“Some nights, I just sit out on my porch in the dark. Just sit and rock a bit. That's how I come to see that pink jacket. I live over by Kerry Road...not too far from Oman's Bluff, where the sheriff...where the sheriff died.
“Fact is,” he added with a deep, shuddering sigh, “the shortcut to Oman's Bluff goes right by my front yard, right there 'cross the road from my front yard. A big ole pine branch fell on that path day 'fore yesterday. Anybody walkin' along the path got to step round that limb.”
Nate hesitated once again. He wiped his hand across his face. “My eyes ain't all they once was, but when he stepped off the path to go round that there pine limb, I saw that pink jacket clear as...” His eyes widened slightly as he looked up from Blanche's face to the doorway beyond her.
Mumsfield, Blanche said to herself.
“And the carrots lookin' mighty fine, too.” Nate was still looking over Blanche's head. He rose from the chair.
“Mornin', Mista Mumsfield.” Nate eased toward the back door as he spoke.
Blanche turned her head. Mumsfield was standing with his head just inside the swinging door. “Hello, Nate. Hello, Blanche.” Mumsfield came fully into the room. His voice was barely audible. He stood with his head hung, his eyes lowered, and his hands jammed deep in his pockets.
“Well, I best be seein' to them vegetables.” Nate wished Mumsfield another “Good morning,” gave Blanche a nod and a look she couldn't read, then slipped out the back door.
Blanche turned in her chair and stared at Mumsfield. Her usually soft brown eyes snapped with annoyance—once again, she'd felt his presence before her eyes or ears had any information to go on. Like he's some kind of kin of mine, she thought, and the thought irritated her.
She suddenly saw her affection for people as a wide lake whose sides sloped down to a very deep middle. Some people—Mama, the kids, Ardell, Cousin Maxine, and Blanche's New York buddy Carla Sanchez—floated in the middle of the lake. Lots of other people—neighbors she'd had over the years, schoolmates, old lovers, and such—waded in the shallower waters of her affection. But she knew that, when necessary, she could sweep unwanted waders right off her beach, including this one. She gave Mumsfield a hard look. I won't be here much longer, she reminded herself.
Mumsfield called her back to his immediate distress with a sigh damp with approaching tears. “Mumsfield is very sad, Blanche,” he told her, as though she'd asked him a question. “Mumsfield heard Uncle Everett tell Aunt Grace about...about...”
“The sheriff?” Blanche asked him. Mumsfield raised his head and looked at her with tear-glazed eyes. Blanche almost burst out laughing. She manufactured a cough and politely covered her mouth with her hand. She turned away from Mumsfield until she straightened out her face. She didn't want him to think she was laughing at him, when her laughter was really a celebration of her own good sense. Hadn't she just been warning herself off this young man? Now here was a perfect example of why. Crying over the sheriff!
“Everyone dies, Mumsfield, honey.” She tried to make her voice as gentle as possible. She rose, led him to a chair, and patted his shoulder while he sobbed softly into his cupped hands. Her mouth tightened into a plump line of disapproval toward a family in which a member had to come to the hired help for solace.
When Mumsfield's sobs had dissolved into shudders and sniffles, she questioned him about his relationship with the sheriff. From what he told her, it sounded as though the sheriff had hardly ever spoken to Mumsfield, beyond “Hello” and “Goodbye.”
It's the sheriff of America-the-make-believe he's mourning, she told herself. Boy's been watching too much television.
By the time she'd finished explaining that death is what comes after life, the same way youth follows childhood, and how perfectly it seems to work to keep people and planet alive, Mumsfield was dry-eyed and attentive. He sat with his hands folded on the table like a student at a desk, until he was soothed and ready to go about his business.
Once he'd gone, Blanche hurried around the kitchen, making tea and toast and cooking two tablespoons of grits with milk to go with the eggs she was about to scramble for Emmeline's breakfast. It was nearly ten-thirty. Any second now, Grace would be along for the tray. On their first day in this house, Grace had said she would take Emmeline's meals up herself. Blanche wasn't assuming that had changed just because she'd been called on to deliver them twice.
