ago and some of us don’t like what she’s been doing.”
“What’s she doing?”
“It’s about the books, Leigh. The writing, the beautiful writing and the world created by that writing. It’s not about sentiment. Not the color lilac, not Little Girl fashion shows, not the goddam tiaras. Some of us formed our own organization to focus on the literature, and Peach got pissed. Once upon a time she even told me to get out of town. She actually had the nerve to tell me that she was born here and Pepin belonged to her.”
“So I’m caught in the cross fire between warring fan clubs. I’ve heard a bit about the convention. Terry Bancroft said he’d hire security to protect the cottage.”
Marti nodded. “Not a bad idea, especially now that it’s no longer boarded up. This summer is the 120th anniversary of Ida May’s birth, and there will be several hundred women descending on Pepin. Some of the ladies get mighty aggressive upon occasion in their pursuit. Yes, make sure he hires the guard. You know what the Bancroft connection is, I assume.”
“The outline. But what’s the Wickham connection?”
Marti made a face, tipped her head, and finished her drink. “Peach grew up here.” She pointed out the window. “Brick bungalow on the corner across the park.”
“You were neighbors.”
“For years and years, just one house apart. She’s lived there her entire life. Peach was a daddy’s girl. Devoted to the books and to her father. Daddy died when she was well past thirty, and she had to turn that repressed desire to something. She decided that Pepin needed to pay more attention to its literary heritage. She became the biggest and loudest fan. As such, she oozed her way into certain places, made connections with certain people. Publishers, producers, and a couple of television stars who were too young to resist her energy. Have you seen the travesty by the Dairy Queen at the edge of downtown? That god-awful house they brought in from Hollywood and turned into a museum? People worship the TV show, Leigh, not the real thing.”
“Terry told me that Peach is related to the author.”
“She is not,” Marti said firmly. “Ida May had no blood relatives, so she named a goddaughter’s son her heir. Peach insinuated herself into his life, offering advice about dealing with the publishers and who knows what and before anyone could see what was really happening, she married him. I’d bet this month’s commissions that until he met Peach, Donnie Wickham didn’t have the foggiest idea of how to negotiate a woman’s body, and trust me, I’ve become something of an expert in identifying that shortcoming. Donnie must have managed to swim through the folds of organdy at least once, though, because a few months after the wedding they had a son. They named him—get this—Turnbull Wickham.”
“Poor kid.”
Marti nodded. “And if she could do that to her own child, imagine how she runs the Little Girl Society.”
“That’s the name of your club?”
“Her club.”
“Do pedophiles ever try to join?”
“Exactly. Try Googling it sometime; you’ll get a pretty skanky list. I can go on and on about Peach and her kingdom, dear, but not without another glass of this lovely Scotch, and I don’t dare have that on an empty stomach. What say we order in? Woo’s delivers. My treat.”
Leigh rose. “I have leftovers from the big house. The housekeeper sends me home with them every day. Feel free to wander around while I heat things up, but I warn you: I have a librarian’s memory and I’ll know if you touch or take anything.”
8.
“The girl has talent.” Marti said after a few bites of day-old coq au vin. “She and the Veep…?” Her eyebrows arched.
Leigh attended to the food on her plate. “You know, I think this is even better reheated.”
“Oh, all right, don’t say anything. That’s fair enough. He signs your paycheck and she cooks your food. Not that I judge her.”
“Marti, she says
“What’s she doing?”
“It’s about the books, Leigh. The writing, the beautiful writing and the world created by that writing. It’s not about sentiment. Not the color lilac, not Little Girl fashion shows, not the goddam tiaras. Some of us formed our own organization to focus on the literature, and Peach got pissed. Once upon a time she even told me to get out of town. She actually had the nerve to tell me that she was born here and Pepin belonged to her.”
“So I’m caught in the cross fire between warring fan clubs. I’ve heard a bit about the convention. Terry Bancroft said he’d hire security to protect the cottage.”
Marti nodded. “Not a bad idea, especially now that it’s no longer boarded up. This summer is the 120th anniversary of Ida May’s birth, and there will be several hundred women descending on Pepin. Some of the ladies get mighty aggressive upon occasion in their pursuit. Yes, make sure he hires the guard. You know what the Bancroft connection is, I assume.”
“The outline. But what’s the Wickham connection?”
Marti made a face, tipped her head, and finished her drink. “Peach grew up here.” She pointed out the window. “Brick bungalow on the corner across the park.”
“You were neighbors.”
“For years and years, just one house apart. She’s lived there her entire life. Peach was a daddy’s girl. Devoted to the books and to her father. Daddy died when she was well past thirty, and she had to turn that repressed desire to something. She decided that Pepin needed to pay more attention to its literary heritage. She became the biggest and loudest fan. As such, she oozed her way into certain places, made connections with certain people. Publishers, producers, and a couple of television stars who were too young to resist her energy. Have you seen the travesty by the Dairy Queen at the edge of downtown? That god-awful house they brought in from Hollywood and turned into a museum? People worship the TV show, Leigh, not the real thing.”
“Terry told me that Peach is related to the author.”
“She is not,” Marti said firmly. “Ida May had no blood relatives, so she named a goddaughter’s son her heir. Peach insinuated herself into his life, offering advice about dealing with the publishers and who knows what and before anyone could see what was really happening, she married him. I’d bet this month’s commissions that until he met Peach, Donnie Wickham didn’t have the foggiest idea of how to negotiate a woman’s body, and trust me, I’ve become something of an expert in identifying that shortcoming. Donnie must have managed to swim through the folds of organdy at least once, though, because a few months after the wedding they had a son. They named him—get this—Turnbull Wickham.”
“Poor kid.”
Marti nodded. “And if she could do that to her own child, imagine how she runs the Little Girl Society.”
“That’s the name of your club?”
“Her club.”
“Do pedophiles ever try to join?”
“Exactly. Try Googling it sometime; you’ll get a pretty skanky list. I can go on and on about Peach and her kingdom, dear, but not without another glass of this lovely Scotch, and I don’t dare have that on an empty stomach. What say we order in? Woo’s delivers. My treat.”
Leigh rose. “I have leftovers from the big house. The housekeeper sends me home with them every day. Feel free to wander around while I heat things up, but I warn you: I have a librarian’s memory and I’ll know if you touch or take anything.”
8.
“The girl has talent.” Marti said after a few bites of day-old coq au vin. “She and the Veep…?” Her eyebrows arched.
Leigh attended to the food on her plate. “You know, I think this is even better reheated.”
“Oh, all right, don’t say anything. That’s fair enough. He signs your paycheck and she cooks your food. Not that I judge her.”
“Marti, she says
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