An’gel had learned from Benjy that, depending on genetics, Labradoodles might not shed. Happily for her, Peanut was in that category.
“That’s what you say.” Sondra tossed her head. “I’d better not find a single dog hair on my dress, or you’ll have to pay to have it cleaned.” She paused for a breath and stared hard at Benjy. “Just who the heck are you anyway? You’re trespassing on private property, you know.”
“I’m not trespassing.” Benjy stared right back at Sondra. “I’m a guest, along with Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce.”
Sondra grimaced. “Oh, you’re their ward.”
An’gel marveled at how the girl managed to inject that one word with such venom.
“Yes, he is our ward, and your grandmother invited him.” An’gel spoke tersely. She was relieved that the girl appeared unharmed, but An’gel was annoyed with her behavior. “Tell us how the accident happened.”
Sondra responded to the tone of authority, though sullenly. “I was on my way into town, and I was coming down the driveway.”
“Way too fast,” Benjy said in an undertone, but An’gel heard him.
Sondra appeared not to have heard as she continued, “I saw these two”—she indicated Benjy and Peanut with a dismissive gesture—“and I thought they were trespassers. When I hit the brakes so I could stop and tell them to get off our property, nothing happened.” She shrugged. “I guess I panicked and drove into the tree. That was the only way to stop the car.”
An’gel exchanged another uneasy glance with Dickce. This was definitely odd. She was thankful, however, that Sondra had been close to home when the accident happened. Had she been on the highway and driving faster when she needed to stop, she could have been badly injured, if not killed.
“Let’s get you up to the house,” Dickce said briskly, taking Sondra’s arm. “We need to make sure you weren’t hurt. You may feel all right now, but later on you might not.”
To An’gel’s surprise, Sondra let Dickce lead her toward Willowbank. An’gel remained behind a moment with Benjy and Peanut.
When the others were out of earshot, Benjy said, “Don’t you think it’s weird about the brakes? A brand-new car like that, shouldn’t happen. But maybe she’s just a lousy driver.”
An’gel said, her tone grim, “I’m going to talk to Sondra’s mother. Sondra might be a bad driver. I certainly wouldn’t drive in heels like that.” She paused for a breath. “That car needs to be examined by an expert, however. If Sondra wasn’t at fault, I’m worried someone tampered with the brakes, hoping for a bad accident.”
“That’s sick.” Benjy shook his head. “Why would someone want to hurt her?” Peanut woofed, and An’gel thought how interesting it was that the dog always seemed to understand when Benjy was feeling tense or upset about something.
“Exactly what I want to know, although I’m hoping it was simply bad driving.” An’gel paused for a moment, deciding what to do. “I need to talk to Jacqueline. I’m going back to the cottage to change first, though.”
Peanut whimpered and tugged against his leash. Benjy laughed. “This guy’s got plenty of energy he needs to burn off. I’ll let him run around a bit, so we’ll be outside for a while.”
An’gel nodded then turned to head back to her cottage. Before she had gone a hundred feet, however, she heard Jacqueline call her name. Her goddaughter was running down the driveway toward her.
An’gel stopped and waited for Jacqueline to reach her. Jacqueline stared at the car for a moment while she breathed deeply. She closed her eyes, crossed herself, and mumbled a few words.
An’gel took her arm and led her closer to the vehicle.
“Oh, Maman, thank goodness,” Jacqueline said. An’gel thought that was odd, but she forbore to question it.
After a moment Jacqueline seemed to gather herself. “Thank you, Tante An’gel,” she said. “I’m okay now. Sondra drove the car home from the dealership yesterday, and everything was fine. How could this have happened?”
An’gel decided to be blunt. “Sondra was driving in very high heels. I think she might simply have lost control of the car. Benjy said she was driving too fast down the driveway.”
Jacqueline shook her head. “I know Sondra drives fast, but she’s been driving in heels since she got her license. I don’t think it was entirely her fault.”
Benjy and Peanut approached them, the dog straining at his leash to get to Jacqueline. Peanut loved meeting new people, and he wagged his tail as he sniffed at Jacqueline’s outstretched hand.
