Excerpt from Way Down Dead in Dixie:

At exactly six o’clock in the evening of the last Sunday in June, the double mahogany doors opened wide.

"Welcome to Pinckney Plantation.’’

I said the words automatically, even though I recognized most of the well-dressed men and women assembled on the wide front porch. Not the usual line-up of sandal-shod, T-shirted tourists, their sunburned faces agog at finally being allowed access to the inner sanctum.

These were all islanders who took the faded antebellum grandeur for granted. Pinckney Plantation and Indigo Island have been inseparable for going on two centuries.

"Miss Eliza is in the back parlor,’’ said my cousin Bonnie in hushed tones, gesturing toward the hallway leading past the sweeping staircase.

The Hendersons, who lived down at the beach near my parents, edged into the shadowed room, followed by others who nodded politely as they filed past.

"Lindsey, Bonnie, thank you.’’ Ray Simmons ushered in his wife Sally, who was trying her best to contain her bubbly personality.

"It is so good of Miss Augusta to have us all here,’’ she said. "I know Miss Eliza’s house is in no shape for company. I’m sure Fort appreciates it. How’s he doing?’’

I didn’t dare look at Bonnie. "About as well as can be expected.’’

Ray raised one dark eyebrow. "That well?’’ He tipped an imaginary flask to his lips.

"Stop, sugar,’’ Sally admonished. "This has got be hard on him, bless his heart. Such a shock.’’

"Hardly,’’ Ray said. Maybe being a hotshot developer made him cynical. Then again, Fort Bailey’s taste for bourbon and branch was well known, much to his teetotaling mother’s chagrin. "Miss Eliza’s been threatening to go anytime the last five years.’’

"I know, I know,’’ Sally put her hand on his arm to lead him toward the hallway. "When I heard about it yesterday and called my sister in Charleston, she said she’d thought Miss Eliza had died before. Now I know she didn’t leave Comfort’s End much, but I think Sister was confusing her with this other Mrs. Bailey. She wasn’t a Comfort, though, like Eliza. I’m not even sure I know her people. I’ll have to ask Cora. She’s here, of course.’’

Bonnie smiled politely. "With Miss Maudie and Miss Augusta.’’

Cora, our great-aunt, is best friends with the other two widows. They were all girls together on the island eighty-plus years ago, as was Eliza Comfort Bailey. Eliza was a tad older but still a member of their bridge club until her health began going downhill. Even then she’d had the other ladies bring their pineapple-and-cream-cheese sandwiches over to the big house at Comfort’s End for Monday lunch and bridge. "I know it’s not Pinckney,’’ she’d told them, acknowledging her and her home’s decline as she expertly dealt the cards with arthritic fingers. "But I have to save my energy for playing. Two diamonds.’’

Miss Eliza always opened with diamonds even if she didn’t have any. Happily, her friends were used to "Eliza’s little ways,’’ as they referred to her list of eccentricities. Which was why people were paying their respects to her in the back parlor at Pinckney instead of the funeral parlor in Centerville, the county seat over the drawbridge and twenty miles inland.

"I still think it’s sort of creepy,’’ Bonnie said now, shutting the heavy door against the wall of hot air.

"I know what you mean,’’ I agreed. "But Miss Eliza’s last request was to be ‘laid-out and candle-lit.’ She made Miss Augusta promise to have it here. You know they used to do it all the time, have the visitation at home. Those really old houses with the narrow winding stairs have niches in the wall so they could bring down a coffin.’’

"I thought it was so they could bring the beds up.’’

"Whatever.’’ I wiped some beads of sweat off my brow. "Lordy, it’s hot. Let’s just be happy for A.C.’’

Before Miss Augusta opened her family’s ancestral home to the public she’d decided to put in central heat and air. It was an expense that had paid off, not only in the hordes of tourists seeking refuge from the sultry summers of the South Carolina Low Country, but also because she was able to hire help. Bonnie and I, along with her older sister Margaret Ann, had been among the first tour guides when we were in high school. The costumes were lightweight knock-offs of Scarlett O’Hara attire, but we still would have keeled over from heat stroke if we wore belle-wear without air conditioning.

