“I wouldn't let him stop the car until we got to Oman's Bluff. And, of course, I kept out of his reach. I had no intention of letting him put his disgusting hands on me!” Grace shivered delicately at the very idea. “I told him I wanted things to be just right. I leaned over and whispered all the things we'd do to each other once we got to Oman's Bluff. You should have seen him! He kept turning his head to look at me, as if he wanted to make sure I wouldn't disappear. His eyes reminded me of a child seeing its first Christmas tree. He kept licking his lips until they were all shiny.” Grace shuddered and paused.
Blanche braced herself for this account of exactly what Grace had done next, while in another part of her mind, she had yet to believe she was actually standing here listening to the details of murders told to her by the person who'd committed them.
“It was really quite simple.” Grace might have been describing how she'd contrived a particularly elegant flower arrangement. “When he began to climb into the back seat, I picked up the wrench from the seat beside me and...” She made a sideways swiping motion once, then twice more. Each stroke was accompanied by a deep, satisfied grunt. Blanche winced. She saw the sheriff slump, half his body hanging over the top of the front seat, like a doll tossed carelessly by a child. Grace's eyes gleamed.
“It's all gravel up there, you know, so I didn't have to worry about footprints. I simply drove the car to the edge, got out, and...” Grace made a long pushing gesture. Sinews stood out in her neck and arms as she pushed at the big car. But there was a great deal of strength in those arms, enough to cause the wheels of the car to turn slowly, the car to inch forward. Grace completed her pushing gesture with a breathy “Unhh.” Her lips were parted and seemed fuller; color enlivened her face.
“I don't believe you!” Blanche nearly shouted at Grace. “I think you're trying to protect Everett!”
“Him! That slug? Where would he get the courage?” Grace's voice was rising. “But he makes a perfect suspect, don't you think?” Her sly grin was back.
“So you put the sheriff's handcuffs in Everett's blanket chest.”
“You are a nosy one, aren't you? Not that it's going to do you any good.”
“I still don't believe you. Everett killed Nate and the sheriff.”
Blanche stirred Grace's irritation at having her exploits chalked up to Everett. She was even beyond responding to Blanche's use of his first name.
“Your friend Nate kept a very tidy place. Quite quaint, actually.”
Blanche's hands became fists. Her face and neck were suddenly hot. “Why did you kill him? He thought it was your husband he'd seen on the path to Oman's Bluff, not you. Isn't that what you planned?”
“Oman's Bluff?” Grace repeated, as though she'd never heard of the place. “It had nothing to do with Oman's Bluff. That jacket provides all the evidence the police will need that my husband killed the sheriff.
“It was that woman! How was I to know Nate would recognize her? They say you people always know one of your own, no matter how light-skinned. But she was so white...Of course, I should have thought..He'd been here so long.”
The idea that all black people recognized each other, no matter how diluted their African blood, appealed to Blanche, but she was proof it wasn't so. It certainly hadn't occurred to her that there was any ancestral connection between her and that old drunk.
“But how did you know he recognized her?”
Grace gave her a you're-not-going-to-believe-this look. “Missy, I know it ain't none a my business, and 'scuse me for sayin' it, but that man of yourn is gonna git you in a heap a trouble,” she said in a broad and ridiculing imitation of Nate.
The thought of Nate losing his life because he had tried to help Grace made Blanche tingle and smart as though all of her limbs had been asleep. “What did you do to him?” Her lips stung with rage.
“I dropped my handbag,” Grace told her. “Of course, he rushed to pick it up. He never saw the wrench in my other hand, in the fold of my skirt. The same wrench...When he bent down...” Grace giggled.
Blanche flinched from the possibility that Nate had lived long enough to know that he was about to die for trying to help someone who'd never seen him as anything but a dog's midwife. The thought of Nate's last moments sent Blanche moving toward Grace with a swift determination that momentarily paralyzed Grace. Her eyes widened, but she couldn't seem to move. When she finally gathered the presence of mind to take a step away from Blanche, it was too late.
