Dead With The Wind

CHAPTER 11

“Estelle, what are you talking about? Rat poison in whose food?”

The housekeeper flushed as she turned to face An’gel. Her tone was defiant when she replied. “Sondra’s food, that’s who. I figure we’d all be better off if someone put rat poison in her food. That’s what I was telling Jackson when you came in.”

The elderly butler nodded. “Yes, Miss An’gel, that’s what it was. Just talk. Estelle was telling me what happened to Miss Mireille and what Miss Sondra done to cause it.”

“As long as it stays talk, then we’re fine.” An’gel spoke sternly. “I know we’re all furious with Sondra, but let’s not get carried away.”

Estelle didn’t respond, but Jackson nodded and said, “Yes’m.” He cleared his throat. “Have you heard anything from the hospital yet?”

“No, not yet,” An’gel replied. “I came in here hoping for some coffee or some hot tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Estelle muttered something An’gel couldn’t hear, but the butler looked startled. The housekeeper brushed past him, headed for the stove. She picked up a kettle, took it to the sink, rinsed it, then filled it with water. “Tea’ll be ready in a minute.”

“Miss An’gel, why don’t you go back to the parlor, and I’ll bring your tea soon as it’s ready.” Jackson moved forward as if to escort An’gel from the room.

“That’s fine, thank you. Before I forget, Mr. Thurston is here. He is upstairs with Sondra at the moment.” An’gel turned to leave but paused for one more remark. “If either of you hears from Jacqueline, please let me know. I’ll do the same if my sister calls me.”

Estelle nodded in her direction, and Jackson assured her he would bring her any news immediately. An’gel departed the kitchen and made her way back to the front parlor.

Thunder rattled the windows every so often, and An’gel worried that the storm seemed to be hanging over them. At this rate, she thought, the roads might start flooding.

Seated once again on the sofa in the front parlor, she pulled out her phone. She decided she would call Benjy to assure herself that he and the animals were safe. To her annoyance, she had no reception on her phone, thanks to the weather. Disgusted, she dropped her phone back in her purse. She eyed the telephone extension on a nearby table, but she hated talking on a landline during a storm. She was concerned about Benjy, Peanut, and Endora, but she didn’t want to risk either Benjy or herself getting electrocuted.

An’gel felt restless. As long as the storm raged, they might not get any word from the hospital, and she fretted over Mireille’s condition. She was also curious about the conversation taking place upstairs between Thurston and Sondra. Perhaps she ought to go up and check after all.

Before she could suit action to thought, Jackson entered the parlor bearing a tray with her tea. He set the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

“Thank you, Jackson,” An’gel said. “I’ll pour for myself.”

“Yes’m.” Jackson hesitated for a moment. “Miss An’gel, do you think Miss Mireille’s going to be all right? I just can’t imagine this house without her.”

An’gel felt a lump in her throat. “I sure hope so, but only the good Lord knows. I’ve been praying that she’ll come back to us and be fine.”

“Me, too,” the butler said. “I’ve known Miss Mireille since she was a little bitty girl, and me just a boy myself.” He sighed. “I’m going to pray hard as I can she’ll be healed.”

“That’s the best possible thing we can do right now,” An’gel said.

Jackson nodded, and An’gel watched him depart, his shoulders slumped. She felt a fresh wave of anger toward Sondra for all the harm and distress she had caused. Then she realized that she had to calm herself or her blood pressure would remain sky-high, and that wouldn’t do. She poured herself a cup of tea, added a little cream and sugar, and stirred.

The warm liquid was a welcome balm for her frazzled nerves. As she sipped her tea, she listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She was curious to hear Thurston’s report on his conversation with Sondra. If he would share it with her, she thought. He might not want to talk about it.

An’gel didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later Thurston strolled into the parlor. He appeared remarkably calm, An’gel thought, in contrast to his state when he left her to confront Sondra.

“I’m having tea,” An’gel said. “Would you care to have some? I can ring Jackson and ask for a second cup if you’d like.”

Thurston shook his head. “Thank you, no. Right now I’d rather have a bottle of bourbon, but it’s too early in the day for that.” He glanced at the windows. “Even though it looks like blackest night outside right now.” He chose an armchair near the sofa and leaned back, rubbing his forehead.

