Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery by Barbara Neely Page A

felt, like the way Everett talked to him and Grace talked about him. Even though he was allowed to drive the car and could probably take it apart and put it together again, he wasn't to be taken seriously as a person. Something they shared.
    She went back into the hall to fetch her cleaning supplies and met Grace, who gave her a tight little smile but said nothing. Shepassed Blanche, knocked on the door of Emmeline's room, spoke her own name as if in response to Emmeline's question, although Blanche didn't hear the question, then entered the room. Blanche returned to Mumsfield's room and gave it a quick dust and shine.
    The room next to Mumsfield's belonged to Everett. Blanche realized it was possible and logical for the room to belong to both Grace and Everett, but she didn't think so. It smelled like a man's room, no hint of that light, flowery scent Grace wore, only something sharp and heavy that she could identify only as a man-smell. And there was nothing of Grace to be seen, no slippers, no nightgown at the foot of the bed. There was plenty of Everett around. His bureau was littered with change, keys, a sock. A pair of shorts were thrown over the arm of the chair by the window. The sheets and light blanket were tangled into a knot that sat in the middle of the bed like a cherry on a sundae. His bathroom was a heap of damp towels.
    She might have taken such sloppiness to signify someone who was too busy, too miserable, too hurried or distracted to give time or thought to neatness. None of those conditions applied to Everett as far as she could see. He didn't appear to be working at any job other than preening himself and humoring Grace. Blanche had seen him both angry and agitated, but he seemed neither unhappy or harried. She pulled on a pair of the rubber gloves she'd bought in town before gathering up Everett's stray clothes. If she were planning to take these folks on as regular customers, she'd tell him about leaving his dirty underwear lying about. She didn't consider picking up people's funky drawers from the floor a normal part of her work. She expected her employers to put their soiled underwear in the hamper and their soiled tissues in the wastebasket. She considered this behavior as a sign of what her mother called “couth,” and a good indicator of whether or not she could expect any respect from a customer—and whether she'd be with that customer for very long.
    She pictured herself holding his smelly socks under his nose until he understood that she had some rights, too. But he'd probably pass out first! she laughed to herself. She knew she might be exaggerating Everett's arrogance, but she wasn't exaggerating the way he'd smirked in her face then teased her about her name, or the ignorant way he shouted when he talked to Mumsfield, as though trying to penetrate an extra-thick skull with his voice. He also wasn't too tolerant of people who crossed him, if his angry comment about Emmeline was any evidence. Still, he hadn't exactly jumped with both feet into the sheriff's chest. It all added up to a contradiction. “Just like everybody else,” she mumbled to herself.
    She put Everett's room in order and shut his door firmly behind her. She moved down the hall, past the main staircase. She was unconsciously humming the usual flat tune of her own composition. She knocked at the door to the left of Emmeline's room—a guest room draped in sheets. As she closed the door and stepped back into the hall, she noticed that Emmeline's door was not completely shut. She heard Emmeline's voice hit a high, complaining note, followed by a measured mumble from Grace. Blanche stood still and listened.
    “Get out, you two-faced bitch,” Emmeline screeched at the top of her lungs. Blanche jumped back, then took a few steps closer to Emmeline's door.
    “I remember what they used to say about you! I'm watching you, don't you think I'm not, you sly cow!” Emmeline's voice was high and wild. Blanche couldn't make out