Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery (16 page)

Once he'd gone, Blanche hurried around the kitchen, making tea and toast and cooking two tablespoons of grits with milk to go with the eggs she was about to scramble for Emmeline's breakfast. It was nearly ten-thirty. Any second now, Grace would be along for the tray. On their first day in this house, Grace had said she would take Emmeline's meals up herself. Blanche wasn't assuming that had changed just because she'd been called on to deliver them twice.

When the toast began to wilt, Blanche went looking for Grace. She found Everett in the hall, just hanging up the phone. His back was toward her and he seemed unaware of her presence. She wondered if he was as rare as he ought to have been. She worked among people who thought they owned the world. It was likely that others of them at least thought they had the right to do what this one had done. He ruffled his hair, then brushed it back with graceful, long-fingered hands. His movements were less rigid than when he had been with the sheriff. More upset than angry, she thought.

“Excuse me, sir, it's time to take the tray upstairs.” He spun around and stared at her as though she'd spoken to him in Yoruba. “Your aunt's breakfast...”

“My wife's indisposed. You'll have to manage.” His voice was strangled, as though whatever worried him held him firmly by the throat. He turned his back and continued pacing.

Blanche made fresh toast and warmed the grits and eggs in the microwave. She hoisted the tray and headed up the back stairs. She paused outside Grace's door but heard nothing. She knocked on Emmeline's door and called out that she'd brought breakfast. She hesitated, half-expecting Grace to come out of her own room and take the tray to Emmeline herself. But Grace didn't appear and Emmeline didn't respond. Blanche shifted the tray to her left hip and opened the door.

She was surprised to see Emmeline standing in the middle of the floor staring over Blanche's shoulder as though expecting
someone else to enter as well. Her frown eased and she loosened her grip on the front of her robe when it was clear Blanche was alone. She nearly pounced on the tray Blanche set on the table.

“How're you today, ma'am?” Blanche reached for the overflowing ashtray.

“Leave it,” Emmeline told her in a voice that sounded like two large stones grinding against each other. “Bring me more eggs and some sausages, too, and be quick about it!” Emmeline stuffed half a slice of toast into her mouth as she spoke. She gulped down the glass of orange juice and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand before swirling the grits and eggs together and lighting into them.

Blanche turned to leave the room. Emmeline's arm shot out. She grabbed the skirt of Blanche's uniform. Her scrawny hand reminded Blanche of chicken feet. “Where is
she?”
Emmeline glared up at Blanche, still holding on to her uniform.

Blanche thought of pretending she didn't know who Emmeline was talking about, but there was a glint in the old lady's eye that stopped her. She don't look in the mood for no bullshit.

“She's indisposed. In her room, I guess.”

“I'll just bet she's indisposed.” Emmeline squinted up at Blanche with red-rimmed eyes. “Where's Everett?”

“In the living room. Acting like he got something on his mind.” With utter nonchalance, Blanche twitched her skirt out of Emmeline's grasp. Their eyes met. Unlike her earlier eye-contact episode with Grace, it didn't even occur to Blanche to look away. She wasn't in the mood for any bullshit, either.

“Don't forget your place, gal!” Emmeline reached out and gave Blanche's skirt a sharp but brief tug. “Never mind the eggs and sausages. Bring me what's cooked and bring it now! And don't tell anyone. You hear me, gal? And make it fast!”

Blanche leaned down and slowly smoothed out the real and imaginary creases Emmeline had made in her uniform. Once
again, she stared into Emmeline's eyes until the older woman turned her head away.

Every damned body in this house is nuts! Pulling on my clothes like I'm her property! In the kitchen she made herself a cup of tea and had a leisurely sit-down before she started the sandwiches. She enjoyed contradicting Emmeline's order to hurry as much as she enjoyed the tea.

The two ham sandwiches she finally carried upstairs were at least two inches thick. Yet, by the time Blanche had emptied the ashtrays, rinsed out Emmeline's liquor glass, and made the bed, both sandwiches had disappeared. Blanche thought about the hardly touched trays returned to the kitchen. Had Emmeline been pretending to be frail? What reason could she have had for hiding her hunger?

“How come you're so hungry?” The words were out of Blanche's mouth before she could stop them.

“None of your damned business.” Emmeline reached for a cigarette. “And don't open your mouth about it to anyone. You hear me? Now get!”

Blanche stood outside the door for a few moments, fighting the urge to go back into that room and tell Emmeline what she could do to herself. It was a sweet thought, but there was nothing she could do without putting herself in jeopardy. She took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. She hadn't forgotten her other reasons for wanting to come upstairs.

NINE

B
lanche eased the guest room door open, quickly slipped inside, and closed the door behind her. She knew she was taking a risk. She'd already been told not to bother about this room, but she was sure she could handle Grace with a tale about hearing a noise or something.

The clothes were hanging in the closet, just as Mumsfield had said. And she'd been right about the shoes: Enna Jettick basic tie-up oxfords in shiny black leather. A dark green linen dress and black cardigan, and a set of used, clean, and expensive underwear of the non-sexy variety completed the outfit. She was immediately reminded of Uncle Will's forbidden Piedmont cigarettes hidden in the tool shed, just waiting for Aunt Mary to go to church so Uncle Will could go out to the shed and light up. These clothes had that same air of waiting at the ready. It can't be that, she whispered, it's too ridiculous. But what else could it mean? She'd seen it happen with other alcoholics she'd worked around. No matter how much booze they had at home, there were some drinkers who just had to be among their own, just like some people couldn't pray without going to church. And Emmeline was suddenly up and around and demanding more food. Logical behavior for someone gearing up to take a hike, although Blanche couldn't imagine where she expected to find drinking company out here in the country.

