Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery (4 page)

“This afternoon, I drive to the country house,” Mumsfield told her, seeming to repeat her thought. “The country house is Aunt Emmeline's favorite place.” He paused for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was even softer than before, and sadder. “Maybe Aunt Emmeline will be herself at the country house. Mumsfield...I mean, I hope so. What do you think, Blanche?”

Blanche gave him a skeptical look and wondered what the hell he was talking about. “We'll all be all right at the country
house if you keep your eyes on the road and obey the speed limit,” she told him.

“Oh, Blanche! You are funny, Blanche!” He had a childish giggle that made her smile.

She wanted to ask him who, besides the blond woman, would be at lunch, as well her name, but she held her questions. She was supposed to have worked for these people before. She tried a door that could have been to a large cabinet, the cellar, or another room. The door was locked.

“What's in here?”

“Cellar,” he told her. “The freezer and washing machine are down there.”

Probably the wine, too, she thought. Why lock up the laundry room? She opened other cabinets but didn't find any plates. Well, at least he can tell me where the plates are; I can't be expected to remember that. She was trying to decide what else she could ask him, when she found the built-in dish cabinet. She took out three plates.

“Cook let me set the table before she left, Blanche,” he said. “Mumsfield...I mean I was very sad to see Cook leave.” He hung his massive head, with its fringe of shiny, straight red-blond hair. Blanche was almost sure she saw his chin quiver.

“Well, she'll be back soon enough.” She began removing the lunch platters from the refrigerator. She wondered if the cook was his woman. Even so, it was a bit out of the ordinary to have the chauffeur helping set the table. And why did he talk about himself as though he were someone else? Of course, a lot of these small-town Southern folks were strange, marrying their cousins and whatnot. And he was odd-looking, too. He reminded her of someone, but she didn't know who.

“Where is the country house?” she asked as nonchalantly as she could.

“Near Hokeysville, Blanche.”

Blanche nodded. She didn't know the area, except that it wasn't far from the coast. It also wasn't close to a town where the interstate bus was likely to stop for passengers.

“Excuse me, Mumsfield, honey.” Blanche carried a platter of sliced turkey, rare roast beef, and ham through the swinging door into the dining room. She was mindful of how thoughtlessly the word “honey” had attached itself to his name.

Blanche hadn't paid any attention to the dining room when she'd peeked in earlier. It was a high-ceilinged room papered in a deep rose with gold leaf. A long, gleaming rosewood table was surrounded by chairs with backs taller than Blanche. The towering chairs, the high, glistening sideboard, and the huge pictures of plantations and open fields were all so outsized that Blanche played with the possibility of the furniture belonging to some giant. She knew from other places she'd worked that rich people liked owning things made by different kinds of people—Africans, Eskimos, Native Americans. It didn't seem to matter what the object looked like, or to what gory purpose it might have been put, as long as it had belonged to some other people first, and as long ago as possible. So, why not a giant's things, too? She smiled as she carted iced tea, water, and coffee into the dining room. She was making up a story to tell Ardell's five-year-old niece about the giant's furniture factory.

But she wouldn't be going back to her neighborhood. She wouldn't be seeing Ardell's niece or her own children for a while. Her growing sense of having been wrenched out of her own life and plopped down in the midst of somebody else's was interrupted by a slight sound from beyond a closed door on the other side of the dining room. She turned toward it. The door was moving slowly inward. A man was speaking as he pushed the door in front of him. Blanche stepped quickly into the pantry and let the swinging door ease almost shut. She wasn't concerned that Mumsfield might catch her eavesdropping. She knew he'd
left the kitchen while she was in the dining room. She noted the fact that she hadn't heard him leave, but she knew he was gone. She plastered her eye to the crack between door and frame.

The man's rugged features and sun-bleached hair were the sort associated with scoping big game in Kenya, or fishing for marlin from a cabin cruiser in the blazing Caribbean sun. Blanche expected that his smile would be dazzling. She had a personal aversion to pretty men and therefore wondered whether he had anything to offer besides a gorgeous face. Certainly the price of his very casual trousers, shirt, and jacket could have fed a family of four for six months or so.

