Read Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery for Free Online Page B

sixteen. Wearing clothes a size too big always made her feel slim. When she'd changed into one of the uniforms, she found her way down to the kitchen. Grace was waiting for her. Grace wasn't exactly frowning, but her face was tense. She seemed to be holding herself in readiness for a loud noise or bad news. When she saw Blanche, she immediately began discussing meals.
    “A small porterhouse, for my aunt's dinner. Perhaps some potatoes, or...” Grace paused, as though her train of thought had been derailed by a more compelling message from some side track of her brain. Blanche waited and wondered about the advisability of a porterhouse steak for an ailing elderly lady.
    “There will be a guest at dinner, just one,” Grace went on at last. She fiddled with the small pen and leather-covered notebook on the table in front of her. “He likes simple food. Roast chicken, I think. We eat promptly at seven-thirty. Promptly. I don't like Mr. Everett, my husband, to be kept waiting.”
    Grace said the words “my husband” like a new bride still dazzled by the idea. Blanche felt a surge of dislike for the man. Too rich to wait, she thought, too rich, too white, too male. And too pampered by his wife.
    “Aunt will want her dinner around five. I'll take it up myself if you'll just let me know when it's ready. She prefers that I bring her meals,” she explained. She didn't sound as pleased about catering to her aunt as to her husband.
    “Now, then...” Grace opened her notebook and went over the menus for the next five days, then gave Blanche the phone number for the grocery store in Hokeysville.
    An hour after Blanche phoned, a sweaty, red-faced boy delivered the four bags of groceries she'd ordered. He gave Blanche the cheeky “Hey, girl” greeting that teenage white boys working up to being full-fledged rednecks give grown black women in the South. Blanche hissed some broken Swahili and Yoruba phrases she'd picked up at the Freedom Library in Harlem and told the boy it was a curse that would render his penis as slim and sticky as a lizard's tongue. The look on his face and the way he clutched his crotch lifted her spirits considerably. Nina Simone's version of “I Put a Spell on You” came rolling out of her mouth in a deep, off-key grumble. She ran a carrot through the food processor until it was a pile of thin orange coins. She washed a baking potato and once again wondered why the old lady wasn't havingsoup or scrambled eggs. If she was up to eating a hearty meal, why wasn't she having dinner with the family? She steamed the carrots, put the steak on the grill, and readied the potato for the microwave. When the tray was ready, she went looking for Grace.
    Blanche hesitated in the doorway to the living room, struck by the realization that this was the first time she'd seen Grace motionless. Grace's head rested against the back of a large, old-fashioned rattan armchair. There was a haughtiness in her profile that wasn't noticeable when she was in motion. Her hands were loosely folded in her lap. She seemed to be looking out the window, toward the duck pond, but Blanche was sure whatever Grace was really seeing wasn't going on outside. Her stillness was so deep, so unblinking, she might have been in a trance. But there was something burning in the back of her eyes when she turned her head and looked at Blanche.
    If Grace had been a friend, Blanche would have immediately asked what was troubling her. But she'd long ago learned the painful price of confusing the skills she sold for money with the kind of caring that could be paid for only with reciprocity.
    “You're looking a little peaked, ma'am. You want me to take the tray up?” She let an edge of concern creep into her voice. It was a tone she used when inviting her employers to provide anecdotal evidence that money was indeed not everything.
    “I know I should take it up myself, but...”
    “Caring for old folks can be a trial sometimes.” Blanche