Chapter 19

When I pulled up in front of Hamp Carter's house, it was as I remembered it – a big old Victorian sort of thing, though it might not have actually been a Victorian house. It did have some of that fancy gingerbread trim, but not a whole lot, and of course anyone can build a house anytime with that sort of style and trim, or add it on to an existing house. And I'm sure there are some houses which look Victorian to me which aren't and never were and never pretended to be. I'm an architect like I'm Lord of the Universe.

Cecelia and I climbed out of the Blazer, and I had to chuckle at the contrast with where we were headed. As always I was in my cowboy clothes, and my boots weren't by any means shiny and new. Cecelia looked elegant and imperial as always, but a white shirt three sizes too big for her with the sleeves rolled up on her forearms, a pair of black jeans, and ordinary running shoes aren't what you ordinarily would wear to go calling on one of the richest men in town. Nor did the rubber band with which she'd pulled her hair back into its standard short ponytail reek of wealth and culture. The fact that we probably had as much money as Carter did wasn't obvious, and if that point came up during the interview it would surprise the pants off of me.

We went up the steps to the porch, and rang the bell. In about 30 seconds the door opened, and there was a woman – a maid, no doubt, and black as I'd expected. "Yes?" she said.

"My name's Darvin Carpenter, and this is my wife Cecelia." She nodded a fraction – even if she didn't know our faces, she'd surely know our names. "Col. Donovan sent us, and we'd like to talk to Mr. Carter." I made it a point not to add the polite if he's available. I wanted her to convey the message that I didn't particularly care whether he was available, without putting her on the spot. If she reported what I said the way I said it, that ought to do the trick.

"Please come in," the maid said, holding the door open. "If you'll wait in the parlor, I'll tell Mr. Carter."

She showed us into a room on the right side of the entrance hall, which had the sort of overstuffed furniture I'd expect in a museum display. The bric-a-brac around the room was of the same nature. I don't often go into places where people live who have lots of money, but every time I do I feel like I'm not in a house, but in a display where tourists will come through any second to gawk at the things there, while a guide tells them that they aren't to touch anything for any reason.

I walked around, looking at the paintings on the walls. They weren't my style – they looked like portraits from the 1800s, and if they were genuine, they no doubt pictured Hamp Carter's forebears. I prefer the Impressionists – Renoir, Cezanne, Manet, like that. Of course I'm not an art expert, and for all I knew the sum total of the paintings in that room could buy the county, but I wouldn't have given five dollars for the lot. I would, on the other hand, have paid hundreds for a print of something by van Gogh or Monet, if it weren't for the fact that I could find images of beautiful paintings online, and print them out for my own use ... which in fact I do.

It was perhaps five minutes before the maid returned, saying, "This way, please. Mr. Carter is in the sun room."

I rolled my eyes as I followed. Anyone who has to have a specific special room to get the sun has entirely too much time on his hands. He needs to get rid of his pretensions, and get outside and do something productive, and he'll get all the sun he can use. I didn't say any of that, though, it not being the point, nor the maid's fault.

The sun room turned out to be what I would have called a glassed in back porch – or perhaps a verandah would be a better way to describe it, since it bent around one corner of the house, so that both the east and south sides would get plenty of sun in the winter. Hamp Carter was standing in the middle of it, with wicker furniture scattered around. He had on a cream colored suit and a white shirt without a tie. I knew him when I saw him, and he knew me. "Mr. Carpenter," he said. "Please sit down. Would you like anything to drink?"

"I'll have Coke if you've got it."

"I would like Coca-Cola as well," Cecelia said.

He nodded at the maid, and she went out as quietly as she'd led us in. We all sat down. I felt slightly ridiculous in the wicker chair with its back that fanned out over my head. Carolyn Jones, as Mortitia Addams, looked great in such a chair, but I felt like I was impersonating Col. Blimp, and doing it badly. How Cecelia felt I didn't know, but she looked, as she always does, as though she belonged in her chair – indeed, as though she owned it, and the factory that made it, and the whole world besides.

When Cecelia and I had our Coke and had taken a drink, and Carter had taken a sip of his drink – I guessed from the color, based on experience from my youth, that it was straight bourbon whiskey – he said, "I'm sure Col. Donovan had some reason for sending you here." Carter had a southern accent, but not very pronounced – it was the modern urban southern accent that seeks to be southern without sounding like a hick. I prefer the full blown genuine article myself.

"He did, sir. You have no doubt heard what happened at Mama and Daddy's house a bit more than a week ago."

"I have heard what took place at that house."

"Well, I've decided to look into it. I guess you know I'm a private investigator, and though I'm not sure I can do more than the police, I'm gonna give it a whirl."

"You are not, I believe, licensed in this state."

"No, I'm not. On the other hand, I've had a real good relationship with the deputies who work Leanna, an' I don't anticipate any difficulties here."