When the toast began to wilt, Blanche went looking for Grace. She found Everett in the hall, just hanging up the phone. His back was toward her and he seemed unaware of her presence. She wondered if he was as rare as he ought to have been. She worked among people who thought they owned the world. It was likely that others of them at least thought they had the right to do what this one had done. He ruffled his hair, then brushed it back with graceful, long-fingered hands. His movements were less rigid than when he had been with the sheriff. More upset than angry, she thought.
“Excuse me, sir, it's time to take the tray upstairs.” He spun around and stared at her as though she'd spoken to him in Yoruba. “Your aunt's breakfast...”
“My wife's indisposed. You'll have to manage.” His voice was strangled, as though whatever worried him held him firmly by the throat. He turned his back and continued pacing.
Blanche made fresh toast and warmed the grits and eggs in the microwave. She hoisted the tray and headed up the back stairs. She paused outside Grace's door but heard nothing. She knocked on Emmeline's door and called out that she'd brought breakfast. She hesitated, half-expecting Grace to come out of her own room and take the tray to Emmeline herself. But Grace didn't appear and Emmeline didn't respond. Blanche shifted the tray to her left hip and opened the door.
She was surprised to see Emmeline standing in the middle of the floor staring over Blanche's shoulder as though expecting someone else to enter as well. Her frown eased and she loosened her grip on the front of her robe when it was clear Blanche was alone. She nearly pounced on the tray Blanche set on the table.
“How're you today, ma'am?” Blanche reached for the overflowing ashtray.
“Leave it,” Emmeline told her in a voice that sounded like two large stones grinding against each other. “Bring me more eggs and some sausages, too, and be quick about it!” Emmeline stuffed half a slice of toast into her mouth as she spoke. She gulped down the glass of orange juice and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand before swirling the grits and eggs together and lighting into them.
Blanche turned to leave the room. Emmeline's arm shot out. She grabbed the skirt of Blanche's uniform. Her scrawny hand reminded Blanche of chicken feet. “Where is she?” Emmeline glared up at Blanche, still holding on to her uniform.
Blanche thought of pretending she didn't know who Emmeline was talking about, but there was a glint in the old lady's eye that stopped her. She don't look in the mood for no bullshit.
“She's indisposed. In her room, I guess.”
“I'll just bet she's indisposed.” Emmeline squinted up at Blanche with red-rimmed eyes. “Where's Everett?”
“In the living room. Acting like he got something on his mind.” With utter nonchalance, Blanche twitched her skirt out of Emmeline's grasp. Their eyes met. Unlike her earlier eye-contact episode with Grace, it didn't even occur to Blanche to look away. She wasn't in the mood for any bullshit, either.
“Don't forget your place, gal!” Emmeline reached out and gave Blanche's skirt a sharp but brief tug. “Never mind the eggs and sausages. Bring me what's cooked and bring it now! And don't tell anyone. You hear me, gal? And make it fast!”
Blanche leaned down and slowly smoothed out the real and imaginary creases Emmeline had made in her uniform. Once again, she stared into Emmeline's eyes until the older woman turned her head away.
Every damned body in this house is nuts! Pulling on my clothes like I'm her property! In the kitchen she made herself a cup of tea and had a leisurely sit-down before she started the sandwiches. She enjoyed contradicting Emmeline's order to hurry as much as s
he enjoyed the tea.
The two ham sandwiches she finally carried upstairs were at least two inches thick. Yet, by the time Blanche had emptied the ashtrays, rinsed out Emmeline's liquor glass, and made the bed, both sandwiches had disappeared. Blanche thought about the hardly touched trays returned to the kitchen. Had Emmeline been pretending to be frail? What reason could she have had for hiding her hunger?
“How come you're so hungry?” The words were out of Blanche's mouth before she could stop them.
“None of your damned business.” Emmeline reached for a cigarette. “And don't open your mouth about it to anyone. You hear me? Now get!”
Blanche stood outside the door for a few moments, fighting the urge to go back into that room and tell Emmeline what she could do to herself. It was a sweet thought, but there was nothing she could do without putting herself in jeopardy. She took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. She hadn't forgotten her other reasons for wanting to come upstairs.
