Blanche Passes Go

by Barbara Neely

  “You hired somebody to threaten me on the phone and throw a rock through my window! Or were you at least woman enough to do it yourself?”

  Karen blushed so violently, Blanche knew the answers to her own questions. “Your boyfriend, that asshole Seth! You got your boyfriend to do your dirty work for you! Why? What did I do to you? Did your brother…”

  “My brother? He’s got nothing to do with this. If he knew about me and Seth he’d…Mumsfield told me you were going to be asking questions about me. He thought it was a fine idea, a way to mollify that damned Archibald!”

  Blanche felt like she was trying to hold a fistful of water. Karen, not David. Karen. She worked to get her mind around this idea.

  “Being scared I’d find something on you sure as hell didn’t stop you from showing your racist ass when you thought you were safe!” Blanche put as much belligerence as she could into her voice. She thought of the sleepless, fear-filled nights she’d spent because of this woman, the nightmares she’d suffered when she could sleep, the shutters on her windows and the lead pipe by her bed. This bitch! “I ought to slap the shit out of you!”

  Karen scurried from the stoop to the walkway, as if she thought Blanche couldn’t reach her there, but then she turned back toward Blanche.

  “I could say I’m sorry for all the things I said to you at lunch, but you wouldn’t believe me. No matter what you think of me, I beg you, please, think about Mumsfield. Despite his money, he hasn’t had much happiness, you know. Despite his money, I’m the only woman he’s ever been with. Did you know that? He’s lonely. Did you know that? You think he’ll be happier knowing about…about something that I swear is in the past? Do you think he’ll be happier without me?”

  “You mean would he rather be lied to, cheated on, and probably robbed by you and your half-assed boyfriend? If you two are low enough to throw rocks in my window, what’re you planning to do to Mumsfield when he gets in your way?”

  Karen shook her head. “No. I’d never let…I’d never…” She sighed and shook her head again. “Whatever you decide to do, there’ll be no more…I know I can’t make you leave. I won’t try anymore. I promise you that.” Karen climbed back in her car and drove away.

  Blanche was almost dizzy from the mix of feelings roiling around inside of her: fury with Karen for scaring her and for having the nerve to come here and try to cop a plea; relief that she didn’t have to watch her back anymore; and disappointment that it was Karen and not her brother who’d been threatening her. She looked at the phone. She’d call Mumsfield right now if it weren’t so late. She used her anger to fight her disappointment. She knew it was weird to be sorry that somebody wasn’t after you, even while you were glad about it, but she couldn’t help it. Knowing that Palmer was desperate enough to threaten her to keep her out of his business was part of what had given her the energy to stay after him. Now…She shook her head, but it didn’t clear. Well, no matter how confusing her feelings might be, she knew one thing: she sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to bursting Mumsfield’s bubble.

  TWENTY-THREE

  CONNECTING THE DOTS

  Blanche tried her best to call Mumsfield the next morning, but she couldn’t make herself do it. Let him enjoy another day of pleasure in Karen and his upcoming marriage. Once Mumsfield—and Archibald, because she had to call him, too—knew about Seth and Karen, Mumsfield would likely end up with his money but not his happiness. Archibald would see to that. She wondered which one Mumsfield would choose. Even if Karen could convince Mumsfield that her thing with Seth was over and the attempts to scare Blanche were due to fits of hot monkey love, Blanche was sure Archibald wouldn’t be impressed. Could he force Mumsfield not to marry Karen? Poor Mumsfield. She really had to call and tell him about Karen and Seth, she just needed to decide the best way to do it.

  The next couple of days passed so quickly they ran together in Blanche’s mind like melting scoops of ice cream. She worked, she talked to Ardell, she sent cards to Malik and Taifa, she called her mother, and she missed Thelvin. She’d taken to carrying around the broken piece of that something she’d found in Palmer’s bungalow as a way of reminding herself that he had secrets; maybe one she could use, although she hadn’t made a bit of progress toward getting any more information. She also hadn’t called Mumsfield or Archibald about Karen, and she had a heavy feeling in her stomach that she associated with things going wrong. Some out-of-doors was always a cure for the glums. She left the Miz Alice for downtown to buy some insoles for her favorite work shoes. She’d nearly passed the cleaners on Main Street when something made her turn her head and look inside.