"I expect they had some quick funerals back then.’’ Bonnie wrinkled her perfect nose. "Was Miss Eliza related to the Pinckneys too?’’

"Somehow,’’ I replied, trying to visualize the intertwining branches of the island families’ trees. "But it may have been by marriage instead of blood. Like us. Or it could be by both. Like us.’’

Our family ties are tightly knotted. Our mothers are sisters and our fathers are first cousins, which makes us "one and half times first cousins,’’ as Margaret Ann likes to say, adding quickly that "it’s all legal cause our mothers didn’t marry their first cousins.’’

That’s true, except that way back in the late 1700s, Indigo and its big sister Edisto Island were first settled by a handful of British colonists, ours among them. Over the years, they’d intermarried enough that the same surnames kept turning up in successive generations.

"Who’s like us?’’ Margaret Ann piped up from the hallway in one of her stage whispers that can be heard a country mile. Her hearing is just as acute, especially if she thinks she’s being left out of an interesting conversation. Or any conversation.

"We were trying to figure out if Miss Eliza is somehow kin to the Pinckneys,’’ Bonnie replied in a normal voice now that her sister had joined us by the door.

"Probably,’’ Margaret Ann said blithely. "Miss Eliza had those pale blue eyes, although that might have been cataracts, and besides you can’t always go by looks. Look at us.’’ She waved her hand at me. "I’ve got blue eyes, but yours and Bonnie’s are green, and Bonnie’s been a blonde since she was a baby, even if she needs some help now. But your hair’s practically black and I’m in between, just like in age.’’

Good grief, she never forgets that she’s all of two days younger than I am.

"I’m the tallest,’’ Bonnie stated the obvious. "And the thinnest.’’ She smirked.

"Not so much anymore. After 35, your metabolism slows down. I keep telling you, you better watch how many biscuits you eat for breakfast.’’

"Yes, Mam.’’ Bonnie said, winking at me. Margaret Ann’s nickname is "Mam’’ because of her initials. She was a Mikell before she married J.T., conveniently named Matthews.

"Y’all come on in the back parlor now,’’ Mam said. "Miss Augusta’s expecting us. And then you can show people out through the dining room like on tour. That way they can stick to the runners. Sally’s got on spike heels for some reason, and we don’t want her on the heart pine.’’

I agreed. Mam might sound like the mistress of the plantation -- and she does run the gift shop along with her own specialty floral business -- but I’ve been the manager the last few months since I moved back to Indigo. If anything happened to the floors or furnishings, I’d be the one who would be answering to Miss Augusta Pinckney Townsend, or worse, her equally elderly housekeeper, Marietta Manigault. It was Marietta who insisted we stop the grandfather clock and drape the downstairs mirrors for this evening. "Matter of respect,’’ she’d sniffed, handing me a length of black cloth. "We do things proper at Pinckney, even if some folk don’t give a lick.’’

I knew she meant Miss Eliza’s sole survivor, Comfort Bailey, aka "Fort,’’ who was standing near the parlor fireplace looking like a man in need of a drink. Tall, with receding faded blond hair, he was your typical high school football player gone to seed in his sixties. Still, his dissipated good looks and hearty manner stood out in a crowd. He was talking to Otis Heywood, the short, rotund funeral director, but his eyes were on Sally’s shapely legs in her too-high heels.

Otis, meanwhile, was looking at satisfaction at Miss Eliza, who was indeed "laid out and candle-lit’’ on a bier that I knew was made with a couple of sawhorses and some plywood. But Mam had covered it like a cake table at one her wedding receptions, swagging yards of the material Miss Augusta had bought in bulk from Wal-Mart for the tour guide costumes.

"Pinckney Purple,’’ Bonnie whispered in my ear. "I should have known.’’

"From here to eternity.’’ I was trying to avoid the coffin, unlike Mam, who had marched right over for a little look-see.