“Grace, I tell you, it won't take more than ten minutes,” he told the blond woman, who had followed him into the room. She was wringing her hands as though they were wash. He spoke to her in an affectionate “Now, now” kind of voice that set Blanche's teeth on edge. He paused to regard himself in the huge, gilt-framed mirror across the room. From the smile he gave his reflection, it seemed he had no quarrel with himself.

“You know what he's like,” the man went on. “As soon as we tell him she's got a lingering cold and a bad cough, he'll move off fast enough!” He laughed and turned toward the woman. He said something about somebody's eyesight that Blanche couldn't quite make out.

“But Everett, what if she won't cooperate? She was awful to me just now! She's uncontrollable!” The man laughed, took her fluttering hands, and held them between his like captured birds. He had the kind of large, long-fingered hands Blanche's Aunt Mae always said were a sign of a man generously endowed elsewhere as well.

“Don't worry, darling, she'll cooperate. I promise you.” He spoke softly, but some undertone in his voice made Blanche glad she wasn't the person he was talking about. Yet even as his voice chilled her, she was struck by the almost motherly way he inclined not just his head but his whole body toward Grace.
There was something in his stance that spoke of both protection and preening, as though he were not only lending his strength and protection to this nervous, worrying woman, but glorying in his ability to do so. Grace looked up at him with wide, staring eyes.

“Grace and Everett,” Blanche mouthed as the couple moved out of her sight in the direction of the buffet. She didn't really care about their last names. She always called her employers by their first names in her mind. It helped her to remember that having the money to hire a domestic worker didn't make you any better than the worker, only richer. She also called her employers ma'am and sir to their faces, no matter how much they insisted on some other title or name. She'd once had two cats named Ma'am and Sir.

“Damn her anyway!” The clink of cutlery underscored his words. “If your dear aunt hadn't foolishly decided to leave the bulk of her estate to your idiot cous—”

Blanche's attention was distracted by a feeling that surprised her. Mumsfield, she thought. At that moment, he opened the same door Grace and Everett had used. What was he doing there? His hair was freshly combed and gleaming. He had on the same blue suit and white shirt, but he'd added a pair of wide, bright-orange suspenders.

“Hello, Cousin Everett. Hello, Cousin Grace,” he said, and went to join them by the buffet.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Blanche mouthed to herself.

“Hello, dear.”

“Hello, my boy!” Everett's voice was louder than when he'd been talking to Grace, as though he thought Mumsfield had a hearing problem.

If they're his cousins, then the Aunt Emmeline Mumsfield talked about must also be one of the family, not an old family servant with an honorary title, as Blanche had thought. Maybe Aunt Emmeline was the one Grace had said was uncontrollable.
Was that why she wasn't having lunch with the rest of the family? And why was Mumsfield pretending to be the chauffeur? She remembered he hadn't really said he was the chauffeur, only that he drove the car. So much for her concern about a family unwilling to lift a finger for themselves. At least one member of the family seemed more than willing.

The three of them settled at the table: Everett at its head, Grace to his left, with her back to Blanche, and Mumsfield on his right, facing the pantry. Blanche studied him. She noticed the folds in the corner of his eyes, the thickness of his fingers. Of course, she thought. Now she remembered who he'd reminded her of earlier. It was Baby Joe, Miz Harriet's son. But Baby Joe had serious mental problems from Down's syndrome. Could you have Down's syndrome but show it only a little bit? She remembered the way Mumsfield talked about himself by name and how carefully he pronounced some words, lingering over the sounds the way children often do.

In her interest in Mumsfield, Blanche leaned a bit too heavily against the door. It swung out into the dining room. Blanche quickly pushed the door even harder and poked her head into the room, as if it had all been planned.

“Is everything all right, ma'am?”

“Oh! Oh, yes.” Grace motioned Blanche to enter the room. Everett lunged for and caught the glass Grace nearly toppled. Two big drops of water splashed onto her rare roast beef. Everett fussed over her plate and insisted on getting her another helping. Blanche took the watered roast beef away and brought a clean plate. Everett filled it and took it to Grace.

“Everett, Mumsfield, this is...er...this is...the woman the agency sent. She's worked for us before.” Grace avoided making eye contact with Everett.

Mumsfield gave Blanche a quizzical look. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again.

“Yes, sir,” Blanche said quickly. “I'm glad to be back working for ya'll again.” She glanced quickly at Mumsfield. He gave her a Cheshire Cat smile.