  “Daisy!” The sight of the rosy-faced blonde fired Blanche’s curiosity. Bobby had been out of jail a couple of days, and there hadn’t been a word about new evidence in the case or someone else being under suspicion or arrested. Blanche opened the door to the cleaners and stepped inside.

  Daisy came to stand across the counter from Blanche. “Why, Miz Blanche! It sure is nice to see you!”

  Blanche went on alert. Was there something not quite sincere in Daisy’s greeting?

  “Hey, Daisy, how you doin, honey?”

  “I’m just fine, Miz Blanche.”

  “I know you got to work,” Blanche said, “so I won’t keep you. But I was just wondering about what you told me. Remember? About Bobby having proof that somebody else was with Maybelle when she died.”

  Daisy’s face went white. “Shhh!” She looked around as though the place were full of ears. “I told you. I ain’t supposed to talk about that!”

  “I know, I know.” Blanche lowered her voice even more and talked faster as she went on, as if she could outrace the look of rising panic on Daisy’s face. “But you already told me he found something, so there’s no harm in telling…”

  Daisy was shaking her head from side to side so fast her hair flew around her head like a propeller.

  A short, elderly white woman, like a bleached raisin, came in. “Hello, Daisy. How are you today?”

  “Why…why, just fine, Mrs. Carson. How’re you?”

  “Just fine, thank you, Daisy, just fine.” She handed Daisy a receipt and gave Blanche a brief nod, which Blanche didn’t return. Blanche was aware of the woman’s assumption that she would be waited on immediately, regardless of Blanche’s being there first. Blanche wasn’t surprised; old habits were hard to break, even in the New South. If she’d been a real customer, she’d have given the woman some practice in changing her ways, but as things stood, she didn’t even waste the time to roll her eyes at the woman. Daisy turned to the metal rack behind her and found a woman’s suit, pink, plaid, and ugly.

  “Y’all come back, heah?” Daisy called out in the soppy drawl that went with that phrase like ham with biscuits.

  “So, Daisy…” Blanche began as soon as the door was closed.

  “Why you asking me about all this, Miz Blanche?” Despite the air conditioning, tiny beads of sweat pocked Daisy’s upper lip.

  Blanche fingered the piece in her pocket. She’d been so intent on what she wanted to know, she’d forgotten Daisy was likely to have questions of her own. She absentmindedly took the piece out of her pocket and fiddled with it. “I was just curious, is all,” she said, but Daisy wasn’t listening.

  Daisy was staring down at Blanche’s hands on the counter as though they’d suddenly turned to gold.

  “Where’d…How…”

  “What?” Blanche held the piece out to Daisy. “This?”

  Daisy reached out and gently ran her index finger across the gilt rosebuds, then drew her hand back as though the roses had heated up beneath her finger.

  “We both had one,” she said. “See?” She turned her head to the side.

  Blanche looked at the gold-toned rosebud-covered barrette in Daisy’s hair, then down at the piece in her hand. Something lurched in her belly, like somebody knocking on her insides. She c
aught her breath.

  “You mean you and Maybelle,” she said without a question in her voice or mind.

  Daisy nodded. Blanche shut her eyes for a moment, dizzied by the realization of what this piece of junk she was holding could mean. If this belonged to Maybelle…Blanche suddenly saw not Maybelle or Palmer but Palmer’s key ring, and heard Daisy once again telling her that Bobby had found something with Maybelle’s body. Blanche’s knees went weak. She clutched the counter in front of her. Did Daisy know about Maybelle and David Palmer?

  “I had mine first,” Daisy said as though this were something to be proud of. “Maybelle said she liked it. I tried to give her mine, but she was kinda funny about used things. She always wanted new. So I bought her one.” Daisy touched the broken barrette again. “Where’d you git this, Miz Blanche?” Daisy looked as though she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know—or perhaps that was really suspicion in her voice. “I ast her where hers was when she stopped wearing it. She told me it broke. Said it was cheap.”

