Claws For Concern

SIX

So Bill Delaney walked by the house. There was nothing wrong with that. I already knew he was curious about the former home of my aunt and uncle. I just wished I knew what the true connection was between Bill Delaney and Uncle Del.

Diesel hurried into the kitchen ahead of me. After I put away my things, including the bag of books from the Athenaeum, I went into the utility room to replenish Diesel’s water and dry food. When I finished that, I found him in the kitchen in front of the fridge. He knew it was dinnertime.

Tonight’s meal was about as simple as they came. I cooked a hamburger and made myself a salad. When Diesel smelled the ground beef cooking he headed for his food bowl. He didn’t care for hamburger.

He did keep me company while I ate, however. He remained by my chair until I finished, and then he watched—or should I say supervised—while I cleaned up after myself in the kitchen. After that we retired to the den. He stretched out on the sofa, his head rubbing against my thigh, while I settled in to get started on Jack Pemberton’s book.

I soon became engrossed in the book and read it straight through, with only a couple of brief breaks to stretch my legs and retrieve a drink from the kitchen.

Pemberton told the story of a woman who had evidently been a black widow—a woman who marries a man, disposes of him, and then moves on to the next target. By the time she met and married her fifth husband, she had amassed a significant amount of money. She always chose wealthy, older men as targets. Number five, while older and wealthy as per usual, turned out to be harder to kill than the previous husbands. He was either extraordinarily lucky or much shrewder than he appeared, I decided, because he lived to see his wife go to prison for four murders.

I laid the book aside, rather surprised to discover that it was nearly ten o’clock. Pemberton definitely knew how to tell a story, I thought. He also told it with good taste, without descent into cheap sensationalism. He appeared also to have shrewd insight into abnormal psychology, and into human behavior in general.

Diesel warbled sleepily when I roused him and told him it was time for us to go upstairs. He had turned onto his back, his spine twisted into what looked to me a painful angle but one apparently quite comfortable for him. He shifted until he sat upright and then stretched and yawned. I waited for him to finish before I turned out the lights in the den.

He followed me around the first floor while I checked the doors and windows. He placed a paw on the door to the back porch. “Not tonight,” I told him. “You’ve had a long nap but I’m ready for bed. After we talk to Helen Louise, that is.”

He chirped at the sound of Helen Louise’s name and forgot about visiting the back porch. He trotted happily upstairs with me and waited on the bed while I undressed and put on my sleeping clothes, a pair of gym shorts and an old T-shirt.

I slipped into bed, and Diesel stretched out beside me. The clock now read ten thirteen. Helen Louise ought to be calling soon. The bistro closed at nine, and usually she and her staff were finished cleaning by ten. She lived only a few minutes from the square and would call once she reached home.

Five minutes later my cell rang, and I answered it. “Hello, love. How was today? Busy?”

“Extremely, sweetie,” Helen Louise replied. “Summer visitor trade on top of many of our regulars.” She paused, and I could hear her yawn. “Sorry about that, but I am completely worn out. These long days really take it out of me.”

“Good thing you’ve got tomorrow to rest and recuperate,” I said. “And on Monday Henry and the crew will open, so you don’t have to set foot in the bistro until the afternoon.”

Helen Louise chuckled. “Is that a gentle reminder that I shouldn’t go in Monday morning to help out?”

“Yes, it is,” I replied, my tone light as I continued. “You know Henry is utterly reliable and totally competent, and I don’t think it will hurt to let him know you trust him.”

“By not hovering over him, you mean.” I heard her sigh. “I know, love, but after being in charge for so long, it’s hard to delegate.”

“You can do it,” I said.

“We’ll see. So how was your day?”

“Fine. Busy, but not as tiring as your day,” I said. Once she changed the subject I knew there was no point in going back to the discussion of her work hours. “Nothing exciting. There are a couple of things to tell you about, but they can wait until tomorrow. Right now, you need to go to bed.”

“Not going to argue with you.” I heard another yawn, and I yawned in response. “Good night, love.”

I bade her good night, and we ended the call. I laid my phone aside on the nightstand and adjusted my position in bed. Before I switched off the bedside lamp, I glanced at Diesel. He regarded me sleepily, his head on his pillow. His tail thumped a couple of times against the bedspread, and then his eyes closed.

Smiling, I turned off the light, got comfortable, and soon drifted into sleep.

• • •

A few hours after an enjoyable Sunday dinner with my children, their spouses, and baby Charlie, Helen Louise, Diesel, and I drove out to Riverhill, the antebellum home of the Ducote sisters, for afternoon tea.

On the way I told Helen Louise about Jack Pemberton’s book. “I really enjoyed it,” I said. “I didn’t think I’d care for true crime, but the way he told the story, it read almost like a suspense novel. Well-paced with believable characters.”

“I’ll borrow it then, if you don’t mind,” Helen Louise said. “I haven’t had much time for reading all these years, and now that I actually have hours to fill away from the bistro, I’m looking forward to rediscovering books.”

I smiled. “I have a large library at home entirely at your disposal.”

“Yes, you do.” Helen Louise punched me playfully in the arm. “You have more books than I have cookware, cookbooks, and bottles of wine combined.”