While her goddaughter greeted the dog, An’gel said, “I hate to say this, but if it wasn’t Sondra’s fault, I think it had to be deliberate. Someone tampered with the brakes. Maybe I have too suspicious a mind, but I’m worried that Sondra is being targeted.”
Jacqueline appeared startled, and she drew her hand back abruptly from stroking Peanut’s silken head. “That’s ridiculous. Why would someone try to harm my daughter?” Then she blanched and whispered, “Maman.”
“What about your mother?” An’gel said.
Jacqueline shook her head. “Nothing really, just that Maman will be upset over this.” She scratched her nose several times.
An’gel’s eyes narrowed as she regarded her goddaughter. The nose scratching was a dead giveaway. Jacqueline was lying to her, but why?
An’gel decided not to challenge her because Jacqueline was obviously upset. She focused on a practical matter instead. “I think you should have the car examined just to be sure.”
Jacqueline stared at her for a moment. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I’ll call the dealership. The car will have to be towed in for repairs anyway.” Without taking her leave of them, she turned and hurried back toward Willowbank.
“I hope it turns out to be just an accident,” Benjy said.
“I do, too,” An’gel replied. Though I’m afraid it won’t, she added in her mind. “Well, I’d better go get dressed.” She was suddenly conscious of standing there in her gown and robe.
“Yes, ma’am,” Benjy said. “We’ll be here until the tow truck gets here.”
Back in the cottage, all thought of a nap gone now, An’gel began to dress for dinner. While she completed her toilette, she thought about Sondra’s misadventure with the car.
If Sondra were a target for either severe injury or murder, An’gel reckoned, the motive had to be money. The girl could be exasperating beyond measure, but An’gel doubted anyone would kill her out of sheer irritation.
No, money lay at the root of it, she was convinced. Sondra, upon her marriage, would be an extremely wealthy young woman. An’gel didn’t know the exact figure, but she reckoned it must be well over fifty million, if not twice that. Sondra’s father, Terence Delevan, had been a shrewd businessman who inherited a decent amount of money and turned it into a massive one.
The question was, who got the money if Sondra died? An’gel had heard the terms of the will at some point, but now she struggled to recall them. That Sondra would inherit upon marriage or her twenty-fifth birthday, whichever came first, An’gel knew. She thought the money would then go to Sondra’s offspring when Sondra died. In this case, the child Tippy, whom An’gel had yet to meet.
If Tippy inherited before she became an adult, who controlled the money? Surely Terence Delevan had considered that possibility and stipulated the terms in the will. Perhaps Sondra’s husband?
An’gel grimaced at the thought of Lance Perigord in charge of the Delevan fortune. If there were no restrictions on his handling of the money, Lance would probably be penniless in less than a year, and Tippy would be left with nothing.
No, An’gel decided as she peered into the bathroom mirror to finish with her makeup, Terence had surely made provisions. He had been too good at making money to risk letting it be squandered quickly after his death. The likeliest answer was that Sondra’s executors would be e
ntrusted with Tippy’s inheritance. Sondra’s stepfather, Horace Mims Junior, and Terence’s closest friend, Richmond Thurston, were the chief trustees, as An’gel recalled.
A tap on her leg brought her out of her reverie. She glanced down to see Endora sitting at her feet. Endora meowed, and An’gel extended her hand to rub the cat’s head. Endora pushed against the hand and started to purr. An’gel rubbed a few moments longer, then informed Endora that she had other things to do. She felt foolish when she caught herself talking to the cat, or to Peanut for that matter, but she supposed most people with house pets must do the same.
Endora rubbed against her leg while An’gel peered into the mirror again to satisfy herself that her makeup was as impeccable as she could make it. “It’s a good thing I don’t have my stockings on yet,” An’gel muttered.
“Sister, where are you?” Dickce’s voice rang out in the living room. “Are you decent?”
“Yes, come in.” An’gel turned to await her sister’s entrance. Endora, hearing Dickce, trotted out to greet her. When Dickce came in the bedroom, the cat rode in her arms.
