Claws for Concern

by Miranda James

  Helen Louise Brady, owner of the best French bistro south of Memphis, was my best friend and also my girlfriend. Some might consider the word girlfriend old-fashioned, but I was an old-fashioned kind of guy in many respects, including romantic relationships.

  “Now that she’s cut back her hours at the bistro,” Laura said, “you at least have more time to talk, instead of only late at night after the bistro’s closed or when you go in there for a meal.”

  “You’d think so.” I tried not to sound irritable. “But Helen Louise is having a harder time letting go of some of the responsibility than she expected.”

  “I thought she had worked everything out,” Azalea said. “Isn’t that young man been working there doing good as a baker?”

  “Henry?” I said. “Yes, he’s doing fine, but I think he’s getting a bit exasperated with Helen Louise. She tends to hover and hang around later than she says she will.”

  “She’s put so much of her life into that place,” Laura said as baby Charlie emitted a burp. She and I exchanged smiles.

  Azalea took Charlie from Laura and rocked him gently in her arms. She crooned a lullaby to him, her voice low, while she carried him out of the kitchen into the living room. One part of the room looked like a nursery, with a crib and various baby paraphernalia gathered around it. The living room was close enough to the kitchen for Azalea to be able to hear Charlie in case he needed her and quiet enough for the baby to sleep without being disturbed by her activities.

  “As I was saying,” Laura continued, “she’s invested everything—heart, soul, and pocketbook—in the bistro. I can understand why she’s reluctant to let anyone else take charge of her baby.”

  “I know, and I agree,” I said. “The problem is, Henry is a more than capable manager, and he’s got Debbie and that new girl, Tina, to help him. Plus, Henry is extremely talented in the kitchen. I know he’s getting a little frustrated, though, and I’m afraid Helen Louise is going to lose him if she doesn’t step back the way she promised.”

  “Have you discussed this with her?” Laura asked. “Does she know Henry is unhappy?”

  “Sort of, and yes,” I said.

  “Sort of discussed it, and yes she knows Henry is unhappy,” Laura said. “Is that what you mean?”

  I nodded. “I’ve tried to talk to her about the situation, but she basically brushes me off. I haven’t pushed her because I know this is difficult for her.”

  “Sometimes you have to push anyway.” Laura shook a finger at me. “You don’t like confrontation. That’s what’s holding you back. If you don’t push, and she keeps hedging, nothing is going to get resolved.”

  “No, I don’t like it.” I sighed. “But you’re right. It’s probably time to force the issue. Otherwise Henry might end up leaving. He has a bit of a temper.”

  “Many creative people do.” Laura smiled. “I certainly do.”

  In a dry tone I responded, “I remember many occasions when you had a bit of a temper. Like the whole time you were a teenager.”

  She stuck out her tongue at me, then grinned. “I really could be a brat, couldn’t I?”

  “I plead the Fifth,” I said. “You’ll get your turn. Just wait until that little imp in the living room hits thirteen.”

  “That angel child, you mean?” Laura shook her head. “No, not my boy.”

  “Let’s revisit this conversation in thirteen years,” I said.

  Laura giggled as she pushed her chair back. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I would love to stay and talk more, Dad, but I really need to get to the grocery store and do a few other things before I come back to pick up Charlie. Lord bless Azalea, I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  “She’d have a fit if you let anyone else look after him,” I said. “Besides me, that is.”

  Laura kissed my cheek before she grabbed her purse and headed for the front door.

  I sat, savoring the quiet for a moment, and then I realized it was too quiet. I hadn’t heard a chirp or a warble or a meow out of Diesel during the conversation with Laura. Normally he would have followed her to the door but when I checked, he wasn’t even in the kitchen.

  I knew where he probably was, however. Whenever Azalea or I had charge of baby Charlie, Diesel stayed somewhere near the infant when at all possible. He must have left the room with Azalea, and I hadn’t noticed it. When I tiptoed into the living room, I found Azalea asleep in the rocking chair by the crib. Diesel lay stretched out beneath the crib, snoozing. Baby Charlie slept soundly as well. I tiptoed back out and retraced my steps to the kitchen.

