"How long you figure her to give Campbell before she sics Stub there after him?" Henryson asked.
"I'd guess a day," Ross said, "just to give some sport to it."
"Some claims Galloway's mama helps him with his murderings," Stewart said. "All she's got to do is get a good look at you. Then she tells Galloway what he needs to do. That's what some say."
"There's some likely in that conclusion," Snipes said, finding a segue into the discussion. "Even your scientists and such argue some folks got uncertain ways of knowing things."
"Which is why you'll not hear me calling him Stub," Ross said to Henryson, "and I'd advise you not to call him that unless you're wanting to join the others he's taken a disliking to."
They watched the party enter the fold of land where Rough Fork Creek flowed into the valley. Their vanishing forms appeared to wobble and haze, miragelike. Then they were gone as if consumed by the air itself.
Twenty-four
ON SATURDAY EVENING PEMBERTON FOLLOWED the blacktop through the declining hills and into the Pigeon River valley. A month earlier the last dogwood blossoms had wilted and fallen in the passing forests, the understory now the bright green of dogwood leaves and scrub oak, the denser green of mountain laurel and rhododendron. Pemberton suspected someday soon there'd be a poison to eradicate such valueless trees and shrubs and make it easier to cut and haul out hardwoods.
Pemberton raised his index finger and loosened the silk tie around his collar. He'd dressed up for the first time since his wedding. The white Indian cotton suit lay light over his body, but it still felt constrictive. Yet worth it to see Serena in the same dress she'd worn the first evening they'd met. Now as then the dress seemed in motion as it revealed her body's clefts and curves, its thin green current of silk coursing from neck to ankle. Pemberton placed his right hand on Serena's knee. As he felt the smooth skin beneath the smoothness of the silk, Pemberton tried to make its promise of later pleasure eclipse other concerns. But it didn't. As the road began its ascent from the valley, Pemberton lifted his hand and shifted the Packard into a lower gear.
"I heard McDowell came into the commissary last evening," Pemberton said, keeping his hand on the knob. "He was asking the men about Campbell."
"If he's asking questions, he must not have the answers," Serena replied, turning so her body angled toward Pemberton. "How is Meeks working out?"
"Considering it was his first week, pretty well. He has trouble with the local brogue, but he got the payroll numbers right."
The land leveled and then fell as they crossed the French Broad, the river brown and swollen from an afternoon rain. It was eventide and streetlights were flickering on as the Packard skirted Asheville. They crossed the Swannanoa River, then passed through the Biltmore Estate's main gate and began the winding three-mile drive to the mansion. The forest pressed close to the road, blotting out any light other than the Packard's beams.
The road curved and then straightened, revealing a grassy esplanade. Pemberton made the last turn, and the mansion appeared before them like a cliff of lights. Towers and spires surged upward in silhouette. Gargoyles leaned from the parapets, their scowling features backlit by the glow of windows. The limestone veneer bespoke solidity, a confidence that the Vanderbilt family's place in the world was beyond the vagaries of stock markets and industry.
"Chambord transported to the hinterlands," Serena said derisively as Pemberton braked, the Packard taking its place in line behind other cars.
At the mansion's main entrance, an attendant in black tails and top hat opened Serena's door and took the car keys. The Pembertons joined other guests walking up the wide steps. As they passed the marble lions, Serena placed her hand on Pemberton's forearm, held it firmly as she leaned closer and kissed him softly on the cheek. As she did, Pemberton felt some of his disquiet begin to lift.
They waited for three couples ahead of them to enter. Pemberton placed his hand on the small of Serena's back and moved his hand downward. Pemberton felt the silk cool against his fingers and palm as he caressed the flank of her upper hip. An image came back to him with such vividness that it might have been framed before him in glass-Serena in the dawn light of her Revere Street apartment, laying her Ram's Head overcoat on a chaise lounge as Pemberton entered the room behind her. She hadn't offered him something to drink or a place to sit, or even offered to take his coat. She'd only offered him herself, turning with her left hand already on the dress's green strap, pulling it off her shoulder and letting it fall, exposing the pale globe of her breast, the ruddy nipple beaded by the cold. The line shifted forward, bringing Pemberton out of his reverie.
In the entrance hall, a tuxedoed butler stepped forth and offered champagne flutes from a silver tray. Pemberton handed Serena one and took one for himself before they stepped forward to greet their hosts.
"Welcome to our domicile," John Cecil said, bowing after an exchange of names.
The host's left arm opened outward to the expansiveness behind him. Cecil's hand clasped Pemberton's as he kissed Serena demurely on the cheek. Cornelia Cecil stepped closer, let her lips brush Pemberton's cheek, then turned to Serena and embraced her.
"I'm so sorry, dear. Lydia Calhoun told me of your recent misfortune. To carry a child that long and lose it, such a terrible thing."
Mrs. Cecil broke the embrace but rested her hand on Serena's wrist.
"But you are here, and looking so well. That's something to be thankful for."
Serena's shoulders tensed as several other women came forth to offer condolences. Pemberton quickly took Serena's arm and told the women he needed his wife's presence for a few minutes. They walked to the far end of the room. As soon as they were alone, Serena took a long swallow from the crystal flute.
"I'll need another of these," she said as they made their way toward the music room.
In the music room a jazz band played "Saint Louis Blues." Several couples danced but most stood on the periphery with drinks in hand. Serena and Pemberton lingered by the doorway.
"My partners," Harris said loudly as he came up behind them.
Accompanying Harris was a man in a tuxedo who looked to be in his fifties. Both men moved in unsteadily gaits, whiskey in hand. Harris clasped Pemberton's shoulder with his free hand.
"Bradley Calhoun," Harris said, nodding at the man beside him. "I'll go get Lowenstein."
As Harris walked off, Pemberton offered his hand. Calhoun's handshake was firm and confident, but it could not hide the palm's plump softness. Calhoun took Serena's hand and bestowed a kiss upon it, his drink sloshing as he did so. After he let go her hand, Calhoun brushed back a lock of long yellow-gray hair with a flourish.