Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery

by Barbara Neely

  The sheriff raised his hand, his palm toward Everett's chest, not touching him and not meaning to. Everett swayed back on his heels as though nearly pushed off balance by the force of the sheriff's gesture.

  “Are you all right, Blanche?” Mumsfield leaned over and touched her arm. “You look funny, Blanche.”

  Blanche shook her head and opened the car door. She forced her feet to move toward the house. How did he find me? she wondered. Her legs twitched with the longing to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. She clenched her teeth and cautioned herself not to cry or show fear.

  The sheriff swung away from Everett and stepped in front of her. He reached out and tapped her on the arm. She managed not to flinch.

  “Don't I know you, gal?” He moved closer to her, peering up into her face with squinty brown eyes. His little girl's voice somehow made the question seem more ominous.

  Why was he toying with her? So he could reveal her as a liar as well as an escaped prisoner? She knew she must answer his question but wasn't sure she could stop herself from begging him to please have mercy on her, to at least let her see her children before she was dragged off to jail. She cleared her throat and wondered if he could smell the fear rising from her in acrid, sweaty waves. Would she be less scared now if this shrimpy, pot-bellied man were less well known for abusing black and poor people? Some folks thought it was being not much bigger and heavier than his tin badge that made him so mean. Blanche thought it was his genes.

  “I said,” the sheriff repeated, “don't I know you, gal?” His stringy hair quivered as he spoke. His breath smelled of bile. For a second, her concern about being imprisoned was superseded by the possibility that the spittle glistening in the corners of his mouth might suddenly fly up into her face. She could already feel it, cold and acid against her cheek.

  “Oh, yes, sir,” she finally managed to say. She wondered whose high, squeaky voice was coming out of her mouth. “Sometimes I help out in the kitchen at the Pettigrew place.” She literally held her breath. If he wasn't playing games with her, would he believe her? All the domestic help in town knew the sheriff regularly delivered the very drunk Miss Hazeline Pettigrew Conroy, heiress to the Pettigrew fortune, into the arms of one or another servant at the back door of the Pettigrew plantation. Just as everyone knew that old man Pettigrew had gotten the sheriff his job.

  The sheriff didn't bother to respond. He simply turned from her to Everett, dismissing her with his lack of interest. Blanche let her breath out in a rush and hurried inside to the bathroom.

  Relief made her light-headed. She fought the urge to laugh hard and long. Twice now she'd managed to use her wits to save herself. The old folks said things happened in threes. Did that mean she was going to have to rescue herself once again before she could get away clean?

  She soaped and washed her hands and the place on her arm where Sheriff Stillwell had touched her. She fought the urge to actively wish him ill. Those kinds of wishes often seemed to boomerang. And it wasn't necessary to wish the sheriff ill. All she had to hope for was that life provided him with exactly what he deserved. She looked into the medicine cabinet mirror, almost expecting to see an unfamiliar face, as though her ability to fool the sheriff had been aided by a newfound ability to alter her looks and turn herself into someone else. No one, not even the sheriff, was likely to look for her here in this house. Unreleased laughter coursed through her, freshening her blood, restoring the sheen to her skin that her scare with the sheriff had erased. Now, if her income-tax check would only come.

  She hummed a bit off-key while she loaded the dishwasher with lunch dishes, then wheeled the vacuum cleaner into the front of the house. Everett was nowhere in sight and neither was Grace. Out the front window, she could see Mumsfield shining the hood of the limousine. The sheriff’s car was gone.

  She quickly ran the vacuum cleaner over the living room floor. But why was the sheriff here if he wasn't looking for her? Blanche's movements slowed as her vision turned inward. She could see the sheriff holding up his hand, like a traffic cop, as though Everett's words were a line of cars to be halted. When the sheriff had turned away from Everett to hassle her, he hadn't even bothered to excuse himself to Everett. She thought the sheriff had stopped her only to show Everett he was the man in charge, even of the people in Everett's employ. Everett had been so stiff he was almost trembling. Why? At the time, she'd thought Everett was outraged by Stillwell's uppityness. Now she wasn't so sure. Could it have been fear that had nearly knocked Everett off his feet? She'd been so frightened herself it hadn't occurred to her that there was any fear left for anyone else. She recalled a kind of trapped animal look on Everett's face. But what did the sheriff have to say that would frighten Everett? She shook her head and stepped up the pace of her vacuuming. If I need to know, I'll find out, she told herself with a certainty born of her victory over the sheriff.