NINE
Blanche eased the guest room door open, quickly slipped inside, and closed the door behind her. She knew she was taking a risk. She'd already been told not to bother about this room, but she was sure she could handle Grace with a tale about hearing a noise or something.
The clothes were hanging in the closet, just as Mumsfield had said. And she'd been right about the shoes: Enna Jettick basic tie-up oxfords in shiny black leather. A dark green linen dress and black cardigan, and a set of used, clean, and expensive underwear of the non-sexy variety completed the outfit. She was immediately reminded of Uncle Will's forbidden Piedmont cigarettes hidden in the tool shed, just waiting for Aunt Mary to go to church so Uncle Will could go out to the shed and light up. These clothes had that same air of waiting at the ready. It can't be that, she whispered, it's too ridiculous. But what else could it mean? She'd seen it happen with other alcoholics she'd worked around. No matter how much booze they had at home, there were some drinkers who just had to be among their own, just like some people couldn't pray without going to church. And Emmeline was suddenly up and around and demanding more food. Logical behavior for someone gearing up to take a hike, although Blanche couldn't imagine where she expected to find drinking company out here in the country.
As she turned to leave the room, she realized there was something disturbed about the room, for one that got so little use. It felt full of secrets and comings and goings. She looked slowly around at the high old bed, the sheet-covered chairs, the heavy chest of drawers. One of the drawers wasn't quite closed. She pulled it toward her. It seemed abnormally heavy, until she saw the contents: five fifths of Seagram's gin snuggled in a green blanket like eggs in a nest. Close enough for Emmeline to fetch them herself. She left the guest room and went down the hall to Everett's room.
For a moment, she just stood before his closet with her arms folded across her chest. Her hopeful self told her that maybe Nate was mistaken. Some other man owned the pink jacket. She heaved a huge sigh and slid the closet door open.
It was actually more peach-colored, or salmon, much softer and more subtle than the cotton-candy color she'd been picturing. But to someone with no interest in the finer points of color, it was definitely a pink jacket. Like the azalea blossoms the night before, the jacket seemed to glow among the grays and tans that surrounded it. She stepped closer and reached for the right sleeve. It had creases around the lower part, where the sleeve had been rolled back. The left sleeve was the same. There was a small, stiff, dark red stain on the pale, satiny lining. One of the buttons had been pulled off with enough force to rip the fabric. She was struck by his arrogance, by the utter lack of concern that made it possible for him to keep a piece of evidence that could probably convict him. She searched the pockets. She told herself it was a waste of time and an unnecessary risk. What did she expect to find? The sheriff's badge? And what would she say if Everett walked in?
The jacket smelled faintly of a heavy, musty, very un-Grace-like perfume. She wondered if he'd had two reasons to go out last night. She shuddered at the idea of being made love to by a man with murder on his mind. There were bits of grit and gravel in the right-hand outside pocket. In the breast pocket her fingers touched something small, smooth, and cool. She held it up before her eyes with two fingers, careful not to drop it. It was a silver earring fastener for a pierced earring, the oblong kind with a hole through the middle. She looked at it, then put it back. She would have to pay particular attention the next time she saw Grace, but Blanche was already certain that Grace's ears weren't pierced. Not only is the man dangerous, she thought, he's careless. It might be that the only reason Grace didn't know about his affair was because she didn't want to know.
The phone was ringing when she reached the kitchen. “How about that sheriff bein' nice enough to put himself out of our misery?” Ardell said when Blanche picked up the receiver. “But before we get off on that subject, I got something serious to tell you, girl!” she added with some urgency. “I just come from Miz Minnie's. She told me she saw your mama and gave her some news for you. But Miz Minnie didn't tell her everything 'cause she didn't want Miz Cora to worry. You got to get out of there, girl!” Ardell sounded short of breath, as though she'd been running to get to the phone to call Blanche.
Blanche leaned so heavily against the kitchen counter, she could feel it cutting into her butt. Something in Ardell's voice told her she was going to need some support.
“That Everett was married to a woman named Jeannette first. But she died. Suicide. Least that's what they said in the papers and all. But you know the police don't press that crowd too hard. Miz Minnie said there was a lot of gossip about it in Atlanta, where it all happened. Some people said Jeannette and Everett weren't getting along too good, that he was running around on her, and that she was talking about divorcing him. She was the one with the money, so you know he didn't want to hear nothin' about no divorce!”