From the backseat Diesel meowed as if in agreement. When he was younger he tried to climb in between me and any book I started to read, and given his size, he easily obscured even the largest, thickest book in my collection. It took me six months to gently dissuade him from the habit. In the end I think he realized that that was one battle he was never going to win. Now he settled for simply being next to me when I paid attention to a book instead of him.

“Occupational hazard, I suppose, for a librarian.” I had loved books from childhood, when my parents read to me before I was old enough to read on my own. Once I discovered that I could actually buy books at a bookstore, rather than only borrowing them from the library, I turned into a collector of sorts. I had to own copies of books by my favorite writers because I never knew when I might want to reread one of them.

Helen Louise and I discussed books the rest of the way to Riverhill. When we neared the magnificent old Greek Revival mansion, I saw a late-model, bright red Jeep parked in the circular driveway in front of the house. I parked behind it, and by the time Helen Louise, Diesel, and I exited the car, Miss An’gel was standing on the verandah calling a greeting to us.

The elder of the sisters, Miss An’gel had never been less than impeccably dressed whenever I saw her. She once told me that she and her sister, Miss Dickce, had inherited a large collection of classic haute couture from their mother and grandmother—names like Worth, Chanel, and Balenciaga, among others. Today looked like a Chanel day, I decided, after noting the simple black dress and pearls Miss An’gel wore.

“Come right in, all of you,” Miss An’gel said, after first giving Diesel several pats on the head. “Helen Louise, it’s lovely to see you away from work and looking so relaxed.”

“Thank you, Miss An’gel.” Helen Louise laughed. “I need to hear that because I confess I’ve been having a hard time letting go of the reins.”

“Not surprising,” Miss An’gel replied as she ushered us through the front door and closed it behind. “You created a highly successful business, and you want to ensure its continued success.” She cast a sidelong glance at me. “Now, however, you have a handsome distraction who deserves more of your time, I daresay.”

“He certainly does,” Helen Louise said. As I began to blush, Helen Louise looked down at my cat. “Don’t you, Diesel?”

The cat warbled loudly, and Miss An’gel joined Helen Louise in gentle laughter. I smiled.

“We’re in the front parlor.” Miss An’gel led the way. “Sister and I are delighted that you could come this afternoon. Our dear friend Ernestine Carpenter has been looking forward to meeting you.”

We followed our hostess into the elegant front parlor at Riverhill. After numerous visits here I had become somewhat accustomed to the sight of the furnishings, many of which were well over a century old. Miss Dickce rose from a sofa that faced the door to come forward, hands extended. First Helen Louise, then I, gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Then Miss Dickce focused her attention on Diesel for a moment.

The other occupant of the sofa stood as well. She appeared to be nearly as tall as Helen Louise and I and probably in her early seventies. Perhaps a decade younger than the Ducote sisters, I reckoned. Her shrewd gaze swept over us, and I smiled. She smiled back and stepped forward.

Miss An’gel performed the introductions. Miss Carpenter immediately took a shine to Diesel, and he to her. When she resumed her seat, he sat on the floor by her legs and enjoyed her attention.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Carpenter,” I said, after the first formalities were out of the way, including the obligatory remarks about the weather.

“We have actually met before,” Miss Carpenter said, “though I doubt if you remember it because of the occasion. Your aunt, Dottie Collins, was a dear friend of mine. I attended her funeral, and we spoke briefly at the time.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I remember so very little of anything that happened at Aunt Dottie’s funeral. I was in such a fog at the time that it is all still a blur in my mind.”

Miss Carpenter regarded me with obvious sympathy. “I completely understand. You were overwhelmed, I know. Your wife had passed away not long before that, if I remember correctly.”

I managed to nod, too overcome at the moment to say a word. Odd how those sharp, stabbing pangs of grief hit you sometimes and rendered you almost unable to breathe, let alone speak. I closed my eyes briefly, drew in a deep breath, then exhaled and opened my eyes. “Yes, that’s correct. I’m glad to get the opportunity to meet you again under happier circumstances.”

Miss Carpenter smiled and patted my arm. “I am, too.”

I felt able now to resume our conversation. “Miss Carpenter, I understand you are a friend of Jack Pemberton, the true crime writer.”

“Yes, I am. Please, call me Ernie.” She flashed an attractive grin. “I have a feeling we’re going to be friends, and my friends call me Ernie.” She patted the sofa beside her.

“I will, if you’ll call me Charlie,” I said as I joined her. Helen Louise and the Ducote sisters occupied the sofa opposite us, and they were already involved in conversation.

“Done.” Ernie gave Diesel a couple more pats on the head. “I do indeed know Jack and his lovely wife, Wanda Nell. Both fine people that I am pleased to call friends.”

“Are you aware of Mr. Pemberton’s interest in me?” I said.

“Yes, he told me about the project,” Ernie replied.

“I read one of his books last night. It was excellent.”

“He’s an accomplished writer,” Ernie said. “I’ve never been much of a true crime reader myself, but I make an exception for his books.”

“I think I will, too,” I said. “Though generally I prefer my murders to be fictional.”

Ernie chuckled. “Well, not completely fictional, you must admit, Charlie.”

It took me a moment to catch on to what she meant, and then I had to laugh. Before I could respond, however, she continued.

“Actually, that’s something you and I have in common, along with Wanda Nell and Jack. Murder as a hobby, so to speak.”