1 Bless Her Dead Little Heart Page 3

  “Good evening, sir,” An’gel said, her tone polite but not welcoming. “Do I take it you are Rosabelle Sultan’s son, Wade Thurmond?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.” Thurmond’s expression turned mulish. “I take it you’re the other Ducote sister. Well, I’m not intending to barge in on anybody, but me and my family are worried about my mother. She ran off, like I was telling your sister here, and we figured she came to see the two of you.”

  Before An’gel could respond, Rosabelle yelled, “Hold on a minute,” from a point behind Dickce. Both sisters turned to see their guest coming down the stairs at a fast pace, her expression stormy.

  By the time Rosabelle reached the front door, her bony chest heaved from exertion, and Dickce motioned for An’gel to move out of the way to give Rosabelle plenty of room to confront her son.

  “What in the blue blazes are you doing here? Didn’t you read my note?”

  Thurmond hung his head but cut a sideways glance at his parent. “Aw, now, Mama, we read your note, but what did you think we were going to do? Just let you ride off into the sunset and not try to find you? Besides, saying that one of us was trying to kill you is out-and-out nuts.”

  Rosabelle snorted. “It is not nuts. One of you put poison in my food the other night, and I’d be willing to bet it was that white-trash woman you got yourself married to.”

  Thurmond’s head snapped back, and his expression turned ugly. “Now, you listen here, Mama; you stop that talk about Marla. All she’s ever done is be good to you, and you’re always putting her down.”

  “If that’s what you think, son, then you’re even dumber than I realized. Marla doesn’t care about anybody but Marla, and you’re too old not to have figured that out by now.” Rosabelle’s face turned so red that Dickce feared she might stroke out right there on the veranda.

  “That is quite enough from the both of you,” An’gel’s voice rang out, and mother and son flinched, then she turned to glare at the elder sister. “This appalling behavior has to stop, right this minute, or I will be forced to call the sheriff and have him come take charge of the situation.”

  Dickce knew this mood of her sister’s, and if Rosabelle and Thurmond had any sense, they would shut right up. An’gel never threatened idly, and Rosabelle ought to remember that from their sorority days.

  Either Rosabelle didn’t remember or didn’t care to because she turned back to her son and spoke again. “Don’t think I’m going to pack up and go back to California with you. I am staying right here while An’gel and Dickce help me figure out who’s trying to kill me.”

  Thurmond’s short, heavyset wife had left the car and was making her way onto the veranda. “Wade, I’m tired of sitting in that car, and I need to use the bathroom.” Without waiting for a response from Thurmond or any kind of invitation from Dickce or An’gel, she brushed past her husband and into the house. “Where’s the toilet?”

  “You see the kind of uncouth behavior I have had to put up with for the past thirteen years?” Rosabelle’s fists clenched at her sides. “This is what happens when your son marries trash from the wrong side of the tracks.”

  Thurmond’s wife appeared to take no notice of her mother-in-law. She stared at An’gel and Dickce. “Well, isn’t one of you going to show me, or do I have to go find it myself?”

  At the barest nod from An’gel, Dickce stepped forward. “Allow me, Mrs. Thurmond.” She was tempted to take the woman up to the third floor, to the bathroom the farthest away from the front door, but decided she shouldn’t behave as badly as this latest visitor to Riverhill. Instead she headed down the hall to the downstairs powder room near the kitchen.

  When they were near enough, Dickce gestured to the door, and Mrs. Thurmond barely nodded before she disappeared into the bathroom.

  Dickce turned and walked back toward the front of the house. As she approached the others, she heard Rosabelle tell her son, “You might as well stay. I’m sure An’gel and Dickce have a lot of questions for you.” Rosabelle headed for the stairs. “I’m going back to my room to try and get in a little nap before dinner.”

  Dickce stopped in her tracks and stared aghast at her sister. Had Rosabelle really just invited her son and daughter-in-law to stay with her and An’gel? Surely An’gel would put her foot down now and throw them all out of the house. Dickce couldn’t wait to see it.

  Wade Thurmond gazed at his prospective hostess. “That would be mighty kind of you, Miss Ducote. What with the expense of flying here and the rental car, well, I’m kinda tapped out.”

