Миранда Джеймс - Dead With The Wind

Trey hooted with derisive laughter while An’gel gazed at Lance, concerned. Obviously, neither Horace nor Trey had informed Lance of Sondra’s death.

Lance flushed red. His hand dropped from his shoulder to join the other in his lap, and he stared down at them.

An’gel glanced at Horace, and he shrugged.

“Lance, I’m afraid there’s bad news,” An’gel said. “About Sondra.”

Lance’s head snapped up, and he frowned. “She changed her mind, didn’t she?”

“No, she didn’t,” An’gel said. “I’m afraid Sondra is dead, Lance.”

He shook his head. “No, she can’t be. Unless he killed her.” He pointed suddenly at Trey. “He’s jealous because Sondra wanted to marry me and told him to go away and leave her alone.”

“Why, you—” Trey let out another string of obscenities, but Horace told him to shut up again, and he did.

Horace faced Lance. “I’m sorry, son, but Miss An’gel here is right. Sondra’s dead. We reckon she went out on the balcony during the storm, and the wind must have picked her up and dropped her on the ground.”

Lance made a face, as if he’d smelled something rotten. “That’s crazy. It’s like that old story my granny used to tell me about a girl in St. Ignatiusville who died that way. I bet you’re making it up because you don’t want anybody to know Trey killed her.” He stood and picked up the vase he’d nearly knocked to the floor only minutes ago. He threw it toward Trey, but the vase fell about a foot short of its mark. It shattered on the floor near Trey’s feet.

Before anyone could intervene, Trey stepped over the debris toward Lance and decked him with a punch. Lance went down and stayed down. Horace jumped up and grabbed his son.

Thurston got up and went over to the fallen young man. He got down on one knee and checked Lance’s eyes. “Out cold,” he said. “Better get the EMTs in here. He could have a bad concussion. Trey hit him pretty hard.” He stood and then strode out of the parlor.

An’gel heard the front door open and close. She stared at Horace, who was still visibly restraining his son from attacking Lance again.

She stood. “Young man, you had better control yourself and that temper of yours. If Lance is seriously hurt, you could find yourself in jail for assault. I will be happy to serve as a witness on his behalf. No matter what he said or did, there was no cause to hit him like that. You could have killed him.”

Trey appeared stunned at An’gel’s words, while Horace glared at her.

Thurston reappeared then, preceded by a couple of EMTs.

Horace hustled Trey out of the room while the EMTs examined Lance. An’gel kept out of the way but watched with keen interest. She was worried about Lance because Trey, as muscular as he was, had hit Lance hard enough to cause serious damage.

One of the EMTs spoke into his walkie-talkie and asked for a gurney. Finished, he looked up at Thurston. “We’re taking him in. Probably a concussion but there could be internal bleeding, considering he was hit as hard as you said. Are you related?”

“No,” the lawyer said. “I know his family, however, and I’ll get in touch with them and tell them to meet you at the ER.”

“Thanks,” the EMT said. His coworkers came through the door with a gurney and other equipment, and An’gel watched while they got Lance ready to make the journey to the hospital. She said prayers for Lance as well as for Mireille and Jacqueline.

An’gel felt exhausted. She was a bit shaky as well. Reaction from all the dramatic events had begun to set in. She decided her presence wasn’t necessary, and she slipped out of the room and went to the den. She opened the door with care, in case Benjy and the animals were asleep.

She found the room empty, to her disappointment, but she spotted a piece of paper lying on a sofa pillow. She went over, picked it up, and quickly scanned its contents. Benjy had taken Endora and Peanut back to their cottage, going the back way to avoid the activity out front. The animals were hungry and restless and had to relieve themselves. They would remain there unless An’gel wanted them to come back to Willowbank.

An’gel crumpled the note and dropped it into a small, decorative wastebasket beside the sofa. She gazed longingly at the sofa, wanting to lie down and take a nap. She knew, however, she had better get something to eat. She was hungry and feeling a bit weak.

She left the den and went to the kitchen, where she found Jackson and Estelle making sandwiches.

“Miss An’gel, can I get you something?” Jackson asked the moment he spotted her. “I reckon you must be truly peckish by now.”

An’gel smiled at the old-fashioned expression. “I truly am peckish,” she said. “I’d love a couple of those sandwiches and some hot coffee right about now.”

Estelle paid no attention, apparently intent on her task. Jackson smiled and said, “You just come on over to the table over here and set yourself down. We’ve got chicken or ham.”

“I’ll take one of each,” An’gel said as she walked over to the table and chose a chair. “Thank you so much, Jackson.” She would have been happy to help herself, but she knew the old man’s feelings would be hurt if he wasn’t allowed to take care of her. He must be drooping with exhaustion by now himself.

She said as much to him when he set a plate with the sandwiches and a cup of coffee down in front of her.

“I’m okay, Miss An’gel. I had me a little nap a while ago.” He shook his head. “All this bad stuff wears me out, and sometimes I have to sit down and rest my eyes a bit.”

“I know what you mean,” An’gel said. “I was considering taking a nap in the den a few minutes ago, but I decided I was hungrier than I was sleepy.”

Jackson nodded. “Have you heard anything more from Miss Jacqueline about Miss Mireille?”

“No, I haven’t,” An’gel said. She realized then that she had left her handbag in the den all this time. Jacqueline might have tried to call but An’gel had been nowhere near her phone. She got up. “I left my phone in the den. I’ll go get it and see if Jacqueline has called.”

“You let me do that, Miss An’gel,” Jackson said. “You need to eat. I’ll be right back.”

An’gel nodded and thanked him. After he left the room, she kept an eye on Estelle and began working on a ham sandwich. The housekeeper seemed lost in a world of her own, An’gel decided. She picked up her cup for a sip of coffee.

Estelle spoke suddenly. “Mireille’s dead.”

An’gel was so startled she nearly spilled coffee all over herself. She set the cup on the table with an unsteady hand.

“When did you find out?” An’gel asked, her heart heavy with sorrow. She wished the housekeeper hadn’t announced it so abruptly. “Jacqueline must have called.”

“Nobody called,” Estelle said.

Taken aback, An’gel couldn’t speak for a moment. Then she found her voice. “If nobody called, how do you know that Mireille has died?”

Estelle shrugged. “I just know, that’s all.”

An’gel spoke sharply, nettled by the housekeeper’s casual tone. “I’m sorry, but I find that hard to believe.”

“Doesn’t matter to me what you believe,” Estelle said indifferently. “I know what I know.”

“When did it happen?” If you know so much , An’gel wanted to add but decided it was better not to.

“A couple of hours ago, during the worst of the storm.” Estelle put down the knife she was using to slice the ham and turned to face An’gel. “If you must know, Mireille and I have been close for years, like sisters. I felt it when her soul left her body.”

Estelle spoke with such calm assurance that An’gel experienced twinges of doubt. She had heard people say similar things all her life, and sometimes they turned out to be right about a tragic event. She hoped fervently that this was not one of those times and that Estelle was completely wrong.