Fixing To Die

CHAPTER 16

An’gel awoke refreshed and relaxed the next morning. Not what she would have predicted after the strange and somewhat unsettling events of the day before. She had lain awake for nearly an hour when she first went to bed, tense, waiting for another weird thing to happen. Perhaps a repetition of the moving of her clothing from yesterday during her short tenure in the French room. She was actually relieved that Nathan Gamble had made a fuss over staying in the room. As night had drawn closer, An’gel had felt uneasy enough over sleeping in the room she was now in.

As the minutes had passed and nothing had occurred to disturb her, however, she had gradually relaxed enough to fall asleep. She had slept untroubled by either dreams or ghostly visitations.

She pushed aside the covers and sat up on the side of the bed. After a couple of yawns, she picked up her watch from the bedside table and checked the time. Nearly six thirty. Heavens, I slept almost nine hours. She laid the watch aside, found her robe and slippers, collected her toiletries bag, and went down the hall to see if the bathroom was free.

Some half hour later, dressed and ready to go downstairs, An’gel tapped on her sister’s door. After a moment, Dickce opened it and greeted An’gel with a yawn, quickly covered by a hand. “Sorry about that,” she mumbled. “I haven’t been up long. Slept okay but I still feel a little tired.”

“And obviously not dressed for breakfast,” An’gel said. “I’m going on down, I think. I’m ready for coffee.”

“I won’t be long,” Dickce said. “Leave some in the pot for me.” She yawned again as she closed the door.

An’gel heard another door open nearby. She turned to see Primrose Pace stick her head out her door across the hall. Mrs. Pace ducked back inside her room the moment she spotted An’gel looking at her. The door shut firmly but quietly.

An’gel smiled on her way downstairs as she recalled the scene late yesterday afternoon at the bathroom door. Peanut’s barking at the closed door made her wary, and when the door opened to reveal the medium behind it, An’gel had felt mighty relieved. Peanut hadn’t taken to the medium, nor she to the dog. Mrs. Pace had to be assured that Peanut wouldn’t shed all over her clothing, nor would he get in her room and chew up her shoes. An’gel had to wonder how many pairs the woman had brought with her and how many she had ever lost to a bored canine. The way the woman talked, she must travel with one large bag full of nothing but footwear.

They had all been on edge by the evening, thanks to the odd happenings in the house and the tensions among various persons. Mary Turner had seemed distracted during dinner, twice pulling out her cell phone and texting on it. She apologized for doing so, An’gel remembered, but offered no explanation as to whom she was texting or why. The messages appeared to have unsettled Mary Turner, but An’gel did not probe to find out why.

Serenity Foster and her lawyer, Wilbanks, had shown up at the dinner table, and Marcelline told them tartly that they would not be served. Wilbanks started to bluster, but Marcelline shut him down with words similar to those she had used earlier with Nathan Gamble. “You were not invited to dinner, Mr. Wilbanks,” Marcelline told him, “and neither were you or your brother, Mrs. Foster. Miss Mary made that clear, I thought. You’ll have to go find your dinner elsewhere.” After that, Serenity Foster had wisely retreated, urging her lawyer to come away and not make any further fuss.

Henry Howard had made no appearance, nor had An’gel spotted either Nathan Gamble or Primrose Pace leaving the house. She was not eager to encounter them that evening and was relieved not to have to engage in conversation with either of them.

She felt better able to face all of them after a good night’s rest. When she walked into the dining room this morning, she saw that the table was laid for six. Another, smaller table near the back of the dining room was laid for four.

An’gel helped herself to coffee from the sideboard, chose a seat, and in a moment Marcelline appeared.

“Good morning, Miss An’gel. You’re the first one down this morning,” she said. “There’s scrambled eggs, biscuits, gravy, and sausage for breakfast. If you want something lighter, I can make you some oatmeal, or there’s cereal and fruit. You just tell me what you’d like.”

An’gel had a weakness for biscuits and gravy, and she had no doubt Marcelline’s would be heaven on the tongue. Heavy on the stomach, however, and An’gel decided to opt for a breakfast lower in calories.

“Thank you,” An’gel said. “I’ll have a scrambled egg, a biscuit, and a little fruit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marcelline said. “There’s always seconds if you want them.” She left the room but returned promptly with An’gel’s breakfast.

An’gel had finished her egg and biscuit and was eating her fruit—slices of pineapple and melon, along with a handful of red grapes—when Henry Howard joined her in the dining room.

“Good morning, Miss An’gel,” he said. “How are you? Did you sleep all right?”

An’gel returned the greeting and said, “I slept just fine. How about you?” She thought he looked tired, perhaps even a little hungover. He hadn’t returned home last night before she retired for the night at nine thirty, as far as she knew. She wondered how late his writing group met and how much drinking they did. A fair amount, she suspected, to judge by the dark circles around the young man’s eyes.

Henry Howard stifled a yawn. He looked at her oddly, An’gel thought, before he replied that he’d had a restless night.

“Do you suffer from insomnia?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Sometimes. Especially after my meetings. They’re really energizing, you see, and I always come home brimming with ideas and eager to write. But of course, by then it’s late, and I’m also tired and have to go to bed.” He grimaced. “Because I always have to be up early to tend to something around the house or out in the annex.”

“Do you get much time to write?” An’gel speared her last bite of pineapple and ate it while she waited for a response.