  An’gel glanced at Dickce, her expression enigmatic. Dickce knew her sister could occasionally be unpredictable, and she figured this was going to be one of those times.

  “My sister and I will be happy to put you up for a few days,” An’gel said. Dickce thought her sister’s tone sounded anything but welcoming, despite her words.

  Thurmond didn’t appear to notice. A relieved smile crossed his face. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll go get our bags and be right back. Is it okay if I leave the car where it is?”

  An’gel nodded.

  Dickce waited until Thurmond reached the car before she poked her sister’s arm. “What on earth are you doing, letting them stay here? Why don’t you throw them all out?”

  “Stop hissing at me, Sister.” An’gel smiled grimly. “That was my first impulse, but then I thought it might be better to have them here where we can watch them. I know Rosabelle is prone to overdramatize herself, but I think for once she’s telling us the truth. She’s frightened, and we can’t simply ignore a plea for help.” She paused for a breath. “I’d never forgive myself if I sent them packing and Rosabelle ended up dead at the hands of a family member.”

  An’gel was in one of her noblesse oblige moods, and Dickce knew better than to argue with her. Besides, she had the sinking feeling that her sibling was right. Rosabelle did seem afraid. “If you say so,” she muttered. Maybe all that time she and An’gel had spent reading Nancy Drew in their younger years would finally pay off.

  “Excuse me.” Marla Thurmond spoke from behind Dickce. “I see Wade’s got our bags, so I guess you’re going to put us up here. I hope the room is clean, because I have terrible allergies.”

  Dickce felt like slapping her for such rudeness. She eyed Mrs. Thurmond and decided that a woman with a face like a petulant bulldog simply didn’t know any better.

  An’gel stared at Mrs. Thurmond. “What a horrible burden for you.” She paused. “If you find you need medication, I’m sure the pharmacy in town will be happy to help you.”

  Dickce smothered a giggle at Mrs. Thurmond’s uncertain expression. The woman obviously didn’t know how to interpret An’gel’s reply.

  Wade Thurmond clumped onto the veranda, weighed down by a bag strapped over one shoulder, a large suitcase in each hand, and a smaller bag tucked under one arm.

  When Marla Thurmond made no move to assist her husband, Dickce offered to take the smaller bag.

  “This way.” An’gel headed for the stairs, and Marla Thurmond with her short, stubby legs hurried to keep pace with her hostess. Dickce and Wade Thurmond followed more slowly. Dickce wondered which room An’gel would allot to the Thurmonds. Rosabelle already occupied the most spacious one, and of the two remaining, the room on the third floor—really part of the attic—was barely large enough to accommodate a double bed, dresser, and one chair. An’gel was just ornery enough to put the Thurmonds in that one, Dickce knew, and she was tickled when An’gel marched across the landing on the second floor and headed up the attic stairs.

  An’gel opened the bedroom door and stepped aside to allow the Thurmonds to enter, then she and Dickce stood in the doorway. Thurmond dropped the bags—on a rug, Dickce was happy to note, and not on the bare hardwood floor. She stepped in to set her burden down beside them while Mrs. Thurmond stared around the small room, sniffing loudly.

  “It smells o
kay, but why did you put us all the way up here?” Marla Thurmond glared at An’gel.

  “I thought you might prefer to have your own bathroom.” An’gel gestured toward a door near the dresser. “Otherwise you would have to share one downstairs.”

  “That sounds just fine to me.” Wade Thurmond glanced at his wife. “Don’t you think so, honey?”

  “It will do,” Marla replied.

  “I hope you will be comfortable here, Mrs. Thurmond,” An’gel said, her tone mild.

  “Not Thurmond.” The woman stared hard at An’gel. “I don’t use my married name because of my career. My name is Stephens.”

  “I will endeavor to remember that, Ms. Stephens.” An’gel turned to leave. “If you need anything, please let either my sister or me know.” She departed.

  Dickce lingered a moment, her curiosity piqued. “What is your profession, if you don’t mind my asking, Ms. Stephens?”

  “Personnel management or human relations, whatever you want to call it.”