“How is Sondra?” An’gel asked.
“A little shaken up, once the reaction set in. Still able to fuss and carry on and give everyone a headache, though.” Dickce perched on the edge of the bed and eyed her sister critically. “I thought Mireille might have a conniption fit on the spot when she heard what happened. Jacqueline had to give her a shot of brandy to buck her up.”
“For all that shrinking violet bit she displays on occasion, Mireille has always been strong as a horse.” An’gel frowned. “I hope she isn’t having health problems she hasn’t shared with us.”
“A few sips of brandy put her right,” Dickce said. “Fortunately Estelle was busy elsewhere, or she would have had all of us on the edge of a nervous breakdown.”
“Mireille has enough stress at the moment without strange events like this adding to it,” An’gel said. “I’m afraid, Sister. I’ve got a feeling that something nasty is going on under the surface here.”
“I agree,” Dickce said. “I have a bad feeling about those brakes and why they failed.”
They stared at each other for a moment. An’gel couldn’t help remembering the events of a couple of months ago, when an old school friend turned up uninvited on their doorstep. Tragedy arrived with her, and An’gel didn’t care to go through anything like that again. She might not have a choice, she realized. She and Dickce would simply have to remain vigilant and do their best to guard against any further looming disasters.
CHAPTER 6
Dickce glanced around the twelve-foot-long Louis XV walnut dining table and did a quick count. Nine people. Isn’t that supposed to be unlucky, an odd number at the table? she wondered. No, it was thirteen at dinner, like in the Agatha Christie book, that was unlucky. She had a sip of her sweet iced tea and glanced at Benjy, seated to her left. He seemed a bit overwhelmed by the assembled company, and she didn’t blame him. With the exception of Mireille and Jacqueline, no one had made much of an effort to speak to him or make him feel welcome. The atmosphere in the room felt oppressive, and Dickce had little urge to talk herself.
From across the table, Lance kept gazing vacantly at Benjy and not paying much attention to Sondra on his right. Sondra, directly across from Dickce, appeared not to notice the older woman’s presence. Instead, Sondra, too, gazed at Benjy, but not vacantly. Predatorily, Dickce decided, and then wondered if that was an actual word. Poor Benjy.
At the head of the table, as befit her position as mistress of Willowbank, Mireille looked splendid in lilac silk. Dickce had always admired the pearl necklace and earrings Mireille wore. They had belonged to Mireille’s great-great-grandmother and were worth a fortune. Dickce didn’t think it was her imagination that Horace Mims, seated on Mireille’s right, kept gazing hungrily at the jewels. They would someday belong to Jacqueline, his wife, but Dickce had the oddest feeling Horace would like to have them in his fat, clammy hands right now.
To Mireille’s left sat Richmond Thurston, an old friend of Terence Delevan’s and a prominent attorney in St. Ignatiusville. He had been best man at Terence and Jacqueline’s wedding, and he was also Sondra’s godfather. Dickce thought him a fine figure of a man—tall, stately, with an imposing presence. His dark hair sprinkled liberally with gray, he had a beak of a nose that gave his face character. Unlike poor Horace, Dickce thought, who looked more like the Michelin Man or the Pillsbury Doughboy. What Jacqueline saw in him—other than his money—Dickce hadn’t a clue. Where Richmond Thurston was urbane and sophisticated, Horace Mims was provincial and crass. Dickce and An’gel had often wondered why Jacqueline hadn’t married Thurston. He wasn’t as rich as Horace, but he was far more attractive.
No accounting for taste, Dickce thought. She tuned back into the conversation—more like a monologue, she realized, as Horace appeared to be winding down a tedious story about some deal he had made and how he’d made mincemeat out of the other man.
“Guy was ready to lick my boots and thank me for the privilege by the time I got through with him,” Horace said with a nasty grin.
“You’re a hard man, Horace.” Thurston smiled. “Can’t tell you how happy I am we’re not in the same business.”
“Horace is such a hard worker,” Jacqueline said. “He’s always working on some new deal or other.”
