Claws For Concern

TWO

“They’re not my murders, Azalea.” I shook my head. “I may have helped solve them in some way, but I didn’t go looking for trouble to get into. I can assure you of that.”

“You might not have gone looking for it, but you didn’t run away from trouble when you found it, Dad.” Laura cocked an eyebrow at me. “I know it’s not by choice, but you have to admit you got a lot of satisfaction out of figuring them out when the killer wasn’t immediately obvious.”

“I will admit that,” I said. “I’ve been reading mysteries for nearly fifty years, so it’s pretty hard to resist one when it practically falls into your lap.”

“Or you stumble over the body.” Laura grimaced. “Not something I want to experience ever again myself. Once was enough for me.”

“I know, sweetheart.” I remembered how upset she had been when she found her former boyfriend dead, the victim of murder.

“Kanesha might not be too happy to see you getting all the credit in a book, either.” Laura wiped the baby’s mouth, refastened her blouse, and then laid Charlie on her shoulder to burp him.

Laura referred to Kanesha Berry, chief deputy in the Athena County Sheriff’s Department, and the official investigator of murders in the county. She also happened to be my housekeeper’s daughter, a situation that Kanesha had never regarded with good grace.

Azalea snorted at Laura’s observation. “That girl better thank the good Lord Mr. Charlie’s been willing to help her out. Some of those murders were downright strange.” She favored me with an oblique glance when she hit that last word.

“Strange murders or not, Kanesha got the credit in all those cases,” I said. “I may have helped her solve them more quickly in some instances, but I have no doubt whatsoever that she would have figured them out all on her own. I also have no doubt that she would have preferred it that way.”

“Then what are you going to tell the man who wants to interview you?” Laura asked.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I responded. “I want to talk it over with Helen Louise first.”

Helen Louise Brady, owner of the best French bistro south of Memphis, was my best friend and also my girlfriend. Some might consider the word girlfriend old-fashioned, but I was an old-fashioned kind of guy in many respects, including romantic relationships.

“Now that she’s cut back her hours at the bistro,” Laura said, “you at least have more time to talk, instead of only late at night after the bistro’s closed or when you go in there for a meal.”

“You’d think so.” I tried not to sound irritable. “But Helen Louise is having a harder time letting go of some of the responsibility than she expected.”

“I thought she had worked everything out,” Azalea said. “Isn’t that young man been working there doing good as a baker?”

“Henry?” I said. “Yes, he’s doing fine, but I think he’s getting a bit exasperated with Helen Louise. She tends to hover and hang around later than she says she will.”

“She’s put so much of her life into that place,” Laura said as baby Charlie emitted a burp. She and I exchanged smiles.

Azalea took Charlie from Laura and rocked him gently in her arms. She crooned a lullaby to him, her voice low, while she carried him out of the kitchen into the living room. One part of the room looked like a nursery, with a crib and various baby paraphernalia gathered around it. The living room was close enough to the kitchen for Azalea to be able to hear Charlie in case he needed her and quiet enough for the baby to sleep without being disturbed by her activities.

“As I was saying,” Laura continued, “she’s invested everything—heart, soul, and pocketbook—in the bistro. I can understand why she’s reluctant to let anyone else take charge of her baby.”

“I know, and I agree,” I said. “The problem is, Henry is a more than capable manager, and he’s got Debbie and that new girl, Tina, to help him. Plus, Henry is extremely talented in the kitchen. I know he’s getting a little frustrated, though, and I’m afraid Helen Louise is going to lose him if she doesn’t step back the way she promised.”

“Have you discussed this with her?” Laura asked. “Does she know Henry is unhappy?”

“Sort of, and yes,” I said.

“Sort of discussed it, and yes she knows Henry is unhappy,” Laura said. “Is that what you mean?”

I nodded. “I’ve tried to talk to her about the situation, but she basically brushes me off. I haven’t pushed her because I know this is difficult for her.”

“Sometimes you have to push anyway.” Laura shook a finger at me. “You don’t like confrontation. That’s what’s holding you back. If you don’t push, and she keeps hedging, nothing is going to get resolved.”

“No, I don’t like it.” I sighed. “But you’re right. It’s probably time to force the issue. Otherwise Henry might end up leaving. He has a bit of a temper.”

“Many creative people do.” Laura smiled. “I certainly do.”

In a dry tone I responded, “I remember many occasions when you had a bit of a temper. Like the whole time you were a teenager.”

She stuck out her tongue at me, then grinned. “I really could be a brat, couldn’t I?”

“I plead the Fifth,” I said. “You’ll get your turn. Just wait until that little imp in the living room hits thirteen.”

“That angel child, you mean?” Laura shook her head. “No, not my boy.”