  The water had quenched my immediate thirst, and now I craved caffeine. I found a pitcher of tea in the fridge and poured myself a glass. Nobody made better sweet tea than Azalea, but because of the sugar content I rationed myself to no more than one glass a day. Between Azalea’s Southern soul food and Helen Louise’s haute cuisine, I found myself battling the bulge more than ever.

  Well, at least I won’t die hungry, I told myself. Nevertheless, I resolved to go up and down the stairs a few extra times a day.

  I resumed my place at the table and picked up the letter from Jack Pemberton. I read it more slowly this time, and as I did, the name of a person Pemberton mentioned as a reference jumped out at me. Ernestine Carpenter. Apparently she was a retired schoolteacher in the Tullahoma area, and must be a person of good character. Otherwise, why would Pemberton mention her?

  Ernestine Carpenter. For some reason, the name rang a bell. I knew I had heard it somewhere, in the not-too-distant past, but where? On what occasion?

  I tried to dredge up the memory while I sipped at my tea, savoring the taste and the coldness. My memory stubbornly refused to cooperate, though, and I decided I’d do better to occupy my thoughts otherwise.

  Idly I pulled out my phone and tapped the icon for my e-mail. I usually didn’t read messages on my phone, preferring my laptop for the task. At the moment, despite my pledge to get more exercise, I felt too indolent to haul my carcass up and down the hall to the den where my laptop lived most of the time.

  Other than a few friends from my many years in Houston, I had few e-mail correspondents. I spent more time deleting unwanted messages than I did reading anything I actually wanted to see. I purged several messages before I got to one from a dear friend here in Athena, Miss An’gel Ducote.

  Miss An’gel and her younger sister, Miss Dickce, were the two grande dames of Athena society. Their family were among the founders of the town, and Ducotes had been leading citizens ever since. The sisters, in their early eighties, were the last of the direct line, however. They had recently taken a young man from California named Benjy Stephens, a connection of an old friend of theirs, as their ward, however, and speculation was rife around town that he would one day inherit the Ducote millions.

  Miss An’gel, after observing the niceties, got right to the point in her message.

  Sister and I would be delighted if you and Helen Louise could join us for tea on Sunday afternoon. A dear friend will be visiting, and you really should meet her. You have something in common, but I won’t tell you what until after you’ve met. Don’t forget to bring Diesel! Shall we say three p.m.?

  I had no plans for Sunday afternoon but knew I would have to check with Helen Louise. She wasn’t supposed to be at the bistro then, but I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t decide that something there needed her attention.

  As I was about to reply to Miss An’gel, I received a notice that I had a new message. From Miss An’gel, no less.

  Forgive my lapse, Charlie, but I forgot to tell you our dear friend’s name. Miss Ernestine Carpenter. She’s looking forward to meeting you.

  Mystery solved, I thought. I remembered now that Miss An’gel or Miss Dickce had mentioned the woman in a recent conversation, though I couldn’t quite recall the context.

  The Ducote sisters knew Miss Carpenter, and
Miss Carpenter knew Jack Pemberton. Curiouser and curiouser. At least I would be able to meet Miss Carpenter and find out directly what she knew about Jack Pemberton and maybe even why he was so keen to write a book about my experiences.

  I replied to Miss An’gel and told her we would be delighted to join her, her sister, and their guest for tea on Sunday afternoon. I assured her Diesel would be with us.

  That accomplished, I put my phone down and had a few more sips of tea while I contemplated a call to Helen Louise. I had a feeling she might not be happy that I had accepted an invitation for the both of us without consulting her first, but I figured this was as good a time as any to confront her about really committing to her decision to cut back on work.

  After a few more sips of tea, I picked up the phone and called her.

  THREE

  To my surprise—and relief—Helen Louise didn’t sound at all annoyed with me for accepting Miss An’gel’s invitation to tea on Sunday without consulting her. She brushed aside my apology.

