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

chair around her. She was staring at a large color TV on which an excited-looking woman held up a can of Zesto! floor wax and moved her lips. The sound was turned too low to hear what she was saying. The small, round table by Emmeline's side held a porcelain ashtrayoverflowing with ashes and butts. The tablecloth was spotted with dark rings. The air in the room was thick with smoke and the smell of stale booze and not quite clean feet. Blanche was struck by the difference between Emmeline and her surroundings. She looked like a drunken Little Orphan Annie at eighty, with her frizzy yellow-white hair and blank, watery eyes. The room, on the other hand, was neat and bright, the kind of genteel room that she imagined a woman who read romantic historical novels and did needlepoint might have. Liquor sure does funny things to people, she thought.
    “I brought you some dinner, ma'am.”
    “Don't give me that 'brought you some dinner' crap, gal. I know they sent you to spy on me!”
    Blanche opened her mouth to tell Emmeline that her name was Blanche, not gal, then thought better of it. She set the tray on the bed while she made space for it on the table at Emmeline's side. When she looked around for the wastebasket, she spotted a rolling table of the kind hospitals use to serve meals to bed-ridden patients, only better looking. She gave Emmeline a why-didn't-you-tell-me look. Emmeline's lips curled in a mean-spirited smile. Blanche set the tray on the rolling table, lowered it to armchair height, and wheeled it within Emmeline's easy reach.
    “Would you like anything else, ma'am?”
    Emmeline reached down and lifted a bottle of Seagram's gin from beneath the floor-length tablecloth, filled her glass, and returned her bottle to its resting place. Blanche eased the door closed behind her as she left the room.
    Now she understood why Mumsfield was being kept away from his aunt. Blanche wondered what had started Emmeline drinking. Boredom, maybe. She'd worked for or around a number of rich old ladies like that—lots of money, no friends, no interests to speak of. Perfect candidates for an alcohol problem. But were Grace and Everett really stupid enough to think they could keep it from Mumsfield indefinitely?
    In the kitchen, she checked her rising rolls before cleaning the chickens. She was glad for Grace's dinner order of roast chicken, julienned string beans, scalloped potatoes, rolls, and apple pie with ice cream. A more elaborate meal would have called for more concentration than she could muster today.
    She searched the chickens for missed feathers, squeezed out a few overlooked shafts, and singed off the fine feathers on the wings before reaching her hand into the chicken's cool, slick body cavity to yank out the few unsavory bits left behind by the original cleaner. But although she was thorough and worked efficiently, her mind was preoccupied with when and how to head for New York.
    The idea of moving the children back to New York made her stomach lurch. At the same time, New York was the one place she knew she could find work quickly among people who wouldn't ask questions about paying her in cash or balk at her use of a different name. She was sure the good people of Farleigh weren't going to spend too many tax dollars on hunting for her. Unless, of course, they took her escape as a personal affront to all decent, God-fearing white people. She remembered the wanted posters for Joanne Little, Angela Davis, and Assata Shakur. She blushed at putting herself in such important company, then wondered if the sheriff's office appreciated the distinction. She silently apologized to any heavyset black women the sheriff's men might harass because of her. She rinsed, dried, and seasoned the chickens inside and out and sat them upright on paper towels.
    “I need some money,” she whispered aloud. That was her first problem. She washed the chicken fat from her hands. The ninety-two dollars and change she had would get her and the kids