“Let’s revisit this conversation in thirteen years,” I said.

Laura giggled as she pushed her chair back. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I would love to stay and talk more, Dad, but I really need to get to the grocery store and do a few other things before I come back to pick up Charlie. Lord bless Azalea, I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“She’d have a fit if you let anyone else look after him,” I said. “Besides me, that is.”

Laura kissed my cheek before she grabbed her purse and headed for the front door.

I sat, savoring the quiet for a moment, and then I realized it was too quiet. I hadn’t heard a chirp or a warble or a meow out of Diesel during the conversation with Laura. Normally he would have followed her to the door but when I checked, he wasn’t even in the kitchen.

I knew where he probably was, however. Whenever Azalea or I had charge of baby Charlie, Diesel stayed somewhere near the infant when at all possible. He must have left the room with Azalea, and I hadn’t noticed it. When I tiptoed into the living room, I found Azalea asleep in the rocking chair by the crib. Diesel lay stretched out beneath the crib, snoozing. Baby Charlie slept soundly as well. I tiptoed back out and retraced my steps to the kitchen.

The water had quenched my immediate thirst, and now I craved caffeine. I found a pitcher of tea in the fridge and poured myself a glass. Nobody made better sweet tea than Azalea, but because of the sugar content I rationed myself to no more than one glass a day. Between Azalea’s Southern soul food and Helen Louise’s haute cuisine, I found myself battling the bulge more than ever.

Well, at least I won’t die hungry, I told myself. Nevertheless, I resolved to go up and down the stairs a few extra times a day.

I resumed my place at the table and picked up the letter from Jack Pemberton. I read it more slowly this time, and as I did, the name of a person Pemberton mentioned as a reference jumped out at me. Ernestine Carpenter. Apparently she was a retired schoolteacher in the Tullahoma area, and must be a person of good character. Otherwise, why would Pemberton mention her?

Ernestine Carpenter. For some reason, the name rang a bell. I knew I had heard it somewhere, in the not-too-distant past, but where? On what occasion?

I tried to dredge up the memory while I sipped at my tea, savoring the taste and the coldness. My memory stubbornly refused to cooperate, though, and I decided I’d do better to occupy my thoughts otherwise.

Idly I pulled out my phone and tapped the icon for my e-mail. I usually didn’t read messages on my phone, preferring my laptop for the task. At the moment, despite my pledge to get more exercise, I felt too indolent to haul my carcass up and down the hall to the den where my laptop lived most of the time.

Other than a few friends from my many years in Houston, I had few e-mail correspondents. I spent more time deleting unwanted messages than I did reading anything I actually wanted to see. I purged several messages before I got to one from a dear friend here in Athena, Miss An’gel Ducote.

Miss An’gel and her younger sister, Miss Dickce, were the two grande dames of Athena society. Their family were among the founders of the town, and Ducotes had been leading citizens ever since. The sisters, in their early eighties, were the last of the direct line, however. They had recently taken a young man from California named Benjy Stephens, a connection of an old friend of theirs, as their ward, however, and speculation was rife around town that he would one day inherit the Ducote millions.

Miss An’gel, after observing the niceties, got right to the point in her message.

Sister and I would be delighted if you and Helen Louise could join us for tea on Sunday afternoon. A dear friend will be visiting, and you really should meet her. You have something in common, but I won’t tell you what until after you’ve met. Don’t forget to bring Diesel! Shall we say three p.m.?

I had no plans for Sunday afternoon but knew I would have to check with Helen Louise. She wasn’t supposed to be at the bistro then, but I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t decide that something there needed her attention.

As I was about to reply to Miss An’gel, I received a notice that I had a new message. From Miss An’gel, no less.

Forgive my lapse, Charlie, but I forgot to tell you our dear friend’s name. Miss Ernestine Carpenter. She’s looking forward to meeting you.

Mystery solved, I thought. I remembered now that Miss An’gel or Miss Dickce had mentioned the woman in a recent conversation, though I couldn’t quite recall the context.

The Ducote sisters knew Miss Carpenter, and Miss Carpenter knew Jack Pemberton. Curiouser and curiouser. At least I would be able to meet Miss Carpenter and find out directly what she knew about Jack Pemberton and maybe even why he was so keen to write a book about my experiences.

I replied to Miss An’gel and told her we would be delighted to join her, her sister, and their guest for tea on Sunday afternoon. I assured her Diesel would be with us.

That accomplished, I put my phone down and had a few more sips of tea while I contemplated a call to Helen Louise. I had a feeling she might not be happy that I had accepted an invitation for the both of us without consulting her first, but I figured this was as good a time as any to confront her about really committing to her decision to cut back on work.

After a few more sips of tea, I picked up the phone and called her.