  “No, I don’t mind, honey, in this instance,” Helen Louise said. “It will be a pleasure to see Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce and to meet their friend. Now, what shall we have for Sunday dinner? Is everyone planning to be there?”

  Okay, so no confrontation at the moment. It could wait. I felt a bit cowardly, but after all, it would probably be best to have that conversation when we were face-to-face and not over the phone.

  “Far as I know,” I said. Everyone meant—besides Helen Louise, Diesel, and me—my two children, their spouses, my grandson, and my two lodgers, Stewart Delacorte and his partner, Haskell Bates.

  “Alex must be about ready to pop,” Helen Louise said, referring to my son Sean’s wife, who was nearing the end of her pregnancy. “I know she’ll be happy to have that baby out.”

  “Yes, poor girl, I think she’s pretty miserable,” I said. “Ever since her doctor told her she needed to stay home and off her feet these last few weeks, she hasn’t been happy not being able to go into the office.” Alex, like my son, was an attorney, and they shared a practice with Alex’s father, a near-legendary figure in Athena.

  “She and Sean will be even busier when the baby arrives,” Helen Louise said. “They still haven’t given any hints as to what it will be?”

  “Not a single one,” I said. “I don’t think they actually know. I think Sean only pretends to know so he can tease me.”

  Helen Louise chuckled. “Yes, he would do that.”

  “As long as the baby’s healthy,” I said, “I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

  “I have a feeling we’re going to know pretty soon,” Helen Louise said. “Now, about the menu. Here’s what I was thinking.”

  We spent the next several minutes discussing food choices. Helen Louise insisted on preparing the meal herself—with help from her two assistants, namely Diesel and me. Once we had the menu fully planned, we said good-bye. Helen Louise had to get back to work.

  After I put my phone down, I sat and listened for a moment. The house was quiet as I walked softly back to the living room to check on its occupants. Azalea, Diesel, and baby Charlie still slept. As long as everyone was resting, I thought I might as well have a brief nap before dinner. I made my way up the stairs to my bedroom. Shoes off, I stretched out on the bed. After a few minutes I drifted off to sleep.

  When I awoke about an hour later I discovered that I had a large, furry companion in bed with me. Diesel lay lengthwise alongside me, his head on his pillow, his body facing me. As I shifted in the bed to turn toward him, his eyes opened. He yawned and stretched before he meowed a couple of times. I stroked his head for a moment, and he began to purr, making the deep, rumbling sound that was the reason for his name.

  I checked the time on the beautiful watch Helen Louise had given me last month for my birthday and was not surprised to see that it was nearly five thirty. I rubbed Diesel’s head a few more times before I told him it was time to get up. He chirped as if to disagree.

  “No, no arguing, we’d better get up.” I turned to sit up on the side of the bed. After a yawn and a stretch, I went into the bathroom to splash water on my face and comb my hair. When I returned to the bedroom Diesel sat by the door into the hall, ready to accompany me.

  I could hear Azalea singing one of her favorite hymns, “In the Garden,” as we neared the kitchen. Listening to her brought back memories of my childhood, going to church with my parents, attending gospel singing events. I felt a wave of nostalgia for my parents and that bygone time. I wished my parents could have lived to see their great-grandchildren, but they had been gone more than twenty years now.

  Azalea broke off singing when Diesel and I entered the kitchen. She rarely sang when I was in the room with her, unless it was to baby Charlie.

  “That was lovely,” I told her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Miss Laura came and got baby Charlie a few minutes ago.” She gestured to the oven. “Your dinner’s about ready. Chicken and rice casserole. Give it about ten more minutes.” She looked down at Diesel. The cat had come to a stop near her and stared hopefully up at her. She wagged a finger at him. “You can’t have any, Mr. Cat. There’s onions in it, and they’re not good for you.”

  Diesel uttered a plaintive meow.

  “No use complaining to me, Mr. Cat,” Azalea said. “Next week I’ll make something with chicken and no onions. No garlic, either. Then you’ll be able to have some. Okay?”

  Diesel warbled happily, and Azalea let a smile hover briefly on her lips. She turned to me. “You got this cat spoiled worse than any child, Mr. Charlie.”

