When Will the Dead Lady Sing? Read Free Page B

than he’d been at twenty. His smile had always been wide and attractive, but over the years it had chiseled deep lines into his face that passed for character. His once-blond hair was now silver, but still thick and straight, parted on the left. His gray slacks had a crease you could use to slit boxes, his yellow polo shirt was soft as butter, and his black loafers were polished so the shine hurt my eyes. Or maybe that was the sun’s reflection off his gold Rolex watch. He smelled like he’d just come out of the shower, and although he’d put on weight since I’d seen him last, it suited him. Mama would have said he’d finally grown into his potential.
    Burlin always had considerable potential. When we were both at the University of Georgia, he’d been president of the drama club and a steadily rising star in student government. He’d gone on to Yale Law School, with an eye to following his daddy’s footsteps in Georgia politics, but he’d done his daddy one better: He had served a couple of terms in Congress.
    Now his gray eyes twinkled down at me from his tanned face. “Cat got your tongue?”
    Burlin was always tanned. These days, he docked a sail-boat at Lake Lanier, owned a condo at St. Simons Island, and went out several times each winter to ski in Colorado. How did I know? Because he was a regular guest on one of Joe Riddley’s favorite talk shows, was often asked to sit in on newscasts to comment on national situations, and was a familiar face in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution . We seldom went a month in Georgia without seeing Burlin in the paper for something. He was the kind of politician men admire and women adore.
    For one moment of treachery to all the life experiences that have made me who I am, I wished I could strip off my face and look twenty again, and I gathered my wits to say something intelligent. “What the dickens are you doing here?”
    He shifted so the sun wasn’t right in his eyes. “My boy is running for governor, you know.” Of course I knew. The election wasn’t for another year, but the campaign had been in the paper for months. Lance Bullock was one of two strong candidates in our party, and with none in the other, whoever won next year’s primary was likely to get elected.
    However, having Lance run for governor was one thing. Having Burlin in my front yard was another—particularly when he said, “We’re running his campaign out of Hopemore for the next week or so and staying down at the Annie Dale Inn. I guess you know it?”
    I guess I did. Annie Dale Wilson was a year younger than me, and we’d bicycled all over town together, growing up. We’d drifted apart during junior and senior high— Annie Dale got a little wild back then—and lost touch after I went to college and she stayed home to work, but we still enjoyed an occasional chat or a wave when she passed me on her bike. Annie Dale was still a serious biker and spent two weeks each year bicycling in a different country.
    “We’re proud of Annie Dale,” I told Burlin. “Some people scoffed when she turned the old house her granddaddy built after he retired from the railroad into an inn. They said she’d never make a go of it because it’s too close to the tracks. But trains don’t come through town anymore, and she’s had folks from thirty-nine states, so far, and a lot of weekend wedding parties. Having a gubernatorial candidate will really float her boat.”
    “It’s handy for us. She’s turned the whole second floor over to us, including a sitting room we can use for an office.”
    “Still, Hopemore is a funny place for a campaign center,” I pointed out.
    “Oh, I don’t know. It’s the county seat of Hope County, has several thousand voters, is centrally located between I-20 and I-16, and you’re here.” He smiled down into my eyes. When I didn’t rise to that lure, he added, “Besides, it’s smack in the middle of everything, including the gnat line.” He ruefully scratched one