  “Tell me what Bobby found and I’ll tell you where I found it.” Blanche held up the barrette piece.

  Daisy shook her head. “I cain’t! I cain’t!” The more upset she became, the more North Carolina laced Daisy’s accent.

  Blanche tapped on the counter with the piece of barrette. “Look, Daisy, I’m on Bobby’s side. On your side. I want them to catch the person who killed Maybelle. I want it all to be over so you and Bobby can help each other get through your grief and…I maybe even know what Bobby found, so…”

  “Well, if you already know, there ain’t no need of me…”

  Blanche had no intention of leaving that place until Daisy had confirmed what she thought she already knew. But how to get Daisy to talk?

  Blanche thought of the gimmick she and her childhood friends had used when they wanted to tell something that they’d sworn not to tell.

  “I know you want to keep your promise to Bobby,” she told Daisy, “so you don’t have to tell me. All you got to do is turn your head away from me if I guess right. Okay?” Daisy didn’t look like it was really okay, but she didn’t say anything.

  “All right,” Blanche said. “Is it something you wear?”

  Blinked straight at Blanche.

  “Okay,” Blanche went on. “Is it something you eat?” She thought a couple of dumb questions might relax Daisy a little.

  Daisy shook her head.

  “Is it something you can fly?”

  Daisy looked puzzled.

  “All right, is it something off a key chain?”

  Daisy turned her head away from Blanche and toward the door at the same time the door opened. A tall, blond, muscular man with ears like sheets of crumpled pink paper came in with some white shirts thrown over his arm. He aimed his eyes at Daisy, then at Blanche, although Blanche doubted he saw either one of them.

  “Medium starch throughout, heavy on the collars and cuffs. I need them tomorrow.” He pushed the shirts across the counter at Daisy as though she were the opening of a washing machine.

  Daisy glanced at Blanche, who nodded her head. Yankee, Blanche thought, and was pretty sure Daisy was thinking something similar.

  Daisy took her time inspecting the man’s shirts for stains and writing up his receipt. Every once in a while she shot Blanche a worried look that finally made Blanche realize that what she’d taken as Daisy’s slowing down to put Mr. No-Manners Yankee in his place was really Daisy playing for time.

  When the customer left, Blanche leaned over the counter and gave Daisy a hard look. “Did you turn your head because of him”—she jerked her head in the direction of the departed customer—“or because what Bobby found was from a key chain, like I said?”

  Daisy looked as confused as if Blanche had suddenly begun speaking Dinka or Ibo. “Maybe I should just ask Bobby what he found, tell him you…”

  Daisy shook her head again. “No, ma’am. No, you can’t do that!”

  “Then tell me right now, Daisy, or…”

  “I already did what you tole me about turning my head! Why you…”

  Blanche slumped against the counter, weakened by the meaning of Daisy’s action and words, closed her eyes, and thanked her Ancestors. It might be a coincidence that Palmer’s girlfriend had a barrette like Daisy’s, although she couldn’t see any of the women in his circle wearing one like it. It also might be a coincidence that something was missing from Palmer’s key ring and Bobby had found something from someone’s key ring when he found Maybelle’s body. But both things together were a bit more than coincidence. Was this why Maybelle’s death had moved her so, because somehow she’d sensed that they’d had the same attacker? She remembered how the woman across the street from the cottage in Durham had described Palmer’s girlfriend and pictured small, blonde, dainty-looking Maybelle climbing out of Palmer’s big gray car. Blanche gagged at the thought of him deciding which of his victims to kill and which to rape.

  “You okay, Miz Blanche? Miz Blanche?”

  Blanche heard her but couldn’t pull herself away from her own thoughts long enough to answer. She shivered at the knowledge of what Palmer was capable of, what he might have done to her in addition to raping her. Blanche wanted to rush right home and light candles all over her Ancestors’ altar in gratitude for this gift of information, as terrible as it was. First, she expected Daisy to ask her to keep their bargain and tell where she’d found the piece of Maybelle’s barrette, but Daisy had other things on her mind:

  “Miz Blanche, you gotta promise me you won’t go near Bobby. If he finds out I told you anything, he…” The girl’s eyes widened even more.