  “I didn’t do it all by myself,” I said. Azalea had not taken to my cat when I first brought him home. Eventually, however, Diesel wore down her resistance, and I often caught her talking to him when she thought no one could hear her. She also slipped him tidbits from the stove, and I pretended not to notice, most of the time.

  Azalea ignored my comment. She pointed to my phone. I had left it on the table when I went upstairs. “That was making noise a few minutes ago.”

  “Thanks.” I picked up the phone and checked the screen. I had missed a call from Teresa Farmer. I listened to her brief message, asking me to return her call at my earliest convenience. She sounded a bit harried, so I called her right away.

  “Hi, Teresa, this is Charlie,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, Charlie, thank you for getting back to me so quickly,” Teresa said. “Look, I hate to ask you this, but I’m in a bind over staffing tomorrow. Lizzie has come down with some kind of virus and went home sick about twenty minutes ago. I don’t think she’ll be able to come in tomorrow, and I have to be in Jackson tomorrow for my cousin’s wedding. I’m one of the bridesmaids, and I’d hate to let her down at the last minute.”

  Lizzie Hayes was one of the full-time staff, along with Teresa and Bronwyn Forster. All three were librarians. The other workers were all part-time. Having two full-timers out at the same time made staffing difficult.

  “Would you like me to come in and help out?” I said. “I’d be happy to. I don’t have anything special planned for tomorrow, so it’s not a problem.”

  Her relief was obvious when Teresa replied, “Thank you, Charlie. I hate to impose, but I’d feel so much better if you could be there with Bronwyn. Saturdays can be so hectic in the summer. I know she’ll appreciate it, too.”

  “I remember all too well how Saturdays can be,” I said, recalling my own days as a public library branch manager in Houston. “Diesel and I will report for duty at nine tomorrow morning.”

  After expressing her gratitude at least three more times, Teresa ended the call. I set aside the phone. “Looks like we’ll be working at the library with Bronwyn tomorrow, boy,” I told Diesel. He chirped in response. He knew he could count on Bronwyn for attention when the patrons weren’t claiming it.

  Azalea bade us good
night, after reminding me to keep an eye on the casserole. I stood near the oven to make sure I didn’t wander away and get distracted. I didn’t dare let Azalea’s food burn.

  Diesel loped off to the utility room, and I heard him scratching around in his litter box. He rejoined me in the kitchen moments after I opened the oven door to take out the casserole. I sniffed appreciatively at the delicious odor, and Diesel did the same. He meowed again, but I told him firmly that he couldn’t have any as I set the dish on a large trivet on the table.

  I foraged in the fridge and found some bits of chicken that Azalea had probably set aside just for Diesel. I warmed them in the microwave while I took out the makings for a salad. A few minutes later both cat and human were happily eating their dinners.

  I spent many Friday evenings on my own—with Diesel, of course—because Friday evening was a busy time at the bistro. Stewart and Haskell occasionally joined me, but this particular evening, they were in Memphis visiting friends for the weekend.

  During the meal, aside from occasional remarks in response to more muttering from Diesel, I thought about the letter from Jack Pemberton. I didn’t want to respond until I had a chance to talk in person with his reference, Miss Carpenter. I also wanted to discuss the subject with Helen Louise, but that would have to wait until Sunday.

  I hadn’t sought the limelight in the aftermath of the various murder investigations I’d been party to, and luckily for me the local paper hadn’t played up my role—for the most part—outrageously. I was happy for Kanesha to get the credit. After all, she was the professional. I was content with being an advisor of a sort.

  As I continued to think about the idea of a book about my experiences, I felt increasingly uneasy. I suspected that, were I to cooperate and give the writer full details of my sleuthing activities, I would end up regretting it. I didn’t want strangers nosing around in my life.

  Struck by the irony of that all of a sudden, I had to laugh. I had certainly nosed around in the lives of other people the past few years. Had karma decided this book project would be my comeuppance for playing amateur detective when I probably should have been minding my own business instead?