Миранда Джеймс - Claws For Concern

I bade her good night, and we ended the call. I laid my phone aside on the nightstand and adjusted my position in bed. Before I switched off the bedside lamp, I glanced at Diesel. He regarded me sleepily, his head on his pillow. His tail thumped a couple of times against the bedspread, and then his eyes closed.

Smiling, I turned off the light, got comfortable, and soon drifted into sleep.

• • •

A few hours after an enjoyable Sunday dinner with my children, their spouses, and baby Charlie, Helen Louise, Diesel, and I drove out to Riverhill, the antebellum home of the Ducote sisters, for afternoon tea.

On the way I told Helen Louise about Jack Pemberton’s book. “I really enjoyed it,” I said. “I didn’t think I’d care for true crime, but the way he told the story, it read almost like a suspense novel. Well-paced with believable characters.”

“I’ll borrow it then, if you don’t mind,” Helen Louise said. “I haven’t had much time for reading all these years, and now that I actually have hours to fill away from the bistro, I’m looking forward to rediscovering books.”

I smiled. “I have a large library at home entirely at your disposal.”

“Yes, you do.” Helen Louise punched me playfully in the arm. “You have more books than I have cookware, cookbooks, and bottles of wine combined.”

From the backseat Diesel meowed as if in agreement. When he was younger he tried to climb in between me and any book I started to read, and given his size, he easily obscured even the largest, thickest book in my collection. It took me six months to gently dissuade him from the habit. In the end I think he realized that that was one battle he was never going to win. Now he settled for simply being next to me when I paid attention to a book instead of him.

“Occupational hazard, I suppose, for a librarian.” I had loved books from childhood, when my parents read to me before I was old enough to read on my own. Once I discovered that I could actually buy books at a bookstore, rather than only borrowing them from the library, I turned into a collector of sorts. I had to own copies of books by my favorite writers because I never knew when I might want to reread one of them.

Helen Louise and I discussed books the rest of the way to Riverhill. When we neared the magnificent old Greek Revival mansion, I saw a late-model, bright red Jeep parked in the circular driveway in front of the house. I parked behind it, and by the time Helen Louise, Diesel, and I exited the car, Miss An’gel was standing on the verandah calling a greeting to us.

The elder of the sisters, Miss An’gel had never been less than impeccably dressed whenever I saw her. She once told me that she and her sister, Miss Dickce, had inherited a large collection of classic haute couture from their mother and grandmother—names like Worth, Chanel, and Balenciaga, among others. Today looked like a Chanel day, I decided, after noting the simple black dress and pearls Miss An’gel wore.

“Come right in, all of you,” Miss An’gel said, after first giving Diesel several pats on the head. “Helen Louise, it’s lovely to see you away from work and looking so relaxed.”

“Thank you, Miss An’gel.” Helen Louise laughed. “I need to hear that because I confess I’ve been having a hard time letting go of the reins.”

“Not surprising,” Miss An’gel replied as she ushered us through the front door and closed it behind. “You created a highly successful business, and you want to ensure its continued success.” She cast a sidelong glance at me. “Now, however, you have a handsome distraction who deserves more of your time, I daresay.”

“He certainly does,” Helen Louise said. As I began to blush, Helen Louise looked down at my cat. “Don’t you, Diesel?”

The cat warbled loudly, and Miss An’gel joined Helen Louise in gentle laughter. I smiled.

“We’re in the front parlor.” Miss An’gel led the way. “Sister and I are delighted that you could come this afternoon. Our dear friend Ernestine Carpenter has been looking forward to meeting you.”

We followed our hostess into the elegant front parlor at Riverhill. After numerous visits here I had become somewhat accustomed to the sight of the furnishings, many of which were well over a century old. Miss Dickce rose from a sofa that faced the door to come forward, hands extended. First Helen Louise, then I, gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Then Miss Dickce focused her attention on Diesel for a moment.

The other occupant of the sofa stood as well. She appeared to be nearly as tall as Helen Louise and I and probably in her early seventies. Perhaps a decade younger than the Ducote sisters, I reckoned. Her shrewd gaze swept over us, and I smiled. She smiled back and stepped forward.

Miss An’gel performed the introductions. Miss Carpenter immediately took a shine to Diesel, and he to her. When she resumed her seat, he sat on the floor by her legs and enjoyed her attention.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Carpenter,” I said, after the first formalities were out of the way, including the obligatory remarks about the weather.

“We have actually met before,” Miss Carpenter said, “though I doubt if you remember it because of the occasion. Your aunt, Dottie Collins, was a dear friend of mine. I attended her funeral, and we spoke briefly at the time.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I remember so very little of anything that happened at Aunt Dottie’s funeral. I was in such a fog at the time that it is all still a blur in my mind.”

Miss Carpenter regarded me with obvious sympathy. “I completely understand. You were overwhelmed, I know. Your wife had passed away not long before that, if I remember correctly.”

I managed to nod, too overcome at the moment to say a word. Odd how those sharp, stabbing pangs of grief hit you sometimes and rendered you almost unable to breathe, let alone speak. I closed my eyes briefly, drew in a deep breath, then exhaled and opened my eyes. “Yes, that’s correct. I’m glad to get the opportunity to meet you again under happier circumstances.”

Miss Carpenter smiled and patted my arm. “I am, too.”

I felt able now to resume our conversation. “Miss Carpenter, I understand you are a friend of Jack Pemberton, the true crime writer.”

“Yes, I am. Please, call me Ernie.” She flashed an attractive grin. “I have a feeling we’re going to be friends, and my friends call me Ernie.” She patted the sofa beside her.

“I will, if you’ll call me Charlie,” I said as I joined her. Helen Louise and the Ducote sisters occupied the sofa opposite us, and they were already involved in conversation.

“Done.” Ernie gave Diesel a couple more pats on the head. “I do indeed know Jack and his lovely wife, Wanda Nell. Both fine people that I am pleased to call friends.”

“Are you aware of Mr. Pemberton’s interest in me?” I said.

“Yes, he told me about the project,” Ernie replied.

“I read one of his books last night. It was excellent.”

“He’s an accomplished writer,” Ernie said. “I’ve never been much of a true crime reader myself, but I make an exception for his books.”

“I think I will, too,” I said. “Though generally I prefer my murders to be fictional.”

Ernie chuckled. “Well, not completely fictional, you must admit, Charlie.”

It took me a moment to catch on to what she meant, and then I had to laugh. Before I could respond, however, she continued.

“Actually, that’s something you and I have in common, along with Wanda Nell and Jack. Murder as a hobby, so to speak.”

SEVEN

Murder as a hobby? Those words took me aback. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to Ernie’s comment. Apparently my expression revealed my confusion.