Henry Howard finished pouring himself coffee and chose a seat across the table from her before he replied. “A little,” he said. “Usually in bits and pieces. It’s hard to find time to sit down for more than an hour around here, though.”

“I’m sure that’s frustrating for you,” An’gel said. The poor young man was obviously not happy, and she wondered whether this caused any friction between him and his wife.

“It is,” Henry Howard replied shortly, “but there’s not much I can do about it. We could close the house to guests, and I could concentrate on writing, but then we wouldn’t have any money coming in and we’d have to sell the house to survive. Mary Turner is never going to sell the house.” He shrugged.

“It’s been in her family a long time,” An’gel said in what she hoped was a neutral tone. She knew there had not been much money to inherit when Mary Turner’s parents died. Everything they made basically went into maintaining the house and keeping their business going. The house had proven popular over the years with tourists, particularly around the time of the annual Natchez pilgrimage every spring when thousands came to tour the antebellum homes and enjoy various festivities. An’gel figured the Turners had made a decent living with the bed-and-breakfast scheme, but they hadn’t become wealthy with it.

“Yes, I know,” Henry Howard said. “I understand that. The Catlins lost their home in the war”—An’gel knew which war he meant—“and never got it back, unlike the Turners. I don’t have the same kind of attachment to the place that she does, because her roots run so deep here. It’s all she has left of her close family, and I couldn’t take that away from her.” He stared into his coffee cup for a moment before picking it up and draining the contents. He got up to refill his cup.

Before An’gel could reply, Primrose Pace and Dickce entered the room.

“Good morning, everybody,” Mrs. Pace said.

Dickce nodded a greeting to Henry Howard and followed the medium to the sideboard, where they both helped themselves to coffee. Primrose Pace sat down near An’gel, leaving an empty chair between them. Dickce took it.

Mary Turner came into the room with Marcelline and Benjy. Marcelline checked to see what everyone wanted and departed for the kitchen. Mary Turner and Benjy settled themselves at the table, one on either side of Henry Howard.

“I hope everyone slept well,” Mary Turner said. After she received assurances from everyone that they had indeed slept well, she glanced around the table. “Where is Nathan? I thought for sure he would already be down here. It’s not like him to be late for a meal.”

“I haven’t seen him,” An’gel said, and the other guests agreed with her. “Nor Mrs. Foster and Mr. Wilbanks.”

Mary Turner pushed her chair back. “I’d better go remind Nathan that Marcelline isn’t going to stay in the kitchen cooking breakfast for much longer. Serenity and Truss said they would be here on time. I told Marcelline we would be done by eight or eight thirty at the latest. She wants to get ready for church.”

“I’ll go remind him,” Henry Howard said. “He might not be dressed or still in bed, and he might not like having a woman in his room.” He exchanged a knowing glance with his wife.

Mary Turner shrugged. “You’re probably right. Thanks, honey, I appreciate it.”

Henry Howard pushed his chair back and left the room. Mary Turner picked up her orange juice but then set it down quickly. She got up from her chair. “I forgot to tell Henry Howard that you and Nathan switched rooms, Miss An’gel. I was asleep before he came home last night, and I just now remembered. I’ll go tell him.” She hurried out.

Marcelline brought in the remaining breakfast orders on the tea cart. She served Dickce, Mrs. Pace, and Benjy. “Where’d Miss Mary and Mr. Henry go?”

“They went up to check on Mr. Gamble,” An’gel said.

Marcelline frowned. “He’d better get up and get his carcass down here if he wants a hot breakfast. I’m not standing over that stove all morning for him or for his sister and that so-called lawyer.” She left the room.

“I take it that the housekeeper isn’t fond of Mr. Gamble or those other people,” Primrose Pace said. “They don’t seem all that welcome here. Who are they?”

“Mr. Gamble is Mrs. Catlin’s distant cousin,” Dickce said. “Mrs. Foster is his sister, and she has her lawyer, a Mr. Wilbanks, with her. They’re staying in the annex with Benjy.”

“Ah, yes, family,” Mrs. Pace said. “They can be a trial sometimes, can’t they?” She chuckled. “Actually, I think I may have heard of Mr. Gamble’s family before. Is he from Vicksburg?”

“Yes, he is,” An’gel said. “What have you heard?”

“He’s a realtor, I think,” Mrs. Pace said. “Or maybe he does renovations? Can’t remember exactly. I think maybe his father or his grandfather was in the construction business in Vicksburg.”

“I don’t know,” An’gel said. “We really know nothing about him except that he and his sister are Mrs. Catlin’s distant cousins.”

“The more distant the better,” Mrs. Pace said. “I seem to remember that old Mr. Gamble, whichever one it was, father or son, didn’t have a good reputation in business.”

“Word does get around in the South, doesn’t it?” Dickce said lightly.

“Something terrible has happened.”

Mary Turner surprised them all. An’gel looked up to see the young woman in the doorway, arms across her chest, pale and shivering. She got up immediately and went to Mary Turner.

“Come sit down, my dear, and have some coffee.” An’gel guided her to the table and nearly pushed her into the chair before Mary Turner’s shaky legs gave way.

“What happened?” Dickce asked. “Is something wrong with your cousin?”

Mary Turner nodded, her hands clasped around her coffee. “He’s dead.”