Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery by Barbara Neely Read Free Book Online

commiserated.
    Grace looked at her for a long moment, then lowered her head. “She's changed a lot in the last...since the last time you saw her.” She fiddled with her fingers. Blanche waited for her to continue.
    “That's why I especially asked for someone who knew her before, someone who'd remember what a sweet, sweet dear she was before...” Her voice got snagged on something in her throat.She covered her eyes with her right hand. “You'll see what I mean.”
    Blanche hesitated. She didn't want to walk in on the old lady doing anything disgusting. Or dangerous.
    “She's not violent, is she, ma'am?”
    “Oh, no. Nothing like that. It's...” She covered her face and sobbed softly for a few minutes. Finally she raised her head and looked at Blanche.
    Blanche was unimpressed by the tears, and Grace's Mammy-save-me eyes. Mammy-savers regularly peeped out at her from the faces of some white women for whom she worked, and lately, in this age of the touchy-feely model of manhood, an occasional white man. It happened when an employer was struck by family disaster or grew too compulsive about owning everything, too overwrought, or downright frightened by who and what they were. She never ceased to be amazed at how many white people longed for Aunt Jemima. They'd ease into the kitchen and hem and haw their way through some sordid personal tale. She'd listen and make sympathetic noises. She rarely asked questions, except to clarify the life lessons their stories conveyed, or to elicit some detail that would make their story more amusing to her friends. She told employers who asked what she would do in their place, or what she thought they ought to do, “I sure wish I knew, I truly do,” accompanied by a slow, sad smile, a matching shake of her head, and arms folded tightly across her chest.
    Now Blanche knew that if she went to Grace, put her hand on the woman's shoulder, and looked concerned, it was likely Grace would bare the family soul. But Blanche didn't yet know whether Grace was the kind of person who both longed for someone on whom to unburden herself and was then grateful to the listener, or the kind of person who resented the listener for catching her at a weak moment. She took a half-step forward, hesitated, then crossed the room to where Grace sat.
    “Is there anything I can do, ma'am?” Whether she cared or not, there were certain expected forms to be observed.
    “No, no.” Grace continued to sob but made no attempt to talk.
    “I'll take the tray up now, ma'am.”
    Blanche went back to the kitchen for the tray and carried it up the stairs. She was both curious and concerned about what awaited her in the old lady's room. At the top of the staircase she realized she hadn't asked Grace which room was Emmeline's. The one farthest from the back stairs and overlooking the front of the house and the duck pond seemed like the right room for the family member with the money. Blanche was sure Emmeline fit that description. She'd worked in so many wealthy households she recognized the mix of respect, hate, and hope that crept into family members' voices when they talked about the moneyed one.
    “I brought your dinner, ma'am,” Blanche called from outside the door when there was no response to her knock. She balanced the tray on her left hip and reached for the doorknob.
    “I'm coming in now.” And I'm going to feel like a damned fool if I've been talking to an empty room, she added to herself. She turned the knob and pushed the door.
    Emmeline was lolling on a pale green brocade wing chair. A matching ottoman propped up her stockinged feet. A water glass with a small amount of clear liquid in it hung loosely from her right hand. She wore the same dress she'd worn on the ride from town. Only now the front was littered with cigarette ashes. The dress was also rucked well up her legs. Pink garters made tight rings above her lumpy red knees. Her thighs seemed to be melting off her bones and spreading in puddles on the