  Dickce wanted to laugh at the thought of this rude, clueless woman working in human relations. How did she manage to keep a job with her lack of manners?

  “I see, how interesting,” Dickce said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go check on preparations for dinner. We’ll be dining at seven thirty.”

  Dickce pulled the door shut behind her before either of the couple could engage her in further conversation. She headed down the stairs and was halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  Again.

  CHAPTER 4

  “I did not just hear the doorbell,” Dickce muttered as she neared the kitchen. “But if I did, it’s An’gel’s turn to answer it.”

  “Are you talking to yourself again?” An’gel’s tart tone stopped her sister three steps into the room.

  “I do enjoy intelligent conversation,” Dickce said, “so I suppose I must have been.” She crossed her arms and stared at her sister.

  Diesel sat at An’gel’s feet, too entranced by the piece of chicken breast his hostess held to pay attention to the new arrival. He chirped and extended a paw to tap An’gel’s hand.

  “The poor boy has been hiding in here,” An’gel said as she tore off another bite and dropped it for the cat. Diesel snapped it up before it could hit the floor. “I thought he deserved a treat. I certainly can’t blame him for wanting to hide from our visitors.”

  “If I hide in here, will you feed me, too?” Dickce giggled. “Maybe Diesel and I will move into the kitchen until they’re gone.”

  Diesel batted at An’gel’s hand again, for she was obviously too slow in dispensing his treat. An’gel gazed down at him, her expression stern. “Now, would a true gentleman behave that way?”

  The cat warbled and tapped An’gel’s foot with his paw.

  “I think he just apologized,” Dickce said, trying hard not to laugh.

  “I’ll take it as such.” An’gel brandished another bite of chicken. “This is it.”

  Diesel waited silently, and after a moment An’gel gave him the last piece. He made it disappear almost immediately and then began to purr.

  An’gel moved to the sink to wash her hands. As she rinsed them, she said, “Didn’t I hear the doorbell?”

  Dickce nodded as a second soft peal of chimes reached them. “I decided it was your turn to answer it.”

  “Honestly, Sister.” An’gel shook her head. She finished drying her hands and dropped the cloth on the counter. “One would think you were ten years old sometimes instead of almost eighty.” She headed out of the kitchen as Clementine emerged from the back porch.

  Both Dickce and Diesel sniffed as they caught the scent of Clementine’s cigarette. She had cut way back, Dickce knew, because An’gel had fussed at her, concerned for the housekeeper’s health, but she refused to give up smoking completely.

  While Diesel rubbed against her legs, Dickce said, “I think we may have even more company. The doorbell rang a minute ago, and I sent An’gel to answer it.”

  “More of Miss Rosabelle’s family?” Clementine went to the sink to wash her hands. She glanced over her shoulder at Dickce, who shrugged in response. “Miss An’gel’s been telling me some of Miss Rosabelle’s troubles. Why does Miss An’gel want all those people in the house, you reckon?”

  “I think she wants to pretend she’s Jessica Fletcher.” Dickce smiled. Clementine was as big a fan of Murder, She Wrote as Dickce and An’gel were.

  Clementine frowned. “Well, Miss Dickce, you know when Jessica Fletcher comes to the house, something bad’s gonna happen.” Her hands clean and dry, she turned to face Dickce.

  “I’m trying not to think about that.” Dickce smiled. “I’m hoping this turns out to be an overactive imagination on Rosabelle’s part, and we can send them all on their way back to California in a couple of days.”

  Diesel warbled loudly as if in agreement, and both women laughed.

  “He may be spending a lot of time in the kitchen with you,” Dickce said. “I don’t think he’s going to take too well to Rosabelle’s clan.”

  “I don’t mind the company.” Clementine went to the refrigerator and pulled out a large bowl with a chicken marinating inside it. She set it on the counter. “I’d best get to cutting this up and get it ready to fry. I sure hope it’s enough because it’s the only one I got ready.” She glanced at Dickce. “Though I reckon there’s a casserole or two I could defrost.”

