Миранда Джеймс - Bless Her Dead Little Heart

Both Dickce and Diesel sniffed as they caught the scent of Clementine’s cigarette. She had cut way back, Dickce knew, because An’gel had fussed at her, concerned for the housekeeper’s health, but she refused to give up smoking completely.

While Diesel rubbed against her legs, Dickce said, “I think we may have even more company. The doorbell rang a minute ago, and I sent An’gel to answer it.”

“More of Miss Rosabelle’s family?” Clementine went to the sink to wash her hands. She glanced over her shoulder at Dickce, who shrugged in response. “Miss An’gel’s been telling me some of Miss Rosabelle’s troubles. Why does Miss An’gel want all those people in the house, you reckon?”

“I think she wants to pretend she’s Jessica Fletcher.” Dickce smiled. Clementine was as big a fan of Murder, She Wrote as Dickce and An’gel were.

Clementine frowned. “Well, Miss Dickce, you know when Jessica Fletcher comes to the house, something bad’s gonna happen.” Her hands clean and dry, she turned to face Dickce.

“I’m trying not to think about that.” Dickce smiled. “I’m hoping this turns out to be an overactive imagination on Rosabelle’s part, and we can send them all on their way back to California in a couple of days.”

Diesel warbled loudly as if in agreement, and both women laughed.

“He may be spending a lot of time in the kitchen with you,” Dickce said. “I don’t think he’s going to take too well to Rosabelle’s clan.”

“I don’t mind the company.” Clementine went to the refrigerator and pulled out a large bowl with a chicken marinating inside it. She set it on the counter. “I’d best get to cutting this up and get it ready to fry. I sure hope it’s enough because it’s the only one I got ready.” She glanced at Dickce. “Though I reckon there’s a casserole or two I could defrost.”

“Go ahead and defrost them, and if casseroles and chicken aren’t enough, our guests will just have to fill up on bread or vegetables.” Dickce scratched Diesel’s head, happy to hear the cat’s rumbling purr.

An’gel stepped into the kitchen and called, “Sister, come meet the latest arrivals.” Without waiting for a response, she disappeared out the door, and Dickce sighed. She knew she had no choice.

“The rest of the family, no doubt,” Dickce muttered. Diesel chirped as he accompanied her out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the front door. “I hope you don’t regret leaving the kitchen,” Dickce told the cat.

Four people—two women who looked to be in their late fifties and a younger man and woman—stood near the front door conversing with An’gel. As Dickce and Diesel approached, An’gel said brightly, “And here is my sister, Dickce, and our feline houseguest, Diesel. Sister, these are Rosabelle’s daughters and grandchildren.” She paused. “They came in search of Rosabelle, and I assured them she is fine. They will be staying with us for a day or two.”

“How do you do?” Dickce said as she and the cat halted near An’gel. She examined the group as closely as she could without appearing to stare. Rosabelle’s daughters favored their mother, though both were plumper and better dressed. The grandson, a tall, weedy-looking specimen of about twenty-five, blinked at Dickce through rimless glasses and offered a shy smile. The granddaughter, the one beauty in the family, as far as Dickce could see, had a lovely hourglass figure, auburn hair, green eyes, and a peaches-and-cream complexion. She did not resemble her mother, aunt, or cousin much, and Dickce reckoned her father must be a mighty handsome man to overcome the Sultan family genes.

The granddaughter, who looked to be about the same age as her cousin, stepped forward, hand extended. “How do you do, Miss Ducote? I’m Juanita Cameron.”

Dickce shook her hand. “My pleasure, Miss Cameron.” She thought it odd that the granddaughter spoke first, rather than Rosabelle’s elder daughter.

Juanita Cameron smiled, and Dickce couldn’t help but respond in kind. Juanita turned and indicated one of the women behind her. “This is my mother, Bernice Cameron.”

The slightly plumper, slightly taller of the two women nodded and murmured a greeting.

“And this is my aunt, Maudine Pittman, and her son, my cousin, Newton. We call him Junior, because he’s named after my uncle.”

Newton stepped forward, ostensibly to shake Dickce’s hand, but he stumbled—over nothing that Dickce could see—and barely missed stepping on the cat at her feet. Diesel jumped out of the way in time.

Newton muttered an apology, and his mother spoke over him. “You’ll have to forgive my son, Miss Ducote. His intentions are good, but he could trip over a piece of lint on the floor.”

The young man flushed unbecomingly at his mother’s sharp words, and Dickce felt sorry for him. She offered Maudine Pittman her frostiest of glances and said, “Good manners never harmed anyone.” She held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Pittman.”

Newton’s eyes widened as he gazed at Dickce. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said as he took her hand. Dickce heard the genuine gratitude in his voice and smiled again. He blushed and stepped back, narrowly missing his cousin.

“What kind of cat is Diesel, Miss Ducote?” Juanita shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a house cat that large. Have you, Mother?” Diesel chirped and moved closer to rub himself against the young woman’s legs.

Bernice Cameron sniffed. “No, can’t say as I have. Be careful about getting hair all over your stockings. Those animals shed terribly.”

Juanita Cameron laughed. “A little cat hair isn’t going to hurt anyone, Mother. Diesel is absolutely beautiful, don’t you think so, Junior?”

Her cousin nodded, and Dickce decided that Rosabelle’s grandchildren had by some miracle turned out well. She couldn’t say the same for Rosabelle’s children, however. They didn’t have the manners the good Lord gave a billy goat.

“I’d like to speak to Mother and assure myself that she came to no harm during the drive here,” Maudine announced. “Which room is hers?” She took a step forward past her sister.

“Rosabelle was a bit tired when she arrived,” An’gel said, her tone chilly. “She is now resting comfortably in her room, and I am sure she would much prefer not to be disturbed until dinnertime.”

“ Well .” Maudine packed a lot of irritation and affront into that one syllable. Dickce had to stifle a laugh.

An’gel regarded the four impassively. “Mr. and Mrs. Thurmond arrived a little while ago and are upstairs in their room.” She paused. “I am afraid that Mrs. Cameron and Mrs. Pittman will need to share a room. Mr. Pittman, there is a small apartment over the garage out back that should suit you.”

“Sounds fine to me. Thank you, ma’am,” Junior said. He actually looked relieved, Dickce thought. Probably glad to be as far away from his mother as possible .

“What about my daughter?” Bernice Cameron frowned at An’gel. “Isn’t there a bedroom for her?”

“Unfortunately there isn’t,” An’gel said. “There is, however, a trundle bed in Rosabelle’s room that should suffice. If Mr. Pittman and Mr. Thurmond won’t mind, I’ll ask them to move it into your room, Mrs. Pittman.”

“The trundle bed sounds like fun.” Juanita Cameron smiled. “No, Mother, really, I’ve always wondered what one is like. But perhaps it could stay in Granny’s room, and I could sleep there? I’m a nurse, and I can look after Granny when she isn’t feeling well.”

Dickce was relieved that An’gel hadn’t suggested she move in with her sister. They had not shared a bedroom since they were young girls, and she didn’t relish the thought of doing it now. But would Rosabelle want her granddaughter in her room with her? she wondered.