  “He don’t have to find out. But when is he planning to tell somebody about this? I know he don’t trust the Sheriff, but he’s got to tell somebody.”

  Daisy didn’t answer.

  Blanche thought about what the papers and radio had said about Maybelle’s family. The phrase “poor white trash” hadn’t been used, but it had been hinted. Bobby was likely from the same kind of people: folks who followed their own ways and didn’t look to the law for justice any more than she did.

  “Bobby ain’t thinking about doing nothing dumb, is he? Like trying to get revenge himself?”

  Daisy tightened her mouth and lowered her eyes. Blanche leaned a little closer.

  “Honey, you better tell Bobby to stay away from that man unless he wants to end up like Maybelle. David Palmer’s already killed once. He…”

  Daisy’s eyes widened.

  “Everything all right out there, Daisy?” a man called from the back.

  Daisy jumped and spun around. “Yes, sir. Just fine. I’m just straightening up a bit.” She turned back to Blanche and waved frantically for her to leave.

  Blanche leaned over the counter and whispered: “Tell Bobby if he don’t talk soon I’m gonna tell the Sheriff!” A threat only someone who didn’t know Blanche would believe.

  Blanche could have tap-danced home if her happiness weren’t related to Maybelle’s death. She chanted a string of thank-yous to her Ancestors. To think she could have left the piece of barrette behind thinking it was just junk, never knowing that it was exactly what she’d been looking for. Her smile faded. She’d thought that being a rapist made Palmer likely to have other sins he’d want to hide, she hadn’t thought murder would be one of them—maybe because he’d had a chance to kill her and hadn’t. Poor Maybelle.

  Blanche was so full of images of Palmer’s face when he was finally caught that she was startled by the three little girls, once again lined up on the top step of her stoop, as solemn-faced as undertakers. The biggest and, Blanche assumed, oldest girl sat in the middle. They were wearing another set of cotton dresses with the amateur look of homemade.

  “Hey, y’all, nice to see you again. What’s up?”

  The biggest girl reached for her sisters’ hands and made to rise. Blanche held
out her arms to stop them. “Hey, now, don’t run off. I was just thinking about going indoors and finding them cookies.”

  “Cookieth?!” the smallest one said.

  “Lucinda!” the biggest one hissed. “You know better!”

  “But she didn’t ask me for a cookie,” Blanche said, guessing they had parental instructions not to ask people for things. “She just said the word ‘cookies.’ Ain’t that right, Lucinda?”

  The child moved her head up and down with feeling and smiled wide enough for Blanche to see she’d lost her two front teeth.

  A loud crash caused them all to turn their heads toward the house where the girls lived.

  “Bitch! I’ll break your fuckin’…” Another loud crash. Blanche looked back at the girls. The oldest now had an arm around each of her sisters. They sat pressed tightly together, their heads bowed as though they’d done something they were ashamed of.

  “I got some milk to go with them cookies,” Blanche said on impulse. “Why don’t y’all come on in and have some?” She felt uncomfortable inviting children whose parents she didn’t know into her house. If they were in her care, they’d be in big trouble for going in a stranger’s house. But Farleigh, for all its growth, was still a small town. Things not allowed in the city were commonplace here. And which would their mother want right now? For them to sit here and listen to her getting beat up or for them to be inside, safe and out of earshot? Blanche remembered the way the girls’ mother had responded—or, rather, not responded—when Blanche had waved to her. I could get in trouble for this, she thought. Another crash and a loud wail from their house made up her mind. “Come on, I need me a cookie right now.” She opened the door and herded the girls inside.

  They stood around Blanche’s table as still and quiet as 3:00 a.m. in the cemetery. Their thin arms rigid at their sides, they seemed hardly to breathe, although Blanche could smell confusion and fear like waves of sourness pouring from their bodies. Tears crowded into her eyes. She turned away. What had these children seen and heard? What was being done to them? She blinked back her tears while she got out some of the Hasting twins’ shortbread cookies, milk, and lemonade. “My name’s Blanche.” She brought plates and glasses to the table.