Dickce thought she detected a note of complaint in Jacqueline’s voice. Perhaps Horace spent more time on his business than he did on his marriage. Dickce wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.
“That sure is the truth, darling.” Horace beamed across the table at his wife. “Takes every bit of money I earn selling cars to make sure you got everything you need. When you got a beautiful wife, you want to make sure and show her off to everybody.”
Jacqueline blushed and reached with a not quite steady hand for her wineglass. “Thank you, Horace. You’ve very sweet to say such things. But we should be talking about Sondra and what a beautiful bride she will be.”
“About time,” Sondra muttered.
Dickce glanced at the girl sharply, then at Jacqueline. She didn’t think Jacqueline had heard her daughter’s rude remark.
Lance continued to appear oblivious to the scene around him as he gazed across the table at Benjy. Benjy seemed fascinated with his food and was not paying attention to Lance. Dickce gave his arm a surreptitious pat, and he flashed her a grateful smile.
“Yes, Sondra will be the most beautiful bride St. Ignatiusville has ever seen—at least since her mother walked down the aisle with Terence Delevan twenty-three years ago.” Thurston bent forward slightly to look down the table at Sondra.
“The wedding will be lovely,” Mireille said. “I’m so pleased that Sondra has agreed to wear her great-great-grandmother’s dress and pearls for the ceremony. It has been a tradition for several generations of Champlain women, and it means so much to me that my lovely granddaughter will be a part of it on her wedding day.”
Dickce leaned forward slightly to see An’gel’s expression. Her sister was as surprised as she was over Sondra’s capitulation. Dickce wondered how on earth Mireille had prevailed in this, because Sondra had seemed determined not to wear the antique gown. She was surprised that An’gel didn’t ask right then and there.
Estelle bustled in at the end of Mireille’s remarks, with Jackson the butler trailing behind, both carrying trays. They started removing the first course, a delicious French onion soup, and worked swiftly and competently.
“As long as you’re happy, Grand-mère, that’s all that matters,” Sondra said, her expression mulish.
“There’s bad weather coming,” Estelle announced suddenly. “It’s going to be storming the night before the wedding, and that’s a bad omen.” She removed An’gel’s soup service and set it on the tray. “It’s bad luck for brides in St. Ignatiusville, and I am going to be praying that nothing terri
ble happens.”
“Estelle, I’d rather you didn’t talk about such superstitious nonsense.” Mireille sounded outraged, and Dickce was a bit surprised. She had never heard her cousin speak in that tone to the housekeeper.
“Ain’t superstition,” Estelle said as she set the tray on the table and glared at her employer. “You know as well as I do what happened to Melusine Devereux on the night before her wedding. Sondra never should have picked the same date as Melusine did. I told y’all it was courting disaster.” She shook her head. “And now there’s a storm coming, just like when Melusine was fixing to get married.”
“Estelle, that’s enough.” Mireille stood, her face contorted with anger. “If you utter one more word about that old wives’ tale, I swear I will throw you out of this house myself.”
Dickce didn’t like the thick air of tension that suddenly seemed to fill the room. She thought Estelle was not only rude, but stupid to talk like this in front of her employer’s family and guests. If Estelle had worked for her and An’gel, she would have been out the door years ago. Dickce and An’gel never could understand why Mireille had put up with the woman for so long.
Estelle seemed taken aback by Mireille’s threat. She picked up the tray with trembling hands and scurried out of the dining room, leaving Jackson to clear the rest of the table. The elderly butler shook his head and continued his work.
Mireille dropped abruptly into her chair. “You must all forgive me, and Estelle, too. I don’t know what brought that on. Please, pay no attention to that absurd idea of hers.”
Thurston reached over and clasped one of his hostess’s hands in his. “It’s a silly old story, and there’s probably no truth to it. Don’t let it upset you, my dear.” He laughed. “Everybody in St. Ignatiusville has probably heard that story, but no one believes it really happened.”
“Course not.” Horace Mims shook his head. “I been telling you for the past three years, Mama Mireille, you ought to get rid of that old witch. She’s a misery, and that’s the plain truth. I’ll tell her to get out of the house if you want me to.”
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