The pain that shot up Blanche's arm as her knuckles made contact with Grace's lips and teeth was so satisfying it made her “Aah” with pleasure. But she had only a moment in which to savor it.
Although Blanche had struck her hard enough to rattle her teeth, Grace didn't stagger. No moan or scream passed her lips. She didn't bother to wipe the blood dripping down her cream-colored silk blouse.
Oh, shit! Blanche suddenly remembered old Miz Carter, who finally went all the way round the bend and took off all of her clothes in the main rotunda of the statehouse. Six attendants and a straitjacket were needed to get her in the ambulance, even though she was ninety years old and thin as a pencil. And Grace had more than the superhuman strength of the mad on her side.
She had the drawer open and the carving knife in hand before Blanche could fully register what was happening. In Grace's hand, that familiar cooking tool became something out of a barroom brawl—slim, curved, and mean-looking. The sight of it momentarily dissolved all of her courage. Blanche was running for the door by the time Grace raised the knife and roared like a wild and angry beast. Blanche flung a kitchen chair behind her as she raced for the swinging door. In the dining room she hurled another chair, blocking the door on both sides. Grace cursed as she stumbled over the first chair.
Blanche threw open the front door, then ran up the stairs. Grace bellowed as she ran to the front door. She held the knife in both hands, her arms extended as though the knife were a divining rod that would lead her to Blanche.
Blanche looked down the upstairs hall. The house slammed all its doors in her face. You can't hide in here, it told her. Grace had known the house since she was a child. All its secret spaces were open to her. And when she finds me, Blanche thought, and honored the urge to check her back.
Grace was walking slowly up the stairs. She smiled up at Blanche as though they were long-lost friends. She held the knife as though she knew just how to thrust and rip with it. Blanche was rooted to the spot, mesmerized by Grace's wide, wild eyes. Grace was nearly at the top of the stairs before Blanche turned and ran down the back stairs, out the back door, and into the woods.
The woods around the house were thick with underbrush. There were places where only a small animal could penetrate. Spiky green fingers ripped at Blanche's ankles and calves. She had no idea how far the woods went on, so she didn't want to lose sight of the house. She looked for a tree to climb but couldn't find one with low limbs. From the corner of her eye she saw Grace running out the back door.
Blanche fell to her knees behind a bush and tried to slow her breathing. Through a chink in the shrubbery she watched Grace jerk her head and upper body from side to side, slashing about with the knife and looking crazily around the yard. Her arms swung way out from her body as she snapped first one way and then the other like a mechanical toy gone haywire. Then she abruptly stopped her frantic movements and headed for the shed at the foot of the yard.
“Are you in there, bitch?” she shouted in a voice that could have belonged to a man, a big, mean man. Grace kicked the shed door open and flung herself inside. Blanche could hear her throwing things about, cursing and screaming, and laughing in a high, eerie way.
Blanche felt something akin to shame. First some pervert ran her out of New York, then the law ran her into this mess, and now she was running away from a crazy-assed white woman! It didn't feel right. It didn't feel right at all.
Grace came out of the shed and looked quickly from side to side. Blanche fought the instinct to run. Sh
e took a deep breath, relaxed, took another breath, and felt her heart begin to beat a little more slowly. She could see that Grace's face was deep pink, and only tearing at her hair could have made it stand out in those spiky clumps. The fear that had pounded through Blanche's body while she was running like a panicked beast, now quieted. She imagined she heard Grace's ragged breathing above the chirping and squawking of birds.
Grace stomped through Nate's cabbages to the edge of the woods on the other side of the yard, diagonally across from where Blanche was hiding. She began inching slowly sideways, parallel to the woods. She was moving in Blanche's direction. The knife blade shone white in the sunlight. Blanche couldn't see Grace's face, but she didn't need to. Grace's whole body, the slowness of her motions and the utter stillness of her pauses, spoke of looking for the movement that didn't fit, listening for the sound that didn't belong.
