Killer Market

“Savannah! How perfectly splendid to see you here,” exclaimed an ash-blonde, middle-aged woman in an elegant black brocade suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. The diamonds on her finger and ears would have gone a long way toward reducing the national deficit.

Matilda McNeill Jernigan looked all the way up into the taller woman’s face. “Were you addressing me, madam?”

The woman faltered before those piercing eyes. “It’s Elizabeth, Savannah. Elizabeth Patterson.”

Mrs. Jernigan turned away. “You are mistaken. We have never met.”

The woman gave an entreating smile. “Of course we have. You styled our catalogs three years in a row. You mentored our daughter Drew.”

“Drew?” For a moment her eyes softened.

“Don’t you remember, Savannah?”

Mrs. Jernigan stiffened again. “Even were that my name, your familiarity would not be appreciated.”

Her husky voice, so at odds with her small size and wispy chiffon, cut like a rusty band saw. “For your information, my name is Melissa Dorcas Poole. Mrs. Melissa Dorcas Poole.”

Being accosted by Elizabeth Patterson—as in Fitch and Patterson?—seemed to have made Mrs. Jernigan forget that she was supposed to be Louisa Ferncliff from Seattle.

On the other hand, she had not forgotten my nom de nuit. “Come, Miss Sotelli. Let us seek greener pastures where we may browse in peace.”

I gave the woman an apologetic smile and turned to follow, but Elizabeth Patterson put out her hand and with a dazzle of diamonds caught me by the sleeve. “Miss—Sotelli, is it? Please tell me—”

“Darlin’?”

A stocky, white-haired man emerged from the crowd and put his arm around her waist with a proprietary air. They were almost exactly the same height, but he wore only one diamond, a large square stone set in a heavy gold ring. His badge told me that he was J. J. Patterson of Fitch and Patterson Furniture Incorporated, headquartered in Lexington, N.C., less than twenty miles away.

“Oh, Jay,” said Mrs. Patterson. “Did you see her? That was Savannah.”

J.J. Patterson had a broad square face with a bulbous nose that was finely webbed by small broken veins. He looked like one of those hard-working, hard-playing, savvy businessmen you find the world over, ready to cut the cards, cut a deal, or cut a throat (economically speaking) if it would sweeten his bottom line. And he had a wide mouth that would probably broaden into an amiable smile to show you that there was nothing personal in it if he cut you off at the knees.

He wasn’t smiling now as he stretched himself to get another look over the heads of the revelers. Matilda McNeill Jernigan or Melissa Dorcas Poole or whoever she was had disappeared into the crowd.

“Savannah? Really?” asked a stocky young woman who wore a Furniture/Today press badge and carried a reporter’s narrow notebook. She had straight black hair that hung halfway down her back and swung like a shimmering curtain when she pivoted on her tiptoes and looked eagerly in the same direction.

“You sure, darlin’? Didn’t look like the Savannah I remember.”

“She’s let her hair go gray and she’s wearing color, but it’s Savannah, all right. Ms. Sotelli here was with her. It was Savannah, wasn’t it?” she asked me now.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I just met her and—”

“Home-Lite?” Jay Patterson gave a polite smile as he read my badge. “Newark, New Jersey. That’s Paul Schaftlein’s outfit, isn’t it? Ol’ Paul come down this year?”

I had a feeling this man probably had a personal acquaintance with every furniture retailer on the East Coast.

“Excuse me,” I said brightly.

And fled.

I let myself go with the flow and soon wound up in the ballroom next door.

The Fitch and Patterson reception had been tasteful and dignified. Taste and dignity did not seem to be considerations of the American Leathergoods Wholesale Association’s party. It was a let-down-your-hair romp and stomp. A four-piece combo dressed in blue leather chaps and big white Stetsons was pounding out the latest rockabilly and a large blue ox was leading a group of line dancers in front of the bandstand.

Before I could stop myself, a good-looking guy in a three-piece suit, an open shirt, two gold neck chains and cowboy boots grabbed my hand and pulled me into the line. It took me a couple of awkward steps to catch the pattern, but once I got into the rhythm, I was high-stepping right along with him.

When the set ended, my dancing partner grinned and with an exaggerated drawl said, “I’d be plumb proud to stand you to a drink, ma’am.”

Before I could agree, he did a double take. “Deb’rah? Deb’rah Knott?”

“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,” I said in my best schoolmarm voice.

But he was serious now. “It’s me—Chan. Chandler Nolan. Don’t you remember?”

The name rang no bells and I was sure I’d remember if I’d ever met somebody who filled his jeans the way this guy did.

“Frederick, Maryland,” he said. “The spring you stayed with your aunt?”

I’d done a pretty good job of erasing that nineteenth spring from my memory, but now it came rushing back, along with the face of a kid who used to mow Aunt Barbara’s two-acre lawn, a horny, pimple-faced seventeen- year-old who’d tried to grope me every time I let him take me to a movie or walk with me down to the creek that flowed through the back of Aunt Barbara’s meadow.