Dennis Larsen - With Cruel Intent

Before he could say goodbye there was an audible click at the other end. “Well, that was rude,” he said aloud.

Looking back at the notepad he read aloud, “412 Big Buck Circle,” and drew a dark line around it. Flipping back a page he found the list he had prepared earlier and across the bottom he added:

Trip to library!!!

Then he underlined it twice with bold, menacing strokes of the pencil, breaking the tip of the pencil off with the last exclamation point.

Having a couple of days off had done wonders for Blanche’s spirits. She had spent most of the time lost in the Deep South, fighting deference and finding passion in the arms of forbidden love. When not reading she napped periodically, enjoying the dreams that floated on the clouds of her imagination as her unconscious mind filled in the details of her dream lover. Not forgetting the events of the day before and the bathroom scramble, she had done her best to avoid the other guests and the awkward conversations that were likely to ensue.

By noon on the second day, she could take it no longer and she made her way to the bathroom, showered and snuck back to her room without anyone being the wiser. She could hear Ms. Carmichael in the kitchen whipping up some of her ‘to die for’ rolls which would accompany some Southern delicacy that she was preparing for dinner. Blanche was well aware of the rule of the house, ‘There is no food except at breakfast and dinner prepared by the proprietor’, but she was hoping she could talk Caroline into making her another one of those incredible peanut butter sandwiches just to hold her over until dinner.

The kitchen was littered with pots and pans', taking up most of the counter space and the marble topped island was covered with flour and a large lump of dough sat in the middle of it. Caroline wore a vintage apron pulled over her head and tied in a smart little bow in the back with two large pockets in the front. Ruffles trimmed the edges and pockets giving the apron a very feminine, finished look. The cook lifted her head and eyes from the task at hand as Blanche entered the room, a smear of flour across her forehead, where she had attempted to wipe her hair from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

“Was just about to call the police and have one of them cadaver dogs come over here to see if you were still alive,” she joked, with a wink of her eye.

“Very funny!” Blanche said. “Just needed some time to myself and it was wonderful. Sounds like my neighbors must have moved out?”

“Nope, they’re still in the room next to you but I ‘spect you and Mr. Unger put the fear of God into ‘em yesterday morning, so they’re being a bit more discreet, if you know what I mean.”

Caroline couldn’t help but smile as she filled Blanche in.

“You might have a chance to meet them this afternoon, don’t think they’ve left the house yet today.”

“No, that’s ok; I think I can manage with the informal pleasantries that we exchanged yesterday morning and the night before. Do you know when they’ll be checking out?” Blanche inquired.

“Not sure, they had said something about staying on for a couple more days. I think it has something to do with my fruit salad and collard greens.”

Blanche was quite sure it had more to do with the feather pillows and foam top mattress.

Caroline returned to her rolls, punching the middle of the dough ball with the heel of her hand, and then pulling the prolapsed dough back to the middle of the lump only to be smacked down again. Blanche watched this process for a few minutes trying to determine what it was about the punching that made the rolls turn out so delicious, but she remembered watching her mother and grandmother do the same thing.

Not wanting to be a pest she asked, “Um, Ms. Carmichael do you think it would be okay if I made myself a sandwich or something?”

The landlady shook a playful finger at Blanche, “Now Ms. Delaney, you know the rules of the house. I don’t do any food preparation ‘cept for breakfast and dinner but if’n you were to find some bread and a smattering of peanut butter and my jam laying about, guess there wouldn’t be anything I could do to keep you from fixing yourself something.” And with that she returned to the dough and slammed it down again against the hard surface.

“Thanks, you’re too kind.”

Pulling up a chair at the small kitchen nook Blanche watched Caroline roll the dough up into a large, round ball and drop it into a metal bowl which she placed on the window sill to accept the sun’s warming rays.

The sandwich was yummy and the chocolate milk she’d scrounged from the fridge went down with an audible, “Oh yeah!” followed quickly with, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

“What was that dear, what were you talking about?” Ms. Carmichael asked, not really paying attention to what was going on at the nook.

“Oh nothing, just an expression. This milk just tastes really good to me this afternoon. Anything interesting happen at breakfast earlier today or yesterday?” Blanche questioned.

“Well, the talk at the table yesterday was your crashing the bathtub party with your buddy. Thankfully the newlyweds hadn’t dared leave the bathroom until everyone had left for the day. Today? Wasn’t much to talk about. Oh no, wait a minute. There was some discussion about the weird thing that happened to that unfortunate lady out by the military base, Mrs. Kittle I think her name was,” Caroline said, as she brushed her hands off against the sides of her apron and took a seat next to Blanche at the little table.

“I think her name was Riddle, Thelma Riddle, as I recall.”

Blanche was very good with names, dates and events; just part of the many skills that one acquires as a trained librarian.

“What was said?” she asked.

“Well, you know how Mrs. Muir likes to know all the gory little details about everything. Apparently she has a friend of a friend who works as a dispatcher at the police station and they didn’t find anything all that unusual about the incident. Guess there was an article in the paper said they weren’t going to pursue it any further. No solid evidence or leads, something to that effect.”

Caroline shrugged her shoulders and ran her fingers through her graying hair adding a streak of white, highlighting the intermittent strands of diminished black.

“Oh, and she indicated this friend had also said that they think it was a college student just doing a dare or something foolish. That’s why Thelma wasn’t hurt and nothing was missing.”

“Makes sense I guess,” Blanche slowly uttered, running the scenario through her head trying to make sense of the police’s rational.

“What will you be doing for the rest of your day today, dear?” Ms. Carmichael asked, genuinely interested.

“I’d really like to finish my book, then I’ll…”

Caroline cut her off, “Book, what book are you reading? I just love a good mystery or the like.”

Blanche had perhaps opened up a can of worms that she had not wanted to.

“I’m reading strictly as a research project to acquaint myself more completely with the Southern culture…”

Again the inquisitor cut her off, “But what’s the title?”

Blanche gave up, " Mandingo !"

“Oh My! Oh my, my, my,” Caroline said, over and over, getting a bit giddy and giggling to herself. “Haven’t heard of anybody reading that book for sometime. Heavens, just makes me blush all over thinking that you’re reading that book, sweetie.”

Blanche tried to put on her best professional librarian face and voice, “I’m finding it very informative, the setting and time are riveting. I’d have to say that I’m really enjoying it.”