Running from her was not the answer. Blanche shifted her position until her damp knees were off the ground. She assumed a deep and surprisingly comfortable squat, legs spread and her butt balanced in between. She felt somehow strengthened. She breathed in deep drafts of the dirt-and-green-smelling woods and looked around for a stone. She found a large pine cone. She hefted it to make sure it was weighty enough. She rose slowly and aimed the pine cone to the right of Grace's back.
Grace spun in the direction of the cone cracking to the ground. She crouched low and weaved her upper body from side to side, like a snake scoping prey. “I see you! You can't hide from me!” She crashed into the woods in the area where the cone had fallen.
Blanche changed her hiding place. She was now standing somewhat deeper in the woods, surrounded by bushes and saplings. Grace continued to worry the spot where she'd heard the sound. Blanche began moving toward the shed. She moved as quietly as possible, although it wasn't necessary. She could hear Grace thrashing about. Every once in a while Grace bellowed Blanche's name, along with some other names—like “whore,” “nigger bitch,” and “black slut,” names Blanche had long ago learned had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the person from whose mouth they came. “She don't even pronounce them right,” Blanche whispered to herself.
Blanche slipped into the shed. Grace had made quite a mess. Shards of broken clay pots mingled with the spilled guts of a bag of peat moss in the middle of the floor. Blanche stepped over a long board, plant stakes, and assorted debris. She turned and picked up the board. It was about three feet long and three inches wide. She held it like a squared-off baseball bat. She went to the shed door and used the stick to push it as hard as she could, so that the door swung out and slammed against the side of the shed with a crash like a gunshot blast. She stepped to the side of the doorway and waited.
It didn't take long. Grace was there in seconds, snorting and grunting like a wild pig. Half-formed curses and nearly incoherent insults foamed out of her mouth. Blanche took a deep breath, widened her stance, and hefted the board in both hands. As Grace's right foot and head appeared through the doorway, Blanche pivoted her body and pictured Grace's head as a large baseball.
The blow sent Grace sprawling backward to lie spread-eagled on the ground in front of the shed. Her right shoe lay on its side just inside the door. The knife skittered off into the cabbages. Blanche stood in the doorway staring out and down at Grace. A slow, satisfied grin spread over Blanche's face. She'd never been sure that talking back to her employers, and using their front rooms and first names, was enough to protect her against Darkies' Disease. It could be picked up like a virus, and her concern for Mumsfield had seemed like a symptom. But Grace's body lying unconscious on the ground was proof enough of her own mental health.
She stepped over Grace's legs and gingerly felt for a pulse in the woman's throat. Grace's skin was cool and clammy. Her pulse was strong. Blanche sank down on the shed step, next to Grace's feet, and balanced the board across her knees. She watched as the bruises below Grace's eyes became two glorious shiners and the tissues around her nose began to swell. Broken, Blanche diagnosed. Something to remember Nate by, she told Grace's unconscious body.
THIRTEEN
Blanche was still sitting on the shed stoop with a faint grin on her face when Archibald's car zoomed up the drive and screeched to a halt.
“Out here!” she shouted when she heard feet running toward the house.
Archibald hurried down the yard and knelt beside Grace. He picked up her wrist and lifted her eyelid as though he'd been trained as a doctor instead of a lawyer. Mumsfield came and stood close to Blanche and took her hand. His eyes seemed to be asking her something, but Blanche's mind wasn't moving fast enough to catch the question.
“What's happened here?” Archibald demanded once he'd felt Grace's pulse.
“Did you bring that letter? Did you read it?” Blanche asked him.
“What's happened here, I said!”
“She fell,” Blanche told him. Until he read that letter, she wasn't going to say anything.
Archibald looked from Blanche to the board across her knees but didn't comment. He don't want to know any more than I want to tell him, Blanche realized.
“Where is Cousin Emmeline?” Archibald's tone was an accusation.
“Do you really want to talk about that now?” Blanche asked him.
Archibald looked from Blanche to Mumsfield, who was staring down at Grace with a look of shock and confusion on his face. “Perhaps you're right.” He turned his full attention to reviving Grace, who was beginning to stir.
Mumsfield moved closer to Blanche's side. She could feel the heat from his body. “You need to read that letter,” she told Archibald.