“How'd she die?” Blanche didn't like the tinny, tiny sound of her own voice, like a little kid afraid of the dark.
“She went out the window of the Central Plaza Hotel in Atlanta.”
“What was she doing there?”
“Nobody knows. The room was rented in a made-up name.”
Blanche suddenly longed for Everett not to be responsible for the death Ardell was telling her about, or for the one of which she herself suspected him. The more clear-cut his guilt, the more certain her own danger. She found herself arguing with Ardell, trying to make her news less awful.
“She could have rented the room because she wanted to jump out the window,” she told Ardell.
“Sure. But why register under a phony name? And there was no note.”
“Just because he mighta married the woman for her money don't necessarily mean he killed her. Maybe his stuff was so good it made her think she could fly!”
“This ain't no time for jokes, girl! We got to get you outta there!” Ardell scolded, then softened a bit. “But maybe you're right about the girlfriend. He had an alibi for the time she died. An alibi some folks said proved his story. Like it was impossible for him to be going with two women at once!”
“What kind of alibi? You mean Grace? She was with him when...Do you think she knows? Do you think she...” Blanche didn't want to finish the sentence, didn't want to contemplate the possibility of being in the house with two murderers. She lowered herself onto a chair.
“Seems like she don't want to know,” Ardell said. “Folks down in Atlanta felt sorry for Grace for being so in love with Everett that she can't see him for what he is.” Ardell paused for a moment.
“Well, she may be dumb and he may be a murderer, but at least the whole family ain't bad,” she told Blanche. “There's that lawyer cousin, Archibald Symington. The old lady didn't speak to him for years 'cause he was in the civil rights movement. He's the lawyer who tried the sheriff of Jefferson County for Klan activity back in the late sixties.”
Blanche was not impressed. “Yeah, but that was nearly thirty years ago. Now
he's in the kiss-Emmeline's-ass movement from what I can see.”
“So, what you gonna do, girlfriend?” Worry put a rasp in Ardell's voice. “Like I said, I could get a car and pick you up.”
Blanche hesitated a moment. “It ain't that simple, Ardell.” Blanche told her about the sheriff and Everett on the porch, about Everett going out in the limousine on the night the sheriff died, and about what Nate had had to say about it all. “How's it going to look if I walk outta here and they decide to call the police, say I stole something, maybe even claim the sheriff came out here to get me and that's the last time they saw him alive?”
“Oh, shit!” Ardell said.
“I'm not going to lose my head and do something stupid.” Blanche's announcement was addressed to herself as well as to Ardell.
“I can't fault your reasoning, but I sure wish you'd just get the hell out of there.”
“If I don't call you day after tomorrow, you call me,” Blanche told her friend. “And if someone else answers the phone, tell 'em you got to talk to me. Tell 'em it's an emergency. If you see my kids, give 'em a kiss for me. And Mama, too. Bye.”
Blanche continued to lean against the counter. Echoes of phrases from her conversation with Ardell bounced off the walls of her brain. I could die for this, she thought before she could stop herself. She knew it was stupid to scare herself, but she knew of too many innocent black people who'd gone to jail and never got out not to be afraid. “Criminal justice” was a term she found more apt than it was meant to be. She wondered whether Everett might be insane and decided all murderers were probably crazy, at least in the moment. But what about their supporters? Was the gossip that had gone around Atlanta about Grace true? Was she really so starry-eyed about Everett? How could she be? While Blanche couldn't answer all of her questions, she had some ideas about the last one. She'd participated in her share of relationships in which the main characters were the man she imagined her lover to be and herself. The actual man she was seeing was just the frame onto which she fitted the image of her dream man. And what a jolt it was to wake up one morning to find some sweating, needy, frightened flesh-and-blood man who acted as though he had some claim on her. In addition to the made-up-lover syndrome, which Blanche knew crossed class and color lines, Grace had grown up in the upper-class South during a time when there was no doubt pressure to produce a husband, even a tainted one.
Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery Page 12