“Hope you enjoy yourselves tonight,” I said briskly.
I looked down rather than show my irritation, pushed my wire-rims up with one finger to give myself an excuse for glancing away. “Perry,” I said over Paul’s shoulder, “Good to see you.” To my surprise, Paul’s former stepson had come in right behind him with a woman who must be the remarkable Jenny Tankersley. Paul and Deena were moving away, and I tried not to even glance at the rear view.
“Jenny’s airstrip is where the Pan-Am Agra plane lands when the president flies down,” Perry was explaining. “This is the second year Jenny’s been invited to the banquet.”
I didn’t remember her from the year before, but perhaps she just hadn’t come up to meet me. I was sure I would have had no trouble recognizing her if I’d been introduced. Jenny, who was the same height as Perry, had gleaming beautiful white teeth, which she frequently bared in a predatory smile. Her hair was cut very short, with bangs, and it was a glossy brown that contrasted well with her heavy gold jewelry and orange dress. I had heard many stories about this woman, and I was interested in talking to her, but now was not the time to get to know her better.
I said a few polite words, to which Jenny responded instead of Perry, and then the younger couple drifted off to sit with Paul and Deena Cotton. I noted that Deena had somehow managed to sit, but she was bolt upright.
I assessed the incomings-down to a trickle-and the seated employees-a great majority-and knew it was time for the banquet to officially begin. Martin met my eye, with his usual good timing, and together we glanced around for seats, which would be simply the first two side-by-side we saw. At the annual banquet, Martin and I were supposed to be just part of the gang, with the result that some plant workers were in for a very tense evening sitting with the boss.
I spotted a table about fifteen yards away, and as Martin and I made our way there we passed a head of pale curly hair I thought I recognized. When I glanced back in amazement, I confirmed my suspicion; Arthur Smith was there with another woman, this one a very young twenty-something with her hair actually in a ponytail.
I looked straight into his eyes, which were focused on me, gave him some anger in the look, and turned my face to my husband.
Of course, Martin hadn’t missed it. “What the hell is he doing here?” he murmured through a genial smile. Martin and Arthur had always had a profound dislike of each other.
“He and Lynn have separated.”
“So he’s out with a woman half his age?”
I wisely said nothing. I didn’t think the woman was that young, but she was maybe fifteen years younger than Arthur, who was about thirty-four. I didn’t think it was the right time to remind Martin he was fifteen years older than I.
“Are Lynn and Arthur going to get divorced?” Martin asked, sliding my chair out for me while nodding at the others seated at the table, who were displaying an interesting variety of reactions to the presence of the boss and his wife.
“I hope not, for the sake of the little girl,” I said. “And it would be his second divorce.”
Then we had to drop our own conversation and tend to our social duties. Martin knew the name of every worker at our table, and met their spouses with great aplomb. I didn’t have that gift, but I worked hard, and I hoped not obviously, at matching Martin’s geniality and his easy conversation.
Every time I had to go to an affair like this one, my earnest prayer was that I would think at least once before I spoke, twice if possible. I didn’t want to provide fodder for any amusing anecdotes.
I discussed school-system problems with a mother of three, sewing one’s own clothes with another woman, and planting roses with another. I plowed steadily through the evening, eating little of the barbecued chicken and slaw, but doing my corporate duty. When the Employee Services man, who had to act as M.C. on these occasions, stood up to tell a few jokes and introduce Martin, I sighed a silent breath of relief.
Martin rose to the occasion with a few well-chosen words about the increased productivity at the plant, his goals for the year, and the pride he took in working with such a fine group of people. He went on about how he’d taken Georgia to his heart, turning this into a reference to his marriage to a true Georgia peach; and then he concluded neatly, pleasing those who had come with any tendency to be pleased.
I kept my face turned toward Martin and an indulgent smile pasted on my lips, but I was more interested in scanning the faces I knew in the crowd. Paul was looking at Martin, but as if he weren’t really seeing him. It was obvious that his thoughts were far away. Perry was not paying any attention at all; if I was right, he and Jenny were up to something under the tablecloth. And Arthur was neglecting his young date to glare at Martin as though my husband were saying derogatory things about Arthur’s ancestry. Marnie Sands was listening to make sure her boss did her proud, and the Andersons were whispering anxiously to each other.
Martin gave me my cue as name-drawer for the door prizes, all donated from local businesses that Pan-Am Agra patronized heavily. There were ten prizes to distribute this year, and I had to reach in the bowl, draw out a slip with a name scrawled on it, and search the crowd for whoever looked happy when I called the name. Then I unhooked the string attaching one of the giant eggs to the tree and handed it to the winner, who was supposed to open the egg on the spot so everyone could admire the donated largesse. It was kind of nice to be able to give people things that made them happy, especially at no expense to myself, and I enjoyed this part of the evening, though deciphering the scribbled signatures on the slips of paper could sometimes be a problem.
One of the recipients happened to be seated at Arthur’s table, and as I called the man’s name I noticed that Arthur was staring at me as if he hadn’t eaten his dinner and I was a barbecued chicken breast.
I had the strongest yearning for a water gun.
At last, the evening dragged to an official end. The couples we’d been sitting with said ceremonious good-byes, Martin excused himself to congratulate the Employee Services man on his organization of the event, and I was alone for the first time in what felt like years. I surreptitiously opened my compact below the table level to check my face for wear and tear, discovered a crumb of roll on my cheek that must have been there for an hour, and took care of that little problem. I spotted a clean napkin and polished my glasses, wondering how long the E.S. man would keep Martin talking, and if there were actually blisters on my feet. And then I was no longer alone.
True to her word, here was Bettina Anderson, who had fared even worse than I in terms of visible wear- she had a prominent grease stain on the skirt of her green dress. She was just as tense, just as wired up, as she had been earlier in the evening.
I felt sorry for her, and very wary.
“You have to help me, Aurora,” she said earnestly. Her heavy mouth had lost its lipstick and her nose needed powder. She clutched my arm, and I gritted my teeth to endure the contact.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I said evenly.
“Jack Burns died in your yard. Did he say anything before he died?”
Back to Jack Burns again. I tried not to see him falling. His funeral was tomorrow, and I dreaded the thought of it. “No,” I said wearily. “Bettina, I’m sure he was dead when he fell. He couldn’t have said anything.” She looked unconvinced. Stung clean out of courtesy, I said, “And besides, what business is it of yours?”
“I’m so scared,” she said. Now that I believed; I could feel her fear.
“He knew about us,” she said. For one horrifying moment I thought she meant Jack Burns had knowledge of an affair between Bettina and my husband.
Then I was back in my right mind and I put a couple of things together.