“Her first name is Blanche, Cousin Grace,” he said. “I don't remember her last name.” He winked at Blanche before turning his attention to the huge mound of potato salad on his plate.

“White is my last name,” Blanche added in a clear, assertive tone. “Blanche White.”

The moment it was out, she could have kicked herself for not making up a phony name. It was her family's fault for giving her a name that made her so defensive she hadn't even thought to lie to these people. She watched surprise turn to a barely concealed grin on Everett's face. Grace looked startled. Blanche could tell from her arm movements that she was twisting her napkin in her lap. Mumsfield stopped eating to look from Grace to Everett, as though their faces would tell him what was happening that he didn't understand.

Blanche was accustomed to some people getting the chuckles when they heard her name. She didn't think having a name that meant “white” twice was any funnier than a woman who tripped over invisible objects and knocked over water glasses being called Grace. Blanche gave them a curt nod and returned to the kitchen.

She was waiting for Mumsfield when he opened the back door.

“I know everyone who has ever worked in our kitchen,” he told her with obvious pride. “First there was Evie, then Clara, then Bea, then...” He went on to name the various cooks and kitchen help who'd been a part of the household. When he'd finished, he gave her an expectant look.

“Thanks for not telling on me,” Blanche told him. “They won't let me stay if they know I haven't worked here before, and I really need the job.” She fought the urge to tell him about her kids and to make up a sick parent to go with them.

“I can keep a secret, Blanche,” he announced, as though he recognized that keeping a secret was a rare ability. He gave her a jaunty wave and a smile that scrunched all his features into the middle of his face. He was out the back door before she could thank him again. She was surprised by her own certainty that he could be trusted, at least on this issue.

Mumsfield had been gone about ten minutes when her next visitor showed up. Grace poked her head into the kitchen while Blanche was putting away the last of the lunch dishes.

“Are you ready, er...ah...Blanche?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Woman stumbles over my name like a shoe on the stairs, Blanche huffed to herself. But at least Grace hadn't reminded her to call the agency. Blanche hung the dish towel on the rack and picked up her handbag from the chair. She followed Grace through the dining room and down a long hall to the very front of the house. The hollow sound of their footfalls on the black and white marble floor seemed to scurry away to explore the distant corners of the large, cold space. She was aware that every place she'd ever lived could fit into this one marble warehouse. But why would anyone want a room where hard-seated chairs weren't even within shouting distance of one another? She pictured the forest green crushed-velvet living-room suite with the round chaise longue and copper studs down the sides of the sofa that she'd been drooling over in Lassiter's Fine Furniture Mart window. She never ceased to marvel over the ways rich people spent their money.

Blanche was staring up at the cupids painted on the ceiling when the hair at the nape of her neck rose to attention. She turned and watched Everett coming toward her. He was pushing a wheelchair. The woman in the chair was asleep. Her dirty white sausage curls bobbed gently, like the head of the felt and plaster hound dog in the back window of Blanche's cousin Buddy's car.

Old thing looks like she invented wrinkles, Blanche thought. She wore a short-sleeved pink and green floral-print dress of the
simple, very expensive variety. A white angora shawl rested on her shoulders and a dark green lap robe covered her lower body. She had about a quarter of a pound of rice powder on her face. “You remember Aunt Emmeline,” Grace whispered to Blanche, who nodded in the affirmative.

Everett wheeled the chair ahead of them to the front door. “I'm afraid she's feeling poorly again.” Grace continued to whisper. Blanche gave Grace what she hoped was a sympathetic, understanding look and followed her outside.

A long black limousine, made even darker by its tinted windows, was waiting for them at the bottom of the wide front stairs. There was a freshly painted wooden ramp to the left of the stairs. Mumsfield stood by the car, the back passenger door open. He bounced eagerly on the balls of his feet. He'd changed his orange suspenders for jonquil yellow ones. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, which alternately waved at Emmeline and dived into his jacket pockets. Everett wheeled Emmeline across the porch toward the ramp. Mumsfield walked quickly toward the old lady. His face was in full smile, his arms open in pre-hug position. Grace hurried forward and laid a restraining hand on Mumsfield's arm. “Now, dear, you don't want to give Aunt Em any more of those nasty germs, do you?”