  She lugged the vacuum and a bucket holding a feather duster, furniture polish, chamois, sponge, spray cleaner, and a long-handled brush up the back stairs. She had no intention of using all of these items, but it looked good to have them. She dropped the lot at the top of the stairs and looked at the seven doors ranging on either side of the hall. She knew the far door on the right belonged to Emmeline. She didn't feel like dealing with a drunk at the moment, so she knocked on the door closest to her and on the opposite side of the hall from Emmeline's room. No answer. She opened the door to find a built-in linen closet full of sets of sheets, hand towels, and blankets in zippered plastic bags. Beyond the closet, the rest of the room was full of boxes with labels like Living Room Dust Covers, Shutters, and Croquet Set. The room next to the storage room was a bathroom with no towels and the fusty air of disuse.

  The smell of machine oil and chocolate greeted her when she eased open the first door on the right-hand side of the corridor. Mumsfield's room: silver foil candy wrappers on the floor by the bed, a model car on the night table, pictures of cars and clocks on the walls. An oily machine part lay on newspaper on a table by the door that led to the bathroom. The machine part reminded her of men gathered in garages, oiling cars, talking about women, and sipping beer, not an image she associated with Mumsfield. Why had she expected a train set and marbles? She guessed Mumsfield to be about twenty-five. Maybe it had as much to do with what she heard and saw as what she 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. She passed 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 Grace's reply.

  When Grace came out of the room, Blanche had moved away and was dusting the small table near the top of the main stairs. At first, Grace seemed not to notice Blanche. She leaned against Emmeline's door and closed her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them, they were moist. Her lips were a hard pink line. Big red spots, like clown makeup, dotted both her cheeks. She pushed herself away from the door and walked toward Blanche.

  “Please don't disturb my aunt just now, Blanche,” she said at last. “She's...resting. And the room next to hers is just a guest room, so you needn't bother with it, either,” she added.

  Blanche watched Grace as she went down the stairs. She heard the front door close. She slipped back into Mumsfield's room and looked out the window. Grace was walking slowly toward the duck pond, her head thrown slightly back and her arms folded across her chest.

  I should have done the old lady's room first, Blanche chided herself. Might've had a ringside seat for the shouting match. More likely it would have been postponed. Blanche stared at Emmeline's door for a few moments, bristling with the desire to knock and trying to conquer her natural inclination to defy the voice of authority. It was one of the reasons she had not lasted in the waitressing, telephone sales, clerking, and typing jobs she'd tried over the years. She always returned to domestic work. For all the châtelaine fantasies of some of the women for whom she worked, she was really her own boss, and her clients knew it. She was the expert. She ordered her employers' lives, not the other way around. She told them when they had to be out of the way, when she would work, and when she wouldn't. Or at least that's the way it was most of the time. Now she sighed in frustration and turned away from Emmeline's door.

  She didn't bother to knock on the door on the right, next to Everett's room. It had to be Grace's room. She went in, and as if in reward for her decision to do as she was told, for a change, the room she entered was fascinating.

  The white four-poster bed was hung with pale cotton drapes lined in white with tiny blue polka dots. The same cotton covered the seats of the two delicate-looking chairs and the table by the bed. It seemed a wonderfully calm place to hide, and Blanche congratulated Grace on being smart enough to provide it for herself. Yet, there was something about the room that made her uneasy. She looked around at the small items. These were the things most likely to tell her something about the person who occupied the room. Among these people, the furniture and pictures might have been chosen by a decorator.

  What she noticed was that the old-fashioned silver-backed comb, brush, and hand-mirror set on top of the bureau looked exactly the same distance, one from the other. The top of the pen on the small desk across from the bed was lined up with the top of the leather writing paper case and the address book beside it. The clock on the bedside table was exactly the same distance from the water carafe as it was from the lamp. There was no radio, no television, not even a telephone to break the room's silence.