As she turned to leave the room, she realized there was something disturbed about the room, for one that got so little use. It felt full of secrets and comings and goings. She looked
slowly around at the high old bed, the sheet-covered chairs, the heavy chest of drawers. One of the drawers wasn't quite closed. She pulled it toward her. It seemed abnormally heavy, until she saw the contents: five fifths of Seagram's gin snuggled in a green blanket like eggs in a nest. Close enough for Emmeline to fetch them herself. She left the guest room and went down the hall to Everett's room.

For a moment, she just stood before his closet with her arms folded across her chest. Her hopeful self told her that maybe Nate was mistaken. Some other man owned the pink jacket. She heaved a huge sigh and slid the closet door open.

It was actually more peach-colored, or salmon, much softer and more subtle than the cotton-candy color she'd been picturing. But to someone with no interest in the finer points of color, it was definitely a pink jacket. Like the azalea blossoms the night before, the jacket seemed to glow among the grays and tans that surrounded it. She stepped closer and reached for the right sleeve. It had creases around the lower part, where the sleeve had been rolled back. The left sleeve was the same. There was a small, stiff, dark red stain on the pale, satiny lining. One of the buttons had been pulled off with enough force to rip the fabric. She was struck by his arrogance, by the utter lack of concern that made it possible for him to keep a piece of evidence that could probably convict him. She searched the pockets. She told herself it was a waste of time and an unnecessary risk. What did she expect to find? The sheriff's badge? And what would she say if Everett walked in?

The jacket smelled faintly of a heavy, musty, very un-Grace-like perfume. She wondered if he'd had two reasons to go out last night. She shuddered at the idea of being made love to by a man with murder on his mind. There were bits of grit and gravel in the right-hand outside pocket. In the breast pocket her fingers touched something small, smooth, and cool. She held it up before her eyes with two fingers, careful not to drop it. It was
a silver earring fastener for a pierced earring, the oblong kind with a hole through the middle. She looked at it, then put it back. She would have to pay particular attention the next time she saw Grace, but Blanche was already certain that Grace's ears weren't pierced. Not only is the man dangerous, she thought, he's careless. It might be that the only reason Grace didn't know about his affair was because she didn't want to know.

The phone was ringing when she reached the kitchen. “How about that sheriff bein' nice enough to put himself out of our misery?” Ardell said when Blanche picked up the receiver. “But before we get off on that subject, I got something serious to tell you, girl!” she added with some urgency. “I just come from Miz Minnie's. She told me she saw your mama and gave her some news for you. But Miz Minnie didn't tell her everything 'cause she didn't want Miz Cora to worry. You got to get out of there, girl!” Ardell sounded short of breath, as though she'd been running to get to the phone to call Blanche.

Blanche leaned so heavily against the kitchen counter, she could feel it cutting into her butt. Something in Ardell's voice told her she was going to need some support.

“That Everett was married to a woman named Jeannette first. But she died. Suicide. Least that's what they said in the papers and all. But you know the police don't press that crowd too hard. Miz Minnie said there was a lot of gossip about it in Atlanta, where it all happened. Some people said Jeannette and Everett weren't getting along too good, that he was running around on her, and that she was talking about divorcing him. She was the one with the money, so you know he didn't want to hear nothin' about no divorce!”

“How'd she die?” Blanche didn't like the tinny, tiny sound of her own voice, like a little kid afraid of the dark.

“She went out the window of the Central Plaza Hotel in Atlanta.”

“What was she doing there?”

“Nobody knows. The room was rented in a made-up name.”

Blanche suddenly longed for Everett not to be responsible for the death Ardell was telling her about, or for the one of which she herself suspected him. The more clear-cut his guilt, the more certain her own danger. She found herself arguing with Ardell, trying to make her news less awful.

“She could have rented the room because she wanted to jump out the window,” she told Ardell.

“Sure. But why register under a phony name? And there was no note.”

“Just because he mighta married the woman for her money don't necessarily mean he killed her. Maybe his stuff was so good it made her think she could fly!”

“This ain't no time for jokes, girl! We got to get you outta there!” Ardell scolded, then softened a bit. “But maybe you're right about the girlfriend. He had an alibi for the time she died. An alibi some folks said proved his story. Like it was impossible for him to be going with two women at once!”

“What kind of alibi? You mean Grace? She was with him when...Do you think she knows? Do you think she...” Blanche didn't want to finish the sentence, didn't want to contemplate the possibility of being in the house with two murderers. She lowered herself onto a chair.

“Seems like she don't want to know,” Ardell said. “Folks down in Atlanta felt sorry for Grace for being so in love with Everett that she can't see him for what he is.” Ardell paused for a moment.

“Well, she may be dumb and he may be a murderer, but at least the whole family ain't bad,” she told Blanche. “There's that lawyer cousin, Archibald Symington. The old lady didn't speak to him for years 'cause he was in the civil rights movement. He's the lawyer who tried the sheriff of Jefferson County for Klan activity back in the late sixties.”

Blanche was not impressed. “Yeah, but that was nearly thirty years ago. Now he's in the kiss-Emmeline's-ass movement from what I can see.”

“So, what you gonna do, girlfriend?” Worry put a rasp in Ardell's voice. “Like I said, I could get a car and pick you up.”

Blanche hesitated a moment. “It ain't that simple, Ardell.” Blanche told her about the sheriff and Everett on the porch, about Everett going out in the limousine on the night the sheriff died, and about what Nate had had to say about it all. “How's it going to look if I walk outta here and they decide to call the police, say I stole something, maybe even claim the sheriff came out here to get me and that's the last time they saw him alive?”

“Oh, shit!” Ardell said.

“I'm not going to lose my head and do something stupid.” Blanche's announcement was addressed to herself as well as to Ardell.