"Otis did a good job,’’ she pronounced on her return. "That assistant of his didn’t get carried away with the Maybelline, like he’s been known to do. Hey, Sally,’’ she said turning her head, "cute shoes.’’

"Oh, thank you,’’ Sally said. "They’re about to kill me. Oops,’ she put her hand to her mouth. "That’s not the best choice of words in the circumstances.’’ She looked around to see if anyone had heard, then leaned in closer. "I came to tell you Fort is planning the estate sale for Thursday.’’

We all snapped to attention.

"Well, he’s not wasting any time.’’ Mam was practically twitchng with excitement.

"He’s been ready to go ever since Miss Eliza had that bad spell at Easter. Y’know, he’s already had everything appraised by some expert in Charleston.’’ Sally, who had a small antiques shop, sounded miffed. "I think he probably called in the ad to the papers along with his mama’s obituary. Wants a headstart on the crowds for the Fourth. It doesn’t see quite proper, but Ray says he needs the money, got in over his head on some land deal in Florida that got put back ’cause of the hurricanes.’’

"Is having the sale so quick legal, Bonnie?’’ Mam asked.

"I guess so,’’ Bonnie said. "I’m not that kind of lawyer. I do know that Fort can’t sell Comfort’s End except to the state. It’s in the eminent domain zone for whenever they build a new bridge.’’

"Yes.’’ Sally nodded. "Ray says developers aren’t going anywhere near the north peninsula until the surveys are done and the tree-huggers stop complaining.’’

Bonnie to say something – being an environment lawyer, she’s often an advocate for wildlife groups and preservation trusts -- but Mam jumped in. "What all’s in the sale, Sally? I haven’t been in Comfort’s End in years.’’

"Everything, I hear. Furniture, jewelry, silver, china, housewares, the whole ball of wax. Between the Baileys and the Comforts, Miss Eliza was well-fixed, even if Fort has let the house go. His ex-wives all took cash, although I think one of them did get to keep the Bailey pearls.’’

"I’ve got pearls,’’ Mam said. "I need more stuff for my new sunroom.’’

"I’m hunting a partner’s desk for Tom,’’ Bonnie said, referring to her husband, a lieutenant commander in the navy. "I’d like to get it while he’s on cruise this summer and have it when he comes home in the fall. ’’

Sally considered. "I think there was one in the study. Or maybe it was upstairs. Oak, good condition.’’

"Oooh, a partner’s desk! ‘’ Mam chimed in. "J.T. would like that, too.’’

"First dibs, sister dear. ’’

"Don’t be too sure about that.’’ Mam’s voice was rising. "How would you get a desk back to D.C. anyhow? Your minivan was stuffed with you and the boys coming down.’’

"I’d figure something out.’’ Bonnie wasn’t about to let Mam horn in on her prey. "And J.T. has a desk. You don’t need—‘’

"-- to be so loud,’’ I cut in. "Miss Augusta’s giving us the look.’’

The piercing blue eyes over the beaky nose had turned our way.

"Uh-oh,’’ Bonnie said. "It’s remember where you are, girls.’’

"I’ll go speak to her and Miss Maudie,’’ Sally said. "Then Ray and I need to go.’’

The room was already clearing out. Aunt Cora, short and spry, was by the far door, gently herding the Hendersons on their way. Ray was talking to Fort and Otis. Miss Maudie was fiddling with her hearing aid as Sally chattered. And Marietta, who had slipped in quietly, stood next to the heavy drapes shielding the room from the early evening glare. She was staring at Miss Eliza with a strange expression on her face. Even as I directed Mam and Bonnie’s eyes toward her, Marietta moved close to the gleaming wood box. With one hand resting on a brass handle, she put the other on the white tufted satin ruche than ran around the rim like cake frosting. Her fingers were tightly clenched. What was she holding?

Mam drew a quick breath but Bonnie poked her before she could say anything. "Shhh.’’

I could see Marietta’s lips moving. Her eyes were closed. Then her right hand disappeared into the depths of the coffin.

From Way Down Dead in Dixie. Copyright© 2007 by Nancy Pate, Meg Herndon and Gail Greer. All rights reserved.