“How is Sondra?” An’gel asked. She figured that was general enough an inquiry for Thurston to answer briefly or in detail, depending on how much he wanted to share with her.

Thurston laughed, and the sound was grim to An’gel’s ears.

“I think I managed to get through that piece of granite that serves as a brain. I told her the wedding would have to be postponed indefinitely.”

“How did she take that?”

“Not well,” Thurston replied. “She kept insisting that she was going ahead with the wedding, no matter what, but I told her that Father McKitterick wouldn’t officiate under the circumstances.”

“I doubt that went over well,” An’gel said. She poured a second cup of tea.

“No,” the lawyer said. “It didn’t, but I kept at her. I finally got through to her, though.”

“How?” An’gel asked.

Thurston grinned. “The one thing Sondra is really terrified of is public ridicule. She wants everyone to be impressed with how beautiful she is, and she can’t stand being laughed at. I promised her that I would personally tell every single person in St. Ignatiusville what she had done to her grandmother, and I assured her that if she went out in public, everyone would point at her and laugh. People love Miss Mireille in this town, and they’ll turn against Sondra completely if any word gets out about this.”

An’gel was horrified. “Surely you’d never share this with the whole town. Mireille would be utterly humiliated.”

“Of course I wouldn’t.” Thurston waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “But Sondra thinks I will. She’s so self-centered, she’ll never figure that out, however. She is unable to understand anything from a point of view other than her own.”

“You’re right about that,” An’gel said. “I don’t suppose she expressed any concern for her grandmother.”

“Nothing will touch that petrified heart of hers,” the lawyer replied. “She’ll never take responsibility for what happened, I can promise you that.” He stood and walked over to the liquor cabinet. “Forget about what time it is, I need a drink.” He found a glass and a bottle of bourbon and poured himself a sizable portion. He brought the glass back and resumed his seat. He lifted the glass in An’gel’s direction and said, “Here’s to Miss Mireille’s complete recovery.”

An’gel said, “Hear, hear,” and raised her teacup.

Thurston drained his glass and set it on a side table nearby. He glanced toward the windows. “Looks like the rain is slacking off. It’s not as dark out there as it has been.” He got up and walked over to look outside.

“Thank heavens,” An’gel muttered. The atmosphere in the house felt oppressive, and she would be happy if the weather cleared up enough to allow her to leave.

A chirping sound emanated from her handbag. She delved inside and pulled out her cell phone. She and Dickce had recently upgraded their phones from the old flip versions to phones that could take pictures and send text messages. She hadn’t tried the messaging function yet, but it appeared that someone had just sent her one. Dickce, she figured. She touched the screen and the message app opened.

“Mireille in ICU. Jacqueline says she’s stable, holding her own. Doctor not sure about chances of recovery.”

An’gel sighed and peered at the small screen. She touched the text box, and a keyboard appeared. With one finger she tapped a response. “Thanks. Will be praying for her.” She hit the Send button, feeling slightly proud of herself for having sent her first text.

Another message appeared. “Will call later.”

An’gel typed in her response. “Okay.”

No further message popped up, and An’gel put the phone back in her purse.

Thurston resumed his seat. “News?”

“Yes,” An’gel said. She gave him the update on Mireille’s condition.

Thurston’s face darkened. “It doesn’t sound good.”

“Unfortunately, no,” An’gel replied. “I feel so helpless, as I’m sure you do.”

“I feel like going back upstairs and wringing that girl’s neck for what she did,” the lawyer said.

“You might have to get in line,” An’gel said wryly.

Thurston grinned. “Not that it would do Miss Mireille one iota of good, but it sure would make me feel better.” He stood. “I think the storm’s let up enough that I can probably get back to my office without being washed away. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Ducote, I’ll be going.”

“Do be careful out there.” An’gel got up and followed him out of the parlor.

As they moved into the hall, the front door crashed open, and a tall, muscular young man strode in, obviously worked up over something. He shed a raincoat and let it drop to the floor where he stood. Then he apparently caught sight of An’gel and Thurston and pulled up short.

“Where is Sondra?” he demanded. “I’ll kill her before I let her marry that jackass Lance.”