Миранда Джеймс - Fixing To Die

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.