happened in threes. Did that mean she was going to have to rescue herself once again before she could get away clean?
She soaped and washed her hands and the place on her arm where Sheriff Stillwell had touched her. She fought the urge to actively wish him ill. Those kinds of wishes often seemed to boomerang. And it wasn't necessary to wish the sheriff ill. All she had to hope for was that life provided him with exactly what he deserved. She looked into the medicine cabinet mirror, almost expecting to see an unfamiliar face, as though her ability to fool the sheriff had been aided by a newfound ability to alter her looks and turn herself into someone else. No one, not even the sheriff, was likely to look for her here in this house. Unreleased laughter coursed through her, freshening her blood, restoring the sheen to her skin that her scare with the sheriff had erased. Now, if her income-tax check would only come.
She hummed a bit off-key while she loaded the dishwasher with lunch dishes, then wheeled the vacuum cleaner into the front of the house. Everett was nowhere in sight and neither was Grace. Out the front window, she could see Mumsfield shining the hood of the limousine. The sheriff’s car was gone.
She quickly ran the vacuum cleaner over the living room floor. But why was the sheriff here if he wasn't looking for her? Blanche's movements slowed as her vision turned inward. She could see the sheriff holding up his hand, like a traffic cop, as though Everett's words were a line of cars to be halted. When the sheriff had turned away from Everett to hassle her, he hadn't even bothered to excuse himself to Everett. She thought the sheriff had stopped her only to show Everett he was the man in charge, even of the people in Everett's employ. Everett had been so stiff he was almost trembling. Why? At the time, she'd thought Everett was outraged by Stillwell's uppityness. Now she wasn't so sure. Could it have been fear that had nearly knocked Everett off his feet? She'd been so frightened herself it hadn't occurred to her that there was any fear left for anyone else. She recalled a kind of trapped animal look on Everett's face. But what did the sheriff have to say that would frighten Everett? She shook her head andstepped up the pace of her vacuuming. If I need to know, I'll find out, she told herself with a certainty born of her victory over the sheriff.
She lugged the vacuum and a bucket holding a feather duster, furniture polish, chamois, sponge, spray cleaner, and a long-handled brush up the back stairs. She had no intention of using all of these items, but it looked good to have them. She dropped the lot at the top of the stairs and looked at the seven doors ranging on either side of the hall. She knew the far door on the right belonged to Emmeline. She didn't feel like dealing with a drunk at the moment, so she knocked on the door closest to her and on the opposite side of the hall from Emmeline's room. No answer. She opened the door to find a built-in linen closet full of sets of sheets, hand towels, and blankets in zippered plastic bags. Beyond the closet, the rest of the room was full of boxes with labels like Living Room Dust Covers, Shutters, and Croquet Set. The room next to the storage room was a bathroom with no towels and the fusty air of disuse.
The smell of machine oil and chocolate greeted her when she eased open the first door on the right-hand side of the corridor. Mumsfield's room: silver foil candy wrappers on the floor by the bed, a model car on the night table, pictures of cars and clocks on the walls. An oily machine part lay on newspaper on a table by the door that led to the bathroom. The machine part reminded her of men gathered in garages, oiling cars, talking about women, and sipping beer, not an image she associated with Mumsfield. Why had she expected a train set and marbles? She guessed Mumsfield to be about twenty-five. Maybe it had as much to do with what she heard and saw as what she
She soaped and washed her hands and the place on her arm where Sheriff Stillwell had touched her. She fought the urge to actively wish him ill. Those kinds of wishes often seemed to boomerang. And it wasn't necessary to wish the sheriff ill. All she had to hope for was that life provided him with exactly what he deserved. She looked into the medicine cabinet mirror, almost expecting to see an unfamiliar face, as though her ability to fool the sheriff had been aided by a newfound ability to alter her looks and turn herself into someone else. No one, not even the sheriff, was likely to look for her here in this house. Unreleased laughter coursed through her, freshening her blood, restoring the sheen to her skin that her scare with the sheriff had erased. Now, if her income-tax check would only come.
She hummed a bit off-key while she loaded the dishwasher with lunch dishes, then wheeled the vacuum cleaner into the front of the house. Everett was nowhere in sight and neither was Grace. Out the front window, she could see Mumsfield shining the hood of the limousine. The sheriff’s car was gone.
She quickly ran the vacuum cleaner over the living room floor. But why was the sheriff here if he wasn't looking for her? Blanche's movements slowed as her vision turned inward. She could see the sheriff holding up his hand, like a traffic cop, as though Everett's words were a line of cars to be halted. When the sheriff had turned away from Everett to hassle her, he hadn't even bothered to excuse himself to Everett. She thought the sheriff had stopped her only to show Everett he was the man in charge, even of the people in Everett's employ. Everett had been so stiff he was almost trembling. Why? At the time, she'd thought Everett was outraged by Stillwell's uppityness. Now she wasn't so sure. Could it have been fear that had nearly knocked Everett off his feet? She'd been so frightened herself it hadn't occurred to her that there was any fear left for anyone else. She recalled a kind of trapped animal look on Everett's face. But what did the sheriff have to say that would frighten Everett? She shook her head andstepped up the pace of her vacuuming. If I need to know, I'll find out, she told herself with a certainty born of her victory over the sheriff.
She lugged the vacuum and a bucket holding a feather duster, furniture polish, chamois, sponge, spray cleaner, and a long-handled brush up the back stairs. She had no intention of using all of these items, but it looked good to have them. She dropped the lot at the top of the stairs and looked at the seven doors ranging on either side of the hall. She knew the far door on the right belonged to Emmeline. She didn't feel like dealing with a drunk at the moment, so she knocked on the door closest to her and on the opposite side of the hall from Emmeline's room. No answer. She opened the door to find a built-in linen closet full of sets of sheets, hand towels, and blankets in zippered plastic bags. Beyond the closet, the rest of the room was full of boxes with labels like Living Room Dust Covers, Shutters, and Croquet Set. The room next to the storage room was a bathroom with no towels and the fusty air of disuse.
The smell of machine oil and chocolate greeted her when she eased open the first door on the right-hand side of the corridor. Mumsfield's room: silver foil candy wrappers on the floor by the bed, a model car on the night table, pictures of cars and clocks on the walls. An oily machine part lay on newspaper on a table by the door that led to the bathroom. The machine part reminded her of men gathered in garages, oiling cars, talking about women, and sipping beer, not an image she associated with Mumsfield. Why had she expected a train set and marbles? She guessed Mumsfield to be about twenty-five. Maybe it had as much to do with what she heard and saw as what she
Similar Books
