot. I walked out to meet it as it rolled to a stop.

      The door clattered open as the driver worked the lever. He was a grizzled black man wearing the uniform of the charter bus company. “You Mrs. Dickinson?” he asked as he leaned toward me in the seat.

      I didn’t bother correcting him about the Mrs. part. “That’s right,” I said.

      “Name’s Cobb,” he introduced himself. “Wilson Cobb. I’ll be your driver today.”

      “I’m mighty glad to meet you, Mr. Cobb,” I told him. I held up a printout and went on, “I’ve got a list here of all the folks we’ll be picking up and where they’re stayin’.”

      “You folks put your bags in the luggage compartment and climb aboard, then,” he invited, “and we’ll get started. That is, if you’re ready to go.”

      “I’m ready,” I said.

      The truth was I was more than ready. I was anxious to get the second day of the tour started and anxious for it to go well. I didn’t expect it to be otherwise. The folks at the plantation hosted tour groups like mine all the time, so they were experienced at this sort of thing and knew how to make everything go smoothly.

      Luke stowed our overnight bags in the compartment that opened on the side of the bus. Melissa wouldn’t be going to the plantation, but the rest of us would. We climbed on board and spent the next hour riding around downtown and suburban Atlanta as Mr. Cobb picked up the members of the tour group. Then we headed north out of town. The plantation was less than an hour’s drive away.

      I watched for any signs of more trouble between Mr. Riley and Mr. Mueller, but other than a sour glance exchanged between them, each pretended the other didn’t exist. They sat at opposite ends of the bus, Mueller and his wife up front, Riley in the back.

      We reached the plantation at mid-morning, Mr. Cobb turning the bus from the main road onto a quarter-mile-long driveway lined with magnolia trees, some of which had hydrangea plants climbing them and blooming, in addition to the large, snowy-white magnolia blooms. The cotton plants were just beginning to flower in the fields that flanked the drive. It would still be at least a couple of months before the cotton started to produce fluffy white bolls. Workers hoed weeds out of the field of plants. The men wore overalls and broad-brimmed straw hats. The women were in long dresses and colorful kerchiefs. It was hard work out there in the sun, but they were being paid excellent wages. These folks were actors as much as they were field hands.

      The house at the end of the driveway was magnificent, a four-story structure with massive columns supporting a covered portico where the drive curved in front of it. White-painted walls, set off by elegant wooden and wrought-iron trim, shone in the sun. More magnolias, as well as towering cottonwoods, surrounded the house. Well-tended flowerbeds gave the grounds patches of brilliant color. Roses, lilies, gladiolas, and half a dozen other varieties were bursting with blooms. Think of the most beautiful, stately plantation home you can imagine, and that gives you a pretty good idea of what this mock-Tara looked like.

      Pretty girls in hoop skirts strolled the grounds, accompanied by young men in swallowtail coats, silk vests, and fancy cravats with jeweled stickpins in them. A few Confederate officers in spotless gray uniforms were mixed in for good measure. The sun shone on their brass buttons, scabbards, and insignia. The men all had muttonchop whiskers. Some had drooping mustaches and others sported Beauregard beards. The women’s hair was done in elaborate arrangements of curls, some of them adorned by flowers.

      A burly, middle-aged man in a fancy suit was waiting for the bus. As it came to a stop and the tourists began to get off, this man boomed out, “Welcome to Tara, folks!” He was bigger than Thomas Mitchell but did a passable imitation of that character actor’s voice. I thought I heard a hint of a British accent under the Southern drawl that he was putting on. He held out a hand and continued, “Scarlett and I are so glad to see you.”

      The woman who came forward to take his hand was beautiful, all right, no doubt about that. With her fair skin displayed to advantage in the low-cut gown she wore and ringlets of midnight-dark hair tumbling around her head and over her bare shoulders, she did Scarlett O’Hara proud. She smiled coyly and said, “Why, fiddle-dee-dee, Papa, who are all these nice folks who’ve come to see us here at Tara?”

      Her accent was thick as molasses. I felt a little like groaning because her Southern belle act was so overdone, but the tourists seemed to be eating it up, especially when she turned her head and called, “Rhett, come over here and say howdy to all these nice folks who’ve come to visit us.”

      The man who joined them wore a white suit and a broad-brimmed planter’s hat. He had an unlit cigar in his mouth. The strong chin, the narrow mustache, the cocky grin, and the twinkle in his eyes were all just about perfect. He took off his hat, revealing thick black hair, and gave a little bow СКАЧАТЬ