  “Go ahead and defrost them, and if casseroles and chicken aren’t enough, our guests will just have to fill up on bread or vegetables.” Dickce scratched Diesel’s head, happy to hear the cat’s rumbling purr.

  An’gel stepped into the kitchen and called, “Sister, come meet the latest arrivals.” Without waiting for a response, she disappeared out the door, and Dickce sighed. She knew she had no choice.

  “The rest of the family, no doubt,” Dickce muttered. Diesel chirped as he accompanied her out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the front door. “I hope you don’t regret leaving the kitchen,” Dickce told the cat.

  Four people—two women who looked to be in their late fifties and a younger man and woman—stood near the front door conversing with An’gel. As Dickce and Diesel approached, An’gel said brightly, “And here is my sister, Dickce, and our feline houseguest, Diesel. Sister, these are Rosabelle’s daughters and grandchildren.” She paused. “They came in search of Rosabelle, and I assured them she is fine. They will be staying with us for a day or two.”

  “How do you do?” Dickce said as she and the cat halted near An’gel. She examined the group as closely as she could without appearing to stare. Rosabelle’s daughters favored their mother, though both were plumper and better dressed. The grandson, a tall, weedy-looking specimen of about twenty-five, blinked at Dickce through rimless glasses and offered a shy smile. The granddaughter, the one beauty in the family, as far as Dickce could see, had a lovely hourglass figure, auburn hair, green eyes, and a peaches-and-cream complexion. She did not resemble her mother, aunt, or cousin much, and Dickce reckoned her father must be a mighty handsome man to overcome the Sultan family genes.

  The granddaughter, who looked to be about the same age as her cousin, stepped forward, hand extended. “How do you do, Miss Ducote? I’m Juanita Cameron.”

  Dickce shook her hand. “My pleasure, Miss Cameron.” She thought it odd that the granddaughter spoke first, rather than Rosabelle’s elder daughter.

  Juanita Cameron smiled, and Dickce couldn’t help but respond in kind. Juanita turned and indicated one of the women behind her. “This is my mother, Bernice Cameron.”

  The slightly plumper, slightly taller of the two women nodded and murmured a greeting.

  “And this is my aunt, Maudine Pittman, and her son, my cousin, Newton. We call him Junior, because he’s named after my uncle.”

  Newton stepped forward, ostensibly to shake Di
ckce’s hand, but he stumbled—over nothing that Dickce could see—and barely missed stepping on the cat at her feet. Diesel jumped out of the way in time.

  Newton muttered an apology, and his mother spoke over him. “You’ll have to forgive my son, Miss Ducote. His intentions are good, but he could trip over a piece of lint on the floor.”

  The young man flushed unbecomingly at his mother’s sharp words, and Dickce felt sorry for him. She offered Maudine Pittman her frostiest of glances and said, “Good manners never harmed anyone.” She held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Pittman.”

  Newton’s eyes widened as he gazed at Dickce. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said as he took her hand. Dickce heard the genuine gratitude in his voice and smiled again. He blushed and stepped back, narrowly missing his cousin.

  “What kind of cat is Diesel, Miss Ducote?” Juanita shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a house cat that large. Have you, Mother?” Diesel chirped and moved closer to rub himself against the young woman’s legs.

  Bernice Cameron sniffed. “No, can’t say as I have. Be careful about getting hair all over your stockings. Those animals shed terribly.”

  Juanita Cameron laughed. “A little cat hair isn’t going to hurt anyone, Mother. Diesel is absolutely beautiful, don’t you think so, Junior?”

  Her cousin nodded, and Dickce decided that Rosabelle’s grandchildren had by some miracle turned out well. She couldn’t say the same for Rosabelle’s children, however. They didn’t have the manners the good Lord gave a billy goat.

  “I’d like to speak to Mother and assure myself that she came to no harm during the drive here,” Maudine announced. “Which room is hers?” She took a step forward past her sister.

  “Rosabelle was a bit tired when she arrived,” An’gel said, her tone chilly. “She is now resting comfortably in her room, and I am sure she would much prefer not to be disturbed until dinnertime.”

  “Well.” Maudine packed a lot of irritation and affront into that one syllable. Dickce had to stifle a laugh.