Read Online Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery by Barbara Neely - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Neely
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“Farleigh,” she told him. “But I been living in New York for a while.”
“Figures. You talk like city. Fillin' in for them Toms who works for 'em in town, hunh?”
Blanche nodded. “What about you?”
“I been working for this family since Miz Em was a girl. Come here to work when I was twelve years old. So was Miz Em. We got the same birthday, ya know.” Nate hooked his thumbs in the straps of his overalls. “I worked for her daddy and her daddy's daddy. Outlived both them suckers.” Nate chortled a vicious little laugh and headed for the back door. “I was looking forward to going to Miz Em's funeral, too,” he added. “But now...”
“Why you say that? She ain't dead yet, and neither are you.”
Nate hesitated. “Miz Grace is one of them kinda people always worried about her standin' in the community—that's how she puts it, like she was some kinda church or the government or something. That's how I know it's got to be him that's behind this mess.”
“What mess? You mean the new will?”
Nate went on talking, but he didn't answer Blanche's questions. “I never thought he was much. Course, he thinks plenty of hisself. Hardest work the man does is brushin' back his hair. Unless you call gamblin' and runnin' after women 'work.' He's kinda like a pet Miz Grace bought to show off to her friends. To prove she could get her a man, too, I guess, even though he is a hand-me-down, so to speak.” Nate rubbed his jaw. His whiskers rasping against his hand sounded like shifting sand.
“Maybe I made a mistake,” he said. “Maybe I was wrong 'bout him bein' too lazy to cause any harm 'cept to run through Miz Grace's money quick fast and in a hurry. Or so they say.”
“I still don't understand,” Blanche told him.
Nate opened the back door, then turned to look at her. His eyes called her to attention. “You don't need to understand,” he told her. “I wisht I didn't.” He put on his baseball cap. “You look after yourself, Miz City.” He tipped his cap in her direction and went quickly out the door.
Blanche followed him and called softly to him to come back. Nate waved to her over his shoulder, shook his head fromside to side, and kept on going. Blanche could tell from the way he shook his head that it was useless to run after him. He was through talking to her for the night. Tears of disappointment sprang to her eyes. She hadn't realized how tightly she'd latched on to him, the only black person she'd been with since she'd left home for the courthouse. Once she'd gotten a glimpse of who he really was, she wanted to ask him how it was that Mumsfield didn't know about Emmeline's alcoholism, what it was that made Grace so nervous, and why had he changed into a statue in Emmeline's room. But he was gone, and she was standing there being a meal for the mosquitoes. She swatted at one buzzing near her ear.
The night wrapped itself lovingly around her limbs. Some long-locked door creaked open almost wide enough for her to see inside, to remember how it was she knew the night so well and felt so very comfortable in it. With her moment of near-remembrance came a sense of personal worth, of strength, and fearlessness that buoyed her. She was distracted from her memory by a sharp bite on her ankle. But the feeling roused by her almost-recollection was so sweet she couldn't let it go. She turned out the kitchen light and sat down on the back stoop.
The stars were bright and silver-blue. The moon was a child's drawing, lopsided, bright, and full of magic. Blanche stretched out her arms and let her head fall back. She could feel muscles pulling in her forearms and tightening at the back of her neck. She relaxed against the step and stared out into the deeper dark that hung above the garden and in the pinewoods beyond.
Night Girl. She hadn't thought about her private game for years.
Cousin Murphy was responsible for Blanche's becoming Night Girl, when Cousin Murphy found eight-year-old
“Farleigh,” she told him. “But I been living in New York for a while.”
“Figures. You talk like city. Fillin' in for them Toms who works for 'em in town, hunh?”
Blanche nodded. “What about you?”
“I been working for this family since Miz Em was a girl. Come here to work when I was twelve years old. So was Miz Em. We got the same birthday, ya know.” Nate hooked his thumbs in the straps of his overalls. “I worked for her daddy and her daddy's daddy. Outlived both them suckers.” Nate chortled a vicious little laugh and headed for the back door. “I was looking forward to going to Miz Em's funeral, too,” he added. “But now...”
“Why you say that? She ain't dead yet, and neither are you.”
Nate hesitated. “Miz Grace is one of them kinda people always worried about her standin' in the community—that's how she puts it, like she was some kinda church or the government or something. That's how I know it's got to be him that's behind this mess.”
“What mess? You mean the new will?”
Nate went on talking, but he didn't answer Blanche's questions. “I never thought he was much. Course, he thinks plenty of hisself. Hardest work the man does is brushin' back his hair. Unless you call gamblin' and runnin' after women 'work.' He's kinda like a pet Miz Grace bought to show off to her friends. To prove she could get her a man, too, I guess, even though he is a hand-me-down, so to speak.” Nate rubbed his jaw. His whiskers rasping against his hand sounded like shifting sand.
“Maybe I made a mistake,” he said. “Maybe I was wrong 'bout him bein' too lazy to cause any harm 'cept to run through Miz Grace's money quick fast and in a hurry. Or so they say.”
“I still don't understand,” Blanche told him.
Nate opened the back door, then turned to look at her. His eyes called her to attention. “You don't need to understand,” he told her. “I wisht I didn't.” He put on his baseball cap. “You look after yourself, Miz City.” He tipped his cap in her direction and went quickly out the door.
Blanche followed him and called softly to him to come back. Nate waved to her over his shoulder, shook his head fromside to side, and kept on going. Blanche could tell from the way he shook his head that it was useless to run after him. He was through talking to her for the night. Tears of disappointment sprang to her eyes. She hadn't realized how tightly she'd latched on to him, the only black person she'd been with since she'd left home for the courthouse. Once she'd gotten a glimpse of who he really was, she wanted to ask him how it was that Mumsfield didn't know about Emmeline's alcoholism, what it was that made Grace so nervous, and why had he changed into a statue in Emmeline's room. But he was gone, and she was standing there being a meal for the mosquitoes. She swatted at one buzzing near her ear.
The night wrapped itself lovingly around her limbs. Some long-locked door creaked open almost wide enough for her to see inside, to remember how it was she knew the night so well and felt so very comfortable in it. With her moment of near-remembrance came a sense of personal worth, of strength, and fearlessness that buoyed her. She was distracted from her memory by a sharp bite on her ankle. But the feeling roused by her almost-recollection was so sweet she couldn't let it go. She turned out the kitchen light and sat down on the back stoop.
The stars were bright and silver-blue. The moon was a child's drawing, lopsided, bright, and full of magic. Blanche stretched out her arms and let her head fall back. She could feel muscles pulling in her forearms and tightening at the back of her neck. She relaxed against the step and stared out into the deeper dark that hung above the garden and in the pinewoods beyond.
Night Girl. She hadn't thought about her private game for years.
Cousin Murphy was responsible for Blanche's becoming Night Girl, when Cousin Murphy found eight-year-old
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