Carolyn McSparren - The Wrong Wife

“Ready, darling?” Brittany looked up from her cappuccino and reached for his hand. He took it and helped her up. “Ben, sweetie, are you okay?” she asked. “You look kind of green.”

“Sorry, I think I had too many crab cakes,” he said as he followed her to the front door. “Would you mind if I went home to bed?”

For a moment her eyes grew hostile, then she smiled and touched his cheek. “You want me to come over and tuck you in?”

He managed what he hoped was a suitably wan smile. “No, I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep and some antacid. I’ll follow you home and make sure you get inside okay.”

“Don’t be silly, sweetie. I’m five blocks away and you know what a bear my doorman is. Just go on home, snuggle down, and think of what you’re missing.” She arched an eyebrow.

He opened her car door and handed her in. As she swung her incredible legs behind the steering wheel he thought for a fleeting instant that he probably ought to be institutionalized for sheer idiocy. “Nevertheless, I will follow you. No argument. I know what can happen to a beautiful woman in five blocks.”

“You are a dear,” she said, and blew him an air kiss. “Call me tomorrow?”

He nodded and turned toward his own car. So much for honor. He’d have to work out some way to let her down gently without wounding her pride. He suspected she wouldn’t go quietly.

“SHH!” The deep voice hissed from the top of the stairs. “The old—Mrs. Langley is asleep already.”

Annabelle climbed the broad walnut staircase, turned the corner at the half landing and ran lightly up the rest of the stairs to the gallery that overhung the staircase. With each step the Oriental runner threw up a fine cloud of dust. Have to get somebody in here soon, she thought, before the place becomes haunted by brown recluse spiders and mice. She stifled a cough and whispered back, “Any trouble?”

The woman weighed twice as much as Annabelle. Her pale arms were the size of bolsters and looked about as solid. She rolled her eyes and sighed deeply. “Better’n last night. Didn’t throw anything at me.”

Annabelle fought to remember the woman’s name. There had been so many in the past two months since Grandmere’s last attack, and although she knew most of them only through communication with the employment agency, she’d met three just since she came to town. That made one a week. “Thanks, Mrs.…” she hesitated. “Mrs. Mayhew.” That was it. Beulah Mayhew. She’d come three days ago.

“She don’t bother me none,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “I’ve had a whole lot worse. At least she don’t outweigh me.” She laughed silently and the rolls under her arms jiggled. “Want a glass of sweet tea? I got some made in the icebox.”

Annabelle smiled. None of the others had ever asked her to join them for so much as a roasted peanut. “No, thanks. But give me a rain check, please. Do you think I can look in on her without waking her?”

“Annabelle!” A querulous and surprisingly strong voice called from the doorway at the end of the hall. “Is that you?”

Annabelle’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, Grandmere.”

Mrs. Mayhew rolled her eyes and whispered, “Go say hello. I’ll come lay down the law in a little while.”

Annabelle’s feet dragged over the exquisite Kirman runner that Grandmere had cut down for the hall. The dealer who had sold it to her had been horrified, but she’d told him it was her rug and she’d do as she liked with it.

Annabelle pasted a suitable smile on her face, squared her shoulders and walked across the threshold into that room she’d hated for twenty-three years.

The room was the same size as the living room, and beyond it the summer sleeping porch over the solarium downstairs had been glassed in to create a conservatory. The plants had long since died of neglect, but the room still held the faint odor of decaying mulch overlaid with the acrid tinge of medicine.

Here there were Oriental rugs on top of Oriental rugs. They had always been Grandmere’s grand passion. At first Annabelle had felt her grandmother’s joy in antique Orientals must signal a kinship between them. Her grandmother must truly appreciate the rich colors and beautiful patterns of the rugs. Then she discovered Grandmere saw them only as visible signs of her wealth. She possessed them as she tried to possess everything and everyone around her.

That was why she liked the ornate pre–Civil War furniture. The high-relief walnut eagle still perched on top of the seven-foot-tall headboard, caught in that moment before it stoops to impale its prey on three-inch talons. Annabelle had nightmares about those talons for years. She still shuddered at the sight of them.

Grandmere lay in the center of the bed, propped on soft, linen pillows edged with fine handmade lace.

The same hawk nose and piercing eyes as the eagle. With age and illness the likeness had become really scary. But she’d lost much of her heavy pale hair, and now pink scalp showed through the fine white hairs that were still beautifully cut and dressed once a week when her beautician visited to do her hair, nails and feet.

Her pale blue eyes, so different from Annabelle’s dark ones, held the same mad intelligence as the eagle’s.

“Come and kiss me, child, if you can bear to touch this wrinkled old skin.”

Fishing for a compliment. A good day, then. Annabelle kissed her cheek and tasted the French powder that Grandmere wore even to bed with the expensive perfume she still imported. “Nonsense. You’ll never age.”

“Liar.” She grabbed Annabelle’s wrist and pulled her down close to whisper, “That woman is torturing me to death. I have fired her a dozen times, but she refuses to go. You must do it.”

“What kind of torture?”

“She beats me.” Grandmere frowned at the door. “And she steals. She stole the pearls your grandfather gave me for our tenth wedding anniversary.”

“The pearls are in your safe-deposit box at the bank.”

“She’s starving me to death. Look at her, then look at me. She eats her food and my food too. I haven’t had a mouthful all day.” The old voice turned querulous once more.

Annabelle pulled gently away and glanced at the silver tray on the side table. The meal might not be gourmet, but it seemed adequate. She could tell from the European way that her grandmother had laid her knife and fork at angles across the plate when she finished that Mrs. Mayhew had not eaten her grandmother’s dinner. “Would you like me to bring you a sandwich?”

Grandmere sniffed. “A sandwich? What wine does one drink with a sandwich?”

“You can’t have wine, Grandmere.”

The pale eyes flashed. “You’ve drunk it all, haven’t you, you loathsome child?” She began to cry. “The Napoleon brandy that your grandfather bought. The champagne. It’s all gone, isn’t it? You’ve drunk it or sold it, haven’t you? That’s what your mother would do—sell what she couldn’t swig down.”

“No, Grandmere. The wine is there. You have the only key to the wine cellar, remember?”

“You’ve had a duplicate made. Wouldn’t put it past you. You’re in it with her.” Abruptly she turned her face into the pillows. “Leave me alone the way you always do. Everybody always leaves me alone.”

“You’re not alone, Grandmere. Mrs. Mayhew’s here. I’m here now. Jonas is here.”

“Jonas?” The old woman cackled. “Jonas? Oh, that is rich. Jonas!” Suddenly she thrust Annabelle away. “Get out and don’t come back. You’re just like her. Evil! The bad seed! I knew it when I took you in. Get out!”

Annabelle stood. She was well aware they were no longer talking about Mrs. Mayhew but about Annabelle’s mother. Grandmere had despised Chantal on sight and never ceased reminding Annabelle that she had been the only one to see what a scheming hussy the woman was.