  It seemed the wrong room for Grace. It was Everett, with his casually elegant clothes, fresh manicure, and well-shined shoes, from whom she'd have expected neatness. She'd once worked for a man who designed men's clothes and was himself known for his wardrobe and style. She'd picked up enough from him to know how much planning and study went into looking perfectly casual. But it was Grace, with the tail of her blouse peeking out from the top of her skirt and the edge of her slip from the bottom, who lived in this monument to unchanging order.

  But despite the room's orderliness, its look of calm, the hair on Blanche's arms was stiff with electricity. The air felt nervous, jumpy. She walked around the room picking up the small clock, the hand mirror. She flicked the feather duster about as she went. The address book, with its floral-print cover, was also blue and white, GRACE CARTER HANCOCK was embossed at the top of the palest of blue stationery in the leather writing case. She was careful to replace each item in exactly the spot where she'd found it. She was aware of the time it took to get the items lined up properly and wondered if Grace was able to get them right the first time or if she, too, had to fiddle with them.

  “Grace,” she whispered, and the sound was full of questions about who this woman was. This was not the room of the Grace who knocked over her water glass and was nervous as a vampire at dawn. The Grace who kept this room like a shrine to herself was not the woman Everett hovered over maternally, or the one to whom Mumsfield made patient “Yes, Cousin” replies.

  What is it about the people in this house and their rooms? Blanche asked herself. Except for Mumsfield, their rooms said one thing about who they were, and the way they looked and behaved said something else. Which was the true Everett—the well-groomed, caring, and gentle husband, or the arrogant slob who threw his funky socks on the dresser and was ready to attack the sheriff? And what about Emmeline? Was she just another drunk, or the sweet old lady Mumsfield talked about? Which Grace was real?

  SIX

  The next day, Blanche looked up from washing lettuce for lunch to see Everett and another man walking along the edge of the pinewoods surrounding the house. At first she didn't recognize the other man. She'd never before seen him without his boots, badge, and uniform, although she should have recognized those thin legs and the sad, droopy set of his belly. He looked even smaller without his gear, like any regular sawed-off, red-faced cracker, come hat in hand to curry favor from the gentry. Only the sheriff kept his hat on. If he'd been anyone else, she'd have cheered him on in his defiance of the class rules. Even without Stillwell's reputation and her present troubles, she didn't have much use for law enforcement people of any kind or color.

  She still remembered the police beatings of people in the sixties, and the murders of young black and Puerto Rican males by cops in Harlem—at least one for every spring she'd lived in New York—as though they were deer in season. She'd watched the cops break down the apartment door of her neighbor Mrs. Castillo, beat the woman's husband unmercifully, and totally ransack their apartment, only to realize they had the wrong bui
lding. The policemen hadn't even apologized for the mess. In Blanche's mind, Southern law enforcement people were even worse: the descendants of the paddyrollers and overseers who'd made their living grinding her kind into fertilizer in the cotton fields of slavery.

  As the two men walked, Everett sliced the air with his hands in a way that reminded Blanche of someone hacking through thick undergrowth with a machete.

  “You in there, Miz City?” Nate called through the other kitchen window overlooking the backyard.

  “Why's Stillwell hanging round here so much?” Blanche asked him, after their exchange of “How are you?” and “I'm fine,” and after Blanche had poured him a glass of lemonade.

  Nate eased himself onto a chair and watched Blanche over the rim of the glass with old onyx eyes. She sat in the chair across from him and poured herself a glass as well.

  “Miz Grace used to spend her summers here, you know.” Nate's eyes got the faraway look that goes with old memories. “Played right out there in that duck pond, she did. Paddling and splashing and shrieking at the top of her lungs. Wild as a polecat, she was.”

  Something in Nate's tone told her he had something particular to say. Nate rattled the ice in his glass. “Fact is, Miz Grace is kinda special to me, ya see.” Uh oh. Blanche held her breath and hoped he wasn't about to destroy her growing respect for him with some Mr. Mammy bullshit.

  “Back in 1959, when Miz Grace was about twelve years ole, things was real bad round here, real bad, even worse than they is today.” Nate took a long swallow from his lemonade and took his time setting the glass back on the table. “White folks was bein' put off they land, and stores and shops was goin' bust, so you know how hard it was for us.