Grace groaned. Archibald leaned down to help her to her feet. They were like two drunken dancers. Each time he tried to help her up, Grace's weight pulled him off-balance.
“Give me a hand!” Archibald called out. Blanche snorted. Mumsfield held Blanche's hand a little tighter. Neither of them moved.
Archibald circled behind Grace, put his arms under her armpits, and heaved. Weaving and slipping sideways, Archibald finally hoisted Grace onto her feet. She was rocky, but she was upright. Her eyes were mere slits in puffy purple flesh. She looked around with a puzzled air, as though trying to figure out where she was and how she had gotten there. Her knees continued to buckle. She clutched Archibald for support. Blanche was delighted. If the sounds Grace was making were any indication, she was feeling as bad as she looked. Blanche felt new energy flow through her limbs at the sight of her handiwork.
Grace steadied herself with Archibald's help and peered at Blanche. “She...she...” Grace looked beseechingly up at Archibald and pointed at Blanche. Grace's face was stormy and indignant. “She...she...” Grace tried again, seeming more and more agitated. Then, without warning, her eyes glazed over as though she'd packed herself up and gone away, leaving her body behind. She shuffled docilely toward the back door, leaning heavily on Archibald's arm.
Blanche told Mumsfield to wait in the kitchen. She followed Archibald and Grace into the living room. Archibald settled Grace on the sofa and went to the hall phone. Blanche kept a skeptical eye on Grace. She seemed passive enough, but there was a glint in the back of her eyes when she looked at Blanche that made Blanche wonder how much of her zombie act was just that. Blanche could hear the urgency in Archibald's voice as he gave orders for a doctor and an ambulance. When he hung up the receiver, Blanche went to speak to him. “Have you read the letter yet?”
“I don't know what you're talking about. What's been going on here?”
It was exactly the situation she'd most feared. There was no letter. The look-alike had run off. Everett was dead in a ravine somewhere and Grace was too crackers, or wily, to talk or be held responsible for what she'd done. And guess who was left holding the bag?
“I'd better call the sheriff,” Archibald announced.
“Grace killed Nate and the sheriff.”
“Now, you look here, you...”
Blanche cut him off. “You let an imposter sign
Emmeline's will, and you'd better check the cellar in the house in town before you call anybody.”
Archibald stared at Blanche but he didn't interrupt her while she told him all that she knew and guessed. The doctor Archibald had called arrived in an unmarked van with two orderlies. Mumsfield came to the living room when he heard the doorbell. He seemed both repelled and fascinated by the doctor's probing and pressing of Grace's nose and face and her whimpers of pain. He took a few steps into the living room, fear and confusion etching age into his face. Blanche led him back to the kitchen.
Archibald went to the kitchen, once Grace had been taken away—to someplace private, Blanche was sure. His skin was gray and dry, as though someone had recently relieved him of a large quantity of blood.
“Please stay with the boy until I return,” he said to Blanche. He turned and left the room before either she or Mumsfield could speak. Blanche motioned for Mumsfield to stay put and be quiet. She waited until Archibald had had enough time to clear the pantry and the dining room, then followed him.
Archibald went straight to the phone in the hall and made a call that Blanche did her damnedest to overhear. She heard enough to know that it was the wife of the attorney general to whom he spoke and addressed as “Cousin Julia.” Blanche supposed this was less illegal than speaking to the attorney general, should “the whole unfortunate matter,” as Archibald described it, ever come to light. Which he, of course, was committed to avoiding at all costs. He then described how the family could and should cover up any and all crimes. And they say there are some things money can't buy! Blanche thought Archibald left the house by the front door. Blanche went back to the kitchen.
She sank heavily onto a kitchen chair, propped her elbows on the table, and buried her face in her hands. She needed to think. She felt as though pieces of her were scattered around the place. She wished Mumsfield would go away, but she sensed that he needed her company. She closed her eyes and heard rather than saw Mumsfield fetching glasses and the pitcher of lemonade. He sat in the chair directly across from her. They were both quiet for a moment.
Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery Page 18